Stone Cold Queen: Sick Boys Book 2

by Smoke , Lucy

  "Keep ignoring me if it makes you feel better, baby," he whispers hotly, and before I can drum up a response or the energy to punch him in the face, he takes the lobe of my ear and bites down hard. An unintentional gasp slips out, and Dr. Douglas stumbles in her words, her eyes growing wide as she sees what he's doing. Instead of scolding him, though, she simply turns back to the rest of the class and keeps going. I press my thighs together as Dean releases my lobe and laves the hurt he caused with his tongue. The feel of the little barbell pierced through the center of his tongue scrapes against my skin, making me close my eyes. "But you should know that I will do any number of deliciously wicked things to get you to notice me."

  My hand clenches around my pen so desperately and so hard, I feel the plastic cracking under my grip. "Stop," I order.

  He laughs quietly, a soft puff of air against my ear, but he's made his point. I acknowledged him and that's what he wanted. Still, he leaves his arm over the back of my seat as I try, in vain, to focus on anything other than his nearness. Flashes of that one time I'd given into him scroll across my brain. Hot sweat-slicked skin brushing against one another. His mouth, open and trailing down my chest to my nipples, to my stomach, and then farther until...

  "That'll be all, students," Dr. Douglas announces the end of class, and as soon as the words reach me, I'm up and out of my seat, shoving my shit into my bag and shouldering past Brax towards the door.

  "Hold up there, lil' savage," Braxton calls out, and before I can even reach the safety of the hallway, his arm is over my shoulders, and he's dragging me back.

  I let out an animalistic growl, and he pulls back, holding his hands up in defense. It's too fucking late, though. Eyes follow my every movement and theirs. Everyone sees it—how I act with them and how they act with me. Anyone else might be nervous. They know the worst sins I've ever committed. They know every fucked-up detail of what happened to me two weeks ago, and were they ever to tell anyone … I'd be well and truly fucked. And not in the fun way.

  Then again ... I eye the three of them as I adjust my bag over my shoulder. I'm not stupid. There's a good fucking reason why I'm not nervous and it's because I know they won't tell anyone. Even if they hadn't meant to, what I'd seen when I'd woken up had revealed to me more than the months I'd spent at this godforsaken school ever had. They may be rich. They may be powerful. They may be the All-American jocks who are already set for life, but I know better.

  They tortured Roger Murphy before I killed him. They did it like they had done the same thing a thousand times before. Easily. Without remorse. And if I was reading the three of them right, they liked it.

  "What do you want now?" I demand after the rest of the students and Dr. Douglas have left the classroom.

  "We're throwing a party this weekend," Dean says. "You're coming."

  I laugh in his face. "No," I say, turning away from them, "I'm not."

  "It's either you show up on your own, princess," Abel says. "Or we'll come pick you up and make you."

  I stop at the door and glance over my shoulder with a nasty grin. "I remember the last time you made me come to one of your dumb parties, Frontman," I reply, letting my eyes drift down to the front of his jeans. "You really want to repeat that experience?"

  He scowls at me, and my grin widens. Dean steps forward, interrupting our silent battle. One of his hands slams against the wooden frame of the exit, and he leans close until I can smell him—every annoying masculine inch of him that I don't want to admit turns me on. "You want to know more about me, baby?" he asks. I blink, confused and suspicious. I tilt my head up as I stare at him with narrowed eyes. "Then come to the party. Get me drunk enough, and I'll tell you anything you wanna know." His other hand touches my side, making me jump slightly and then scowl at my own reaction as his fingers slip under my top and rub against my skin. "Anything, baby."

  I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but he silences me with a hard kiss. His lips slam against mine, so goddamn hot it's like they're searing into me. It's the first kiss since ... and for some odd reason, I don't hate it. No. I hate him, but I don't hate this. I bite down on his lower lip when I've had enough, and he backs away with a low groan.

  "Don't push your luck, D-man," I snap, turning and slamming out of the classroom without a second glance.

  6

  Dean

  I stride down the long hall, ignoring the judgmental painted eyes of the men portrayed in the wall of portraits as I go. My thoughts are consumed by both Avalon and the upcoming meeting. She's being stubborn, I know. She won't like what I have planned, but that's too fucking bad.

  Perhaps a better man would leave her be—a better man would let her heal and give her a chance at a normal life. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what I've known all along. I am not a better man.

  My father's office door grows nearer. I don't knock. Instead, I reach for the door handle and push it open, and move into the room. The woman at his desk stands up straight, a guilty look on her face. My gaze trails to her—Delilah Bairns—as she smooths her already perfectly placed hair into place. As if it had been at risk of being messed up. My eyes cut to the massive behemoth of a man sitting down.

  "Dad."

  He doesn't lift his head or acknowledge my presence in any conventional way. No, that would be far too human-like. Instead, he simply lifts a palm and waves it at Bairns in a nonchalant dismissal. She nods and gathers a few papers from the corner of his desk before hurrying past me and out the door. As she passes, I let my eyes follow her movements—watching the way her head dips and a blush steals over her cheeks before the door slams behind her on her way out.

  I wait a moment before speaking, and when I do, I don't immediately take the seat across from my father. I stride across the room towards the bookshelf and liquor cabinet. I had tried so hard when I was younger to please him, to listen to him, and take his words to heart even if I didn't quite ever understand. Now, after all that had happened—the truth he'd shown me, the killing I'd done in his name, in the name of our godforsaken family—all of that respectful worship had died a slow, ugly death.

  "I thought you didn't fuck your secretaries," I comment lightly as I pull open the cabinet and reach around the front row of liquor bottles, retrieving what I already know to be there.

  "Ms. Bairns is not a secretary," Nicholas Carter replies in the same indifferent tone.

  I scowl as I set the amber bottle of aged whiskey down before grabbing a small glass from the rack beneath the cabinet. "Right, she's an advisor," I say. "That makes all the difference." Avalon's advisor, I mentally add. What are you up to, old man?

  In true Nicholas Carter fashion, he ignores my statement. "What did you want to speak with me about, Dean," he asks. "You've been quite adamant lately."

  My hands hold steady as I pour a finger of whiskey into the glass and close the bottle. Inside, though, I'm a scorching riot. I want to destroy the impeccable decoration of his office. Rip the paintings off the walls. Break the window and upend his desk. Then, once I've done all that—shown him just how truly close to berserk I am—I want to lift him by his neck and slam him into the wall.

  I do none of those things because I know, even if I were to truly lose my carefully maintained control, he wouldn't. There is nothing that would ever make Nicholas Carter strip away the carefully maintained facade of discipline. I think if he even tried, he'd crumble into dust.

  Slowly, I turn to face him and lift the drink to my lips, swallowing half of the burning liquid before I answer. "Luc Kincaid," I begin, going with a different tactic. "Is it true? Is he transferring to Eastpoint?"

  For a brief moment, my father lifts his head away from the papers remaining on his desk and gives me an assessing look. "That is not for you to know," he says, belatedly adding on a quiet, "yet" a moment later.

  The rest of the whiskey disappears into my mouth and down my throat. I place the dirty glass carefully next to the clean ones before striding across the room and wrapping my hands a
round the top of the chair seated across from him.

  "Answer me."

  Dark brown eyes the same shade as my own meet mine. No, his are darker. Stained by the deeds he's done but hasn't told anyone about. I'm never this close to him, but now I can see the streaks of red in the muddied color of his irises. Blood and shit. That's what those eyes look like to me.

  "You do not command me, boy," my father says in a level tone. "You will know what I want you to know when I want you to know it and no sooner."

  "And the girl?" I ask.

  Finally, a reaction. His shoulders visibly stiffen. "I've spoken to Ms. Bairns. Ms. Manning will be attending the university after she has completed her dual enrollment program."

  "Will she?" I knew for a fact, Avalon hadn't yet agreed to that. How interesting that both Bairns and my father were so confident in her decision. Then again, after the events of two weeks past, I doubt very much that she will ever go back to her hometown again. No, she'd burned that bridge, and I'd gladly handed her the match.

  He was probably right. Where else did she have to go? That still left my questions unanswered about Kincaid and about whether or not my father knew about why Avalon would want to stay. Did he know about the piece of shit drug dealer she'd killed, and we'd buried?

  As per his edicts and lessons from my childhood, I'd kept myself quite separated from our subjects—the people we chose to bring closer and work beneath us. The only ones I'd ever trusted were my brothers—Abel and Braxton.

  "Now, if there's nothing else..." He let the sentence trail off as he turned his attention back to his desk.

  "No," I say, moving around the chair. My hands land on the edge of the great wooden surface, and I lean forward. I decide it's time to take a more straightforward approach. "There is something else." I stare at him, assessing the tics in his facial expression, trying to decipher the thoughts roaming around in that sinister mind of his. What has he done? Did he have anything to do with Avalon's rape? And if he did, how much torture can I get away with before I actually kill the bastard?

  But something holds me back. I want to ask him if he had anything to do with it, but that's not how men like Nicholas Carter work. He is anything but candid. Honesty and truth are not part of the Carter family motto—murder and mayhem are.

  "She's moving in with me," I announce instead. My hands leave the desk, and I step back, keeping my eyes trained on his face. "I just thought you should know."

  He sighs. "You're a grown man, Dean," he says. "What you do and who you sleep with have no consequence."

  "Not even for the very girl you and the other old men asked us to look after?" I inquire.

  At the reminder that the others know about Avalon—more than know about her, they were also with him when he asked the three of us to keep an eye on her—he frowns.

  My father drops his pen and slowly moves his arms until his elbows are placed on the surface of his desk, and his fingers are steepled beneath his chin as a prop for his head. "You surprise me, Dean," he says, the comment twisting his lips into a small veneer of depreciation. "I would've thought the seduction course of action was limited to the Fraziers. Good to know that you're a man of many talents." His eyes harden. "Just don't let your dick run away with the girl. She serves a greater purpose than even you know."

  "What purpose is that?"

  He shakes his head, lowering his hands again as he sits back. "In time, Son," he says evasively. "In time."

  A scowl overtakes my face. If I find out he had anything to do with Avalon's rape, I'll fucking kill him, I think to myself. Instead of saying as much, however—I can't reveal that if he doesn't already know—I turn and stomp towards the door, stopping only when his voice reaches my ears again.

  "Oh, and Dean?" My hand falls on the door handle, and I pause, waiting, my teeth grinding hard enough to make my jaw ache. My head pivots back to him. "As you will undoubtedly seek out the answers I didn't give you today, I'll give you a little warning." Those blood and shit eyes of his narrow in seriousness. "Trust no one. Not even her."

  I can feel my face grow slack in shock, but before I can muster up a reply, he stands from his desk and strides across the room. My arm jerks back as he reaches for the door and pulls it open for me. Then, in a voice far lower than a whisper, he leans close and speaks directly into my ear. "Keep her close. Keep her out of danger, Son. Maintain your emotions. I won't always be around to fix your mistakes."

  Then I'm stepping through the doorway into the hall, and his office door closes softly behind me, leaving me in a haze of confusion and barely suppressed anger.

  What the fuck did that mean? Whatever it is. I plan to find out.

  7

  Avalon

  "Dean Carter is staring at you." Those six words make me want to put my fist through a wall, but I can't deny that accompanying them is a small thrill. Rylie says the words like they’re a new occurrence when they’re not. Since the Sick Boy's 'invitation' to their party this weekend, they'd actually laid off some—almost as if Dean hopes staying away will get me to acquiesce to their demands.

  It’s not much, but it’s enough that Dean isn't sucking on my earlobe in every class, making me want to both jump his fucking bones and twist his dick into a pretzel. Perhaps he realizes that the next time he pulls something like that, I'll stab him with my pen. If I can manage to get past the overwhelming reminder of how good he is in bed. It doesn’t matter if his dick is golden and pierced. I have more self-restraint than that for the most part.

  I feel Dean's gaze on me as I enter the university coffee shop with Rylie at my side just as she said. Classes are all but over now, yet the true test of my sanity is about to begin. "You going to go talk to him?" she asks when I don't respond to her earlier statement.

  "No." We get in line behind two tall, athletic-looking guys who both look like they've just come from the gym. One glances back as he listens to his friend. His eyes rove down Rylie's form—the short black cut-offs and the ripped white band t-shirt and combat boots making his lips quirk for some reason. Then he looks at me. His eyes widen for a split second when our gazes collide, and then his head lifts over my own, and he whips around to face away from me. My lips twitch. Without looking, I can already guess the reason for his sudden interest in the menu hanging above the barista's head even though when he orders, he asks for a black coffee in their smallest cup.

  "You two confuse me," Rylie admits.

  "Oh? Why's that?" I ask absently. My own eyes trail down the list of choices as I calculate how much cash I've got in my pocket, and if a cup of coffee is even worth it. Yes, I decide a moment later, because I know I'll be up all night studying for my calculus exam coming up. I hate math. All their theoretical numbers mixed with alphabet letters. It's the one subject I've always struggled with. Everything else comes easily enough if you just read the books they give you, but math is a whole new monster.

  "I suppose you don't see it the way I see it," she replies a moment later as the guys in front of us finish ordering and move to the side to wait for their orders to be filled. I step up next, shooting her a look, my eyebrows drawn down low.

  Rylie gestures for me to hurry it up. I roll my eyes and turn to the barista—another student I recognize. I don't know her from any of my classes, but from the Havers dormitory. She keeps a placid face as she gives me a polite smile. I place my order, pay, and then wait as Rylie places hers.

  "What did you mean?" I ask as soon as she's done.

  Rylie eyes the two guys ahead of us still, frowning as she answers. "When you first got here, I really hoped you would just keep your head down and not stir up any trouble," she answers.

  I arch a single brow. "I don't cause trouble," I say. "But when trouble comes my way, neither do I run."

  She forgets the guys and glowers my way for a split second before sighing. "Yeah, I'm well fucking aware of that now," she replies. "Then, I was ... well, you can call me hopeful."

  I snort. "Whatever you need to tell yourself at n
ight."

  "Oh, fuck off," she snaps as the guys gather their orders and walk away, allowing the two of us room to move forward. "When you two first met," she continues, "you were like two animals circling and snapping at one another. Only you didn't have a pack at your back, and he did."

  "Held my own, didn't I?" I smirk.

  In a quiet voice, I'm sure she doesn't mean for me to hear, she mutters, "More than." Immediately following that, she lifts her head and reaches for the chai latte she ordered when it appears on the counter in front of us. "You hated him," she says.

  My upper lip curls back, and I have to wait for the initial rage that comes forward at her unintentional slip before reaching for my own coffee. Hated—past tense. It isn't past tense. I still hate Dean Carter. Probably more than before because now, he knows far too much.

  "I think you surprised him," Rylie admits as she turns and waits for me to doctor my coffee the way I like it—milk, sugar, the works.

  "Surprised him?" My mouth curves down as I stir the white substance into the darkness of my cup. Slowly, the reflection of my face in the nearly black pool turns murky as the coffee lightens.

  "I've only been here about a year, but in that year, I've only ever seen Dean with Kate and..." Kate, the reminder of that cunt drives another spike of rage through me. I'm not stupid. I know why Dean lost his shit on me back at the beach house. It had everything to do with Kate Coleman. She deserves more than a single Molotov Cocktail thrown at her car.

  An idea pops into my brain, and the small little voice I've kept in chains since I stepped back on campus flares to life, liking the thought. A shiver steals down my spine, and it has nothing to do with the cool air conditioning of the coffee shop and everything to do with the single most important thing to my monstrous side. Wrath. Hatred. And sweet, beautiful revenge. Oh yeah, the evil creature deep down inside of me likes that.