by Thorne, Leia
Maybe Gage was right; maybe she was what was missing. Having a new project helps distract me from my failings of last year, and I’m already plotting new ventures.
Remi will become a Broken Saint.
Chapter 13
Remi
Monday morning, I’m not the same girl walking through the grand arches of Brighton Saints Academy.
I feel weightless. Carefree.
Above reproach.
More than that, I feel confident, cool, sexy.
I have never once considered myself sexy, but my hair even falls in a sexy loose tumble over my shoulders. My plaid uniform skirt—that used to feel restrictive—suddenly feels suggestive, provocative.
Perception. That’s the only thing that has changed. The way I see the world and myself in it—and it’s liberating. Like a dark veil has been lifted, revealing a bright new world.
I spent all day Saturday with Sawyer and Palmer in the city. We shopped—or rather, they shopped, and I marveled at the obscene amount of money they tossed around. Then we ended the night in a dance club where Sawyer knows the club owner (a friend of the family, she says). And at some point around three in the morning, we pooled into the backseat of her Town Car.
By the time I got home Sunday morning, all I could do was lie in bed, hungover and aching in the best way, while texting Sawyer and Palmer in a group text, talking about the upcoming school dance next month.
This is not my life.
And yet, it feels right—or safe, maybe. Allowing myself to just be, to exist, without the constant shame and guilt that has been a thick cloud hovering over me the past six months.
I set my pack near my locker and briefly check my phone.
During the last few weeks, I’d scroll through my social media feed with an ill bout of homesickness. I would post a random pic of myself, and Piper would comment, or Aubrey would private message me, and we’d talk about what’s happening at Camden Heights. They’d include me in the gossip, and in that way, I still had a link to that life. They’d ask me about Brighton and the people here and the town.
And that worked…for a while. But more and more, I started to feel distanced from them.
Like just yesterday, when I posted a pic of me and Gage that I took of us in the bleachers at the game. Our faces side-by-side; him looking ridiculously gorgeous. I barely got any likes from my friends, and no comments.
At first, their comments had been an array of happy and sad; happy for me that I had made friends (look at the hot guy!), as they were still trying to be a part of my life. They cared. Then the comments and likes came less and less. The tone of their comments in messages verging on the snarky side, with a shade of masked jealousy.
Now, as I stand at my locker, flipping through my profile feed, the most recent comments are from Sawyer, Palmer, Rush, and even a few students that I barely know but that friended me just because we attend Brighton together.
There was a sublet shift I could feel coming on last week, and now—right now—that shift has taken over, plunging my life in a whole new direction.
I should feel mortified after what transpired Friday night…but I don’t. I’ve battled the worst kind of shame a person can suffer, and it’s as if my shame well is empty. Dried up. What I experienced didn’t feel bad, or shameful; it unlocked something, freeing me in a way that I never even imagined. And because Sawyer didn’t act weird afterward, why should I? We went on to talk about people at school and clothes and guys like nothing had changed.
As I’m closing out my phone app, Roland strides up. He’s extra dark and broody today, his hair falling over one eye, giving him that bad-boy appeal. I tuck my phone away in my pack. “How was the rest of the game?” I ask.
He slants his gaze my way, then returns his attention to his lock and spins it open. “Now we’re friends?”
I cross my arms. Maybe last week his moody response would’ve bothered me, but not today. “You could’ve talked to me, too, you know. I didn’t see you leaving your friends behind to approach me.”
“You looked busy,” he says, pulling out his books. “With Gage’s hands marking his territory and everything.”
I shake my head, then turn back to my open locker and take out my science book. A black envelope falls out and flutters to the floor.
“Another party?” I set my pack down and pick up the card. It’s matte and soft to the touch. Expensive looking. Much different than the invite I got to the kickback.
“Shit,” Roland says under his breath.
“What?” I turn toward him. “What is it?”
He says nothing as I open the envelope. The card is the same delicate black matte, and it’s an expensive card stationery. My fingers reverently caress it as I read the one line printed in foiled silver.
You are cordially invited to become a member of the Broken Saints Society.
“You’re one of them now.” Roland slams his locker closed and takes off before I can question him further.
I glance around, concealing the card inside my text book. Another thing I learned during my short time here: If you have a secret, guard it with your fucking life.
But this time, I’m not letting it go. I scoop up my pack and chase after Roland. “Hey. Wait.”
He pushes through the double doors to the courtyard. As he dips around the brick wall, I speed up and snag his blazer. “Roland, wait.”
At my use of his name, he stops, turns to face me. “Not here,” he says, then takes me by the elbow and leads me behind the brick divider, where pink and red carnations line the courtyard, and ivy climbs the stone walls of the school.
When we have a measure of privacy, Roland stares down at me, his expression serious. “Don’t do it,” he says pointedly.
I shake my head. “What? You have to give me more context than that.”
He releases a heavy breath. “Join their sick secret society.” I raise an eyebrow in question, and he continues. “They’ll make you believe it’s exclusive, that doors to colleges will open, and you’ll have all these opportunities.”
That doesn’t sound like the worst thing that could happen to me, considering my father is too morose and involved in his work to pay attention to college applications and deadlines. “But…?” I prompt.
He drives a hand through his black hair, agitated. “It’s a lie, Remi. An illusion. The same one they made Lesley believe. They pulled her into this web of secrets and sex, forced her to do things that trapped her there…until she had no other way out.”
I frown. “That’s why she killed herself?”
“No.” He steps closer, lowers his voice. “She was killed because she wanted out.”
Icy threads wind their way around my spine. I move back, putting distance between us. “That’s…crazy, Roland.” He cannot really believe this, can he?
“Is it?” he challenges. “Right before she supposedly leaped off her balcony, she came to me and told me that she was afraid of them. Gage and Sawyer in particular. That they had something on her….some secret, I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t tell me the details. Just that she knew they could destroy her life, and she wanted out.”
I cross my arms, my mind spinning. Depending on how depressed or mentally unstable she was, her confession could mean anything. “I have to go,” I say, turning around.
Roland touches my hand, imploring me not to leave. “Please, don’t do this.”
I look at our hands, then meet his slate eyes. “Why do you care?”
He swallows. Releases my hand. “I just don’t want to see it happen again…to you.”
I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder. “I’m fine, Roland. I can make my own choices.” Then I walk out of the sheltered area of the courtyard, getting far away from him fast.
Before I head to first block, I stop at the double doors and sneak out my phone. I tap my photos and flip back until I find the picture I took of Lesley de Pont in the display case.
If it were true, if my new f
riends had anything at all to do with her death, people would be talking about it, right? That’s not the kind of secret people can keep. Besides, if it is true—why the hell is Roland telling me and not the police?
I swipe my bangs out of my eyes in annoyance. Gage told me about Roland’s father being in prison and the issues Roland’s been having because of it. Maybe Roland isn’t a loner by choice.
I know kids can be cruel and all that—and it would make perfect sense if Roland wanted some measure of revenge on the in crowd. But isn’t using the new girl to spark a rumor of murder a bit drastic?
Or is this how Brighton does melodrama?
This private academy may be a bazaar universe all in itself, out of touch with the reality I knew before attending, but I can’t help but feel there’s a limit to the affluent intrigue.
I take one last look at Lesley, studying her features that I’ve looked at too many times already. I feel like I could know her. We might have been friends. Her smiling face, bright eyes. She’s beautiful in an unassuming way. Happy and sad all at the same time.
Pocketing my phone, I enter the academy hallway, resolve in my steps.
The invitation weighs heavily in my pack. It’s not a choice of whether or not I want to accept…I already know what I want. It’s the knowledge that, regardless of the truth—in spite of whatever it may be—I desire to belong to them.
They’re my escape. A way through the tragedy that has consumed my life for the past half year. Roland warns that this elite group wants to use me. But what he fails to see, is that I’m using them.
* * *
During science block, I admit, it was nearly impossible not to stare at Gage. He took the seat directly beside mine, making the temptation even harder to resist, as I could feel his intense gaze on me, summoning me to peek over, but I kept my focus on my test.
After our “moment” at Sawyer’s, she convinced me that the worst thing to do would be to give in to him now. That’s why we took off to the city on a girls' weekend, to get far away from Gage and his lure.
“Pining makes the heart grow fond,” she told me, mocking the original cliché. “Keep him pining for you.”
To test that theory, I nibbled on my pen cap and stole a glance his way. “You play dirty, new girl,” he teased in a hushed tone.
Yes, this new version of Remi St. James plays dirty…and she likes it.
Gage stole my heart the moment he batted those ridiculously long eyelashes at me, and I was a goner. I’d lost my heart to guys like him before in the past, yearning for their attention from a distance, never having the courage to even talk to them, and for what?
So I can look back and scold myself for being so weak? What was I so afraid of?
After everything that I’ve lost, it feels stupid to waste another second. To want something or someone and not even try. Gage may have a different outlook on romance and dating than me, but hell, he’s a guy. They all want sex. He just happens to be more honest and upfront about it than most guys his age.
And maybe that should be appreciated rather than condemned.
Once the bell rings, I dart out of the science lab and trek down the hallway without looking back. I think I’m in the clear until I feel a hand in mine, pulling me to a stop.
“What are you—?” I start to ask, but Gage says nothing as he takes me down the adjacent hall toward the gym locker rooms.
An anxious flutter wings to life in my belly as I recall what Roland said he witnessed in the locker room…but I tamp down that fear. I can’t trust him. Either Roland gets off on trying to rattle people, playing to his rebel, bad boy image—or something else darker is happening there.
Either way, I laugh as Gage checks the boys’ locker room, making sure it’s clear, before he wraps his arms around my wait and physically hauls me inside the room.
He plants me down near the back row of bluish-gray lockers. “Sawyer is not going to like this,” I say, trying to escape. She specifically told me not to give in to him, to make him wait. I trust her logic.
Gage catches my wrist, pulling me against him. “Sawyer doesn’t have to know.”
The feel of his chest pressed against my breasts stirs liquid fire in my belly. I stare at the buttons of his shirt, unable to meet those pale-blue eyes that I know will ensnare me and make it impossible to walk away.
He hooks a finger under my chin, nudging my face up, then clears my bangs from my eyes with a delicate brush of his fingers. I notice the silver ring he wears. The one with the crest of a cross and initials BSS. For the first time, it dawns on me.
“Broken Saints Society,” I say, tracing the pad of my finger over the engraved initials.
“You got the invite,” he says, confirming my suspicion.
“I got it.” But who put it in my locker? Him or Sawyer? “Is there some secret codeword that I need to know?” I smile up at him.
His lips pull into an alluring grin, making his dimples pop. I inhale an unsteady breath. “No codeword,” he says, his fingers tracing circles along my lower back. “Just your pledge.”
I tilt my head, my eyebrows drawing together. “And what’s that?”
“I’d tell you…but then I’d have to fuck you.” He winks, making me laugh.
“You’re bad,” I say. “I should go to class.”
Gage removes his glasses and drops them into his breast pocket before he backs me up against the locker. He plants his hands on either side of my head. “I can be good,” he says. “I won’t even touch you. Promise.”
With courage I don’t own, I look up and meet his gaze. “Why are we here, then?”
He releases a lengthy breath. “You left me hanging this weekend,” he says.
“We went shopping,” I reply.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not.”
He cocks his head, moving in so close, his breath touches my lips. “You’re making me crazy.”
I try not to smile.
“All I can think about is how hot you were on the chat…” His eyes rakes over me. “Let me touch you.”
My throat feels thick, my lungs unable to catch a full breath. “Where?” I challenge.
“Christ…” He rests his forehead against mine, his breathing becoming labored. “Don’t fuck with me, Remi. I want you too badly.”
I close my eyes at his words, and before I can work up a response, his head inches down, his mouth finding my neck. The feel of his lips against my skin ignites my insides; flames dance along my skin.
His tongue slips out to taste me as he places faint, tantalizing kisses along my neck.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, his voice ragged with want.
I think I nod…I don’t know…but then his fingers are deftly working the top button of my shirt, and he tugs the collar over as his soft kisses fall along my shoulder. His teeth nip and his tongue tastes, and I grab ahold of his blazer, my hands clenched into fists.
He moves up to my ear, his teeth grazing my earlobe and sending gooseflesh skittering down my back. “Say you’re mine,” he whispers.
I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. The scent of his cologne consumes my senses, and I ache so deeply I have to squeeze my legs together. When I say: “I’m yours,” it’s as if I have no control over my actions. I want him just as badly, and I don’t care what that makes me.
Weak? Easy? Naive?
I want this experience with Gage.
I want to be wanted by him—for him to yearn for me as badly as he did on the video chat when his only option was to stroke his cock for release.
“Say it again,” he demands.
“I’m yours—”
Gage’s mouth crashes against mine, stealing my breath and seizing my surrender. He groans into the kiss, and the arousing vibration of it travels the length of my body.
I’m lost in his kiss, my mouth desperately working against his, our tongues sliding over each other, tangling us together in a carnal dance of desire. His hands find the backs of my thig
hs and I’m lifted up against the locker, as he thrusts his erection between my thighs.
The pressure feels dangerously good as the zipper of his slacks hits my clit, sparking the reminder of how intoxicating my first orgasm felt. My body moves of its own accord, my hips seeking more intense friction to offset the ache building into a pulsing throb deep inside.
He breaks the kiss, panting heavy over my mouth. “I want to taste you,” he says. “Let me make you come.”
Jesus, I’m going to hell—but that’s all I want. Just make the achy pain stop. I nod against the locker, my voice too weak to be trusted. I fasten my eyes closed as he kisses me once more, then sets my feet down, positioning my right foot on the bench opposite us.
Gage slips down my body and his hands fists my skirt, bunching it up my thighs, before he presses his hot mouth to my sex.
I gasp at the erotic feel of his teeth raking over my clit through my panties. His fingers gingerly slip the material aside before his mouth surrounds me again with no barrier between us. I plant my palms flush against the cool metal locker to ground myself as his tongue expertly strokes my clit.
His arm encircles my thigh, giving him leverage, as he positions himself perfectly to taste me. He doesn’t enter me; he keeps his hands busy touching my legs and chest, pinching my nipple through my shirt—and God, he doesn’t even need to enter me, because I feel the orgasm taking hold the second he sucks my clit into his mouth and presses his tongue hard against the nub.
“Oh, my god…” My lungs burn as a blaze licks the soles of my feet and travels up my body like a brushfire.
My breath catches as my core contracts, sending the fiery ache into my lower back until I’m arching against the release.
Gage pushes to his feet and captures my mouth with his as I moan out the last of my orgasm. I hear his zipper lower, and then the feel of his hand pressing my palm to his cock. He squeezes my hand around his thick shaft, groaning long and hard into the kiss. His dick pulses, and he rocks his shaft through my cupped hand. He pulls away and looks down. I watch with rapt fascination as he comes from my touch.