Boarding with the Bad Boy [COMPLETE + BONUS published edition]

THE BOARDERS: 13

Lo

I'm lying on my bare mattress when Sam returns to the dorm. His eyes sweep over my packed duffel on the desk, the bags I bought today sitting beside it. He peeks into one of them.

"Really, Somers? Silly string?" He's smirking and it pisses me off. I don't bother responding.

"Oh come on," he says, approaching the bed. My view of the dull ceiling is replaced by blue-gray eyes and piercings that make my pulse race. I close my eyes against them.

"Could you not?" I don't bother trying to keep the pain out of my voice. My eyes are swollen from crying. The only reason I'm still here is that I can't quite convince myself I'll get across campus without losing my shit. Again.

"Lighten up," Sam snorts.

"No."

"Somers, Jesus, don't be such a drama queen."

I open my eyes, glaring at him. "Drama queen? I'm about to be freaking homeless. My dad is dead, Sam. My mom—" I shake my head in disgust. "My mom should be, but thanks to some fucked-up universal twist, she got to kill my dad and continue waltzing through West Hollywood like she's God's gift to the world. Don't talk to me about being a 'drama queen.'"

"Oh my god," Sam sighs, exasperated. "And I thought this was going to be easy."

I snort. "What? Our tearful goodbye? Why don't you do me just one favor and spare me the gloating. I know this is the best thing that could have happened to you and Brandon, okay? I don't need to hear you say it." My voice is tight and I screw my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry in front of this asshole.

Sam makes a low noise in his throat. "I'm not here to gloat, Somers." He waits a beat before adding, "seriously." It pisses me off because he does sound serious. But seeing Jill's text—the same one Sam saw when he stole my phone—has hardened my resolve to stay far the heck away from Sam Evans. I'm not falling into whatever bullshit trap he's cooked up this time.

I keep my eyes closed, even though I can feel Sam hovering over me. When, after a long moment, he doesn't move, I snap my eyes back open and fix him with my angriest glare. "What do you want?" I bark. It comes out a little hysterical.

Sam cocks his head, his eyes locked on mine. "You're not going anywhere."

I laugh and sit up, shoving at his chest to move him out of my way. "Fuck off, Sam." I swing my legs off the bed and stand, moving to the door. Sam's a dick, but, for perhaps the first and last time, that's going to work in my favor; his attitude is giving me the strength I need to get to my truck. Maybe he is good for something after all.

"Dude, Somers. Relax. I'm not messing with you."

Or maybe not.

I spin, storming into his space. God, I don't know what I was thinking—I should be thrilled that I've gotten myself kicked out of Remington and can now go as far the hell away as I want. I've got a little inheritance from my dad. I could move to freaking Hawai'i and work at a surf shop, or vagabond around Europe. No reason for me to stay in Connecticut surrounded by people who make my life miserable.

For the second time in as many minutes, I slam my palms into Sam's chest, pushing him back. He stumbles but doesn't fall, and he doesn't put up his arms to protect himself. I push him again.

"You're worse than he is," I snarl, realizing as I say it just how much I mean it.

"Somers, come on." Sam's eyes are a storm of frustration and apology.

"Don't." It feels good, being this angry, letting it spill over into action. I bring my hands back to Sam's chest, ready to shove him again, when he surprises me, raising his own hands to meet mine. His long fingers wrap over my fists, holding them against his chest.

I glare at him, my breath coming fast. "Let go of me."

"Not until you hear me out."

My phone buzzes the staccato beats of a phone call coming in. I ignore it. Sam's hands are warm and calloused over my skin. My body wants to melt into his, but my brain is finally, gloriously, taking the lead and I'm in no mood to listen to what he has to say. I yank my hands from his grip and step away, moving toward my duffel.

"I'll hear you out when you're ready to apologize. Until then, leave me the hell alone." My phone buzzes a second time, then a third, in my back pocket. I don't bother with it. I already know the calls are coming from Jill, admonishing me for getting kicked out before she could come home. Her disappointment is the last thing I need. I swing the strap of my duffel over my shoulder and heave the bag off my desk.

"Somers," Sam groans. I don't have to turn to know that he's got his hands in his hair and he looks like he wants to throttle me.

I pause for a second, my hand on the doorknob. When he doesn't continue, I turn and smile, a bright, fake thing. "Doesn't sound like much of an apology to me. Ta-ta, Sam."

I fling open the door to 202 MacMillan and walk out, almost running down the empty hall. When I make it outside the dorm, I pull my phone from my pocket and flick it to life. I have three missed calls, all from a number I don't know and all the same, with a Connecticut area code. The phone begins to buzz again in my hand and when I see the same number on my screen, I swipe to answer.

"What?" I snap, because I'm angry and I don't have Sam as a punching bag anymore. The voice on the other line stops me cold. It's Coleman, and he says he has something of critical importance to discuss with me.

"It's good news," Coleman says happily from the other end of the phone. "Headmaster Carr has had a change of heart and wants you to understand the terms of your admission if you're interested in staying at Remington." Which means that Sam's little act upstairs may have been slightly more than just an act. Goddammit.

After hanging up with Coleman I stand in the walk, defeated, for a full minute. My bag slips off my shoulder to the brick, and all I can think is "what now?" But no ideas come and, eventually, I curse at the sky before turning and stomping back into the dorm.