Beautifully Wicked: A High School Bully Romance (Voclain Academy Book One)

by Jordan Grant

  I want to throttle her plastic throat, but instead, I snap on my heels and head for the exit. I barrel out the double doors and run straight into Archie.

  “Ow! What the fuck, man?” Archie says, stumbling backward and holding his nose.

  Damn it. I hit him with the door. Now he’s bleeding all over the place, his nose erupting like Old Faithful.

  “Shit,” I mutter. “You all right?”

  My question is dumb, but I can’t think of anything else to say. He is already headed for the bathroom, clamping his nose between his thumb and index finger, leaving blood dotting the marble floor.

  “I’m sorry, man.” It’s maybe one of a handful of times I’ve said it in my entire life, probably the one time Archie has ever heard me apologize and actually mean it. He yanks a paper towel from the rack mounted on the wall and holds it up to his nose, tipping his head back.

  “Dude,” he says, sounding like a high-pitched, nerdy version of himself with his nose clamped shut, “you need to calm down, bro. You about took my head off.”

  I frown at his exaggeration.

  He checks himself in the mirror, looking up his nostrils like he can pinpoint the exact spot that’s bleeding. “You literally have a year and a half until we graduate to win her back. I have faith in you, champ.” He clamps a hand over his heart. “Mad faith, bro.”

  “Well, that makes one of us,” I mutter.

  “Yo, Arch!” Chase calls, opening the door just enough to shout into the bathroom. “You in there?”

  “Present,” Archie says in that nasally voice again. Chase continues around the corner.

  “What the…?” Chase looks between the two of us and gapes, his eyes going wide. He’s probably debating if I sucker-punched Archie in the face.

  He puts that shit on lockdown fast.

  “It’s cool,” Archie says, waving at Chase. “Our man Becky has learned to use doors as deadly weapons.”

  Chase snorts, and Archie gingerly touches each side of his nose, wincing as he feels around. At least his bleeding has slowed to a trickle.

  “Broken?” Chase asks.

  “No.” Archie shakes his head. “But I think Beckers did it as part of his master plan. You know he’s always been jealous of how pretty I am.”

  Chase cracks a grin.

  Archie looks at me as he heads for the door, tossing his bloody towel in the trash on the way.

  “You know she’s totally obsessed with you, right?” he says.

  Now, I’m interested. I raise an eyebrow in response.

  “I’m just saying, like, I’ve totally tried to hit that, and I can’t make it past the best friends club.”

  Best friends. What the fuck?

  Wait. Is he still trying to get in her pants?

  Now, I am for real going to find a deadly weapon.

  Archie takes note of my face, which evidently looks murderous, because he keeps walking backward toward the door and raises his hands up in innocence.

  “I’m just saying you’ve always been the one,” he says. “Many brothers have tried and failed.” He knocks a beat against his heart. “Remember, mad faith, my man. Mad faith.”

  Then he’s gone, following Chase out the door like I am a bomb ticking down into the single digits.

  Probably because I am.

  Probably because without her, I am dangerous, unpredictable and uncontrolled.

  She’s the pin in my grenade. Without her, I’m afraid I might explode.

  38

  Harlow

  Open book tests can be a bitch. At first, they sound awesome, right? All your notes in front of you, the answers at your fingertips, an easy GPA boost, basically a promised A. Eventually though, you realize that you don’t have enough time to search for every answer and your professor has taken the exam as an opportunity to see if you could qualify for a scholarship to Harvard or a Mensa membership or maybe even a Nobel prize.

  I sit in Adaptive English, staring down at the page, at my thirteenth and final translation. It’s my last exam, and I’m supposed to fly home tomorrow. I should be focused on my test, but my attention has wandered since I first sat down in my chair nearly two hours ago.

  My mind drifts back to Ian like he is a lighthouse, and I am lost at sea. The metaphor hits a little too close to home. I feel very lost at the moment.

  I need to talk to him. I need to say something, anything, but I don’t know where to begin or what to say. I don’t even know what I want anymore.

  This morning he let his fingers graze over my shoulder as he made his way to his seat behind me. I thought he had sat down, and I let my eyes close, relishing in the warmth of his touch, the strength he seems to exude even from his fingers. When I opened my eyes though, he was still there, staring down at me. He’s still devastatingly beautiful, heart-stoppingly so, and my heart did just that—stopped—when I looked up and saw him.

  I miss him. I want him. I need him.

  I’m scared. I’m alone. I have no one to blame but myself.

  The old English worlds swirl and dance on the page in front of me. Although I see my translation written there in small graphite letters, I don’t really see what I have written. Instead, I see the image in my head. Beowulf’s neck clamped between the dragon’s teeth, his body drenched in blood as he lay there, dying. The mental image sends a shudder racing up my spine.

  It’s just me and three other students, including Ian, left in the classroom with ten minutes left. A girl off to my left scribbles ferociously while the guy two seats in front of me stares out the window. The first student to finish turned in his paper an hour ago and my immediate thought was I’m going to fail. I was barely halfway through.

  I should really go back and review my answers. I should double check verb tenses and pretend like this isn’t all Latin to me. No, it’s worse than Latin because at least the little Latin I’ve seen doesn’t have characters that look like a cross between two letters written atop each other.

  I can’t find it in me to read over my answers. I am lost in space, biting the end of my pen as I stare past Ms. Edmonds reading a book at her desk, my gaze landing on the dry erase board on the wall behind her. Really though, I’m not even looking at the board on the wall. It is blurry and unfocused, just like everything else I see.

  I try to guilt myself into reviewing my answers. I tell myself I need this A, especially after my history final kicked my ass yesterday, but I just sit here. I am still sitting here, doing absolutely nothing, when I feel his fingers start to play with a lock of my hair. His knuckles brush against my shoulder blade, and butterflies burst from their cocoons in my belly and swarm.

  I want to leave, and I want to stay at the same time. My thoughts are jumbled and chaotic and utterly confusing.

  I want to forget dragging him into my lap and begging him to wake up. I want to forget about the sirens of the ambulance and the fluorescent lights of the hospital leaching the color from his face. I want to believe Everett when he says that Ian is better because he’s promising me normalcy. I would give anything for us to be normal again.

  It’s not that easy for me though—I can’t just believe him—because I am broken. One more hit and my heart will never recover. They’ll lock me up for real this time. It won’t be just a hushed conversation between my parents and the doctor outside my room. My mother won’t defend me and say I’m not suicidal, I’m just grieving. She will agree with the doctor, and they’ll put me somewhere, throwing the words safety and for her own good around.

  My parents won’t do it because they don’t care. They’ll do it because they care too much, and they’ll do anything, give anything, to protect their daughter.

  Ian continues playing with my hair. I don’t know how long it’s been. Two minutes? Five? Ten? I continue to stare at the board. His touch warms every part of me, all the way down to that pulse that throbs between my legs.

  I’m never going to be able to review my answers now. You have to be awake in order to read, and I’ve been holding
my breath so long, dots of ash float in my vision. I am going to pass out.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t…

  I stand abruptly, hitting my knee on the desk. Wincing, I grab my things and stuff them into my backpack. I walk to the front of the room and put my paper facedown on the pile of other tests. Ms. Edmonds gives me a small smile before I leave.

  I don’t know where I’m going. My feet carry me down the hallway and outside. They carry me to my dorm, but as soon as I step foot inside my room, something clamps around my chest and squeezes. With shaky hands, I dig my pill bottle out of my backpack, screw off the cap, and take a pill. The hand around my heart barely loosens its grip.

  I have to get out of here.

  I have to go.

  I need to leave.

  — Ian —

  Enough!

  The moment Harlow leaves the classroom, I feel the loss like a punch straight to the gut. I slide my test across Ms. Edmonds' desk and follow behind her. I spot Harlow walking down the hall and leaving the building through the double doors.

  No, walking isn’t the right word. Her feet are fast and quick, barely touching the marble floor before they continue forward. She is fleeing, and I’m in pursuit. I’m going to put us both out of our misery.

  I must have lost my mind, but in my defense, I can’t take this anymore. Harlow asked for time, and I gave it to her. Weeks of it. Now, it’s time for this to end.

  Patience has never been my virtue. Hell, I’m not even sure I have any virtues. I have always been a selfish bastard, and it’s taken everything I have over the last few weeks to not force her hand.

  I miss her smart-ass mouth. I miss holding her in my arms and breathing her in, cinnamon and sugar. I miss everything: the way she wrinkles her nose when she is annoyed with me; how she rolls her eyes without a thought because she doesn’t give a fuck who I am and is oblivious to the fact that I am king of this campus; how her lips mold to mine like we were created out of the same clay and are made for each other.

  Not even my closest friends have said shit about moving on. Everett knows I can’t, Archie knows I won’t, and Chase sees it for what it is—that I am stuck on this ride for all the ups and downs, the thrills and the chase of the next high.

  Poor choice of words, I know, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. When you can’t commit patricide and bodily assault is generally frowned upon as well, your options are limited. I miss her more than I miss the high though. I’d live the rest of my days painfully sober as long as I got to stand by her side.

  I follow her through the snow, past kids milling about before their parents pick them up for winter break, but she’s got a few hundred feet on me. I watch as she disappears into her dorm. I’m still fishing my universal key card out of my pocket, swiped from one of the custodians, when she exits the dorm again. She still has her backpack and carries her violin case with her now.

  It’s a miracle she doesn’t see me. If I am being honest, it sort of irritates and amazes me at the same time. She’s gone to the world, lost in her head like a paper sailboat on the high seas.

  I want to stop her and make her talk to me, bring an end to this game of cat-and-mouse I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even realize she’s playing.

  I don’t want an audience though, and there are too many students and staff around, playing in the snow, making snow angels and shit.

  If I have anything to say about it, our reunion will end with me balls deep inside her as I rock her world into the next dimension. I want to delve between her legs until she finds a way out of that pretty head of hers, until she forgets my transgressions and forgives me.

  Selfish, I know, but I’ve never pretended to be anything but a self-centered bastard. Regardless, I don’t want an audience for our reunion, so I wait until she’s a couple of hundred feet away from me again and start off behind her.

  I’m wearing my black peacoat over my hoodie. If Archie is to believed, I look, quote, totally emolicious, or at least, I did this morning. I’ve got the collar of my peacoat popped and the hood of my hoodie drawn over my head. If I had to guess, I currently look like I came off an FBI’s Most Wanted poster, but it’s easy to blend in with the crowd. Everyone is bundled up in this weather in their Burberry coats and Louis Vuitton beanies, ready to get off campus until next semester.

  Harlow’s not dressed for this weather though. She’s wearing a burgundy sweater dress, and although it looks fantastic on her, where’s her jacket? Her hat? Anything to keep out the cold? I feel guilty just looking at her.

  Snowflakes fall into her hair and dust her shoulders. Snow clings to her boots, and she almost trips twice. It takes everything I have to not drag her inside the nearest building and hold her until I know she is warm, but we still have an audience.

  A kid waves her over as she passes by a snowman they are building. Can’t the asshole see she needs to get out of this cold? As I draw closer, I make the fucker out. It’s Alexander…Alexander something from the track team. I don’t know him. I only know of him, having seen his face at parties and awards ceremonies. He’s a senior, and he holds the title of Voclain’s number one man-whore, which is saying a lot since Archie has tried his damnedest to claim that title since ninth grade.

  Back up!

  Even as my fists ball at my sides, my nails biting into my palms, I try to give her distance. She smiles at Mr. Something and gestures at the snowman he’s built with his friends. It’s pitiful, more dirt and grass than snow. She says something, but I’m still too far away. I can’t make it out.

  She waves goodbye and starts away. Good girl. I’m close enough now I can tell she’s trying to not shake. She’s cold.

  As she walks away, I catch the fucker checking out her ass. Then he looks to his friends and holds his middle finger and index finger up to his lips in the shape of a V. As he tongues his imaginary pussy and his friends cackle like a bunch of rabid hyenas, I make a mental note to kick his ass later.

  Harlow’s about twenty feet away from the performing arts building when I hear someone call my name. I freeze in my tracks.

  Shit. Morris gives me a mile-wide grin and a wave that uses his whole body. He’s so goofy I feel bad for wanting to avoid the fucker.

  “Hey, QB,” Morris says. He calls me that all the time. During the off-season? Check. While I’m in my baseball uniform? Check. When I’m clearly trying to avoid drawing attention to myself? Double freakin’ check.

  “Hey, Morris,” I mutter, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

  “Where ya headed, bro?”

  I’m about to sprout him some drivel about going to the Headmistress’ office, to another final exam, to an enema appointment, to literally anywhere he won’t try to follow me, when he shoves his phone in my face.

  Boobs. All I see is boobs.

  “Nice rack on her, huh?” He giggles. “Wanna see her pussy?”

  I want to smack him upside the head with his phone.

  Instead, I mutter, “No thanks, man.”

  He doesn’t hear me though. He’s scrolling through his phone intently, talking to himself.

  I look past him and watch as Harlow disappears into the building. I step away from Morris to follow her, muttering my goodbye, but what I see chills the blood in my veins.

  Aurora joined by Lilith, Arabella, Blythe, and Ivy enter the building behind Harlow, looking shady as shit because:

  1. They don’t have their phones out, and they always have their phones out; and

  2. Finn is with them, and he’s as red as a cherry tomato and looks like he’s about to explode.

  “Fuck,” I say before I take off running.

  39

  Harlow

  I head toward the performing arts building, carrying my violin in one hand, my backpack slung over my shoulder.

  I could play in the dorm, but I want the wide open stage, the vaulted ceilings, and the rows of empty seats. I need space and solitude.

  I ignore the sidewalks and walk ov
er the snowy ground in a straight line toward the building, my toes growing colder with each step. Alexander stops me on the way and invites me to a party he’s having tonight. He’s a nice guy with a big, toothy smile and green eyes the color of Caribbean waters. I tell him I’ll think about it.

  Less than five minutes later, I enter the performing arts center and find, much to my relief, the auditorium completely empty. I may be the only weirdo on campus that comes here in the middle of the day just to play. Not because a professor or a parent demands it either, but because I need the release, the catharsis that settles in my bones with each strum of a cord.

  I sit my case on the stage and carefully remove my violin, letting my fingers glide across the polished wood. I have no idea what I’m going to play. Maybe Bach or Bartok or one of the pieces drilled into my head since I was five years old.

  It doesn’t matter. It only matters that I play.

  As I raise my bow, the side door off-stage bursts open with a wham against the wall. Shadows flicker off to my right, and I turn to see Aurora and her crew, followed by Finn. Aurora looks smug, but Finn just looks angry. Why is he always so angry?

  “Hey, there, free range,” Aurora says. Lilith, Ivy, Blythe, and Arabella all titter.

  This can’t be good. I am immediately on edge. My brain thinks I should run, but my feet stay flanked to the ground in disobedience. My fight or flight instinct must be broken.

  “Can I help you?” I am clenching my violin so hard my fingertips blanch white.

  Aurora smiles and blows a big bubble of gum before it pops. She twirls the pink, stringy stuff around a finger before plucking it off her knuckle and back into her mouth with her teeth.

  Finn walks to stand behind me, his nose flaring like a bull at the twitch of a matador’s cape. I shift away from him, and Aurora steps in front of me, blocking my retreat. The witches, more like bitches, of Voclain step in line behind her.