by L. J. Woods
“Being back in The Grove feels fucking weird,” I mutter, gripping the wheel of my scratched-up Aston Martin.
Glancing at Isaac, his brows lower as we cross the tracks. A flickering streetlight greets us next to a weathered billboard. We haven’t been back to Glendale Grove since all hell broke loose last year. Despite my other best friend trying his best with this gritty area, it still looks the same.
“Fuck it, whatever.” Isaac sits up in his seat, grabbing his vile of blow from his hoodie. While it’s rare he wears one, we’ve all changed into something a little less suspicious than his colourful attire. “Let’s do the damn thing.” He takes a long sniff.
This place is more triggering for Johnson than it is for me. That night comes flooding back. My sister’s scream, the terror in Isaac’s eyes. The pound of my speeding heart. We’re hardly adults and we have enough trauma to shatter a therapist.
King Financial logos hang off tattered buildings and stores with missing letters in neon signs. Even billionaires can’t save this place. With my headlights off, we pull up to what looks like an abandoned garage, but lights are on from a window above. The one with a flimsy shutter that looks like it’ll fall off any second.
Shit. This is a long way from the Rose ten-bedroom mansion.
Checking the directions, I pull over to the side behind a dumpster. “This is it."
“Damn,” Isaac scoffs. “How’s a guy from a place like this, coaching kids like us?”
“Rich pricks?” Hoffman clarifies, appearing by our window. He followed us in his truck, parked behind.
“Kings,” Isaac clarifies, handing Hoffman the rest of his flask. He declines as if we're not already a little too intoxicated to drive. Reaching under his seat, Isaac picks up a can of spray paint he picked up from the art department. “Let’s remind him that now he’s a peasant.”
The three of us approach the house, glancing around the dead-end street. It’s quiet save for the sound of wailing sirens in the background. We have enough money and power to get us out of trouble should we get caught, but if Coach catches us, that’s another story.
Isaac stumbles as we make our way up the driveway, passing an old Camry. “Even his car is whack.” The can rattles when he shakes it before he grins. “Let’s give it a facelift.” He aims, pressing on the nozzle but nothing comes out.
“Pumpin’ blanks there, Johnson?” Hoffman whispers with a chuckle, a black beanie on his head.
I’m too fucked up not to laugh. Too high to care we’re standing in the middle of a beatdown driveway in The Grove.
“Shut the fuck up,” Isaac spits, shaking the can harder. His eyes widen when it slips out his hand, his fist high in the air when…
CRASH!
“Fuuuck,” Hoffman whispers.
Following the sound of shattering glass, we all look up to see a hole in the window with the light on. Shadows move inside before we hear the sound of a loud, deep voice.
Coach.
I’m already heading for the car when I whisper, “Run!”
Six
Rayne
Unknown: We’re coming for you, sweetheart.
A loud crash is the only thing to pull me away from the text on my phone.
Is that them? Do they know where we are?
August is already at the window when I join him. That’s when I see it.
The license plate and the car I’d know since I drove the motherfucking thing. “Those privileged pricks,” I mutter.
“We don’t retaliate.” My dad’s voice comes from behind us, and when I turn around, he’s holding a box of garbage bags and a roll of masking tape. “Don’t stoop to their level. That’s not the Rose way.”
My grip tightens on my phone. “You’re gonna let them get away with—”
“Rayne, those people have power and money, we’re not doing ourselves any favours going after them.”
“You used to be one of them,” I remind him. “So you’re not calling the cops?” Not that they’d do anything.
“Rayne, they’re kids.”
“Rich kids.”
“Rayne,” he warns. “Don’t you have homework? Don't fall for distractions, you know better.”
My shoulders drop, August scoffing as he moves towards the small two bedrooms in the back. I catch up to him as my dad starts ripping away at the tape, putting a makeshift window in our already broken home.
“I’m on it,” August says, pushing the flimsy wood of our bedroom door.
I stop him. “No, I got it.”
He raises a brow. “Thought you didn’t want to get your hands dirty.”
“This is worth it.” I shrug. I’ve been looking for another reason to make this rich dick pay for what his family did. And now I have it. “Still got that bat?”
CRASH!
Bat tight in my grip, a smile forms across my face as the window shatters.
There’s something cathartic about smashing this expensive car, so I do it again.
Glass falls to the concrete and the leather seats inside before I take another swing. Heavy metal blares through my headphones when I push my boot through the crack in the windshield. Another swing of the bat does it before the front seat fills with shattered glass.
I’m about to take another swing when there’s a pull on my arm, a deep voice vibrating through me. Turning around, Christian’s in my face.
Pulling the headphones to my neck, his voice is a loud, deep roar. “The fuck do you think you’re doing, Loca?” His green eyes narrow, olive face redder than a chili. He looks as angry as I was last night.
Good.
“What does it look like?” When I push his chest with the bat, he grips it and pulls it out of my hand with ease. Guess those muscles aren’t all for show.
“I don’t have time for your fucked up foreplay.” He pushes me against the hood, my back scratching against the glass. My heart is already thumping when he pulls off his shirt before my teeth sink into my lip. His body is a sin. “If you want to fuck, let’s get it over with.” That makes me laugh but when he gets on top of me, it’s harder to breathe, his warm skin pressed to my chest. Glass crunches under his hands landing on each side of my head. “Is that what you want, Rayne?”
My name on his lips sounds as I remember.
Perfect.
And I hate it.
“Perez!”
My eyes widen when I hear a voice I’d recognize anywhere.
Dad.
Christian’s body stiffens before he mutters a, “Fuck,” rising off me. Cold air passes over my chest in a white tank tied at my navel. When I push off the car, Dad’s glaring at us. If he didn’t have a bunch of sticks in his hand, a bucket of pucks in the other, he’d be pounding Christian's face.
The crowd grows.
“You have ten seconds to tell me why you’re on top of my daughter on a car with no windows.” My dad did this whenever August and I came home late. And like we used to, Christian stammers before he counts, “One.”
“Well, your daughter,” Christian looks at me, his eyes roaming my body. I shake my head no, but I’m not sure he notices. My eyes widen some more, my dad looking over at me. There’s no way I’m telling him I was smashing the windows. Not after he told me not to retaliate. “Your daughter smashed my—”
“Face!” I yell. “I smashed his face. It’s like slang … for kissing.” That’s not a lie. I definitely kissed him a couple of nights ago and while I can’t stop thinking about it, that was only to get my brother out of trouble. And now, I’m using it to get me out of trouble.
His brows knit. So do my dad’s.
“Rayne, did you do this?” My dad’s not stupid. He points to the car before his eyes move to the ground. The bit of blood dripping from Christian’s palm doesn’t help to swing this in my favour.
“I did it, Coach,” Christian says with a shrug. “Wanted a new car. She wanted a swing.” His arm comes around my waist, my body going rigid. He's warm, the smell of fresh linen and spice coming with
him. It's so startling I have to remember to breathe.
Have to remember he’s the enemy.
“Rayne, get to class,” Dad orders. “Or to a library.” One thing they don’t tell you about having your dad as coach to the school hockey team is that he also gets to boss me around on campus. Fun. “Christian. Don’t bother coming to practice. Remember, if you can’t shine off the ice…”
“Can’t shine on the ice,” Christian sighs but good. He fucking deserves more than what he got for the way he acted.
My dad’s brows knit again before he stares at me, waiting for me to move. So I do, picking up Mom’s old leather backpack, leaving my brother’s bat on the ground.
My head held high, I pass whispering students as I make my way towards the main building.
“Psycho.”
“Girls from The Grove don’t belong here.”
“That’s exactly why we don’t let in outsiders.”
If they only knew how much of an outsider I’m not.
Flipping them a finger gets me hair flips and scoffs but once I’m inside, I’m able to take a breath.
Christian took the rap for my little show of appreciation on his overpriced car. Why? I don’t know but that doesn’t mean he’s still not the enemy.
My only class today is English and if I can score big with my prof, who knows where it’ll take me. So fuck Christian Perez and his merry court of idiots. My dad’s right. I need to shift my focus to something valuable. Like the fact that Henry Henderson is my professor.
The Henry Henderson. He’s an award-winning, Puffin Press bestselling author and you bet your ass I’m gonna use him to my advantage.
As I head towards the classroom, I can already see the floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves lining one wall of the room. Little green lights sit on each desk, the dim lighting on the shiny dark wood making it all look a little romantic.
“One-fifty. Flat.”
A familiar voice stops me in my path. A deep rumble. Looking to my right, my eyes narrow when my eyes fall on my brother at the end of the hall.
He’s not doing business here, is he?
“I don’t want to waste my time on privileged punks.”
Another voice comes from behind. Turning around, Henry Henderson has his phone to his ear as he approaches the classroom. He's in a green sweater, patches on the elbows. Classic Henderson.
Sucking in a breath, I glance back at my brother in his hefty leather jacket, before I turn back to Henry in his fitted slacks. Henderson is a heartthrob in the publishing world, and I now see why. He looks even better in person. He looks distinguished in his attire but the slouch and his casual stride make him look like he doesn't care.
He looks up from his phone, catching my eye and when his blues fall to the letters on my knuckles, his mouth shows a hint of a smile. “You in my class?” he asks, a strong Australian accent coming with his question.
“You bet,” I respond, wincing when I hear how much I sound like a keener.
He nods. “Good.” Pulling the phone to his ear, a knot twists in my stomach as he keeps his eyes on me, continuing his conversation.
“Oh, shit! Ray!”
August’s voice rings from down the hall and when I look his way, he’s waving a big tattooed hand from side to side.
Fuck.
Henry looks at me. Then at him.
I try to ignore it but he calls again. “Ray! Come here!”
What the fuck is he even doing here?
With my jaw tight, I make my way towards August, glancing over to see Henry moving into the class. His eyes stay on me a little longer. With a smile at Henry, I move towards my brother and out of sight of my new prof.
“The fuck are you doing here?” I ask, my voice a quiet snip as I signal August over to the side of the shiny hall. “You stand out like The Pope at Pride."
“Gotta sell-off that stash somehow," he says, shaking a little striped paper bag, MOCHA stamped to the front. Something tells me there’s more than fancy pastries inside. "And since the school’s out of a dealer, I thought I’d step in.”
Glancing back at the classroom door, Henry peeks his head outside. “We’re about to start." He smiles. "Don’t wanna be late to your first class.”
I turn to my brother. “Leave. Now.” When I try to snatch the bag, he pulls it back. I explain, “Tell me who this goes to and I’ll do it.” I say, meeting his eyes.
My brother is big on eye contact. It’s one of the only ways to get past his trust issues and considering what we’ve been through, I don’t blame him.
“Why? You get high on our supply?”
“No, because if someone finds out who you are and what you’re doing, Dad could lose his job.”
"He shouldn't be working for these assholes anyway.”
“Augie!”
“Fine!” He plops the bag in my hand. “But if I don’t get at least one-fifty for it, you’re covering the loss.”
“Whatever. Go.” He does, but not without whistling at some girls in short skirts.
Henry smiles when I walk into the room, my eyes landing on an empty spot right in front of his desk. I’ll make sure he doesn’t forget who I am and when he’s comfortable, I can talk to him about how I can get somewhere in this career.
As I settle into my seat, more students pour in, chairs and desks scratching against the wood. It smells like sandalwood, a little musty for what should be a new room with old books around us. Turning my head to the shelves, my eyes browse the titles before my nose scrunches.
“Don’t see anything you fancy?” Henry leans over his desk, and when I look at his bright blue eyes, they’re on the shelves.
“A whole lotta money pumped into this place for such shitty books.” Reaching into my bag, I grab my composition notebook. Old and ratty in comparison to the high-end novelty books I see on the other desks.
He chuckles, and when I glance his way, the sexy crinkles in his smile make my skin warm. “So you’re not into the classics.”
“Not these classics,” I inform him, sitting back in my seat. “But if you’re asking, I prefer horror.” I take the chance, tapping a black nail on my notebook. “It’s what I write.”
His eyes settle on my face with an intense gaze. So intense I have to remind myself he’s my professor. “A Stephen King fan then?”
“He’s alright, but I prefer Poe.”
His eyebrows raise like I’ve surprised him, then he smiles, nodding with approval before he rises to his feet. Looks like I've won some points.
“If you all don’t know me by now, I’m Henry Henderson,” he says, speaking to the entire class. “Call me Henry or Henderson, whatever. It doesn’t matter. That’s not why we’re here.” He leads the class into an intro to the syllabus before my phone vibrates in my back pocket. It makes a sound against the seat but I apologize and Henry continues.
Unknown: Watch your back, sweetheart
They wouldn’t come out here? Would they?
Not for a grand. Not for a shitty piece of jewelry.
While Henry speaks, I remind myself that I’m far from The Shores. Far from him.
SLAM!
The door opens with a loud bang, my eyes moving towards the sound.
Christian stands at the door, duffel bag over his shoulder as he scans the crowd before his eyes land on me. My stomach flips.
Henry looks at a list of names. “You must be Perez, yeah?” Christian salutes, in a much less chipper way than when we met and I hope I have something to do with it. “Great. You can take a seat next to Miss …” He stalls, looking at me, waiting for a name.
“Ray,” I groan.
“Ray,” he repeats and my name definitely sounds better with his accent. “Grab a seat next to Ray.”
Great.
Christian narrows his eyes before he takes his time walking over, the class silent. The strong smell of fresh linen and spice takes over before he kicks the chair out, plopping into it. Henderson continues and if that text wasn’t bad enough, with
Christian sitting next to me, it’s hard to focus. Not that he’s saying anything.
“Mister Perez,” Henderson calls. Christian looks up from his phone. “This one's easy. Can you name one of the most famous books of all time?”
Christian shrugs before Henry’s eyes land on me. “Miss Rose?”
“Uh.” I rack my brain for an answer. “To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“And why do people consider this one of the most famous books of all time?” He paces the front of the class, stopping when his eyes land on Christian, texting on his phone. “Mister Perez.”
Christian looks up, glancing at me before he shrugs. “They force you to read it in high school?”
Henry blinks before he turns to me. “Miss Rose?”
Sitting up, I look around the class before answering. “Well, with a plot involving racism in the south, it was hard to ignore.” My dad put this on my ‘reading list’ when we still lived in Eden. Read it every night for a week. “The tale was haunting. Tragic. To some, horrifying, to others, another day in America. But what makes it a point of discussion is whether the book itself is racist and that’s not because of the n-bombs.”
Henry brings a thumb to his chin. “How do you mean?”
Sitting up, I explain, “Some will argue that the book uses the ‘white saviour’ cliche. A common cliche where a white character is the one to save people of colour while learning about themselves in the process. It gives the white character this Jesus-complex while characters of colour revert to mere supporting roles.”
Henry claps, giving me a wide grin. My stomach flutters. “Stay close to Miss Rose, Perez. You can learn something.”
Christian scoffs, “Like how to pick a pocket?” He rests his foot on the top of the desk. “Or how to hotwire a car?”
Motherfucker.
I’m about to put him in his place but Henry speaks up, “Are you mocking Miss Rose for where she lives, Perez?” Henry perches on his desk, crossing his wrists. “Little immature for a team captain, don’t you think?”
With a silent “thank you” I smile towards Henry. He shoots a wink my way and I’m starting to wonder if Henry’s flirting with me. The Henry Henderson.