Good Grades & Mystery Games: Chapter 15

I ditched Evan the second we got in here.

I’ve had enough of him today already. He’s been just there. There is only so much of him I can take. He’s usually best in small doses, but it feels like he’s been constantly shoved down my throat recently.

When I get really tired and hungry, I naturally start to go a little delirious. That’s the only reason why I called him the other day. Caffeine does nothing to help me stay awake and neither do any type of pills. I was high on the rush that working on the project gave me and I needed to tell him before I lost the momentum. I wasn’t concerned about him seeing me almost naked, rival or not, I’m comfortable enough with my body to not give a shit.

But when he’s around, the temperature either goes below zero or scorching hot. It fluctuates every time he’s near and it drives me insane.

At my house: freezing. Shouting at him in the woods: hot. Him carrying me and diggings his fingers into my thighs: freezing. The simple, tiny touch that sent electric shocks across my body as he tucked a strand of hair behind my head: hot, hot, blazing fucking hot.

These types of feelings are easy to get rid of and ignore because Evan is the last person on earth to ever give me electric shocks.

To get rid of that feeling tonight, I found the first guy that gave me the ‘fuck me’ eyes and took him to the bathroom.

Still, when I’m walking out, readjusting my dress, and double checking my makeup is clear in my hand mirror, Evan’s standing right in front of me.

Great. Just fucking great.

My hair is as good as it can look after being drenched with rain. My dress had dried after putting it under the hair dryer. Still, I don’t want Evan to see me like this. I don’t want anyone I know to see me like this. I came here for a little fun. A release. Not a lecture from the look of disgust on Evan’s face.

“Done with Steve already?” Evan asks, an evil smirk on his lips. I scoff and brush past him. The guy that I just with, follows me too, both him and Evan hot on my heels.

“It was Max and not yet,” I say, correcting him, knowing he’s trailing behind me. I stop abruptly, wanting this conversation to die a quick death so I can get on with my night.

“But you were just…With him…” Evan splutters, gesturing towards the guy silently standing by my side. Jason, I think his name was. He’s a cute guy; tall, brunette, buzzcut. My usual type.

Mason thinks it’s his time to shine as he extends his hand to Evan. “I’m Henry.”

Okay, what? I just fooled around with someone who has the same name as my brother. What the hell?

Evan looks down to Jaxon- no, Henry’s hand and grimaces. “Don’t care,” he says, and I try not to laugh at the way poor Henry’s face drops. He disappears as Evan turns to me. “Well, does it mean you’re done with Max if you were just…” He trails off again.

“I was just…what? Spit it out, Branson.”

“You look like you’ve just had sex,” he points out, lowering his voice as he gestures at my outfit.

“Oh, and who named you the judge of sex, Mr Branson? Because I don’t remember that ever being your title,” I say back, raising an eyebrow.

“Careful, Angel. Keep calling me that and I’ll think you actually like me.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. God, he’s so infuriating. He does one nice thing, like carry me in the rain and then he starts to be a jerk again. I swear it’s just wired in him. It’s only a matter of time before he acts up again.

“For your information, I spilled a drink on my – already recovering – dress and he offered to help me clean it up. You see, that’s what gentlemen do, Evan. They clean up messes they don’t even make,” I argue. I leave out the part where he may have finger-banged me into next week because I don’t think that would help my case.

He nods, crossing his arms against his chest as he leans against the pale blue wall. “Whatever you say.”

For some reason, I don’t believe that he’s choosing to play this cool. He doesn’t have any right to comment on how I look like I’ve fucked somebody or better yet, be rude to people I have fooled around with. Not like I’m any better, but it’s weird when he does it.

I give him one last look before turning around and finding the reason I came here.

Evan

It only takes Scarlett twenty minutes for her to ditch me again and find some other dude to warm up to whilst getting slightly drunk. I don’t know how she’s managed to salvage her wet-hair disaster and turn it into a pretty decent look. It’s working like magic for her because she hasn’t been left alone for over two minutes as guys circle around her like vultures.

She doesn’t care though. Or maybe she does and she’s enjoying it. Because her eyes are closed, her hands are in the air as she sways to the music. Some girls even come up to me to talk, like they always do at these exclusive events, but I can’t even give them the time of day.

One girl slips her phone number into my hand after a minute of nonsensical small talk. Another girl dragged her nails down my forearm, telling me how good she would be in bed. And another girl grinded herself into me and called me a prick when I politely asked her to stop.

I can’t even entertain it. Not when she’s there. Dancing like that. How is she managing to dance with a messed up ankle? Beats me. But she’s not acting like she’s hurt. Maybe she made the whole thing up.

One of the guys in navy dress pants and a white button down that’s untucked, comes up behind her. She’s minding her business, dancing, and feeling the music. He places his hands on her waist, pulling her back into him, her ass right in his lap.

God, this is worse than the other night at the bar. It gets from worse to fucking unbearable when she opens her eyes, glancing at him for a second before smiling that sly smile that no doubt signals to him that she’s thinking about doing more than just dancing with him.

I can’t place what it is that comes over me when I see her like that. Before getting to know her, I wouldn’t care, but being around her more often these last few days, I don’t believe this confident act that she puts on for a second. I can tell on the inside she’s scared, which is why she’s acting out and doing dumb shit like this.

I watch painfully as she grinds her ass into him as he kisses her neck.

No. Not happening.

I storm over, reaching them in a few seconds. They must be caught in some lusty daze because neither of them sees me approaching. Hell, Scarlett’s eyes are still closed. The guy looks drunk or high, or both as he stares at me, still moving against her.

“Are you done?” I ask her.

Her eyes open then. For a second they’re filled with surprise until they soften, showing me that she’s enjoying pissing off. If that’s what her aim for this whole thing was, it’s working.

“What do you think?” she asks, slurring as her eyes wander around my face. She smirks as she purposefully grinds her ass into the dude behind her. My cock aches at the motion, causing me to groan.

“You’re done,” I say to her, gripping onto her forearms and pulling her away from him and then into me. She melts into me almost instantly, her warm body pressing against mine. “Dance with me.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe if I soften you up, you’ll finally let me take you home,” I say and her eyebrows crease. She looks like a little bunny like this: her eyes filled with wonder and curiosity, her nose a little red and her cheeks flushed. Honestly, it’s adorable. “You’re drunk.”

She shakes her head. I can tell it gives her a headache from the way she shuts her eyes for a few seconds. “I’m sober enough to know I don’t want to dance with you.”

“Then let’s skip the dancing and I’ll take you home. There’s no way you’re driving your car and it’s dangerous to get an Uber at this time. Please, Scarlett,” I say, practically begging. If anything happened to her…God, I don’t even want to think about it. She mumbles something about how she can’t catch a break. I pull apart from her to lift her chin up with two fingers, urging her to look up at me. “Speak up, sweetheart.”

She groans. “I said, fine. It’s the least you can do after messing up my shoes, my dress, and my hair.”

“You’re the one who insisted on coming straight here,” I argue.

“Yes, because why would I want to stay at home all night and sulk? Life is way too fucking short for that.”

I snort. “Since when were you such a party girl?” I’m genuinely curious, but she doesn’t answer me, as always. Instead, she answers my question with a question of her own.

“Since when were you such a dick? Oh, wait. You always have been.”

“That’s not true,” I mutter.

I’m sick of this back and forth.

When will she finally see the kind of person I really am and not the facade that she makes of me every day? If me giving her a piggyback, tending to her ankle and driving her here wasn’t enough of a clue that I actually care about her in some fucked up way, I don’t know what is.

She presses two fingers under my chin, titling my head up.

“Speak up, sweetheart,” she mocks.

“Forget it. Just get in the car,” I demand.

Scarlett

Today has been one clusterfuck of a day and I’m ready for it to be over with. I can deal with a little bit of rain. That’s fine. I can deal with Evan seeing me as messy and as gross as ever. Not my favourite thing, but bearable. I can deal with getting a little drunk and Evan being strangely nice enough to offer to take me back home.

What I can’t deal with is the clamp on my wheel because somebody decided to park in the wrong spot. My poor Bellezza Nera doesn’t deserve this. We’re both standing at the curb, staring at it, hoping that blinking will make it disappear. But it doesn’t.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I groan. I turn to Evan and for whatever reason, he thinks this is the appropriate time to smile at me. His cheeks are flushed from being inside the venue for so long and his hair is a mess. Still, he’s fucking smiling at me. “You parked us in the wrong spot.”

He pulls out his phone, chuckling. “Don’t blame me, Angel. You have eyes too.” He starts typing for a few seconds, not looking at me.

“Who are you texting?”

“Charles.”

“Who the hell is Charles?”

“My driver,” he replies flippantly, shoving his phone into his back pocket. “He’ll be here in ten.”

“Of course,” I mutter.

Obviously he has a driver because he’s so important. I used to have one too during high school, but as I started to grow up, doing things I know my family wouldn’t approve of, the stupidest thing would be to have someone driving me around everywhere and reporting back to my parents. Evan is either a secretly good boy or he doesn’t give a shit about what his family thinks about what he does.

Exactly ten minutes later, a black Escalade pulls up behind my car. I follow behind Evan as he walks towards it.

He opens the backdoor for me and I slide in there, finally able to take off my shoes. Evan gets in next to me, rattling off my address to the white middle-aged man in the front seat.

Evan must be as exhausted and pissed off as I am because he leans his head against the headrest, manspreading. His shirt sleeves have rolled up a little, exposing his lightly tanned arms and a silver watch on his right wrist which rests between his thighs on the seat. I weirdly get off on the way I can unravel him so easily.

So, I move my sore feet from the floor in front of me to over his lap. I’m messing with him, obviously, but it feels good to know that it wasn’t just me who felt that strange pull between us earlier when he was tending to my ankle. We annoy each other. It’s our thing. But sometimes, it feels like we’re going to burst into flames, and I want to be the one holding the match.

For a second I think he hasn’t even noticed my bare legs in his lap until his eyes open. His hot gaze travels from the curve of my foot now resting on the car door, up my legs and then to my face.

I’m watching him, trying to see if his face will crack. It’s one thing to look at, but it’s another thing to read. He doesn’t wear his emotions on his face like many people I know, where you can tell exactly what they’re thinking about without asking. His face is blank with a wave of irritation and anger.

“Don’t do that, Scar,” he breathes.

Scar, that’s a new nickname from him. It’s either my full name or ‘Angel.’ I always thought that was out of bounds for him. He rolls his head back onto the seat, closing his eyes again.

“Why not? I’ve got nowhere else to put them,” I joke, scooting closer to him so my knees bend a little and both my thighs and my calves are touching his legs. “It’s your fault I twisted my ankle.”

“That didn’t seem to be a problem twenty minutes ago when you fucked that guy in the bathroom,” he relays. I don’t respond and I wiggle my legs in his lap. He groans. “Don’t do this to me, Angel.”

I’m about to make another snarky comment, but the car jolts forward, making me yelp as I almost fall flat on my face. Charles shouts out an apology. I think I mumble something in response, but I can’t focus on anything other than Evan’s hot and warm hand wrapping around my middle, pulling me back into the seat.

He huffs and I’m smiling, finally having broken him. His woody scent invades my senses as his long arm reaches above me as he pulls the seatbelt down and clips it in.

“I can do that myself,” I say.

“Well, clearly you can’t,” he responds, moving back into his seat with an exaggerated sigh. He runs his hand through his hair, leaving it messier than it was before he touched it. He doesn’t even seem to care anymore. In fact, he seems pissed.

“I don’t know why you’re angry. I didn’t ask you to do that for me,” I say.

“And I didn’t ask you to put your legs on me, and here we are.”

So, we’re back to this? Perfect.

I avert my gaze from his and turn to look out at the dark night sky. It’s hard to see the stars, but if I stare for long enough, I can just about make out tiny silver dots. The smell coming from the crack in the window is one of my favourite smells. It’s the deep, humid, and thick smell you get after it’s rained, and I love it. It feels like a warm hug or a fresh shower.

When we get to the parking lot of my apartment building, I glance over to him and he’s staring out of the window. I hate this uncomfortable feeling like I’m walking on eggshells around him. I want him to joke with me. To fight with me. Anything.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, moving to open my door.

“I’m walking you up,” he replies as he opens his door, not giving me a choice. Great. A new way to make this even more unbearable than it already is. I carry my heels in one hand as we walk in silence up to the elevator. When we get to my door, he stands there, hands in his pockets as I lean against the door.

I can’t take the silence anymore, so I say, “Why are you being so nice to me today? We’re supposed to hate each other.”

He shrugs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “We can still hate each other. We’re just two people who know where the line is. Remember, I need you in one piece so we can finish this project.”

“Right.” For a second I thought he was going to acknowledge the weird energy that hangs in the air between us. After this mess of a day, I don’t know where we stand on the frenemy scale.

“You’re not going to throw up or anything, are you?” he asks, nodding to my door.

“Why? So, you can hold my hair back and whisper sweet nothings into my ear?” I tease. His face remains stoic, a look of complete defiance.

“Scarlett,” he presses.

“I can handle myself, Branson. I didn’t need you to walk me up here. I didn’t need you to take me home,” I say defensively. Then, for extra emphasis, I add, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, but I did.”

“Yeah, but why?”

He scratches the back of his neck, finding the ground more interesting than my face as he mumbles, “Why does anyone do anything, Angel?”

I could say something smart to catch him out. I could sass him in some way and get him to roll his eyes at me. This new dynamic is making me feel uncomfortable. I just want us to go back to our normal before he helped me. Instead, I let out a soft, “Stop calling me that.”

He looks at me now, grinning. “I don’t think I ever will,” he says. He reaches behind me, pushing the door open and urging me to shove me in. “Don’t die before morning. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

I crinkle my eyebrow. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Our big plan to find out who that dodgy guy is, remember?”

“Oh.”

He tuts, shaking his head. “Don’t ‘Oh’ me. This could be a breakthrough in our case.”

“It’s not our case, it’s my case. You’re just tagging along.”

“Fine by me,” he says happily, shrugging. “Goodnight, Scarlett.”

Standing there dumbfounded for two minutes after Evan descended the stairs out of my apartment helped me come to a startling realisation: I no longer hate Evan Branson, I tolerate him. Maybe even respect him. He’s done way more than necessary today while still managing to be a prick. It’s weird. I want him to push me around. I want to push him around.

Sometimes I feel like I’m desperately waiting to see which one of us breaks first.