Christ, my head is pounding. I better not have a fucking concussion. All I want to do is drop off this damn bike, pop an Advil, and take a hot shower. I continue to push the Triumph up the quad, not wanting to go the long way to the auto shop. In the corner of my eye, a girl with long wavy blondish-brown hair wearing a Hilton uniform is sauntering towards me, her dolled up face plastered with curiosity and purpose.

"Hi, excuse me," she says, stopping in front of me, her eyes giving me a slow once-over. "But-"

"You're excused, love," I say, steering the motorcycle around her. I'm so done with today.

Her mouth slightly drops. "Wait, stop!" she commands, holding out her arm and blocking my path.

"Really?" I scoff. "Make me."

She tosses me an unimpressed glare, coiling her fingers around my handlebars. "Like this?"

I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes darkening. "Don't touch my motorcycle."

She tilts her head. "Don't ignore me when I tell you to stop."

"Who are you to tell me what to do?" I scowl at her, meeting her combative hazel eyes.

"I'm Kennedy Carmichael and you're not allowed to have this-" Motion to the motorcycle. "Thing, on school grounds." Did she just- Oh, no fucking way.

I lower the kickstand with my foot, shaking my head. Time for a little lesson. "This thing is a fully restored 1972 Triumph Bonneville T120. This motorcycle is a piece of British history, an icon if you will."

Kennedy blinks then lets out a quiet chuckle. "I don't care if this motorcycle belonged to Prince Harry himself, it's not allowed on school property."

I suppress a laugh. "Prince Harry? Really?"

"Yeah, he was like super into motorcycles back in the day. Shouldn't you know that seeing as your English?"

"Oh, so since I'm from the UK, I should know the pastimes of everyone in the royal family? That's just absurd."

Kennedy's lip twitches. "What's absurd is this entire conversation. Move your motorcycle off the quad." She points to the ground. "It's leaking gas all over the grass. People sit here. That's just gross."

I throw my head back and laugh. "That's oil, you idiot."

Kennedy crosses her arms, her eyes bugging out of her head. "You did not just call me an idiot. That is so rude."

I tap my index finger against my mouth. "Oh, but I think I did."

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Kennedy narrows her eyes. "Just because I'm not well versed in motorcycle gunk doesn't mean I'm an idiot. If anything you're the idiot for thinking you can talk to me like this."

I chuckle. This girl is fucking mental. "Someone's a little defensive. I take it nobody has ever called you stupid before?"

"Oh, so now I'm stupid and an idiot," she says, scrunching up her face.

"Semantics, love," I smirk. "Are you going to get out of my way now?"

Her eyes flicker with fierce determination as she lets go of my motorcycle handles and takes a step closer to me, craning her head up to meet my eyes. "Listen to me British-boy, you're clearly lost. This is Hilton Academy, a private school which means you're trespassing, so you should get going before I call security."

I cock up an eyebrow, oddly amused at her assumption. "I go here," I whisper, looking down at her shocked expression.

"You... are a student here?" She almost looks repulsed. "Wow, I guess they'll accept any Tom, Dick, and Harry these days. And I thought Hilton had higher standards."

"Well, seeing as you're a student here, the standards can't be that high," I retort. This girl is starting to piss me off.

She blinks, sucking in a deep breath. "I'll have you know that I have the highest GPA in my class."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" I ask, leaning against my bike. Clearly, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.

A sly smile captures her face. "Adorable, you think I'm trying to impress you? How presumptuous."

I shrug. "Why else would you be listing off your accomplishments? Is this perhaps a social norm in America? 'Hi, nice to meet you. My name is Oliver. My GPA is 3.4 and last year I won the spelling bee'."

She rolls her eyes. "Wow, yeah, that's exactly how we do it here. Look at you, assimilating so quickly!" If sarcasm was a person, it'd be this girl.

"Well, you know, melting pot and all," I reply flatly, wincing as I roll my neck. Fuck, I hope I don't have to go see a doctor.

Kennedy purses her lips, her eyes scanning my bike and body. "Did you crash or something? Or are you just allergic to soap and water?"

"What?"

She motions to my face. "You're dirty."

Pulling out my phone from my pocket, I look at my reflection. Fucking hell. I definitely need a shower now. "I didn't crash," I mutter, using the pad of my thumb to wipe the grease smudges off of my face. "I was cut off by an obnoxious Hummer."

"A Hummer?" she asks softly. "Was it uh- black?"

"Yeah, it was." I frown. "How'd you know that?"

"Lucky guess..." she says slowly, her gaze flickering over my shoulder towards the parking lot. Kennedy's face falls, her eyebrows furrowed and her jaw tightening. "No way..."

I whip my around and follow her sight-line. Walking up from the parking lot, a bleach blonde girl under his arm, is a dude that could easily pass as a Ken doll; beige khakis, Polo shirt, and enough hair gel to grease a wheel.

Malibu Ken's eyes dart towards us, his expression strained yet casual. What the fuck is his problem? When I turn back to face Kennedy, her fists are balled up and she's almost shaking.

"Oi, you alright there?" I ask, slightly confused by her change in demeanor. "Are you having a stroke?"

Kennedy closes her eyes for a second, turning towards me eerily slowly. As soon as her eyes snap open, I know I'm in deep deep trouble; glowing in her irises is a hint of devilish mischief and a very faint trace of sadness. What is going on right now?! Why is she staring at me like that?

She licks her lips, taking a step closer to me, her arms reaching up and grabbing the lapels of my leather jacket. "What are you doing?" I ask warily, leaning back, trying not to fall over the motorcycle.

Kennedy looks over my shoulder one more time and frowns. Before I can crane my neck to take a look at whatever the fuck she's glaring at, she lifts herself on her toes and aggressively flings her face forward, her lips crashing against mine. Dear God, she actually is mental! I try to push her off but my brain and body don't seem to be on speaking terms right now, so instead, I wrap my arms around her waist and kiss her back. Fuck, maybe I'm mental too!

She pulls away quickly, stumbling back and covering her mouth, her eyes widen with blatant embarrassment. I blink at her, completely puzzled.

"What the fuck was that?!" I exclaim, pushing myself upright and brushing my fingers against my lips. So sticky! Was she wearing fucking lipgloss?!

"I- uh," she stammers, biting her lip, her fingers fidgeting. "I gotta go!" She turns on her heel.

Oh, I don't fucking think so! "The hell you do!" I reach out and grab her forearm, tugging her back towards me. "Not before you explain to me why my mouth is covered in this sparkling girl shit."

Kennedy whimpers, looking around like she's trying to find help. Not so brave now, is she? "It was an accident?"

I blink. "You expect me to believe that you accidentally grabbed my collar and pounced on me like a cat in heat?"

She nods timidly. "Yeah?"

"Unlike you, I'm not an idiot." This must have something to do with Malibu Ken; she was relatively normal before he came around. "Who was that guy you were staring at?"

Her eyes widen. "What guy?" she peeps, her tone rising several octaves. "There was no guy."

Leaning down so that we're face-to-face, I whisper, "Stop lying to me. I think that after assaulting me like that, you owe me an explanation."

Kennedy crosses her arms defensively and scoffs. "Assault?!"

"Yes, assault. I should report you to the Headmaster!"

"Oh my God, you can't be serious. You kissed me back if I remember correctly."

I bite my tongue. Fuck, she noticed. "I was coerced."

She snorts, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "By who?"

"Whom," I correct her in a clipped tone. "Clearly, GPAs are no longer testaments of one's intelligence."

Kennedy's face turns a light hue of pink as she shoves me. "You are just-" She stomps her foot on the ground which causes me to let out a low chuckle.

"I'm what?" I ask in a taunting tone. "Finish your sentence, love."

She balls up her fists, her features contorting. "I so want to punch you right now," she seethes, her frighteningly enraged eyes piercing into mine.

"Wouldn't be your first assault of the day now would it?" I smirk, angling my jaw towards her. "Come on now, do it."

Kennedy closes her eyes, low squeaks escaping her throat. "I hate you!" she exclaims, running a manic hand through her hair.

I laugh. She's kind of cute when she looks like she's about to explode. "Evidently not though since you kissed me."

"Oh my God, will you let that go? I did it because my ex-boyfriend was holding hands with Corrine fucking Davis. It had nothing to do with you, okay?!"

My jaw drops. "You used me?" I grab my chest dramatically. "I feel dirty."

Kennedy rolls her eyes. "You are dirty," she states flatly. "I'm done with this." She points to the motorcycle. "Get this shit off the grass or I'll write you up next time I see you."

Write me up? What the hell is she talking about? "What do you mea-"

I'm cut off by her hand in my face. "Stop talking and just move your bike." She blinks, a tight smile spreading across her face. "Please?"

My blood boils. She thinks just because she said please I'm going to bend the knee like some simp? How idiotic. "No!" I huff.

"Fine! Have it your way!" She straightens out her shirt and flips her long hair over her shoulder. "I'll be seeing you around-" She pauses, shooting me daggers. "Oliver."

I scoff at her thinly veiled threat. "Ooo, I'm scared." Wait, when did I tell her my name?

"Welcome to Hilton," she says in an eerily threatening tone and then checks her watch. "You better get going, homeroom is in an hour."

"See you around, Kennedy," I sing. This girl doesn't know what she just started.

Or maybe you don't, a voice in my head counters as I watch her storm away.

_________________

Well then....this should be fun.

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