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When they don’t, Carter looks down at me in shock. Nobody tells him no. Especially not his sweet, eager-to-please little girlfriend, Rainbow Williams.
But that girl, Rainbow, she was lying to him just as much as he was lying to her. About the music she liked, her favorite movies, how much she loved to watch sports and suck his dick. Rainbow tried to be everything he ever wanted, and he still left her behind.
So, now, all he gets is Rain.
And No is that bitch’s middle name.
“Tell me now, or I’m not going.”
Carter’s dark eyebrows pull together. “Seriously?”
I respond with a glare.
“Listen, I don’t know what’s up with your whole … attitude, but … it’s kinda sexy.” He grins.
“Ugh!” I huff and shrug off his arm, turning and stomping off the way we came.
I make it all of two steps before his hand clamps down around my bicep, and his boyish laugh bounces off the walls.
“Simmer down, Rainbow Brite.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, trying to wriggle out of his grip, but his hand is so big his fingers practically wrap around my arm twice. “Let me go!”
“If I do, will you listen to me?”
I grunt and give up the fight, crossing my arms over my chest the second he lets go. I still have my back to him, so Carter walks around and stands in front of me. He’s looking at me the way he looks at Sophie when she’s being a brat.
“The guys and I are gonna play hockey in the old Pottery Barn, okay?” He points over my shoulder, but I don’t look. “I thought you might want to come along. You always loved coming to my games back in the day. You can be my cheerleader.”
He smirks, and I want to slap it off his face.
Be his cheerleader. Puh-leez.
“I’ll come but only if I get to play.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret them very, very much. I don’t know the first thing about hockey. I’m probably gonna make a total fool out of myself, twist an ankle, and …
Oh, whatever. None of this matters, and we’re all gonna die. Right?
“You wanna play hockey?” he scoffs.
“You heard me.” I crane my neck back to look him in the eye.
As Carter studies me, I decide that putting that puzzled look on his pretty face is worth whatever sprained ligament I’m about to suffer.
Finally, he shrugs. “Okay, but they’re not gonna go easy on you.”
God, if you’re listening, please make them go easy on me.
We walk inside what used to be Pottery Barn, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever been in one. I used to stare at the gorgeous window displays when I was a kid. Everything looked so shiny and expensive and stylish. Of course, Mama would never take me inside because she knew I’d probably break a four-hundred-dollar lamp within five seconds, but that only made my longing stronger. I told myself that the day I became a real grown-up would be the day I came here and bought the first thing that caught my eye without even looking at the price tag.
Well, here I am, and even though I’m ten years too late to do any shopping, I can still feel the spirit of every glittery picture frame and smell the essence of every scented candle that used to line these shelves. Even though they’re covered in dust and water stains now, the wall-to-wall hardwood floors and white custom shelves lining the open space still feel just as luxurious as they did when I was a kid. And lucky for me, everything in the store is totally free now … as long as you’re in the market for a mildewed cardboard box, a crate of broken dishes, or a random, cracked toilet seat.
A group of runaways is gathered in the center of the store, chatting. I recognize all four guys from Q’s table—the accordion player in the patched-up jean jacket, the lanky teenagers with matching bullet belts and ripped skinny jeans, and the heavyset, bearded banjo player who’s wearing suspenders to keep his threadbare corduroy pants from falling off.
“Well, if it ain’t The Lumineers,” Carter teases as we approach the group.
All eight eyeballs land on me, and instead of widening in predatory lust—like I was used to back in Franklin Springs—they narrow in disgust. These guys look at me the way their queen looks at me—like I’m a threat, a liar, an outsider who needs to be disposed of as soon as she’s no longer useful. On the one hand, it’s kinda refreshing to have a man look at me like something other than his next victim. But, on the other hand, I also kinda need to keep living here, so it might be time for me to dust off my Student Council smile and make some new friends.
