by E. M. Snow
He’s conquering.
I startle when he reaches out and swipes all the cups from the island. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and it feels as if the room is collectively holding its breath, wondering what it is he’s going to do. With a smirk, he climbs on top of the island, grabbing a bottle of high-end vodka as he goes.
“What the hell is he up to now?” Reina hisses.
Phoenix surveys the crowd beneath him, daring someone, anyone, to challenge his rule. Our eyes clash, and I realize I was totally wrong about the color of his. They’re not just green, but brilliant and flashing and wicked. He shoots up an eyebrow, as if to ask who I am and what I did to deserve his presence, before fixating on something another boy with dark hair is saying.
Based on Reina’s grumbling, I discover he’s Phoenix’s younger brother, Gideon. I’ve heard his name, too. Whatever it is that he says makes his big brother laugh, a sound that’s both outrageously sensual and completely unnerving. Almost like it’s literally crawling beneath my skin to sift through all my secrets and worries and doubts.
Then, Phoenix turns back to his crowd, tips the bottle of Belvedere he’s holding to the floor and drawls, “To Saint Angelle. May that motherfucker burn in hell, right where he belongs.”
2
The entire room goes stone-still.
Just like with Phoenix, every Ravenwood girl knew of Saint Angelle, the golden god of Angelview Academy. He was gorgeous, he was rich (his dad was the co-founder of NightOwl, that social media platform that was just shut down), and he was a grade A-ass, which is the holy trinity for most of my classmates.
Saint was also a significant enough name that his death earlier this year rocked even me. I met him once when I was four because my mom had worked for the Angelle family. Even as a kid, he was a huge jerk, but Phoenix’s callous mocking of his demise is sickening.
No one deserves that kind of treatment.
I expect someone to call Phoenix out since several Angelview students died last school year and someone here must have been friends with one of them, but it turns out my faith in humanity is nothing but a waste of time and optimism. The way the crowd explodes into cheers is like a scene right out of a shitty movie.
“Classy, Phoenix.” Reina mouth tightens like she’s just eaten something rancid. “Real. Fucking. Classy.”
One of Phoenix’s adoring fans yells out that he hopes Halloway and Carlson are next, whoever they are. Racing a hand through my shoulder-length black hair, I blink up at Reina. “Please don’t tell me you’re friends with that guy?”
She stares me up and down like I just accused her of murdering Saint Angelle. “I might have a bit of a reputation, Josslyn, but I’m not a complete garbage bitch. Because of circumstances, however, we’ve a sort of … obligated relationship.”
“I see.”
But I don’t, not really. What exactly is an obligated relationship? She makes it sound like they’ve got an arranged marriage set up for them. Which, now that I think about it, might be a thing the rich and powerful do in this town.
Rubbing my arms, I focus on Phoenix again. He’s pressed the bottle of vodka to his lips and is chugging it while his subjects chant his name. It’s such a disgusting display of ego and privilege, every muscle in my body is rigid.
“I have to get out of here,” I manage.
Reina nods. “I don’t blame you. It’s only going to get more ridiculous from here. Once Phoenix gets going, shit can really get dangerous.”
I doubt she’s kidding, so I turn my back on his chaos.
Once I get out to the living room, I spot Margaret almost right away. She’s in the main entrance, next to one of the elaborate curved staircases, her head bobbing slightly as she searches the crowd. As I wind my way through the crush of bodies, it doesn’t escape my notice that her long, auburn hair is no longer in a high ponytail and her makeup is smudged in places. Her slinky green slip dress is also noticeably crumpled.
Not that messy hair or a wrinkled dress matter all that much because Margaret is drop-dead gorgeous. For a second, my thoughts shift to Reina’s comment about my pink dress, but I quickly shake that off and get back to the task at hand.
Escaping this riot unscathed.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” I snap once I’m within earshot, and she pivots around to face me, her hands raised in front of her.
“Sorry! But … come on, you saw Trevor tonight, right?”
The potato has a name. Joy.
“And?” Scuffing the bottom of my sneaker on the marble floor, I lift a shoulder. “Not that impressed.”
“Oh, trust me, he was rather impressive in certain areas.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
I pretend to gag. “Gross. What have I said about you being gross?” Not to mention my face feels like it’s on fire right now.
“Okay, Mom. And are you seriously telling me you didn’t see a single guy here tonight that met all your weird-ass expectations?”
Meaning a guy that doesn’t smell like a locker room, doesn’t rely on emotional manipulation, and doesn’t try to fuck every girl he passes?
For some reason, though, my brain conjures the image of Phoenix Townsend standing on his marble kitchen island, the bottom of his designer black T-shirt riding up as he poured one out for his dead rival. I can almost guarantee he smells like heaven, but that and his ridiculously good looks are probably the extent of his virtues.
The guy is a walking advertisement for toxicity.
“Nobody,” I mumble, banishing all thoughts of ripped abs and tan skin.
“And here I was hoping you’d be able to find yourself some D.” She bumps my shoulder with hers, and I suck a sharp breath through my teeth. “Come on, we both know you could use it.”
“I’m good.” Plus, I’m not touching this conversation with a ten-foot pole. She’ll only bring up the big, stupid fib I told this summer to get her off my back. The one involving Alaric Hartley. “Are you ready to go? I’m ready to go.”
“I guess. Honestly, I’m impressed you’ve made it this long. I’m sure your unsubs and Vikings whose names all sound the fucking same are eager for you to get home to your Netflix—”
More roars sound from the kitchen, interrupting Margaret and canceling my retort. A group of girls flit past us. What now? Did Phoenix whip his dick out and start the bidding at a thousand?
“Damn, I wonder—” Margaret starts, but I link my arm in hers and urge her toward the front door because we are absolutely not doing this shit. “Okay, okay. Calm your tits, will you? What the hell’s gotten into you, Joss?” she huffs.
But I don’t slow down. I want to get as far from this place and the people within it as quickly as possible.
We hurry down the brick pavers, the party fading with every step. It’s an unusually cool night for the middle of August, but I drink in the crisp air like it’s my first taste of freedom in days. At last, we reach her newish Camry that looks like a clunker compared to the two cars it’s parallel-parked between—a Mercedes G-wagon and a Barbie-pink Bentley.
“Oh, man. What a night,” Margaret says once we’re halfway down the driveway. Out of my peripherals, I catch her enormous grin. “I won’t lie, I was kind of worried about what school would be like with all the boys, but I think it’s going to be a very, very interesting year.”
“Yeah, well, just try not to jump them all at once. Keep it to one at a time. Two at most.”
Snorting, she peels past the open gates and onto the road. “You really, really needed dick tonight. A big one, maybe even two.”
I really, really hate when she says stuff like that. “Sure, whatever you say.”
“So, you really didn’t notice anyone? Seriously, Joss? What the hell is your problem?”
Again, the harsh, beautiful lines of Phoenix Townsend’s face whip through my thoughts. I force the image of him away, but he’s only replaced by Alaric Hartley and his surfer-next-door good looks. Damn it. I’m interested in him even less than Phoeni
x. They’re only in my head because they were easily the biggest assholes at the party.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I realize Margaret is still waiting for my response, so I offer what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. “Honestly? They all seemed like spoiled rich boys. Most of them probably spend more time looking in the mirror each morning than I do. How else do they get that perfectly coiffed hair?”
“I don’t need them to have depth, I just want them to worship me and not bitches like Kallista, Sydney, and Daphne. Did you see them tonight? They looked like skanked-up versions of the Powerpuff Girls.”
At least now I know the rest of their names.
And the thing is, I don’t doubt the Thornhaven boys will fall all over themselves for Margaret. We’ve been friends since meeting at new student orientation in seventh grade, and I know firsthand that when she wants something, she usually gets it. I’ve always admired her for that confidence. Always wished I could channel even a fraction.
Maybe then the idea of singing—or hell, even speaking—in public wouldn’t terrify me.
On the way to my grandmother’s tiny three-bedroom house in South LA, our conversation shifts to the upcoming school year. It’s honestly a welcome distraction from thinking about the party we just left or talking about Margaret’s sexploits. That is, until we’re on my street and Margaret lets it slip that she’s disappointed she didn’t get to meet him tonight. Cruel, startling green eyes shove into my thoughts. My only consolation is that I’ll never have to interact with Phoenix Townsend. He’ll undoubtedly stay out of reach of us mortals, insulated by the same people that fueled his malice tonight.
Even if we do cross paths, the pitiful truth is that I won’t breathe a word to him.
“You’re not missing much,” I mutter aloud as she parks on the curb in front of my house. She twists in her seat to face me, curiosity creasing her brow. “With Phoenix, I mean. He’s a royal piece of shit from what I’ve heard.”
“Keyword there is royal.” Before I can say another word, she nods at the front of my house and says, “You should just come back to campus with me. My roomie won’t be in ‘til Sunday, so you can just take her bed. We can even do something with Gia tomorrow if she’s back from visiting her bitch mom in Tacoma.”
I actually like Gia’s mom, but I don’t tell Margaret that.
I also can’t help feeling a little envious of my friends living in the dorms. Not because boys now live in Fullerton Estate, Victoria Hall, and Claremore—the dorms that used to house Ravenwood’s seventh through ninth grade girls. Living on campus would significantly shorten my school day, is all.
In the end, it doesn’t matter because I graduate in ten months. A diploma from a school like Ravenwood—correction, Thornwood—is worth the inconvenience of riding the shuttle van every morning and afternoon.
“So?” Margaret sings as I grasp the door handle. “I heard there’s another party happening in Victoria Hall, and I have a bottle of vodka.”
I shake my head. She knows for a fact I’m the biggest lightweight that ever lived. “I’ve got work in the morning, but I’ll text you. You know how dead the store is these days.”
“How many people actually give a shit about old records and posters of Jack Morrison?”
“Um, me?” I don’t bother asking if she meant Jim Morrison because she’ll only give me a funny look and a shrug.
“Ugh, whatever. Bye bitch,” she says, her tone playful as I climb out of the Camry. I wave her off, and then turn to open the old metal gate, green flakes of paint dusting my hands. I wipe them on the front of my dress. Shuffling to the front door, a low sigh bubbles from my lips.
I pause on the first step because this is always the most difficult part. Going the rest of the way. Coming home isn’t the easiest thing in the world for me these days without Nina around. It’s far too quiet, no matter how many TV shows and playlists I blast for background noise. Nobody knows this, not even Margaret, but some days I just stare at the front door for long stretches of time before I finally work up the courage to walk inside.
Tonight, it’s chilly enough that I don’t want to linger too long, but pressure stabs at my eyelids as I unlock the door and push my way into our living room. It’s a far cry from the opulence of the Townsend’s castle. The tile floor is chipped in several places, and our worn, faded leather couch set was purchased years ago, when my mom was my age. Regardless, I would choose this house, with Nina in it, a thousand times over the one in Bel Air.
The silence that welcomes me home, though, is as suffocating as a tomb.
Gritting my teeth, I start for the kitchen, which is just a few steps off of our living room. I baked a batch of Nina’s famous cinnamon cookies yesterday, and I’m so desperate for comfort that I’m prepared to eat my feelings and watch Cobra Kai until I pass out.
I barely make it two steps before movement catches my eye. Adrenaline rockets through my system, and I don’t even realize I’m screaming until a gravelly voice churns out, “Would you shut the fuck up?”
I’m so overwhelmed by my lungs cinching tighter and tighter, it takes me a moment to place the voice. My intruder snaps at me again, this time choking out that I need to keep quiet before the neighbors call the cops. Stumbling backward, I fumble for the light switch and flick it on. The room becomes bright and visible.
I zero in on the familiar figure sitting at the kitchen table, his tattooed fingers steepled together. “J-Jasper,” I whisper, sagging against the doorframe. My breath is still uneven, blowing past my lips in shallow spurts, but at least I know I’m safe.
Well, as safe as I can be with Jasper here.
“What?” A humorless smile slashes his mouth. “No welcome home for your favorite brother?”
3
Favorite brother?
Jasper is my only brother—my only sibling, period.
I haven’t seen him since Nina was hospitalized. When he refused to take any responsibility, leaving all medical and financial decisions in the hands of a court-appointed guardian. Fortunately, the court chose my grandmother’s cousin, but Jasper’s response has kept me awake many, many nights.
Nina helped raise us. And he just doesn’t give a fuck.
Growing up, I idolized him. I’m sure just about every girl says that about her older brother, but for the longest time, he could do no wrong in my eyes. Even though he was five years older than me, he never called me a nuisance when I wanted to be included. Never made me feel like a mistake, a word our dad tossed around like confetti whenever he was drunk and wanted to make excuses for our living situation—rough neighborhood after rough neighborhood. Jasper protected me from that, too. I was soft, but I always knew that with my brother around, nobody would treat me like an open target.
Even before Mom was killed when I was ten, Jasper had started to pull away. After she died, my brother completed his 180. He stopped coming around. And when he was home, he was either in trouble or at Dad’s throat.
“I can take care of myself,” he used to remind our father whenever that word—mistake—came up. I told myself he wasn’t talking about me. That he was saying that to remind Dad that his mistake, landing us in another shit neighborhood, had cost Mom her life.
Still, Jasper’s words always left me feeling vulnerable and exposed.
When Dad finally took off for good, Jasper did, too. Nina, our mom’s mother, stepped in to take care of me and worked it out for me to attend Ravenwood, where she had worked for years. Ravenwood was nothing like my old school—there were no gangs. No drug deals in the bathrooms. No teachers quitting in the middle of class with a, “Fuck this, I’m out.”
Still, despite its elite history and impressive alumni, my new school was … ugly.
I was an open target, everything wealthy girls hated—poor, chubby, and overeager to prove that I deserved my spot. It hadn’t taken me long to realize that if I stayed quiet, they remained uninterested.
And Jasper? We only ever saw him a few t
imes a year, whenever he needed money or a place to hide.
Since he’s been sending money for months, his reason for coming home is pretty damn clear. Not to mention the way he looks.
My brother’s half a foot taller than me and has a lean build, but it’s usually obvious that we’re brother and sister. We both have chocolate brown eyes, olive skin, and black hair. But now, Jasper looks … off.
Like the grim reaper.
There are dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his brown eyes, and he’s so pale that I swear the skeletal fingers tattooed around his throat really are choking the life out of him. His jet-black hair, that he usually wears close-cropped, is longer than I’ve ever seen it. Just like his facial hair. And then there’s the way his T-shirt and jeans fit. Loose, like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.
“The fuck you staring at like that?” he snaps, breaking the silence.
“I… you scared me is all.” I take a cautious step toward the table. “Jas, where’s your car?”
His Dodge Charger is his pride and fucking joy.
“You left the porch light off, I turned it on.” He avoids my question about the car, so I tell him that I didn’t notice the light. He just shrugs. “Pay better attention. That’s how motherfucker’s die.”
Such sage advice coming from the guy who leaves his seventeen-year-old sister to fend for herself. I won’t say that out loud because doing so will inevitably start an argument. It doesn’t take much to set Jasper off.
Like when his phone shudders on the table, and he shoots it with a look that could make the damn thing explode.
“Jas … is everything al—” I start in a voice that doesn’t sound like my own, but he immediately shuts me down, slapping his hands flat on the table.