Picture Perfect - Page 156

Dre’s hands still on my hips, and I lean back against his chest, turning my head to glance at Saint standing in the doorway. Despite the interruption, Dre’s smirk doesn’t fade. His lips brush against the sensitive skin of my neck once more before he replies.

“Fine,” he drawls, the word laced with reluctance and mischief, “but we’re taking the backseat.”

I can’t help but let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up despite the warning look Saint aims our way.

“Whatever you want,” I say, my voice steady even if my body is still thrumming with the anticipation of Dre’s touch.

We pile into Saint’s car, and true to his word, Dre guides me into the back before sliding in beside me and pulling me into his lap. There’s no more waiting, no more teasing—just the heat of him as he pulls me close. The windows fog up, the world outside becomes a blur, and all I can focus on is the movement of Dre’s hands over my body and the feeling of being alive, wanted, and wild.

By the time we pull into the school parking lot, I’m flushed with a new kind of satisfaction, the kind only they can give me. We straighten our clothes in silence, shared glances saying everything words can’t.

As I step out of the car, I square my shoulders, letting the leather jacket hug my frame like a suit of armor. Preston and Wesley are there, looming by the entrance, their stares icy and judgmental. But I’m Addy Winthrop, reborn from the ashes of my old life, and their looks can’t touch me. Not anymore.

“Let them glare,” I whisper under my breath, a smile tugging at my lips as I catch Dre’s eye. He winks at me, a silent pact between us.

We pass them without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment, their disapproval bouncing off me like pebbles against steel. I’ve embraced the girl in the mirror, the one with life dancing in her green eyes, and there’s no space left in my heart for the poison of their contempt.

“Princess,” Saint murmurs as we walk, his hand finding mine, “they’re nothing.”

“Less than,” I agree, tightening my grip on his hand. Together, we head toward the day ahead, leaving whispers and scandalized looks in our wake.

??????

The bell rings, slicing through the chatter of the room like a clean cut, and I’m already up from my seat. Chess is waiting for me by the door, his hazel eyes gleaming with that familiar spark of mischief.

“Ready to make some noise, Addy?” he teases, his voice a low hum that sends a thrill down my spine.

“Only if it’s your name I’m screaming,” I fire back, my cheeks flushed with excitement and the remnants of this morning’s escapades.

“Oh, I can definitely make that happen.”

We slip away from the noisy hallway, unnoticed in the shuffle as students pour out of the doors and into various classrooms. The computer lab is deserted as usual, the hum of machines a soft chorus in the background. Chess guides me inside, shutting the door with a soft click that feels final, the precursor to something momentous.

Saint and Dre are already there. No Gen today. I wonder if the boys have her out with the masses to see the reaction in real-time when they pull the trigger.

Today is the day after all. Preston and Wesley are going down.

We share a quiet meal—sandwiches and chips from brown paper bags today—and I savor the simplicity of it all.

Chess finishes his sandwich and wipes his hands, his gaze locking with mine. “Time to bring down the pretender kings,” he says, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut.

“Show me,” I say, my heart hammering in anticipation.

I slide onto his lap, feeling the warmth of his body against mine. He wraps one arm around me, his breath hot on my neck as he leans in. His other hand moves with precision, clicking and tapping, orchestrating our digital coup with the grace of a maestro.

“Watch closely,” he murmurs, and then he clicks ‘Enter.’

The screen comes alive with a flurry of notifications, a cascade of data streaming across the monitor. Every device connected to their app is receiving the payload—a barrage of incriminating evidence against Preston and Wesley. Photos, texts, emails—all the ammunition they’ve gathered over weeks of careful planning.

“Let the games begin,” Chess whispers, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips.

The room hums with our shared exhilaration. Chess’s chest rumbles against my back with silent laughter, his grip on me both possessive and protective. I’m floating in a sea of triumph, waves of vindication lapping at my senses.

“Looks like they’re starting to panic,” Chess says, nodding towards the stream of notifications. “Check out those frantic messages popping up.”

I lean forward, eager to witness the fallout, but a flicker at the edge of the screen snags my attention. A message bubble from Gen, inconspicuous yet glaringly out of place. My fingers tense on Chess’s thigh, the digital whisper beckoning me closer. Squinting, I discern the lines of text meant for my eyes—words I had sent earlier, now staring back at me from Chess’s monitor.

“Wait, what’s this?” My voice is a thread, unraveling the fabric of our joyous atmosphere.