Defy (Sinners of Saint Book 2)

by L.J. Shen

  I blinked slowly, trying to look blasé. “Textbook?” I asked for the two-hundredth time.

  He must’ve concluded he’d tortured me enough for one day. He cocked his head sideways to a backpack sitting under his desk. The window above it overlooked the servants’ apartment where I lived, allowing him a perfect view directly into my room. So far, I’d caught him staring at me twice through the window, and I always wondered why.

  Why, why, why?

  He hated me so much. The intensity of his glare burned my face every time he looked at me, which wasn’t as often as I’d like him to. But being the sensible girl that I was, I never allowed myself to dwell on it.

  I marched to the Givenchy rubber-coated backpack he took to school every day and blew out air as I flipped it open, rummaging noisily through his things. I was glad my back was to them, and I tried to block out the moans and sucking noises.

  The second my hand touched the familiar white-and-blue calc book, I stilled. I stared at the cherry blossom I’d doodled on the spine. Rage tingled up my spine, coursing through my veins, making my fists clench and unclench. Blood whooshed in my ears, and my breathing quickened.

  He broke into my friggin’ locker.

  With shaking fingers, I pulled the book out of Vicious’s backpack. “You stole my textbook?” I turned to face him, every muscle in my face tense.

  This was an escalation. Blunt aggression. Vicious always taunted me, but he’d never humiliated me like this before. He’d stolen my things and stuffed my locker full of condoms and used toilet paper, for Christ’s sake.

  Our eyes met and tangled. He pushed Georgia off his lap, like she was an eager puppy he was done playing with, and stood up. I took a step forward. We were nose to nose now.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I hissed out, searching his blank, stony face.

  “Because I can,” he offered with a smirk to hide all the pain in his eyes.

  What’s eating you, Baron Spencer?

  “Because it’s fun?” he added, chuckling while throwing Georgia’s jacket at her. Without a glance her way, he motioned for her to leave.

  She was clearly nothing more than a prop. A means to an end. He’d wanted to hurt me.

  And he succeeded.

  I shouldn’t care about why he acted this way. It made no difference at all. The bottom line was I hated him. I hated him so much it made me sick to my stomach that I loved the way he looked, on and off the field. Hated my shallowness, my foolishness, at loving the way his square, hard jaw ticked when he fought a smile. I hated that I loved the smart, witty things that came out of his mouth when he spoke in class. Hated that he was a cynical realist while I was a hopeless idealist, and still, I loved every thought he uttered aloud. And I hated that once a week, every week, my heart did crazy things in my chest because I suspected he might be him.

  I hated him, and it was clear that he hated me back.

  I hated him, but I hated Georgia more because she was the one he’d kissed.

  Knowing full well I couldn’t fight him—my parents worked here—I bit my tongue and stormed toward the door. I only made it to the threshold before his callused hand wrapped around my elbow, spinning me in place and throwing my body into his steel chest. I swallowed back a whimper.

  “Fight me, Help,” he snarled into my face, his nostrils flaring like a wild beast. His lips were close, so close. Still swollen from kissing another girl, red against his fair skin. “For once in your life, stand your fucking ground.”

  I shook out of his touch, clutching my textbook to my chest like it was my shield. I rushed out of his room and didn’t stop to take a breath until I reached the servants’ apartment. Swinging the door open, I bolted to my room and locked the door, plopping down on the bed with a heavy sigh.

  I didn’t cry. He didn’t deserve my tears. But I was angry, upset and yes, a little broken.

  In the distance, I heard music blasting from his room, getting louder by the second as he turned the volume up to the max. It took me a few beats to recognize the song. “Stop Crying Your Eyes Out” by Oasis.

  A few minutes later, I heard Georgia’s red automatic Camaro—the one Vicious constantly made fun of because, Who the fuck buys an automatic Camaro?—gun down the tree-lined driveway of the estate. She sounded angry too.

  Vicious was vicious. It was too bad that my hate for him was dipped in a thin shell of something that felt like love. But I promised myself I’d crack it, break it, and unleash pure hatred in its place before he got to me. He, I promised myself, will never break me.

  Ten Years Ago

  IT WAS THE SAME OLD shit, different weekend, at my house. I was throwing another balls-out party and didn’t even bother to leave the media/gaming room to hang out with the assholes I’d invited.

  I knew what kind of chaos was teeming outside the room. The snickering and screaming girls in the kidney-shaped pool at the back of the house. The gurgles of the artificial waterfalls pouring out of the Greek arches into the water and the slap of rubber, inflated mattresses against bare, wet skin. The groans of couples fucking in nearby rooms. The mean-ass gossip of cliques crashing on the plush loveseats and sofas downstairs.

  I heard music—Limp Bizkit—and who the fuck had the balls to play Lame Bizkit at my party?

  I could’ve heard all the rest too if I wanted to, but I didn’t listen. Sprawled out on my Wing Lounge chair in front of the TV, thighs open wide, I smoked a blunt and watched some anime Japanese porno.

  There was a beer to my right, but I didn’t touch it.

  There was a chick on her knees below my seat, on the carpet, massaging my thighs, but I didn’t touch her either.

  “Vicious,” she purred, inching closer to my groin. She slowly climbed up, straddling my lap.

  A tan nameless brunette in a come-fuck-me dress. She looked like an Alicia or Lucia, maybe. Tried to get onto the cheerleading squad last spring. Failed. My guess was this party was her first taste of popularity. Hooking up with me, or anyone else in this room, was her shortcut to celebrity status at school.

  For that reason alone, she was of no interest to me.

  “Your media room is rad. Think we can go somewhere quieter, though?”

  I tapped the head of my blunt, the ash falling to an ashtray on the arm of my chair like a flake of dirty snow. My jaw twitched. “No.”

  “But I like you.”

  Bullshit. Nobody liked me, and for good reason.

  “I don’t do relationships,” I said on auto-pilot.

  “Like, d’uh. I know that, silly. No harm in having some fun, though.” She snorted, an unattractive laugh that made me hate her for trying so hard.

  Self-respect went a long way in my book.

  My eyes narrowed as I mulled over her offer. Sure, I could let her suck my dick, but I knew better than to believe her indifferent act. They all wanted something more.

  “You should get out of here,” I said, for the first and last time. I wasn’t her dad. It wasn’t my responsibility to warn her about guys like me.

  She pouted, linking her arms behind my neck and scooting up my thigh. Her exposed cleavage pressed against my chest and her eyes burned with determination. “I’m not leaving here without one of you HotHoles.”

  I arched one eyebrow, exhaling smoke through my nose, my eyes hooded with boredom. “Then you better try Trent or Dean, ’cause I ain’t fucking you tonight, sweetheart.”

  Alicia-Lucia pulled away, finally getting the hint. She sashayed to the bar with a fake smile, that crumpled with every step she took in those high heels, and fixed herself a bullshit cocktail without checking what liquor she poured into the tall glass. Her eyes were shiny as she scanned the room, trying to figure out which one of my friends—we were the Four HotHoles of All Saints High—was willing to be her ticket to popularity.

  Trent was slouched on the couch to my right, half-sitting, half-lying as a random chick grinding on his cock, straddling him with her shirt pulled down to her waist and her bare tits bou
ncing almost comically. He put the beer bottle to his mouth and dicked around on his phone, jaded. Dean and Jaime sat on a loveseat on the other side, arguing about next week’s football game. Neither of them had touched the girls we’d summoned into the room.

  Jaime, I understood. He was obsessing over our English teacher, Ms. Greene. I didn’t approve of his new, fucked-up fascination, but I’d never say a word about it to him. Dean, on the other hand? I had no idea what his problem was. Why hadn’t he grabbed an ass and sprung into action like he normally did.

  “Dean, dude, where’s your piece of pussy for the night?” Trent echoed my thoughts, scrolling his thumb over the wheel on his iPod, surfing his playlist, looking desperately uninterested in the chick he was fucking.

  Before Dean could answer him, Trent pushed the girl on top of him away mid-thrust, patting her head gently as she tumbled onto the sofa. Her mouth was still open, half in pleasure, half in shock.

  “Sorry. It ain’t happening for me tonight. It’s the cast.” He pointed his beer bottle to his broken ankle, smiling apologetically at his fuck buddy.

  Out of the four of us, Trent was the nicest.

  That said all anyone needed to know about the HotHoles.

  The ironic thing was, Trent had the most reason to be spiteful. He was screwed, and he knew it. There was no way he was getting a full ride to college without football. His grades sucked ass, and his parents didn’t have the money to pay for their rent, let alone his education. His injury meant he was staying in SoCal and picking up some blue-collar work if he was lucky, slumming it up with the rest of his neighborhood after spending four years with us rich Todos Santos kids.

  “I’m all right, man.” Dean’s smile was easy, but the continuous tapping of his foot was not. “Actually, I don’t want you to be blindsided by something. You listening up?” He grinned nervously, straightening his posture.

  Just then, the door opened behind me. Whoever came in didn’t bother to knock. Everyone knew this room was off-limits. This was the HotHoles’ private party space. The rules were clear. Unless invited, you didn’t come in.

  The girls in the room all stared in the direction of the door, but I continued smoking weed and wishing Lucia-Alicia would move the fuck away from the bar. I needed a fresh beer and wasn’t in the mood for talking.

  “Whoa, hi.” Dean waved to the person at the door, and I swear his whole stupid body smiled.

  Jaime nodded a curt hello, tensing up in his seat and sending me a look I was too stoned to decode. Trent swiveled his head, grunting in greeting too.

  “Whoever’s at the door better have a fucking pizza and a pussy made of gold if they wanna stay.” I clenched my teeth, finally throwing a glance over my shoulder.

  “Hey, y’all.”

  When I heard her voice, something weird happened in my chest.

  Emilia. The help’s daughter. Why is she here? She never left the servants’ apartment when I threw my parties. Plus, she hadn’t glanced in my direction since she ran out of my room with her calc book last week.

  “Who gave you permission to come here, Help?” I sucked my blunt, inhaled deeply and poured a cloud of rancid, sweet smoke into the air, swiveling my chair to face her.

  Her azure eyes glided over me briefly before landing on someone behind me. Her lips broke into a timid grin at the sight of that person. The raucous noise of the party faded, and all I saw was her face.

  “Hey, Dean.” Her gaze dropped to her Vans.

  Her long caramel hair was braided and flung over one of her shoulders. She had on boyfriend jeans and a Daria shirt deliberately mismatched with an orange wool jacket. Her sense of style was juvenile and horrid, and the back of her hand was still inked with a cherry blossom tree she’d drawn in English Lit, so why the fuck was she still hot as shit? Didn’t matter. I hated her anyway. But her apparent devotion to trying not to be sexy, paired with the fact that she actually was sexy, always made me hard as stone.

  I tore my gaze from her to Dean. He smiled back at her. A goofy smirk that begged for me to break all of his teeth.

  What. The. Fuck?

  “You two bumping uglies?” Jaime popped his gum, asking the question I never would’ve, tousling his long blond surfer hair with his fist. He didn’t give two shits but knew it was something that’d interest me.

  “Jesus, man.” Dean got up from his seat, slapping the back of Jaime’s neck and suddenly acting like some kind of a decent guy.

  I knew him too well not to recognize that he wasn’t one. He’d fucked so many girls on the very sofa he’d just sat on that it was permanently imprinted with his DNA. We weren’t good guys. We weren’t boyfriend material, whatever the fuck that meant. Hell, we weren’t even trying to hide it. And other than Jaime, who was talking crazy, plotting like a cunning freshman cheerleader to get together with Ms. Greene, we didn’t do monogamy.

  This—and only this—made me dislike the whole Dean and Help idea. I had enough fucking drama to deal with. I didn’t want to be there when her heart broke, in my house. Shattering on my floor. Besides, as much as I disliked Help…she wasn’t for us to destroy. She was just a country girl from Virginia with a huge smile and an annoying accent. Her personality was like a fucking Michael Bublé song. So easy and un-fucking-assuming. I mean, the girl even smiled at me when she caught me staring into her bedroom in the servants’ apartment like a creep.

  How stupid could a person be?

  It wasn’t her fault I hated her. For eavesdropping on me and Daryl all those weeks ago. For looking and sounding exactly like my stepmom, Jo.

  “I’m glad you could make it. Sorry you had to come here. I didn’t realize I was late. This is no place for a lady,” Dean joked, grabbing his jacket from the arm of the black leather sofa and jogging to the door.

  He flung his arm over her shoulder, and my left eyelid ticked.

  He brushed a strand of hair that fell from her braid behind her ear, and my jaw clenched.

  “Hope you’re hungry. I know a really good seafood place by the marina.”

  She grinned. “Sure. Count me in.”

  He laughed, and my nostrils flared.

  Then they left.

  They fucking left.

  I tucked the blunt back into the corner of my mouth, swiveling back to the TV. The whole room fell quiet and all eyes were directed at me for further instructions, and what the fuck was everybody so upset about?

  “Hey, you.” I pointed at the girl who Trent had thrown away mid-fuck. She was fixing her hair in front of the mirror next to my gaming rig. I patted my lap twice. “Over here, and bring your friend.” I pinned the other one with my eyes. The girl I’d rejected only moments ago. Good thing she’d decided to stick around.

  With a giggling girl on each leg, I took a hit of my joint, pulled the first girl’s hair so that she was facing me and pressed my lips to hers. I exhaled, shotgunning the smoke into her mouth. She took it all in with an excited gasp.

  “Move it forward.” I brushed the bridge of her nose with the tip of mine, my eyes heavy. She smiled with her mouth closed and kissed the other girl on my lap, letting the smoke seep into her mouth.

  Trent and Jaime watched me the whole time.

  “They’re probably just fuck buddies,” Trent offered, rubbing his hand over his shaved head. “I didn’t hear about this shit until tonight, and Dean can keep a secret like I can keep my pants up at a Playboy-mansion party.”

  “Yeah,” Jaime chipped in. “It’s Dean, dude. He’s never had a serious girlfriend. He’s never had a serious anything.” Standing up, he shouldered into his navy letter jacket. “Anyway, I gotta head out.”

  Of course. To pretend to be some loser on a dating site and spend the night sexting Ms. Greene. I swear, if I hadn’t seen his dick in the locker room, I’d assume Jaime actually had a pussy.

  “But I’m telling you,” he added, “don’t overanalyze it. There’s no way in hell Dean’s settling down. He’s set on New York for college. You’re staying here with her.
She didn’t get accepted anywhere, right?”

  Right.

  On top of that, Help hadn’t bagged a scholarship so far. I knew that because we shared the same mailbox, and I browsed through her envelopes to see where little Emilia Leblanc was headed next. So far, it looked like she wasn’t going anywhere, much to her dismay.

  I was going to a bullshit college in Los Angeles a couple of hours away, and she was staying here. I would come back every other weekend, and she’d still be here. Catering to me.

  Serving me.

  Envying me.

  She was going to stay small and insignificant. Uneducated and opportunity-less. And above all—mine.

  “I really don’t give a fuck.” I chuckled, grabbing both the girls’ asses, clutching their soft flesh as I moved them toward one another.

  “Lick each other’s tits for me.” My tone was flat. They did as they were told. It was so easy to get them to do it, it depressed the hell out of me.

  “So where were we?” I asked my friends.

  The girls and their tongues were at war. They begged for my attention like two dogs fighting for their lives in an underground fight. They did nothing for me, and naturally, I resented them for that.

  “In deep denial, apparently. Jesus.” Jaime shook his head, sauntering to the door. He clasped Trent’s shoulder on his way out. “Make sure the girls don’t do anything too stupid.”

  “You mean like him?” Trent jerked his thumb toward me.

  I squinted at him. But he didn’t care. He was a kid from the hood. Nothing scared him, let alone my rich milky ass.

  There was rage brimming inside me. Soon, it was going to overflow.

  They were so sure they knew me. So sure I wanted Emilia LeBlanc.

  “Fuck this shit. I’m going down to the pool.” I stood up suddenly, and the girls collapsed, each of them landing on an arm of the chair with a soft thud.

  One of them whined in protest, and the other shrieked, “What the hell!”

  “Bad high,” I offered as a half-assed explanation.

  “It happens.” The girl who’d fucked Trent a second ago smiled in understanding.