Crown of Thorns: A Dark High School Romance (Thornwood Prep Book 1)

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Crown of Thorns: A Dark High School Romance (Thornwood Prep Book 1) Page 8

by E. M. Snow


  “Whoa, easy,” an unfortunately familiar voice says.

  I glance up, just managing not to groan out loud.

  It’s Alaric. Of course. Because this day isn’t enough of a train wreck already. Unlike his cousins, he’s dressed for school, even though we’re all outrageously late at this point, and looking every bit the golden god. His blond hair hangs in wet strands around his face and his blazer is undone. Without a word, I slip around him and hurry toward the door. To my surprise and frustration, he rushes around me to block my path.

  “Move,” I snap, but my voice wavers with uncertainty. “I’m leaving, so get the hell out of my way.”

  He doesn’t budge. Instead, he takes in my disheveled appearance then glances over my shoulder up the staircase. For just a moment, he looks almost … worried. “Everything all right, Hendrix?” he asks, lowering his gaze to me again.

  My heart skips a beat, and I gawk up at him. When we met at the music store, we ended up debating the best guitarist of all time. He’d insisted on Jimmy Page, but I’d maintained it was Jimi Hendrix, so that’s what he’d called me the entire time he was there.

  Holy shit, he remembers me.

  Not that it matters. Whether he recognizes me or not, I don’t give a shit. What happened between us was just a blip and the only reason we even connected was thanks to a freak thunderstorm leaving him stranded. It’s not even worth thinking about now. “Move,” I say again, more firmly than before.

  He hesitates a second longer before stepping aside and sweeping one hand out in a gesture for me to leave. I’m honestly surprised that he isn’t acting like more of a dick, but I don’t bother waiting around to find out why. I’m sure it’s just a temporary shift in character. Or a trick.

  Rushing past him, I walk out the front door and attempt to slam it shut behind me. When I don’t hear the loud bang that I’m expecting, I peek over my shoulder and find that Alaric has caught it and is following me outside. “Go away, Hartley,” I snarl.

  He doesn’t seem at all fazed my harsh tone. “Where are you going?”

  “How is that any of your business?”

  “Just curious.” Out of my peripherals, I see him roll his shoulders into a shrug. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to be hanging out around here.”

  Someone like me? Whether or not he means that as an insult, I have no clue. And I decide, I don’t really care. I just want to put as much space as possible between me and this house as humanly possible. I hurry down the front steps. “Well, mind your own business.”

  Again, he doesn’t appear deterred. He continues to follow me, his hands casually hooked in the front pockets of his uniform khakis, as I wander down the drive. I had forgotten how huge this property is, and my shoulders deflate when I realize that despite my daily runs, the furthest I’m getting without help is the iron gate.

  “What’re you doing?” he asks when I reach into my bag for my phone, and I’m reminded of a little kid who constantly asks annoying pointless questions.

  “Calling an Uber to take me home.” When he lays a hand on my forearm, a strangled sound leaps from my throat. “Don’t touch me!”

  “I’ll drive you,” he insists.

  “No, I—”

  “Why not? An Uber to your place from here will be expensive. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go for free.”

  I hate to admit it, but the offer is tempting because he’s right. An Uber back to South LA will be pricey. With a sigh of defeat, I drop my bag, letting it fall against my side, “Fine.”

  I begrudgingly follow him to the other side of the drive, where a glossy silver Porsche is sitting among a few other luxury sports cars that no teenager has any business driving. We slide into the car, and I make it a point to keep my face turned away from his. He pushes the start button, and the car comes roaring to life. He peels out of his parking spot and rushes down the driveway at a careless speed that suits his whole I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-anything-or-anyone demeanor.

  The silence that stretches between us is heavy, but I’m not interested in putting an end to it.

  When we reach the main road, he turns in the right direction without me having to tell him, and I realize he not only remembers me, but he also recalls the conversation we shared that day. Like how I told him I only lived a few blocks from the music store.

  “So, you’re not planning to say anything about Phoenix bringing you to the house?” he asks at last, effectively breaking the silence.

  I don’t answer him, maintaining my stony silence as I stare out the window.

  The bastard is stubborn, though. That, or he’s really terrible at reading a room. “You do something to piss him off?” he asks. “Not that that’s a hard thing to do. Just interesting that he’d go through so much trouble for someone like you.”

  That’s the second time he’s implied that I’m not worth his cousin’s time or breath. At least, that’s how I’m interpreting it. I’m not going to bother to ask him to clarify because I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants. He might just be trying to provoke me, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

  “He isn’t trying to fuck you, is he?”

  That’s enough to make me speak. “Do I look like someone he’s trying to fuck?”

  Amusement rumbles Alaric’s chest. “You must not look at yourself much, Hendrix.”

  I’m not one of those girls who are convinced they’re hideous while everyone around them praises their beauty, but his words shock me so much, I almost lose my composure and twist in my seat to face him. No, I’m not one of those girls but I’m also not Phoenix Townsend’s type. I’ve seen his type. The girl he had publicly humiliated the first day of school. Margaret and the rest of the cheerleaders. Those are the girls Phoenix Townsend wants to sleep with, not me.

  And besides, the last thing I would ever do is have sex with him. Fortunately, the bastard probably hates me about as much as I loathe him, so I doubt he’s at all interested in me beyond getting his father’s precious money back from Jasper.

  As my thoughts return to my brother, I wonder how in the world I’ll find him. It’s not like I know where he hangs out or even where he lives most of the time. I don’t even know if he has an actual place where he stays or if he just bounces around these days. The only connection I have to Jasper is his phone.

  If he doesn’t answer that, what am I supposed to do?

  Alaric keeps drilling me with questions, trying to get me to spill what it is Phoenix wants from me, but I successfully evade him, focusing instead on giving him directions once we’re on the right side of town. When we finally reach my grandma’s house, I immediately move to get out of the car the moment he parks it next to the curb.

  His fingers suddenly wrap around my wrist, stopping me.

  “Hold on,” he says.

  I yank my arm out of his grasp. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

  His smile remains calm. Almost … entertained. Then, he points to the passenger floor. I glance down. My phone’s resting at my feet, where it must have slipped out of my bag as I climbed inside the Porsche.

  When I reach down to grab it and turn for the door again, he calls after me, “You’re welcome, Hendrix!”

  He’s already speeding down my street by the time I reach the front door.

  10

  The weekend passes me by in an anxious, sleepless blur.

  Even though I don’t go to school, I work at the music store Friday evening and again on Saturday morning. After work, I sit with Nina until visiting hours end, where I spill everything because the tragic reality of my situation is that the only person I can talk to, that I trust, is comatose.

  I dream of my mom.

  No, scratch that. I have horrible nightmares that leave me trembling in my bed, tears streaming down my face and cold sweat clinging my sheets to my body. It’s been a couple years since I had one, but Nina was here before. Now, instead of her soothing words, there’s only the s
ound of my sobs punching through the silence.

  I also spend my weekend trying to reach Jasper.

  In fact, I call or text him at least once an hour, my panic spiking a little more every time I try. All my attempts are met with total silence, and eventually, a notification that his voicemailbox is full. There’s a part of me that’s livid with him, that loathes him for putting me through this hell. But of course, there’s the other part. The one that’s all heart and no brain and is scared half to death because of the security footage Phoenix forced me to watch. If Jasper’s bold enough to steal from people like the Townsends, what else has he done?

  Murder.

  That word—that two-syllable word that Phoenix triumphantly shot in my face—wreaks havoc on my mind, though none of my Google searches turn up anything. That’s supposed to make me feel better. Like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders because my brother is just a thief, nothing more, and Phoenix Townsend is a confirmed liar.

  Except, I don’t feel better. A fist-sized lump clogs the back of my throat, and I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon.

  I spend Sunday afternoon preparing for the upcoming school week, cleaning the house and steaming my uniforms. My favorite playlist streams from my laptop, but I can’t bring myself to enjoy the music. Not with the texts vibrating my phone every few minutes. From Phoenix. Somehow, he managed to get my number and is having a field day reminding me that, come tomorrow, my ass is his.

  Maybe (Phoenix Townsend): Happy Sunday, Luna. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts.

  Maybe (Phoenix Townsend): Don’t think about running away. I’ll find you. No matter where you go, I promise I’ll always find you.

  Maybe (Phoenix Townsend): Make this easy on yourself and bend. If you try to fuck me over, you’ll wish you were dead.

  His messages continue to bounce between threats and insults, but I don’t respond. I leave the bastard on read and turn up my playlist volume until music drowns out the rage pulsing in my ears.

  Clearly, my decision to ignore him is enough to completely unravel Phoenix because he sends another text a few minutes later. This time, he’s included a link.

  Maybe (Phoenix Townsend): Since I know you’re reading this … for your viewing pleasure.

  Turning off the steamer, I pause the music and pace my floor. My finger hovers over the link for several beats, nausea swirling around my belly because I just know it’s going to be something awful. Sure enough, when I give in and click on it, there’s an article about a missing Angelview Academy student—Jon Eric Carr.

  I’m the worst at keeping up with the lifestyles of the rich and privileged that attend the private schools in this area, but I heard about his disappearance. After he went missing, even Ravenwood amped up security, hiring two additional security officers to keep us all safe.

  This article, though, says that he’s no longer missing but presumed dead. There’s a photo of a woman named Eleanor Mallory, a Ravenwood alumni, who’s in custody for his murder and others.

  Holy shit. Others?

  The further I scroll and read, the more insane the whole situation sounds. And the sicker I feel because no way is Phoenix sending this just because he’s got some strange, hateful obsession with Angelview and Saint Angelle, whose family had founded the place. That would be too easy, and I seriously doubt there’s anything easy about Phoenix Townsend.

  At last, I reach a photo that’s not of Eleanor Mallory or Jon Eric Carr or Jameson Angelle—Saint’s dead father who was also heavily involved in all the murder and mayhem. This new picture is a grainy screenshot from security footage taken in the lobby of one of the Angelview dormitories, and my stomach pitches as I read that the unidentified male pictured is wanted for questioning in the slaying.

  It’s my brother.

  Clutching my phone, I sink down on my bed, my shoulders curling over my chest. “Jesus, Jasper … what the fuck have you done now?” I whisper.

  A second later, another message comes through from Phoenix, and I blink through my blurred vision to read it.

  Maybe (Phoenix Townsend): Asking for a friend—did Jasper hide Jon Eric under your floorboards? Can you smell the body? Heard from your thieving, murdering fuck of a brother yet? I’m dying to know.

  I delete the message immediately, just like I’ve done all the ones before it, and go back to the article, the numbness dragging me down.

  Phoenix, on the other hand, is on a total high and doesn’t give a shit about the effect his news has on me. For the rest of the day, he texts as frequently as I’ve messaged my brother to rub my nose in what he knows and what plans to do with that information if I’m not compliant.

  He will ensure the cops know exactly who the person of interest is.

  Jasper will be arrested.

  I’ll be considered an accessory.

  The only person my grandmother will have is her court-appointed guardian who rarely visits.

  The fact Phoenix knows all this skins my nerves raw. I consider testing him, reminding him that blackmail is illegal and maybe I’ll speak to the cops, too. But I can’t bring myself to fire off the scathing message that I spend five minutes typing. He’s underage. All he’ll get is a slap on the wrist because his family can afford the most outrageously expensive attorney in this country. Money talks, and the Townsends are rich enough in this lifetime and a hundred more.

  Phoenix lets me know that, too, in his next round of rapid-fire texts that leave me dizzy and with an aching chest.

  By the time I shower for the night, I’m ready to chuck my phone out the window. I don’t, of course, which is a good thing. Because just as I’m getting ready to go to bed and make a useless attempt at getting some sleep, my phone buzzes. Rolling my eyes, I grab it from my nightstand and brace myself for another round of taunts from Phoenix.

  Instead, I discover a text from Jasper.

  Breathing hard, I open the message, my eyes drinking in the first thing my brother has said to me since this whole nightmare began.

  Jasper: Just do what they say. Please, Yossy. I promise I’ll explain everything, but you have to help me like you said you would.

  I stare at the words on my screen, half-expecting the letters to rearrange themselves into something useful, something that’s not so … fucked up. What is this bullshit? Almost a week of nothing after he screws everyone and everything over, and this is what he finally sends? Roll over and take one for the team?

  When I try to call him to make him explain right now, it goes straight to voicemail.

  This happens five times in a row before I finally give up.

  I finish getting ready for bed and slide between my sheets, but sleep won’t come. Only tears. It’s a terrible feeling, realizing you’re no better than an object to people. But the last person I ever expected to treat me like a thing is Jasper.

  And yet, he’s used me as collateral, as if I were a watch or car that he stole and not his sister. He’s used me because he knows I’ll do anything to save him, that I’m too afraid to go to the cops. This is what carves my heart right out of my chest.

  That he knows I won’t refuse this madness because my fear of the potential fallout is too strong.

  I don’t know what tomorrow holds for me. I don’t know what Phoenix is going to do with me, and the unknown is almost paralyzing. As I begin to drift into a restless sleep, my last conscious thought is that I’ll never forgive either of them. I won’t forgive Jasper for fucking me over.

  And I won’t forgive Phoenix or his family for making him do this to me.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter as soon as I open my front door the next morning.

  Alaric’s lips turn up into a smile as he regards me over the roof of his silver Porsche. “Good morning to you too, Hendrix.”

  Shuffling out on the porch, I watch him in disbelief as he comes around his car. The silver Porsche looks even more wildly out of place on my street than Phoenix’s Mercedes SUV did just a few days ago. It’s almost funny. At leas
t, it would be if I wasn’t still riding my fear and fury high from yesterday.

  Hitching my bookbag further up my shoulder, I stalk down the porch steps and up the sidewalk toward him, stopping him just before he opens the gate. I cross my arms and gaze up at him expectantly. “What are you doing here, Aric?”

  He carves a hand through his sun-kissed hair and jerks his head toward his fancy ass car waiting on the curb. “Giving you a ride to school.”

  He unlatches our crappy gate, but I snatch it back together, not giving a damn that green flecks of paint now cover my hands. Somehow, I feel safer when there’s a barrier between us. “I take the shuttle van.”

  The side of his mouth quirks upward, as if to silently say, You-stupid-bitch-this-is-a-Porsche. But instead of calling me an idiot for not wanting to ride in his car, he just corrects, “You took the shuttle. From what I’ve been told, you’ll be joining the Townsend household for the foreseeable future and Phoenix was … engaged this morning. Congratulations, Hendrix, you get me.”

  In other words, Phoenix is ruining some other poor girl’s uniform and life before school, and he sent me to do his dirty work. You’re welcome and be sure to tune in for the Phoenix’s next public evisceration.

  While that’s unsettling, what’s even worse is that his cousin is already taking steps to keep me in line. “So, even his family isn’t immune to his demands and threats. Is that what you’re telling me? That we’re all Phoenix Townsend’s bitch?” I flash a thumbs up with my free hand. “Thanks for the heads up.”

  Honestly, I don’t mean it as an insult—he should realize that by how hysterical I sound—but something threatening whips across Alaric’s golden features. It’s the closest to angry I’ve seen him get so far. It disappears just as fast as it appeared, but his smile is tense.

  “If you think this is the right time to grow a backbone,” he says in a low voice, “reevaluate your decisions, Hendrix. He’s looking forward to going full-Phoenix if you step one foot out of line.”

 

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