by J Bree
It’s an honest statement. Something revealing and raw. I nod at him, and then I sigh, looking up to walk him through the work verbally until I’m sure he’s got a decent understanding of the formulas. He’s obviously smart, but it takes a few tries to find the right explanations to help him get a good grasp on the sums. It’s pleasant, much nicer than the antagonistic banter with Ash, and I find myself enjoying him being there. We get the workbook in a solid A condition, and I even help him develop a great page of notes for the upcoming tests.
“So, how did you first hear Vanth?” he asks as I do a last read-through.
The question throws me, and I just barely manage to keep hold of my pen. I glance up to see his eyes fucking twinkling at me, and I choke on my tongue.
“I heard your early covers and I bought the albums.” I don’t mention what I had to do to get the money to buy them. I don’t know how well he’d take me gambling with my body in the fighting scenes of Mounts Bay middle school.
He groans and rubs a hand over his face.
“How did you find the covers? They’re terrible! You must be a very dedicated fan to go looking for them.”
I know logically that he’s joking around with me, but he hits a nerve. The same nerve he’d struck uttering those words to me in Health Ed. My face flames, and I slowly put my pen down with a glare at him. His face drops, the smile sliding right off his features.
“I didn’t go looking for them. I’m not a fucking stalker. I meant that I heard them when you released them. I’d been listening to your shit from the beginning, and I followed your career from there to Vanth. But don’t worry about going to school with a fan, I’m certainly not one now. I’ve fucking burned the shirt and deleted your shit from my phone. I have no interest in listening to music from a stuck-up, spoiled, rich brat. I’ll listen to music from people who are real and write lyrics from the heart.”
I’ve managed to strike a nerve with him too. I know all about his insecurities, how he didn’t want to use his parents’ money to prop up the band in their early years or use their connection to get a record deal. I know exactly what to say to piss him off, and that’s what I’ve done.
He leveled me with a look so dark, my mind flashes to Ash sitting across from me. I take in every inch of his fire and give him back my own. I may never be able to speak to him again, but at least I’ve told him exactly what I think of him, exactly what his dismissal of me did to me.
Now Avery might actually kill me. But fuck him and fuck her.
Two things cross my mind when I get back to my room after dinner the next night: Avery Beaumont works fast; and where the hell could I get some locks that would keep the bitch out of my room?
I thought the urine was the worst thing they could throw around my room, and I guess it was a stinking biohazard. However, piss could be washed out. You could splash enough bleach around to disinfect and clean the damage done to the room.
You can’t wash out pure, industrial-strength black paint.
When I open the door and switch on my light, the blackness eats it up so much, for a second I think the light has blown. There isn’t a single inch of the room or contents that isn’t now black. My clothes and shoes, my books, my fucking pillow. I take a step forward and I feel the tackiness of the floor. The paint isn’t even dry yet. They must have barely finished before I got here. I can hear the tittering of their laughter, a sound that will probably haunt me for life once I’ve left this damned place behind, but I don’t look back to see who it is. I know that no matter who held the tin and brushes, Avery is behind this. I’m grateful that I’ve made copies of all my classwork, so at least I don’t lose that work, but I now have nothing. I’ll have to spend some of my stash of funds to replace my uniforms and my clothing. I’ve lost every damn thing I own. Well, not everything. My safe hidden under the floorboards is fine.
I have no choice but to call the administration office and report the damage thanks to the black walls and floor.
While I wait for help to arrive, I pick through my destroyed belongings and start a mental list of what I’m going to have to replace, the bare minimum I’ll need to survive. It’s frustrating that Avery knows exactly where to hit to cause the most damage to my life. While Joey uses big, sweeping acts to attempt to break me, Avery knows the small pressure points that chip away at me. The bet and the guys chasing me for sex is annoying, but manageable. Even Joey trying to fuck me against my will was something I could deal with; a knife to the dick is pretty persuasive. The 911 call was closer to the mark, but he underestimated my mental walls.
The exhaustion of cleaning out my room constantly, of checking for cameras, of showering as quickly as I can, of replacing everything I own—that was all much more likely to get me to quit this school, and honestly, if my only other option wasn’t returning to the Jackal, I might’ve walked away by now. But I know the second I go back to him; I will never get out. I’ll be stuck as his second-in-command in his gang, and probably even his girlfriend. I’ll be his to own and control. I can’t ever belong to him again.
Avery’s face is the perfect picture of innocence when Mr. Trevelen arrives. I don’t have any evidence to say it was her, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind that she’s responsible. I’m escorted down to the sick bay in the nurse's office to sleep for the night, and Mr. Trevelen informs me I’ll be reimbursed for the items lost. I don’t kick up a fuss, there’s no point, and when I lay my head down, I sleep like the dead.
When I wake up in the sick bay, I’m handed a day pass, a packed lunch, and ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. There’s a small town, with the cutesy name of Haven, twenty minutes away from Hannaford, and I have a school car and personal driver waiting to escort me there to replace my destroyed belongings. Mr. Trevelen explains to me that my room will be cleaned and painted by the time I return in the afternoon and he’s barely looking me in the eye. Whatever Matteo said to him is sticking.
During the drive, I tap out a quick text to Matteo and ask him for some recommendations on pick-proof locks. I’m willing to pay big bucks to keep the other girls out of my shit from here on out. His reply is immediate and coddling, but I take it. He’ll send me what I need.
It’s a Saturday, so the town is full of students. I’ve never seen the appeal in venturing outside the school. I don’t want to spend money or run into one of Matteo’s men out here, but the town is one of those cookie-cutter-perfect places with cafés and boutique stores, and I have to admit it’s nice. There isn’t a big box chain store in sight. Giant trees line the brick streets, and they’re all decorated with hundreds of white, blinking fairy lights. It’s magical looking, even for my jaded heart, and I let myself stare out the window at it all a little wistfully.
A thousand dollars isn’t enough to replace what I need if I stick to these higher-end stores, I’d be lucky to find a single item of clothing for that price, so I ask the driver to drive around for a while until I spot what I’m looking for. Tucked away off the main street in a tiny alleyway, I find a thrift store. I ask the driver to wait, and he informs me with a curt smile that he’s mine for the day and to take my time. Rich kid perks, I guess.
The store is teeming with designer labels I care nothing about, and I dig through the shoes until I hit a jackpot. A pair of cherry red Docs that hit me mid-calf. They’re a touch too big, but with thick socks they’re perfect, and my spirits are instantly lifted. I trawl through the jeans until I find three pairs that work for me, and then I look for some booty shorts.
An hour later, I leave the store with more bags than I’ve ever carried out of anywhere before, and the driver has to pop the trunk and help me pile my haul in. It’s still early enough in the afternoon, so I decide to stop to get a coffee. I shouldn’t be wasting money on something as frivolous as coffee, but I think of it as a reward for all my hard work and perfect marks at Hannaford so far.
I choose one of the smaller shops, because the bigger ones are overrun with Hannaford uniforms and I do not want to be accosted
by one of the Beaumonts or their loyal followers. I order it to go, eager to get back to my room and get my life back in order. I chat to the barista, Emily, and I enjoy just being a teenager for a moment. She doesn’t know anything about me except that I go to Hannaford, and the shock that I’m speaking to her at all is evident on her face. I find out the other students have a reputation in this town for being assholes. What a shock. When she hands me the coffee, I thank her warmly, and then slip back out to the alleyway.
I should have ignored the sounds coming from the tiny back parking lot.
I knew what I was hearing, I’d heard it a million times before, but curiosity killed the cat and it may someday kill me too. I move slowly and try to be silent, which is hard in the kitten heels I’m forced to wear as part of the Hannaford Prep uniform. As I round the corner, I get the disgusting view of Rory’s bare ass as his hips swing. He’s got Avery bent over his garishly orange Lamborghini Huracan. I can’t see her face, only the skirt pushed up over her hips and twisted in Rory’s fists as he pumps away at her. He’s grunting and swearing under his breath, and I startle at the sharp crack of his palm hitting her ass.
Why would they be fucking out here instead of just doing it in the dorms? The zero-tolerance bullshit Trevelen spouts means nothing to any of these rich assholes, so why risk public sex? Maybe they’re exhibitionists and Rory needs the thrill to get his dick hard. I smother the snort I have at the thought. I’m tempted to take a photo and send it out, give her a taste of her own medicine, but I won’t stoop to her level. Plus, the guys all told me it wasn’t her and, while I don’t believe them, I prefer to extract the right forms of punishment. Just as I turn to leave them to it, Rory grunts and pulls Avery up by her hair so roughly, I wince. It doesn’t look sexy at all, more controlling and dominative in a shitty, misogynistic way. He turns them both so he can sit on the car and she can straddle him reverse cowgirl to finish the job. Her head is down, but I don’t need to see the face to know that’s not Avery riding his dick. The hair isn’t the perfect black curls of the devil that’s torturing me.
It’s Harlow Roqueford.
She tips her head back, and I see her nose is still taped, but the bruises have all faded enough to be covered by makeup. She’s moaning loudly, seemingly uncaring of being caught, and she’s bouncing on him with gusto. I’m shocked enough to freeze for a second, gaping at the sight of them both, but after a heartbeat I get my wits about me. I get my phone out and snap a photo, not to share around, but if I decide to tell Avery, she won’t believe me without some proof. I take a short video for good measure, and then I sneak back down the alleyway and out to the waiting car. I flick through the photos and smile as I sip my coffee and the driver pulls back onto the highway.
Chapter Fifteen
My room is now freshly painted, white and crisp, and the new bed I’ve been supplied is even more comfortable than the last one. The sheets and pillows are also brand new, and the thread count must be higher than my postcode. I feel like I should send Avery a thank-you note. I grin to myself at the mental image of her reading all about her little prank backfiring. I’m also in love with my new boots, and I spent hours trying them on with all my new clothes to see what I like best. Hannaford is quickly teaching me to take the good with the bad.
True to form, the lock Matteo had promised me was already installed by the time I arrived back at Hannaford, and the single key is on a chain around my neck. If anyone wants access to this room, they will have to pry it from my cold, dead body. I’m sure nothing would give Joey more pleasure.
My great mood lasts until choir, and then I’m overcome with nerves. I arrive early, having sprinted down the halls and shoving other students out of my way, so I can corner Miss Umber and persuade her to take pity on me. Our class assignment is to sing a solo in front of the class, and there is no way on this earth that I’ll be able to do it. I’ve been practicing at every available opportunity and I’ve become decent at distracting myself, but the second my concentration wavers, I get the shakes and lose my stomach contents. If I perform in front of the class, Avery will not only have photos of my disgrace, she will also have a new weakness of mine to exploit. Now that I’ve managed to lock down any access to my room, I’m not looking at giving her a new avenue to explore.
Miss Umber looks right through me. There’s this puzzled look on her face, like she’s trying to place my face, and I grumble under my breath. Such is life when you share a class with the fabled lead singer and guitarist of Vanth Falling. I’m not sure she remembers any of my classmates, only the shining god that joins us each lesson. It doesn’t matter to me if she doesn’t remember me. All that matters is convincing her to let me have a private assessment. It’s not an easy sell.
“Part of the mark is your ability to perform to a crowd. I alone am not a crowd, Miss…er-And-Anderson.” I ignore the stumble over my name. I’ve already had to tell her what it is twice.
“I understand that, but I’m currently undertaking extensive therapy to be able to do so, and my health care professionals aren’t comfortable with me stepping out on stage to more than a few people.” Lie-lie-lie, I don’t care. I’ll keep spewing out falsehoods until I get what I want, and if she asks for proof, I’ll call in a favor. Fuck, I’ll call in ten favors. Whatever it takes, I’m not getting on that stage.
“Oh. Yes, okay. That’s a different case. We wouldn’t want to upset your parents and have them in here, would we? You can come after the winter break, and I’ll assess you privately. Now, take a seat and start your warm-ups! Mr. Morrison should be here soon, and then we can start.”
I thank her and slump onto my usual chair, relief coursing through my veins. I'm still feeling prickly with irritation and relief when the rest of the students arrive. Avery has her hand tucked into Blaise’s, and they're chatting happily with their adoring fans. I nod to Lauren when she joins me, but my mind is on Avery. What is the best way to get back at her for everything she’s been doing to me without becoming a bully myself? If I get caught, I’ll lose my scholarship, but it’s more than that.
I’ve never done anything out of spite. I’ve hurt people, I’ve stolen, I’ve lied. I’ve beaten someone until the life left them. But never have I done anything with the intent of hurting someone purely to get back at them. I’d only ever acted in self-preservation or defense. That was the moral high ground I clung to, so I didn’t lose my mind about all the wrong I’d done. What am I willing to do to Avery as revenge?
“Oh, Lord. You’re staring at Avery again. Should I be worried? Is another Beaumont about to be taken out in handcuffs?” whispers Lauren, breaking my chain of thought. I give her a sidelong look, and she grins at me. I don’t know how she guessed about my involvement in Joey’s arrest. Maybe the whole school has already guessed.
“What do you think of our oh-so-benevolent overlord?” I reply. Lauren is nice enough. If she thinks Avery is the devil, then maybe I could be spiteful just this once. Lauren glances over to her, and we both watch as she plays around on her phone, not a care for the teacher and lesson going on around her at all.
“I think she’s lonely. I think she comes from a fucked-up family and her brother is so scared of anything happening to her that she’s now isolated. Did you hear that Rory and Blaise got into a fight over dinner last night? Rory came back from his football game and Blaise said, in front of the whole dining hall, that the pussy he could smell on him had better not be Avery’s.” Lauren giggles at the shocked look on my face. “I think he was just saying it to bait Rory into spilling about their sex life. Ash was there too, and everyone knows he’ll murder Rory it he touches her.”
“But why? If any of the rumors are true, they’re all fucking half the damn school between them. Pretty damn sexist to say she can’t sleep around if she wants to.” I did not want to think about any of the whispers I’ve heard. Or about Annabelle. Ugh, fuck Annabelle.
“I know. It’s an old money thing. My parents would also have a lot to say if I started dating,
and I’d murder my little sister if I found her hanging around someone like Rory.” Lauren shrugs and settles back in her chair.
Ash Beaumont is lying to me.
I’m not stupid, and it’s starting to be really obvious. He doesn’t need my tutoring at all. I watch as he follows my explanations on his physics assignment, and he’s not even listening to me. He knows every damn thing I’m saying to him.
Why the hell is he torturing me by being here, then? He’s more distracted today than he usually is, so I test out my theory by purposefully explaining the theory wrong, and then I watch him answer the questions. He gets them all correct. What the hell is his problem?
“I told you during our first session that if you’re not here to learn, then you shouldn’t come,” I say, my temper rising. It doesn’t really matter if he’s learning or not, I get the credits just for being here, but I feel duped. Like he’s just here to push all my buttons, or to find ways for Avery to torture me.
“And I told you, if you want the credits, you’ll sit and teach me.” He doesn’t look up from his work as he speaks, which is probably for the best. I’m seething even as I survey his stunning eyelashes. It’s a crime that he has naturally sooty eyelashes that curl beautifully. I wonder how many girls have stared at them enviously before me. He looks like he’s wearing eyeliner, a dark frame around the cerulean blue irises.
“If you’re not actually learning anything, then we could just sit and study together in silence. I could get my work done, and you could… do whatever it is that you’re here for, without me having to ramble on uselessly.”
He glances up and catches me ogling him. I refuse to blush; I tell myself I’m staring because I’m pissed. He gives me a slow smirk and leans back in his chair, cocky as he crosses his arms over his chest. I forget sometimes that he’s built. The uniform hides the physique of the male students far better than the legs and curves of the females. Sexist bullshit. If the guys get to see whether, or not I’ve shaved my legs this week, I think I should be able to see who bench presses my bodyweight on the regular.