Wicked Blue Bloods: A Highschool Bully Romance - Crestwood Academy Book 1

by Devyn Forrest

  I couldn’t help but take in his large six-foot-tall frame. For a man in his seventies, he was in pretty good shape. He had long legs and wore dark black dress pants and a beige sweater that allowed the collar of his crisp white shirt to poke out from underneath. His gray hair was slicked back and his gray-blue eyes spoke volumes— like they were filled with decades of stories that were to be kept hidden away. His chin was chiseled and he had high cheekbones. You could tell he used to be a handsome man in his younger days and had aged gracefully.

  “Good morning,” my mother said, without the normal sweetness.

  My grandmother, her mother, had spoken ill of Damon Blair especially, over the years, citing him as the reason for her leaving her position at the stables. She had never gone into detail, though. She died with those secrets and we had never learned the story.

  Now, we were in front of that monster. And he was asking us to sit down and whether or not we wanted coffee. This was just so damn strange.

  Mom and I sat in beautiful vintage chairs, neither one of us daring to place our backs across the fine upholstery. Damon Blair remained at ease as he examined us. He held his large hands in front of him, cupping one another. They looked like they had never seen hard labor in their lives. This was such a contrast to Dad’s hands, which were rugged and calloused from all the work he did down at the mechanic shop.

  “It’s come to my attention that you’ve made a little visit to our school in recent days, Kennedy Harper,” Damon Blair started giving me a disapproving look.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Should I have told Mom everything, told her that we needed a lawyer if we were going to go into the lion’s den? Mom drew her eyes toward me, her lips parting and I could see the marred expression of confusion plastered on her pretty face.

  “Well, Kennedy? Is that so?” Damon Blair asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “I suppose you already know, don’t you?” I returned. My words were lined with anger and sarcasm.

  At this, Damon Blair gave me a coy smile. “I’ve heard you’re a spitfire, Miss Harper.”

  A spitfire. What was he talking about? Why didn’t he just punish me? Get it over with?

  “It’s really kind of you to invite us to Crestwood,” Mom tried then, her voice soft. “I haven’t been on the grounds before...”

  “Yes, Mrs. Harper, but your daughter has and that is exactly what this is about and why we are all here. Right, Kennedy?” Damon Blair said, cutting her off and then directed his question directly at me as he leaned back into his chair.

  “Excuse me.” She turned to me then. “Kennedy. What the hell is he talking about?” Mom hissed, seemingly forgetting that we were on display for this horrible creature before us—a man with more money than God himself. He could literally flick us out into the ocean on the other side of his window and be done with us and no one would ask any questions.

  “What I mean, Mrs. Harper, is that your daughter and her dear little friend—what was his name? I dare say— I can’t keep track. Anyway, they snuck onto the grounds a few days ago and decided to have their way with our grand academy.”

  I couldn’t look at Mom. I watched as he steepled his fingers and waited for my response. My heart thumped against my rib cage faster, and I could feel it down deep in my belly. I clenched my thighs so hard with my fingers and nails that I felt the marks in my skin might never go away.

  “Just do whatever you want with me,” I returned, feeling like a trapped dog in a cage. “You don’t have to go through this song and dance number in front of my Mom. She has a zillion other things to do. Or don’t you know what it’s like to work for a living?”

  “Kennedy!” Mom yelled and then looked at the headmaster. “Please explain why we are here.”

  At this, the headmaster seemed to take great pleasure, like he was eating a super-sweet piece of cake. He bit down on his lip and—I swear to God—almost cackled. But then he hung back in his chair and said, “Your daughter took the liberty of drawing a mural on the side our academy wall.” I watched my mother throw me an irate sideways glance and then look back at Headmaster Blair, as he continued.

  “Of course, my rage dissipated after a few minutes of looking at what you drew, Kennedy. It’s foolish and it’s youthful, the painting, of course, but according to my expert artistic eye—and the artistic eye of our head art professor here at Crestwood, it shows an absolutely stellar ability— one with the likes of which we haven’t seen at Crestwood in perhaps fifty years.”

  I inhaled sharply and I’m sure it looked like my eyes were bugged out. Had I just heard him correctly? Beside me, I felt Mom swimming in confusion.

  No one spoke for a moment. Maybe nobody would ever speak again. I wasn’t sure whether I should bow down and apologize or—ask to be let free—or say, fuck him and everything he stood for?

  “You’re good, Kennedy,” Damon Blair said then, words I knew but never expected to hear from a member of Crestwood Academy’s mouth. “And we want you to come here, on full scholarship ride, of course, and train with our teachers.”

  Mom turned her head so fast toward me that I thought she might get whiplash. Her hand wrapped around my wrist, squeezing hard as she tried to process his words.

  “That’s a marvelous opportunity,” Mom breathed, her head bobbing back and forth between us.

  I wanted to scream at her. To tell her that every day since I was born, I had been bred to believe that Crestwood was something we never wanted to become, that it wasn’t worth the ground it sat on. But there I was sitting on that very ground, being offered the keys to the kingdom.

  I swallowed again and thought maybe my body had stopped producing saliva. My mouth was instantly parched.

  As if on cue—like they had rehearsed the whole thing before—a woman wearing enormous, thick, seventy-style frames and a vibrant, flowing red dress, cut into the room. She adjusted her large glasses and beamed at me, before finding a seat beside the headmaster. She leaned toward me, studying me as though I was on display at a museum.

  “Kennedy Harper. It is a unique pleasure to meet such a singular talent.” The lady smiled.

  What was going on?

  “My name is Mrs. Randall. I’m the art professor at this school. In all my years, I’ve known several talented students, but there’s something to your work that attracts a certain level of— Anyway. I know what you did was absolutely atrocious in terms of school spirit and the level of respectability that this academy demands. However, Headmaster Blair and I have discussed this at length and know you would be a perfect candidate at this school. We would love for you to start immediately.” She smiled and rubbed her palms together, looking almost conspiratorial.

  Was this some kind of trap?

  “I don’t know what to say,” is what I said, which sounded clumsy and stupid, even in my own ears.

  Headmaster Blair and Mrs. Randall exchanged glances and Mom let out a nervous laugh.

  “I suppose we’ll have to discuss this at home,” Mom replied quickly, trying to cover up the awkwardness like she always did. “It’s a really big offer. I can’t imagine that we would ever turn it down.” She stood and indicated I should follow suit.

  “With Crestwood Academy on your resume, you can write your ticket to any art school in the country. Any, in the world,” Headmaster Blair beamed, standing as well.

  It was the most pompous thing I had ever heard. I also knew how true it was. Some of the top artists, musicians, politicians, filmmakers, and scientists had come from Crestwood Academy, and they now enjoyed their celebrity status—with people living all over the world. One writer now lived in Paris and was said to be the best mind of her generation ‘since Sartre.’ I mean, you couldn’t really argue with that.

  “I suppose we can arrange another meeting for later in the week, to ensure you get all the details,” Mrs. Randall chimed in. “I know it must be a whirlwind, Kennedy.”

  At this, Headmaster Blair cut forward, his thick white eyebrows cinching over his eyes. �
�Of course, if you do attend, Kennedy, you must know that you’ll be paying for your actions. I’ve arranged that you clean the grounds for a few weeks—regardless of whether or not you attend.”

  I would be doing that with Eric. For whatever reason—maybe because I felt like I was on a boat without any sign of shore—this gave me a moment of happiness.

  “We’ll call the school to arrange another appointment,” Mom said, using her shiniest voice. “Thank you again for meeting with us today.”

  “Very well.” Headmaster Blair’s eyes continued to tear through me. “I look forward to welcoming you when you’ve made your final decision.”

  Mrs. Crooks appeared once more at the door, escorting us back into the hallway. I felt I was sleepwalking all the way back to the car. Mom didn’t say a single thing. Outside, I spun around to look again at the yellow tarp that covered my work. Mom looked at it, too. We stood, staring at it. I expected Mom to ask me what took place in more detail, but she didn’t. She had heard enough.

  Maybe it didn’t matter now, anyway.

  Inside the car, Mom clutched the steering wheel, making her knuckles turned white and I shivered.

  “I can’t just go to Crestwood, Mom,” I whispered. “What about—about Wren? About Eric?”

  Mom clucked her tongue. “Nobody in Ridgewood has a future, Kennedy. But maybe you’ve just found a way to give yourself one. You can’t say no. It would be a damn death sentence.”

  Chapter Six

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Wren’s voice bubbled with anger. She’d been sitting on my bed, glancing through a magazine, when I had told her about my ‘interview’ with Headmaster Blair that morning. Her braces glittered as her once-eternal smile gave way to an enormous frown.

  “I wish I was,” I told her.

  “Crestwood Academy?” Wren echoed back. “But like, nobody from Ridgewood has gone there in—in like fifty years or more.”

  We had heard rumors of some gifted Ridgewood scientist who had gone on to work for a lab at UCLA. Although he had been raised in one of the little shacks near the forest cliffs, he had turned his back completely on Ridgewood, becoming ‘one of them’ the minute his cash flow upped into the rich territory. It was said that now, his own bloodline had been stitched into the elite at Crestwood. Whoever he was, if he was even still alive, he never whispered the name ‘Ridgewood’ again.

  I shrugged. I was stationed at my easel, trying to organize some of the art supplies I wanted to bring with me to my Crestwood classes. Mom and I had decided together—after a fight that was louder and angrier than any other fight we’d ever had—that I would begin Crestwood the following Monday. She had called Crestwood immediately and arranged another meeting. When she had finished, Mom announced that a courier would be dropping off a number of school uniforms for me before dinnertime. It was all happening so fast like I had gotten on some sort of spinning Ferris wheel and couldn’t turn it off.

  “They’re going to eat you alive,” Wren murmured, now staring at me with wide eyes.

  “Gee. Thanks, Wren. Your belief in me is staggering,” I scoffed.

  Wren’s shoulders sagged. “It’s just that; you know how they treat us when they see us at the edge of Crestwood. Like human garbage. You’ll be walking among them.”

  “They’re not zombies, Wren,” I returned and laughed as her body shivered with the thought. “They probably aren’t even very smart. These rich blue bloods never are. They’ve been given their daddies’ money since they popped out of the womb, which means they never had to develop any personality. I’ll probably wipe the floor with them.”

  Downstairs, there was a rap at the door. I heard Mom scuttle toward it, before giving a welcoming, “Eric, it’s so good to see you. I would scold you for what you and Kennedy did, but—”

  Eric’s footsteps echoed up the stairwell and before long, his mangy, beautiful black locks popped into my doorway. His eyes searched mine.

  “What happened? You had to go to Crestwood? Did they give you the same thing as me? Garbage duty?” His questions were coming so fast that I didn’t bother answering.

  “She was invited to be a student at Crestwood instead,” Wren spat and her lips upturned into a wicked grin.

  Eric mocked Wren. “Very funny.”

  “No! Really. They told her she had like—untamed and perfect artistic talent and they want to mold her up in their weird system of beliefs and turn her into one of them,” Wren explained.

  Eric’s eyes flickered back toward me in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? So you’re saying, you graffitied one of the richest schools in the country and their response was to enroll you?”

  I snapped several paintbrushes onto my bed and my cheeks burned just by the way his words sounded. “It’s not like it’s my choice,” I told them. Already, I could feel some kind of divide between myself and my two best friends. Like they were peering at me from far, far away, like animals on safari. There she goes— the new student at Crestwood Academy, attempting to walk the walk of the rich.

  “Fuck,” Eric groaned and swiped a hand down his face in frustration. He dropped on the bed next to Wren and scrubbed his curls. “I gotta say. I did not see this coming.”

  I couldn’t hack being with Wren and Eric that weekend. After I cleared out my locker, I spent most of my hours alone in my bedroom. My new school uniforms—dark red and gold—were freshly pressed and hanging in my closet, and Mom had grabbed me some new notebooks— half-price, at the nearby convenience store. I was mid-way through the first semester of my junior year—but for some reason, I was starting all over.

  Half out of curiosity, I checked the anonymous online message board for Crestwood, wondering what had been said about the mural.

  Ridgewood had a similar site, where we normally just ranted about Crestwood and homework. To get on the site, you had to have a specific password relating to your association with the school. Mrs. Crooks had given me a welcome packet of school information at our last meeting. I opened it, finding a number and letter code that was said to be my ‘school identification number.’ On a hunch, I tried it, and voila—access granted.

  It was obvious that some computer-genius upper-crust Crestwood elite had put the site together. On the top were the words ‘CRESTWOOD BLUE BLOODS’ with a backdrop of the cliffs and ocean that surrounded the school. Beneath this was an idiotic, poetic break-down of how the Crestwood elite saw themselves:

  We are the Crestwood Elite.

  Our blood pulses with our forefathers’ and mothers’ intelligence, beauty, and preternatural ability to do whatever the hell it is we want.

  Never forget who we are.

  We at Crestwood are poised to rule the world.

  Good grief, I thought. I knew the people at Crestwood were up each other’s asses—and their own but putting it on a message board? That seemed idiotic and a bit self-righteous.

  Beneath the quote was a list of several topics, which students could click on and add their own comments to. It seemed like a place where gossip could be exchanged easily, without it ever getting out that it was you who had written it. They all had various usernames.

  The topics read:

  Kieran and Hailey: Still banging?

  Cassidy MacMillan stripped naked at Emma Sheridan’s pool party: pics in exchange for $$$$. (Bidding war)

  How big is Caleb Pierce’s cock?

  Does Amy Sandlewood EVER put out?

  Great, I thought then. Crestwood was just a collection of super-rich, horny teenagers. All the names were completely foreign to me, like characters in a novel. I guess I was on the brink of knowing who they all were.

  But then, I kept reading.

  Ridgewood trash enrolling in Crestwood

  What the hell. Of course, someone had written something about me. I clicked on it while my heartbeat wildly against my rib cage.

  Anonymous69: I tracked down her name. Kennedy Harper. Dad dead. Mom’s a nurse at the hospital.

  BlueBlood45: Bet she
lives in one of those shitty trailer park houses near the grocery store

  RiffRaff00: She’s probably one of those super-fat trailer park trash bitches

  RockyRoad44: Does she put out??? A Ridgewood whore???

  CultCrest33: They all do down there. They’re like mice. Always popping more out.

  CrestwoodForever12: What she did to our school needs to be punished. If Headmaster Blair won’t do it, we have to take matters into our own hands.

  BlueBlood45: And she has to pay for being what she is. Ridgewood scum.

  CrestwoodForever12: Don’t know if she’s brave or just stupid to walk in here.

  Anonymous69: She’ll regret it for the rest of her life.

  What the hell were they thinking? Threatening me online? I smashed the computer closed and stared outside at the impossible October blackness. I never cried—I hadn’t since the accident. But my stomach felt hard and heavy like it was filled with stones.

  What were they going to do to me?

  I would have my answer Monday morning.

  Eric had suggested that he pick me up early and drive me all the way to Crestwood, before driving himself back to Ridgewood. It was sweet of him, but I insisted that I get myself there. Whatever abuse was waiting for me at Crestwood, I didn’t want Eric to see it or experience it himself.

  MOM WAS STILL AT WORK when I swung my new uniform over my slim frame, scraped a brush through my hair, and rushed downstairs. Bread and peanut butter remained on the counter from yesterday, but I remembered the comment from the Crestwood forum: “Probably one of those super-fat trailer park trash bitches.” I shivered and marched out the door.

  I took the bus up to Crestwood. Just as I had expected, the bus was filled only with staff members for the elite—people who had been raised in Ridgewood and worked for the Crestwood families. They glanced at my Crestwood clothing with confusion but didn’t say a thing. Their faces sagged while they stared out the windows aimlessly.