Chapter 3

Tristan scoffs and shakes his head, immediately refocusing his gaze on mine. I’m not sure how long I can maintain that stare without losing part of my soul. It’s absolutely terrifying … and thrilling, all at once. I’ve only ever met one guy like this before, and that didn’t turn out so well.

“Scholarship. Trash talk for free money handout.” His smile turns into a nightmarish grin. “My family actually built this school, and yet, we still pay to be here. What makes you so special that you should get to come here for free?”

I’m so not ready or expecting this attack that it blindsides me, and I’m left gaping as he reaches out and teases a strand of my loose hair around his finger. He gives a little tug on my brunette waves and leans even closer, brushing my ear with his mouth.

“Pretty enough though, for white trash.” Without thinking, I reach up with both palms and shove this stranger back with everything I’ve got. One bonus of growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, you learn to stand up for yourself. Tristan barely moves, his expression never changing. It’s like shoving at a mountain of bricks. Completely and utterly immovable. “How

long do you think you’ll last?” he continues, cocking his head slightly to one side. I reach up to push his hand away from my hair, but he’s already leaning back, dropping his arm—and his smile—with a sudden change in expression. His lids go half-lidded as he studies me. “Not long, I don’t think.” That beautiful mouth of his purses. “Shame. I was looking forward to a challenge.”

Tristan turns away from me, like I’m the one who’s done something wrong when he was late to meet me and he was … well, doing something with an older girl in the closet. What, exactly, he was doing, I don’t want to know. And yet some dark, messed-up part of me really does. Damn it.

Even though I don’t want to, I take off down the open air hallway with the blooming jasmine, and catch up to my ‘guide’ for the day. Fantastic. I’ve clearly been paired with the rudest—and probably richest—boy at this school. And probably the best looking, too. My heart flutters in my chest, but I push the feeling away. I try to be nice to everyone, but I’m not going to simper at some guy just because he’s hot.

He doesn’t wait for me to catch up, so I have to run, panting by the time we’re shoulder to shoulder. Tristan doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m short of breath. Nor does he seem to notice or care that he’s supposed to be showing me where the dorms—sorry, apartments—are, the classrooms, the cafeteria.

“You’re my guide for the day,” I say, cheeks flushed with heat from running, my fingers lifting the badge up for Tristan’s inspection, flashing his name on the backside. “Whether you like me or not is irrelevant, you have a job to do.”

Tristan pauses just outside a door with beautiful stained glass panels stretching from floor to ceiling. My instinct is to gape at it, and then snap a picture for my dad, but I’m going to have to get used to the idea of not having a phone. That, and my gut instincts are telling me it’d be a mistake to let this Tristan guy learn anything about me, even something as small as my fascination with historical architecture.

“A job?” he scoffs, taking a step back and looking me up and down with a slow sweep of silver eyes. They cut across me like a blade, making me bleed. Unconsciously, I cross my arms over my chest and he chuckles. It’s not a pleasant sound, not even close. Instead, Tristan’s laughter is mocking, like he thinks I’m some cosmic joke thrust upon him by an uncaring universe. “Listen, Charity,” he starts, and I open my mouth to tell him off when his palm slams into the stained glass panel behind my head. “No, don’t talk. There’s nothing you have to say that would interest me.” Reaching out, Tristan runs his fingers down the side of my jaw, and I slap his hand away. He snatches my wrist and holds it there, like he owns me. Looking at the guy, I get the impression that he thinks he owns the whole school. “Do you know what my last name is?”

“After the way you’ve treated me,” I start, lifting my chin, nostrils flaring. “I don’t think I care to.”

At my last school, we had metal detectors, dr*g dogs, and an on-campus police force. If Tristan thinks he can intimidate me, he’s got another thing coming. What I don’t know in that moment is that rich boys are far more dangerous than poor ones. The poor ones might join gangs and pack heat, might rough you up for walking in the wrong neighborhood, but the rich ones have all the same instincts wrapped up in pretty faces and designer shoes, white smiles and genteel manners. The thing is, with infinite resources comes the ability to inflict infinite pain.

“If you want to survive even a single day on campus,” he continues, leaning in and putting his mouth so close to my ear that his breath stirs my hair, raising goose bumps on my arm. I can’t decide if I like or hate his proximity, his long, lean body brushing up against the front of me, one knee between my legs. My breasts just barely brush his chest, two crisp white shirts teasing one another with each breath we take. “Then you best learn it—and quick.”

Tristan releases me and steps back. The arrogance in his handsome face is staggering, his high cheekbones and full mouth a waste on such a haughty face. He’s too full of himself to be pretty. Liar, my mind whispers, but I brush that aside. The guy practically assaulted me. If he thinks I won’t report his ass, he’s got another thing coming.

“That girl in the closet …” I blurt before I can stop myself. There’s a morbid fascination brewing in me that I know I should tamp down. Play with flame and get burned. That’s a hard fact of life I learned long ago, so what the hell am I doing?

Tristan slides long fingers through his lush, raven-colored hair, looking down at me like I’m gum on the bottom of his shoe. I’m not surprised. By the time lunch rolls around, the whole school will be calling me Charity.

“Want me to tell you how I fucked her?” he asks as heat rushes up the back of my neck and burns my cheeks. “If you last the week,” he continues, reaching up to adjust his black silk tie, “maybe I will.”

He turns then and leaves me standing alone on the walkway. On either side of the awning, rain begins to fall.

That’s not a good omen, not a good omen at all.