by Leia Thorne
We ride for a while, and I’m getting lost in the sensation, not caring that my skirt is flapping up in the back. Roland slows the bike as he rounds a hard bend. He takes a left onto a dirt road, kicking up dust behind us, then slows to a stop a few yards into the scenic woods.
I pop the helmet off. “Taking a girl to the woods. Alone. That’s the start of every bad horror movie, Roland. Do I need to run now?”
He twists my way. “Funny. Hop off.”
I do so, placing the helmet on the end of the handle. As I look around, I recognize the area. It’s the far end of the lake. On the other side, where the town line marks the end of Crescent Valley and the start of Fair Haven.
I walk a ways in toward the lake shore. The placid water reflects the setting sun, a mirror of the cloudless sky. The water laps against the rocky shore. I feel Roland’s presence nearing, and I link my arms together over my chest.
He brought me to a private location where no one will hear us. A chill skates up my back. I can’t take wondering any more. Bad or very bad, I have to know what that damn letter said.
I spin around to face him. “What did Lesley’s letter say, Roland?”
He pushes his hair back as he approaches. “She was afraid of you.”
I blink a few times as his words sink in. “What else.”
When I don’t deny her claim, Roland’s expression hardens. Maybe he expected me to refute it—to call her a liar. I can’t. Lesley was frightened of me, and Gage. And scared of who she had become, and what her future meant. She was full of fear in the end.
“Lesley said that you had something on her,” he continues. “Something that would ruin her life. What was it, Sawyer? What were you threatening her with?”
I blow out a forceful breath. “I can’t tell you that. It’s not my secret to share.”
“Bullshit.” He storms closer, his features a mask of outrage. “You were threatening to expose her twisted little acts in your sex club, weren’t you? What did you make her do? Did you record it? Threaten to air it publicly when she said she wanted out?”
I shake my head. “Wow. You’ve put some thought into this,” I say. “But you’re completely wrong. And really, what the hell? Why are you just now confronting me with this? If you love her so much, why not before?”
His mouth presses into a hard line as he looks away. “I was angry with her,” he says, a hard edge in his voice. “For a long while. Afterward. I needed time to process…things.”
“Like what?”
His gaze cuts to me. “Loved,” he says, sinking his hands into his pockets. “I loved her. Past tense.” He looks so dejected, an ache lodges in my throat.
“I loved her, too.” I make an attempt to close the gap between us, but he holds up his hand.
“That’s not what I mean,” he says. “I loved her before she became whatever she became in your group. At least, I thought I did. Then she sent me that letter, and I didn’t reply. I thought it might be another one of her mind games.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I fucked up. Because it was serious, wasn’t it? Because not long after that, she was dead. What the fuck did you do to her?”
I swallow. “It’s complicated, Roland. And again, it’s not my secret to tell. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
His laugh is harsh. “Trust you?”
“Yes. I did love her. I would never hurt her.”
He hangs his head, unable to hold my gaze.
“She was depressed,” I say, trying again to move closer to him. He lets me. “There are things that were going on with her that…” I trail off, not knowing how much to reveal. “It’s private. Her mother had me, had us all, sign an NDA.”
He looks up, his features tense. “A what?” he asks, incredulous.
“A non-disclosure agreement.” I frown.
“Jesus.” He drives a hand through his hair. “That is so…fucking just like this place.”
“The de Ponts like their secrecy.”
I remember when Mrs. de Pont approached us before the funeral, her lawyer in tow. The others didn’t know about the adoption, but they knew enough—the society activities were mentioned in the NDA, and Tabatha made it clear that Lesley’s name was never to be mentioned in association with the Broken Saints again.
A contracted promise that we’ve all taken very seriously ever since.
Roland studies me closely. “She really did kill herself.”
“Of course,” I say, my voice shaken. “Do you honestly believe I’m capable of physically harming anyone? Of killing them? Christ, Roland. I’m not a monster.”
He scoffs, sending a stern glare my way. “Maybe. But what about Gage?”
I clasp my hips. “Gage might be a lot of traitorous things, but that’s extreme. He’s all about psychological warfare and mind games. He’s not the physical type.”
His laugh is dark. “My bruised face would argue your logic on that.”
My mouth parts. “What are you talking about?”
He waves me off. “Nothing.”
A thick silence builds between us, severing our tenuous connection. Then: “Fine. I’ll trust you,” he says. “As far as this goes…at least.”
I tip my head to the side, scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, too. For what Lesley did. How she treated you.” I shrug helplessly. “Looking back, I don’t know why we did the things we did… We’re seniors now. Maybe it’s the knowledge of getting away from here, but so much has changed this year already. I’m not that same girl anymore.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me with those stone-gray eyes, assessing. Then he reaches out and grips my skirt, pulling my body flush against his. He cups my face, his gaze tracing my features searchingly.
My heart skips a beat, my breath bated. Waiting.
His mouth hovers so close to mine… “Do you love him?”
His question knocks me off guard, and I blink. “What?”
“Astor,” he says. “Do you love him?”
My mouth opens, ready to deny it, but my voice won’t come.
With a defeated nod, Roland releases me. Still standing near, he says, “I should get you back.”
I watch him seat himself on the bike, my nerves fraying one by one. When I accepted this task, I knew I could control Roland. I still know it. If I mounted him right now on top of that bike, I could convince him once and for all that we had nothing to do with Lesley’s death. I could convince him that my heart doesn’t belong to any boy.
Instead, I slide in behind him and link my arms around his waist. I let him push the helmet over my head without a word. I press my thighs against his jean-clad ones as he takes me back into town. All the while, feeling like I left something important back there in that wooded scenery.
Getting close to Roland feels more dangerous than anything I’ve ever done.
Chapter 10
Remi
Roland,
I don’t know why I’m writing you. I can’t say these things out loud for fear of what it means, and the thought of putting this into a text, converting my thoughts into digital form, feels like it would diminish the importance.
I’m scared.
You asked me once what the Broken Saints was…and I wouldn’t tell you. I couldn’t. I’m not sure I can even explain it now. I’ve said things that have hurt you, but please believe me, I did so with the intent to keep you away. I’m only reaching out to you now because I know everything is about to change. So it doesn’t matter anymore. All the secrets are going to come tumbling out.
I thought they were my friends. I believed them when they said we were a society—that we build each other up to achieve impossible heights. I bought into the lie. No one is meant to achieve anything other than Gage and Sawyer.
They used me. I was just a toy to them. And when I told them that I was tired of the games, tired of the cruelty, that’s when the whole façade fell away.
There is no out.
Gage refuses to let me go. He knows something abou
t me that will ruin my life. Everything would change. But instead of letting him blackmail me, I dug deeper. I discovered more than I should have…and now I’m in danger. The only way for this to stop is for it to come out into the light.
When the truth is exposed, please know this: I do care about you, and I am sorry for everything. I hope that you’ll forgive me. You’re the only one who knows the real me. I need a friend right now.
Yours,
Lesley
I’ve already read the letter too many times, but like a compulsion, I take it out and read it again. Looking for a detail I missed. Dissecting each part. Trying to discern the truth in her words. What does it mean? Why would Roland slip it into my locker?
I mean, it had to be Roland. The letter is addressed to him. But is it legitimate? Did Lesley pen it or him?
Banked against the top step and the stage, I listen to the sounds of the other students behind the curtain on the backstage of the auditorium. Drama is my one elective this quarter, and it’s fitting. I feel like I’m playing a role every day I enter the academy.
Especially this week.
Ever since Gage and Roland’s scuffle in the bathroom, I’ve been leery, feeling distanced from Gage and the intimacy I found with him on the yacht.
There is no out, Remi. The look in his pale-blue eyes when he said those words to me… It was chilling. Maybe it was just the intensity of the moment, his anger toward Roland—but he frightened me.
I’m not naive; I know there’s more to Gage and the others and their secret society than a sex club. How else do you obtain special consideration into Ivy League schools and drive ridiculously expensive sports cars and have a freaking penthouse? What else is going on behind the scenes?
What really happened to Lesley de Pont?
For now, I’ve been finding ways to dodge the treetop. It’s been relatively easy with the mountain of makeup work I’m buried under, but even my dad is starting to get suspicious. His concern adds a layer of guilt, and he was actually doing well, moving on, believing that I was moving on also.
So, for his sake, I need to figure out my deal.
My phone beeps from inside my backpack. I fold the letter and shove it between my books before I pull out my phone.
Rush: Where are you?
It’s the second text he’s sent me in less than five minutes according to the time stamps. I tug my lip between my teeth, wondering if I should keep ignoring him. I’ve been avoiding everyone today. Before lunch yesterday, I texted Palmer that I had more makeup work for the class I blew off to go dress shopping.
I’m not supposed to lie to the Saints. I took an oath. No secrets among us—and it wasn’t a complete lie. I do have schoolwork. I just didn’t need to do it right then.
I’m stalling.
If I keep this up, Sawyer and Gage will know something is wrong.
Lesley’s words are haunting me. I know that she wasn’t mentally stable, that she was ill. I’ve read the reports, the speculations that depression runs in her family. So maybe the letter she wrote to Roland was a part of her sickness, her paranoia.
But does that matter when she truly believed her words? Whether or not her claims about Gage and Sawyer were founded in truth or illness, she believed them. In her mind, it was real.
Another text from Rush: I’m coming to you.
Shit. How does he know where I am? I drop my phone in my pack and think about breaking the pledge. I know what I swore. This is the deal. We satisfy each other’s carnal desires so that we can achieve greatness. But with everything swirling in my head right now, how do I hide it?
How would Sawyer handle this?
She would own it. She would devour Rush and make him her bitch.
Okay. I can do this. I stand up and look around the vacated auditorium. Everyone left while I was lost in thought. I didn’t even hear the bell ring. I step onto the stage and dip between the curtains. The backstage is dark, the only light source coming from the fire alarm lights above.
I make quick work of untucking my shirt and tying the bottom together above my waist to show off my belly, like some slutty Halloween version of a Catholic schoolgirl.
The auditorium doors open and close, and I hear his heavy footfalls as he nears the stage.
“Back here,” I call out.
Rush climbs the steps, and I see him peek his head between the curtains. “Damn, girl. Look at you, all naughty and waiting for some dick.”
Seated on the costume table, I part my knees, giving him a glimpse of my pink panties, my feet dangling innocently. “How did you find me?” I really want to know.
“Your student schedule, of course. I’m not a moron.” Rush stalks my way, his hand cupping his cock. “No one came to the treetop last night.”
I shrug. “Homecoming shopping,” I say, in way of excuse.
“I’m stressed the fuck out.” He stops right before me. “I can’t smoke shit right now. Coach has me testing every week, thanks to some asshole snitch.” He leans over me, forcing me to brace my hands behind me on the table for support.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What can I do to help?”
Rush loosens his tie. “Get on your knees, baby.”
His large hands clasp my waist and he lifts me off the table, setting my feet to the floor in one swift move. I brace my hand on his chest.
Channel Sawyer, I tell myself. “Slow down, Rush. Don’t you want to play first?”
His mouth crooks into a grin. “Play as hard as you want, girl.”
A strange buzz zips through me. An adrenaline rush like I’ve never experienced, that makes me tremble and lightheaded all at once. Power. Control. An ache seizes me deep inside, as I suddenly realize that I’ve always been positioned, maneuvered. This is the first time I can set the pace and do whatever I want to Rush…and see how far I can make him go.
I grip his uniform blazer and turn his back toward the table. I shove him up against the edge, and take a step back.
He chuckles.
I raise an eyebrow. “Is something funny?” I reach under my skirt and slide my panties down.
Rush’s smile drops. “No, ma’am.”
“That’s what I thought.” I untie my shirt slowly, undoing the buttons from the bottom and moving up. As I open my shirt to expose the pink bralette beneath, I walk toward Rush and grasp his belt buckle. “Do you think I can make you beg?”
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “What the hell got into you?”
I jerk his belt open and tug on the clasp above the zipper. “I asked you a question.”
“Oh, I will do whatever you want me to do.”
I lower his zipper leisurely, feeling his cock strain against his boxers. Heat blooms in my core, that ache pushing deeper. I rub the heel of my palm over his erect shaft, loving the way Rush bites his bottom lip in anticipation.
“What do you want to do to me?” I ask, springing his cock free. “Talk dirty to me, Rush.”
“Jesus. You’re going to make me blow my load before we even start.” He rocks his hips in rhythm to my painfully slow strokes. “I want to flip that fucking skirt up and smack that ass,” he says.
I lick my lips, then turn around, pressing my back against his chest. Inching up my skirt, I grind my bare ass up and down his cock. “Give it a tap,” I tell him.
A light sting follows the smack, making my pussy clench tight. Then he rubs the sting away. “Can I please bury my cock in that sweet pussy.”
I push away from him. “Not yet.”
I’m pulling from a bank of very limited resources here, but in channeling Sawyer, it seems to be working. I feel empowered. And I admit, I’m enjoying the seduction of it all. I’m even turning myself on.
Slipping my hands under his shirt, I run my fingers over his hard, defined abs. I won’t lie; Rush’s body is amazing. He’s solid muscle and a powerhouse of testosterone. Making a guy like him beg to have me… The thought is intoxicating.
“How hard do you think you can make me come?” I
ask, my voice low and sensual.
I feel him tremble excitedly at my question. “I’m about to bend you over this fucking table and find out…”
I grab hold of his cock, giving it a firm couple pumps to shut him up. “Drop your pants,” I order him.
“Fucking hell.” Rush pushes his slacks to the floor on command.
“Now stroke yourself,” I say, inching away from him. “I want to watch you pleasure yourself.”
He slips the tie over his head and tosses it on the table. Wearing just the top half of his uniform, he should look ridiculous. But as he fists his hand around his cock and strokes it slowly to the head, it’s absolutely, ridiculously hot.
I’ve never been outgoing, choosing rather to let others claim the spotlight. But as it’s just me and Rush here on the darkened backstage, I step into my own mini spotlight, owning this moment for myself.
As he’s rubbing his cock, I turn my back to him and bend over. My skirt rides up high, revealing my backside, and I place my hand between my thighs.
“Ah yeah, that’s it. Touch that pussy,” Rush encourages.
I settle two fingers over my pussy lips and rub myself, the way I once saw a stripper in a movie do. It works, as I hear Rush’s deep groan at the sight. I work my fingertips inside, spreading my feet apart farther, then toss my head back, my hair doing that sexy hair-fling thing.
And that does it. The table legs scrape against the stage as Rush pushes off the edge. His hands are on my body before I’ve completely righted myself.
“I didn’t give you permission—”
“If you torture me for one second longer,” he says, lifting me into his arms, “I can’t be held responsible for what I do. I want you. I’m taking that shit now.”
His desperate words burn through me like cinders through paper. I wrap my legs around his trim waist as he carries me to the table. My back hits the hard slab of wood, and then Rush’s mouth surrounds my nipple, his skilled tongue working the bud through the thin cotton material of my bralette.