Complicit in His Chaos Book 1: Tempted

by Keilan Shea

  A severe-looking woman who must be about the same age as the superintendent emerges from the pristine double doors. When she reaches us, the superintendent introduces her as Prudence White. “She is the resident dean and will assist you should you need further help getting situated.”

  “Does this mean I’m not allowed inside?” Benjamin asks.

  “You qualify as one of the few exceptions. You may go with her to her living quarters to unpack. For twenty-six minutes.” The superintendent taps his watch. “The tour starts soon.” With that, he turns on his hasty heel and reclaims a buggy, the single lady in white his chauffeur.

  “Melody Lopez, you may call me Ms. White.” I take the silver-haired woman’s soft hand and we shake, the gold bangles on her wrist jangling. “Your room is one thirteen.”

  I’m not superstitious, but I’ve read a lot of books that warn against the number 13. Not to mention Friday the 13th—which I have definitely never watched despite Russel’s tormenting. My room is 113, so maybe that makes a difference even though the first number simply denotes the floor …

  I become the caboose of the train led by Engine Prudence White. I discreetly check my sneakers before entering the foyer to avoid dirtying the white marble. Our footsteps echo as Ms. White shuffles down a long corridor, passing white doors with gilded numbers. She stops abruptly at one, almost causing a collision, and impatiently waves me over.

  “Your ID will act as your key card,” she says.

  I dig inside my jeans pocket for my wallet, but my fingers slip as I try to retrieve my ID for the third time.

  “Melody,” Benjamin singsongs, “apúrate. Today would be nice.”

  My face burns hot enough to instigate sweating as I tap my ID against the sensor above the door handle. A click signals it’s unlocked.

  The opulence carries inside. This room was made for a princess, but I have it all to myself. The canopy bed is round, centered, and queen-size. A walk-in closet, an en suite bathroom … How do they have enough living space for all the students here? I guess the student body is relatively small. Minuscule actually, considering the campus is the size of a university. It’s distorted my perception but explains why I haven’t seen any students.

  “Is everything to your satisfaction?” Ms. White asks.

  “Uh, yes,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Ladies,” she addresses the women in white, “leave her things here—unless you require assistance unpacking?”

  “We’re good,” Naomi answers.

  Ms. White nods and excuses herself and the ladies. I inhale deeply and glance at the largest light hanging from the ceiling. It’s another one of those milky-white crystals—selenite, I presume.

  Naomi quickly and thoroughly sweeps my living space before halting at the bed. She lingers there, running her hands across the plush surface as if checking it for nails. Then, with a tiny hop too unguarded for my big sister, she lands back-first on the mattress and sprawls out.

  “This is the softest thing I’ve ever felt,” she says. “Mel, you aren’t going to miss us at all.” She covers her eyes with her arm and sighs.

  “Hey.” Benjamin leans down to kiss her. “She’s going to miss you.”

  “I will,” I affirm. I’ll miss her and the rest of the family so much that I almost didn’t do this.

  Naomi wraps her arms around Benjamin’s neck and kisses him deeper, inviting him to hover over her.

  “Stop kissing on my bed,” I mumble, cheeks on fire. Naomi and Benjamin have no shame, but this level of intimacy should be kept private.

  “You’re such a prude,” Benjamin says with a laugh. “Not that I blame you, Melody.” He taps Naomi’s nose and then perches on the edge of the bed. “Overprotective big sister.”

  Naomi slides off the bed, pretends to roll up her nonexistent sleeves, and says, “Let’s get to work. Stick-up-his-ass superintendent said we have ‘twenty-six’ minutes.” She rips through my suitcases like a whirlwind and hangs clothes inside the uniform-populated walk-in closet. She points a hanger at me. “Don’t let any boys in here. I don’t want to hear about anyone sneaking through your window. It’d be easy to do on the first floor.”

  I’m not sure how “easy” it would be when there are cameras outside.

  “Changing your tune already?” Benjamin shakes his head. “What happened to her being seventeen?”

  “I’m sure all the guys here are rich assholes who would take advantage of a sweet, doll-eyed cutie like her.”

  “Even an Earnshaw? They’re the one family you never talk shit about.”

  “Because there’s never any shit, but a boy sneaking into a girl’s room is a boy sneaking into a girl’s room.”

  “What about when you started sneaking into my room?”

  “That’s different.”

  Naomi means well, but she is the one who’s pounded into my head that boys can be … pigs. It’s not her fault, though it made it hard for her to trust Benjamin in the beginning despite the two of us practically living at the Lopezes’ house two months after she met him. He hired Naomi as a waitress at Lobo Azul when she was sixteen and he was twenty-two. At eighteen, she married into the family while I was officially adopted into it.

  “I can hear you,” I mutter. I don’t know why Naomi’s so worried. We’re safe, have been for years, and boys have never been a problem for me. Boys interact with me only when they think I’ll do their homework. They act friendly until it becomes obvious that they’ll have to be a true friend to obtain a dedicated tutor. Does smiling and randomly touching girls’ hands usually work for them? I’d like to know. At least anyone else who’s tried to get a good grade out of me has put some effort into it—and put me off to friends entirely in the process. I’ve not had any luck with online friends either. When you’re socially awkward, it translates through every means of communication.

  “You really want to go here?” Naomi asks. “You think these rich bastards are worth it?”

  “Naomi,” I reply, “you shouldn’t say things like that. Besides, if you want to pick me up on Friday night, I could stay with you for the weekend. I understand if you don’t want to, though, since it could be a two-hour round trip.” If I had my own car, this wouldn’t be an issue, but I’ve been so busy with school, and no one’s wanted me working at Lobo Azul, that I haven’t saved the money for one.

  I clasp my hands and add, “We discussed this already. This is the best option for me.”

  “Maybe,” Naomi says, “but if you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to. We’ll knock that clumsiness out of you somehow.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this,” Benjamin interjects. “I say you get a finance or accounting degree then become our numbers person—God knows we need a new one—and you could take on any other clients you want. With Samohi, Gilded Academy, and then the Ivy League credentials, every business will want you. If you want to. If you have some passion you’ve been keeping secret, then ignore all of us and follow your dream. It’s okay to be your own person, Melody. You aren’t living anyone’s life but your own.”

  Those are the best suggestions I’ve gotten so far, and I need suggestions because I don’t have any desires of my own. I don’t have much more time to blissfully ignore it all, either. I need applications ready by November.

  “Gilded Academy offers the most opportunities,” I say. “Maybe it’ll introduce me to the dream job I don’t know about yet.”

  “True,” Naomi says reluctantly, “but all these kids have a head start on you. Their parents have been grooming them since they took their first breath.”

  I frown and check my phone. “You should probably go. My tour starts in a half-hour, and I need to get ready.”

  “Bueno.” Benjamin heaves himself off the bed. “You need anything before we leave?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll call later and update you all on everything. When you get home, though, could you tell everyone that I miss them already? Tell Russel I even miss him—and his leche frita de ch
ocolate.”

  Benjamin squeezes the air out of my lungs with a tight one-armed hug, “Te quiero.”

  “I love you too,” I wheeze.

  Naomi joins the hug and smothers me, not that I mind. I lock my arms around them for too long. I know I’m a big girl, but I’ve never been away from my family since I got them, and that makes me a little nervous. It’s not that I don’t do well on my own. That’s how school has always been for me and it’s never bothered me. I may not get along with other students, but teachers and I often develop an academic camaraderie. I should be able to accomplish the same here. After school, being alone in this princess room, is what worries me.

  “Show them what you can do, little sister,” Naomi says. “I’m so proud of you. You’re going where no commoner has gone.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  I accompany Benjamin and Naomi to the foyer to see them out. The second buggy awaits them with a single lady-in-white driver. I wave and watch until they disappear from view; Naomi does the same. Even then, I remain on the cusp, just shy of reentering Selenite Hall. This is real now. Official.

  And I need to get ready for that tour. Despite what Superintendent Mulberry may think, I believe in being early.

  I return to my quarters and step inside the walk-in closet. The place that took my ID photo, an off-site Gilded Academy registration office in El Sol, also took my measurements—all the way down to my toes. It’s time to investigate the resulting products. Product? There are five sets of the same uniform: white long-sleeved dress shirts branded with phoenix embroideries, golden ties, pleated skirts, and white tights. There’s also a pair of Mary Janes. The primarily used white fabric holds its form and I expect it to be stiff, but it’s soft. The same is true for the glossy golden detailing. I have no idea what materials these are, but I’m glad my scholarship covers all of this. I can’t say I’m eager to wear a uniform, though, and I can’t recall ever wearing a skirt.

  I’m not ready for this. Give me five minutes.

  I begin where Naomi left off while unpacking my belongings. Hygiene items go inside my personal bathroom. Then I arrange my laptop, Kindle, notebooks, and pens on the multi-faceted desk—is this a desk or a jewel?—next to the academy-issued tablet I might need since students are not to use their phones to access their textbooks in class.

  Placing my hands on my wide hips, I survey my progress. The room feels homier, I guess, but the bed is too empty because I didn’t bring Coco. This isn’t the first time I’ll be sleeping without her, but it will be my first time without the threadbare teddy bear sitting on my nightstand. That’s okay, though. I’m a big girl, after all.

  Drawing the heavy white curtains, I peek outside my window. The view isn’t great. There’s a pretty golden-flowered hibiscus under my nose and a garden pathway, but then there’s the sandstone wall of a building that isn’t Lancaster Library.

  I bring up the campus map on my phone, wondering how long I’ll need to use it before I learn my way around. Then I realize it’s nearly time for the tour and I don’t know where Phoenix Fountain is. I can’t find it on the map either, but I do see it in the legend. And it’s a link. I tap it and the map highlights its location and marks it as my destination. Oh, thank God. That was simple. Wait. I’m not in uniform.

  I stumble into my walk-in closet and hop around on one foot as I dress myself. I can’t get my tie right. I’ve never worn one of these before, and here I was worried about the skirt. I should have asked Benjamin to help me before he left. We all knew a tie would be part of my uniform, but teaching me how to wear one must have slipped all of our minds. I don’t have time to fuss over the crookedness or to do anything more with my unruly curly hair. Of course, this skirt has no pockets, so I unbutton enough of my shirt to drop my ID inside my bra so that I don’t have to lug my backpack around, and then button it again. This isn’t ideal.

  After slipping on the custom-made Mary Janes (my feet have never been so happy), I rush out of my room, down the corridor, and burst through the double doors, where the greeter tells me to slow down.

  Phoenix Fountain is in the quad anchored by Lancaster Library. It’s farther away from Selenite Hall than is ideal, considering the current circumstances. At least I won’t get lost. My campus map works like Google Maps, tracking where I am, giving directions.

  I hate running, though. I’m already out of breath. Not even Gilded is immune to the smog season. It’s unusually hot and muggy today and sweat pours down my forehead. I wipe it with my forearm and frown at my phone screen. Either my cardiovascular system needs to shape up, or I need a buggy.

  That’s when I smack headfirst into someone. After recovering from the recoil, I bend my head down and say, “S-sorry.” I don’t deal well with confrontation. My eyes are glued to my victim’s shiny black lace-up boots. A boy. Why do the girls have to wear white? I’m going to accumulate so many stains thanks to my clumsiness.

  Why isn’t this boy yelling at me?

  He isn’t brushing me off either.

  So, I lift my head bit by bit until I can see his face. He’s tall, dark hair unnecessarily mussed and adding a couple more inches in height. I blink, surprised at his flawless bronze-toned, sun-kissed skin. There are no imperfections. Even Sage’s skin has imperfections and she puts more care into it than anyone on this planet—except for, as I’ve learned, models. Come to think of it, do Gildeds even have acne? Is this one of the differences between rich people and normal people? What’s their secret? And his emerald-green eyes. Is that natural, or is he wearing contacts to enhance a subtler green? What if he has iris implants?

  “Your jaw’s come unhinged.” His eyes sparkle with this mirthful gleam and his lips quirk up into a mischievous grin. He reaches out for me, sunlight catching on his silvery skull-shaped conch stud, and I flinch. His hands rest on my tie and quickly rework it. All the while, he takes great care not to touch me. The only thing I feel is the slight tug of the fabric around my neck. And I smell him; his scent is reminiscent of a mocha latte.

  Time warps as it dawns on me who this guy is: Lucas Ignacio.

  Before the Earnshaws, there were the Ignacios. I watched a documentary about how Jeffery Earnshaw made his fortune because I was feeling nervous about Gilded Academy. I knew Jeffery wasn’t born a Gilded and that he wasn’t from a wealthy family, so I thought it might be inspirational.

  According to the documentary, Jeffery Earnshaw was hired by Gordon Ignacio’s parents as a financial advisor. He was new, inexperienced, but they saw something in him. They made the right decision, because he doubled their already great fortune. Jeffery Earnshaw built a reputable name and was very close to the Ignacios—until Gordon’s parents passed away. Gordon was the last Ignacio since he had no siblings. He isn’t business-minded like Jeffery and is notorious for his all-play-and-no-work attitude. When he wouldn’t listen to Jeffery’s counseling, the two men who had practically become brothers split up. Gordon squandered much of his fortune, and Jeffery built his by essentially buying Gordon’s businesses after he led them into bankruptcy. Then he miraculously revived them. Jeffery Earnshaw is celebrated as a money genius for a reason. New money or not, he’s among the wealthiest people in the world.

  And that’s how the Ignacios “fell.” They still have an obscene amount of money, but they’re the Gilded outcasts now. Naomi came in near the end of the documentary and brought up a brand-new news article about some fiasco involving Gordon Ignacio and his current vacation in Tahiti. He got drunk and gave a cabana boy a concussion in a fit of rage. The article mentioned Lucas being fortunate that his father has enough decency, or selfishness, that he never drags him along—though it was also said the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That wasn’t expanded on and I tuned Naomi out after glimpsing Lucas’s picture, but the point is this: Lucas is Gordon’s son.

  “There you are, lovely,” Lucas says.

  I bristle. Lovely? He must be making fun of me. He’s the lovely one. His appearance is pleasing. I mean, h
e’s handsome, but I don’t really know him or anything, so … My face heats up.

  He holds his chin with his hand as he inspects his work. It’s an exaggerated move, especially the way he tilts from side to side as if … mocking. “I can’t do much about the sweat, but you’re put together at least, as ready as you’ll ever be to present yourself to the rich dicks and chicks. Joy!” He pauses. “Good luck with that.”

  Do I stick out that much, or does he know every student here?

  “Aha! Found you.” Lucas drifts past me, fixated on something small, furry, roundish, and white. It’s sitting on a patch of grass underneath a palm tree. A head pops up, long ears swiveling. When it turns its head to the side to lock a bright red eye onto me, I shudder. It’s a rabbit.

  I turn on my heel, push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, and stare at my digital map as I walk. I learned my lesson, but I can’t look up.

  I hate rabbits. Especially white ones.

  CHAPTER 3

  I arrive at Phoenix Fountain exactly at noon. Aside from the, I assume, GPS confirming my location, I know I’m in the right place because there’s a snapshot of a soaring phoenix several feet in front of me. It must be supported by something. Gold, no matter how light it may appear, doesn’t fly. However, without a closer inspection, the illusion of the mythical creature hovering holds. The crystal-clear water spouting around it devours the gold and sunshine, transmuting into fire. Maybe I don’t want to know how it works. It’s magical like this.

  I’d get closer if whispering students weren’t already mingling by it. Why is everyone standing around? If our guide is late, I regret rushing here. The frantic pace mixed with the unusually warm day means hair sticking to skin. It’s gross.

  Straining to decipher the whispers, I creep toward the preoccupied students. Until one catches my eye. Isn’t that—

  “Ritsuki will be here soon,” Theo Earnshaw says, loud and clear.

  I have an Earnshaw in my tour group. Theo is a freshman, but this group doesn’t exceed twenty-five students, so what are the chances?