Ruthless (The Privileged of Pembroke High #4)

by Ivy Fox

  “What makes you think I’m mad at my mother? I could be mad at you for being a dick when you don’t even know me,” I quip back. “You haven’t exactly made a winning first impression.”

  He lets out another chuckle, but this one doesn’t feel like it’s at my expense.

  “I’ve got a good eye, boy scout. Where I live, you need to be aware of what’s around you. Otherwise, you’re as good as lunch meat. And before I even opened my mouth, you were already pissed as all hell. Way I see it, anger like that can only be provoked by a parent. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

  I let that little tidbit fester inside me, and when I see he’s not going to push the subject any further, I hear myself telling him anyway.

  “She broke a promise.”

  His eyes turn a shade darker, if that’s even possible, with my reply. They become two deep pools of black sky, just as dark as the raven hair on top of his head falling wistfully over his forehead, trying hard to cover his eyes. His features were humorously mocking me a minute ago, but now they’ve taken a sterner definition. Angrier, too.

  “If she broke a promise, then she deserves you hating her guts. Don’t let that shit slide, boy scout.”

  The venom in his words has my tongue feeling heavy in my own mouth. I don’t hate my mother. For all her faults, I never could. But I also don’t say anything to him in her defense, either. Mostly because I don’t think he’d believe me anyway. Just like me, I have a feeling he’s been lied to too many times before. Disappointed and overlooked.

  Maybe worse.

  Definitely worse if he’s my mom’s patient.

  “What’s your name, boy scout?” he asks, his dark eyes staring into my green ones.

  “Chad,” I hush.

  “Figures,” he says with a little, amused tug to his upper lip. “Proper upper-class white boy name.”

  “It’s actually a nickname of Chadwick, asshole, so the joke’s on you.”

  “No shit?” He cocks his brow, genuinely impressed.

  “Shit,” I tease back. “It means protector. My dad picked it out. What about you? What’s Santiago stand for?” I ask, using the name I heard Mags call him a few minutes ago.

  The sly smile on his lips pulls wider as he leans in so close to me, his peppermint breath feels cool on my hot cheeks.

  “It’s Saint. But don’t let the name fool you, boy scout. Even the devil was an angel once.”

  Chapter 3

  Saint

  I’m staring Boy Scout down, running my tongue over my teeth intimidatingly, when the door to the shrink’s office slides open. Her bright smile falls off her face the minute she locks eyes with the angry kid standing at my side.

  “Yeah, Doc. Guess you fuck up too, huh? Glad to know I’m not the only one.”

  “Santiago!” Aunt Maggie shouts, her face turning all sorts of red, embarrassed that I’ve just cussed out her boss.

  Like I fucking care.

  “No. It’s quite alright, Mags,” the Doc begins to say, squaring her shoulders to face her son. “Santiago’s right,” she adds, looking at her wristwatch, her body squirming a little bit when she sees what time it is. “I must have lost track of time.”

  “You always do,” Chad mumbles under his breath, but I have to give him credit. His stern glower never wavers from his mom’s face.

  Kid has more balls than I gave him credit for. Most of these privileged uptown kids are just big wimps, too scared to piss off Mommy and Daddy, afraid they’ll lose their large allowances or some shit like that. Guess Chad here isn’t bothered one bit if he ruffles Mommy’s feathers. Not that I feel too sorry for her. If she broke a promise to him, then she deserves his wrath. Parents should be made accountable for their shit. I mean, they expect the same from us, so why should they be let off the hook so easily?

  Fuck that.

  No matter who you are, if you give your word, then that shit should mean something.

  “Chad, have you met Santiago? Mags’ nephew?” The Doc tries to deflect his furious gaze away from her.

  “Yeah, we met. Can we go already?” he retorts impatiently.

  “Of course, dear.” She nods, trying to gain back her previous professional composure.

  Too late for that, Doc. I’ve already seen your cracks. Only fair since you took the last hour insisting on scrutinizing mine.

  “Oh, I just had a grand idea,” she exclaims excitedly all of a sudden, almost jumping in place, as she takes turns looking down at me and then at her kid.

  “Mags, do you have somewhere to be right now?”

  “I just need to take Santiago back to East Harlem, Mrs. Murphy. Why? Do you need anything from me?”

  The Doc shakes her head with a goofy-ass smile on her face that wasn’t there a minute ago.

  “No, nothing of the sort. We’re all packed for our trip this evening, so everything is fine on that front. I was wondering if maybe you and Santiago would like to accompany me and Chad to the park. We’re meeting one of his friends there, and maybe it would be nice for them to play together.”

  Play? What am I? Five?

  “Yeah. That ain’t happening,” I chime in before Tía does something stupid like make me spend any more time with the head shrink than I’ve absolutely got to.

  “It’ll be fun,” the Doc insists, her wide eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

  “I don’t see why not?” my aunt has the audacity to reply, making me snap my head in her direction.

  “I do! I’d rather go home.”

  Tía leans down and places her hands on my shoulders, with a tender expression plastered on her face.

  “What’s waiting for you there? Lucía is at work and won’t clock out well after dinner if she’s lucky. I don’t see what the big rush is for you to go back to an empty apartment, do you?” Then she leans in closer to my ear so no one else hears her whisper to me. “And wouldn’t it be nice to make a new friend?”

  “I have friends,” I respond through gritted teeth.

  “No, cariño, you don’t,” she whispers wistfully, concern pinching her brows together, looking me dead in the eye.

  Her soft brown eyes are the exact replica of my mother’s, and having them fixed on me with sadness coating their russet beauty, reminds me too much of Mamá. So, like a fool, I cave to my aunt’s request.

  “Fine. Whatever. Let’s go and get this over with.”

  “Marvelous!” The Doc claps all too giddy.

  Jesus! Give this woman a chill pill.

  If that’s all it takes for her to get her rocks off, then what a boring life she must lead. I almost pity her kid. Almost. All I have to do is look at this big damn house to remind myself he doesn’t need anyone’s pity, let alone mine.

  “Can we go?” Boy Scout interjects, his face pure fury now.

  For a scrawny kid who looks like I could blow on him and he’d just wither away, he sure has a short fuse on him.

  “Yes, of course, dear. Go grab your coat and meet us at the door.”

  “Finally!” he hollers, running off to God knows where.

  I pick up my hoodie and pull it on me, and by the time Aunt Maggie, the Doc, and I get to the main foyer, Boy Scout is already there waiting, throwing daggers in his mom’s direction.

  Geez. What is his fucking deal?

  What’s so fucking special about the park anyway? Is this kid kept under house arrest or something? Kid has some serious issues. Good thing his mom is a shrink.

  We take the subway downtown, the Doc and Aunt Maggie being lucky enough to find themselves a seat. Boy Scout and I stand just a few feet away, both counting the minutes until this ride is over. This is not how I wanted to start my Thanksgiving break, but I shouldn’t be surprised that things aren’t going my way—they hardly ever do.

  I’m thinking of ways I can cut this ‘play date’ short when I catch Boy Scout sneaking a peek my way while Aunt Maggie and the shrink talk animatedly with each other.


  “So, you don’t like the park?” he asks, interrupting our blessed silence, running his fingers through his long blond hair, which insists on falling over his forehead and covering his eyes.

  If I were him, I’d cut it short, so it would never get in the way of my best asset. His are definitely his eyes—a shade of green so lively that it takes you a minute to get used to their brightness. He must get it from his mom’s side of the family. But where hers are a deep forest green, Chad’s remind me of a secluded clear meadow, like the ones you see on TV in some faraway place I’ll never have the money to visit. Even his eyes are too rich for my blood.

  “Not much for small talk either, huh?” he continues on, and I throw him a little smirk for his troubles. “I’ll take that as a no,” he mumbles and then lets out an exaggerated long exhale, repeatedly stomping one foot on the floor. “So, what do you like to do?”

  This kid is too damn inquisitive, him and his ten thousand questions.

  “Whatever I’m in the mood for.”

  “Are you always this evasive?”

  “Big words for a little guy like yourself, don’t you think?” I taunt.

  “I’m not little,” he replies defensively, straightening up his spine to look taller.

  “You’re not big either, Boy Scout.” I laugh.

  His cheeks turn crimson, either from my taunts or because I insist on calling him Boy Scout. My bet is on the latter. But the nickname suits him. Even though he gave his mom some lip, he looks as sweet as apple pie—couldn’t hurt a fly this kid. If he lived in my neighborhood, they’d eat him alive—no doubt about it.

  I look over at Aunt Maggie and see she’s in full rant mode. She’s probably going on about what an asshole her brother-in-law is—aka my father. Since I’m standing far enough away that I can’t overhear her, I’m sure she is listing every dirty, illicit thing my old man’s done. Both my aunt and my mom don’t talk smack about my pops when I’m around, which means anytime they have free reign to do so, they go all out.

  Case in point, the fact that when I was getting the third degree from the Doc earlier, I didn’t miss how she wasn’t one bit surprised when I told her my dad was doing a dime up at Rikers. I wonder what else my aunt blabbered on about. Doesn’t she know that some things should just be kept in the family? Why bring third parties into our mess anyway? Like this shrink, for instance. I don’t see why I now have to see her on a weekly basis to talk about shit that can’t be fixed.

  So, I got into a few fights.

  So what?

  Boys my age usually like to rough house. I don’t see what the problem is. Okay, maybe this last fight was a bit hardcore, but give me a break. The motherfucker pulled a knife on me.

  On me!

  Lazaro García’s kid!

  He should thank his lucky stars for the ass whooping I gave him because he’d be fish food if the Latin Kings had gotten their hands on him instead of me. Aunt Maggie spends so much of her time uptown that she’s totally forgotten how it is on the streets. And now she’s gotten my poor mom all riled up and worried about my ‘mental’ stability, too.

  Mental stability, my ass.

  But then again, if Tía is comparing me to guys like Boy Scout over here, then I can see how she might think I’m a little bit loco.

  Aunt Maggie has convinced herself and my mom that I have anger management problems brought on by my dad’s arrest. Me, though? I don’t buy into all that shrink talk. I act and talk the way I do because it’s in my nature—it’s just genetics.

  Dad sorted his beefs out with his knuckles, and I, for one, think he was onto something. Talking is overrated. Sometimes a good punch on the jaw or the gut can do wonders in sorting out your problems, and no amount of flapping your gums will get you the same result or respect. Something Boy Scout here has no clue about. This kid probably colors within the lines all the time, not daring to do anything that might get him in trouble. He’s probably never so much as broken a plate in his goddamn life, much less punched someone until they were unconscious.

  I look over to Blondie again to scrutinize him further when I see he’s pretending to be mesmerized with something on the floor rather than trying to keep up with this futile small talk. However, when I follow his stare, I realize his eyes are focused on my boots. I look at his and see that those Tims must have cost a few Benjamins while mine are worth less than ten bucks at the thrift shop. Boots like his I’d be able to fence easily. Get some pocket money to help Mom with a few groceries. Maybe even make it so she doesn’t have to work a double shift at the diner and could be home in time for dinner for once.

  He continues to stare at my feet, and my blood begins to boil. I’m clutching my hands into fists, all the while thinking how some of us have to scrape and hustle for so little, while others are just born with silver spoons shoved in their goddamn mouths.

  “You got a problem with what I’m wearing, Boy Scout?” I ask bluntly.

  He looks up at me in confusion. “No.”

  “Then why the hell are you looking at my feet?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.” I grunt.

  Kid must have a death wish or something because he looks back down at our feet, touching the tip of his on mine.

  “I’ve just never seen a kid my age with such huge feet.”

  The fuck?

  I can’t help but chuckle. So that’s what Blondie was thinking about.

  “That isn’t the only thing I have that’s big.”

  He furrows his brow and looks at me like I’m the world’s biggest dick, but not in the flattering way I wanted.

  “Whatever,” he scoffs, but there is a tiny hint of a smile trying to get out.

  He’s pretty when he smiles, and that’s not a good quality to have. Guys aren’t supposed to be pretty. They are supposed to be like my dad. Big, burly, and mean. Not delicate and slender or, God forbid, nice.

  When I grow up, that’s who I want to be. I don’t care what Aunt Maggie and Mom say. Dad had it right—if you want something, you should just take it. No one in the world is going to give you shit for free. And working hard isn’t going to get you anywhere either.

  Just look at my mother.

  In her early thirties, she’s so overworked it looks like she’s ten years older. Always tired, exhausted, and never has more than two pennies to rub together for her strenuous effort. No matter how hard she works, we’re always a few dollar bills away from living in squalor. At least when Dad was around, we didn’t have to choose to pay the electricity bill over buying groceries.

  Unless you’re born in the right zip code, like Boy Scout here, then the world is a hard and ugly place to live in. I’m sure it’s nice to live in a reality that farts rainbows and shit, but where I come from, there’s no such thing.

  Doc said that’s why I’m so angry all the time. Because I see the injustices all around me and can’t do anything about them, so I lash out and use my fists when I should be using my words.

  ‘No shit’ were my words of choice after hearing that psychological drivel.

  She wasn’t too impressed, but apparently, it wasn’t enough to dissuade her. I’m still supposed to come to see the Doc every week and work on my anger issues. As if fixing that shit will make my life any better.

  My stomach begins to rumble, reminding me how being pissed all the time is the least of my troubles. The fucking thing is so loud that it even grabs Blondie’s attention. I watch him furrow his brows again, his full lips thinning out. I’m about to ask him what his problem is when Aunt Maggie and the Doc get up from their seats, announcing our stop.

  I can’t wait until this play date is fucking over with, and neither can my stomach.

  We trail behind the two women onto the busy street when Boy Scout tugs at his mother’s arm.

  “It’s well past lunchtime. Just because you’re too busy to eat, the rest of us need food to survive, you kn
ow?” he states bitterly in contempt.

  I almost feel sorry for the shrink with the way he’s looking at her. If I looked at my mother that way every time I was hungry, she would crawl into a ditch somewhere and die from the shame.

  Entitled asshole.

  Can’t go for a few hours without food.

  Try a few days, asswipe.

  She gives him an embarrassed grin and rushes toward a hot dog vendor, ordering two dogs with everything on them. She asks my aunt and me if we want any, but my aunt refuses before I have time to say anything. Even though my hunger pains resent her for it, I get where my aunt is coming from. Tía was able to sweet-talk the shrink into helping me out with my issues for free, so shelling out a few bucks for a meal would be overkill in her book.

  After he’s gotten his food, we cross the street to walk to Central Park, always keeping a few steps away from the two women.

  “Here,” he murmurs beside me, handing me one of his hot dogs.

  “I’m not a fucking charity case.”

  “Who said you were? I’m just not that hungry. If you don’t want it, then I’ll give it to that guy right there,” he retorts, tilting his head toward a homeless guy asleep on a park bench.

  I think about it for half a second, my hunger and pride battling it out, but when my stomach decides to cramp up on me, I take the damn dog out of his hands. I wolf it down in two seconds flat without even breathing while I watch Boy Scout leave a crisp twenty-dollar bill beside the sleeping vagrant. It’s the first food I’ve had since last night’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but that twenty-dollar bill would have helped me out a lot more.

  When my stomach grumbles again, I curse the fucker to shut up, but then another hot dog is shoved in my hands. I turn to the blond Mother Teresa, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He just wipes the corner of his lip with his thumb, removing the ketchup from the small bite he had taken.

  “You can have that one, too. I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

  “Is that right?” I ask suspiciously between mouthfuls, to which he just shrugs in reply. “Your loss, Boy Scout.”

  As I lick my fingers clean, from the corner of my eye, I see a little twinkle beam in his.