006: Ridiculous Game Of Musical Chairs

SKYLAR

He’s hard.

Again.

Seriously, how the truck is he even hard in a situation like this? I’m by no means an expert in male anatomy, but I’m one hundred percent certain that a hostile interaction with Professor Viper should not result in a... standing ovation.

Wait. My eyes falls back down without permission. Could it be that Trey happens to swing for the other–

“Sky!” comes Jade's frantic whisper interrupting my internal panic.

“Hmm?” I squeak, using a little too-high pitched voice.

Nudging my elbow hard, her hissed words barely leaves her lips. “You are literally staring at his crotch! Scoot over!”

My eyes fly to Trey who’s looking down at me with an insufferably amused smirk, as if he can read every single dirty, chaotic thought bouncing around my brain.

And, as usual, my cheeks betray me by blooming red. I silently curse my pale skin for harboring zero secrets.

Recalling Jade’s words, I quickly slide to the side to make room. But then, I think better of it. “Actually, maybe Jade can move over for you instead of—”

The words die a violent death in my throat because Trey’s already dropping his massive frame into the seat beside me. He’s so close his tantalizing scent floods my senses, and even though there’s technically enough space on the wooden bench, his solid shoulder brushes against mine.

I immediately scoot an inch closer to Jade.

Trey calmly slides an inch closer to me.

My jaw clenches tight. I shimmy another inch toward Jade.

Without breaking eye contact, Trey slides right along with me, his heavy thigh pressing firmly against mine.

This ridiculous game of musical chairs continues until Jade finally leans back and whispers, “Sky, stop! I’m literally falling off the edge of the row. There’s no more space!”

I all but still at that, letting out a sharp huff of defeat as I sit back. Beside me, a deep, rumbling chuckle vibrates through Trey’s chest.

Oh, so he thinks this is funny?

No. Deep breaths, Sky, I think to myself, gripping my pen so hard my knuckle whitens. Just focus on abnormal psychology and ignore the infuriating giant breathing down your neck.

Forcing my eyes toward the front of the hall, I desperately try to tune back into the lesson.

“...which brings us to the midterm project,” Prof. Adams is saying, tapping his dry-erase marker against the podium. “This assignment will account for fifty percent of your final grade. As is standard practice in my syllabus, you’ll be working with your regular assigned partners.”

A collective groan dances all about the hall, but I let out a quiet sigh of relief. I turn to Jade, giving her a thankful smile. We’ve been project partners since we both registered for this course freshman year, and her tech-savvy organization is the only thing keeping my chaotic schedule together.

But then, a deep voice butchers through the murmurs. “I don’t have a partner.”

Prof. Adams darts his eyes to Trey. “Ah. Right. Of course. I forgot you’re just joining us today, Mr. Parker.” With several taps of his chin, he scans the room. “Since you are late to the roster, I’ll assign you to my top student. Rachel, if you would please raise your hand?”

A girl in the front row enthusiastically waves her hand in the air.

Yikes. Now, I actually feel an itsy bitsy pang of pity for Trey.

Look, I am fully aware that I’m a weird, frantic chihuahua of a human. But Rachel? Rachel takes "weird" to an entirely different dimension. She’s currently wearing a clash of neon patterns that look like a riot in a textile factory, paired with her signature knee-high panther-patch socks. She wears those socks with everything.

But for some reason, despite the fact that my grades are consistently higher than hers, the professor absolutely adores her.

“Rachel is currently maintaining a flawless academic record in this course,” he continues, with warmth coating his tone as he praises her. “She will be more than capable of catching you up on the weeks of material you’ve missed, Mr. Parker. I expect you two will–”

“No.” The single syllable is flat and completely cuts the professor off.

This has him pausing with a tight face. “Excuse me?”

“I said no,” Trey relaxes back in his seat and folds his arms. “I don't want her. If you don't mind, Professor, I’d like to choose my own partner.”

My heart does a violent backflip as I stiffen. Oh, please no. He is not about to do what I think he’s about to do.

But then I force myself to calm down. There is absolutely no way Prof. Adams is going to allow this. He’s a literal Dracula about his partner rules. Once you are paired up, switching is strictly a forbidden zone. I remember Roy McCoy tried to petition for a partner change last semester because his partner never showed up, and Prof. ended up removing him from the group project entirely and failing him for the term.

Keeping my fingers crossed tightly under the desk, I pray for him to unleash his inner viper. But as we’ve established by now–my prayers always fall on deaf ears.

“Very well, Mr. Parker. Who would you like to be your partner?” comes Professor Adams' reply in an incredibly accommodating tone.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the second time today this pompous, tenure-obsessed man has completely folded for Trey. The sheer favoritism is insane. What kind of dark magic does the Parker name hold over this school?

Trey’s head slowly turning to me has me throwing every ounce of silent, threatening fury I possess into my expression. I shake my head a fraction of an inch, silently screaming at him to pick literally anyone else.

But my hostility only seems to fuel him. The dangerously wicked smirk returns to his lips, proving he finds my panic absolutely delicious.

He then looks back down at the podium. “I want Miss Thompson here to be my partner.”