Page 17 of Seven Lost Summers
I don’t need distractions. I don’t want them. But she’s got this pull I can’t shake, dragging my focus without even trying. The whole thing pisses me the fuck off more than I want to admit.
And of course, I’m not the only one.
Nate’s already eyeing her. The bastard can’t help himself. That messy blonde hair, the smug grin—nothing less than a cheat code. A single glance and they’re handing over their hearts, their numbers, their goddamn dignity. And he takes everything every time. No shame. No strings
But I’m not him.
I don’t fuck just to kill time or forget the noise. I don’t fuck at all. Not because I don’t want to. Hell, sometimes the wanting burns so bad it hurts. But wanting and doing are two different things.
Something in me breaks down every time the moment gets close.
A switch flips. A wall slams down so hard the shock tears through my whole body.
Nate’s got it easy. No demons clawing at his ribs. No memories slicing through him when hands start to wander, when mouths press too close. No weight pressing on his chest, ready to blow the second he lets someone in.
He’s the fucking heartthrob of the school. The golden boy. That smirk alone could start a riot. With one snap of his fingers they’re lining up, desperate to be the next one to sink to their knees and make him forget everything but the moment.
And me?
I’m the guy in the corner. I fight to breathe. I try not to fall apart every time someone steps too close.
With my eyes still on her, I lean back; the joint already burning down in my fingers. I pull in a deep hit, trying to chase the chaos out of my chest, but watching her just fans the goddamn flames instead.
Normally, I don’t see people. I tune out without trying. But something about this new chick makes my head snap up like I caught a shot of lightning straight to the brain.
Her black hair’s wild, untamed, catching light as though soaked in midnight. She stands across the field, all edge and a fuck-you attitude. Not giving a shit if someone looks at her the wrong way.
And that’s the goddamn problem.
She’s not supposed to mean shit.
Not supposed to make my pulse jack like I’m already fucking hooked, or my fingers twitch, jerking off some reckless-ass idea I know I’ll regret. But fuck me sideways, something in her pulls at me.
I lift the joint to my lips and drag hard. My fingers squeeze that fucker, the last tether keeping me from losing my shit. I keep the smoke low and hidden.
Getting caught again would be more than a dumbass mistake. Not now. Wes and Rose have already had to pick up my broken, fucked-up pieces more times than I can count. I owe them better than this endless spiral I keep crashing into.
Nate drops onto the bench next to me, all swagger and zero fucks given. His boots drag against the ground as he leans back, sprawling out as though he owns the fucking universe and everyone else is background scenery. He catches my gaze, and that sharp, cocky grin slides across his lips, smug as hell, convinced he already knows what’s up.
“Who you got your eye on?” He asks, voice lazy but dripping with way too much confidence.
Without waiting for an answer, he reaches over, snatches my joint, and pulls a slow, deliberate drag like it’s his goddamn right. He holds the smoke deep in his lungs then blows it out.
Nate couldn’t give a rat’s ass about rules. Consequences? That shit’s for everyone else to sweat over. He’s been suspended twice this year already, and if they kicked his ass out tomorrow, he’d probably throw a goddamn party on the way out.
Me? I don’t have that reckless fire burning in me. But, fuck, some days, I wish I did.
“If it’s her?” Nate jerks his chin toward the new girl. “Goodluck, man. She doesn’t look like the type who plays nice.”
I roll my eyes and snatch the joint back.
“Since when the fuck do I give a shit about nice?”
Nate smirks with that cocky, infuriating grin of his—the kind that makes every girl here lose her damn mind and every guy want to take a swing at him. He’s untouchable and he knows it. Not because he looks like a saint, though he’d sell that lie in a second if the chance worked to his advantage. His shield is Wes.
Wes isn’t just a name. He’s a fucking legend.
Ex-biker, ex-trouble, a man people whisper about but never face. Most guys would rather chew glass than cross him. But they’ve never seen the man who fixes broken furniture or who taught me how to throw a punch so I wouldn’t get my ass kicked again.
