Part 3 (2/2)

”For what?”

”Punching some suit in the jaw. He had to have it wired. He was a douche.”

Try as I might, I can't even understand why he's telling me this, or what it is even supposed to mean to me. I just sigh, and keep walking.

”So, why isn't he here?” he asks me.

”Why did you punch the guy?” I ask him back.

”He said he knew my mother. Said she f.u.c.ked her way up the company.”

I stop, eyes-wide. ”Really? He said that to your face?” I'm feeling nasty, and so I say, ”Is it true?”

Chance's face grows hard, but his eyes still have this spark of playfulness. He likes that I said that, that I caught him off-guard.

”Even if he was right, n.o.body talks about my mother that way.”

”Even if he's right?” I echo. ”Nice defense of your own mom.”

”Hey,” he says, sucking in a huge drag of his cigarette. ”I don't know her life. Besides, I can't imagine you'd have too many nice things to say about your pops considering he didn't turn up either.”

”He didn't come because he was away on some work thing as well. Some kind of partner holiday. I can't imagine why the partners would want to holiday together.” I shake my head. ”Why would anybody spend more time with their colleagues than they had to?”

”Sounds like he's a p.r.i.c.k.”

”Hey,” I say, turning on him and pointing a finger in his grill. ”Don't talk about my family.”

”See?” he says. ”You get it. That's why I hit the guy.”

I blink. ”Oh, why are you following me, Chance?”

He shrugs. ”You want me to go, just say it, I'll go.”

”Right, because, wait, let me phrase it how you would: I don't give a f.u.c.k.”

”I don't.”

I roll my eyes, but for some reason, I don't tell him to go. We just walk in silence for a while. His shoulder b.u.mps into mine, and I think about stepping away again, but I just can't be bothered to. I know him, the kind of boy he is. He just doesn't stop... ever.

He must think of me as some kind of conquest, or something. That would be so him. The nerdy girl. Maybe all his friends dared him.

In fact, I'm sure that's what it is. Quick, nab her while you still can!

Isn't that how all boys think? Like it's all a game?

Well, I'm certainly not going to be just some notch.

Chapter Four.

I do give a f.u.c.k.

I do care.

That's the truth of it. I care, and I care a lot.

She stole my attention the very first time I saw her at the beginning of the school year. I had to make up my credits after taking a year out to fight.

I tore through that tour. Went sixteen and nil. All wins, no losses.

But Ca.s.sie... that first time I saw her, she was sitting right at the front of cla.s.s, back rigidly erect, her mocha-brown hair neatly parted, so straight like it was ironed.

And there I was, uniform s.h.i.+rt untucked, top b.u.t.ton undone, tie loose, and a whole lot of don't-give-a-f.u.c.k in my att.i.tude.

It was a fancy school, but f.u.c.k uniforms forever.

Except on the girls. Except on Ca.s.sie. She made it look good. Everything was so neat, so proper, so tidy. Every blouse had no creases, every skirt worn to knee-length. She had her socks pulled up, and her shoes were always s.h.i.+ny.

G.o.d, to get that skirt up her thighs... to tear that blouse open... the thought of it makes me rock hard in an instant.

I don't know if it's weird that I want to take that innocence, that steadfast purity. I don't know if that makes me an a.s.shole.

All I know is that I want her. Want to taste every inch of her body, want to hold her in my hands, pin her against a wall.

Want to hear her moan my name, throw her head back against me while I drive into her from behind.

But more than that... I want to know her, what makes her tick.

She's like me and she doesn't even know it.

Driven, determined, compet.i.tive. She's all fire, all motor. Like me. Be it wrestling, or cage fighting, or even boxing, I give it my all, go right to the end.

I never half-a.s.s it.

And neither does she.

But all year Ca.s.sie barely even looked at me. I can remember it to this day. All the other girls in the cla.s.sroom did, of course. But those girls weren't my type.

Truth be told, once I met Ca.s.sie, n.o.body was my type anymore.

And that, there, is something that scares me. It's a little secret I have, but you'd never f.u.c.king know it by looking at me.

I've not been with a girl since I saw Ca.s.sie that very first day of term.

Before that, sure, it was four new girls a week, never the same one twice. Well, maybe once or twice if she was real good.