by Ashley Gee
He eagerly leans forward to read what I’ve written when I slide the paper back.
Vin would either kill you or break every tooth in that pretty smile.
That same smile widens as he reads, seeming unbothered by the specter of threat represented by Vincent Renaldo Cortland. Or maybe some mild flirtation is enough to distract him from the fact that he risks serious pain over a girl he barely knows. For a surreal moment, I wonder if Jake might be the only sane person in Deception, like Alice right after she falls through the rabbit hole into Wonderland. The rest of us are operating under some shared delusion, that a senior in high school has the power to control an entire town.
Then I remind myself of the things Vin has done, and I go right back to believing.
Jake slides the paper back, and this time the writing is larger. I wonder if that’s an unconscious signal of something.
But he isn’t your boyfriend?
I quickly write back, any thoughts of actually getting my homework done forgotten. This is the most interaction I’ve had in days.
Fuck no.
When he passes the paper back to me, his fingers touch mine and stay for a beat too long before he pulls them away. It makes me feel sort of light and airy, like I’m flying.
I remind myself that the higher I go, the harder I’ll hit the ground when I inevitably fall.
Then I read what Jake has written and feel the earth rushing up to meet me.
He acts like he’s in love with you.
My hand shakes as I pick up the pen to write. It scares me to know what this looks like from the outside, this twisted dynamic between me and my greatest tormenter.
I don’t have a word for what lies between us, but I know that love is the wrong one.
He loves to torture me. That’s all. This is how it’s always been.
I’m never this honest with anyone, not even Zion. Even talking about Vin gives me the fanciful idea that I’m ceding him even more power over me. I want to erase Vin from my brain, not spend my free time discussing him with a complete stranger.
I don’t have a problem handling him then.
Founder’s Ball?
I remind myself that I can’t let this piece of notepaper leave the library when we’re done. Burning is the best way to destroy evidence, but I’ll eat it if I have to. If Vin ever finds out that I had this conversation, even only in writing, he will make me regret it.
And my imagination isn’t good enough to think of all the ways he might do that.
But I also don’t want to live the rest of my life under someone’s heel. Death would be more preferable than that. This life I have can’t be forever, and the only way it will change is if I do.
And I don’t give a fuck what Vin Cortland thinks about it.
Feeling suddenly defiant, even though I’ll definitely be paying for it later, I take a gel pen and write LET’S GO in big block letters before holding it high enough for him to see.
Jake grins wide. He doesn’t even seem to notice when I take the notepaper back, scrunch it up and shove it in the pocket of my oversized sweatshirt. He stands and murmurs something about getting the details from me later, voice low enough that even Mrs. Markel can’t hear him.
I watch him go, already regretting my impulsiveness. Briefly, I consider running after him and trying to take it all back. As soon as I move to rise, Iain Hewitt steps out from behind a high bookcase and blocks my path.
My gaze follows Jake over Iain’s shoulder as he pushes open the heavy doors and lets them slam shut loudly behind him. I don’t say a word to call him back, and not just because of Mrs. Markel’s laser-eyed attention.
The paper with our messages feels like it burns a hole in my pocket. Iain won’t search me, because he knows as well as I do that he isn’t allowed to touch me. But if he tells me to hand it over, I’m not convinced I’ll refuse.
Iain is built like an MMA fighter, all lean muscle and explosive quickness, but he moves like a cat. I know exactly how much strength lies in the tightly corded muscles of his arms and just how fast he can move. He is the only one who can get around this school as silently as I do, probably why I didn’t realize he was behind that bookcase until it was too late.
I give him a careless shrug as if I don’t have any idea what he wants. One more small bright spot in the barren landscape of this situation.
You can’t be caught in a lie when you never speak.
This will get back to Vin, eventually everything does. That shouldn’t bother me when I’m planning to show up at the Founder’s Ball with another guy, openly defying Vin for the whole town to see. But now I don’t have the chance to change my mind.
There is only one way forward.
I try to shift past Iain, but he steps in to my path again, blocking the way.
With an angry huff of air, I hold my hands up in front of me as I step forward so he has to move out of the way or let me touch him. He dodges away with an annoyed sigh, but I still see the warning that burns in his gaze.
The hem of my sweatshirt brushes against his arm. Fear ratchets higher as I imagine him grabbing the fabric and choking me with it.
Relief rushes through me when I reach the doors of the library, far enough from Iain that I’m well out of reach. Then I push my hand into my pocket and realize there isn’t anything there.
The note is gone.
I look back to see a folded paper in his hand, held between his index and middle finger like a magician about to perform a card trick.
He stole it out of my pocket with the skill of a seasoned thief.
I could go back and beg him to return it, but it wouldn’t do any good. Iain’s loyalty to Vin is absolute, and everyone knows it. All begging would do at this point is make the situation worse.
This will end badly.
It always does.
Eight
I have a very bad habit of breaking things, even when I’m trying to do precisely the opposite. It’s like I have the Midas touch, but instead of turning the things I covet into solid gold, I have to watch them disintegrate into a million pieces.
Does that make me a bad person?
Probably.
It started from the very day I was born. I destroyed my mother before I even managed to completely enter this world. My father thinks it’s helpful to tell me that my face is the last thing she saw before she died, as if that somehow makes the fact she died in childbirth an easier pill to swallow.
And the sick thing is that sometimes I like breaking things, because if I can’t have something, then I’d rather see it destroyed than given to someone else.
I didn’t mean to break Zaya Milbourne, not at first. When I look at her now, all I want to do is pull her apart piece by piece so I can see what’s hidden deep inside. And the overwhelming anger that rises in me when I see her face makes it feel good when I hurt her.
Even when I’m also hurting myself.
With every moment of weakness, I swear it has to be the last time. But I find myself climbing into her window in the middle of the night, like that shit is inevitable. I can never decide until I touch her whether I want to fuck her or wring her neck.
She doesn’t know, either, which of the urges brings me to her door.
But she does know what she did.
My father sends me an oblique text on Saturday evening, making mention of the fact that he hasn’t laid eyes on me in days. I wait as late as I can before finally venturing into the main house.
Silence greets me as I enter Cortland Manor. Silence and cold. This place is always freezing, as if none of the bright California sun is capable of penetrating the large picture windows of the entry hall that look out to the sea.
The only sound that echoes through my ears is the dull click of my heels on the tile floor, and if I could silence even that, I would.
Silence is the most precious sound known to man, if just because of how rare it is. Most of the time, I can’t get anyone around me to just shut the fuck up.
A
silver statue of a hawk taking off in flight greets me as I reach the stairs. Its claws clutch a large orb that has been etched to look like a miniature version of the earth, as if the hawk has laid claim to the entire world.
The hawk is a special symbol for the Cortlands. It is emblazoned on our family crest and represents the strength and cunning that are supposed to be our family’s central values.
I remember hiding behind this same statue as my stepmother chased after me with a leather belt in her hand. When she was really angry, she would make sure to hold the end that didn’t have a buckle so the metal would strike painfully against the bones of my skinny back.
I’m not a kid anymore, and she hasn’t hit me in years, not since she realized how much bigger and stronger than her I am. But that doesn’t stop the memory from coming, my shoulders stiffening like I’m anticipating another blow.
I refuse to call her my mother, even though she married my father when I was still in diapers. I don’t remember a time before she was in my life, but I know this isn’t the same as having an actual mother, and I refuse to pretend.
Giselle stands at the top of the elaborate stairwell, dressed in a long red evening gown. Her hair is done up in some crazy design that probably took hours to complete and enough hairspray to poke another hole in the ozone layer.
Think of the she-devil, and she doth appear.
Ridiculously long nails, also painted red, glide along the banister as she comes toward me. Those things look like bloody coffins stuck on her fingers, and I wonder how she wipes her ass without getting shit up under them.
Although she probably has one of the many servants she makes scurry around this place wipe her ass for her.
“Are you just getting home from school?” she asks, even though it’s almost eleven o’clock at night.
And a Saturday.
I have no idea if she is just that vapid or simply doesn’t give a shit.
“Something like that.” I scrutinize her nipped and tucked face, marveling for a moment at how much her skin looks like plastic. “Looks like you’re headed out.”
“Just coming in, actually. Your father and I had the Junior Society Charity Auction. I swear, they always have their hands out for cash. Thank God ball gowns don’t have pockets, because I’m sure someone’s hand would have been in mine.”
I want to point out that the money isn’t hers to begin with. Giselle would still be a scheming social climber with a maxed-out credit card if my father hadn’t plucked her from obscurity.
Forcing my attention away from my money-grubbing stepmother and back to the detested statue, I raise an eyebrow. As much as I hate the thing, facing your fears is the only way to keep them from owning you. “I’m sure you found a minimally acceptable number for the required donation.”
“Of course I did, we’re not here to be taken advantage of.”
If my eyes roll any harder, they’ll fly out of their sockets. I’m about to say something agreeable and make an excuse to get the fuck away from her, when I hear an annoyed shriek come from upstairs.
“Is Emma still awake?” I ask incredulously.
Giselle makes a sound of annoyance. “This is the third nanny I’ve hired this year. There is no such thing as good help these days.”
It’s always the same shit, different day, at Cortland Manor.
Makes me wonder how I was ever young and dumb enough to think I could love my stepmother.
I’m already taking the stairs two at a time when her complaints filter through my ears. The nanny isn’t the problem, and Giselle fucking knows it. Emma acts out because no one in this house pays any attention to her.
I push open the door of a bedroom that looks like it was decorated by a middle-aged man with a fetish for diaper play.
Pink walls clash with the lavender curtains on the window. Dead-eyed porcelain dolls dressed like princesses line up like dutiful little soldiers on a shelf beside the four-poster bed made of white wood and trimmed in gold. Every bit of decoration, from the lamp on the bedside table to the gold tiaras painted on the ceiling, is done in a princess theme.
Being in here is like overdosing on Pepto Bismol while trapped inside Disney Land.
Emma is thirteen going on thirty, and Giselle treats her like she is still in preschool. My little sister would much rather be on a baseball diamond practicing her fast pitch than playing pretty-pretty-princess with these creepy ass dolls.
But it’s not like her own mother gives a shit.
Right now, Emma has a nanny standing over her that looks like an extra from an 80’s movie about mental asylums. Giselle apparently has a thing for women who can double as linebackers.
When I walk in, they’re arguing about whether ten o’clock is an appropriate bedtime for a middle schooler. Nurse Ratchet is obviously in the pro position. I’m inclined to take Emma’s side, because that’s always the case. But this screaming fit has got to stop.
I step completely into the room so they both see me and hold up a single hand. That’s enough for both of them to go instantly quiet. This level of control, it’s the same I hold over everyone in my life. I have to admit that I used to get off on it, but this isn’t the kind of power that does good.
It’s the kind that tricks you into doing bad.
By the time you realize just how bad you’ve gone, it’s too late to stop.
“What the hell is going on here?”
The nanny, whose real name I can’t remember for the life of me if I ever knew it at all, brings herself to her full height. “Miss Emma doesn’t want to go to bed like she should.”
Emma interrupts before I can say anything, her voice practically a screech. “No! Mom said that I could stay up to see her before going to bed, and she hasn’t come in yet.”
Giselle has been home long enough to say good night to her daughter, but obviously other priorities take precedence. I would say I’m surprised, but I’m not. I stopped keeping track of all the promises my stepmother makes without any intention of keeping them a long time ago.
Emma will have to learn eventually, but I’ll try to protect her from the worst of it for as long as I can.
“I’ll take care of this,” I murmur, shrugging out of my jacket and tossing it into a puffed armchair covered in pale pink velvet. “You’re relieved for the night.”
Nurse Ratchet looks like she wants to argue. “But—”
I shoot her the look, the one I mastered years ago when I was just a snot-nosed kid who thought he ran the entire world. The look that doesn’t brook any argument and promises swift retribution for any dissent. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
The nanny shakes her head, and wisely keeps her mouth clamped shut as she skirts past me and toward the door. I resist the urge to snap my teeth at her as she passes me. This is at least the dozenth nanny we’ve had since Emma was born, and not one of them have been younger than Methuselah. I can’t help but wonder if Giselle keeps choosing these old battle axes to watch over Emma because she wants to make sure my father doesn’t screw them.
God forbid her daughter’s nurturing take precedence over irrational jealousy.
Emma crosses her arms over her chest, stubborn chin thrust forward, as I approach the bed and sit down on the end. “I’m not going to bed until Mom comes in to read to me like she said she would.”
“Now I’m not good enough? You’re killing me, kid.” I bend over to rifle through the pile of books on the floor next to the bed. Not a single one of them has more words than pictures. “Is this what Giselle is reading to you?”
“No, that one.”
I put down the book in my hand and pick up the one that looks like a jar of pink glitter exploded on the cover and read the title out loud. “Little Princess Unicorn? This is meant for toddlers.”
Emma shrugs, but I catch the glare she levels at the purple comforter. “It’s what Mom picked.”
“Jesus.” I rein in my temper with an effort, because I don’t want Emma to see me angry. I glance at the bookshel
f in the corner, but it’s more of the same. There isn’t even a copy of Harry Potter in here. “You know what, it’s so late that maybe we should save story time for tomorrow night.”
She pouts. “That’s not fair. Mom promised me a story.”
“Yeah, well. I got something better.” I rifle in the pocket of my jacket for my phone and wave it in her face. “I’ll let you listen to my newest playlist until you fall asleep. But you have to go to bed right now.”
“Deal.” Emma reaches for the phone with eager hands. “You always find the best stuff.”
The smooth vocals of AlunaGeorge play from the tinny speaker. “Turn it down to low, and I’m coming back to get it in an hour, whether you’re asleep or not.”
“In an hour, you might be asleep.”
“Not a chance,” I reply with a grim smile, but she’s already twisted onto her side and doesn’t see it. I’ll absolutely be awake, because I almost never sleep. It’s a good night if I get an hour before waking up again. “Eyes closed, or I’m taking it back.”
She positions the phone on the pillow next to her and then dutifully closes her eyes. “Night.”
I lean forward to kiss her gently on the forehead. “Night, munchkin.”
“Don’t call me that,” she grouses, voice already heavy with sleep. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“You are as long as I have something to say about it.”
Eventually, I’ll break Emma just like I have everything else good that has been in my life.
But I’ll put off the inevitable for as long as I possibly can.
Nine
When I come out into the hallway, Giselle is waiting for me with a sour expression on her face.
“What were you doing in there?” she asks, more demand than question.
“Tucking Emma into bed. You know, that thing you promised to do.”
I have a secret suspicion that Giselle only gave birth to Emma as a way to secure her access to the Cortland family money. Even in the case of separation or divorce, the mother of an heir can still claim a piece of the pie.