Riot House (Crooked Sinners Book 1)

by Callie Hart

  I want to know everything there is to know about her, and I want to possess that knowledge, to own it, just as I want to own her. I’m determined to make her my creature. My pet. The challenge of such an inconceivable task makes my dick harder than fucking tungsten.

  “All right. Settle down. Eyes on me, friends. I need to know each and every one of you is listening. That includes you, Jacobi. Come on. Shades off. Why the hell are you wearing shades indoors anyway?”

  Fitz is wearing his corduroy blazer today. Baby shit green. He only wears that blazer when he’s been reading Byron or Rilke and fancies himself one of the romantics. Poor bastard. He hasn’t been tortured enough in this life to make a good poet. With exaggerated care, I slide my Wayfarers down the bridge of my nose, eyes drilling into him as he dumps his record bag down at his feet. I don’t have to explain myself to him. I’m sure as hell not gonna tell him that I wore sunglasses to this English class so I could watch a certain delicately beautiful student sitting on the other side of the room, undisturbed. “You know me, Fitz,” I rumble. “You always have my undivided attention.”

  He pulls a face. “Yeah. Right.” No come back. He mustn’t have had a coffee yet. Even as I’m thinking this, our illustrious leader flips back the front of his record bag and pulls out a Thermos, popping the little white cap from the top of it and unscrewing the seal, flooding the room with the bitter, fragrant smell of arabica. “It’s that time of year again, guys. Storm season. We’ve had a number of new students since the start of last winter, so this information’s important. Even if you were a student here last winter, I’d still appreciate a few seconds of your time to go over this. Think of it as a refresher.”

  On the other side of the room, sitting on a yellow, worn sofa beneath a cliché and utterly classless print of Gustav’s Klimt’s ‘The Kiss,’ Carina nudges Elodie with her elbow and whispers something into her ear. In my mind, it’s me leaning into her, bringing my nose to her hair, close enough to catch the scent of her and store it to memory. I’ve imagined what the silken, smooth texture of her skin looks like up close, too. I’ve pored over her image on electronic screens and studied it committed in ink, but I haven’t held her down and inspected her features in person yet. I want to. More than anything, I want her underneath me, straining against me, as I figure out the way she frowns. I want to see what her fear looks like. Most importantly, I want to see the lie on her. The one all girls try to tell, when their panic catalyzes with their desire and they try to comprehend their own traitorous nature.

  “In case you haven’t bothered to check the weather report over the past twenty-four hours, the entire state’s about to face down a major storm front,” Fitz says. “These storms can get pretty hairy. Lightning strikes. Flash flooding. Luckily for us, we’re on the top of a mountain, so we aren’t in any danger of getting washed away. Wolf Hall’s basically bomb proof. It was built to withstand crazy weather. The wind can get pretty treacherous up here, though. Once the storm hits, there’ll be strict rules in place. No venturing off academy grounds. No leaving the building in general. If things start to look really sketchy, there have been occasions when Principal Harcourt deems it fit to move everyone into the basement, just in case. In the unlikely event that we need to evacuate the site, every student needs to be aware of the protocols set in place...”

  Fitz rambles on about the buses that will come to take us down the mountain if a state of emergency is declared. He goes over the emergency exit points, first aid points, blah blah fucking blah. I turn off, bored to my back fucking teeth. I’ve heard it all a thousand times before. Elodie hasn’t, though. She’s transfixed, hanging on Fitz’s every word, taking mental notes in case disaster comes looking for us here at Wolf Hall. A strange, unfamiliar part of me wants to reassure her and let her know that there’s nothing to worry about. The rest of me, the part I’m intimately acquainted with, relishes the sight of her, all timorous and concerned.

  I like her clothes. Her ‘smile if you’re dead inside’ t-shirt’s just as cliché as the Klimt painting, but it tells me something about the way she sees herself. Her distressed jeans are so tight, they look like they’ve been painted onto her thighs. My palms ache with the idea of what her skin, muscle and bone might feel like through the worn, soft denim. The scruffy Chuck Taylors look so lived in that I can tell she’s put hundreds of miles on them. I prefer the Doc Martins she usually wears, but I enjoy the way the Chucks make her feet look small and petite. My little Elodie has the feet of a fucking geisha.

  “That said, these warnings sound scary, but there really is nothing to worry about. This will be my tenth year teaching at Wolf Hall. A few fallen trees are the worst I’ve ever seen. Go about your day as normal. Do your work, make sure you follow the rules, and everything will be business as usual.”

  Fitz’s statement doesn’t make Elodie feel better. Our eyes lock from across the room, and the panic in her gaze makes my pulse soar. She frowns, creases forming across her forehead, and I realize that I’m staring without the convenience of my Ray Bans to disguise my interest.

  Look away, Jacobi.

  Look away.

  I should, but I don’t. I’m trapped by the pressure of her eyes on me. A slow, cunning smile begs to be unleashed across my face, and I relent, giving it free rein. Elodie jumps, startled, like I just dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over her head. She looks away first, and the satisfaction that courses slow like tar through my veins feels like victory.

  “Miss Stillwater, are you okay? There’s no need to look so worried,” Fitz says. “I promise, it’s gonna be fine. If you’re worried about anything, come and find me. I’m nearly always here in my room. Aside from sharing the brilliance of Lord Byron with you—”

  Oh, Fitz. I can read you like a fucking book.

  “—it’s also my job to keep you guys safe.”

  Damiana shoves her hand in the air. “Can all of us rely on you to be our knight in shining armor, Doctor Fitzpatrick? Or does your heroic valor only extend as far as Elodie?”

  Fitz’s disgusted look is dirtier than the sock Pax uses to jerk off into. “I’m here for all of my students, Dami. You’re well aware of that. No need for ugliness.”

  Damiana snorts. “I couldn’t be ugly if I tried, Doc. And you’re the one showing favoritism to the new girl because she’s got that doe-eyed innocent thing down and she’s rocking a great pair of tits. I’d say that was ugly, if you asked me.”

  “I didn’t. No one did. Thank you, as always, though, for your valuable input, Damiana. If anyone feels unsafe over the next forty-eight hours, please know that my door is open to everyone and anyone, regardless of their—”

  Dashiell won’t look at a girl unless she’s got double Ds. Pax…god knows what the fuck Pax likes. He’s never demonstrated any sort of pattern where the women that he selects are concerned. He’s far more interested in their personalities. That sounds like bullshit, but it’s true. There are certain flaws and weaknesses Pax looks for in a girl, usually heavily revolving around their daddy issues. Me? I like my girls to have smaller breasts. Anything more than a handful is a waste. I didn’t need Dami’s shady comment to draw attention to Elodie’s chest—I’ve spent plenty of time thinking about it before—but since she’s brought the matter up, I treat myself to a cursory glance at Elodie’s tits.

  Her shirt is two sizes too big, swamping her frame, but there’s a suggestion of breasts there. And the suggestion of breasts is always far more exciting to me than, say, Damiana’s obvious, in-your-face cleavage. That shit’s grotesque.

  Fitz rambles on, talking about safety and using common sense. I spend a lazy thirty seconds picturing how pretty Elodie’s lips would look, parted and wet, if I slipped my hand up underneath that tent of a t-shirt, yanked down the cup of her bra and viciously rolled her nipple between my fingers.

  When I snap out of my deviant reverie, Kylie Sharp is reading aloud from a bound book, but no one’s paying attention. Damiana snaps her gum. Dashiell’s eyes are fixed
on Carina. Pax is openly asleep, head lolling on his shoulders, his arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. Fitz’s gaze is on his shoes, and—whoa, whoa, whoa… Hold the fuck up. Covertly, Fitz looks up, glancing at Elodie out of the corner of his eye. I wait for him to look away, but he lingers on her, just that little bit too long. The muscle in his jaw tics. That’s when he finally looks away.

  What the fuck was that, Fitz? I do not fucking think so, homie.

  As if my thoughts were piped directly into his mind, Fitz’s head snaps up, his eyes meeting mine, where they waver for a beat. He knows exactly what I’ve seen, and the motherfucker doesn’t seem to be worried. He knows me, so he should also know that I don’t take well to other guys eyeing my property. Possession, regardless of the fact that the other party is unaware they’re someone else’s property, is nine tenths of the law. And I’ve always been willing to defend what’s mine.

  Fitz has the audacity to smile at me.

  Smile.

  That piece of fucking shit.

  Overhead, a deep, threatening rumble of thunder growls over the top of Kylie’s dark words.

  “I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

  The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars

  Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

  Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

  Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air…”

  The thunder crashes again—a portent of what’s to come, an ill omen, sending an anticipatory shiver racing down my spine. When I turn away from the delusional English teacher, Elodie Stillwater is staring at me.

  Over the next thirty minutes, I catch her watching me again and again, peering at me from under dark eyelashes, and every time it happens, my resolve strengthens. There’s a connection here. A bizarre, uncomfortable link that makes me sweat every time I think about severing it. I wonder if she feels panicked, and distressed, and turned on whenever she hears my voice.

  She’s the first out of the door when the bell goes. She ducks her head, throws her bag over her shoulder, clutching a turquoise file to her chest, and she whirls out of the room before Carina’s even on her feet.

  I haven’t been paying attention to Carina. I haven’t even spared her a sidelong glance. She is Dashiell’s self-imposed punishment, not mine. It looks like her skin is crawling and she’s about to throw up as she navigates a pathway through Fitz’s worn, haphazard furniture, slowly crossing the room toward me.

  Fucking wonderful.

  I know what’s coming next.

  Carina, Carina. Sweet little Carrie. The mother hen of the fourth floor. Fuck knows when Harcourt designated her protector over all new female students, but she must take her role very seriously if she’s willing to come here and face me down.

  She clears her throat, announcing her presence. I’m looking down at my cell, feigning ignorance, but of course I know perfectly well that she’s there. “Carina.”

  “You could have the decency to put the phone down for a second.” Her voice is colder than the glacial tone my ex-stepmother used to affect whenever she addressed my father. Smiling wickedly, I give her what she wants: I raise my head, looking her right in the eye. It’s been my experience that plenty of people want to get my attention. When they have it, they very quickly want to give it back. Carina’s no exception. She flinches under the weight of my gaze. She’s stronger than most, though. She doesn’t look away.

  “I’ve got one word for you, Jacobi. Don’t.”

  Oh, ho, ho. This is gonna be entertaining. “Don’t be so devastatingly handsome? Don’t be smarter than every single man in this place? Don’t make my heart flutter in my chest every time you look at me?”

  Carina clenches her jaw, nostrils flaring. “You’re many things, Wren, but slick isn’t one of them. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve seen you looking at her. Just don’t.” She spins on the balls of her feet and hurries toward the exit, making her escape before I can toy with her some more. Carrie never was any fun. I have no idea what Dashiell sees in her.

  “That looked like a cutting exchange.”

  The classroom’s empty now, bar myself and Fitz. Dashiell and Pax might be my boys, but neither one of them can stand Fitz. They have their reasons; they won’t linger in his classroom a second longer than is required to maintain their grades.

  Casting a menacing scowl in the teacher’s direction, I get to my feet. “I’m pretty pissed at you, old man.”

  Fitz leans against the writing desk next to him, resting his hip against the wood. With his arms folded across his chest and a wry smirk on his face, he looks like he’s the one who’s pissed at me. “We’ve been through this,” he says, letting out a weighty sigh. “You’ve made your intentions perfectly clear. I’ve told you I think it’s a bad idea. After what happened with Mara, you’ve—”

  I grab his face with one hand, digging my fingers into his cheeks. The stubble on his chin bites into my hand, bringing back memories I’d rather forget. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring her up again, y’know. This situation’s nothing like what happened with Mara. You, more than anyone, should know that. Right?”

  My blood turns to ice as Fitz’s eyes roll back into his skull; he looks like he’s caught in that confounding middle ground between fury and ecstasy. “Right. Yeah. I—you’re right.”

  “Elodie’s mine. I’ve already cleared it with the boys. And I don’t need to clear shit with you. You won’t go near her.”

  Nodding, Fitz reaches up and takes hold of me by the wrist, slowly pulling my hand away from his face. “I won’t go near her.” He swallows hard.

  I leave his room just as the first bout of rain begins to lash at the windows.

  9

  ELODIE

  +972 3 556 3409: I can’t believe you’re gone. Everyone at Mary’s is devastated. We’re all in shock. We’ll never forget you, Elle. You’ll always be missed. I love you – Levi x

  I smile down at the WhatsApp message from my friend, relieved that he’s finally reached out. Dad replaced my phone with a device from a US cell provider when he packed me off to the airport, and I lost all of my numbers. And annoyingly, Levi’s one of those ‘technology is evil and I will have no part in social media’ guys, so I’ve had to wait for him to make the first move. The tone of his message is super weird, though.

  ME: Wow. No need to go making out like I died, dude. It’s not like I moved to Mars. We can figure out a way to hang in the holidays if your mom doesn’t whisk you off to Switzerland or something. How’s everything going? Has Professor Marshall checked himself into rehab yet?

  Our old science tutor was forever nipping into the back of his room to sneak a hit from his hip flask. There were rumors he was using the chemicals on hand in his lab to concoct his own—

  My phone buzzes, it’s loud ringtone echoing off the walls as I climb the endless stairs up toward my room. I cringe, silencing it, checking to see if there are any members of faculty in sight. Phones are prohibited in common areas. Luckily, I’m already on the second floor and the only people in close proximity to me are other students.

  “Hey, dude! I wasn’t expecting you to call right away. I’m almost back at my room. Give me a second to—”

  “Elodie?”

  There’s something about Levi’s tone that stops me in my tracks. He sounds…I’m not sure what he sounds like. Something isn’t right, though. “Lee? What’s up? Is everything okay? What’s happened?”

  “You’re alive?” he whispers. I’ve been friends with Levi for two years now. Not a long time in most people’s books, but we’ve crammed a lot into those seven hundred and thirty odd days. I know him inside and out, and he knows me, too. Every dark, dumb, stupid, embarrassing little secret I’ve ever had. From Sweden, he’s fairly representative of his people. Stoic, serious, ever calm and deeply grounded, he doesn’t really let anything affect him. He keeps his emotions close to his chest. Those words, though…his voice was choked with te
ars when he said them. My friend is fucking crying.

  “What are you talking about, I’m alive? Of course I’m alive. I’m in New Hampshire.”

  Levi sniffs, making a strangled sound. “I’m—I’m sorry, I just need a…” He stops talking. Draws in a deep breath. He sounds like he’s trying to compose himself. And then he says, “Your father told the dean you were in an accident, Elodie. The entire school’s been in mourning all week.”

  I’ve reached the fourth floor landing now. Thankfully I’ve left the stairs behind or I’d probably fall face-first down them. I slap my hand out against the wall, steadying myself as my vision dims around the edges. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  Levi coughs. I can picture him in his bedroom back at Mary Magdalene’s, in his pajamas, perched on the edge of his bed, his wonderfully brown eyes vacant as he tries to process this news.

  I’m alive.

  I’m speaking to him on the phone, back from the fucking dead.

  The whole thing is too confusing to comprehend. “I’m really struggling here, Lee. Sounds like you are, too. Can you explain what you meant when you said my father told the dean I was dead, though? ‘Cause my brain’s melting out of my ears right now.”

  “He came to the school on Monday. Showed up with a full military guard. We thought there was some sort of threat to the school at first. Then Ayala saw him with the dean. She said he talked to him for a second in the hall, that Dean Rogers looked shocked and tried to put his hand on Colonel Stillwater’s shoulder, but he backed away, spoke for another brief second, and then marched off, got back into his car and disappeared. Next thing we know, we’re being pulled into our home rooms and we’re being told that you were in a plane crash over the weekend. They said you didn’t make it.”