“Dovey, you’re up next,” one of the other dancers said.

I glided back to the center spot, forgetting about the player.

I’m sure he wasn’t looking at me anyway.

No one at BA ever sees the scholarship girl from Ratcliffe.

AFTER PRACTICE, I left the dance building to meet Spider, my bestie, in the school parking lot. Well, to be honest, I was meeting him and his random flavor of the month. Becca, maybe? Who knew. I couldn’t keep up with the names considering the constant rotation he ran.

As I came around the corner of the building, I saw he had this week’s girl backed up against the side of his Range Rover, his hands on her ass, all cozy as they made out. I noticed he’d colored his hair again; it was azure blue, and I had to admit, it looked good.

I paused and watched in a clinical kind of way, wondering what all the fuss was about with him. I mean, who’d ever want to kiss Spider? His mouth had been everywhere. I laughed low enough so they wouldn’t hear me, still taking it all in, planning on critiquing him later on his tongue technique.

He stuck his hand up her red shirt, going for boobs, and my brows hit the roof. It wasn’t even dark yet. Not that that had ever stopped him.

The girl moaned, her hands cupping his nape, her fingers caressing the hand-sized black widow tattoo he had on his neck. He pulled her closer and pumped his hips against hers.

“Spider,” she moaned, picking up a leg and wrapping it around his waist.

Good grief. They were about to make their own porn movie.

I coughed.

They didn’t move, their hands getting more frenzied, their kiss more heated.

“Yeah, baby, like that,” Spider said gutturally as the girl put her hands in his pants.

Okay, enough. This was gross.

I put my hands up to my mouth and let out a long, shrill whistle. I grinned when Spider flinched and shot me an irritated glare. I shrugged. So. I loved to give him a hard time.

The girl straightened her shirt, her beady green eyes on me. Pissy? Most definitely.

“Bloody fucking hell. Could you have let us finish?” he said, pushing down on the giant hard-on in his jeans. His British always came out more when he was pissed, which made me smile.

I cocked a hip. “You said we were going to Portia’s for a pastry, so I’m here. Jonesing for a donut, if you wanna know. If you wanted to mess around, you shoulda got a room. Or at least gotten in the car. It’s right there.”

The girl gave me a weird look. “You’re going with us?”

“Am I?” I asked Spider, arching my brow. He’d better say yes. We’d made plans at lunch and if he bailed on me …

He gave the girl a quick peck on the mouth. “Yep. She goes with me.”

Suck it, I wanted to say to her, but I just stood there, because I’d still be here tomorrow … and her? Not so much.

I moved in closer and stuck my hand out to the girl, offering an olive branch. “Dovey Beckham. And you don’t have to worry. Spider and I are just friends.” I smiled, because really, we were just friends, and it would be nice to have a friend who was a girl.

But she gave me a look loaded with disdain. Typical reception from the rich girls who considered a girl from the projects beneath them. But maybe because Spider was watching, she put her hand out too. “Becca Mitchell. Spider’s girlfriend.”

I blinked to stop my eyes from rolling. She wished. Along with several others.

Then, I shot him a look to see if he agreed with that statement, but his face was a cool mask. As usual. No one could ever tell what he was thinking. But my gut sensed this girl was just passing through. Just yesterday, he’d told me about messing around with some cheerleader out at the barn, an old building that sat at the end of BA’s campus and was part of the equestrian program here.

I smiled brightly back at Becca, just as fake as she was. “Great. I hope you stay that way.” I rubbed my hands together. “Now, if you two are done, I just spent three hours working my ass off, and I’d like to get my carbs for the day.”

We got in Spider’s car, with Becca sitting in the front seat, while I sat alone in the back. Whatever.

Being alone didn’t matter.

And I had secrets anyway. And that meant keeping my distance when it came to relationships, because if these spoiled rich kids knew my true story, my entire future would be over.

“I blame myself for a lot of things.

Loving her wasn’t one of them.”

–Cuba

SEPTEMBER DRIFTED PAST. I went to school, played football, and partied as usual, picking a new girl to be with every Friday night after the game. I had my choice, being constantly bombarded with offers and texts and sexual innuendoes. Once I’d even hooked up with one of the teacher interns here. Fresh from the university, she’d been impressed with my athletic build, and I’d been impressed with her willingness to do anything I asked. But I was smart when it came to chicks. I always picked the ones who wouldn’t be bothered when I moved on to someone else. That meant most nice girls were out.

I don’t think I’m missing anything. I’m not a nice dude.

By mid October we’d won four straight games, and the sportscasters were calling me the best defensive end since BA had opened its esteemed doors in 1962. I accepted the praise because I needed the focus. Knowing I had something to work for kept me centered. I wanted to forget about my mother, and football helped with that. Girls did too.

As far as Ballet Girl went, I’d refused to let my gaze look for her in the window. No great loss. I told myself I’d built her up in my head; she really hadn’t been all that.