Pretty In Pain

CHAPTER TWO -THE PLAYBOY'S MASK

Remington

There’s a reason I play dumb.

People like dumb. They like easy. They like a boy who laughs at his own bad jokes and shrugs off responsibility like it’s just another jacket to toss aside. A boy who never lets anything get too deep.

And I’ve spent years perfecting that boy.

So when I stroll through the crowded cafeteria at Ridgeview High, half the tables call out my name. A group of soccer players fist-bump me, two girls giggle when I wink at them, and even Mr. Wilkes—the grumpy history teacher—pretends not to see me cutting lunch lines.

That’s the trick.

Be likable.

Be untouchable.

Be anything but the man I actually am.

Because the man I am? He’d scare the hell out of them.

My tray clatters down at the corner table. I lean back in my chair, grin plastered on like a shield, nodding along as one of the guys brags about his weekend hookup. Easy, effortless. The playboy.

But my eyes aren’t on him.

They’re on her.

Ariella Kingsley, sitting two tables away with her little pink pen scratching furiously into that notebook she carries everywhere. She’s surrounded by friends, but it’s like none of them exist. Her lips purse when she concentrates, her brows furrow, and every now and then she bites her lip—soft, pink, sinful.

I know what she’s doing.

She’s writing.

Blogging.

About me.

My fork digs too hard into my food, metal screeching against the tray. The guys around me don’t notice—they’re too busy laughing at something dumb. I force myself to relax, slouching deeper into my seat, smirk sliding back into place.

No one can ever know how close I watch her.

Her laughter rings out suddenly, bright and sweet, aimed at something one of her friends said. The sound claws at my chest. I hate it. Not the laugh itself—I crave that laugh—but the fact that she shares it so freely. That everyone thinks they get to have pieces of her, when all I want is to keep every damn piece locked away where only I can touch.

One of her friends—Jaxon Ryder—leans close, too close. His hand brushes hers when he points at something in her notebook.

My vision tunnels.

I grip my fork tighter. Every part of me itches to stand up, rip the notebook away, and shove his smug face into the floor. But I don’t. I can’t. That’s not the boy they expect. That’s not Remington Cole, the joker, the flirt, the harmless bad boy.

Instead, I laugh too loudly at something I didn’t hear, tossing my head back. Everyone sees me as relaxed, distracted, the life of the table. No one sees the storm boiling under my skin.

But Ariella does.

Because when her eyes flick up—like she can feel me burning holes into her—she catches me.

And for a second, just one, my mask slips.

Her lips part, eyes widening, like she sees it. The hunger. The warning. The obsession.

Then I smirk, tip my soda can at her like a toast, and look away.

Let her wonder.

Let her chase.

That’s safer than her knowing the truth.

For now.

Ariella

He’s staring again.

Remington thinks he’s subtle, but he’s not. At least, not to me. I know every twitch of his jaw, every fake grin, every casual shrug he uses to hide the fact that he’s looking.

And today, he’s definitely looking.

I pretend to laugh at Jaxon’s dumb joke, scribbling something random in my notebook just to have an excuse to look busy. But my heart is thumping so hard I swear it’s going to jump out of my chest.

Because when Remington looks at me, it doesn’t feel like anyone else’s eyes. It feels like lightning caught in a cage, rattling the bars, threatening to tear me apart.

My friends tease me about it sometimes. “Oh my god, Ari, just admit you’re obsessed.”

But they don’t get it. They see a boy with a pretty face. I see more.

I see the shadows.

The way he acts so easygoing, so careless—like nothing touches him—but then his eyes go dark when he thinks no one’s looking. Like he’s holding back oceans.

And I want to drown.

I snap my notebook shut before anyone peeks. It’s not math homework inside, no matter what I tell them. It’s my blog drafts. Words I’ll post tonight, maybe. Secrets about him I can’t say out loud.

Jaxon leans closer, brushing his shoulder against mine as he reaches for the salt. His grin is sharp, cocky, practiced. Girls fall for him, I know they do. But I barely notice. Because the second his hand touches the table near mine, I feel it.

Heat. Burning.

Remington’s gaze.

I risk a glance, and—yep. He’s glaring. Not at Jaxon. At me. Or maybe at the space between us, like he wants to rip it away. His jaw is tight, fork digging into his tray like it owes him money.

Good. Let him feel it. Let him stew.

I let out a little laugh, twirling my pen between my fingers, leaning a fraction closer to Jaxon. Not because I want to. But because I want him—Remington—to break.

And oh, does he look close.

But then—like flipping a switch—Remington leans back, laughing too loud at something his friends said, eyes sparkling with fake ease. To anyone else, he looks perfectly relaxed. To me, he looks dangerous.

I press my knees together under the table, trying to calm the flutter in my chest.

Because if I’m right—if he wants me the way I think he does—then I’m not just playing with fire. I’m pouring gasoline on it.

Remington

The bell rings. Chairs scrape, trays slam, voices blur.

But all I hear is hers. Ariella, saying goodbye to her friends, clutching that pink notebook like it’s her lifeline. She drifts toward the door, and my body moves before my brain can stop it.

I catch her near the lockers. Alone.

She startles when she sees me, eyes wide. “Remmy.”

I lean against the metal, smirk lazy, arms crossed. “What’s in the notebook?”

Her lips press together. “Homework.”

“Funny. Didn’t look like equations.”

She hugs it tighter. “Why do you care?”

Because I’ve been reading your words every night. Because I know you dream about me. Because I know you’d let me ruin you if I snapped the chain holding me back.

Instead, I shrug. “Just curious.”

Her chin lifts, defiant, sweet. “You act like you don’t notice me, but you always do.”

The air crackles between us. My pulse hammers. One wrong move and I’ll cage her against these lockers and devour every sound she makes.

So I push off the wall, forcing a grin. “Don’t flatter yourself, Pinkie.”

Her cheeks flush. Her eyes flash. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something dangerous—something that’ll make me lose every ounce of control—

Then a voice calls her name. Jaxon.

Her head snaps toward him. My stomach burns.

I walk away before I do something I can’t take back.

Ariella

My notebook feels heavier than ever as I clutch it to my chest, watching Remington disappear down the hall. He’s hiding something. I know it. I can feel it in the way his eyes darken when he looks at me.

Tonight, I’ll write about it. I’ll put every word into my blog. Maybe then I’ll understand.

But as I open my locker, a folded piece of paper slips out, fluttering to the floor.

I frown, pick it up. My heart stutters.

Four words, scrawled in black ink:

Stay away from him.