“Good?” I ask, because for some reason, I think that makes me seem cool. In reality, I was never that good at being ‘cool’. No, that was Monica's thing. Actually, I preferred being nerdy, weird, blurt-y Chuck the Micropenis. With an exhale, I relax into Ranger's touch and close my eyes, changing the narrative. “Your touch makes me feel like I'm on fire.”

“Beyond good, Charlotte,” he whispers, and then he begins to move, the slickness of my own body making it easy for him to thrust, to create this beautiful friction between us that builds pleasure in my belly like a slow-burning fire. With each movement of his hips, the embers burn, and the flames climb higher. Just when I think I'm going to collapse and fall right over that edge, Ranger slows and bites the curve of my ear. “I want to see your face when you come.”

“You're not serious,” I choke out, because apparently, even in the throes of passion, I'm a dork. He pulls away from me and then gently turns me around by the shoulders, cupping my face in his warm hands.

“Deadly,” he murmurs back, taking my mouth with his, his control a heady sort of aphrodisiac that I never expected to like. Vaguely, I remember that conversation I had with Ranger, back when Spencer didn't know my secret and thought his friend was topping me. I'd argued I could've easily been the one in charge. But nah. Nope. I don't think so. “Come here.”

He lifts me up and onto the edge of the counter, pushing me back and then climbing up after me. My ass leaves cheek prints in the flour as I scoot back, throwing my arms around his neck again as Ranger kisses me down to the cold surface of the countertop.

This is most definitely not sanitary, I think, but then I also don't care. There's something about fearing for your life that really puts that kick in your step, makes you realize that tomorrow isn't guaranteed, and that it's okay to be happy now.

When he shoves my apron up, I gasp, our eyes meeting as he thrusts into me again.

“Much better,” he murmurs with a smile, and I groan, closing my gaze against the intensity in his. “Oh come now, Chuck. We've been through too much to pretend this isn't happening.” He rubs a thumb across my brows, and I open my eyes again. We're both still wearing our aprons, our shoes, a whole hell of a lot of flour. “Here.” Ranger takes my hand and puts it between us, right over my clit, smirking at me as he does it.

He kisses me before I can chastise him, moving deep and slow, pushing me closer and closer to a climax. When it hits, it's a shock to my system, a wave of fire that burns through my inhibitions. My nails dig into Ranger's upper back, drawing blood, and my body locks down on his. A scream starts up that I can't control, one that he cuts short by kissing me fiercely and coming hard, his muscular body shuddering above mine.

Ranger takes off the condom, ties it up, and then slips it into his apron pocket to deal with later before lying down beside me, right on top of the stone counter. He throws one arm across his brow as we pant and stare up at the filigreed ceiling tiles above our heads. Does he even realize how lucky we are, how beautiful this place is? The ceilings at Santa Cruz High are drop ceilings, with ugly stained tiles and metal tracks.

“Holy fuck,” Ranger murmurs, turning his head to glance over at me. He grins and I flush, still breathing hard, but I am proud of myself for managing to meet his gaze. “That was amazing.”

“You think so?” I ask, and he raises a dark brow at me.

“You don't? Please tell me I'm better than Spencer, at the very least.”

“Oh my god,” I groan, rolling onto my side and putting my face on his chest, enjoying the wild rhythm of his heartbeat. “You guys are the worst, you know that?”

Ranger slides an arm underneath me and tucks me against his side, like he might very well hold me there forever, keep me safe from the monsters trolling our school.

“We really are, aren't we?” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss to my forehead. I realize then that he's truly putting himself out there, in a way he never has before. He's not letting the pain of Jenica hold him back anymore.

With a smile, I nuzzle into him, and then surreptitiously lean forward to take a little peek at his dick.

“What's that?” I ask, pointing at a small scar along one side of his shaft. He groans and slaps his right hand over his face in a rare moment of true chagrin.

“Candy making,” he mumbles, “now can we change the subject?”

I sit up a bit, covered in flour, my ass smarting, my lady parts—and by lady parts, I mean my vagina and clitoris, don’t be a prude—singing, and give him a look. Candy making involves a lot of hot, boiling liquids by the way.

“Wait, wait, wait. You naked-baked some candy and burned your junk?” I ask, and then I howl with laughter. Ranger sneers at me, wrapping his arms around my body and pulling me on top of him.

The laughter only lasts so long as it takes him to kiss me.

“Okay,” Tobias starts, standing shirtless and in low-slung sweats that do nothing to help me concentrate. “Arms up, let's try again.”

I bend over in my PE outfit, panting and choking on my own saliva as Mark Grandam scowls at me from the other side of the gym. As promised, Archie's got me in PE with all the other guys, many of whom were, um, not super thrilled that I was wandering around the locker room during the physical fitness test. It's like, as excited as they were to see a girl in their midst, they all still hate me. Which, maybe, is a good thing? Like, they hated me as a guy, and they hate me as a girl, too? Equal opportunity dislike. Heh.

“Training that tit-less stick figure to fight, what a joke,” Mark guffaws, sauntering across the gym like he owns the place.

“Sexist pig,” I growl back at him, standing up and swiping at my brow. The twins are both in PE with me, and every Wednesday and Friday, when we have self-defense training, they take turns going over some of their MMA—mixed martial arts—moves with me. Just in case. You can never be too prepared, right? Especially not when being chased by a cult.

A cult … God. We’re all still having trouble processing the information that Mr. Murphy and, posthumously, Jenica gave us.

“Sexist? Selena is ten times the woman you are,” Mark growls, his face twisted up in disgust as Tobias' nostrils flare, and I get the feeling we're coming close to another brawl between the boys. “She could be trained. You? You're just a weak, little peasant that stumbled into a school where you don't belong.”

“Why don't you stumble into this fist?” Micah says from my other side, eyeing Mr. Tribble (yes, that same PE teacher who unknowingly shoved me into the locker room that day, and who's apologized to me about fifty times for the incident) to make sure he's not looking. “You think you can insult our girl on a regular basis and walk? You only think Ranger turned your ugly face into a pulp. It could've been so much worse.”

“Whatever, McCarthy,” Mark sneers, backing up to rejoin his friends on a separate training mat. The twins watch him go and then exchange a look over my head.

“What?” I ask, looking between them and trying to pretend like I'm not so exhausted that I'm seeing stars in my vision. True story though. But I really need an exercise routine in Connecticut to replace all the surfing I did back home. Seemed like learning how to fight from the twins could kill two birds with one stone. Err, considering the headless bird we found on the day of Eugene's memorial, maybe that wasn't the best metaphor.