We sit like that for a long, long time. Too long maybe because we're both shivering like crazy.
We're going to die of hypothermia if we don't find a way to get warm.
“Let's go,” I whisper, helping Church to his feet. He lets me, and we stay with our hands clasped as we start walking.
Nobody speaks. Not for a long, long time.
Not until we hear the sound of metal on stone.
Church and I exchange a look and start sprinting as fast as we can in that direction. There's a drain in the ground, near an old shed. Not only does that mean we're going in the right direction—because the shed must be close to the academy, right?—but there are fingers sticking through the grate.
“Ranger!” Church shouts, and then he's on his knees next to the grate, pulling on it as hard as he can. When I get over next to him, I can see Ranger's face, choking and coughing in the small bit of air that's left. “Where's the crowbar?”
“Dunno,” Ranger chokes, his sapphire eyes wide. “Man, I'm not getting out of this.”
“Don't fucking say that!” Church screams, rising to his feet and looking around for something to pry the grate up with. He heads straight for the shed and kicks in the door.
“Hey,” Ranger chokes out, his voice weak, sputtering as he tries to speak past the rising water. “Can you tell Mom I love her?” I drop down on my knees next to him, curling my fingers around his. Am I going to sit here and watch him drown when he's so damn close to freedom? No. No. This can't happen. “And … give all of Jenica's stuff to the police. Maybe they …” Ranger swallows some water and starts to cough.
That's when I remember: I have the hammer in my bag.
I dump the contents on the ground, grabbing it in shaking hands. There's a lock holding this particular grate in place. I hit it as hard as I can, but nothing happens. It's so rusty though, surely …
Ranger's head disappears under the water, but I can still see his eyes, pleading, begging … I use both hands and hit the lock right at the thinnest point.
It cracks.
I hit it again, and the rusted bits snap off. I yank it off and scream for Church. He's there in a second, a rusted metal pole in hand. He uses that to push the grate off, and then drops down.
Together, we reach in and grab Ranger's hands.
He's freezing cold. And he's still. And it's beyond hard to pull him out, almost impossible. My muscles are screaming, and I'm crying, and I'm not sure this is going to happen when finally, Ranger's body hits the shore and Church and I both fall back.
He's the first to scramble up, turning his friend over and putting his ear near his mouth.
“He's not breathing,” he states calmly, almost too calm. It sounds like Church might just snap if I don't do something. I reach out and put my fingers against the side of Ranger's throat to check for a pulse. No pulse, fuck.
“I have CPR training,” I explain, taking over and trying to remember all the things I learned back home. Living on the beach has its advantages; I know exactly what to do right now. Ranger's face is cold and pale as I tilt his head back. “Put your hands in the center of his chest, at the nipple line, and start compressions. A hundred or more per minute. Let the chest rise completely between pushes.” Church complies immediately, and I wait, checking again to see if he's breathing yet.
Nothing.
“We need to get some air in him,” I murmur as I pinch Ranger's nose and lean down, sealing my lips to his with a little tingle. No time for that, Charlotte. Gross. I breathe into his mouth once, twice, and then pull back. Nothing. I do it again. “Thirty chest compressions.” My voice is a cold, quiet command, my teeth chattering so hard they hurt.
“Wake the fuck up,” Church murmurs, following my instructions.
Again, I share my breath with Ranger.
More compressions.
More breath.
This is not going well. He should be coughing up water by now.
“We have to keep this going until help arrives,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. There is no help coming, not anytime soon. We both know that. You never know: the twins may have found their way back by now.
“We'll go as long as it takes,” Church replies, like he's discussing the weather. I nod. I won't stop. I won't. Leaning down, I give two more breaths, and then pull back, waiting for Church to do the compressions.
Just as I'm bending over again, Ranger's body spasms and he throws water up.
“Turn him over,” I instruct, my voice as calm and cool as Church's. On the inside, I'm screaming. Please, please, please be okay! I put two fingers into Ranger's mouth to clear his airway as he throws up again and starts coughing.
Church and I keep him propped up as he curls his fingers into the grass, taking these long, strong breaths that make my heart so goddamn happy.
“Hey,” Church whispers as Ranger sits up, shaking violently. He looks confused and disoriented as he glances between the two of us, his sapphire eyes dark with shadows.
“Am I still alive?” he whispers, choking and coughing again. His voice is so rough, it's like sandpaper, but I'm not sure if I've ever heard such a beautiful sound.
“Barely,” I whisper, and Ranger nods, looking around, fear striking hard in his expression. “Where are the twins?” he asks, more concerned for their safety than his own.
“They went to get help,” I tell him, the momentary relief fading as I realize we're not out of the woods yet. Drowning victims can suffer pneumonia, infection, heart failure … Besides, we're all at risk of hypothermia now. We need to move—and quick. “Can you stand?”
“Yeah. Just … help me up?” Church and I help Ranger to his feet, and then get his arm slung around his best friend's shoulders. We start to shuffle slowly forward. With the rate we're moving, the twins are our best hope at this point.
The sound of screaming gives us all pause, and we exchange panicked looks. There's something familiar about it that I don't like.
“Can you run?” Church asks, and Ranger steels his expression.
“Let's go.”
I don't have time to try and convince either of them that that's a bad idea. Instead, Church wraps my hand in his and we take off in the direction of the sound.
There's … something else, like the creaking of tree limbs, and this awful gurgling …
The woods are thick and dark, making it impossible to tell where we're going. I'm honestly just shocked we haven't run into a trunk and conked out yet.
The sound stops abruptly, but the boys seem to have a pretty good idea of where we're going, so I don't argue.
When we emerge into a clearing … everything comes to a standstill.
The twins are standing there. One of them's holding the end of a rope while the other gapes up at a body above us, swinging in the trees.
Church drops my hand, and I slap it over my mouth to stifle a scream.
“I can't get this damn rope undone,” Micah growls, pausing when he sees us standing there. “Ranger?” The shock in his voice snaps his brother out of his trance, and Tobias turns around to gaze at his friend.
“Is that …?” Ranger chokes out, gazing up at the boy in his gym uniform. The boy with silver-gray hair. “Is that Spencer?” he whispers as I collapse to the forest floor, put my hands over my face and try to block out the image.
What the hell happened to my easygoing high school life, spent in the sand, sun, and surf? Why didn't I just suck it up and go back to California when I had the chance?!
The danger at Adamson Academy just got very, very real.
I just hope I survive to tell the tale.
It looks like not every member of the Student Council will.
To Be Continued …
Adamson All-Boys Academy #2
Academy of Spirits and Shadows, Book #1
The Family Spells, Book #1
Rich Boys of Burberry Prep, Book #1
Flip the page for an excerpt of chapter one.
Chapter One
&n
bsp; My uniform—and my dignity—are in tatters.
My eyes scan the gathered crowd, but there are three faces in particular that catch my attention. Cold, cruel, beautiful. An ugly sort of beautiful, I think as I meet a narrowed silver gaze and catch the faintest edges of a smirk. Tristan Vanderbilt thinks he’s beaten me; they all do. But what they don’t understand is that I’m not the nervous, eager little charity case I was when I first started at Burberry Prep.
Lifting an arm up, I swipe a bit of blood from my mouth. My bra is showing through the torn remnants of my white blouse, and it’s the pretty red one I wore just for Zayd. He made me believe he cared about me. Flicking my eyes in his direction, I can see quite clearly now that he doesn’t. He isn’t smiling, not like Tristan, but the message in his green eyes is clear: you don’t belong here.
“Had enough yet?” Harper du Pont purrs from behind me. I don’t bother turning to look at her. Instead, I let my attention slide to the last of the three guys. My three biggest mistakes; my three greatest betrayals. Creed is frowning, like this whole confrontation is a necessary evil. Get rid of the lower-class trash, clean up the school.
The wind picks up, the ragged red pleats of my academy uniform billowing in a salty breeze. In the distance, I can hear the sea. It crashes against the rocks in time to the frantic beating of my heart. A storm is coming.
Tristan moves toward me with predatory grace, his expensive loafers picking up droplets of dew as he comes to stand toe-to-toe with me, as close as he was that first day when he insulted me and then laid out the challenge: how long do you think you’ll last? Well. It’s the final day of freshman year, and I’m still standing here, aren’t I? Tristan, though, he thinks that while I’ve won the battle, he’s going to win the war.
I stay stone-still as he lifts his fingers and tangles strands of my paint-splattered hair through them, giving the short rose gold locks a light tug. Red paint smears across his perfect skin as I meet those gray eyes of his with a defiant glimmer in my own.
“I take it you won’t be coming back next year, will you, Marnye?” he whispers, his voice like whiskey over ice. Tristan thinks he’s the master of this school, a veritable god. The other boys think of themselves like that, too. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when a confrontation finally comes. They think their money will buy them the world. Maybe, in a way, it will.
But it won’t buy them true friendship, and it won’t buy them love. It definitely won’t buy them me.
I glance past Tristan to Zayd and Creed, and then I refocus my attention back on the asshole that started it all. From day one, he went out of his way to make my life a living hell. He succeeded. And Zayd and Creed, they loved every horrible, filthy second of it.
“Just go home, Marnye, and it’ll all be over,” Tristan says, the softness in his voice edged with cruelty. He’s like a predator who’s too cute to be afraid of. I made the mistake of letting him get too close, and now I’m cut and bleeding—physically and emotionally. I’m fucking shattered. “You don’t belong here.”
Zayd listens to the whole conversation, and then slides his tattooed arm around Becky Platter, putting the final nail in my coffin. He’s chosen her over me. He’s chosen her and her cruelty and her mocking laughter over me. My hands curl into fists so tight that my nails dig crescents into my palms.
I meet Tristan’s haughty, self-assured stare. There are tears on my face, and when he removes his fingers from my hair, he touches one with his knuckles, bringing it to his lips for a lick. It’s a derisive, awful move, like a knife in the back. I can feel the blade beside my heart, but it’s just missed. I’m not broken yet.
“I’ve already enrolled in my classes,” I state, and the entire courtyard goes silent. Nobody is expecting this, the poor girl, the lamb in a pack of wolves, standing up for herself. What they don’t know is that the hardest hearts are forged in fire. With their cruelty and their jokes and their laughter, they’ve forged me into something spectacular. “Come September, I’ll be the first in line for orientation.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Tristan says, still cold as ice, still full of wicked triumph for what he thinks he’s done. His dark hair flutters in the breeze, softening some of his hard lines. It’s all an illusion though. I know that now, and I won’t make that same mistake again. “I’ll make your life a living hell.”
“You can try,” I retort, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my registration form. I’ll be back at Burberry Prep come hell or high water. This is my opportunity, and I won’t let three handsome faces, three pairs of hot hands, three sets of ardent lips destroy that. “Because what you don’t know …” I take a deep breath, and then bend down to grab the handle on my ratty, old duffle bag. Everybody else here has hired help to carry their luggage. Not me. Straightening up, I lift my chin in defiance and Tristan scowls. “Is that my life outside of these walls was already a living hell. This is just another level of Dante’s inferno, and I’m not afraid.” My gaze flicks past Tristan and back to Zayd and Creed. “Not of any of you.”
I move around Tristan, intent on the school gates and three months of freedom from these jerks, but he puts his hand around my arm and holds me back. Glancing down, I stare at his fingers pressed against my flesh, and then look back up at his face. He’s smiling, but it’s not a pretty smile.
“Challenge accepted,” he purrs, and then he releases me.
As I head down the path in my torn uniform, I keep my chin up and my fears pushed back.
Challenge accepted is right. I won’t be driven away from the best opportunity in my life. Not by Tristan, not by anyone.
As I walk, I can feel three sets of eyes on my back, watching, waiting, plotting.
I’ll have to make sure I stay one step ahead.
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About the Author
C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.
She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over eighty novels - romance, new adult, fantasy,
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The Secret Girl Page 27