There’s a long stretch of silence that follows that statement, but there it is, a trauma that repeats in my head almost every day. It’s impossible to forget. I know that I could quite easily be diagnosed with all sorts of emotional disorders, and I’ve never cared about that until just now.
Until Bernadette.
“That’s why you were a virgin,” she repeats, and I cringe at that word again. Virgin. The sound of it makes me think of pure untouched snow and blushing young girls. Neither of those things has anything to do with me. It was purely out of survival instinct that I abstained, the instinct that if I went too far with one of those women, I might hurt them.
“Aren’t we over that yet?” I ask, but Bernadette gives me an incredulous look as I drop my hand from her face. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll go fuck somebody else, so I have more names to my roster. I’ll never be able to catch up to Hael though, so take his grand achievements for what they are.”
“Stop picking on him,” she chastises, reaching up to touch the side of my face with the palm of her hand. I cringe, but I let her do it. “I’m not mad that you were a virgin, I’m just surprised is all. I didn’t expect that.”
We stare at each other in the quiet dark for a moment until Bernadette steps back just a few inches and tucks some long hair behind one ear.
“Do you want me to keep touching you?” she asks as I struggle to keep my breathing controlled. It’s too dark and quiet in here; she’ll know if I have too strong a reaction. Or maybe she already fucking knows? Because normally, she wouldn’t ask to touch me; she’d just do it. She’d touch me until I felt like I was falling apart on the inside, rotting at my very core. And yet … this is her trying. This is Bernadette making an effort in an arena where I have, thus far, only managed to fail miserably. “Or do you want me to back off?”
“I want you to touch me,” I tell her, and even that comes out sounding like an insult.
Bernadette lifts her eyes to mine and then, slowly, carefully, she kneels down in front of me. I don’t stop her as she unbuttons and unzips the jeans, releasing the inked length of my cock. One of her thumbs finds the piercing on the underside, rubbing at it as she takes the tip of me into her hot mouth.
My breath escapes in a rush and I lean my head back, knowing this is a stupid thing to do but letting it happen anyway. I’m not sure if Callum would kill me for making such a dangerous choice … or applaud me for it.
Bernadette wraps her hand fully around the base of my shaft, letting her saliva drip down the length of me. She uses that wetness as lubricant to pump her hand, licking and sucking at the tip of my cock as I dig my fingers into her hair. With the other hand, I grab onto the wooden dowel used to hang clothes and squeeze it until I hear a definitive crack.
With her opposite hand, Bernadette cups my balls, massaging them and drawing a sound from my throat that I wasn’t sure I was capable of, one that sounds all-too human.
In an instant, I find myself moving, pulling Bernadette up by her hair and slamming her into the back wall of the wardrobe. My hands pin her wrists as I kiss her, tasting the saltiness of my own pre-cum on her tongue. When I release her, my hands drop right to those borrowed boxers and shove them down her hips until they hit the floor.
She doesn’t fight me when I hook a hand under her left thigh and lift her leg up, driving into her and catching the desperate moan that falls from her mouth by pressing my lips to hers. We kiss so deeply as I fuck her that I’m not sure what the hell I was just talking about. I hate being touched? How could I possibly, when this feels the way it does?
Of course, trauma doesn’t resolve itself in a single instant. I know that as soon as we’re done here, I’ll feel that coldness come over me again, those tremors that take over in the dead of night.
As we’re fucking, as I’m driving her into the wall and wishing I could just tell her goddamn everything there is to know about me … the door to the room opens and I hear heavy boot steps.
My hand clamps over Bernadette’s mouth, but I don’t move, not even to pull out of her.
From my position, it isn’t difficult to glance over and see through the crack in the doors.
James Barrasso stands in front of the bar, eyes surveying the impressive array of liquor bottles on the wall behind it. He selects an expensive whiskey and pours himself a drink before slumping into a chair in front of the empty fireplace.
Bernadette adjusts herself slightly, but I won’t let her go. I tell myself it’s because we’ll make too much noise, but really, it’s because I don’t want to move. She’s hot and slick and tight, and I’m too selfish to give that up.
Less than a minute later, the door opens again, and Trinity Jade appears, wearing the red gown she had on at dinner. By now, my breathing is synched with Bernadette’s, and neither of us is moving at all, locked together and frozen in shadow.
“Jimmy,” Trinity says, pausing next to his chair and extracting the tumbler full of whiskey from his hand. The way she touches him speaks to a certain sense of familiarity. Bernadette, of course, thinks that it’s because they’re fucking. Because that’s how most people operate, in sex and intrigue. I think there’s something else to it.
“So, how goes it?” he asks as I do my best to stay still, Bernadette’s hot cunt still wrapped around my cock. If these morons hadn’t invaded our space, I’d still be moving inside of her, listening to her heavy breathing, and luxuriating in the feel of her palms against my chest.
Instead, we’re stuck watching whatever this nonsense is play out before us.
“How goes what?” Trinity snaps, like she’s frustrated with something. Very likely that something is Victor Channing. The man knows how to string a woman along and keep her wanting more, all at once.
James laughs, standing up from his seat and running his fingers down the side of Trinity’s face. There’s something in the shape of their profiles that makes me wonder if they aren’t related. That is, until James leans forward and captures her mouth like he owns it, kissing her hard and deep and forcing her back into the side of the fireplace. She drops the whiskey glass, and it shatters at their feet.
“Fuck,” Bernie breathes, still clinging to me, unable to move, her body wet and hot and tight. “I can’t see shit.”
“Shush,” I whisper, digging my fingers into her ass and praying that I don’t come from the sheer touch of her alone. Friction is nice, but this is enough for me. I don’t like to be touched; I may never like to be touched by another human for as long as I live. But Bernadette is different. I pull her closer and she grunts, the sound disguised by the moans coming from Trinity’s pale, blue-blooded throat.
“You know what I mean, baby,” Jimmy says, and it takes effort to keep my disdain to myself. The man is a pig, the uncultured son of a lucky mob man, one that thinks he owns the world because daddy knows how to shed a little blood and run a crooked business without getting caught.
Killing him would be the highlight of my year. Well, perhaps a distant second to the feel of Bernadette’s plump ass in one hand, her thigh resting on the other, her sweet pussy squeezing my cock and making my teeth hurt as I clench them together to keep from coming.
“Do I?” Trinity replies coyly, running her fingers down the front of James’ unbuttoned dress shirt. He lets out a harsh bark of laughter and uncurls her fingers from the lapel of his shirt, taking a step back. “Oh, stop that,” she chastises, following after him. “You can’t possibly be jealous of Victor Channing.”
“You want to fuck him, don’t you?” James asks, lighting up a cigarette. He watches the girl like she’s a trophy, one that should be mounted and hung on the wall.
“I’m going to marry him,” Trinity spits back, as if that’s an answer to James’ question. She moves over to the bar and pours herself another glass of whiskey, taking advantage of the bar in the room as if she owns the place. She doesn’t; I checked. I would never have allowed us to come here if she did.
“No, you’re not,” James rep
lies in an oily voice, sauntering back over to Trinity and taking her chin in his hand. “Our father—”
“Your father,” Trinity retorts sharply, pushing her hair back from her face. “He most certainly isn’t mine.”
“Only by blood,” James retorts with another laugh, and Bernadette stiffens in my arms as she makes the same strange, sudden connection that I do.
James and Trinity … are both Maxwell Barrasso’s children.
And, apparently, that doesn’t stop them from fucking each other.
Interesting.
“I’m marrying Victor Channing whether you like it or not,” Trinity spits back, cowering slightly when James squeezes her face in his fingers. But then he leans in and puts his mouth up against hers, breathing against her parted lips.
“Not if I can help it,” he retorts with another laugh as her palms come up to rest against the front of his chest. Their mouths meet again, tongues tangling, just before the door opens and one of the Oak Valley teachers clears her throat to grab their attention.
“Alright, you two, out.” She hooks her thumb in the direction of the hallway as Trinity’s face turns scarlet and she ducks under James’ arm. Scandal and propriety are important to that girl. As the daughter of Samuel Jade, they would be. I wonder if her father knows his daughter is from a different man’s seed?
I’ll bet he doesn’t.
And I’ll just bet that her grandfather’s company doesn’t really need an influx of cash.
It’d all make sense, if Ophelia knew the truth about Trinity’s lineage—or that she was fucking a man who shared half of her blood. A tool for blackmail, something to take away Trinity’s place as the child of a multibillionaire.
We need to talk to Vic. Now.
“Alright, alright, you old bat, hold your fucking horses,” Jimmy murmurs, chugging the rest of his whiskey and then tossing the glass on the floor as he leaves. He doesn’t give a fuck what an Oak Valley teacher has to say, not the way Trinity does.
She cares about reputation and appearance.
He most certainly does not.
The teacher sighs and picks up the broken glass, cleaning the mess up before she leaves and closes the door behind her.
With a groan, Bernadette and I separate, and the feel of her cunt sliding along my still-hard cock is nearly enough to give me an orgasm. But I can’t very well continue now, having seen what I just did, now can I?
I stare at Bernadette, wondering if my gaze is too intense, if it burns when she looks back at me. I squeeze my hands into fists to fight back the rush of hormones. I’m more than my body; I’m smarter than it and its urges.
“What the fuck did we just witness?” she murmurs as she grabs the boxers, yanking them back into place as I take my time fixing my own pants.
“A plot twist,” I reply smoothly, my mind spinning as I think about how we might put this into play. “One that could very well change the game completely.”
“Wait till Victor hears about this,” Bernadette starts, but then she looks back at me and I meet her gaze. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I have her pinned to the wall of the wardrobe and she’s tearing my pants apart.
My hips drive her against the wall as we slide together in a violent storm, fingers clawing, mouths hungry. I don’t even bother taking the boxers off, pushing them aside just to be closer to her. The only person in the world I actually want to touch.
It doesn’t last long, but it doesn’t have to.
Bernadette asked me a question tonight: do you want me to keep touching you?
Now she knows the truth: I do.
Desperately so.
Bernadette Blackbird
After a three-day weekend at a fancy ski lodge full of gazillionaires and sister-fuckers (I knew there was something off about that James Barrasso), Tuesday back at Prescott High is a serious drag. I’m still reeling over whatever the fuck is going on between James Barrasso and Trinity Jade. I’d immediately assumed they were screwing when I saw him at her stupid murder mystery party, but this … this more than I ever could’ve imagined.
They’re related.
Trinity is Maxwell Barrasso’s daughter.
I shiver and run my hands over my face. Incest, of course. As if this plot wasn’t twisted enough.
I’m so busy going over that scene in my mind that I completely miss what Mr. Darkwood is saying. He passes out a worksheet describing our next essay assignment and then purposely pauses beside my desk to glare down at me.
“You’re not going to give me another ridiculous paper about the word ebon, are you?” he asks, and I just stare back at him like he’s lost his fucking mind. We have weird chemistry, me and Mr. Darkwood. I don’t hate the guy but fucking hell, he knows how to piss me off.
“Actually, I was thinking of writing a targeted piece about how girls shame other girls for not waxing the hair that naturally grows between their legs. As if having your cunt look like it’s pre-pubescent makes it sexier. Then again, me shaming them for actually doing said waxing is misogyny in and of itself. It’s sick, isn’t it, how women belittle each other for something so trivial? Clearly a tool of the patriarchy.”
Mr. Darkwood looks at me for a long-ass moment and then sends me to the principal’s office with a referral slip, listing vulgarity and insolence as the reasons for my dismissal from class. Not that it matters, seeing as Vaughn is Havoc’s pet now, but whatever.
I decide to head for the bathroom to freshen up my lipstick when I see Stacey Langford heading for Vaughn’s office with a similar referral slip in her own hand. She doesn’t see me since she’s already halfway down the hall, and I open my mouth to call out to her.
That’s when it starts, the whole fucked-up bullshit that makes up a Tuesday at Prescott High.
A man walks in the front doors of the school like he owns the place and then glances over at Stacey.
“You Stacey Langford?” he asks, and she pauses, turning to look at him with a raised brow and an expression dripping with skepticism and disdain.
“Who the fuck wants to—” she starts, but she never does get to finish her sentence because the man pulls out a pistol and puts a bullet through her head so quickly that I barely have time to blink. Her body slumps to the floor as the shooter pulls a ski mask from his pocket and slips it on, heading straight for the door to Mr. Darkwood’s classroom. He moves with a single-minded purpose that tells me one especially important thing: he’s looking for me.
“What on earth is going on out here?” Mr. Darkwood snaps, opening the door and then paling when he sees what he’s faced with. He flicks the lock on the classroom door, steps into the hall, and slams it closed behind him before he lunges at the gunman.
The move surprises me, but it also buys me just enough time to duck into the girls’ first floor bathroom, the very same one where Billie and Kali once cornered me with some of their lackeys.
The sound of the gun going off a second time is muted but distinct. The man is clearly using a silencer and subsonic ammo to keep things quiet.
My breathing is so ragged that I can’t hear anything but the sound of it, echoing around the enclosed space of the bathroom. Being in here is not a good idea. If one of those GMP assholes comes in, I’m fucked. Where am I supposed to go, trapped in the fucking rank-ass Prescott High bathroom?
I take a few seconds to get ahold of myself. I didn’t expect this. Of all things, I just didn’t see this shit coming. I should have, though, shouldn’t I?
Calm yourself, Bernadette. This school, as shitty and underfunded and awful as it is, belongs to Havoc. It belongs to you. Act like the queen you so proudly proclaimed that you were.
Sliding my phone from my back pocket, I debate whether or not to call or text one of the boys. What if their phone isn’t on silent, and it makes a sound that gives them away to a second gunman? I decide that at the very least I have to text them.
I don’t even have to consider what I want to send; we have a safety word for a reason.
Mare’s nest.
I send that simple text to all of the boys, and then turn my phone on silent, sliding it into my back pocket. At least now they’ll know that something’s up. Likely, they’re already on their way to find me.
I slip out the door, forcing myself to breathe nice and slow. Quiet, that’s my aim here. I’m trying to be as quiet as the fucking mice that live in the wall behind the main building lockers.
There are bullet holes in those lockers now. It’s something that, despite the sordid history of the school and the rabble that attends it, has never been there before. I stand in the bathroom doorway, hidden in the small alcove, listening for the sound of footsteps. In a different part of the school, I hear more gunshots.
My heart lodges in my throat, even though I know that the boys can handle themselves even better than I can. See, that’s the thing with love: it’s irrational. It makes no sense. It’s the sort of thing that makes you stay up late, holding your palm over the yellow-orange flame of a candle, just to see if it’ll burn you. Of course it will. The candle will burn you, and so will love.
I’m scorched by it, plain and simple.
The alarm goes off, this awful blaring siren that reminds of the ones used in tornado zones. It’s accompanied by an automatic message that repeats one thing over and over again: active shooter on campus, active shooter on campus.
The coast is clear for now. All the classroom doors will be locked and barred from the inside, the shades drawn, students hidden under desks or in supply closets. The world feels like it’s gone silent.
Now or never, I think to myself, because I’m not getting a better chance than this, and I’m most definitely not getting stuck in the windowless bathroom with nowhere to go and no way to defend myself. Poor Stacey Langford.
Anarchy at Prescott High Page 36