Just Drop Out (Hannaford Prep, #1)

by J. Bree

“Did you know there’s a price on me? Did you know that’s why I’m being stalked by guys at this shitty school?” Harley’s smirk falters on his lips for a second, and then it’s as strong as ever. “Everyone knows about it. They all know Joey staked his claim on you as well.” Staked his claim, like I’m a slab of fucking meat. I feel the grips of that white-hot rage taking me again. Harley must see it too, because his face splits into a grin. “Like I said, Mounty, if you hit Joey, I will take that memory to bed for the rest of my life.” “Fuck hitting him,” I whisper back, and Avery turns to glare at us both.

“Inferior? You’ve both just said you’re flunking the lower math class, and you’re not in any of the other top classes with me. Clearly I’m not the inferior student.”

Between the bright blue tones and the tattoo, he looks like he belongs in an eighties punk band. The shocking part is that his eyes are twinkling with laughter rather than the malice I expected. “Good shower?” I prod at him. “Great. Just what I needed. How's your bowels?” “Lovely and cleared, thanks for asking.” He snorts with laughter and digs into his plate. It's weird to sit with him, but I can't move away without seeming weak or bitchy.

“How kind of you to grace us with your presence.” Sarcasm drips from my words. Blaise ignores me, but Ash chuckles from where his head is still pressed into his palms. “He does what he can for his people.” “Yes, yes, you’re both so fucking amusing. I had to re-sit a test for history, because apparently Mr. Smithton gets hard over ruining my life. He called my dad, so now I’m truly fucked. Why can’t I just drop out and make music and fuck groupies and get fucking blind drunk every night? Why do I have to learn inane bullshit about dead people? Why?” “Ah, good. The dramatics have started, Mounty, settle in. We’re going to be here for hours while he gets this out of his system.” Blaise slumps into his chair theatrically, and I scoff at him. He looks like a poor little rock star, forced to be a scholar.

“No, no, I won’t be growing a beard and smoking joints out of a van like a fucking pedophile. Get it all out, though. Bottling it up will only make it worse.” I tune out their banter, as amusing as it is, to look over Blaise’s classwork.