Broken Trust : Pacific Prep

by R. A. Smyth

  The question takes me by surprise and I let out an inelegant snort. “Not a clue. It’s not like I had any prospects before I came here, and I keep expecting this all to blow up in my face and I’ll end up back where I was.”

  He nods in understanding. “Life has taught you that when things are going well, it’s too good to be true. It’s ingrained in you not to trust the happy periods of your life, because they won’t last.”

  “I don’t know if having the Pricks hate me and the school whispering about me is necessarily my life ‘going well’,” I retort with a snark.

  His brows pull together at something I’ve said. “The Pricks?”

  “Oh.” Crap. I hadn’t meant to refer to them out loud like that. It’s one thing to call them that in my head, or to Emilia, but the fewer people who know about my less than pleasant pet name for the assholes, the better for me. “The Princes,” I clarify, figuring he’s probably already deduced who I’m talking about, and even if he hasn’t, what we discuss here is confidential, and I don’t believe he would run off and tell them. He doesn’t strike me as someone who would let themselves get stuck under the Princes’ thumbs. He’s probably one of the few adults in this place that might actually stand up to them, or would at least resist them.

  Once again his face brightens with that brain melting, panty-soaking smile of his, another deep, rumbling laugh escaping him as he shakes his head. “Very fitting.”

  A small smile lifts the corner of my lip, and I have to mentally tap that shit down. This isn’t a friendly bonding session. In fairness, I don’t know what this is, but it’s definitely not that.

  He must be able to see me erect my walls again as, without even looking at his watch, he says, “Our time is up.”

  I begin shoving my workbooks back in my bag. “Same time next week, Mr. Jacobs?”

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “And Hadley, you can call me Beck when we’re in this room.”

  I glance over at him, finding him watching me closely. “Okay...Beck.” The word tastes like dark chocolate and cherry, and I can suddenly picture myself crying out his name as he does very unprofessional things to my body.

  With my cheeks stained crimson, I duck my head and run out of his office, desperately trying to forget the way my name rolled off his tongue, in his rich, husky voice.

  ***

  It’s pitch black out as I slowly make my way through the forest. I saw the others sneaking out earlier, so I know tonight is fight night. Tonight is my night. I don’t know how often they run these things, but I’ve been patiently waiting for this opportunity.

  After the first time, I promised myself I wouldn’t come here again, that I wouldn’t insert myself into the fights, but Hawk has driven me to this. Punching a bag isn’t enough. I need blood. I need pain. I need to watch these idiots beat the shit out of each other for no other reason than because they want to.

  Each step I take is silent as I traverse the forest floor, approaching the clearing; the howls and cheers of bored, over-privileged teenage boys guiding my way.

  Reaching the same clearing as last time, I hide in the shadow of the trees, ensuring I stay out of the beam of the flashlights while I peer through the crowd, into the makeshift ring. Just like last time, the boys form a wide circle around the fighters—two juniors who can’t punch for shit. The Pricks stand out like a sore thumb at the far end of the ring, the other students keeping a respectful distance, unwilling to get too close and accidentally jostle them.

  I focus back on the piss-poor fighters right as one of them lands a lucky shot, knocking the other guy to the ground. Lying in a heap, he slaps his hand against the compact dirt, tapping out.

  A couple of his friends rush into the ring, lifting him up and dragging him out of there while the other fighter does a victory lap, people in the crowd clapping him on the back as he passes by.

  The sounds of victory quickly die down as Hawk steps forward into the ring, the previous winner scurrying to the sidelines before he can get pulled into another fight. Everyone here knows he wouldn’t stand a chance against Hawk.

  With his usual arrogant look and a slight curl to his lip promising pain, Hawk surveys the crowd, shrewdly selecting his victim.

  This is my moment.

  I stride out from between the trees, cutting silently across the clearing toward them until I’m standing unseeingly at the back of the crowd. Thanks to my smaller stature, the boys in front of me prevent any risk of me being seen by Hawk or the other Pricks.

  “Who will it be tonight?” Hawk calls out, slowly turning in a circle, eyeing down each and every boy, all of whom quickly glance away. The resonating silence is deafening as everyone looks at the person beside them, not one of them having the balls to take him on.

  “Me,” I shout out from the back of the crowd. The guys in front of me turn round, their eyes widening when they see me standing there. As I step forward, they jump to the side, everyone parting to let me through.

  I keep my focus on Hawk as I step into the ring, watching as his eyes widen and brows lift in surprise before he covers it with a sneer.

  “You?” He snorts derisively. “Please, I’d wipe the floor with you.”

  With an impassive expression, giving nothing away as per usual, Mason steps forward into the ring, coming to stand beside him as he whispers something in his ear. He’s probably trying to convince Hawk to back down. He’s the only one who has seen me in the gym. Annoyingly, he’s also probably telling Hawk he can’t fight a girl—just because I have ovaries doesn't mean I should be underestimated.

  I didn’t come to Pac to get caught up in fist fights and brawls, but apparently that’s exactly what I’m going to have to do. I’m sick of taking Hawk’s shit. I’m not someone who can sit back and let people walk all over them. I was raised to be a fighter, taught how to give as good as I get. I’ve been letting him go around acting like the big man on campus because I didn’t want to disrupt the hierarchy here. I’ve had more important things to focus on, but enough is enough. I’m fucking done. If this asshole won’t leave me the fuck alone, then I’m more than happy to show him exactly who he’s provoking.

  Hawk swats Mason away, not heeding his warning.

  “Then what are you so afraid of?” I taunt, smirking back at him.

  “I’m not about to have everyone going around telling people I beat the shit out of a girl,” he snarls in response.

  I nod my head like I completely agree with what he just said.

  “How about,” I begin, tilting my head to one side, as though I’m thinking through what I’m about to say, but the truth is I know exactly how to play this to ensure I get what I want tonight—my fists crashing into his stupid, pompous face, “you pick one of these...boys,” I gesture to the gathered crowd, watching our exchange with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. “And I’ll fight them. If I win, then it’s your turn. No excuses, no bullshitting.”

  He looks completely relaxed, his arms crossed over his chest as he snorts. “Sure,” he agrees easily, not for one second believing I could beat any of these wimps. “Why not? It’ll be your funeral.”

  I catch Mason shaking his head. I wish I knew what he was thinking right now. He’s seen my moves, felt the power behind my hits, so he probably knows I can hold my own, but he’s never seen me against an actual opponent.

  West looks conflicted, as though he’s torn between intervening and letting Hawk do whatever he wants. We all know he won’t dare contradict Hawk in front of everyone, though. God forbid their subjects see them arguing. Fucking pathetic.

  I deliberately avoid looking at Cam, a skill I’ve become quite adept at. Things between us have gotten so fucking complicated. Between his betrayal and my own deception, neither of us can trust each other, which has left us in this weird stalemate where we awkwardly pretend the other doesn’t exist. It’s fucking exhausting and I miss his easy, flirty banter.

  “Marcus,” Hawk barks, pulling my attention his way as he points to a lean looking
junior behind me. Turning around, I run my eyes over him as he steps forward without hesitating. Shrugging off his top, I can tell he’s packing some muscle—not much, but a bit. Flexing so he can show off for the crowd, I immediately know he’s all about the performance, not the actual talent and skill; and he already thinks he’s won—a fighter's worst mistake.

  Mason seems to agree as I hear him snort behind me, likely knowing as well as I do, I’ll have this idiot tapping out in no time.

  I pull my hoodie off over my head, leaving me in only my sports bra and lycra leggings as I flex my fingers, stretching the leather of my fingerless gloves over my knuckles.

  “Fuck me,” I hear one of the Pricks behind me murmur, but I can’t tell who, and I’m not about to take my eyes off my opponent. Throwing my hoodie to the edge of the circle, I ignore the hushed whispers as, for the first time, every male in the school gets an up-close and personal view of the phoenix tattoo covering my ribs and the various scars I’m sure they’ve all seen from the video or pictures.

  Widening my stance, I raise my fists, Marcus mimicking me, except he’s got a cocky ass grin on his face that I can’t wait to demolish.

  The second someone shouts ‘go’, I pivot forward, sidestepping his extremely obvious right hook and grabbing a hold of his wrist as I swiftly move behind him, yanking his arm up behind his back. He cries out in pain as the move forces him to lean forward.

  Honestly, this is probably enough of a demonstration, but I’ve been taught not to stop until someone isn’t just down, but they’re out. Besides, I saw that glint in his eyes. He was looking forward to having the upper hand and taking me to the ground, so why the fuck shouldn’t I give him a taste of his own medicine.

  Without hesitating, I step around him, maintaining my firm grip on his wrist, holding it in place as I bring my leg up, relishing in the satisfying snap of broken cartilage as his nose collides with my knee.

  Letting go of my grip on his arm, he drops like a sack of shit, blood running down his face. “You broke my nose, you bitch!” His words come out slurred as he spits blood everywhere.

  I should probably feel at least a little bad about that, but something inside of me is inherently broken. I can’t feel the same remorse other people would. I get little sparks of it here and there; moments of humanity, usually when my emotions are running high or I’m under a lot of stress. I also find myself feeling more...human, more alive, when I’m around Mason, Cam and West...and Beck. Hell, even Hawk ignites more fire in me than I’ve felt in years. It’s pure, unadulterated hatred, but still, it’s something.

  Ignoring the sniveling idiot on the ground, I lift my gaze to Hawk, finding him staring at Marcus with wide eyes. Glancing behind him to the other three, West and Cam are wearing similar expressions of shock and surprise, whereas Mason looks smug...almost proud?

  Returning to Hawk, he catches me smiling smugly at him and scowls back.

  “You owe me a fight, Davenport.”

  With a sharp nod of his head, he agrees, “A deal’s a deal,” stepping confidently into the ring as Marcus stumbles to his feet and into the gathered crowd, giving Hawk and I room to circle one another.

  “You better not hold back just because I’m a girl, Davenport.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Parker.”

  Unlike the first fight, when someone shouts, “Go,” Hawk and I continue to circle one another, each of us analyzing the other, getting a feel for the other’s style, their movements, their strengths and weaknesses.

  In those first few seconds, I learn that he’s well trained. His footwork is impeccable and he never once lowers his fists, giving me an opening; but he’s cocky, sure of himself, and that’s his weakness.

  We dance back and forth, each of us testing the other with a few practice strikes, but it doesn’t take long before Hawk gets bored and makes his first real move; his first mistake.

  With swift, sure movements, he lands a punch to my ribs and another to the side of my head, making my ears ring. I’m faintly aware of the crowd cheering around me, but I zone them out as I retaliate, landing a few punches of my own. Nothing with lasting impact, but enough to get him to back off.

  His wide conceited grin pisses me the fuck off and he doesn’t hesitate before coming at me again, this time trying to sweep my legs out from underneath me and take me to the ground.

  Self-defense 101–never let them get you to the ground. As soon as they do, they have the advantage, especially if the asshole is easily double your size, like Hawk.

  My smaller stature makes me lighter on my feet, faster, meaning it’s easier for me to avoid his swipes, dancing out of his way every time he comes near me.

  He quickly becomes frustrated, not expecting it to be this difficult or to take this long, and that’s when he makes mistake number two. Instead of using his knowledge and insight, he comes at me with annoyance and indignation.

  The combination of his arrogance and anger makes him sloppy and big-headed. We each share another few blows, neither of us doing much damage. He’s got a split lip and I can feel the smarting of a bruise on my cheek and another one over my ribs, but nothing serious.

  My punches get weaker, sloppier, as we continue back and forth, and it soon becomes obvious to everyone around us that Hawk is the better fighter, the one with more strength and stamina.

  On my next hit, he grabs a hold of my wrist, yanking me toward him, giving me no option but to let him pull me in. Using his grip on my arm, he spins me around, wrapping his thick arms around me.

  “Tap out,” he growls in my ear, but I ignore him, wriggling helplessly in his arms. “You can’t win this,” he snarls, “it will only get worse for you.”

  His hold on me tightens to the point of pain, but he’s already given me the in I need.

  Slamming the heel of my boot down on the top of his foot, I throw my head back, feeling it connect with his nose. There’s no satisfying crunch this time, but it’s enough that he loosens his grip and I can bring my arms out, breaking free.

  While he’s still stunned, I spin around, landing a quick jab to his kidney, then his spleen, followed by several quick blows to his head.

  Kicking out with my foot, it connects with the side of his knee, making it buckle. Between the instability and the disorientation, he drops to his knees.

  “Tap out,” I demand, not bothering to keep my voice low like he did. “You can’t win this. It will only get worse for you.”

  While my words are defiant, when he looks up at me, I am secretly pleading him with my eyes to just tap the fuck out. Don’t make me do something more serious just to get you to stay down.

  Of course, the shithead knows how to push all of my buttons and his glare turns defiant. He’s got no intention of giving up, of losing to a girl.

  Before he can move an inch, my fist flies forward, connecting with the soft tissue surrounding his windpipe. As the impact from my hit forces his airway to close over, preventing oxygen from getting in and out of his lungs, his eyes bug out of his head, his hand coming up instinctively to grasp at his neck as he gasps for air.

  “What the fuck? You throat punched him!” West panics, running over and bending down beside Hawk, frantically looking him over as Hawk gasps and wheezes. The crowd whispers around us, everyone shoving against one another to get a better look, but I ignore them all.

  “He’ll be fine,” I assure him, waving off his concern. “He wasn’t going to stay down. It was that or knock him out. I figured this was the better choice.”

  “You...what?” he stutters, frantically checking Hawk over. He’s already starting to recover though, his pharynx opening back up as he gulps down lungfuls of air.

  “See?” I wave toward a clearly alive and well Hawk. “He’s fine.”

  Lifting my gaze, my eyes catch on Mason and Cam who haven’t moved from their position just outside the circle. Cam is staring at me in shock, frozen in place with his mouth agape as he tries to compute what he just witnessed.

 
On the other hand, Mason looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh. His reaction takes me by surprise. I expected him to be as angry as West. I certainly didn’t expect him to be holding back laughter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh...or smile, for that matter. He doesn’t exactly show his emotions much. Even when we’re alone in the gym, he wears his usual stony expression.

  The sound of Hawk coughing up a lung pulls all of our attention his way as he climbs unsteadily to his feet. I expect his typical glare to land on me, but when he glances over my shoulder instead, I remember that we aren’t alone and that I’ve just shown up the reigning asshole of the school in front of them all.

  As though realizing the same thing, West matches Hawk’s glare, adjusting his glasses as his steely gaze roams over the crowd. “Get the fuck out of here,” he barks. “Tonight didn’t happen. You didn’t see anything, and if we hear so much as a whisper, you’ll regret it.”

  His threatening tone and icy expression once again remind me he has a darker side I know very little about, one he reserves for times like these—when there is a threat to their reign.

  The crowd jumps into motion, everyone scattering back through the trees like the hounds of hell are on their ass. It takes no more than a minute before the clearing is empty and the sounds of people running through the forest become distant before tapering out, the stillness of the night air once again returning.

  “You tricked me,” Hawk wheezes, his voice coming out harsh against his bruised throat.

  “You let your arrogance rule you,” I retort. “You assumed you’d already won, so you got sloppy. You're only a winner when your opponent is on the floor. Remember that next time and you might not lose.”

  The glower he throws my way would have anyone else pissing themselves, but I simply roll my eyes as he storms off into the trees, heading back toward the dorms.

  Cam doesn’t spare me a glance before taking off after him, an action that has my chest tightening painfully. With a heavy sigh, West steps away to pick up the flashlights strategically placed around the clearing, turning them off as he lifts them until only one is left on, providing just enough light as he walks back toward me.