I run to the girls’ locker room across the football field. Since I’m late for practice, no one is there now. I swing the door open and lock myself inside a shower-changing stall. Collapsing against its wall, I drag my back along the ugly graffiti of slut-shaming words, some of them written by me, and rake my fingers down my face. Shit. Why did I have to bring Via up? Why am I such a jerk? The Hulk pounded his fists against my chest when we were out there, telling me not to show weakness.

So why do I feel so weak?

I wipe my face, down a bottle of water, and unlock the door. When I step out, I rid myself of my dress, yank my locker open, take out my cheer uniform, and slam it shut. Behind the locker, a familiar face pops into my vision.

“Fight or flight?”

I jump back, slamming my spine against the lockers.

Penn.

“What the hell, Scully?”

He’s in the girls’ locker room at a school he doesn’t even attend. He’s got the word trouble written all over him, and if my dad ever finds out we were in here alone, he is going to hang him by the balls on All Saints’ flagpole and let his broken legs flap in the wind.

Not to mention—he is seeing me close to naked. Again.

“Answer me.”

“Fight. I always fight. So, does your girlfriend know you slept with Blythe Ortiz and kissed me?” I smile sweetly, trying to look unaffected, but I immediately regret my question. I’m not supposed to know about Blythe, and I’m not supposed to care he kissed me.

Penn whistles, nodding. “Keeping tabs, Daria? I just kissed you to prove I could have you whenever I wanted you. But it doesn’t matter what she knows or doesn’t know because I don’t want you. My turn to ask a question.” He takes a step toward me, crowding me against the metal cabinets. The place is spacious, if not embarrassingly luxurious. The lockers are the color of our uniforms—blue and black—and our rich parents shelled out thousands for the fancy chrome sinks, glass showers, and upholstered navy benches.

Penn’s gaze is so penetrating, my skin blossoms into goose bumps. As though he can see beneath my skin. I’m ugly behind the tan and makeup and mascara. All flesh and inner organs and blood vessels and hate. Marx, why am I so hateful?

“Are you actively trying to be a bitch, or does it just come naturally?”

A little bit of both, the Hulk inside me explains. I’m naturally envious and petty, but being a bitch is a knee-jerk reaction when I feel threatened.

Of course, I would die before giving him a real answer. I run my cold gaze over his healing face. Perfectly troubled and gorgeously flawed, like Johnny Depp in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. I’d flip my hair if he gave me room, but with his body flush against mine—much closer than he was when we were in my bathroom yesterday—if I move, I’ll touch him. I want to touch him. Which is exactly why I won’t.

“When it comes to you?” I run my eyes over his face. “I’m a natural, baby.”

When he continues to ooze stoic boredom, I elaborate on a scoff.

“You started it, okay? Gus thought we were peeps, so he wanted me to play mediator. But you couldn’t stop throwing digs at me. Was I supposed to just stand there and take it?”

“Isn’t that what All Saints cheerleaders are for?” He smirks.

“You’re a jerk.”

“And you’re a liar. You ambushed my ass.”

“Why would I ambush you?” I stomp, and my knee brushes his leg. His jeans are torn at the knees, and I caught a glimpse of the dusting of light hair on his tan legs when we were outside. I’m sure all of him is glorious, and it pisses me off that I don’t have the entire mental picture of him naked. The same one he has of me.

“Because you’re the cool kids’ puppet? Because you think you’re some bullshit queen bee who has to shove her nose into shit? Because I hate your—”

I crash my lips on his with a furious kiss that shuts him up. I know I’m a chicken shit and just don’t want to hear the truth. What surprises me is that he relents. His hands cup my face, and his lips mold with mine. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t kiss boys I hardly know. I don’t even kiss boys I do know. Kissing is a huge deal for me. Yet Penn is not exactly a stranger. It’s as though I carried him the entire time he was gone in that sea glass necklace, and now that he took it from me, the only way to satisfy this craving is with his attention.

His stares. His wrath. His lips.

“My dad is going to kill you.” I grin into his mouth, and his tongue wrestles its way between my lips again.

“You can’t put cream in front of a starving cat and expect it to look the other way.”

His breath is ragged, and his hands are big and callused, rough and warm and familiar. His fingers trace my face and neck and hair, tugging it back to arch my neck, and he sucks on the spot beneath my jaw until I yelp as he marks me. Joy explodes in my chest. Penn’s taste in my mouth is heaven. Sweet and dangerous, like a man. I taste cut grass and the California sunshine and a bit of sweat and toothpaste and heat. Our tongues are dancing together. I’m no longer sure if I’m sad or happy, but whatever I am—I’m feeling it. I’m living it. I’m alive.

His erection presses against my stomach, and I’m beginning to grind myself against it when reality trickles into my brain. I hear the whine of the door as it opens. At first, I think a teammate must’ve walked in on us, but when Penn plasters himself against me, covering my semi-naked body, and I find myself chasing his touch with my hips and lips, I realize he doesn’t want to make out with me—he is shielding me.

I blink, desperately trying to sober up.

“…much explaining to do.” A metallic voice seeps into the room like chemical warfare, causing my eyes to pop open.

Oh, Marx.

When I twist my head, I see Principal Prichard standing in the doorway, filling it with his intimidating frame. He is alone, but I’d rather the entire school watch me making out with Las Juntas Bulldogs captain than him. Penn steps in front of me and tilts his body fully toward Principal Prichard so I’m still covered. Instead of apologizing or explaining himself, he rummages in his back pocket for gum, unwraps it, and tosses it into his mouth. The wrapper falls to the floor.

I think he just unlocked a badass level I’ve only seen Vaughn and Knight ever reach.

“Principal Prichard.” My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. He stares at my face behind Penn with raw anger that makes my cheeks burn. I shouldn’t feel like a cheater—Prichard and I are not like that—but something about the scene feels wrong. Disloyal.

“Penn Scully.” He clucks his tongue. “When I invited you to join our team, I meant the football one, not cheer, and I definitely did not count on you taking a tour in our facilities unannounced.”

“Should’ve clarified.” Penn pops his gum, running his fingers through his hair.

“Step away from Miss Followhill.”

“Not before you look the other way,” Penn shoots back.

To my shock, Principal Prichard averts his gaze to the lockers on the other side. Mr. Prichard doesn’t do nice very well, so I need to fix this. Fast.

“This one’s on me.” I jump in front of Penn before he has the chance to escalate the situation any further. “I dragged him here. It was my idea.”