CHAPTER 2

My forehead falls to the steering wheel as I remember the minions' black-streaked arms.

They probably rummaged under the hood for the shiniest parts to stab at with their manicure sets.

" The little mermaid. A girl who has everything but it's still not enough. "

My attention snaps toward the guy leaning in the passenger window, and I immediately regret leaving it down. If Timothy Adams and my co-star Chris Albright share top billing on the " Senior boys every Junior girl would give their BMW to bang " list, it's for different reasons. Chris' full of charm, the golden boy who comes from money and radiates ease and promises of good times.

Timothy's gorgeous. Talented. Mysterious. He comes from nothing and doesn't blink before taking everything. But no matter how fascinating he is, it's a lie. "

Being a daughter of a king doesn't mean her life is perfect. "

I answer at last.

"If you think so, you're dumber than you look. "

He rubs a hand through his dark hair, the chunk of blue at the front that sets him apart.

" But you told me I had a great future. You put on a scarf and held my hand and ogled my fate line. "

" It was a charity carnival. I was fourteen. "

" I paid five bucks for that spiritual advice. Don't tell me I wasted it. "

I hit the start button once more. It makes a grinding noise until I slap a hand against the dash. Please, don't let me be stranded at school. When I blink my eyes open, Timothy's nodding through the windshield, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt dress, the jacket are already gone. I don't want Timothy Adams under my hood. But if I have to call my dad, it'll invite questions as to why my almost-new car wont start. So, I pop the hood before rounding to the trunk for my toolkit, dropping it at his feet after I find it.

Timothy yanks off his loosened tie and holds it out. I take the tie from him, draping it around my neck for safekeeping. I don't notice his height, his hard body, the careless way he rubs a hand over his neck as he surveys what's under my hood with a relentless intensity.

" You know why Carla fucks with you. "

I shift against the front fender, twisting one end of his tie around my fingers as I watch.

" She's jealous of my fashion sense. "

He spares me an incredulous look.

" You bait her. You walk around this place with your heart on your sleeve, begging to bleed. It's impossible for her to resist. "

You could teach an AP course on making me bleed. I knot the bottom of my shirt up around my navel to get relief from the heat.

" She can't handle anyone having anything that could be hers, including the stage. "

" The spotlights not all its cracked up to be. Fans don't want you, they want what they think you possess. And the more you posses, the more people feel entitled to take. "

The edge in his words catches me off guard. I work a coiled elastic off my wrist, twisting my long hair up in a messy knot and fanning my sweat damp neck.

" Careful, Timothy. Someone might think being Prince of Oakwood is getting old. "

Timothy shifts to stand in front of me in a heartbeat. He's in my space, tall and built and intent, the weight of his attention moving from the car to me. The crisp white shirt, rolled at the sleeves, makes him look gorgeous and a little reckless, like some pirate on a mission to charm and destroy. But it's the expression on his face, that knowing smirks, that pins me in place. It's as if he just caught me doing something filthy.

" Careful, Emily. Someone might think you give a shit. "

Once, I held his hand and told his fortune. Never again. He betrayed me. Hurt me more than Carla's teasing and pranks ever could. I want him to back the fuck up, but I can't speak. Right now, all I can do is take in Timothy's light cedar scent, his half-lowered lashes, his voice a soft murmur on my skin. I clear my throat, arch a brow.

" Do you need something? "

" Yeah, I do. "

Finally, he moves. Down my body. My breath hitches as his face is level with my chest, my waist. I pressed my thighs together when his face passes my bare legs. The heart is supposed to propel blood to your vital organs. Mine a traitor. It doesn't give a fuck if I live or die. When he's this close, it beats for him. He drops his wrench in the toolkit at my feet, and I shut my eyes in humiliated relief. Get a grip. If he ever finds out how I feel, the last of my pride and self respect will go up in flames.

" What's this? Don't tell me you cheated on our English test. "

Timothy lifts the edge of my skirt, and I smack his hand away.

" What's under my skirt is none of your business. "

He huffs out a breath as he straightens and returns to work.

" There it is. " he murmurs moment later under the hood.

" They yanked the coupling for your...never mind. "

he says at my blank expression.

" Carla's better at politics than car. "

He lowers the hood, wiping the rolled-up arm of his dress shirt on his forehead.

" You should be fine. If it gives you any grief, let me know. "

" Thanks. " The word sticks in my throat, and he holds my gaze for a beat, two. I hurry to slide in through the driver's door. When I hit the start button, the engine roars to life. Relief washes over me as I stuff my blazer in the back seat and unbutton my shirt another button while the A/C kicks in. Sweat beads on my chest, and I'm fastening my seatbelt when Timothy leans his muscled forearms on the driver's door.

" You get slapped with community service? "

He nods toward the black garbage bag on top of my books. I shift my sunglasses up on my head.

" Oh, I led the litter pick up for Young Environmentalist at the park last week, but no, that's my practice costume for the musical. It has a hole in the bottom so I can walk. "

" I see. You'll have trouble evading horny sailors. "

" Yeah, well, Hans Anderson was pre-Me too. "

This time, Timothy's smile is genuine. I can tell because it lands in the center of my chest like a blow. I wish I could lick my suddenly dry lips without him taking credit for it. He reaches into the car, and my breath hitches as he lifts his tie from around my neck, drawing it out in a long ribbon. The silk strokes my neck for what feels like minutes, and I force my gaze away when he finally pockets the tie. My attention lands on the lone motorcycle across the parking lot.

" Next time Carla gets creative with my car, I'm borrowing your ride. "

" No, you're not. "

He straightens, shoving a hand through his messy-is-sexy hair.

" Eddie Carlton would destroy me for letting his baby girl near it. "

There it is. The reason I can't avoid Timothy completely, even I want nothing more than to cut him out of my life. Oakwood's rebel prince doesn't live in a brick mansion with a closet full of V-necks and two Ivy-League-educated parents. He lives in our pool house, thirty feet from my bedroom.

"Sorry I'm late. Car trouble."

I trip into the cafe, and Avery looks up from her table.

"I did bring you presents, through. Check your e-reader." \

My friend grabs her tablet from her bag.

"Oooh! How many books did you get me?"

"Ten? Twelve?"

I laugh.

"You're going away. You'll need some new material."

"You're the best!"

She informs me when I finish telling her about the mix of fiction and non fiction I picked out. We go to the counter, and I order a peppermint tea.

"How was rehearsal?"

Avery asks while we wait. I fill my friend in on what happened with Carla, and her eyes widen.

"The bitches tried to stop me driving away from the crime scene."

I finish.

"Sabotaging your ride is a new low. She's escalating."

I roll my eyes.

"Carla can't stand people taking things she wants."

"It's more than that. You're a traitor to an income bracket."

Avery says, mock chastising.

"Writing essays about how her dad and a bunch of others are destroying the middle class through their greedy empires and campaigning with the administration to spend our community involvement hours with actual disadvantage people instead of working with fancy ad agencies on shiny posters for environmental groups."

Her smile fades.

"For real, through. Why is this High School Musical fantasy is so important to you? In a year, we'll both be at Columbia, and this will all be behind us."

My tea is set in front of me, and I reach for it.

"She doesn't get to decide who has a voice, on stage or anywhere else."

Avery follows me back to our table.

"So, how'd you get here if they fucked up your ride?"

"Timothy fixed it."

I glance at her empty mug.

"Do you want another Americano to get through calculus?"

Hands grip my arms, and in a second, I'm looking straight into my friend's dark, dancing eyes.

"No, I do not want another Americano. I want to know in what world Timothy Adams was elbow deep in your business?!"

Avery's smart. Like, next level. She's the head of debate team and the newspaper, she's taking all AP courses, and she doesn't miss a beat. Her dad moved here from Nevada and met her mom at Spain before they came to Texas. Mr. Spade knows my stepmom because Haley's in software too.

"When was the last time you and Mr. Pool House (Timothy Adams) talked about something other than who ate the last Cheerios?"

She presses.

"Four months?"

"Which is weird given you've been living together for the better part of a semester and you were friends before that."

Yes, we were friends. Or whatever you call it when you hang with someone incessantly, argue over bands until three in the morning, and take over diner booths across an entire city on an epic quest to find the best cheese fries. When I met Timothy, he was part of a community outreach program at my dad's label in Philly for kids from troubled backgrounds. He was talented and gorgeous, but none of that was what attracted me to him. There was a deeper pull. I knew Timothy had seen some shit the way you can tell when another person's been through it. Still, anytime I asked about his family, he shut me down. When my dad finished the album, we moved back to Dallas, but Timothy and I stayed friends.

"Remember when he moved here from Philly to work with your dad and everyone at school lost their designer shit over him?"

Avery muses.

"Oakwood should've eaten him alive, but they didn't."

And that's what I hate the most. The boy I trusted, my partner in crime during one of the most tumultuous periods of my life, traded my friendship for theirs.

"The whole thing was messed up from the start."

I admit.