by J Bree
Ash Beaumont.
Clearly, I’ve pissed someone off in a past life.
He's waiting at the assigned desk in the library, his books and supplies spread out around him. He's so classically good looking, like he’s a Grecian fantasy, and I have to remind myself that he is a dick before I sit down with him. The sneer he gives me helps to calm my hormones down. I can admire him from a distance, but the vitriol he spits at me on a daily basis, proves just how badly I need to keep him at arm's length.
“Oh, goody. I get to spend three hours a week with trash,” he drawls, and I grit my teeth.
“If you want the help with your assignments, then yeah, you’re stuck with the trash.”
He grins at me, and it’s not a nice thing.
I pull out my own schoolwork and get the utter joy of his criticism on what seems like every aspect of my life. I do my best to ignore it, but I’m not the most patient person.
“Your handwriting is atrocious. Why do you bite your nails? They make you look like a boy? You shouldn’t slouch; you might actually have a decent rack, and no one will notice it if you’re all hunched over— “
“Can you shut the fuck up and tell me what you need help with?” I hiss at him. He smirks like he knows he’s got a direct hit. Fuck, I wish I’d met him at Mounts Bay. I’d have destroyed him with calculated calm and a grin on my face. I would have Matteo at my back and be able to end him in creative and devious ways. We could have made a real game of it. But instead I’m at Hannaford, and I’ve already pissed one of Avery’s boys off so far. I can’t push it until I know the lay of the land. I need to hold my cards close to my chest until I know the best way to play them.
He shows me his math homework, and then starts to work through the problems quietly. I watch him while he works, and I realize straightaway that something is off. I can't quite put my finger on it, but the way he looks at the paper, he's not really trying to work out the answers. It's infuriating.
“Can you at least do a better job of pretending to try? If you're not going to take this seriously, I'll use the time to study instead.”
He gives me a look. His eyes are penetrating, like he’s trying to get a good look at what's happening under my skin. I’m used to being looked at like this, but it’s disconcerting getting it from a rich kid at Hannaford. Why would he need to know anything about me? In four years, I’ll cease to exist in his life, and he’ll take over his family’s billion-dollar empire. Yeah, I looked up the Beaumonts. Billionaires. It made me queasy to think about that sort of money.
“You only get the credit if you do it properly. I’ll let the office staff know how little you care about helping other students.”
“Why should I help you if you won't try?”
He leans back in his chair and folds his arms. He’s leaner than Harley but he’s still much bigger than me. I shiver. God, I’m broken.
“Because you’re Mounty trash and you need the credits. I could never work a day in my life and I’ll still out-earn you exponentially.”
I clench my teeth. I hate him. Even if he is gorgeous.
We continue to bicker and fight our way through all his homework. He tells me he needs help with every subject, and as the hour dwindles down, I can taste my freedom. The library door swings open and Avery walks in, making a beeline for our table.
Great.
I brace myself, assuming she’s here for me, but she doesn’t even glance my way. Her eyes are glued on Ash.
“What’s this about you starting fights with Joey?”
She’s softer with Ash than anyone else, like he’s some precious thing that needs to be handled with care. He doesn’t look that way to me, especially as he looks at her with a glare. It’s clearly not aimed at her. He treats her with the same unflinching care.
“Fuck Joey. He knows Harley is off-limits, and yet, he still keeps coming for him. I’ll fucking end him, Floss.”
Her eyes flick at me when he calls her that, but she doesn’t pull him up. She has her hands on her hips and she’s looking at him like he’s a naughty child she needs to discipline.
“Can you please contain yourself? It's a lot harder to minimize damage here than it was in the lower grades. I have a lot on my plate as it is.”
“He's the one being a dick. I couldn't exactly sit around with my thumb up my ass while they started in on Harley, could I? I don’t know why they seem to think that they’ll be able to beat us. We’ve been handing them their own asses since middle school.”
He goes back to his homework, but if he thinks she’s going to let it go, he is sorely disappointed.
“I wasn't saying you should! Next time, call me.” She tucks a perfect black curl behind her ear with long, slender fingers. She makes me feel so damn unrefined and clumsy. I stop looking at her altogether.
“So, I should just make you fight all our battles, then? I should hide behind your skirt when our big, bad brother zeros in on us? That’s not how this works.” Some of his cool demeanor slips, revealing the rage burning in his eyes.
“No, let me deal with it so I have less to do. Once you let him get to you, it turns into a bigger problem, and then I spend weeks cleaning it up. Do you really want to put more on my plate, Ash?” she pleads.
“Fuck him. Don’t clean it up, I’ll burn him and everyone who decides they’re on his side.” He starts packing up, and I follow his lead. Family politics are not my thing, and I want to get out of here before Avery remembers I’m sitting here listening to them.
“I can’t wait for Morrison to get back. I need a sane ally in this place,” Avery moans, and Ash scoffs at her, stepping around the table to sling an arm over her shoulders.
“If you think he’s sane, then you’re not as smart as you think you are, Floss.”
They walk out together. He doesn’t even bother to thank me for helping him.
Fucking rich dicks.
My first clue that something isn’t right is the hush that falls all around me as I walk to my room.
I’ve just finished up with Ash in the library, and I need to change before dinner. The hallway that leads to my room is so quiet I can hear my stomach rumble. I try to ignore it, to walk in carefully measured steps like none of this is bothering me, but I just want to snarl something snarky at the lot of them.
I make it to my door and find Avery standing in her doorway, smirking over at me, her entire body screaming with smugness.
The second I crack the door open I can smell it. The eye-watering stench of piss.
There is urine on everything in my room.
Every. Single. Thing.
I gag as the door swings fully open, and that's when I hear the laughter start. It isn't just Avery. All the girls on our floor are laughing. They have all been in on this disgusting prank. I take a deep breath, through my mouth so I don't pass out from the stink, and then close myself inside my room.
I find gloves stashed in my first-aid kit and then I get to work stripping my bedding off and piling all the clothing I can salvage. My sneakers can be saved, but the three books I brought with me are ruined. Luckily, I had taken all my textbooks with me to my tutoring, just in case I needed them, because they were easily more expensive than everything else in the room combined.
I drag all the piss-soaked linens to the small laundry room and completely ignore the gaping looks from the girls.
It's clear they thought this would rattle me, maybe even break me. No chance of that.
After all five washing machines are running, I sit on the floor in the laundry room to start on my own homework. There's no way I'm going to leave my things out in the open, and now I need to invest in some serious hardware for my door.
Fuck these little rich kids, throwing tantrums and acting like animals. Never in all my time in foster care did anyone play with their own piss. I try hard not to think about which diseases are transmitted through urine and try to remember these kids have access to care, so they should be clean.
Should be.
/> I've finished two classes’ worth of homework when Avery walks in, carrying a single sheet of paper. She stands over me with contempt in her eyes and a sneer on her painted lips.
“Finished yet?”
I know she's not talking about my sheets swirling in the washing machine. I turn back to my homework.
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ obnoxiously and don't even look at her. She drops the paper, and it lands at my feet. I read the title and scoff at her.
“I'm not leaving. You think your little prank can run me out of here? All it shows is that you're disgusting and desperate.”
She laughs like tinkling bells, but all I hear are the shards of glass she’ll wield to stab me with.
“I've never been desperate in my life, Mounty. I don't have to be. You are, though. And if you don't leave, I'll see just how desperate I can make you.”
What the hell was this girl’s problem? What had I done to her that would make her act like this? Did rich people really hate the poor that much?
I pick up the paper, and then I maintain icy eye contact with her as I tear it in half.
“Feel free to fuck off, Beaumont.”
The smirk doesn't leave her face as she prances out of the room, her kitten heels clicking on the hardwood floors. I can feel the creeping fingers of a migraine at the corners of my brain. How was it that I made it through a drug addict mom, absent dad, foster care, public school in a bad district, and now I'm rewarded for my efforts with Avery Beaumont?
A deep, dark voice whispers to me: it's punishment for the Wolf. I give myself a little shake and get back to work.
It takes two hours to get my room back to normal. The piss had soaked through the floorboards, and I had to scrub my little safe clean as well. I have to go ask the cleaning staff for bleach and air purifiers, because the smell lingers, but eventually I can't smell it anymore and I manage to fall asleep around midnight.
Chapter Four
I'm cranky as hell the next day from lack of sleep. I'd kill for a hot coffee.
The boys all hear about the piss prank, and the whispering that follows me makes me grit my teeth. I'm so distracted by it all that I don't notice the extra attention the juniors have begun to give me.
Turns out I've caught all three sets of Beaumont eyes.
Lucky. Fucking. Me.
I'm at my locker swapping over textbooks—why does this school love hardbacks that weigh more than I do? —when I get approached by one of Joseph's flunkies. I recognize him from the dining hall, and I eye him warily.
“Hey there, Mounty. Do you have a name? Everyone just calls you Mounty or trash, so I wasn't sure your family could afford a name.”
Kill me now and just put me out of my misery. I level him with my most deadly glare. I don’t like the feel of his eyes on my skin, it makes me feel as though I need to scrub myself raw.
“Do you need something? Your winning personality isn't exactly doing anything for me, and I have a class to get to.”
He smirks at me, and then makes a big show of working his eyes over my body lasciviously. I fight the urge to either cross my arms over my chest or smack him in the nose.
“So, I've always wanted to fuck a Mounty. I hear you poor folk are wild in bed, and I'm willing to give it a go. When are you free this week for a quick fuck?”
I see red, and then my vision whites out, and then I think I'm having a full rage blackout. I'm a little concerned that when I come to, this dickhead will be dead. I hear his laugh and then, without meaning to, my hand shoots out and jabs him in the throat. The noise he makes is magnificent, and he sprawls back into the lockers like I've shot him. Sometimes my survival instincts are a goddamned blessing.
The hallway goes quiet, and I grin down at him maliciously. I speak quietly, but I know everyone can hear me. All eyes are on us.
“I wouldn't fuck you if you were the only rich dick left in this building. I wouldn't touch your disgusting cock for a million dollars.”
He manages to straighten himself, and then throws me a haughty look.
“We’ll see about that,” he rasps, and then turns on his heel to stride off.
I glance around as the whispers start up again, then roll my eyes. This place is exhausting. Surviving four years here may be harder than I thought. I start walking to my next class and try not to let the dread creep in.
Hannaford requires either a sport or some form of music as subjects and picking between them was like choosing a method to die. I physically could not do anything that required strenuous use of my legs. I have five pins and two plates holding one of my legs together, which is a violent and dark story for another time, which means unless I could’ve done basketball sitting down, I couldn't pick gym. Music was a very different beast. I can't play any instruments, but I can sing. Actually, I can fucking sing. But I haven't been able to hear the sound of my own singing for years without my PTSD kicking my ass all over the shop.
I’ve managed to only open my mouth during group numbers and warm-ups so far, but I have a copy of the class syllabus, and I know my project is a solo. I need to ace this class to keep my score up, but it feels impossible to me right now. My past is royally screwing me over.
I have one last class before choir, and I round the corner to get to chemistry when everything changes.
My entire worldview changes.
The door in front of me opens, and out walks Blaise fucking Morrison.
Blaise. Fucking. Morrison.
Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be at school with Blaise Morrison. I knew that he went to an ultra-exclusive private school and that he had dozens of privacy orders in place to make sure he could go to school like any other teenager, but I couldn’t have ever hoped that I would see him in the flesh, let alone breathe the same air as him.
I should probably explain why my entire existence is melting at this boy’s appearance.
Blaise Morrison, Blaise fucking Morrison, is the lead singer and guitarist for Vanth Falling, which is my favorite band and, not to be too dramatic, is also my entire reason for existence. I first heard of Morrison when he was still solo and uploading covers of his favorite songs. I was completely struck by the fact he was my age and doing what I could only dream of doing. I have every song he has ever sung, even his earlier less-great stuff, and I sleep in one of the band’s shirts every night. I have followed his entire career—of two years, but that is irrelevant—and I’m basically a walking encyclopedia on all Vanth Falling knowledge.
He is perfection. A living god.
My obsession for him is for his lyricism and his range. He is so talented, and a modern poet, and I respect him so much as an artist. Now, seeing him up close, I can also say with absolute confidence that he is panty-dropping hot.
His hair is spiked up like he's run his hand through it a hundred times already today, and his glowing green eyes are dancing. He's tall and leanly muscled, he fills out his uniform in a mouth-watering way, and I want to rip it off him.
My knees are weak just looking at him, and I’m sure I look like a deer in the headlights. My brain finally catches up with my body, and I move out of his way.
He doesn't notice my meltdown, thank god, and he swaggers down the hall with an air of confidence that would be so obnoxious on any of these other rich dicks, but on him I am swooning.
Swooning.
Lord save me, because I may die from the very presence of this guy.
I duck behind something random, a potted plant, to stay out of his sight line because honestly, I'm making a complete fool of myself and my heart stutters just a little when I see him grin. Sweet lord, there’s his dimples.
Then he throws his arms around Ash fucking Beaumont's neck, and they grin at each other like they're in love. Then Harley pops around the corner and joins in on the group hug and then, fuck me, Avery squeals and piles on too.
This school is ruining every aspect of my life.
Why couldn't I keep Blaise? It is so unfair, and I feel like th
is might be the thing that breaks me.
Why! Ugh.
Suddenly I remember all the conversations I've been listening to about ‘the Morrison kid’. The teachers had talked about his door being stuffed with panties, and Avery had told Ash she couldn't wait for him to get here. Fuck.
Because the world hasn't actually finished shitting on me, I have to sit next to Harley in chemistry, and Avery is sitting in front of us once again. The whole seat assignment by surname is really a pain in my ass, and I consider a name change to get away from him.
I'm sweating and shaking like mad when I sit down, but Blaise isn't in this class, so maybe my brain will kick in at some point. I can feel Harley’s eyes on me as I empty out my bag with trembling hands.
“What's your problem?” he says in a haughty tone.
I give a shrug because, well, we're not friends and I don't owe him an answer. He grunts at me, and then grabs my wrist to turn my hand over. My knuckles are red and a little puffy. I must have hit that dickhead harder than I thought.
“Fighting isn't tolerated on campus,” he drawls.
I give him a look, and he surprises me by grinning. The teacher walks in and starts to take attendance. Harley leans over to whisper in my ear.
“I would have paid good money to watch you punch that asshole.”
The corners of my mouth tug up into a grin. Who would have thought the way to civility with Avery's boys was by acts of violence toward Joey’s group?
The positive of sitting next to Harley is that he doesn't speak at all during classes. He just sits and soaks in information, like the hottest sponge you've ever laid eyes on. Watching him helps distract me from the throbbing pain in my knuckles. I’m going to have to start packing instant ice packs into my school bag.