Never His Girl: Dark High School Bully Romance (Kings of Cypress Pointe Book 2)

WEST

Dane’s advice has been stuck in my head all day.

When I passed Southside before first hour. When she entered the cafeteria. And now, as I’m posted outside the locker room trying to look casual, knowing I’m guilty of that stalking shit she accused me of before.

There’s just this impulse in my gut, urging me to plead my case. Hopefully, without saying too much, which I know is probably impossible, but fuck. I’m losing my shit.

I spot her and I’m instantly on the move.

“Southside,” I call out, damn-near sprinting toward her, which makes her pick up speed with hopes of avoiding me.

No such luck.

She’s maybe three feet from making it into the girl’s locker room when I catch up and manage to wedge myself between her and the door. Lucky for me, Rodriquez—cockblocker extraordinaire—is nowhere in sight.

Southside gives the mother of all eye rolls when I gently take her shoulders and move her aside as a group of chicks approach. They level weird looks at us as they pass by, heading in to change for gym. I don’t care about that, though. Yeah, I’m abso-fucking-lutely positive I look like a maniac, but who gives a shit?

“You don’t owe me a chance to say a single word. I know that,” I say first, “but I’m begging you. I’m only trying to say I’m sorry for how things went down.”

She steps back and slips from the light hold I have on her.

“You’re not deaf, West, so I’m sure you heard me say we’re done talking,” she snaps.

There’s no mention of the marks I’m sporting from yesterday’s fight, but I see her eyeing them.

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say,” she adds. “Hence the reason I blocked your ass last night,” she says in a low hiss. “And for the record, FUCK your apology.”

She moves to step around me and, despite knowing I shouldn’t, I take her shoulders again. Immediately, I release them when she flashes a death glare my way. Instead, I opt to plead with her again. This time, I’m completely aware of the freshman doing a shit job of hiding behind a locker, taking pictures.

Pandora has eyes everywhere. A loyal following despite no one even having a clue who the bitch really is.

My gaze snaps back toward Southside.

“Listen, I know things are jacked up right now. Believe me. But I didn’t—”

Just that easy, the words almost slip out. The one thing I’m not allowed to say—revealing that I’m not the one who posted the video—was so close to tumbling out. Desperate to be heard, I’m not thinking clearly.

At all.

My breaths come hard and fast. Southside’s staring but hasn’t walked away yet, which is a small victory, I guess. It’s clear she’s sick of my ass, though. I’m actually positive there’s nothing in this world she’d want more than to be left alone right now.

Which is when I remember Dane’s words from the night before. Something about starting small, and then something about not backing her into a corner.

Kind of like I am now.

So, I go against my nature and fall back, give her room to breathe despite wanting to push and be heard, which isn’t going so well anyway.

“Sorry I bothered you,” is where I leave it.

She’s eyeing me, maybe a little surprised I’m not pushing as hard as expected, but I’m trying to stick to the plan. The one that has me feeling like I’m leaving things between us unfinished as I back off.

My gaze slips from her eyes, down the length of her, resenting the hell out of this intense energy that keeps us strung together. It’s what makes me want her even when her mean ass gives me the cold shoulder, or when she tears my fucking ego to shreds.

I earned this, though. Every ounce of it.

Turning, I head into the locker room to change. Well, to sulk, and then change.

I’ve never had to work so hard for one girl in my entire life. Chicks’ feelings aren’t even something I consider, but that’s not the case with her. I mean, here I am letting her hate me, all because my brother said I shouldn’t push. So, this is me trying to comply.

This is me not pushing.

Kind of.

I make it out onto the bleachers just as Mrs. C. blows her whistle and glances down at her tablet to take attendance. From the corner of my eye, I’m aware of the blonde ponytail I know to be attached to Southside, but I don’t turn her way.

Give her space, jerkwad.

Sighing helps relieve the tightness in my chest, but this whole thing is killing me inside.

“Today’s the official start of our basketball unit,” Mrs. C. announces. “You all did swimmingly during our pool unit.”

No one laughs at her lame-ass dad joke but some douche on the front row.

“Anywho. We’ll start with a simple layup tutorial for the first half of class, then we’ll move into small drills to practice what you’ve learned. I’ll need a couple volunteers,” she calls out.

Of course, no hands go up.

When her gaze lands on me, I groan, knowing my name’s about to be called.

“West? Can you join me, please?” she asks. “And … how about you, Trip. Get down here and grab a ball.”

I do as I’m told, dribbling while I await instructions.

“Trip, I need you on defense. Start at the free-throw line.”

We make our way there and Trip spreads his arms, studying my body language. Still, he somehow gets crossed up when I fake left, then break right. The ball rolls off my fingertips into the basket when I jump, and it isn’t until I look back and find Trip on the ground that I understand why the class is laughing.

“My bad,” I apologize, offering him my hand. He takes it and stands.

Eager to redeem himself, he plants his feet more firmly this time, and I dribble until Mrs. C.’s whistle signals the start of the play. Trip’s more focused than before, and a little tense. Trying to give him a break, I hit him with the same move, thinking it’ll be predictable, but dude goes down like the Titanic for a second time, and the ball rolls into the basket with ease.

This time, when I turn to help him up, I’m laughing with everyone else.

“Good thing you picked football over basketball. Otherwise, they’d have to hire someone just to scrape your ass off the court after every play,” I joke.

His face reddens, but he’s laughing a bit himself.

“Caught me off guard is all,” he insists. “I’ll block you this time.”

“Won’t be a next time,” Mrs. C. cuts in. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re being replaced.”

Smiling a bit, her hand lands on Trip’s shoulder as he passes her on his way back to the bleachers.

“Riley, you’re up,” Mrs. C. announces.

Southside peers up from a daydream, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

“What? I—I’m not really feeling well,” she lies, volleying a look between me and Mrs. C., begging for mercy with her eyes.

“Won’t take long,” Mrs. C. insists. “Besides, I’ve peeked in on a few of your practices. I have faith if anyone can stop Golden short of the basket, it’s you.”

Southside’s face is redder than Trip’s and I honestly wonder if Mrs. C. is the one person on this planet who hasn’t seen the video. Woman must live under a rock. Otherwise, she would’ve known why this pairing is probably the last she should’ve chosen.

But alas, here we are.

The whistle blows and, already, I see Southside’s got better instinct than Trip. Instead of watching the ball, her eyes are trained on my waist. I fake right this time and break left, but she’s still on me, slowing down my drive toward the basket. She goes up with me when I jump for the layup, stretching her hand toward the ball. If it weren’t for the height difference between us, she would’ve definitely blocked the shot.

But it’s also that difference in height, plus the fact that I’m probably a good forty pounds heavier than she is, that has her slamming into my chest on the way up. Then, landing on the court with a thud.

Right on her ass.

The class erupts in laughter again and, right away, I know it’s too soon. The bruises to her ego are still fresh. Too fresh for her to be the center of attention again. Basically, they’re pouring salt in an open wound. One I’m trying desperately to heal.

“Maybe give Blue the ball,” some kid yells out. “She seems to be pretty good with those.”

I search for the asshat talking out the side of his neck, but don’t spot anyone. When I face Southside again, she’s furious. At me, no doubt, despite me not being the one who made the comment.

Best I can do is offer my hand, which she slaps away and gets to her feet without help.

“Again,” she practically growls, not bothering to wait for Mrs. C. to make that call.

On the whistle, Southside’s ten times as focused as before. When I move, so does she, making it harder to get around her this time. But when I finally do, and my feet leave the ground for the layup, it feels like a rock slams into my chin before I even release the ball.

“Riley!” Mrs. C. yells. “What the heck was that?”

Southside, out of breath and still brimming with anger, appears to be coming back from an out-of-body experience, suddenly aware of having just punched me in front of the entire class. She takes a few steps back and then her eyes land on me, where I’m rubbing my jaw.

She didn’t hold back, that’s for sure.

“I … it was an accident,” she lies. “I was trying to block his shot and—”

“A block, for the record, is an open hand on the ball. A punch is a closed fist to the face. But as a player, I’m certain you already knew that,” Mrs. C, seethes. “Hit the locker room and head straight to Headmaster Harrison’s office.”

“But, I—”

“Now!”

The class lets out a collective, “Ooooohh,” as Mrs. C. points toward the locker room.

Southside’s already tearing up, sprinting toward the door and it guts me, has me wanting to chase after her, but I know that’s the last thing she wants. Instead, I do the one thing I can.

“I didn’t dismiss you, Golden.”

I ignore the words that hit my back as I head toward the guys’ locker room myself, having a clear plan in mind as I burst through the doors and change as quickly as I can. Southside doesn’t want to hear a word I have to say, but I know one person who will.

@QweenPandora: Sticks and stones won’t break his bones, but that punch certainly rocked KingMidas’s jaw!

Geez! The recent streak of violent outbursts surrounding a certain former couple at CPA is further proof of tension running high. But come on, people! Make love, not war! Whatever happened to hugging it out?

Maybe the rules go up in flames when one party makes an intimate moment public?

This pic caught by an anonymous contributor shows the pair engaged in heated discussion moments before the punch heard round the gym. There’s no report of what was said, but oh to be a fly on the wall…

In other news, a little birdy told me a certain VirginVixen was recently tagged in a sappy photo montage on her socials. By whom you ask? Well, I’m sure you all remember a certain mystery guy who popped up in candids during VirginVixen’s summer excursion to Cuba. If those thirst traps he’s tagging you in are any indication, it looks like somebody misses you, VV. Wonder if PrettyBoyD’s seen them yet.

Oops!

If he hasn’t … I’m guessing he will now.

Later, Peeps.

—P