“Want to make out?”
“With who?” she asks, not bothering to look up.
“Me.”
She lifts her head from her book just long enough to give me a once-over. “No, thanks,” she says, then goes back to her homework.
She’s fuckin’ with me. She’s got to be fuckin’ with me, right?
“Because of that pendejo Tuck?”
“No. Because I don’t want Madison’s leftovers.”
Wait. Un. Momento. I’ve been called a lot of things before, but . . .
“You callin’ me leftovers?”
“Yeah. Besides, Tuck is a great kisser. I wouldn’t want you to feel bad when there’s no way you can compete.”
That guy hardly owns a pair of lips. “Wanna bet?”