Free The Rivals by Daisy Whitney Page B

another advantage, but the cheetah will take it.
    Predators, all of us.
    Jones returns to Vampire Weekend, tucking his violin back under his chin. He sings quietly, plays quietly in the final moments before the bell rings, but I still recognize the words and the music. I also recognize an opportunity when I hear one.
    “Hey, Jones. Would you come to the Faculty Club with me? Ms. Merritt wants the Mockingbirds—the a cappella version of the Mockingbirds—to come sing.”
    He straightens his head but keeps the violin on his shoulder. “You’re crazy. I only make Faculty Club appearances if I have to.”
    I give him a light punch. “Do it for me?”
    He plays a few more notes. “We’ll see,” he says.
    “You’d do it if I told you about the morning I had,” I say, rolling my eyes to make light of things. But the fact is, that run-in with Carter still lingers, like the scent of sliced onions left in the garbage can for too long. So I tell Jones what happened, the way Carter spewed those words out— whore .
    “God, I hate that guy,” Jones says. “Why can’t he leave you alone?”
    I shrug, then sigh. “I don’t know.”
    “If I ever see him or hear him say anything like that to you or anyone, well, it’ll be the last time any words come out of his mouth for a long time.”
    I give Jones a faint smile. I love the protector in him, though I don’t mention Theo played that role earlier today.
    “But what were you doing in Richardson Hall?” Jones asks.
    I look away. I don’t want him to see me as I lie to him. “Nothing,” I say.
    “Nothing? Why do I have a hard time believing that?”
    “Jones, it was nothing, okay?”
    “I’m sure this nothing had everything to do with your case.”
    “Yes, it did, and that’s all I can say because I shouldn’t be talking about it,” I say. Because I have to do my best to protect people’s privacy. No one’s been charged with anything.
    “Playing by the rules,” he remarks.
    “It’s the least I can do,” I say.
    “You won’t even bend for your old friend Jones? Maybe I can convince you with a little of this,” he says, then returns to the violin, to the 1812 Overture, a musical gesture just for me. Then he stops playing and lays a hand on my shoulder and it’s as if Tchaikovsky radiates from it, like notes are seeping out of his fingertips, and my skin beneath the fabric of my T-shirt absorbs the music, shoots it through my body and turns me into a human tuning fork. This must be what they say about great guitarists, extraordinary violinists. They are “hands men,” and there is something simply electric in the way his hand feels after he’s just played.
    “Did it work?” he asks, taking his hand off me. My shoulder goes silent, and I don’t like it. I want it bursting with sound again.
    “Nope. I’m a vault,” I say, making a motion to zip my mouth closed.
    “Damn. I’ll have to try harder next time,” he says, and holds the door open for me for our music class.
    But before I go in, I say, “Of course, it should be noted that I would gladly tell you almost everything if you’d just join the Mockingbirds.”
    “Ha,” he laughs. “Like that’ll happen.”
    I give an exaggerated sigh. “I know, I know. You operate alone.”
    He shrugs. “I am a loner, as they say. But, you know, not in the creepy, dark-raincoat way.”
    “Right. More like the leather-jacket-and-motorcycle way,” I say, picturing Jones rumbling down a long stretch of deserted highway, perfectly content with himself and the road in front of him.
    “Something like that.”
    “Well, if you ever change your mind, you have an open invitation to join. I wouldn’t even make you go through all the hoops.”
    “You’d bend the rules for me,” he says, then winks.
    “Only for you,” I say.
    As the door closes, I find myself touching my shoulder ever so briefly as if I can feel a lingering vibration. Then it occurs to me that when Jones touched me, I didn’t think about