Rival (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 1)

by Ketley Allison

  “Fine. But I can’t promise I won’t want to fuck you in between.”

  I go all tingly and wet at the thought. “I—we can come to a deal on that.”

  “Oh, can we?”

  I squeak when I land back on the bed, with him shadowing my body until his hands land on the mattress on either side of me. “I’m calling in that favor, sweet possum.”

  43

  Chase and I come to a ceasefire. Of sorts.

  In public, we don’t acknowledge each other, except to add any additional information we find about Piper, which so far, isn’t much.

  I discreetly asked the college receptionists at Thorne House if there was any camera access to the night my mom’s pictures were strewn around my room (I left out the part of someone using that distraction to steal my phone), but was told Marron took the footage and handed it over to the police.

  That’s a positive step. Evidence of my harasser went to the police. Piper’s fall was in the hands of the police. The police were in charge of Emma’s case, too. I should leave it up to them. Mom would want me to. Ahmar would encourage it. I could lose myself in Chase the way he loses himself in me, carry on at Briarcliff in the relative safety of his protection, then graduate out of these suffocating, deceptive hallways.

  Except … the roses still exist. The Nobles and my hunch they’re not a separate danger keeps popping up, despite Chase’s lame attempts to convince me otherwise.

  The cops are doing shit-all about those doozies. Marron, even worse.

  Is Briarcliff just one giant cover-up for a litany of crimes committed under its purview?

  It all starts with your paper on Rose Briar.

  Eden’s voice won’t go away. I’ll have to scratch that itch after my history and calc quarter-terms today, then sneak away to the public library to see if I can find anything more on Rose. If any old texts exist, it would have to be—

  I spear up in bed on a gasp.

  “The hell, Callie?” Chase mumbles into the pillow, then searches for my hand and presses it against his groin. Smiling in the waning moonlight, he adds, “Are you waking me up early for a good-luck rub before quarter-terms?”

  “What if the library didn’t burn down because of Emma?” I say breathlessly. “What if it was the Cloaks trying to hide something?”

  “Christ, really?” Chase rolls so he’s on his back and peering at me with slitted eyes. “That’s reaching, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t find anything on Rose Briar, yet I keep being reminded that in order to solve Piper’s death, Rose’s mystery has to be looked into, too. The original documents about the Briarcliff founding would’ve been in the old school library, right?”

  Chase rubs his eyes. “I suppose.”

  “Then that means anything else original to Rose Briar was destroyed.”

  “Anything else?”

  Shit. Shit. Chase doesn’t know about the portion of Rose’s letter I found in the public library.

  I ignore the slip-up in hopes Chase deems it unworthy enough to ignore, too. “This all dates back to the beginning of Briarcliff, but how?”

  “Cal.”

  “I’m just like the cops. I’ve got nothing.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not backing the police up. Wasn’t your mom a cop?”

  “No.” I frown at him.

  Chase sits up with a grunt. “Seriously? This whole time, I thought she was one. Partnered with your uncle or whatever.”

  “She was a crime scene photographer,” I say distractedly.

  “Huh.”

  “You and Piper’s research into me didn’t go far, then, if you didn’t know what my mom did for a living.”

  Chase’s jaw works, the muscles in his cheeks tensing and releasing, but he says nothing.

  I continue. “The library could’ve been burned down for another reason. We have to cross that possibility off our list.”

  “No. We don’t.”

  “I see we’re back to one syllable demands.”

  “Just get off that line of thinking, okay? Here. I’ll help.” He lays my hand back on his junk, rigid and firm under his pants. “I take exams better when my spank bank’s empty.”

  “Gross. And no.” I pull my hand back. “This is important, Chase.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “It is. I thought you wanted this. You keep saying you have better reasons than me to solve Piper’s death, yet here you are, wanting to have sex instead of talk it through—”

  “My sister lit the fire, all right?” Chase’s voice crackles in the air. “So, can you please be over it now?”

  “She … she did?”

  “Yes. Our dad paid people to keep that detail away from the press and prevent Briarcliff from pressing charges. She burned the place to ashes a few weeks after her attack. Became trapped in a fire of her own making. And I can’t fucking blame her when nobody would bring her the guy who hurt her. And before you ask, no, she did not burn it down to prevent your research of some chick jumping off a cliff almost two hundred years ago.”

  I can’t think of anything to say.

  Chase’s dark eyes shine in the gloom. “Don’t say a word of that to anyone. You understand?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” Chase throws the covers off and leaps out of bed, searching the floor for his pants. “Now that I’m up, I’m leaving.”

  “Chase, wait.”

  For the past week, Chase has been sneaking into Thorne House and staying with me, leaving before dawn, but not like this.

  “Can’t.” He scrapes his hair back. “I’ll see you in class.”

  “Chase, I’m—”

  “Don’t say it. There’s nothing to be sorry for. You’re doing what I want, and that’s asking the type of questions the cops aren’t. So, keep at it. Just … leave Emma out of it. She’s for me to figure out.”

  I nod with a noncommittal bob. If Emma and Piper’s situations are related, then it’s critical I prove that, too, despite the meager access I have to either of them.

  Chase pauses at my bedroom door, smacking the frame in thought. “Good luck today.”

  “Sure,” I say, distant. “You, too.”

  Chase leaves without another word.

  I fall back asleep with Cloaks and roses clouding my thoughts, and Chase’s confession about his sister ringing in my ears.

  A blaring sound wakes me, and I smack my hand across my brand-new phone on the nightstand and drag it toward me to turn the stupid thing off.

  It’s exam time, and I feel better prepared for them than I do the rest of my problems, which is to say, not much.

  I shower, dress, then exit the dorms with the rest of the Briarcliff girls, clustered in groups and chatting about possible exam topics. I follow behind, content not to be involved—or noticed—by any of them.

  I scan the heads for Ivy or Eden, but I’m disappointed when I don’t see them. Maybe they’re at the main building or at the library doing last minute preparations. A quick text would let me know, but I’ve left my phone in my room, as we’re all required to do.

  History with Dr. Luke is my morning class, and mercifully, it doesn’t come in the form of an 8 AM exam. Our papers were our quarter-terms, and Dr. Luke is handing them back today, containing my first grade at Briarcliff Academy.

  It’s funny, worrying about my GPA when it should be my top concern. Instead, bodies fill my head, damaged and dead ones vying for attention.

  I’m envious of the girls walking the path ahead of and behind me. They have no idea what Briarcliff truly is, what it hides. Secret societies don’t take up their headspace. The founders didn’t linger in their minds longer than writing a paper about them. Chase doesn’t sneak into their rooms at night, promising ecstasy and escape one minute, then vengeance and truth-telling the next.

  Their roommate wasn’t here one day, then dead the next.

  As if summoned, Chase merges onto the path with the rest of his crew, Tempest and James flanking him, Riordan trailing beh
ind with his nose in a textbook as they prowl.

  A group of girls stare at Chase, whispering something to their friends, then glance back at me. None possess the bravery to blurt out what they’re thinking loud enough for Chase to catch. He’d rather stare straight ahead and pretend to listen to what James has to say than acknowledge I’m close behind.

  We all filter into the school, then spread into various hallways, trudging to class. Dr. Luke is in the classroom when I walk in, sorting through the pile of essays.

  “Morning, Miss Ryan,” he says without looking up.

  “Morning,” I reply, and take my seat as the rest of the class funnels through the door. He greets each by name.

  “All right, class!” Dr. Luke claps for attention once we’re seated. “I have good news and bad news. Good news: three people got an A on these papers. Bad news, the rest of you scraped by with a B minus or lower. To say I’m disappointed is an understatement. These are the people who built the walls you study in and cinched your education for entry into prestigious universities.” Dr. Luke strides through the rows, plopping papers onto each desk he passes. “A little more resourcefulness, next time, okay?”

  My paper plops in front of me, and Dr. Luke says in a voice meant for me alone, “I expected better from you, Miss Ryan.”

  Brows furrowed, I glance down at my essay and gasp. C-minus. What?

  “Dr. Luke, I—”

  “Anyone who has a problem with their grade,” Dr. Luke says as he continues to meander the rows, leaving nothing but his masculine cologne behind, “can speak to me after class.”

  Students gasp in response. The few who got an A are obvious. Falyn smiles, then shows her paper to Willow sitting behind her with a bright, sharpie-red A. Chase leans back and crosses his arms on a grin, a cock in charge of his roost. Shockingly, James is the third, and he waves his paper like a beauty queen greeting the crowd until Dr. Luke tells him to sit his ass down.

  I clear my throat instead of grunting any jealousy, and frantically flip through my paper, scanning Dr. Luke’s comments.

  My section about the possibility of Rose being part of a secret society is crossed out in red as thick as Falyn’s A.

  Dr. Luke scrawled in the margins: While this is intriguing, you have no facts or references to back Rose’s involvement in any sort of underground society. This is history class, not creative writing. I need real, historical facts, Miss Ryan.

  So much for appreciating those who think out of the box. I tried to be different and talk about a skeleton that’s actually interesting, and Dr. Luke crossed it all out.

  I sag into my seat, my stomach lurching with failure as Dr. Luke finishes handing out the essays.

  “What a fucking douche,” the guy behind me mutters. William, I think. “You think with his family inheritance, he’d be more forgiving, you know?”

  “No shit,” his friend agrees, sitting in the desk beside him. “I thought he took this job for kicks, not because he actually wanted to do it.”

  “Mold our futures,” William mocks in a clogged voice. “Nurture our minds offline, blah-blah-barf.”

  “He’s the black sheep of the Stevensons,” the friend adds. “His brothers are happily living off their trust funds and parties and tits. Why would you give that up for this?”

  I whip around in my seat, startling William. “Did you say Stevenson?”

  “Oh, hi, possum,” he says.

  I ignore his mocking tone. “What do you mean by that name?”

  “Uh, it’s his last name. Ever heard of Stevenson Banking Co.? I guess he doesn’t want to be associated with it since he calls himself lame-ass Doctor Luke, but we all know it, anyway. Except for you, but what else is new.”

  “Stevenson,” I mutter, my eyes downcast. “Stevenson.”

  “Can you turn around now? You’re creeping me out.”

  I blurt, “Does anyone call him Mr. S?”

  “Uh … do you call him that when you’re going down on his dick? Be gone, possum.”

  I bare my teeth and hiss at him, which causes William to startle again like the little jack-off he is. I twist in my seat, mentally answering his rhetorical question. I don’t. But maybe Piper did.

  My stomach, feeling sick before, creates a tidal wave of nausea.

  Dr. Luke stops in the front of the room, turning around with his hands interlocked behind him.

  “It’s quarter-term day, but do any of you think you deserve the rest of this period free to study?”

  Students groan and rustle papers. Dr. Luke’s gaze drops to mine, rests there for a few seconds too long, then moves on.

  I swallow, an internal fire building in my cheeks.

  This can’t be the answer. I have to be so, so wrong, just like my essay on Rose Briar. Just like all other avenues of thought I’ve dead-ended since enrolling at Briarcliff. Piper’s death is about the secret society. She knew something they didn’t want revealed to the public, and Piper would’ve done that through our paper. The Cloaks didn’t begin their stalking of me for no reason. Piper didn’t hide Rose’s letter for kicks. I have to be right! I HAVE TO.

  My essay sags in my hand, answering my affirmations with palpable failure. Piper may have wanted to write an exposé, but Dr. Luke wouldn’t have cared. He would’ve crossed her theories out as easily as he dismissed mine.

  Unless he was fucking her as Mr. S, and he’s the one who ripped out identifying pages in her diary.

  No. No, I groan inwardly, lowering my head to my hands. I want it to be the society. It has to be Briarcliff’s secrets, not something as obvious and conclusive as a teacher-student affair.

  But, it makes a twisted sort of sense. Dr. Luke is the one who broke up the party at the cliff. What made him go there in the first place?

  Piper.

  She could’ve texted him. Oh my God—she could’ve pretended to go back to the dorms, when all the while she was hiding in wait for the party to end so she could see Dr. Luke!

  “So, who wants to tell me about our guest of honor, Abraham Lincoln? You’ve all heard of him, yes?”

  Dr. Luke uses his usual dry humor to keep the class’s attention, his expression serene, kindness and pride in being a teacher exuding out of his pores.

  As I raise my head, his wafting scent hits me like the front of a McLaren going at Mach speed, now that it has more context. I’d always associated his masculine, sandalwood scent with comfort, but I was confusing comfort with familiarity. I thought that scent belonged to Chase, but I’ve tasted the salt of him, and it never washes away no matter how clean he becomes.

  No, I’ve smelled Dr. Luke on someone else before. A person I thought was carrying Chase’s scent with her when she sat down to tell me about Rose Briar for the first time.

  Piper.

  Is it just me, or is there a fresh coldness behind Dr. Luke’s eyes? So different from Chase’s, yet similar in their sharing of … of what? I can’t grasp the word, but I know it’s there.

  Dr. Luke calls on Falyn, who happily gives him the answer he was looking for: “Abe Lincoln is, like, a president…”

  As Dr. Luke gives off every indication of listening intently to Falyn, I slip through his cracks. I study the nuances.

  And I catch the word.

  Guilt.

  Guilt is the darkness lying dormant behind his eyes.

  44

  My attempts to corner Chase after history are thwarted. He leaves Dr. Luke’s class with Falyn and Willow skipping behind him like he’s the be-all of their existence.

  Maybe he is, now that Piper’s not there to redirect them.

  Eden isn’t in this class—heck, I never know where she is on normal occasions—so I can’t corner her, and Ivy, as is her habit, has only surface-level Briarcliff gossip to impart.

  Not that I don’t appreciate it, but as I ask Ivy under my breath before Professor Lacey hands out the calc tests whether she knows anything about Luke Stevenson, she meets me with a blank stare.

  “Who?” she asks, h
er legs angled toward me as we talk across the aisle.

  “Dr. Luke,” I say. “The history prof.”

  “Oh. The hottest teacher in our school.” She mimes hitting her forehead. “Duh. What about him?”

  “Does he, I dunno…” I pretend I don’t care at all about what I’m about to ask, “flirt with girls in his class at all?”

  “Jaysus, I wish.” She guffaws. “I can guarantee every girl in the senior class has fantasized about him, but I have no idea whether any of them have done it with Dr. Luke. Why?” She leans forward. “What rumor are you trying to spread, and do you want my help?”

  I laugh, but it sounds forced even to my ears. “It’s nothing, but—”

  “Ladies! Eyes straight ahead, please.”

  Ivy and I straighten at our desks as Professor Lacey reads the rules before we’re allowed to open our exams.

  I try my best to stay focused and answer the blur of numbers before me, but instead of equations, I see Piper’s handwriting, confessing her encounters with Mr. S and how he insisted the affair be kept quiet. I’d had heavy focus on Chase or his father, but now I believe I didn’t spread the net wide enough, too distracted by my gut reaction to Chase and his relationship with Piper.

  Could it be true?

  Dr. Luke never came off creepy or touchy-feely, and I’ve been alone with him. He was the teacher I turned to when questioning got rough and fingers pointed to me as Piper’s killer. Dr. Luke exuded calm and good-naturedness, with an innate motivation to groom and be kind to his students.

  I can’t put him on blast by reporting my suspicions to the school. Piper’s code name, Mr. S, isn’t proof.

  You know that’s not the case. Think back to your fight with Piper.

  My mouth falls into an O as I stare at my exam. During that final confrontation, Piper accused me of stealing her boyfriend. I assumed that boyfriend was Chase, but Piper never said it was. At no point did she say his name, and I was so confused at the timeline. My last encounter with Chase happened over a week before Piper screamed at me in the dining hall.