If he’s not a Noble, some of his friends are—they have to be—and I just gave them another picture or video to use against me.
Chase’s back was to the camera, but I wasn’t. I could hope that Chase's actions after turning his friend into a skid mark were meant to delete said video, but why would he?
Fuck. A stubborn piece of chocolate lodges in my throat. I’m dreading tomorrow and what could happen. Will they all see it? Will they all know I almost bent my knees to Chase?
No. I am not like that.
Tossing the chocolate wrapper aside, I storm into my room and grab my laptop, prepared to spend the night learning about Briarcliff and the Stones. And the Harringtons.
The laptop sits on my bed, screen at maximum brightness, and I prop myself cross-legged in front of it while reaching for my phone.
I’m prepared to cross-reference anything I find in Piper’s journal with the Harrington and Stone ancestors at Briarcliff, and I’ll stay up all night to do it.
I start at the beginning: Rose Briar. It’s the one avenue police aren’t pursuing, and my one Hail Mary should they start pursuing me.
Planning out a course of action is a million times better than stressing over what Chase could do with Riordan’s video. Chase never managed to get to that point before I pulled his dick out and resisted the longing to taste the most intimate, sexual part of him.
To be so intimate and turned on with a guy, without any loving act of kissing….
I’d once told Piper she was dark and twisty, and I’m starting to think that pocket of sin lives in me, too.
My underwear pulls tight against the sudden swell. Dampness coats the fabric as each second with Chase tickertapes across the back of my eyelids, falling through my mind the way explosions of paper rocket into the sky during street parades.
I rub my eyes free from the image and focus on Piper’s last words instead, putting Mr. S aside and searching for details of her innermost thoughts, such as any mention, however tiny, of Rose’s rival society, starting with a “V,” or the Nobles, and whether the Stones or Harringtons were a part of them.
I refuse to give any credence to that gnawing sound in the back of my head, teething its pattern of denial all over my brain.
Someone’s in my room.
I jerk awake, my sheets tangling with my bare legs when I bring them up to my chest. The wild motion causes my hair to fly into my face, and I scrape it back, keeping my hand on my head as I survey my room, too obscured by night to make out much. The meager moonlight from my single window doesn’t help illuminate what I swear is rustling in the corner.
Without saying a word, I fumble for the switch on my nightstand lamp, yanking the chain and flooding both the room and my feeble, sleepy eyesight. Squinting, eyes watering, I scan my room again while maintaining my position in bed, then decide I’ve made myself too vulnerable and crawl out of it.
Nothing’s out of place. No footsteps stain the floorboards, no blood is splattered against the walls—
I gasp, blinking away the interposing nightmare, tugging my nightshirt over my underwear, feeling my clothes and skin, ensuring I’m in reality and not a night terror.
You’re not there. Mom’s not at your feet. You’re okay.
Hefting my binder full of notes in one hand, I fly into the center room, ready to pummel whoever’s decided to trespass and terrify me.
I glance left, where Piper’s couch and entertainment system used to be. Nothing but the filtered moonlight from the large bay window glides across the hardwood floor.
The kitchenette stands silent, until the mini fridge lets out a gurgle and my skeleton nearly separates from my skin.
The urge to call out is a damn strong one, but I’m no damsel willing to point out where I’m standing for slaughter, despite my room’s light illuminating my backside.
Someone was here. I was torn awake by a sound that wasn’t supposed to be in my room.
Piper’s shut door looms in front of me, proof that I’m not simply shaking off a nightmare. It was ajar before I turned out all the lights and went to sleep.
Same goes with my bathroom.
Gulping, I’m uncertain where to begin. Do I burst through Piper’s room, or the bathroom?
And what do I do if I confront a hidden intruder?
I’ve taken multiple self-defense classes, even excelled in archery that one summer I went to sleep-away camp Upstate, but … I’ve seen death. Its bleakness has poisoned me twice in two years, and I lack the confidence in my ability to cheat it the way I did before Mom. Before Piper.
I’m so busy staring down Piper’s door that I hear the click before I sense where it came from—the front door.
The bathroom door’s open now.
A whimper escapes my lips, and I buckle against my doorframe, the Briarcliff binder clutched tight to my chest.
Whoever it was, is gone, and I have the entrusting notion that the person managed to escape through the shadows because of a black cloak.
Damn my petrified state. Instead of flipping on all the lights like I should’ve, I gave him plenty of blind corners to escape into before finding the door.
And if you brought him into the light, how do you think that would’ve gone for you? An inner voice, sounding suspiciously like my mom, whispers.
She’s right. The binder slips from my hands, and I race to the bathroom, banging the door against the wall and switching on the light.
The bathroom is as pristine as I left it, meaning there are bottles stacked along the bathtub’s rim, and my make-up scattered across the sink’s counter with my flat iron’s wire tangled inside the sink’s rim…
With one thing tucked under it that doesn’t belong.
Swallowing, I move closer and lift the foreign object, inspecting it closer to the mirror.
A single white rose petal, softened and bruised from too much handling, is all that remains of my unwelcome visitor, left to rot in my sink.
36
The sun is slow to rise on Sunday morning, unlike me.
Sleep didn’t come after my baleful attempt at catching a shadowed figure in my empty dorm room. The rest of the early hours were spent with me sitting cross-legged in bed, holding my lamp as a better weapon, should anyone—even poor Ivy—decide to visit me while the moon was still out. I disregard reporting last night to Headmaster Marron, or even Haskins. What would I say? Someone’s harassing me by leaving roses? My room’s being broken into, but nothing is taken or moved around?
My breakfast consists of a handful of dry granola and a large thermos of coffee before I pull on a plaid button-up over my white tank and zip up my comfy, ripped jeans—Callie Ryan B.B. (Before Briarcliff).
Having the lonely beats of my heart for company last night, even during someone’s scare attempt, I’m eager to surround myself with people, even if they wear Briarcliff gear, and even if they are mostly mean. I decide to do some Sunday study in the library.
It’s better than waiting in a room with no security for the Cloak’s next move.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator today, choosing the safety of using my feet over becoming easy prey in an enclosed space.
My night wasn’t entirely ruined, however. When the lights were on and my brain in peak study mode, I learned a lot about the Stone and Harrington contributions to Briarcliff, and consequently, the small town named after it.
The Stones’ donations to Briarcliff were substantial—incredibly so. The very library I’m heading to is even named after Daniel Stone’s wife (read: divorcée), Marilee Barclay, called the M.B.S. Library of Studies.
A huge amount of dough is required to donate a building, even from a top defense attorney, and I circled that discrepancy, but never returned to it. Daniel Stone’s serious money donations might not have anything to do with Piper, other than him potentially inheriting partial ownership to Moriarty Oil—a company bequeathed to Paul Harrington’s wife, Sabine Moriarty, when he marries her. Ivy didn’t have the whole story—the
Harringtons owned the multi-million dollar company, Comfy-At-Home, but she missed the part about them having some serious old family oil money.
All these names twisted in my mind. It’s hella difficult to keep rich people’s fortunes straight, especially when they intermingle. Yet, arming myself with this information was empowering. I felt less like a goldfish swimming in open waters and more like a baby shark.
In heading to the library, I take the public path. It’s a longer trek, but farther away from the forest and in flat plains. If any Cloak wants to introduce himself, he’ll have to do it in view of the entire campus.
No one greets me as I enter the pavilion. Students are peppered throughout. It’s getting colder, and many are choosing the Briarcliff winter uniform of sweaters and cardigans over their regular clothing today.
The library is behind Briarcliff’s primary building, and I detour around the side, still in plain sight, until I reach the modern glass doors of the two-story library.
A light, warm breeze hits me from above as the automatic doors swish open. As I swipe my keycard and step through one of two turnstiles by the librarian’s desk, I keep my expression impassive, despite the awe I experience whenever I enter.
It’s an open concept, with wide, scarred wooden desks placed in rows in the middle, scores of books rimming all four corners and stacking to the ceiling. A balcony stretches across, midway through the rows upon rows of books, to access the ones shelved higher. Rolling, metal ladders lean against the walls, ready to be used by the librarian upon request. I love the hushed, papered atmosphere of this place, despite the majority of our work being on our computers and online.
I find the closest table, despite most being available. Wanting to be near the exit in case of an emergency—or a wayward bully—is a difficult habit to break.
A low laugh grabs my attention, and I scan the cluster of students who have decided to make their Sunday morning a study session, too.
There. In the far corner, near the stacks with the least amount of sunlight, sit Chase and his posse.
When Chase catches my eye, a half-cocked smirk dancing across his face, I look down, intent on spreading out my textbooks for our English and Calculus quarter-terms coming up this week. My stomach reacts, butterfly wings unfurling at my core.
Echoing whispers and hitches of breath—disguised laughter—emit from Chase’s corner of the room.
I curl my hands over a textbook, the words blurring into smudges. Mom’s words whisper through my ears.
Falling is a mistake. But staying down? Staying down is a choice, Calla.
My textbook shuts with a smack. I stand, and with hands fisted to my side, stalk over to Chase’s table.
Riordan sees me coming and ducks his head, pretending deep interest in his calc text. James catches Riordan’s movements, but unlike his buddy, lays his direct gaze against mine, watching me approach as he sticks a pen between his teeth and leans back against his chair. Tempest spins his stylus in a graceful, distracted maneuver, then taps it against his bottom lip as he reads his iPad. The watercolor green of his eyes, however, shine in my direction.
Chase doesn’t change his stance, studying his laptop, then writing something down on a spiral-bound notebook.
He’s left-handed, I think, which is a ridiculous observation to make when I’m about to ask him if he made a sex tape of us.
James drops his gaze when I reach their table. Nobody speaks.
Hissing, slithering whispers catch my attention at my periphery, and I notice Piper’s old friends nearby. Falyn, Willow, and Violet.
My vision turns to slits when I see them, all hunched over their phones.
God, don’t let it be what I think it is.
I turn back to the boys, crossing my arms and clearing my throat.
None react.
“What are you going to do with it?” I ask in a low voice, uncaring of who responds. James and Tempest are well aware of what their boys got up to yesterday evening.
James speaks. He feigns confusion and asks, “With what?”
“You know what.” I’m hoping my tone cuts through their infuriating ease but know I’m about to be sorely disappointed.
“Chase?” I ask.
One carved, bronze eyebrow rises, but he doesn’t stray from his computer.
“Don’t you think our attention—no, scratch that—the school’s focus should be on Piper, not what we—” I catch myself, not even able to say what we did out loud. “I thought Piper was the one deserving the spotlight. Why the hell did you do that to me?”
Chase slow blinks at me. Riordan laughs under his breath, so I shove at his shoulder, turning his laughter into startled chokes.
“And why the hell did you film it, you second-hand creep? Do you get off on seeing your leader’s junk?”
Riordan sobers. “Hey, now. That’s mean.”
“You should’ve seen my video,” James pipes in, smiling with the pen in his teeth. “Hottest Rated for a while there. Maybe yours woulda been, too, had you shown some—”
The table cracks with Chase’s fist. The only human who doesn’t jump in the whole damned room is Tempest.
A velvet-calm voice floats up to my ears. “You can relax, Callie.”
I stare down at Chase. He was speaking to me, but is back to focusing on the screen in front of him.
“See this?” Riordan redirects my attention by pointing to the reddened, swollen skin around his eye. “It’s deleted. Believe me on that.”
I stop the habit of chewing on my lower lip nervously. “You’re sure?”
Riordan lifts his phone. “There’s nothing on here. Technically, that show you and Chase put on wasn’t supposed to happen, ergo, shouldn’t’ve been filmed…”
“What were you supposed to be filming, little Spielberg?” I ask. “In fact, what else have you filmed? You get off on girl fights, too?”
“Rio,” Tempest says, sitting on Chase’s left. “Time for you to shut up.”
“What’s wrong, Tempi?” James asks, letting his head fall to one shoulder. “Is this sort of chit-chat too human-like for you? Should we go back to our lizard forms like yourself?”
“Call me that again.” Tempest’s stare snaps to James’s.
I inwardly flinch at the cool murder in Tempest’s expression. It’s a miracle I got away with calling him Pest.
Chase shuts his laptop. Hard. “All of you, fuck off over to the girls. They look in need of quiet entertainment. James, show them your vintage porn video and get back some of your previous popularity.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “Until you explain.”
“Not you,” Chase clips out. “You can sit.”
“Again, with the be a good girl talk.” But as the boys stand and drift over to Falyn’s table, I take Riordan’s seat across from Chase. “I don’t believe you. You don’t put a camera on something like that and just delete it before being able to use it for some gain. I know you at this point, Chase.”
“No.” Chase laughs. “You don’t.”
“Then what?” I fold my arms over the table, keeping my voice as low as his. Somehow, the entire exchange with Chase and his boys happened in soft, snappish voices that were overlooked by the librarian. It’s undetermined how long this free pass will continue. “What else have you recorded? Piper and me fighting? Did you send that crap to me?”
“I wish I knew what you were talking about, sweet possum.”
I lean closer. Now that his computer’s shut, it’s much easier to look into his scotch-brown eyes, as clear and placid as the manmade lake he trains his muscles on. “What you did was an insane violation of my privacy.”
“That may be, but with the grave you’re digging for yourself, if you go second, I don’t want anyone pointing to me as a suspect. Again,” he adds drolly.
Ignoring the tarantula-sized creepy crawlies in my gut, I retort, “You were all for my looking into Piper’s death. And now you’re against it?”
“Not quite
. What I don’t appreciate is you constantly referencing me as a Noble.”
I swallow a scornful laugh. “Are you trying to tell me they have nothing to do with Piper? Because the harder I ‘dig,’ the faster they tell me to fuck off.”
Chase squints at me. “They’re communicating with you?”
The dirty white rose petal I found in the bathroom sink takes a spot in my mind’s eye. “In a sense. Do they wear cloaks?”
Chase takes his time studying me, the type of survey that leaves invisible goosebumps on my skin. “Callie. At what point are you going to understand they may be warning you away from something and not toward it?”
“Once they start being direct. Like a letter. A word, even, instead of skulking around with roses.”
“Roses?” Chase sits back and crosses his arms. “You’re playing with the devil.”
“I am. I even had his dick in my hand, if you recall.”
Chase stiffens. But he breaks character with the barest lift to his lips. “How can such a shy, quiet, nerd-girl have such a mouth on her?”
“Who said I was shy?”
Chase stares at me like I should have the answer. Then he answers for me. “You have no friends.”
“Correction,” I say, despite the sudden lump in my chest. “I have few friends at Briarcliff. That doesn’t mean I’m friendless.”
Matt and Sylvie come to mind, back in NYC and together, living their new Insta lives without their third wheel wobbling them off track.
“Really?” Chase shuts his laptop, then leans his elbows on the table. His scent drifts into my vicinity, and I pull back on instinct. Now isn’t the time to be drawn in by his lure. “Your pathetic month here tells me I’m right.”
“Stop changing the subject. The devil isn’t a member of the Nobles. It’s you, if my earlier opinion didn’t point that out. All my problems come from you and your salivating followers. So, as long as you can prove there’s no video by letting me look through your phone, you can stand down, and I’ll leave you alone.”
Rival (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 1) Page 20