Hate to Remember: A Dark High School Bull Romance (Marshall High Society Book 1)

by L V Chase

  I sit down at an antique chair in the corner, drinking as I watch a girl from my English class and an older-looking man discuss Steinbeck as their hands explore each other.

  I should feel more ashamed that I’m wishing it was Klay and me sitting there. We would be so absorbed exploring each other’s bodies that the rest of the party would disappear, just like those other couples.

  “Hey,” Roman calls out so loudly that the couple jolts away from each other.

  Surprised by his reappearance, I sit up straight.

  He stops in front of me, his leg tapping against my knee. “I was looking for you. Everybody told me that you went into the downstairs closet, but, uh, something else was happening there.”

  “Oh, I left there a few minutes ago,” I say.

  “But not too early right.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Because Chris and his girl were putting on quite a show, and I know he wouldn’t have minded a little show-and-tell.”

  “I didn’t watch,” I say.

  “Sure, you just went into a closet for the fun of it,” he says.

  “I thought it was a room,” I admit.

  The liquor must be working on me much faster with an empty stomach. A sweet sense of leisure is settling under my skin.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” he says, smiling with a distant look. “I know people aren’t supposed to talk about money, but I would be a huge fake if I pretended that my family is on the same level as anyone else’s. We’ve worked hard to build this up. And then people get all up in our ass over it? Whatever. We dry our tears with our Franklins. That’s hundred-dollar bills. Because it has Benjamin Franklin on it.”

  “I know,” I say, taking another sip of my drink.

  “People just don’t understand.” He leans against the cabinet beside me. “But we’re okay with it, because it means that we can choose certain people to lift up if we feel like they’re worthy.”

  “Are you about to inform me that I’m worthy if I sleep with you?” I ask. “Because I’m perfectly fine staying unworthy.”

  He chuckles. “Nah. Not quite.”

  “Not quite?” I challenge. I move closer to the edge of the chair, holding my glass tightly. “I’m not going to sleep with you just because you helped my grandmother. I’m not a hooker.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting into,” he says. “I’m talking about a legal agreement. I’d keep helping your grandma. I’d set you up for life. And you’d just need to sign a contract that would let me to make all of your decisions in your place. You’d be agreeing that you’re not capable of making decisions because of your…mental problems.”

  I stare at him. The liquor is turning my brain into a river, all of my thoughts pouring out somewhere that I can’t see. “A conservatorship?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s called something like that.”

  “Ethan wanted me to do the same thing.”

  Roman shrugs. “Yeah, but Ethan isn’t offering you as much. I have enough money to make sure your great-grandchildren would be happy. Ethan’s parents have enough money to last you until you’re fifty if their stocks do well.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Do you both think I’m so crazy that I can’t take care of myself?”

  He shrugs again, but this time, his shoulder seems to duplicate until I blink and he only has one shoulder again. I should have eaten something before I started drinking.

  “I think I’m your best chance at a good life,” he says. “If you take Ethan’s offer, you have to stick around with his parents, who are the most boring people on earth. If you ever think bankers are boring, wait until you meet lawyers.”

  His words pass through my head, floating over my own thoughts like clouds. I don’t get why everyone keeps pushing this conservatorship business, but I’m too confused by the colored spots floating in my vision.

  I should have asked Roman if he had any snacks for this party. I’ve only had a few sips of alcohol as far as I can remember.

  “Sadie?” Roman asks. “What do you say? Set you and your grandma up for life? You won’t have to worry about anything ever again.”

  “That sounds nice,” I say faintly.

  “I’ll go get the papers,” he says quickly.

  I blink, and he’s gone. The couple’s gone too. How long have I been sitting here? Did Roman tell the couple to leave? Was the couple ever here? But if the couple was never here, they were never talking about Steinbeck.

  “Sadie.”

  A hand lifts up my chin. I swear I see Klay, but he could be a delusion too. Klay, imaginary or not, searches my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I enjoy his exploration.

  “What’s happening?” he asks. His voice sounds like it’s deep underwater, but it still has that delicious roughness to it.

  “I like you,” my voice says. “But you’re a terrible person.”

  “Yes, I know. What’s happening? Describe your symptoms.”

  “I’m good.” I nod. “I feel pretty good. I like your hand on me. Tired. Might be delusional. Might be as crazy as you say.”

  He lets his hand drop away from me. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Alcohol is the devil’s nectar.

  “You’re not crazy,” he says patiently, but his face is creased with concern. “Sadie, I need to know one thing. Are you listening?”

  I nod, even though it brings on a pulsing headache.

  “When I’m talking, are you seeing colors?”

  I blink several times. It’s true. He’s done talking now, but a faint dark red lingers in the air. The music that’s been pounding through the house is also causing a haze of a faint blue, yellow, and orange. Someone’s yelling in excitement, and I can see flickers of green.

  “That’s so weird,” I whisper, my fingers touching my lips. My own words come out in a subtle periwinkle. “I’m losing it. Everyone was right.”

  “Wait here,” Klay says, standing up.

  His words are no longer a faint pigment—they’re a distinct dark red with lines of black sparking inside it.

  So strange. Who knew my psychotic break would happen in such a beautiful place in front of a man who wanted to break me?

  Klay’s standing in the other corner of the room, where the imaginary couple had been. He’s on the phone.

  He’s beautiful in a way that’s impossible to replicate. If I drew him, I could get all of the sharp angles of his body, the intensity of his face, and the broadness of his body. But I’d never be able to show the way he can incite a fever in me, one that can only be held in check by his touch. Without it, I just keep burning up.

  I raise my drink to my eye, watching the colors from his mouth blur in the glass. I don’t recall drinking so much. I set it back down as a familiar ache throbs deep inside me. I rub the inside of my thighs, where faint bruises linger from our time together.

  I wish he was the one touching me. I wish we could go into the walk-in closet, lock ourselves inside, and intertwine our bodies until we’re a knot that can never be undone.

  “Sadie, stop talking,” Klay says, abruptly in front of me.

  I frown at him. “I wasn’t talking.”

  “Yes, you were,” he says.

  In the dilation of his pupils, I see the ravenous hunger that must match mine, as if he were agreeing with all of my inner thoughts. I touch my mouth again. Was I saying all of my thoughts aloud?

  I should be embarrassed, but all I feel is euphoria. I reach up to him, touching the scruff on his jaw. I bet that stubble would be stimulating between my thighs.

  Klay puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sadie? Did you hear me? You need to stop talking. I’ve called someone to take you to the hospital. Somebody gave you a new form of Rohypnol—a new type of roofie. We need to get you to the front door.”

  Klay just told me that I’ve been roofied. I should run. I should get far away from him. At the very least, I shouldn’t go with him. But he puts his arm around me, helping me to my feet, and I let him.

  He�
��s careful with me as we make our way through the crowd. He reassures me every few seconds or so, telling me I’m going to be okay, that the hospital is just a precaution, and that he’ll deal with the situation.

  But his words are still that violent red with sparks of black. I haven’t turned to see Klay’s face yet, but from the expression on everyone else’s face, their silence, and how quickly they move out of the way, he must appear downright terrifying.

  His arm tightly hugging my waist and the way everyone obeys him is more seductive than anything I’ve ever experienced. And god, the fantasies I’ve had of him have been sensual enough to keep me going for days.

  “That’s good to know,” Klay mutters as he opens the door for the two of us.

  I look over at him and kiss his temple. I expect him to jerk away, push me, or spit his usual venom, but he gives me a smile that barely reaches his eye. He helps me down the porch stairs.

  “You need to let it go, Sadie.”

  I don’t know quite what he’s talking about, but I remember he’s been saying my name this whole time, and I had barely realized it. This drug has been an exhilarating trip, but I’m overcome with a wave of sadness over the fact that I can’t re-experience the thrill of him saying my name.

  He opens the passenger door of a car. It’s not his Jeep. I give him a confused look.

  “This is Vince,” he says. “Vince is going to take you to the hospital.”

  “You trust him?” I ask, still gripping his arm.

  “I trust that he’ll take you to the hospital without any problems.”

  He takes my hand and elbow, lowering me into the passenger seat. He buckles my seat belt and rearranges my feet so that neither of them is crooked. He looks past me to Vince

  “I called Dad. He’ll meet you at the entrance.”

  “I’ll be sure to get you a proof of purchase when we get there,” Vince says.

  “Shut the fuck up and drive.”

  Klay slams the door shut. As the car takes off, making my stomach feel like boiling acid, I recall one of the articles I’d found about Dr. Harrington before. The description for the article had mentioned his three sons: Klay, Leon, and Vince.

  This is Vince Harrington. A brother that Klay trusts to take me to the hospital but wouldn’t say if he trusted him outright.

  I turn to Vince, my fingers twisting together, but I must not have been talking aloud. It was only something I did with Klay. I look down at my hands. He looks a lot like Klay, but younger and lacking all of the fervor that keeps me returning to Klay.

  Even now, I want to go back, but he wanted me here, so I’ll stay here until he gives me a new place to go. Until I know exactly what’s going on. Until staying away is too much to handle. I’ll either return to him or return to the psychiatric ward.

  31

  Klay

  Drugged coercion is a clear violation of the rules, and everyone involved knows that. No civilians would dare interfere, either. All of Marshall is well-aware of the consequences of fucking with Society business. The best-case scenario for a moron interfering with the Hunt would be fleeing the country and looking over his shoulder for the rest of his short life. It would be a shit decision that no civilian would make.

  No, whoever drugged Sadie was arrogant and worried about losing. The sedation could have gone a dozen twisted ways, but the intent is meaningless to me. All I know is that Roman or Ethan did it, and my rage is a danger to everybody right now.

  The only question is whether it was Roman or Ethan.

  Roman was sweating bullets about Ethan’s weekend away with Sadie. It’s his party. It’s his bartender. He could have easily slipped something in.

  But Ethan could have been concerned if he thought Roman could finish the deal before him. I saw him with the tequila sunrise, and he’s stupid enough that he would drug Sadie in an effort to frame Roman. He wouldn’t have considered the consequences of a barely researched drug in Sadie’s central nervous system.

  When I turn back to the house, several people are darting out the door. I walk inside. People wait to slip by me. Everyone’s self-preservation is kicking in. They saw how furious I was when I walked out with Sadie. They know that somebody is going to fucking die tonight.

  I track down Roman and Ethan on the edge of the pool, both of them fully clothed as they watch the women in the pool gaze up at them with adoration.

  I grab Roman by the front of his shirt, yanking him sideways with enough force that he stumbles and crashes into the pool. I turn to Ethan as the women in the pool squeal at the sudden intrusion.

  I seize Ethan by the front of his shirt. “Did you do it, you little shit? Resorting to that pussy shit because you’re afraid of losing?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says calmly, his hand pressing over the fist that’s gripping his shirt.

  I hear the sloshing of water as Roman gets out of the pool. Water sprays against the back of my arms and legs as he shakes off like a dog.

  I imagine my hand moving up, grabbing his throat, and shaking him until his body is impossibly still. If we were alone like we were in shop class, I absolutely would, but the witnesses create too much of a liability. If Ethan had run to his father, complaining about my actions, I could deny them, and we’d be at a stalemate. He’d be forced to let it go.

  Here, there are others, and I can’t predict all of their loyalties. I can’t risk it until I know which one of them did it. Then, all bets are off.

  “One of you drugged Sadie,” I say, letting go of the front of Ethan’s shirt. “Tell me who it is.”

  “I know the rules,” Ethan says, adjusting the front of his shirt where I’d crumpled it. “I wouldn’t violate them.”

  He lingers on the word violate. I could pay off the women to keep quiet if I punched him in the throat.

  “I don’t need drugs to win,” Roman says. “It could have been anyone, Klay.”

  “It was one of you,” I say. “You both had access to her drink. Confess. Now.”

  They glance at each other and shrug. Roman glances back at the woman in the pool. Ethan runs his hand over his shirt, over and over, but it remains wrinkled.

  They’ve fixed their friendship. They must still be competing, but they also must have decided that the animosity toward each other was useless or else they’d be pointing fingers at each other.

  Loyalty is so fucking inconvenient when it’s between these two.

  “Klay, it was me.”

  I turn to see a familiar face, one of Roman’s lackeys. Greg something. Greg Mercer.

  “I put the roofie in the drink,” Greg says, his voice trembling and his whole body quivering. “I wasn’t thinking. She just…she looked so hot tonight.”

  Greg may have drugged her tequila sunrise, but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to come up with that idea on his own. He’s either covering for Roman because Roman told him to do it, or he’s assuming that Roman could be involved.

  “Greg,” Roman says, the name shooting out like a bullet. “You dumb shit.”

  I can’t go after Roman or Ethan without solid evidence. The Society will forgive a long list of blunders and crimes, but they’re fucking rabid about their games.

  If Greg wants to fall on the sword, that’s his right.

  “Let’s go for a drive, Greg,” I say, nodding toward the doorway before heading out.

  Even as he’s trembling, I know he’ll follow me out of the house. His loyalty to Roman was likely a deal with the devil, where the money was too good to refuse. The remaining people at the party move out of our way, avoiding eye contact with either of us.

  If the Society has taught me anything, it’s that humans are apex predator to be feared more than any other. The lions, the hawks, and the wolves are all lethal, but they aren’t capable of complex thought, of malice, of vengeance. They can’t figure out how to turn their shame and guilt into a bloodbath, a Jackson Pollock, a sepsis-inducing surgery. An animal can’t do the damage that I can.

/>   32

  Sadie

  It doesn’t feel like my memories from the last two years are gone. It’s like they’re under my feet, far under the linoleum and dirt, and I just don’t have the right tools to dig all of them up. I’ve destroyed my fingernails trying to reach them.

  But under the drug’s influence, my memories aren’t so far away any more. The memories switch between being a blur and being so real that I can touch them. When they take shape, they’re punctuated by intense sensations that bleed into my present moments. At some point, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.

  Vince checks me into the hospital and asks for his father to be paged. As we wait in front of the receptionist, my legs shake.

  Soon, I’m in a hospital with a pillow scratching the back of my neck. I try to rearrange it under my head while Vince studies me, switching rapidly between admiration and disappointment.

  His voice is a mixture of green shades slipping out like snakes, and he tells me that I need to pick Klay, and that I shouldn’t tell anyone what he just said. I mumble something in reply that makes no sense to me, but he seems satisfied with the answer.

  When the nurse comes in, I’m taken in by how blue her scrubs are. I tell her how great it is that the hospital chose a bright shade of blue. She tells me it’s chosen by the hospitals because of an optical illusion concerning the red hue of blood and the pink hue of organs, and how the brightness of red could carry on to white clothes if she looked too quickly.

  I have a hard time paying attention because Vince keeps ordering her to get his father. She remains calm, her voice coming out in a blue shade similar to her scrubs.

  Oh, right, I remember what I told Vince just now. I told him that Klay was the only one I wanted. The truth came out in faint blue.

  Dr. Harrington walks in. His voice comes out like shadows, dark gray and slinking away from his mouth. It’s hard to notice anyone else with the way his movements exude a charismatic confidence and the way his voice steals the brighter colors around him. Dr. Harrington and Vince exchange some formal conversation before Vince leaves. He leans down to talk to the nurse, the shadows dancing off of his tongue. She gives me a quick smile and leaves.