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Summary
Natalie Scatorccio was an enigma. That was the easiest way to describe her.
There were always stories about her. You've heard them—who hasn't? The kind of stories that precede the person: drunken fights in parking lots, late-night joyrides, stints in juvie, and shattered beer bottles left in her wake. No one told them the same way, but the message was always clear: The Scatorccio girl was—no, is—trouble.
You don't belong in her world. Not with your quiet routines, neatly folded edges, and the bubble of safety you lived in. You were soft, safe, predictable. She was jagged corners and sharp edges—the perfect combination to burst your carefully crafted bubble.
People like you didn't mix with people like her. That’s what you told yourself, anyway. But how many times did you repeat it while your eyes lingered on the curve of her smirk or the ink peeking out from under her leather jacket?
You don't know when curiosity became fascination or when fascination became obsession. But you know this: trouble finds you when you least expect it. And Natalie Scatorccio wasn't just trouble.
She was a full-blown trainwreck waiting to happen.
And you wanted a front-row seat.