“Sorry, Rhyland.” I patted his shoulder with a sweet smile. Something dangerous rippled up and down my spine. “I know you want me, but I’m too much for you to handle. Not gonna happen. Take the L. Row?” I snapped my fingers. “Yeah?” “Drive me to the moorlands. I’m going to that party.” And I was going to fuck Tucker Reid and his bad poetry and his dubious intentions and my entire freaking future, all at once. After all, I was Dylan. Impulsive. Overly emotional. And a very sore loser.
