Page 81 of The Darkest Note

Not that Dutch cares. My evil overlord’s been on my case ever since that staredown in the cafeteria.

Every day, without fail, he forces me to get coffee and makes me drink his first to test if it has bleach in it. Then he instructs me to carry his books to class. Then Ihaveto appear at his beck and call for whatever stupid errand he needs done. Then, as if he wants to make my life after school a living hell too, Dutch has me practicing with them until sunset.

But not on the piano, no.

He has me playing the triangle.

I know this is revenge. He’s trying to make sure that the undercurrents between us never surface again.

If his goal was to make me resent him more well, then… mission accomplished.

I go home every night and slap the crap out of the punching bag, pretending that I’m rearranging Dutch’s chiseled jaw.

“Wait.” Their words register and I shove the dressing room door open. “Did you just say your band is playing for a freshman homecoming?”

No one answers me. Probably because they’re all busy staring.

Zane’s jaw clops open.

Finn arches both eyebrows.

And Dutch… Dutch looks angrier than usual.

Nervous, I slide a hand over my dress. “What?”

When we left school today, Dutch drove straight to a warehouse in the heart of the ‘money district’. It’s our town’s equivalent of Rodeo Drive where all the stores are overpriced and pretentious.

A well-kept woman met us at the door and escorted us all the way upstairs. There, the boys disappeared into their own changing rooms and a clerk presented me with a silky black dress and platform goth boots to wear.

I went along with it because the boots looked amazing with all its straps and dangling chains. Plus a dress this expensive has never touched my skin before.

Dutch is the first to look away. His jaw flexes and he curls his fingers into fists.

Zane hops out of the sofa. “Damn, Cadence. Way to show up.”

Finn nods his approval.

My lips curl up a little. “Thanks.”

Dutch swings around. His dark stare burns into me.

I can see the desire flaring to life in his eyes. He averts his gaze, but it’s still there in the tenseness of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, and the agitated hand that he slides into the pockets of his dress pants.

All the boys look like gothic princes in dark trousers and button-downs, but there’s something about the way Dutch’s sleeves are folded back to reveal his ink that sets him apart as the most dangerous and most likely to wreck your soul.

His blonde hair has product in it so it’s not flopping around on his forehead. This put-together style makes him look even hotter.

Wicked thoughts spark to life in my head, starting with how his hands would feel slipping against the silk on my dress and ending with how muscular his body would be without that shirt on.

I lick my lips slowly, taking note of the way Dutch’s gaze latches onto my mouth as if he wants to trace the path himself.

The tension between us hasn’t eased up. Not since the almost-kiss in the coffee room.

It’s torture to be so close to him. To want him and hate him at the same time. Now that I’ve admitted to my dark craving, I can’t look Dutch in the eyes. Just in case he figures out that I’m more messed up than he is.

Because for him, it might be a simple matter of attraction.

But for me… I should know better.

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