Lost Boys: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Crazy Vicious Love Book 1)

by Eva Ashwood

  Dad couldn’t escape, so why should I?

  Pushing down the guilt, I made my way to the kitchen. Rifling through the pantry and the fridge, I saw that Ava had gone above and beyond stocking everything. There were boxes of dry goods, cans, frozen meats, veggies, and packaged meals. It struck me that she likely had paid for all of this with her own money. My heart seized once more thinking about her.

  She was more a mother to me in some ways than my own mom. She’d gone out of her way to take care of me, to do what she could to ease this transition for us. And I had felt it in the way she’d hugged me goodbye that she still worried—that she would’ve done more to protect me if she could.

  I spent ten minutes poking around the kitchen, utterly lost as to what I should cook for me and Mom, then eventually decided to say screw it. Today had been hard enough. Setting off the fire alarm and waking my mom up from an Ambien-induced nap would only make it worse. So I pulled out a box of cereal and some milk and headed to my room with a Tupperware-bowl full of Honey Bunches of Oats.

  I settled on my bed, legs crossed, with my bowl of cereal in my lap. My bed was situated beside my window. Like Mom’s, it had been salvaged from one of our old guest bedrooms at the mansion.

  As I ate, I looked outside. My room was at the front of the house, and I had a straight-on view of the street and the house across from ours, where the three boys still stood on the patchy front lawn. They weren’t paying attention to me or our house anymore. Now they stood close together, talking amongst themselves. The dark-haired, Latino boy with the beautiful eyes said something, and the shaggy-haired boy laughed, his face splitting into a wide grin.

  For all the intensity he’d had when he’d stared at me, he looked surprisingly… soft when he laughed.

  Four

  Getting used to the new home was… a task.

  A couple weeks had passed since we’d moved here, and it still felt like I was living in a stranger’s home. I missed the familiarity, the comfort, of the winding halls of our family manor. The way the warm scent of the hand-crafted wood floors strengthened in the summer months, and how the light filtered in through the huge bay windows situated in almost every room, making the entire place feel ethereal.

  Our tiny rental house smelled like dust and harsh cleaning products—as if the landlord had unsuccessfully attempted to bleach away the years of dirt that had accumulated. Whatever sun came in through the windows was off-colored and dull; the windows had a layer of fine grime over them, and I had no idea how to clean them properly.

  I stared out the kitchen window as I ate breakfast slowly. It was Monday. First day of school.

  Mom had taken her sweet time enrolling me in the public school that served this neighborhood. I think on some level, she couldn’t fathom me going to a free school. Not like it mattered all that much—with Dad in jail, my going to public or private school was honestly the least of our concerns.

  After finishing up breakfast—a bowl of overly sugary cereal, which was becoming my go-to as I avoided doing anything more challenging than heating up microwave dinners in the kitchen—I carefully cleaned the bowl and left it to dry on the small, chintzy dish rack.

  Mom had so far refused to do any cooking or cleaning, as if that was her way of silently protesting the shitty hand life had dealt us. But with no more house staff to take care of things, it all fell to me.

  I sighed, pushing down my irritation at my mom. She was trying. We both were.

  And right now, housework was the furthest thing from my mind. For the first time, I was nervous about a first day of school.

  I’d had friends at Highland Park Prep Academy. Caitlin Barrington, Felicia Prentice, and Allison Rhodes—we’d known each other since we were in diapers. We’d had plans to get married together, raise our kids together. The four of us had been the most popular girls at school, and that had cemented our bond even more.

  Or at least, I’d thought it had.

  I hadn’t heard from any of them since my father’s arrest.

  Checks on social media told me they were still following me, still my “friends” as far as Facebook’s algorithm was concerned. But none of them had called to see how I was doing. None of my texts or voicemails had been responded to. I’d given up after the first couple of days of radio silence, knowing what the quiet meant—that until my father was out of jail, my mother and I might as well not even exist to the Baltimore elite.

  In some ways, I would’ve been more terrified to be going back to Highland Park today, knowing the kinds of whispers and stares that would be waiting for me in the pristine halls.

  But going to a new school, a public school in a neighborhood I barely knew, was terrifying in its own way.

  My heart thudded in my chest the entire drive there as I meandered down the cracked and dirty streets. Students trekked the sidewalks, laughing, joking around.

  As I watched them, my thoughts went to the boys I’d seen across the street on my first day—and most days since. They didn’t all live in the same house, I’d discovered, but they were almost always together. I’d started thinking of them as a unit, as if they were brothers or something. They clearly weren’t, judging by the vast differences in their appearances, but there was something about the way they interacted that made it clear their bond was as close as blood.

  Did they go to this school too? Would we be classmates?

  Did it even matter if we were?

  Slateview High was aptly named. Its grey facade was broken only with mossy cracks and the smudge of graffiti paint. Someone had long ago given up on trying to clean it up; faded scribblings were covered over with newer, fresher paint.

  Highland Park Prep didn’t have a graffiti problem. The colorful scrawls were foreign to me, as were the shabby cars filling the uneven parking lot in the front of the school. Dented Mustangs and rickety station wagons were a common choice here, it seemed. I became uncomfortably aware that the one car Mom had managed to keep stood out, and not in a good way. It was our cheapest and oldest car, nothing at all compared to the newer vehicles that had filled our garages back at home, but it still looked way too fancy to blend in here.

  That was apparent immediately when I stepped out of it. I straightened my clothes and swung my backpack over my shoulder. The car I’d parked beside had a girl sitting on the back end, her feet propped on the bumper. A guy stood with her, settled between her legs with his hands resting on the swell of her ass. They both had their gazes trained on me, sneers on their lips.

  “Hey, new girl.” The boy narrowed his eyes. “You got something to say, staring so hard?”

  Shaking my head, I looked away quickly. “No. Sorry.”

  I didn’t want attention drawn to me. I just wanted to fade into the background and blend in. But I could already tell that wasn’t going to happen. Even though no school uniform was required at Slateview, my clothes alone singled me out as an outsider. Everyone here had some kind of edge to them. Hair dyed bright. Piercings. Clothes with rips, too much skin showing to be considered within dress code. I was dressed… normally. At least, what I’d thought was normal.

  I could tell I stuck out as I walked from the parking lot to the front entrance of the school. People wouldn’t stop staring at me. Even those that looked like teachers on their way to their classes before the bell rang gave me lingering, quizzical looks.

  As I stepped inside the building, I was hit with the cacophony of students talking, yelling, shoving their way through the crowd, and the scent of what was very distinctly cigarette smoke—and maybe another kind of smoke too.

  The hall was so packed that I hoped I could slip through the mass of bodies unnoticed, but my heart jumped into my throat when someone yelled loudly, their voice cutting over the cacophony around us.

  “Hey! Fancy girl! The fuck you doing here?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t even look back. My face flamed as I pushed harder through the crowd, ignoring the new voices that joined the first.

  I didn’t
need to question who “fancy girl” was, and as the day wore on, I realized that it was more than just my appearance and my obvious disconnect from the other students’ social status that people had a problem with.

  My class schedule resembled the one I’d had at Highland Park Prep—if only barely. Slateview didn’t offer honors classes, let alone advanced placement classes, classes that I’d been in good standing in every year I’d attended Highland Park.

  My first class of the day was geometry. There were at least thirty kids packed into the dingy room, and the teacher, Mrs. Wright, held me up at the front when I entered so she could introduce me. Her voice was bored and exhausted, like she was already tired of being here.

  “Let’s give a warm welcome to Cordelia van Rensselaer,” she droned. “Cordelia—”

  A girl in the front scoffed, interrupting her.

  “Yeah. We all know who she is.” She flipped her long, box-dye-red hair over her shoulder. Her makeup was heavy, and her blue eyes piercing. “Little Miss Rich Bitch. You here because your daddy lost all your money? Poor little fuckin’ rich girl. Better tell your dad not to drop the soap.”

  I swallowed, staring at her. How did she know who my father was?

  Mrs. Wright sighed heavily and nudged my shoulder.

  “There’s a seat in the third row. Go on.”

  That was the last thing she said to me before she began the lesson. Nothing about the rich bitch comment. Nothing about the snickers, the stares, and the whispers that followed me as I made my way toward the empty seat either. One girl stuck her foot out, making me trip as I walked by her. My stomach pitched, and I grabbed hold of a desk to keep myself from falling flat on my face. The boy at the desk sneered at me, his lip piercing glinting under the dull florescent lights.

  “Back off, bitch. I didn’t say you could touch my shit. You think you just own everything here?”

  I snatched my hands away and found my seat. My face burned, and if the lingering snickers from the rest of the class were any indication, everyone in the class could see the blush that painted my cheeks red. Embarrassment flooded me, and I forced my gaze up to the front, attempting to keep my attention on Mrs. Wright. It was hard; her lecture voice was incredibly boring.

  Maybe that’s why it was easy for the other students to allow their attention to drift back to me.

  The staring. That was the worst part.

  I could feel their gazes creeping over my skin like ants.

  Slut, skank, whore—they whispered those words to me, their quiet voices cutting through Mrs. Wright’s droning lecture. I was far from innocent and had heard them before, but the way they threw them at me with such vehemence made my stomach flip.

  And this is only day one.

  Five

  Second and third period were about the same. My reprieve came in fourth—gym.

  I was a little late, so by the time the other girls were filing out of the locker room, I was stepping inside. They gave me the same harsh looks, but I was at least able to change into my gym clothes in peace. And there were no opportunities for anyone to trip or shove me, considering most of my gym time was spent filling out forms.

  Did I have any medical conditions the coach needed to be aware of? Did I have medications like an inhaler or an Epi-Pen that I would need to have access to when we did outside activities? Was I interested in sports? Would I like to have information on the track try-outs?

  No, no, no, and no were my answers. And Coach Green was chatty enough that by the time we were done sorting out the first-day paperwork, gym was over and it was time for lunch.

  Thank God.

  Since we all left the gym at the same time, however, I didn’t miss the other girls in the locker room this time. The redhead from my first class trailed in after me, talking loudly with a few of her friends. I ignored her and the other girls as they changed back into their street clothes, moving quickly to my locker to grab my things, intent on getting out of here without any trouble.

  Maybe I should’ve known that was a hopeless wish.

  I heard them too late. Without warning, I was flanked with my shirt off, jerked around to face the redhead and shoved back against my locker. The lock dug into my spine, the shock of pain making my eyes water. The girl was taller than me, though that was mostly due to the impressive heeled boots she wore.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t little Miss Rich Bitch,” she taunted. “I thought they were lying when they said you’d been enrolled here, but holy shit, karma must be fuckin’ real.”

  “Listen.” I swallowed, steeling myself. “I don’t know why you don’t like me, but I promise whatever it is, I’m sure it’s just a complete misunderstanding—”

  The girl laughed. “Nah, it’s not a misunderstanding, cupcake. We know who you are… and we know who your daddy is. You ever heard of Westhill Apartments?”

  My brows furrowed. That was an apartment complex my father had bought up a few years ago. He’d turned it into a luxury townhouse community.

  “Yes. I—my father—”

  “Your father,” she sneered, imitating my voice. “Yeah. Your daddy bought that up for pennies and then turned it into some rich fuck establishment. You know how many families from that old complex got kids that go to this school? You know how many of us got thrown out on our asses when our landlords decided your daddy’s pennies were worth more than ours?”

  I blinked at her, not even sure what to say to that. Dad had said those buildings had been dilapidated. Abandoned. That he’d been doing the community a service when he bought them to bring in some higher-end buyers—

  “Why don’t we talk about Tenner’s Bakes? Huh? Or the clothing swap on 24th? Or any of the businesses that were doing just fine before your daddy thought that he needed to gentrify what wasn’t his?”

  “There must be a mistake—”

  The girl slammed her hand against the locker beside my head. I jolted from the rattling that reverberated through my body.

  “Ain’t no mistake, cupcake,” she snapped. “My father lost his shop in your daddy’s little buyout spree. You know how many years he worked at that store? And for what? Some ass that had too much time and money on his hands to know what to do with it, dangling all that cash in front of our landlord? You know we were three months out from being able to buy the place ourselves? Three. Fuckin’. Months. Dad works at Papa John’s now.” Then she snickered. “At least he ain’t in jail.”

  Adrenaline surged through me, and I pushed back at her, shoving hard at her chest. “Don’t talk about my father—”

  The two girls that had flanked me took one shoulder each, driving me back into the lockers as the redhead gripped my chin. Her self-manicured nails dug into my skin.

  “I’ll talk about whoever the fuck I want, cupcake,” she crooned, her lips curling. “And I’ll do whatever I want to rich bitches that walk in here thinking their shit don’t stink just because they come from money. You might have had a little mansion on the hill, but you’re on the wrong side of the tracks now, princess, and we’re not the only ones with a bone to pick with you.”

  She leaned in, getting close to my ear, the scent of her hairspray invading my nostrils.

  “Just wait till the Lost Boys get their hands on you. Bish is gonna have a fuckin’ field day with you. A daddy in jail won’t be the worst thing to happen to you, cupcake, and your fancy car and your fancy clothes won’t protect you from what’s coming. Folks around here might not be able to get their hands on your pops, might not be able to take it out on him—but you’ll do.”

  She and her friends tossed me away, throwing me to the floor before they turned and headed for the door, laughing loudly. No one else in the locker room had batted an eyelash the entire time. It was as if the scene hadn’t even happened.

  I sat on the floor, trying to breathe as steadily as I could manage. I pulled myself up once the locker room started to empty out, quietly and shakily changing out of my gym clothes and into my regular clothes.


  The good thing was, it wasn’t like I needed to be on time for lunch. Unlike the rest of my class periods, no one would care if I was late for that.

  I took my time, waiting until the sick feeling from the adrenaline in my system wore off a little before stepping into the cafeteria. There were already a considerable number of tables taken, which was fine by me; I didn’t want to sit around with these people any longer than I already had today. I just wanted to get my food and find somewhere quiet and deserted.

  Lunch itself was as alien as the rest of the school. Nothing like the fresh salad bar or gourmet selections that’d been on offer every day at Highland Park Prep. There, I could’ve had shrimp scampi on Monday, a flat bread tomato mozzarella panini on Tuesday, and authentic French cuisine for the rest of the week.

  The aroma that assaulted me as I stood in line wasn’t that of succulent spices and fresh cooking meats, but of salt and grease and something slightly burnt. It turned my stomach even more than the encounter with the redhead in the locker room had. Disgust and anxiety compounded on top of each other as I came to the head of the line.

  “Um, is there something else that I could order? Maybe a—”

  “What you see is what you get, sunshine.” The lunch lady, with her hair pulled back in a dingy white cap and her eyes trained listlessly on the screen in front of her, didn’t even bother to look up at me when she spoke. Someone behind me laughed.

  “Don’t mind her, Miss Patricia. She thinks she’s fuckin’ special. Thinks maybe you got a special menu for royalty.”

  The twisting in my stomach got so bad I was afraid I might actually throw up. Grabbing the tray she handed me, I didn’t even look at the food on it as I turned and hurried away, brushing past the boy who’d spoken without meeting his gaze.

  At each table I passed, I was met with confrontational stares—glares, really.

  I wondered if what the redhead had said was true. How many of these people were children of those who’d been put out of their businesses? Their homes? Or maybe that was all just a made-up excuse for why she’d attacked me. Maybe she was just using it to scare me, just like she’d tried to scare me with those boys she’d mentioned—the Lost Boys.