Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

I CLIMB OFF the back of the bike and unfasten the strap under my chin.
“Thanks,” I tell Iron.
I dump the helmet between my brother’s legs, but he just sucks in a drag
from his cigarette, looking around me—past me, beyond me—with his lids
half-hooded.
I clutch my backpack straps. “What?”
He hesitates a moment, looks down, and then shakes his head as he takes
another puff. “I only approve of Macon paying for this place because I knew
you wouldn’t be interested in the guys ogling the short skirts.”
The scent of the dogwoods lining the walkway up to the school wafts in
the morning breeze, and although it’s only February, I can tell they’re about
to bloom. The wind sweeps through the plumeria already decorating the
campus, and students move across the circular driveway, while others climb
out of cars dropping them off for various sports or club meetings before
school.
Chills spread up my bare legs from the rare bite in the air. Rain is coming.
“What about women checking me out?” I tease. “Worried about them?”
“Strangely, no.” He looks amused. “They can’t get you pregnant.”
I scoff, looking right and see a few students heading down the sidewalk
toward us and the front of the school.
Clay Collins meets my eyes as she passes with her gray Fjällräven
backpack, little pink octopuses drawn on the front pocket, and she tries so
hard to look bored and intolerant. But the mischief playing on her lips warns
me she had a lot of fun in the dress shop last night. We’re not done.