They All Fall Down (4 page)

“I’d argue with that.”

The compliment surprises and warms me as an awkward beat passes. He doesn’t move, so basically we’re a foot apart staring at each other.

“Anyway …” I move my eyes left and right to indicate our surroundings. “What are you doing here?” His locker’s not near this bay, I’m certain. Levi Sterling doesn’t fly under anyone’s radar. If his locker were around here, I’d know it. Then again, a kid like him probably doesn’t need a locker because he doesn’t bother with books. Rumors have always swirled about him. I once heard a girl in his old school cut his name into her thigh with a razor blade.

“I’m skipping class.”

I nod, like skipping class is something I understand and have done.

“You?”

“I just escaped AP Calc.”

A glimmer of amusement dances in his eyes at what could be the nerdiest admission
ever
.

“AP Calc?” He raises his eyebrows. “And I’m failing Advanced Topics.”

Math for Morons. I’m grateful that the school name for his pathetic class doesn’t pop right out of my mouth. “Math can kill you,” I say, managing not to cringe at how stupid that comment is.

He inches a little closer, rubbing his chin as he studies my face. “You know what’s killing me?”

You. You are killing me
. I shrug. “Not a clue.”

He’s so close now I can barely think. “The word problems,” he whispers.

The word … does he mean in math? I let out a hollow laugh because hating the word problems is so cliché and because he’s so … close.

“Yeah, they’re pretty tough.”

“I bet you breezed through that shit.”

My eyes shift to the floor. “Word problems aren’t that hard.”

“So you’re pretty
and
smart,” he says.

I look up at him, not quite sure what’s going on here. “Both are subjective.”

“And I heard you’re an expert in dead languages.”

I blink for a minute before it processes. “Latin? I don’t know about expert.”

His gaze moves over my face from top to bottom, lingering on my mouth. “Are you … 
flirting
with me?” I ask with a nervous laugh.

“Trying.”

And honestly? Succeeding. A slow heat creeps up my chest,
a mix of trepidation and excitement fluttering through me, along with—No, it can’t be.

But it is. Attraction.

To him? I should run for dear life, not flirt with him. I sure as heck should be in my math class. “I don’t flirt,” I say, feeling as awkward as that sounded.

“You’re doing okay.”

For the first time in my life, I understand the meaning of the word
swoon
. And I don’t like it. Swooning is dangerous, helpless, and it doesn’t feel so great. For all I know, this kid’s rap sheet could include rape and murder.

I finally turn to my locker, expecting him to walk away when I start opening the lock. But he just leans on Molly’s locker, to the right of mine, totally undeterred by my clumsy brush-off.

I feel his gaze on my hands. No doubt he’s memorizing the combination … and noticing my hands are trembling.

“What are you scared of, Mack?”

You
. “No one calls me that,” I say, finishing the combination. Only my brother did, and since I can’t even remember the sound of his voice, I don’t want to hear his nickname for me. I yank the lock and grunt softly when the damn thing stays firmly closed.

“Here.” He nudges me aside with his shoulder, an assault of male and muscle and something that definitely isn’t Axe. With confident fingers he spins the lock, stopping at fourteen, passing it to twenty-one, and twirling right to five.

Click
.

“How’d you do that?”

“My hands aren’t shaking.”

Dang it. “But how’d you get my combination?”

“Photographic memory.” He grins at me. “And practice breaking and entering.”

I don’t know if he’s kidding, so I put my hand on the side of my locker, steadying everything in me that isn’t steady. “Guess I better change that lock,” I say.

He slips the lock out and dangles it over one finger, very slowly lifting the latch and opening the door. “Not necessary.” He gives me a slight nudge with his shoulder. “I’m a lot of things, but not a thief.”

“Maybe not,” I concede. “But you are a flirt.”

He leans on the open locker door and crosses his arms, facing me. “I could teach you.”

“How to flirt?”

“It’s a skill that could come in handy with your newfound status.”

I can’t really disagree with that, so I just stare into my locker trying to think of what I could get out. I didn’t even need to come here.

“And in exchange,” he says, dipping just close enough that I can feel his breath near my ear, “you can tutor me.”

“In math?”

He lifts his eyebrows, leaving the question unanswered.

“Why don’t you just cheat?” I ask.

The quickest flash of hurt darkens his eyes. “That’s not how you flirt, Mack. You don’t insult your target.”

A new kind of heat curls through me. Shame. How does he do that, this bad boy with the record and the reputation? How does he make
me
feel ashamed? “Sorry,” I mumble, and I mean it.

“If you were sorry, you’d tutor me.”

I freeze in the act of reaching for a notebook I don’t need. Tutor him? Now, there’s a bad idea. Bad on so many levels.

“My tutoring hours are pretty … full.”

He nestles a little closer, so we’re both practically in the locker. “Don’t tell me I wasted my time following you here so I could get this favor from you.”

He followed me here? A chill sweeps up my back, tingling the nape of my neck. I let go of the notebook, pressing my fingers against the frame of the locker as I dare to turn and look right into his eyes.

“No,” I say simply. If I have to tell him the truth, I will: he scares the crap out of me.

This boy is menacing and intimidating and way too good at flirting. My mother would probably faint at the sight of him.

Josh Collier? Yeah, he’s just a guy who’s popular and jocky and harmlessly attractive. Levi Sterling? He’s a threat to the heart, the mind, the sanity, and quite possibly the virginity.

“List go to your head already, Mack?”

The comment makes me inch back and grip the frame of the door a little tighter, my fingers slipping right above the hinge. “Nothing’s gone to my head.”
Other than whatever soap you use and those sinfully long eyelashes
.

He narrows his eyes, so close I can feel his breath and count the stubbly hairs on his chin.
That’s hot, too
, my traitorous brain thinks.

“Then tutor me.” He presses closer, his whole body against the inside of the locker door.

“I don’t—
Ow!
” White-hot pain fires to my brain like an
electrical shock, making me yank my hand from the hinge that just crushed my middle finger. “Oh my God!”

He jerks away instantly, realizing his weight has made the door pinch me, and I turn in a full circle, clasping my right hand, biting my lip, and holding back a wail of agony.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He tries to reach for my hand, but I snatch it away, embarrassment and anger as sharp as the pain.

“Just … leave it.” I shake my hand and look at it, cringing.

“Oh, God, look at that,” he says, grabbing my hand. The skin is sliced, and the whole nail is bright, screaming red. “Damn it, you gotta see the nurse.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mack.” He steps forward.

I shake my head. “Stop calling me that!” I yell. Irrational, I know, but the pain is insane and I can’t think beyond fighting the tears that are threatening. “Just leave me alone.”

“I feel like shit. I’m sorry.” He closes the locker door. “Let me look at it.”

“No.” I just want to get away from him. I don’t belong around a kid like this. He makes me nervous and … A new thought settles. Did he do that on purpose? Because I wouldn’t tutor him?

“I’m fine,” I say again.

He replaces the lock with a firm click that reverberates through the empty alcove. “I’ll take you to the clinic.”

“No thanks.” Squeezing my wounded hand, I take off, heading into the hall just as the bell rings and the classrooms empty, swallowing me up in the crowd and separating me from a boy who admitted he followed me.

Why? Because I’m fifth on a list he just told me he doesn’t care about? Because he was looking for a tutor? Because he thinks I’m attractive? So he could break my finger if my heart didn’t happen to be available? None of those options seems plausible, but I can’t help wondering.

CHAPTER IV

T
he parent volunteer in the nurse’s office has put me in a holding room that smells like bleach. Was the last person in here so sick they had to disinfect? The thought makes me a little queasy—but maybe that’s just the throbbing, bleeding, purple middle finger on my right hand.

Not that it really hurts so much. The cut isn’t that deep, and the really nasty bit under my nail is almost numb. Even though I wrapped it in some paper towels I got from the bathroom, I know it looks wretched. It’s bad enough that I didn’t bother to hunt down Molly for a second opinion—or third, if you count Levi Sterling, perpetrator—before I headed straight to the office for some antiseptic and a Band-Aid.

I perch on the edge of a vinyl cot and close my eyes, reliving my conversation with Levi, feeling stupid for being so caught up in his eyes and his game and his suggestion I tutor him that I didn’t realize I’d stuck my finger in the locker door. So I can’t really blame him for hurting me.

Although … he’s been known to hurt people. At least, that’s the rumor. Put a guy in the hospital, they say. Disappeared to a truant school for a while. Oh, hell, I’ve heard he’s robbed banks and stolen cars and, basically, if it’s a crime in Vienna, he’s the cops’ go-to guy.

Why would he even talk to me? He admitted he wasn’t all about some idiotic Hottie List. Or was that a line?

A tap on the door interrupts my thoughts. “Kenzie Summerall?” a woman calls as the door inches open.

“You can come in.”

The school nurse enters and gives me a quick smile, brushing back a strand of frosted blond hair that has slipped from her clip. “What’s the problem?” she asks cheerily. “You hurt your finger?”

I hold up the whole hand because just showing her the one finger could get me a detention.

She reacts with raised eyebrows. “Bleeding?”

“A little.”

She comes closer, searching my face. “You’re very pale.”

I touch my cheek, which is cool. “I just need to clean this out and get a Band-Aid.”

“Let’s take a look.” She sits across from me, her considerable size making the chair squeak as she reaches for some latex gloves from a box.

“Am I going to lose that nail?” I ask when she takes hold of my hand, dreading the answer, because right now, that’s my biggest fear.

She shakes her head, plucking at the slice in the skin. “How’d it happen?”

Flirting accident
. “Locker injury.”

She looks up, a gleam of humor in her pretty blue eyes. “We don’t have a lot of those.”

“I was … distracted.” No way I’d admit the truth to her.

“All the attention around the list, I assume.”

I jerk my hand a little, stunned. “The faculty knows about that?”

She sets my hand back down on my lap before getting up to go to a cabinet, opening it to block her profile from me. “Some do. Of course, I’m in the
in
crowd.” She leans away from the open cabinet so I can see her tilt her head in a movie-star pose that’s a bit weird, but kind of cute, too. “Number nine, 1988.” She winks. “And that makes me forty-two if you can do math.”

“You were on the list?” I instantly regret the shock in my voice, knowing exactly how that sounded—and really knowing how it must feel.

“I know, tough to believe. But I was a rockin’ hundred and ten pounds back then, and the baby-oil-and-iodine-laden summer afternoons hadn’t taken their wrath out on my skin yet.” She brushes her face wistfully. “And sometimes the most surprising people get on that list.”

Like me. “Was it a big deal back then?”

“Oh, yes.” She places bandages and a bottle on a sterile tray, then settles back down in front of me. “Everyone looks at you differently.”

“Tell me about it,” I agree. “But I’m no different.”

She takes my hand and lets out a sigh. “You’re in a very special club.”

I hiss in a breath when the disinfectant stings. “No offense, Nurse Fedder, but I really wasn’t that interested in getting into
this particular club. I’m more concerned about getting into college.”

“No offense taken.” She dabs lightly. “I was no great beauty, trust me, so getting voted onto the Hottie List was kind of a stunner.”

“That’s how I feel.”

She scrutinizes my face again, this time with a less clinical eye. “You’re pretty.”

The way she says it makes me laugh. “Pretty average.”

“No, pretty.” She adds a slow, sad smile. “You look like your brother, and I mean that as a great compliment.”

I keep myself from reacting with anything but a simple nod, mostly out of habit. I’ve heard it a hundred times. A thousand. We shared coloring and face shape, but Conner was somehow beautiful and bright, on the inside, too.

“He was a very nice boy.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Loved to talk.”

I can’t help but smile. “There was never a quiet moment in our house.” But now it’s stone silent most of the time.

“It’s been about two years now, hasn’t it?”

I try to swallow. “Just about.”

“I’m sorry.” She pats the hand she holds. “I just want you to know I thought he was a really outstanding young man.”

No surprise there. Everyone loved Conner.
Everyone
. “He was,” I agree, my voice gruff.

“Such a shame and shock, that accident.”

Please, no. Don’t go there. Don’t take me there
. I know she feels my hand stiffen in hers because she adds a quick, tight smile. “And no,” she assures me. “You will not lose this nail.” She unwinds a long strip of gauze. “But now you can really give
someone that finger if they say you don’t belong on the Hottie List.”