I didn’t crush on people.

Not anymore, anyway.

“Final verdict?” He dropped the shirt, waiting for an answer.

I felt myself turning crimson. I didn’t want to look like a nerd and a prude.

“No.”

“Let me amend: I was being polite. I’m taking off the fucking shirt, and, if I am being honest, you should do the same.”

A second later, West’s shirt was gone, and his six-pack was accompanied by defined pecs, Adonis belt veins, and the kind of back you wanted to marry. He turned to the grill and resumed his work. He had a faded purple-yellow welt on his lower back.

“Lookie here, Virgin Mary is still alive.” He smirked when he caught me glaring.

I cleared my throat and looked away.

He moved past me, clapping my shoulder casually.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. For you to get knocked up, we’d have to at least hold hands. You’re safe with me.”

West St. Claire had touched me. Willingly.

My throat clogged up unexpectedly, the normalcy in his action making me feel like my old self for a fraction of a second. Not that I was bullied for having a scar. Not per se.

In some ways, people’s reactions were far worse. Girls were nice to me in a fake, superficial, we’re-cool-but-don’t-get-too-close way. It was obvious I wasn’t a competition to them anymore. Guys ignored me altogether. I confused them. I still had the same cheerleader body and long blonde hair, but I also had the scars, and they knew that whatever was wrong with the left side of my face bled underneath the clothes, to the rest of my torso.

At first, after the fire, I’d actually had the audacity to try to pretend everything was normal. To hatch the phoenix from its egg with a hammer. I went to the same parties, hung out with the same people. My peers set the record straight at supersonic speed. Through whispers, giggles, gasps, and rumors. My then-boyfriend, Tucker, whom I’d lost my virginity to, cemented the fact I was no longer my old self by quickly replacing me with Rachelle Muir, a fellow flyer. Everyone evaporated from my life like the sweat under my hoodie. The only people who stayed were Karlie and Grandma Savvy.

“Hellooooo?” a feminine voice drawled from outside the window. “Anybody in there?”

Yeah, me and my deranged, teenybopper thoughts.

I turned to the window. There were four high school girls in cut-off jeans, cowboy boots, and matching hats. They were giggling and elbowing each other, clutching their phones to their chests. One of them ordered a margarita slushie, while the others peeked behind my back, extending their necks.

“Is he there?” one whispered as I poured the drink.

“Yeah, I see him. Oh my God. Ohmigod, Kelly. He’s like, freakin’ gorgeous.”

I handed Slushie Girl her change and drink, but the teenagers didn’t budge.

“He’s shirtless,” the prettiest one, Kelly, who had long, honey-brown hair and a nipple piercing outlined through her cropped white tee, gulped.

“Yup.”

“Ask him.”

“No, you ask him.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? You go.”

“We had a bet.”

“Shut up, you said you’re not scared!”

My gaze ping-ponged between them. The rumor West St. Claire worked here had spread like wildfire. I was expecting this to be the norm from now on. Piles upon piles of fangirls knocking on our window, doing the whole Oh, this? That’s just me in my tiny bikini purchasing a taco after getting my hair professionally done, no big deal spiel.

I didn’t like the extra traffic to the truck, but there was little I could do about it, and it wasn’t technically West’s fault.

“Can I help y’all?” I grabbed my rag, wiping my station clean. They pushed one another, like cubs learning how to play. One of them finally snapped into action.

“Can we speak to West, please?”

“Sure thing. West?” I turned around, waving for him to come to the window. He frowned but complied. An unjust sense of possessiveness washed over me as he rested his elbows over the sill, leaning forward, and I got another glance at his body and that A tattoo on his inner arm. I wondered how Tess found the strength to leave his bed.

I wondered what sex felt like with West St. Claire, in general.

And that angered me to no end, because I couldn’t possibly find West St. Claire attractive. He was everything I resented. Popular, handsome, and with a bright future. Just because he was strapped for cash didn’t mean we had anything in common. He was going to soar and burst like a supernova once he was out of this small Texas town, and I was going to remain the ashes he left behind—the stardust that slowly descended the earth in his wake.

“Hiiiii, West.” Kelly popped her bubblegum, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. My guess was she was a junior in high school. Total jailbait. I slinked into the depths of the food truck, something heavy pressing against my sternum. West may have proven to be a reasonable person to work with, but I still knew he was a jerk.

He flashed her a bored look, waiting for the punch line.

“My sister told me you work here. Anything you recommend from the menu?” She tapped her hot pink fingernail over the list of foods.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Read it.”

Her friends burst into giggles. She blushed, her lips flattening as she tried to take the humiliation in stride. West ran a hand through his damp hair. Every slight movement made his muscles flex.

“Ouch. Are you fighting tonight?”

He stared at her like she just grew a second hand and a pair of shiny, multi-colored wings.

“Just kidding. It’s not Friday!” She pouted, nibbling on her lower lip. “Max says you’re going pro next year. That true?”

He didn’t answer. I knew he wouldn’t. He wasn’t big on words. West grabbed my slushie, spat his candy out, and sucked on the straw like it belonged to him, starting to retreat back to the grill.

“I … uh …” The pretty girl ran a hand through her tight curls. The pressure on my sternum grew. Trying and failing was the essence of soul shattering. It was exactly why I didn’t want to take part in A Streetcar Named Desire. And she was experiencing it right now. “My friends and I had a bet. I said I could get you to give me a ride on your Ducati,” she blurted out, flinching, bracing herself for rejection. West froze, turning around slowly.

“Why, that’s a dumb thing to bet on.” He smirked. Suddenly, his tone took a different, predatory lilt. Like she’d finally made a faux pas and it was time he set her straight. He was going to enjoy every minute of it, too.

“I was just thinking … I mean, hoping, maybe …”

Her friends began to cackle.

“He’d love to do it!” I jumped in, smiling at her brightly. I couldn’t see her going through this. I hoped to hell she learned her lesson and wouldn’t put herself in this position again, but I didn’t want to see her walking away from here with her tail between her legs.

West’s head twisted in my direction, his face turning from bored to thunderous in a heartbeat.

He lifted one thick eyebrow. I could practically hear him thinking, what the fuck?

I tried to communicate to him with the power of telepathy that he needed to do this. For her. For himself. His square jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. He didn’t appreciate my interference—or telepathic abilities.