Kylie's head whips toward me. Panic contorts her expression the moment she sees me. "Oh, hey... Dax! How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," I murmur.

I glance at Cleo for a moment. Uncertainty brims in blue-violet eyes. This look of defeat tells me everything I need to know. She's expecting me to rip her apart as well. Clearly, Cleo has been through some shit.

Narrowing my gaze, I turn back to Kylie. "It takes talent."

She blinks. "Huh?"

"To be such a fucking prick when you don't even have one."

A gasp escapes Kylie. "Excuse me?"

"Your voice pisses me off. I've been waiting all night for you to shut up."

Dismay strains Kylie's face once she realizes that I'm not on her side. Within seconds, her guilt-laden panic morphs into outrage. "You're going to regret this."

I toss her a bored look.

Violently, Kylie jabs a finger in Cleo's direction and exclaims, "You don't know her like I do! This bitch put her boyfriend in a coma last year, and she isn't broken up about it, like, at all. I'm telling you, Dax, stay away from Cleo Fitzgerald. She gets off on destroying people. Total psychopath."

I don't know if Kylie is making shit up about Cleo, but, even if she was telling the truth, I wouldn't trust her slant on the story. Unmoved, I tell Kylie, "I'll judge for myself, thanks."

Kylie looks ready to punch me in the balls. "Are you serious?"

"Yep."

"Whatever," Kylie scoffs. "You two deserve each other."

Kylie flips us off as she stomps away. I watch until she disappears into the main house. Once we're alone again, I turn to Cleo, and she stares back at me with a guarded expression.

I grunt, "What was that all about? Did you run over her puppy or something?"

"No."

"Then why does she hate you?"

Cleo replies in her dead-inside voice, "Everyone hates me."

Except me. I don't hate her. But I keep that shit to myself. "Uh... why?"

Her eyebrows knit together. Finally, some emotion seeps through as she snaps, "It's none of your business."

My mouth parts to protest. I bite my tongue. She has a point. Maybe I'm overstepping here? I've been drawn to Cleo Fitzgerald all night. More so than any other girl I've met at Fairmont. But it doesn't mean we owe each other anything. I feel like an idiot for thinking otherwise.

I shrug. "Fine."

I start walking away from her. Her eyes go wide. This seems to catch her off guard. A second later, she calls after me, "Hey!"

I glance over my shoulder with a raised eyebrow. Cleo hesitates before speaking up, "Kylie's not wrong, you know."

Her defenses seem to be wavering, but I think she's testing me. "She's not?"

"Trav still can't leave the hospital because of me."

She wants to know if I'll judge her as harshly as Kylie and the rest of her classmates. I watch her closely and ask, "Did you hurt him?"

Cleo laughs under her breath, but it's not a happy sound. "What if I told you that I tried to kill him?"

Curiosity surges in an instant. "Then you just became a lot less boring."

"You're not scared?"

"Of you?"

"Yeah."

"Should I be?"

"I could be a serial killer."

"But Trav didn't die, and you need more than one victim to earn that label," I taunt. "Either you can't count. Or you suck at murder."

She laughs again. This time, it sounds genuine. Genuinely evil. "The first try was a test run. I'll get him next time."

"All I hear are excuses."

"Be nice," warns Cleo, "or you might be next."

"You think you could kill me?"

"Fuck, yes."

I cross both arms over my chest and fall silent, taking a moment to consider Cleo's unwavering confidence. Intrigue spikes as I eye her up and down. She's tiny compared to me. I could snap her like a twig. "How would you do it?"

Cleo narrows her eyes as though she's actually scheming my death in ten different ways. "You look drunk, and I know that you're high."

Between the vodka shots and the joint we shared? She's right, damn it. I'm drunk and high as fuck right now. "Uh..."

"You feel sober enough to swim?"

I confess, "Not really."

A smirk tilts her mouth as she glances at the pool. "That's easy then. I'd shove you into the deep end and hold your head underwater."

Her sense of humor is twisted. Or maybe she's not joking at all. I try to poke holes in her plan, "You're probably higher than me right now. What if I pull you in?"

Cleo holds my gaze, steady and fierce, and I'm lost in her eyes when she answers, "We drown together."

I swallow. "You're not scared of... dying?"

"Nope."

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. Even I'm scared of dying.

"The only thing that scares me is my boyfriend," Cleo mumbles, and I can't decide if she's being serious or fucking with me.

Boyfriend? Suddenly, I hate that word with a passion. Through my teeth, I mutter, "Sounds like you don't like him."

"He's dead to me now. But Travis Reynolds used to be my everything. He treated me like a fucking princess, you know."

Both hands tighten into fists at my sides. "If he was such a good boyfriend, why did you want to kill him?"

"He deserved it."

Our eyes meet, blue locked on blue, and I hesitate before asking, "What did he do to you?"

She doesn't answer me right away. The silence feels deafening. My thoughts sink to sinister places. I can't help but wonder. Did Travis hurt Cleo like my stepdad used to hurt my mom?

Then, her expression shifts. A bright smile and breezy attitude ease the tension when she says, "Nothing, really."

"Nothing?"

"Travis was perfect," she says with sigh, "I'm the one who fucked up."

Annoyed, I can't tell if she's messing with me. Cleo's gaze flickers again. There's a teasing sing-song lilt to her voice when she asks, "Want to know what really happened that night?"

Not knowing what to think anymore, I nod.

"About a year ago, there was an accident. I was driving. He was in the car with me."

"Accidents happen." I don't know why I'm defending her when I add, "Doesn't mean it was your fault."

"I was higher than a kite."

I don't pick up any trace of guilt in her voice, though. Or remorse. Only bitterness. "Sounds messy."

"You have no idea."

"Do you feel bad about it?" Instinct tells me that it's not guilt that haunts her but something else. I want to hear what she has to say about it.

"Doesn't matter how I feel," murmurs Cleo. "Everyone says I'm going to hell."

"They can go to hell."

She studies me with a wary expression. "I know you're new at Fairmont, so I'll give you a piece of advice. Keep your distance. I'm social suicide."

"Does that mean no one will be my friend if they see us together?"

"Pretty much," she confirms. My feet shuffle a few more steps closer to Cleo. Disbelief darkens her face. "Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"I heard you."

"Then why are you still here?"

Because I fucking hate everyone. The corner of my mouth lifts up. "I don't want friends. You'd be doing me a favor."

Beautiful, eerie, blue-violet eyes meet mine. Understanding dawns on her face. Cleo looks mildly amused. She finally asks, "What's your name?"

"Daxton Cole."

She blinks twice. "Daxton, huh?"

Her indifferent reaction makes me self-conscious. Why doesn't she like my name? Other girls don't seem to mind it. I want her to like me, too. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I mumble, "Who knows what my mom was thinking? It's fucking dumb."

Cleo's eyes soften even while she chides, "Well, Daxton, you're definitely living up to your name."

"Wait." It hits me. "Did you just call me stupid?"

"If you have to ask, you just answered your own question." Not missing a single beat, she continues, "Know what's really stupid, though? Pissing off a girl like Kylie. She holds grudges, and her level of petty can make grown men cry."

Feeling both offended yet weirdly turned on by her insults, I find myself agreeing with her, "She seems like the type."

Cleo's gaze flicks toward my neck. "Just so you know, Kylie always aims for the throat."

"Like Dexter and Hannibal?"

"Yep."

"Can't wait."

"Really?"

"I want her to hate me."

She appears unconvinced. "Most guys would kill to have Kylie Johnson chasing after them."

I toss back, "Most guys have shit for brains."

A low chuckle escapes her. "Can't argue with you there."

Then, Cleo gives me a long, hard look as though she's actually interested in getting to know me for the first time tonight. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Piss off Kylie." There's an awestruck quality to her voice. I sense the question tucked behind the words. I think Cleo wants to know why I pissed off Kylie—for her.

I fix my gaze on Cleo. To be honest, I don't know. "Guess I just felt like it."

She tilts her head to the side. "Is that the only reason you do anything?"

For the first time ever, a soft, sweet feeling tugs at the corners of my mouth. Before I realize it, I'm smiling at Cleo. "Most of the time, yeah."

She casts me a wry look. "You know what?"

"What?"

"Fuck Kylie."

"Yeah," I echo, "fuck Kylie."

"Sometimes it feels good to do whatever the fuck we want," murmurs Cleo. A chaotic spark glimmers in her eyes when she asks, "Want to make everyone at school really hate you?"

My smile only widens. Cleo Fitzgerald may be the least predictable bitch I've met in my life. Hell, I want to stick around just to see what she might do next. She seems too bent to ever be boring. Beautifully wrecked. The kind of broken that might set the world on fire. Just to chase away the dark.

I'm intrigued again. "How?"

Smirking, Cleo's slender fingers dance along the hem of her baggy tee. Her face is full of fuck it all rebellion. Eyes locked on her, I suck in a breath when she pulls her shirt over her head in one graceful motion. Her high-tops are set aside. She loosens her shorts. I'm riveted by her every move. The denim slides down smooth, shapely legs, bunching at her ankles until she steps out of them.

Just like that, Cleo is standing before me in nothing but a pair of tiny black panties and a lacy lavender bra. The shade matches her hair perfectly. I nearly forget to breathe. Holy fucking shit. I drag my hand across my mouth.

My greedy eyes drink in the sweet swells of her tits. There's a slight chill in the air, so I can make out the outline of her pretty little nipples, straining against the lavender lace and the cold. Both hands clench tight, nails digging into palms tight, as though that alone might suppress the urge to learn every inch of her body with my fingertips. I want to worship the narrow dip of her waist and the rounded curves of her ass. I don't recognize this side of myself at all, and these urges scare me as much as they excite me.

In a few short strides, Cleo moves to the edge of the pool and slips into the water with a gentle, rippling splash. Mermaid hair and all. She's beautiful. Unreal. With her feet treading lightly in the crystal-blue water, she gazes up at me, all wicked and inviting. "Coming in?"

A little voice inside my head warns me. You're drunk and high, dumbass, and she might be a psychopath. Feeling conflicted, my mouth runs dry. I wish she didn't look so wet and fuckable. "You planning to drown me?"

"Is that going to stop you?"

I whisper hoarsely, "Hell, no."

Who needs oxygen? Not me. Now, more than ever, I'm drawn to Cleo Fitzgerald's chaos. I want to play in the dark. Bet her demons would fuck well with mine.