Boys That Read: A High School Romance (Lords of Wildwood Book 2)

by Betti Rosewood

  She raced ahead of me, so fast without those heels I could barely keep up. I kept up a leisurely pace behind her, and after the first block, even that pissed her off, and she ran back to me, glaring again.

  "Please, hurry up.”

  "Why? It's five a.m. Don't tell me someone's waiting up for you."

  She pursed her lips. "I'm tired and I’m scared of walking alone.”

  “I thought you didn’t even want me to come with you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” she mumbled, the closest thing to a compliment I was going to get that night. “You got anything better to do tonight?”

  I thought of the empty doc on my computer and shrugged. "Not really." I gave her a look, remembering she wanted to get into Eastvale as well. "Hey, you turned in your essay for Eastvale, right?"

  "Yeah?" She gave me a suspicious look. "Why? Did Miss James say something?"

  "Nah," I shook my head. "I... I haven't turned mine in yet."

  "What? But tomorrow's the deadline. I mean, today, I guess."

  "I know," I muttered. "I just don't know what the hell I should write about."

  "Bit late for that."

  "Don't need a reminder, but thanks."

  "You know everyone lies on those essays, right?"

  "Not me." I looked into her dark brown eyes. "And I'm guessing not you, either."

  "I know," she laughed. "That’s why you’re my only rival. Cause we actually have some integrity."

  "So, what'd you write about?"

  "As if I'm gonna tell you."

  "Why not?"

  "What, so you can copy me?" she laughed. "No way, querido, dream on."

  We kept walking in silence and I finally muttered, "I guess it's just not going to get done then. Unless I have a sudden burst of inspiration."

  "Just write about your Dads," she suggested. "Growing up with your real brother and adoptive gay Dads is pretty cool."

  "Nah," I dismissed the idea. "I don't want it to be about them. It's my essay. And I don't wanna blow steam up their asses over at Eastvale."

  "What do you mean?"

  “I’m not gonna use my parents as a reason to get in there, Stells.”

  “I get that.” She tapped a long lilac fingernail against her lips. “Why don’t you write about everything you’ve achieved so far?”

  "Like what? What the hell am I bringing to them, anyway? I'm an average lacrosse player. I have great grades, but so do you. What's my talent? What am I actually fucking good at?" Frustrated, I kicked a stone on the gravel, bouncing it over to Estella. She kicked it back to me.

  "You really can't think of anything?" she asked, and I shook my head as we kicked the stone back and forth. "Nothing at all?"

  "No," I admitted miserably. "I'm not you, Estella."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't have... all this. The perfect family. The perfect boyfriend. The perfect future. I don't even know what I want."

  "That's okay. Write about that."

  "What? My ability to not decide on anything, ever? I can't even pick a major, Stells."

  “So? Spin it. You know how to tell a story, don’t you? Just tell them not deciding on what to do is your specialty. And that you chose them not because you knew what you wanted to study, but because you knew your best education was waiting right there, at Eastvale. No matter what major you end up picking.”

  “Damn,” I whistled. “Wanna write it for me?”

  “As if,” she stuck her tongue out. “Besides, we can’t both get in. And you’re gonna have to try damn hard to make your essay better than mine, because I fucking aced it, querido.” She winked. We stopped on her street and she picked up the stone we'd been passing and handed it to me. "This could be the beginning of your life, Milo Earnshaw," she said. "The first stone on your path to greatness."

  "Is that a line from your essay?"

  "You'll never know," she laughed, blowing me a kiss and waving before heading to her house.

  I turned around, walking back to my car and slipping the stone in my pocket. She was right. I could still turn this around. If for nothing else, I'd do it to beat Queen Estella at her own game. Lord knew she needed to be brought down a notch.

  Game on, Stells.

  2

  DATE: OCTOBER 20TH, 2018, 5 A.M

  LOCATION: ESTELLA’S HOUSE

  ESTELLA

  The house was dark when I came home, and I could only hope everyone was asleep already. Tiptoeing on the driveway, I lifted one of the planters of a palm tree and dug around beneath it until I found the spare key for the shed. Armed with that, I set on my way to the garden, ignoring the illuminated pool house and heading to the back of the space where a garden shed sat, long forgotten and enveloped in shadows.

  I unlocked the door and let myself in. With the pull of a string, a lightbulb came to life above me, showering the space in golden light. I need to hurry, I reminded myself. Papa could still be up.

  Unzipping my dress, I slid the cool silver sequins down my body and let the fabric pool at my feet. The heels joined the dress on the floor, and I stripped down to my thong before digging around in a storage box in the shed and pulling out a heart-printed pink nightdress. I put them on in a hurry, messing up my hair while I did so and reaching for a pack of makeup wipes I’d hidden behind the mops and buckets in the corner. I made quick work of removing my makeup, getting rid of every trace of the color on my lips, cheeks and eyes. The makeup wipes came away dirty, stained with mascara, liner and lipstick, and I took a moment to stare at the remains of my night in my hands. What a night it was.

  I washed my face in the sink in the corner and patted it dry with a towel Mom kept next to it. Then, I got out the moisturizer and lathered my face in it, making sure not to miss a spot. If I wasn’t getting any actual beauty sleep, at least I could fake it with my beauty regimen.

  Once I was done with my routine, I stashed my dress and heels, along with the stained makeup wipes, in one of the buckets standing in the corner. I watched the dress sink to the bottom of it, the shoes getting tangled up in the fabric.

  “Goodbye,” I muttered to it before closing the lid. The dress was gone, and so were the shoes. The next day, they would be taken away by the garbage man – a guy I’d made this deal with at least two years ago. He gathered our trash every week, and didn’t say a word to my parents when I added my own secrets to the debris of our life.

  I never wore the same dress or heels twice. The ones I’d worn were just hanging in my wardrobe. But that wasn’t the real reason I was trying to get rid of the remnants of last night.

  Once I was ready, I snuck out of the shed, carefully placing the key back where I’d found it and going around the corner until I found the French doors leading inside the house. My fingers wrapped around the handle, and I pulled, ready to let myself in.

  The door wouldn’t budge.

  My brows furrowed and I pulled harder. Nothing. Again. No sign of the door giving in. It was locked from the inside.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What am I supposed to do now? Romilly promised she’d leave it open for me. What the hell happened?

  My heart sped up, beating faster in my chest as I struggled to get the door to budge. But it was hopeless. That is, until a dark figure appeared on the other side of the glass and the key turned in the lock. My heart sank.

  The door opened, and I walked in with my tail between my legs. I knew whatever was going to follow wasn’t going to be good, but I also knew there was no getting around it. Not now, not ever.

  “What are you doing outside, mija?” My father’s voice was calm and collected, and I knew I had reason to be afraid. He loomed over me as I walked inside, my limbs trembling under the pink fabric of my nightdress.

  “I just…” I started, struggling to search my mind for an answer. “I wanted to get some fresh air.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Yeah, my room was just… stuffy.”

  “Show me.”

  My heart san
k even deeper, but I managed a weak smile and a nod, motioning for Dad to follow me up the stairs and toward my room. He fell into step behind me, and I felt his eyes on me, watching me, calculating his next move. Dad never acted irrationally. His actions were well thought-out, crafted to hurt, to make an impact. That’s what made him so terrifying.

  I kept walking down the hallway, my eyes dancing over the other doors. Please God, let someone, anyone, be awake. Let them help me.

  The door to my right, my mama’s room, was open a crack, and I stared intently at the dark space between the door and the door frame. I could almost make out her form, standing in the shadows, watching us intently. That is, until papa stepped forward and shut the door, the lock clicking into place. He’s locked mama in there.

  “Your room, mija,” he reminded me.

  I nodded, swallowing thickly, and kept walking to my door. I opened it, the handle creaking when I walked inside. The room was sickening in its childish glory, and I hated it. It was pink upon pink upon pink. Pink everywhere. Pink walls, pink bedding, pink pillows, even a hot pink vanity table with Hollywood-style makeup lights. Dad had gotten me everything I wanted when I was younger. Little did I know, there’d be a price to pay for his kindness.

  “Doesn’t seem too hot in here,” papa remarked. “You didn’t even try to open a window?”

  He motioned to the window, which was closed.

  “No, I just wanted some fresh air from the garden and a glass of w-water,” I stuttered, and he nodded, crossing the room and opening the window just a crack.

  “Maybe this will help.” He glanced at the bed and I thanked my lucky stars I’d messed with the cushions and duvet before I left that night. Now it looked as if I’d just gotten up, instead of coming home in the early morning from a party I wasn’t allowed to go to in the first place.

  “Thank you, papa,” I whispered, getting on the bed and leaning against my princess headboard. “Do you mind if I go to sleep now?”

  “Soon,” he said, in that calm and collected tone that scared the shit out of me. “Just answer me some questions first.”

  “What is it, papa?” My heart hammered in my chest as I watched him, waiting for the inevitable. “What did you want to ask me?”

  “How did you get outside, Estella?” he wanted to know.

  “I, uh… I went through the French doors in the salon.”

  “But I locked those four hours ago.”

  I blanched. “Oh, I must have lost track of time, I-”

  “Don’t lie to me.” Those simple words carried a warning I knew I’d have to head. At least if I didn’t want to get hurt. “Tell me the truth, mija. Tell me the truth and I’ll make everything okay.”

  “I just, I…” I was struggling to get the words out, to force them out of my mouth. I mumbled something even though I knew it would upset him.

  “Speak up,” he demanded in a low, calm voice. “I can’t hear you, Estrellita.”

  “I… I don’t know,” I managed. “I’m sorry, papa.”

  “Are you lying to me again?”

  “No, I…”

  “You can’t even come up with a good lie.”

  “I’m not lying, I-”

  “Just stop.” He glared at me, his eyes filled with held back rage that he was never going to unleash on me. Oh no, papa had a different way of punishing me, and it was even crueler than if he’d hit me himself. “Get off the bed. Stand in front of me.”

  My hands shook as I pushed myself off the pink duvet. I knew better than to argue with papa. He wouldn’t stand for it.

  “Stand in front of the bed,” he instructed, and I forced my shaking body into submission, doing what he said. “Close your eyes.” I took a deep breath and forced my eyes to close. I felt him bless me, his fingers cold against my skin. “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit.”

  I was trembling by the time he finished, knowing exactly what was going to come next. It was always the same with papa. His punishments were cruel, but at least I knew what to expect.

  His voice came to me as if from another world, soft but insistent. “Hit yourself.”

  I raised my hand above me, examining my trembling palm.

  “Now,” papa insisted, and I brought the hand down with a loud slap over my cheek. “You think that’s hard enough for what you did, Estella? For lying to your papa? You think you’ve hit hard enough?”

  “No, papa,” I whispered, letting my arm fall back down and fighting the urge to soothe the sting in my cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said calmly. “Not yet. But you will be.”

  He motioned for me to do it again. Once more, I raised my hand, the hiss of the slap transporting me back to my horrible reality, away from the life I’d built in the clouds. This was the truth. This was my life. I’d made my bed, and now I’d have to sleep in it.

  “Are you going to tell me the truth?” papa demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered brokenly. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” he replied icily. “One more slap on each cheek, mija.”

  I tried to get it over with as soon as possible, the sting from the slap making my eyes water. “I’m so sorry, papa. I’ll be better for you.”

  He took a step closer. Even though he’d never hit me in his life, I flinched, not wanting to be near him and the possibility of him hurting me for real.

  “Are you going to tell the truth?” he asked, and my fingers trembled as I slowly shook my head no. “No? You refuse to tell me?”

  “I… I can’t,” I whispered. I knew if I came out with it, the punishment would only be worse. God knows what papa would do if he found out I’d been at a party with a girl he didn’t like, taking booze and drugs at barely seventeen. “I’m sorry, papa.”

  “You need to be taught a lesson,” he muttered. “I’m afraid what I’ve been doing with you, to show you the way things should be, isn’t enough anymore.”

  “What d-do you mean?” I stuttered.

  He ran a hand through his thinning dark hair. “Strip.”

  “W-What?” All the blood drained from my face. “Why, papa?”

  “Do it,” he demanded, looking at me with disgust. “Right now.”

  My fingers trembled as I touched the hem of my nightdress. He wouldn’t. He won’t. He can’t.

  “Papa, please, I-”

  “Take it off. Now.”

  I let out a whimper before lifting the dress over my head, covering my bare chest and cowering before him in nothing but my underwear. And as soon as he saw what I was wearing underneath, I knew he was going to hurt me worse than he ever had before.

  I’m wearing a thong, I remembered fearfully. He’ll never let me get away with this.

  He stared at me with disgust. There was nothing sexual in our exchange, nothing perverted, but I felt deeply disturbed by the way he looked at me, as if I were a criminal for wearing a simple piece of clothing that he didn’t agree with.

  “Kneel,” he demanded.

  I dropped to my knees, bowing my head, looking anywhere but at him.

  “Forehead on the floor,” he said, and I leaned forward until my lips met the ground. I knew he wouldn’t find anything else acceptable. “Pray.”

  I started muttering a prayer, the words muddling together as my fear escalated. I went through it once. Twice. Three times. He didn’t stop me. My words got faster and faster, more frantic with each time I repeated them. Tears were slipping down my cheeks by the tenth time, and I was sobbing by the twenty-second.

  “Papa,” I said, but he roared back to life.

  “Pray for your salvation, mija. I can’t help you anymore. Now you need to beg God for forgiveness. You will say fifty prayers. And I will stand here until you’ve finished.”

  I kept going, and he stared at me on the ground, going over the words over and over again. I felt shame flaming in the pit of my stomach, reminding me time and time again of what a disappointment I was
to my family.

  Once I was done, my voice raspy and broken, he held his hand out for me, and I took it, letting him help me get up. I hated myself for doing it. For needing him even after he’d hurt me like he always did.

  “Give me your phone,” he demanded.

  Sheepishly, I reached for my phone and handed it to him. Please don’t ask for the passcode. Please.

  “You’ll get this back when you learn to act more responsibly,” papa said. “Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand.” The words came in a whisper.

  “Get in bed,” he told me. “I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

  With those words, he turned his back on me and walked out of my bedroom. Relief washed over me until I heard the tell-tale click of the lock. I was a prisoner yet again.

  I hurried to a spot next to my walk-in wardrobe and tapped on the floorboard. I gently pried the board from the floor and stared at my hidden stash beneath the wood. I took out my phone, an older model I kept in case of emergencies, then carefully closed the floorboard again.

  My whole body was shaking as I turned off the lights and climbed into bed, clutching my old phone. By then, the sun was rising outside, and the light illuminated my room. I felt dirty, wrong as I climbed between those sheets. I burrowed beneath them, covering myself up to the chin.

  Bringing my phone up, I started typing a message. It took me a minute to realize I was writing to Milo, and I guiltily deleted what I’d written before starting a new message, addressed to Natan.

  Hey. Dad took my phone again :( Are you still up? I really need someone right now.

  I waited for the answer for what felt like hours while my eyelids got heavier and heavier. By the time I fell asleep, my phone was still silent, and I felt more alone than ever.

  3

  DATE: OCTOBER 20TH, 2018, 10 A.M

  LOCATION: MILO AND NATAN’S HOUSE

  MILO

  "Hey, you okay in there?"

  Never taking my eyes off the screen, I motioned to my desk, muttering, "Fine, thanks. You’re a lifesaver, Dad. You can just put the coffee down there, thanks."