“As much as I love giving you shit about stuff, I actually need a favor,” she tells me, digging her phone out of her pocket. “I want to leave campus for lunch, but Dad made me use the driver to get to school today, so I’m wondering if I can borrow your car. I know you have to go meet your coach at lunch to sign some forms.”
“How did you know that?”
She shrugs with a mischievously glint in her eyes. “Because I’m a mind reader.” When I lift my brow in challenge, she dramatically sighs. “Fine. I overheard you talking about it yesterday. Way to take away my awesome façade at being a mind reader.”
I shake my head but smile at her. “You’re such a little weirdo.”
“Hey, I’m far from little anymore, but I’ll own my weirdo-ness,” she tells me. “So, can this weirdo borrow your car?”
I waver. On the one hand, I really love my car and rarely let anyone drive it. On the other hand, I really love my sister and have always tried to be a good big brother, despite how complicated she makes that sometimes.
“Fine. Just be safe, okay?” I take my keys out and give them to her.
She grins as she takes them. “Thanks. You’re the best big brother ever.”
No, I’m not. I’ll only earn that title the day I find a way to get her out of my father’s house. Until then, I’m completely and utterly failing.
6
Raven
Like I guessed, I end up having to walk into first period late. Thankfully, the teacher lets me slide on in without too much of a fuss. And as a double bonus, Dixie May isn’t in this class.
I keep waiting for something to happen. For the whispering to start. For the labels to begin being thrown at me. Strangely, the morning goes by pretty uneventfully. Well, until fourth period rolls around.
Like I did in every other one of my classes, I first go talk to the teacher when I walk in to tell him that I’m new.
“Oh, yes, right.” Mr. Mcnellton, a middle-aged guy with thinning hair, glances up from the stack of papers on his desk. “I think your sister was in my second period class.”
“Cousin,” I correct. “But, yeah, we live together.”
“Oh, I see.” He clearly doesn’t, confusion flooding his eyes.
He wants to ask questions, but like most, he won’t, over the fear that the answer might be uncomfortable to hear.
It is, too, for everyone who dares to ask.
The girl who possibly murdered her parents.
He clears his throat then adjusts his tie. “Well, you can sit anywhere you like. The seats aren’t assigned. And I’m sure I’m going to enjoy having you in my class.”
I want to tell him my story of Jerry and his theory that proves there’s no way he can be sure of that, but I decide to attempt to keep on the teacher’s good side for now. So, I simply nod then wander toward a row of desks lining the middle of the classroom, choosing the far back one where I can keep my head low and hopefully not get called on.
Once I’m seated, I set my binder on the desk, pop my earbuds in, and then recline back in the seat. I have about four minutes until the bell rings, so I should be able to listen to one full song.
A minute later, I’m zoned out, tapping my fingers to the beat, when a guy approaches my desk. He has on a black hoodie with the hood drawn over his head, and his eyes are as dark as storm clouds, although completely and utterly gorgeous—and intense. His jawline is covered with stubble, along with a scar, and his expression is intense. I’m not sure what he wants, but I don’t really care too much, at least not enough to take my earbuds out. He makes no effort to move, though, continuing to stare at me.
What the hell is this guy’s deal?
I tug one of my earbuds out. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you’re in my seat,” he grumbles.
I’m so confused. “Really? Because the teacher said they aren’t assigned.”
A beat of silence passes by as he stares at me intimidatingly.
“They’re not officially assigned,” he finally states with a hint of annoyance. “But anyone who has any self-preservation knows not to sit in that seat.” He nods at the desk on my right then my left. “Or in those.”
I tap my finger against my lip. “Huh. I guess I must’ve left my self-preservation at home today.”
The tiniest bit of surprise flickers in his eyes, but he swiftly extinguishes it. “Well, I suggest you go find it before you end up doing something stupid.” He places his hands on my desk and leans in. “Now get out of my seat.”
My heart thunders in my chest. How do I want to handle the situation? I mean, I want to keep going about my day unnoticed, and if I put up a fight with this guy, that’ll draw attention. But his demanding attitude is annoying. It’s like he just expects me to do what he says, like everyone in this world does.
He’s like a male version of Dixie May, only more intense.
His irritation festers the longer I sit in the seat without moving. His jaw ticks, his eyes darken, and his muscles wind into tight knots.
“Trust me, new girl; you really don’t want to play this game with me,” he warns in a low tone.
“What game?” I carry his gaze. “I’m just sitting at a desk, trying to mind my own business.”
“At my desk,” he stresses. “Now get up and go find a seat somewhere else before I make you.”
My pulse spikes, but so does my stubbornness. When I was younger, my mom used to tell me that being stubborn would be a benefit and a curse. But she was wrong. It’s only been a curse. I wish I could get rid of it, but sometimes it creeps up on me without warning. Like when brooding guys get up in my face and threaten me.
Lifting a brow, I recline in the seat.
Surprise blazes in his eyes. It’s like no one has ever defied him before. It makes me feel both proud of myself and a bit nervous. But I conceal the latter. I’m good at that—concealing my emotions. Have been for the last almost six years.
His jaw ticks as he straightens. “Fine, you wanna play this way, then let’s play.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to jerk me out of the seat or something. Instead, he turns around and drops into the seat in front of me.
“You just destroyed your chances of making it here, new girl,” he warns, throwing me a dirty look from over his shoulder.
“Awesome. I didn’t have a chance anyway.” I move to put my earbud back in.
“Hey, Mr. M.” The blond guy from the office this morning strolls into the classroom, smiling at the teacher.
The teacher glances up from the papers. “Hey, Hunter. Are you excited for tryouts?”
So his name is Hunter, and I’m guessing he plays some sort of sport.
I crinkle my nose. Jocks are usually the worst. At least, they were at my old school. But Hunter doesn’t look like the jocks at my last school.
Maybe he plays chess or is in the math league.
A smile tugs at my lips at the amusing thought.
At that exact moment, Hunter glances in my direction. I’m sure I look like a freak with a stupid grin on my face.
A smile appears on his lips. “Hey—”
I stuff my earbud into my ear.
Shaking his head and grinning, he starts down the aisle, his grin quickly dissipating as his gaze settles on the guy in front of me. His gaze dances from me to the guy, then his lips move.
I’m curious what they’re talking about, but I refuse to let the curiosity win. Then the song ends, and it’s the last song on my playlist, leaving the noise in the classroom to creep into my ears. I start to turn on another song.
“So, she stole your seat?” Hunter says to the guy, his voice a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“For today. But she’ll learn her place soon enough,” the guy warns, fishing a pen out of his pocket.
I pause from selecting a song, deciding to eavesdrop.
Hunter casts a glance in my direction then looks back at the guy. “Did you at least tell her that she was sitting in your seat?”
>
“Yep.” He restlessly taps the pen against the desk. “Apparently, the girl has no self-preservation.”
“Aw, come on, Zay; give her a break. She’s new.” Hunter plops down in the desk across from the guy. “Remember how scary it was on your first day?”
The guy—Zay—lets out a hollow laugh. “I wasn’t scared.”
“Bullshit,” Hunter teases. “You were six. All six-year-olds get scared about their first day of school. Even you.” When Zay doesn’t respond, worry flickers across Hunter’s face, his lips parting. “I’m sorry, Zay. I wasn’t thinking when I said that.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” Zay mumbles. “None of this does.”
They grow quiet, and Hunter continues to frown as he sneaks glances at Zay. I can’t tell if he’s afraid of him or worried. Maybe a little of both. I find myself fascinated by it. How can he make people so afraid of him, even his own … friend? If that’s what Hunter is. What I wouldn’t give to have that talent. Then maybe people would stop tormenting me.
Eventually, people begin pouring into the classroom. No one says anything to Hunter or Zay, but a lot of them do double-takes in their direction then gawk at me. I’m not positive, but I have a suspicion that it has to do with the new seating arrangement. Why the hell is it such a big deal? Just what kind of guy is Zay?
The frown remains on Hunter’s face until a tall guy with dark, chin-length hair enters the room. Like Hunter, he’s dressed all in black and has a pretty face, although his seems to have a more beautifully haunted way about him, all serious, as if he hasn’t laughed in a very long time. He also has a lip and brow piercing and tattoos cover his lean arms.
“Dude,” Hunter says as he approaches. “Why are you late?”
“I had to …” He trails off as his gaze skates from Zay to me, a crinkle forming between his brows as he looks back at Hunter. “Did Mr. M. finally assign seats?”
Hunter shakes his head. “Nope.”
The stranger looks at me, but I pretend not to notice, picking at my chipped fingernail polish.
He looks back at Hunter. “Is she aware she’s sitting in Zay’s seat?”
“Yeah,” Hunter replies, leaning back in his seat and kicking his feet up onto the chair in front of him. “Apparently, she didn’t want to move.”
“She was a real bitch about it, too,” Zay mumbles as he twists sideways in his seat.
So, I’m a bitch because I wouldn’t move out of the seat when he demanded?
Annoyed, I tug out my earbuds. “I wasn’t being a bitch just because I refused to obey you.”
As Zay’s gaze cuts to me, the stranger’s brows rise while Hunter gives me some sort of cryptic pressing look.
Zay studies me for an intense beat. “You’re right; you don’t have any self-preservation.”
“Actually, I think my exact words were I left it at home,” I remind him. “Maybe I’ll remember it tomorrow. But probably not since I have a habit of forgetting things. I’m so bad that I had to install that app on my phone that helps me find my phone because I keep losing it. But I don’t think there’s an app that helps people find their self-preservation. Maybe, though. I’ll have to look into it.”
Hunter smashes his lips together while the stranger stares at me with a crinkle between his brows.
Zay’s dark gaze practically bores a hole into my head. “You know what? I think I’m going to enjoy teaching you your place here.” Then he gets up and storms out of the classroom.
The stranger lets out an exhausted sigh. “Do you want to go check on him this time?” he asks Hunter.
Hunter shakes his head. “Might be better to let him vent it out this time.”
“Maybe.” The stranger drops into Zay’s seat then turns around to look at me. “So, who are you?”
I have no plans of answering him, but Hunter does it for me.
“That’d be Ravenlee Wilowwynter. Raven for short.” A smile dances at his lips as he glances at the stranger. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
Huh?
The stranger stares at me with an unreadable expression. “Perhaps.”
Dude, these guys are weird.
“I tried earlier to get more information out of her,” Hunter informs him, still appearing amused, “but she insisted she wants to remain mysterious. I’ll wear her down, though. In fact, I predict we’re going to be BFFs by October eighth.” He winks at me.
“That’s a really random number,” I tell him. “Maybe you’re the psychic.”
Strands of his hair fall into his eyes as he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just a goal setter, something you should know about me if we’re going to be friends. You should also know that I almost always meet my goals, so get ready to start making those friendship bracelets.”
“You might want to go easy on setting that goal,” the stranger warns, “until you talk to Zay.”
What is Zay? Like their ringleader or something?
Hunter slumps back in his seat, totally sulking. “Jax, why you gotta always ruin my fun like that?”
“Someone has to be your babysitter,” the stranger—Jax—tells him, digging his phone out of his pocket.
Hunter’s pout deepens. “I don’t need a babysitter. You just think I do.”
Jax just rolls his eyes while opening a notebook.
The bell rings then and the teacher walks to the front of the classroom to start class.
Jax lowers his voice and whispers one final thing to Hunter. “Do I need to remind you of what happened with Clara? Or Jessa? Or Katy?” He gives Hunter a pressing look. “You get me? Or do you want me to keep jotting off names?”
Hunter frowns. “No, you can stop. I get it, and I’ll try to back off.” He flicks one quick glance in my direction, offering me what appears to be an apologetic look.
What the hell he’s sorry for is beyond me. What I’d really like to know is what happened to those girls that Jax spoke of. And who the heck Jax, Zay, and Hunter are and why everyone appears to be afraid of them.
But, as a minute ticks by with me overanalyzing all sorts of ideas about it, I realize I’m focusing way too much time on these guys. And that’s not my MO. So, I focus on class, refusing to even glance in Hunter’s or Jax’s direction.
But, for some strange reason, I swear Hunter is watching me. Why? I don’t have a clue, but I’m worried this moment is going to come back and bite me in the ass.
7
Raven
Zay never returns to class. I hate that I’m aware of this. Just like I hate that I’m aware of how Hunter ignores me, even when we walk out of the classroom at almost the same time.
Apparently, the warning Jax gave Hunter was enough to make him back off his determination to become my new BFF. It’s probably for the better since, pretty soon, he’ll meet the spawn of Satan since it’s lunchbreak, and then she’ll inform him of the deaths I may have staining my hands.
“You’re new, right?” A girl with long, brown hair and hazel eyes approaches me as I’m heading toward my locker. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, along with a plaid shirt and Converse sneaker. Her casual style makes her look like someone Dixie May wouldn’t associate with, but I’m not going to discount the idea completely.
I nod, putting up my guard. “Yeah, I am.”
She walks beside me, glancing behind us and down the hallway. Then she looks back at me and leans in. “Well, here’s a little warning. That guy’s seat you were sitting in today in class, his name is Zay and, trust me, you don’t want to mess with him or his friends, Hunter and Jax, those other two guys that sat by you. They’re kind of dangerous.”
“Okay …?” I’m bewildered. “Thanks for the warning and everything, but why is it such a big deal that I sat at this Zay dude’s desk? I mean, the seats aren’t assigned.”
She wavers. “It’s kind of hard to explain to an outsider, but I’ll try to give you the quick version of the story. That way, you’ll understand and hopefully make the smart choice of staying away from them.”
I study her with suspicion. “Why would you do that? I mean, why are you helping me?”
“Because I was new once and had to learn the hard way.” She smiles. “I’m Katy, by the way.”
Katy. I heard Jax mention her name on that list he prattled off to Hunter. But, what happened to the girls on the list?
“I’m Raven,” I tell her with a small smile.
It’s weird smiling at school. It’s been a long time.
A long damn time.
“Raven? Huh, I really like that name.” She adjusts the handle of her backpack higher onto her shoulder. “It’s way more original than Katy.”
“I like Katy better,” I tell her as I swing around a couple making out in the middle of the hallway.
“You must be crazy then,” she jokes with a grin.
Man, if she only knew how close to the truth she was. How I briefly spent time in a psychiatric hospital right after my parents died.
“Maybe a little bit,” I agree, my chest feeling slightly pressurized.
Slut.
Freak.
Murderer.
My scars throb.
She laughs like I’m making a joke, but I’m not. “You’re funny, Raven. You should come sit with me and my friends at lunch.” Her laughter fades and seriousness takes over. “It’ll be good for you to have a group at this school, too. Someone to protect you.”
Confusion swirls inside me. “Protect me from what?”
She sneaks a quick, nervous glance around at the people flooding the hallways. “The politics in this town. Sadly, the more money and power your family has here, the more shit you can get away with at this school. It’s so bad that teachers will literally look the other way, even when someone is getting their ass kicked by some pretentious, rich, spoiled brat. And don’t even get me started on the sexual assaults that get dusted under the rug.”
Is she being serious? She sure looks like it, but …“Doesn’t anyone report that kind of stuff to the police?” I ask. “I mean, sexual assault cases don’t really seem like they should be handled by school administrators.”
The Art of Being Friends Page 4