Very Wicked Things

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  A morning was coming when she wouldn’t sing out to me, when she wouldn’t remember my name. Alzheimer’s does that. Like a thief, it steals all the moments of a lifetime; it scrounges through your heart and rips out the people you love; it claws through your mind and takes your ability to think, and then it takes your words until you can’t speak. And once you have nothing left inside, it slithers away.

  Because you’re dead.

  I lowered my window down and called out in a sing-song voice. “Did I mention that I love you?”

  She rolled her eyes and waved me away.

  A COLD RAIN drenched me in seconds as I raced from my car to the front doors of Briarcrest Academy. That’s what I got for parking my beat-up car in BFE. But it was preferable to parking next to an import or a luxury car. At least in the overflow parking, I didn’t have to worry about accidentally dinging a hundred thousand dollar car with my door. But most of all, I didn’t have to worry about running into him. He always parked in the closest lot, the one designated for seniors.

  Prestigious and old, Briarcrest Academy was hailed as one of the most academically excellent schools in Texas. It also had an excellent dance and music department. It certainly had one of the biggest price tags, annual tuition costing around thirty-five thousand a year for non-boarders. Against a backdrop of stately oak trees and carefully maintained shrubbery, the austere grey stones ushered in the privileged to its hallowed halls. Calling me privileged was downright funny, yet here I am, finishing up my last year at BA. All because Sarah had wrangled me a scholarship, pulling strings with one of the dance teachers here.

  BA reeked of money, sophistication and class. It reeked of things I didn’t have, like Hummers and Prada purses. The girls—and guys—dressed like it was Milan Fashion Week and the paparazzi were waiting right outside the school to take their pictures.

  I pushed through the double doors, stopping in the tastefully decorated foyer to brush off the rain. It didn’t help. I probably looked like a drowned rat, but at least my backpack had kept my books and ballet clothes dry.

  I continued down the long entry hallway to my locker, and it was a lot like walking the gauntlet. But I’d mastered the art of ignoring the eye-judging of the girls and the leers from the jerk-offs who thought I was easy. They’d recognized I wasn’t a clone of them on day one.

  Fine with me. I liked being on the fringe. The less they knew about me and where I came from the better. And ballet kept me happy. I didn’t need people.

  But I shouldn’t generalize because I had some friends here, namely Spider. With his stuffy English accent, you’d think we wouldn’t go together, but we’d met freshman year and had been friends ever since. He was filthy rich and I wasn’t, but we did share a love for cafeteria French fries and Minecraft. He boarded at BA, and sometimes if I was too exhausted to drive home after hours of dance or if he was scary drunk, I’d sneak into his dorm and crash or take care of him, whichever was needed.

  One of the football jocks—Matt the Quarterdick I called him in my head—whistled at me as I passed. As if. The star quarterback at BA, he was the epitome of the handsome, frat boy type. He was also Emma Easton’s on again, off again boyfriend. Although they’d been off for a while this last time.

  Whatever. I avoided him.

  I’d already learned a painful lesson with a certain rich boy at BA.

  When I’d first come to BA, like most girls, I’d entertained thoughts—briefly—of meeting a hot guy, kinda like a Taylor Lautner type with a warm smile and perfect abs. He’d see me breeze through the door, and he’d break his neck to rush to my side. He’d introduce me to his friends, even the female ones, who’d be just as welcoming. Maybe he’d try and smell my hair without me knowing or offer to sing to me even when he couldn’t carry a tune. He’d drive a fast car and own his own penthouse where he’d promptly invite me over for a candlelight dinner. He’d sprinkle roses out in a trail to his bedroom. Ha. Yeah, I’m no beauty and that scenario only happens in the movies.

  Imitating my classmates, I lifted my nose a notch higher and increased my stride, anxious to distance myself from the crowd who hung around the front entrance.

  My phone buzzed, so I stepped inside the library. Heather-Lynn rarely texted, so I immediately got curious.

  She’d written, Sarah owes money to the wrong people. Just a head’s up.

  What? That made no sense.

  I’d only be gone for forty-five minutes.

  With rapid-fire fingers, I texted back, What happened? Should I come home?

  But that would be hard. I had a test in Calculus and then ballet.

  No, I’ll explain later, she said. Try not to worry. Gotta go. Sarah needs me.

  Baffled, I put the phone back in my purse. We weren’t rich, but neither were we hand-to-mouth either. Not with Sarah’s teaching income and the settlement from the oil-rig accident when her husband had been killed.

  I headed to class. Sometimes Heather-Lynn could be dramatic, so I let it go, yet made a mental plan to call her at my first break.

  My locker beckoned, but I stopped in my tracks.

  Please. Not today. Not with my plastered hair and wet shoes that squeaked when I walked.

  He was there, his big shoulders and well-toned biceps taking up most of the space and all of my air. Yes, brooding and sexy, Cuba Hudson was serious man-candy, the kind good girls knew to stay away from. But I hadn’t. Within the space of a few weeks last year, he’d wooed me, screwed me, and then tossed me in the trash.

  My heart clenched, remembering how he’d lied to me, how he’d fooled me. Of course, I’d given in to him, and he’d broken me, shattering something fragile that could never be fixed.

  Perhaps running or hiding would be good now. There was always the bathroom or the library where I could loiter for the next five minutes. But then I’d be late for class.

  I stood there uncertainly. Perhaps it was time to face him head-on.

  And truthfully, I wanted a reaction out of him. Anything except the whole ignoring thing he’d been doing since he dumped me.

  I marched up to my locker and flung it open with a metallic bang, making him flinch.

  Of course, I immediately smelled him, a woodsy, expensive scent that wafted around him, bringing back a time I didn’t want to remember. One whiff and a thousand memories assaulted me, of how he’d incinerated me. I held my breath for a few seconds until I decided that was straight-up stupid. I had to breathe because it would suck if I passed out at his feet.

  Oh, wouldn’t that just be dandy.

  So what if he smelled delicious? I could handle it. I knew his game now. He had a knack for being a playa and…

  Tingles skipped up my spin, and as if it were choreographed, every hair on my body lifted in perfect unison. For the first time in a year, my peripheral vision saw his head turn and sensed his golden eyes behind those shades, running over my body, lingering uninvited.

  He had actually looked at me. Holy moly.

  I stared into the recesses of the locker, my mind reeling.

  Why today?

  Since senior year had started—six months ago—he’d not once glanced in my direction. All by his design, of course.

  Like I was toxic, he gave me plenty of leeway in the classrooms, the cafeteria, and the quad. He’d see me coming from twenty yards, and he’d turn around and go the other way. If our eyes accidentally bumped into each other’s in class, his never paused, just kept right on trucking. Once when the dance troupe had performed during an assembly, I’d been on stage, putting everything I had into my performance, yet knowing exactly where he sat. Second row to the left, next to a tramp with blonde hair who couldn’t keep her hands off him. He’d stared at his program the entire ten minutes I’d danced. When the music students came out with violins and cellos for their performance, he’d raised his head and blessed them with his full-on gaze. But not me. Never me.

  He hated me and I didn’t know why.

  Well, maybe I did.

 
Even without glancing at him, I knew his visage by heart. The soft dark hair with sun-tinted highlights, wavy and overgrown enough to label him as a bad boy by BA standards, and his absurdly long lashes that rested on his sun-kissed skin. He reminded me of the Greek gods, the ones with patrician noses, high foreheads, and aloof expressions. They’d sit up in there in lofty clouds and gaze down at the lowly mortals. Because they think they’re better than you. And here’s a tip: nine times out of ten, when a god gets with a mortal, nothing good comes from it. Well, the sex maybe, but once that’s over, most humans suffer a horrible death or die from a broken heart. Gods tended to ditch them for some other prettier mortal, or better yet, a goddess. Screw them all, especially fancy goddesses, I say.

  Yeah, so guys who reminded me of walking, talking sex gods? Bad news. Back up and run. They will make you looney.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him turn back to his locker, his arm muscles flexing like liquid steel as he pilfered through it like he was in a hurry. Ha. He was probably freaking out because of our proximity. Which I’d found interesting at first when his No Looking at Dovey campaign began, but had long since given up trying to figure him out.

  Perhaps that’s not the entire truth.

  I still ached to know why he’d played his head games with me.

  I still ached to have his eyes see me.

  Being sneaky, I slid my gaze over him, taking in the finely-sculpted body, designed by football in the fall and rowing crew in the spring. Oh, who was I kidding, he was built like a god, too, with muscles that absolutely pulsed with a tangible sexuality. He was lickable. I can’t deny it. But the kicker was how in tune he was with the female heart, how he innately knew how to pose his physique for optimal viewing. Some people are born knowing the right stance and gestures that capture your eyes, hypnotize you with every step. Call it confidence or cockiness or charm—or what I referred to as the three C’s—it worked. Making you want what wasn’t good or safe. Making you entertain the idea of him. Of being his.

  It’s impossible though. He laid his heart at no girl’s feet. Hadn’t he told me so?

  Since our break-up—if you call it that—I’ve had a whole year to watch him and eavesdrop on every conversation I could with him in it. Conversations between beautiful girls who gushed on and on about how hot he was or how rich. The worse were the whispers about his prowess in bed. And when I could, I’d listen to him talk. I’d hear him talking to girls in the back of class, calling them baby this and sweetheart that. Gag. More often than not, that same girl would cry to her friends in a month or so because he’d moved on to someone else. And the guys? They talked about him with reverence in their tones. Like he was an idol.

  Bad guys are always the prettiest, but then pretty is an understatement when it came to him. He was simply more. So yeah, no way was I turning to face him. Nope. Just gonna stand here and pretend he was a rock and think of unsexy things, like the frog I had to dissect in science this week. Wait, better yet, I could think about Spider and how I was going pop him…

  He moved, selecting his English Lit book, startling me. Afraid of being caught, I turned back to my locker, pulling out my own book, angry that I’d allowed myself to dwell on him and his well-proven assets.

  It was over between us.

  He fumbled and dropped something. Cursing, he bent down, his body leaning close to mine, getting into my personal space. I told myself to step away from him, but my body didn’t obey.

  And he didn’t move either, as if he were mesmerized by something on the ground.

  Then his warm fingers slid up, up my calf, stopping at the top of my upper thigh, just at the hemline of my skirt. And my skirts are short, which meant his hand was nearly to my panties.

  How dare he touch me after a year of denying me even a single glance?

  I flinched and pulled away. Even though his touch had lit me on fire.

  And I hated him for it, for making me still want him.

  Long seconds passed as I waited for him to stand and face me, my head screaming at me to just walk away now, to snub him like he did me every day. A rush of adrenaline kicked in because I’d fantasized this moment a thousand times in my head. Images of me spitting in his face came to mind.

  He stood.

  He eased off his ridiculously expensive sun-glasses.

  Don’t look at him.

  Gazing at him was suicide for your soul.

  But basic need won out over self-preservation, and my blue eyes crashed into his amber ones straight-on, the force of his gaze making my chest tightened.

  Tick, tock.

  Time passed, maybe a minute or two. I really don’t know because everything but him zoomed out. As we studied each other, the sounds of students going to and fro and teachers starting class faded, leaving only us and the sounds of our breathing. The rumbling sound of thunder from the storm outside registered briefly, but then it disappeared as my vision narrowed in on him, blacking out everything. This was it, the moment I’d dreamed about, the moment I could lie and tell him that the way he’d destroyed me hadn’t really hurt. My heart was still in my chest; it still beat.

  I licked my lips, accusatory words rising up in my throat, but I swallowed down my bitterness at the expression I saw on his chiseled face.

  Because even though I remembered clearly what he’d done to me, it got all mixed up—and I deflated.

  Cuba Hudson, the hottest, richest, most popular guy on campus looked as broken as I felt.

  “I can do anything but love you.”

  – Cuba

  A RAIN STORM battered my silver Porsche as I parked in the usual spot, unofficially designated for upperclassmen students only. A primo spot, it was under a shady oak tree and close to the main entrance to Briarcrest Academy. At least I wouldn’t get drenched in the downpour. Not like those poor freshmen who had to park out in no man’s land. I fiddled with my umbrella and messenger bag, noticing it was nearly eight o’clock. Weinstein would be pissed if I was late. So what. A few more months and I’d be out of this place and in college focusing on my pre-med major. Yeah, right. With the way I’d let my GPA slide, I’d never be accepted to a decent university. Maybe I’d just be a fry cook somewhere. A long as it was away from Dallas, I didn’t care. But one thing was for sure, I wanted to put some distance between me and her, the one girl I couldn’t have.

  Yet, no matter how far I went, I’d never be rid of the blood on my hands.

  Not going there right now.

  I scrubbed my face with my hands, trying to erase those jacked up feelings in my head. I’d gotten good at pushing those thoughts aside, but today, something was decidedly off. Something kept jiggling at me in the back of mind, like maybe I had homework due I’d forgotten about. Whatever.

  As soon as I’d woken up this morning, things hadn’t flowed as usual. First off, Dad had spent the night at the penthouse in Dallas, sending over someone from the sitting service to stay with me. Which was something he did sometimes after working late. Since he was part-owner of the Dallas Mavericks, he had commitments, and much of it involved parties and schmoozing with the elite. Even a certain ex-President of the United States was his friend. Not that I cared.

  I slipped on my dark sunglasses even though it was raining. Had to complete the look. And somehow it’s easier to smile when no one can see your eyes.

  I did a walk-run all the way to the entrance, my mind focused on getting to my locker and getting to class. Leaving my Tom Ford umbrella outside on the portico, I strolled through the stone archways and into the double doors of BA. The scent of power and money assailed me. Rich people smelled good, like Chanel perfume, genuine leather, and cold diamonds—if diamonds had a scent, that is. Future movers and shakers made up the student body. And me. I fit right in with this crowd.

  Guys unconsciously puffed up their chests, checking me out, wondering what I had they didn’t. I inclined my head in a slight nod. I didn’t give a damn if they liked me or not, which seemed to make them want to be my
friend even more. Go figure. High school politics and hierarchy. Two giggling freshmen girls tried to catch my eye as I walked down the hall, and I gave them what they wanted, a heavy-lidded look and a slow-tipping smile. Yeah. I knew how to play this game. It’s all about image and they see what they want to.

  Opening my locker, I rummaged inside, trying to hurry it up and not just because I was running late. No, I didn’t want to see her. My locker neighbor. I was number forty-eight and she was forty-nine. We’d been sharing the same real estate since August and somehow I’d made it all the way to February without eye contact. That takes skill, not looking at someone who’s standing right next to you, close enough you can almost feel the heat coming off their skin. I felt her hate too. It was a visceral thing, and I imagined I could feel it emanating from her pores, mushrooming and then settling in a cloud over me, clogging up the air I breathed.

  I didn’t blame her for hating me.

  Yet, on the flip side of that, she’d cracked open my chest when I’d thought it was invincible. When I thought I was immune to feeling anything more than lust for a girl.

  I stiffened, smelling her before she arrived. Like silk, she slid in beside me like it didn’t bother her to be near me. Like we didn’t have this electric barrier between us that would fry you in a heartbeat.

  I scooted away.

  Even though I didn’t want to be near her, I breathed her in her sweet smell, one of the little extras I allowed myself. I might not be able to face her, but I tortured myself with her scent.

  Yeah, she was altogether different from any of the other girls at BA.

  Ugly, short skirts—yet not short enough to be sent home—were her staple this year, calling attention to her long and toned legs. I peeked at her from the corner of my eyes, because well, I had to. She had magnetism, and for some crazy reason, my eyes were doing whatever they wanted today.

  Soaking wet from the rain, she stood there proudly, wearing a faded blue mini skirt with bright pink polka dotted patterned tights underneath. It clashed, but damn, her legs looked good. Her drenched top fit snug across her breasts, a sleeveless tee shirt with a faded skull on the front. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and a fringe of dark bangs rested on her forehead. She’d gotten some blue highlights, and I used my peripheral vision to check them out.