Beautifully Yours: A High School Bully Romance (Voclain Academy Book Three)

by Jordan Grant

  Maybe if I understood I could get over her.

  Maybe if I was stronger I could move on.

  Maybe, but probably fucking not.

  I’m 18, an adult with a burgeoning criminal record I couldn’t give two shits about. Fuck ‘em if they send me to lockup for a few months. Anything would be better than my present prison.

  I feel my hand inching closer across the rocky ground toward the bottle like it’s detached, a Frankenstein hand crawling, disembodied, in search of its rightful owner. It’s not though. Every cell in my body craves that bourbon. It’s ingrained into my DNA, hardwired into the helix code. I want the fire scalding all the way down my throat and the heat in my belly and the peaceful nothingness of a blackout.

  But I’ve been careless lately, and I resent every last damned swallow. I hate how it’s getting easier to rationalize it, how easy it would be to finally relinquish control. I’m on the edge of a cliff, standing there and thinking that the fall down doesn’t look all that bad.

  I almost called a contact earlier today and asked for a couple of pills to numb my brain. It would have been so easy, a couple of Xanax and maybe an Oxy or two. Then it wouldn’t hurt so much. I’d be free of her for a night and shielded from the fallout of Berkshire’s lies.

  I didn’t—I won’t—because I still remember the beep, beep, beep of the heart-rate monitor in the hospital and the cold of the IV snaking up my arm.

  I didn’t want to die.

  I just wanted to forget.

  Maybe California sober isn’t for me.

  It’s always there, that craving. In NA, I’ve heard it called the itch you can never scratch, but that’s not quite right. It’s like a festering wound that never heals, always splitting back open and awakening a ravenous fever inside of me. One wrong turn, and it’ll turn me septic.

  My fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle, gripping the smooth glass tightly. The air smells like the dewdrops of nightshade lingering unseen in the air and my slipping control.

  I could try to fuck her out of my mind. Hell, maybe it’d distract me from Berkshit too. Laurie what’s-her-face from my Advanced Physics class has all but slapped my face with her tits and begged me for it. I am not in the mood though. Imagining Harlow riding my cock while some chick screeches my name like she’s trying to tell the astronauts we’re fucking? No thanks.

  I sit there until the last glow of the sun disappears below the horizon and the stars arrive for their nightly pass through the sky. She used to love going out in the dark; said you could feel the energy of the Earth in the nightfall, like the world was recharging. It doesn’t feel like it’s recharging now though. It feels dead, cold and gone, and it’s not coming back to the land of the living.

  Damn her for haunting my past.

  Damn Berkshire for ruining my present.

  Damn me for not giving a shit about my future.

  I grab the bottle and throw it with a roar into the black of night as far as I can, sending it spiraling like a Frisbee through the air. My yell echoes against the mountains on either side of the valley, sending it right back at me like some final fuck you from the universe. I snatch my keys from the ground, picking up loose pieces of dirt and gravel with the handful, and stalk back to my car.

  I am pissed off, in a worse mood than when I sat down here hours ago.

  I am painfully sober.

  I drive back to campus based on muscle memory alone, my car hugging the curves of black asphalt. I don’t want to go back to where she is, to where Finn probably is too, having sweet dreams in their safe little beds. So much for not having hospital-grade insomnia.

  I park the car, a midnight-blue Ferrari F8 Tributo, a gift from my parents when I didn’t drink myself to death this summer, in the student parking garage. Of course, that’s not what they said it was for. My mother said it’s because they are so proud of me for getting into the top five universities in the United States, an all but explicit bribe to choose Yale like the old man. My dad about cracked a molar when he handed me the keys. I can’t blame him either, with 710 horsepower, a badass V8 engine, and aerodynamics unmatched in the sports car arena, it was an expensive Congratulations on being sober! gift. He nearly snapped another one when I told them I was going to Columbia with Harlow.

  I made sure Mom was in Monaco before I let that one slip, safe from his wrath. It was my dream school before she moved into my life, and when I raved about it, it became hers too. But I call dibs in the divorce. It was mine before she knew my name, and it will stay mine as she forgets it.

  Of course, I exaggerated to the old man since Harlow hadn’t been officially accepted yet, but I didn’t tell the fucker that. He would have donated an entire new wing of campus to watch Harlow’s hopes, and mine along with them, go up in flames. It’s Yale or die in his world and always has been, but then I told him about everything Columbia has to offer—the top-notch engineering program per his plans for my future, the sports rotation offerings, and most importantly, that I would be close, just a drive to Manhattan, in case he felt the need to check in on me.

  I heard from Everett who heard from Molly that Harlow got into Columbia too. I don’t know if she accepted, and I don’t care if she did, because it was my dream first, and I’ll be damned if she takes that away from me too.

  I sit inside my car in the garage. The display puts the time at ten past midnight, and I should probably head back to my apartment. I’ve got a ton of homework to do in what’s left of the weekend and a test on Monday to prep for, but I already know I’m not headed home, not yet. Tiny flames dance inside my bones, and there’s no way I can sleep, not until I douse that fire.

  I hop out of the car and start the long trek across campus to the football field. Two security guards eye me, but neither stops my midnight stroll. I definitely look ultra-suspect too in my dark campus sweats and Nikes, but it’s late and I’m probably not worth their effort, especially since I’m not chasing anyone and no one’s chasing me.

  This fucking walk is taking forever, and I break out into a jog until I am finally there, the solar lights that line the track and climb up the stadium steps powered on and bright in the dark. The fire in my bones refuses to be smothered. It rages on, ready to make it all go away with a handful of pills and a swig of vodka.

  I could run the track, but big circles to nowhere seem even less appealing than lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. I start up the bleachers, each row clanging beneath my feet.

  Up and up and up I go, my arms swinging at my sides, my legs pumping as the burn burrows into my calves and thighs, my heart pounding in the quiet of night.

  Down and down and down again until I reach the wet ground, and I do a squat, then a push-up, then another jump.

  Squat. Down. Push-up as I inhale the dew-covered grass of the field. Jump.

  One more burpee. Squat. Down. Push-up. Jump.

  My breath escapes me in hard bursts as I start up the bleachers again.

  The insects are in full force tonight, but I don’t hear them over the crush of blood surging through my veins and the clanging of my sneakers against the bleachers.

  Fuck, it’s hot as shit, and halfway up, I rip off my hoodie, but I don’t stop moving; my legs are going as fast as they can, my fist balled into the fabric of my sweatshirt.

  Back down again.

  Squat. Down. Push-up. Jump.

  Again! Squat. Down. Push-up. Jump.

  I am sweaty and out of breath and my shins are already fucking killing me. There’s still the fire inside my veins, and the itch I so desperately want to scratch.

  I yank my phone free from the side pocket of my sweatpants. I find Gabe’s contact and hit dial. He picks up on the second ring.

  “You all right, man?” he asks me. He sounds sleepy.

  “Shit,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  You fucking ass, Beckett!

  Since when did the college bad boy go to bed before
three in the morning?

  “Need me to come over?” he asks, and I hear rustling like he’s pulling the sheets back and climbing out of bed. “I can come to you.”

  Best sponsor ever.

  “Nah, man,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “You sure?” He sounds skeptical. “I can head that way.”

  “I’m sure,” I say. “Thanks for answering.”

  “Anytime, brother.”

  I hang up, and I’ve got more bleachers to run until exhaustion overpowers this fire in my blood.

  21

  Harlow

  I am in the exhibition hall because everyone knows the acoustics are better in here than the practice rooms in the east wing or the small concert venues in the west.

  I don’t play my violin as much as I used to, when I would relish the chance to get lost in the music and forget, for a moment, whatever was bothering me. Now, I keep mostly to myself, and my violin stays in my closet except for the occasional bad day because after Aurora destroyed my old violin fall semester of junior year, Ian replaced it. It’s not a replica, but it’s beautiful nevertheless, polished hardwood, covered in hand-painted red roses.

  When I hold it though, it reminds me of him.

  When my eyes pop open mid-piece and I lose focus, I remember him.

  I see him in the reflection of its glossy sheen.

  My heart hurts to have it sit unloved in my closet, but it hurts even more to remember because it reminds me of the good memories, and those hurt the most.

  The first time he said he loved me in the hot spring at his parents’ estate, snow on the ground and steam rising in white wisps from the water.

  When we spent the day in New York City and he showed me his favorite spots, and for one day, he seemed at peace with everything, not worried about the expectations laid on his shoulders by his father or what would happen if he refused to carry on the family legacy.

  When I was putting on makeup in his bathroom mirror and I caught him watching me from the bedroom, a sheepish smile spreading like a pour of honey across on his face the moment he got caught.

  I need this release now—I need to occupy my mind—so I am here, in the performing arts center on the main stage. My fingers wrap around the smooth wood of the violin with one hand as I place the music sheets on the stand in front of me. I clip the pages to the black metal and raise the stand to my level before I take a seat on the stool behind me.

  Normally, I close my eyes when I play, but I can’t, not this time. It’s a new piece, but that’s okay. I’ll focus on the black and white embossed paper in front of me, and I’ll forget all about him and the deliciously wicked things he does to my heart.

  I stare at the pages, skimming over the notes.

  Albinoni’s “Adagio in G Minor,” originally written for a string ensemble with an organ accompaniment but later adapted for solo violin.

  It’s beautiful and sad and perfect for my mood. I think maybe if I pour some of my heartache and sadness into playing it, then maybe I won’t feel like I’m drowning anymore. Then again, I imagine it’s like taking a cup to the ocean and trying to remove the water bit by tiny bit. It’s also my audition piece to Columbia’s string orchestra though, and I need to practice before I send in the recording.

  I raise the violin, cradling it underneath my chin and extending my arm. Then I begin to play. The piece is a challenge—it’s been too long since I played—and I miss more than a few of the notes, my violin angrily announcing it every time with a screech I can feel in my bones. Still, I continue.

  My fingers move along the fingerboard as I slide the bow across the strings, and it doesn’t take long, maybe a minute, before I find my way. Lost in the moment, I stand, swaying lightly with the music as it descends into despair and then rises again.

  I hear a door at the front of the hall open and shut, but I ignore the intrusion. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night, a time when I should be guaranteed solitude as the rest of campus is in their dorm rooms, studying for classes tomorrow or getting ready for bed.

  I ignore the intruder’s heavy footfalls down the steps as they pass the seats for the audience. I continue to ignore them even when they grow louder like my unwelcome visitor is purposely stomping to try and get my attention. I ignore them as they climb the stairs up to the stage until the person stands, a lone dark shadow in my periphery, staring at me.

  Frustrated, I stop mid-note. I look up from the sheets of music and freeze when I see who it is, my heart hitting the pause button. I find Ian staring at me from the edge of the stage, the black of his pupils overtaking his irises, calculated indifference on his devastating face. Before our breakup, he would have waited for me to finish playing, but now, he just stares at me like he’s wondering why I just can’t take a hint.

  He wears a fitted black t-shirt that hugs his biceps over dark-wash jeans that dust a pair of Doc Martens that have seen better days. In one hand, he clutches his Voclain Academy hoodie in his fist against his thigh. His other rests against his leg, his thumb hooked into his front pocket. His aura is entitled, rich, and irritated.

  “Get out,” he says, the words coming at me flat and lifeless.

  He starts over to the piano at the rear of the stage like he can’t be bothered to deal with me anymore.

  I stare at him as he takes his seat. He doesn’t even blink in my direction as he scoots the bench closer and lifts his hands to rest his fingers on the keys.

  I think I should just give him this one. I should let him win, but ire gets the better of me. He interrupted me. He can wait.

  “I was here first,” I say.

  “And I’m here now.”

  I return his glare, and he rolls his eyes like I’m the one being a ridiculous asshole, and it’s not the other way around. He waves his hand at the piano. “Would you like me to move it to another room, Harlow?”

  “Of course not,” I snap with a snort, “but you could have at least let me finish. I was practicing.”

  He frowns at me and leans back on the bench, crossing his arms over his chest. He regards me like I’m a misbehaving toddler and his patience is wearing thin.

  “Not a fan of surprises then?” he asks, raising an I-don’t-give-a-fuck eyebrow. “Huh? Me either.”

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that jab is for breaking up with him with no warning whatsoever, just a shitty excuse no one in this room buys. He sighs and leans forward, placing his hands on his knees as he returns my glare.

  “I’m fucking tired, Harlow,” he sighs. “Can we not do this tonight? I just need you to go.”

  He doesn’t just look tired though. He looks downright exhausted, bags under his eyes and a veil of weariness covering his remarkable face, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me right now—like I am an unruly subject and he’s getting bored of watching my disobedience from his gilded throne—that tunnels under my skin and make itself comfortable.

  So arrogant.

  So annoyed.

  So damn condescending.

  “Fine,” I say after a long moment with a quick shrug and a returned eye roll. I reach down to my feet and unlatch my case. “I’ll make way, your majesty.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he snaps, standing suddenly, his hoodie falling off the piano bench to the floor as he sends the entire thing wobbling. “Can’t you think of anyone but yourself for once?”

  “All I ever do is think about you!” I shout with a huff, placing the violin in my case but still holding my bow like it’s a wand to smite his almighty ass with.

  “Is that so?” He starts over to me, and now he looks tired and furious, anger rolling off his shoulders in churning waves, leaving an enraged sea behind him. “What do you think about then, Weathersby? What do you think about when you think of me?”

  He’s so close now and so big, it’s intimidating. Has he always been this gigantic, or has his exasperation made him even taller?

  I need space—he’s crowding me, literally, the tips of his
Doc Martens millimeters away from my flats—but he doesn’t give me any room. I take a step back because he seems unhinged tonight and something inside me just knows he’s about to lose it. Part of me wants to be here when he does, so we can get this argument over with and I can help him pick up the pieces when it’s all over.

  I stab him with my bow and leave it there, pressed against his chest like it’s going to protect me from him, which really is laughable. His gaze bottoms out on where it digs into his shirt, and I watch as he dismisses it. He yanks the bow free of my hand with the ease he might pluck a dandelion from the ground and sets it on the ledge of the music stand.

  Oh, shit.

  He takes one step toward me, and I take one back.

  Another step toward me, and another back.

  And another.

  Then another.

  Until there’s nowhere else for me to go, and my back is pressed against the painted wall, my spine trying to slap itself flat against the bricks, his chest inches away from mine.

  I stagger with my collision against the wall, though he can’t see it. My mind trips over itself. It smells like the singe of my soon-to-be ruined universe, but it feels like home. There’s the desire for vengeance in the air and the mounting tension around us, nearly suffocating.

  For a long moment, all he does is stand there, his dark gaze pinning me where I am. A swath of bristles follows the line of his jaw and darkens the lower half of his face like he hasn’t shaved in a few days. His raven-colored hair is even messier than usual as though he’s been tugging at it in some sort of frantic, frenzied motion. A hint of cinnamon bubblegum lingers between us as his hot breath fans down over my face like he’s the dragon and I’m the townspeople come to rob his gold.

  My ignorant heart does cartwheels inside my chest. It never did know what was good for it.

  Ian continues to stare at me, and I recognize that look, the one where he can’t decide if he wants to fuck me or throttle my throat. I can’t blame him either. I’m pretty sure the knife I landed is still lodged in his back for all to see as it litters the ground with his blood.