A Gorgeous Villain Page 2

  The whole stadium is expecting it. All the people who are watching, they expect Reed to lose the ball. It’s in the way that they’ve all gone silent and the way the announcers are talking with a rapid-fire speed and a louder tone.

  But they’re all wrong. Every single one of them.

  Like the way they’re wrong about the fact that Reed is a mere athlete.

  He’s more than that.

  He’s not only an athlete, he’s also a dancer.

  Look at his footwork. It’s exquisite. It’s impeccable. It’s graceful. It’s the envy of every dancer, especially a ballet dancer. And I’d know because I’m a ballerina. Have been since I was five.

  Reed Roman Jackson has the kind of footwork that would make any ballerina fall in love with him.

  It would make any ballerina go down on her knees and weep at his feet.

  Not me though.

  I can’t.

  What kind of a sister would I be if I did?

  Therefore, I can’t widen my eyes at the rapid swipes and the swings of his legs as he zigzags through the closing-in crowd, still somehow keeping possession of the ball. I can’t wring my hands in my lap when he nearly crashes into a guy from the opposite team. I can’t lose my breath when he almost loses the ball but at the last minute, with a fake pass to throw them off his scent, he saves it.

  And neither can I hop up from my seat and clap and scream when he finally, finally, sends the ball flying with such force that it feels like it’s slicing the air itself in two before hitting the net and scoring the goal. The first goal of the game.

  I can’t do any of that.

  I can’t.

  But I can’t deny the rush in my chest or the puff of relieved air that escapes through my parted lips.

  I can’t deny that my veins feel full and bursting.

  They feel full of music, of the notes of a violin, and my feet are restless. So restless to just… dance.

  “That’s my brother.”

  Tempest’s voice pierces through and I jerk my eyes away from Reed, who’s getting thumped on the back by the Mustang camp of the team while the Thorn camp is simply going about their business of getting back into their positions, including number twenty-three, Ledger.

  “Um, sorry. Who’s your brother again?” I ask because I completely missed who she was pointing at.

  She throws me a sly smile. “The one you’ve been watching.”

  “What?”

  She bumps her shoulder with mine. “The one who scored the goal just now and you got so excited that I thought your eyes would pop out of your head.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Did I?

  She laughs. “You so totally did. Even I don’t get as excited as you did.”

  My heart is a drumbeat in my chest. “I –”

  “It’s fine. I won’t tell.” She mimics a zipping motion on her lips before pointing to the back of her jersey. “But anyway, Jackson. I’m Tempest Jackson. Reed’s my brother.”

  She’s Reed’s sister.

  Sister.

  “That’s why you look familiar,” I breathe out before I get a hold of myself. “I’m sorry. I just thought you looked familiar.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “You also thought I was his girlfriend, didn’t you?”

  “What? No.” I shake my head, squirming in my seat. “I… It’s none of my business.”

  “It’s okay. He has a lot of girlfriends. Oops. Not girlfriends. Girls. My brother doesn’t do girlfriends.”

  “Oh yeah, I know.”

  Tempest stares at me for a few seconds. It’s not long but it’s enough to make me slightly uncomfortable and self-conscious. “But that doesn’t mean that he won’t ever have a girlfriend. You know, when the right girl comes along. He’s just being an idiot right now.”

  “O-kay.” I nod. “That’s good to know.”

  “Is it?”

  “What?”

  Tempest completely turns to me then. “I like you. I think you’re cool. And I think…” She lowers her voice. “You have a major crush on my brother. And –”

  “Oh my God. Stop.”

  I look around to make sure no one’s listening in on our conversation.

  Although the stadium is so loud and people are so engrossed in the game, I highly doubt anyone could eavesdrop even if they wanted to.

  But still.

  I can’t take any chances. If someone so much as got a whiff of the fact that I was talking about him, that Ledger and Conrad’s sister was talking about having a crush on the enemy, I don’t even know what would happen.

  Ledger would definitely kill Reed. Definitely.

  And then he’d lock me up somewhere for who knows how long for betraying him, and I wouldn’t even blame him.

  Because it is a betrayal, isn’t it?

  “What?” Tempest asks confused.

  “Don’t even talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you can’t. And because I can’t.”

  “You can’t what?”

  I look around again. I even go so far as to lean in toward her and lower my voice. “I can’t like your brother.”

  She leans in as well. “What? Why can’t you?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Yeah, you said that. But what does that mean?”

  “It means that I can’t. I’m not…” I look for a suitable word. “Allowed.”

  “You’re not allowed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, who is it that’s not allowing you?”

  I stare at her a beat before saying, “Look, you don’t live here so you don’t know.”

  “What don’t I know?”

  “There’s bad blood between my brother and yours.” She frowns and I explain, “My brother hates your brother and the feeling is mutual, okay? So don’t even talk about these things.”

  Her confusion has only grown. “What? Why?”

  I go to explain the whole thing to her but turns out I don’t have to.

  When I can show her.

  Because what happens at every game is already happening on the field. The two star players of Bardstown High are facing off against each other.

  You’d think that ever since Ledger became the captain, he would try to steer clear of all kinds of fights and arguments. At least on the field. But no.

  Because Reed doesn’t let him.

  Ever since Ledger became the captain, Reed’s aggressiveness on the field has only grown.

  I’m not sure what brought on the current argument but they’re standing toe to toe.

  I can’t see their expressions from here so all I have to go on is their body language and it is not looking good.

  There are tense shoulders, rigid backs. Wide, battle-ready stances and folded arms.

  I can read my brother like a book and I know he’s angry. I know that the vein on his temple must be pulsing as he says something, or rather, snaps it at Reed.

  Who, on the other hand, appears completely relaxed.

  Reed looks like he doesn’t care that Ledger is almost up in his face. He doesn’t care that Ledger looks like he might hit Reed at any point.

  But I think it’s all for show.

  It’s all to provoke Ledger, to show him that he can’t get to Reed, to mess with his head.

  Reed’s successful too because in the next second, Ledger shoots his hand out and pushes Reed back.

  Oh God.

  And finally, we have a reaction.

  It pulses through Reed like a current, obliterating his relaxed persona, making him rigid and unforgiving. And when Reed takes a threatening step closer to Ledger, Ledger does the same, bringing them back to standing toe to toe, their bodies sweaty, their heads bent toward each other as if they’re exchanging confidences rather than threats.

  The two beasts, the Mustang and the Thorn.

  Just when I think that they’re going to start p
unching each other, someone steps in.

  My oldest brother and their coach, Conrad.

  He absolutely hates this rivalry. Hates. He hates Ledger’s anger. He hates Reed’s recklessness.

  He hates the fact that every high school team in the entire freaking state knows about this. About how the two star players of Bardstown High can’t quit measuring their dicks on the field — his words, not mine — and they always take advantage of it.

  My oldest brother gets between his two players, plants one palm on each of their chests and pushes them away.

  When he’s managed to break the two heavily panting, angry-looking guys apart, Conrad wraps his large hands around the backs of their necks and pulls them in again, giving them a piece of his mind.

  When he’s done Conrad straightens up and pins them with his hard gaze for a few seconds before letting them go. And just like that the game resumes.

  “So that’s my brother,” I tell her, repeating her words. “The one who was clearly trying to beat your brother up. Ledger. And the one who got between them? The coach? That’s my brother too, Conrad.”

  “Oh wow,” Tempest breathes out.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “See? You can’t even joke about it. Not in Bardstown.”

  She keeps staring at the field for a few seconds before turning to me. “So… I don’t think you’re gonna like what I’m going to say next.”

  “What?”

  “That I think I have a huge crush on your brother.” Her gray eyes — so unmistakably like Reed’s — pop wide. “I’ve never seen someone stand up to my brother like that. Ledger.”

  She breathes out his name in a dreamy voice.

  “I don’t –”

  “Oh, and you’re coming with me,” she speaks over me.

  “Coming with you where?”

  “To the party.”

  “What party?”

  “The aftergame party that Reed always throws.”

  I'm going to a party.

  But that’s not important.

  That’s not even on the list of top three important things.

  It’s not as if I haven’t been to parties before. I have. A few times.

  But between school and my dance classes, I don’t get a lot of free time so I’m not that experienced with them either.

  The ones that I have been to were loud and overcrowded and had really bad music.

  Not to mention, they sort of freak my brothers out.

  They don’t show it though, no. For my sake, my four overprotective older brothers try to hide their worry.

  They try to hide the fact that every time I go to a party, they’re all always watching the clock. They’re always watching the door too – well, Con does because he likes to stay home, the rest of them are usually out and about with their friends – and texting each other to see if I’m back.

  I think they have a group chat together.

  I mean, we have one where all five siblings are included but I think they have a secret four-person chat where they sort of obsess over if I’m okay.

  I guess even though I’m in high school now, I’m still their baby sister.

  The one who followed them around while growing up. The one whose ballet recitals they all went to. The one who couldn’t fall asleep by herself for the longest time when our mom died, so all my brothers would take turns during the night and stay with me in my room.

  I don’t really remember that part, about not falling asleep by myself, probably because I was only four when Mom died, but every time I think of it, I can’t stop crying and smiling.

  I can’t stop the rush of love I feel for my big brothers.

  So over time I decided not to go to parties at all.

  I don’t want to worry them for something I don’t really have the time for and don’t like to begin with anyway.

  But I’m going to this one.

  And I’m going without telling my brothers.

  That’s their one rule – to keep them updated about my whereabouts.

  They’ll let me go to parties, or to the movies with my friends, but they need to know where I am at all times.

  They don’t know where I am right now.

  They think they know; I texted them saying I’m studying with one of my friends and that I’ll be back by my curfew.

  They don’t know that I’m here.

  That I’m going to a party thrown by Reed Roman Jackson.

  My brother’s rival.

  The guy I’m supposed to stay away from.

  And I have.

  I have stayed away from him.

  I have been extremely careful never to be in the same place as him.

  If he’s in the courtyard with his friends, I’m in the library. If he’s in the cafeteria, sitting in his usual spot, I know to stay on the opposite side of the room.

  If I see him sitting inside his Mustang in the parking lot after practice, listening to music with his eyes closed, I turn around and walk through the soccer field to get to the bus stop.

  Basically, I have done everything in my power to stay away from him.

  So I don’t really know what I’m doing here.

  I don’t even know how it happened. How I got pulled into going. By his sister, no less. Who I met only a little while ago.

  But one minute we were watching the game and I was explaining to her about the rivalry, which I’m so glad to say that she doesn’t really understand either. And the next, the game is over and Tempest is pulling me away from the field, telling me that we shouldn’t be controlled by our brothers’ stupidity.

  That I should ignore all the rivalry stuff and go to a party with a friend — her — if I want to. And besides, if I don’t like it, I’m free to leave.

  So here I am.

  Going to a party with a friend who has promised me that I can leave if I want to.

  And I want to, I think.

  Because as soon as I see the crowd, I realize that this is even stupider and more dangerous than I originally thought.

  This party, which is happening in the middle of the woods that border Bardstown, is full of people from the Mustang camp.

  The soccer players who worship him, the students from Bardstown High who are in awe of him and girls from all over town who want to be with him.

  All of them are either laughing or talking or swaying with the music with red cups in their hands. I even hear people chanting his name off to the side.

  Of course, Callie. This is his party.

  This is his territory.

  Everything here is his.

  Except me.

  I’m the trespasser. I’m the one who doesn’t belong. I’m the anomaly here.

  And what if someone recognizes me, the sister of his rival?

  What if they tell Ledger about it?

  Oh Jesus Christ, I haven’t thought this through, have I?

  I have not thought this through at all.

  What if he uses this, me being here, as something to rile Ledger up in the next game?

  He’s done it before.

  I mean, he hasn’t used me to rile my brother up. But he has used things against Ledger. And well, Ledger has done the same, but yeah.

  I need to get out.

  I need to leave.

  I grab Tempest’s hand and try to stop her from getting into the thick of the crowd. “I think I’m…”

  Going to leave.

  That’s what I was going to say before I left my words hanging.

  Because just then the crowd parts, the horde of swaying bodies falls apart, and there opens a direct line of vision.

  To him.

  The guy who owns everything around me.

  Reed Roman Jackson.

  He’s sitting on a log, his powerful thighs spread, his demeanor casual, his body leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

  And as usual, he’s not alone.

  There’s a girl draped over him
— I think she’s from school — and she’s talking to him, whispering something in his ear.

  It’s not the fact that a girl is hanging off his arm that makes me pause, no. I’ve seen this before at school, multiple times. I mean, it would be more of a shock to see him without a girl.

  It’s not the girl. It’s him.

  It’s the fact that despite very meager lighting in the space — the moon and headlights from parked cars — every single thing about him is so clear, so vivid.

  So alive.

  Like his hair, for example.

  His spiky, dark hair. The strands of which have little droplets sitting on the tips, making me think that he just had a shower, right after the game.

  And maybe he was in a rush to get to his party.

  Because he didn’t bother with a shave and his jaw is stubbled with a five o’clock shadow.

  I don’t think he likes it though.

  Because I always catch him touching it, rubbing and scratching it as if irritated.

  A gesture that’s more like a habit to him. That he’s performing right now even, as he talks to the girl, his face turned toward her, a smirk lurking on his ruby-red lips.

  A gesture that makes me think that maybe he likes smooth things. Soft things.

  Things like his hoodie.

  His white hoodie, to be precise.

  So his hoodies are famous around school and in town. They’re always white or cream colored and they always seem thick and cozy.

  And of course soft.

  Also, his hoodies are his favorite thing to wear.

  Because he always has them on — well, except in summers but still. That and his dark jeans.

  Black and white.

  And needless to say, girls around town are obsessed with his hoodies.

  They stare at them. They talk about them. They want to touch his hoodies and play with the strings. They want to wear his hoodies too.

  Which from what I’ve heard is a privilege.

  Not every girl gets to wear them, only the special ones, and so it’s a coveted thing: Reed Roman Jackson and his hoodies.

  Even now the girl who’s wrapped around him is tracing the fabric, pulling on the strings, fingering the edge of his sleeve at his wrist as she laughs at something he’s said.

  Stop staring, Callie.

  Right.

  I need to stop staring. But the thing is that it’s very hard to do.