Reckless At Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels Book 3)

by Callie Hart

  Alex frowns at the card. “A hitman? You think your doctor’s boyfriend is a hitman?”

  “Yeah. He had a weird name. Zeus, or Zane, or—”

  His head snaps up. “Zeth? The guy who gave this to you was called Zeth?”

  “Yeah. That was his name.”

  Shakes his head, Alex stares at me incredulously. “No…fucking…way.”

  26

  SILVER

  “For the fifteen hundredth time, this isn’t up for discussion.”

  Dad’s on the warpath. He hasn’t stopped ranting about injustice and corruption since I woke up this morning. He nearly mowed down an old woman on the drive over to Raleigh because he was gesticulating too wildly and didn’t notice her step out into the road.

  “I’m not gonna stand by and allow that boy to come back to school, Silver. No. Uh-uh. No fucking way. Their position’s utterly untenable. Well, I have no idea what their position could possibly actually be, but it isn’t going to fly. If Jim Darhower wants to bow and scrape to a family in disgrace, then he’s gonna have me to contend with. Not to mention the rest of the parents, when they find out that the principal of the fucking school is okay with a fucking rapist murderer rubbing shoulders with their kids.”

  “Jake didn’t actually kill anyone,” I mumble under my breath.

  “We don’t know that! How are we supposed to know that?” Dad screeches. “For all we know, Jake’s murdered a bunch of people and his sycophant parents covered it all up. Man, it makes me fucking sick that Caleb Weaving can still wield this kind of power from behind prison bars.” He smashes the heel of his hand into the steering wheel, baring his teeth. “It isn’t fucking right!”

  Suffice it to say, I didn’t want him to drive me to school this morning. I didn’t want him anywhere near this disaster of a situation, but there was no talking him down. He swore he was going to keep a calm head, but he’d broken that promise before he even hit the end of the driveway. “You’re cursing too much,” I tell him. “Darhower isn’t even going to agree to see you, you know that, right? You’re supposed to make an appointment. And you look insane, Dad. He’s gonna take one look at you and be afraid for his life.”

  Dad does look terrifying. His hair’s standing on end, his glasses propped at a weird angle on his face, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t go to bed last night. He was still waiting up for me when I came in just before midnight, and he refused to sleep. He prowled around the house, banging cupboard doors, slamming around in the kitchen, generally being a pain in the ass, and when I came downstairs at seven thirty this morning, he was ready and waiting for me at the door with the Nova’s keys in his hand, blue murder written all over his face.

  His expression has only worsened on the drive across town. “He’s gonna see me,” he grits out, swinging the car into the school parking lot. “And he’d better not tell me that that little fuckboy is gonna be allowed to come back and attend classes, or I will burn the place to the fucking ground. So help me, God, I’ll do it.”

  “I understand your concern, truly I do. Now, I know this situation isn’t perfect, Mr. Parisi, but we have to face facts. Raleigh High is the only school within thirty mi—”

  Perched on the very edge of his seat, my Dad cocks his head to one side, leaning in closer to Darhower. The principal doesn’t know my father as well as I do; he doesn’t know that my old man is about to go nuclear. “Let me just lay this out for you, Jim. So you can see it from an impartial perspective…because I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here. I’m sure the only reason you’re even considering this ridiculous course of action is because you’re way too close to this. A student at this school has raped not one but two girls. That we know of. He broke into my house and kidnapped my daughter. He then brought her here, to this school, where you have been tasked with ensuring the safety of our children, and he brutally beat her. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he then put a fucking noose around her neck and attempted to hang her from the rafters of the school’s gymnasium. Government officials charged this same boy—”

  “Those charges have been dropped, Cameron.”

  “I DON’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK IF THE CHARGES HAVE BEEN DROPPED!”

  I’ve never seen Dad’s face go purple before. Not even when Mom told him about the affair. A vein pulses in his temple, fit to burst. I reach over and place a hand on top of his clenched fist, but my plea for him to take it down a notch goes unnoticed.

  “Government officials charged this same boy with some pretty serious offences, including but not limited to smuggling, coercion, assault and battery, theft—”

  “This really isn’t helpful—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Jim. This piece of shit has broken countless laws and hurt more people than I even know what to do with. Did you know that Zen MacReady tried to fucking kill herself, Jim?”

  “I know Zen’s parents thought it would be best if she took some time to recuperate at a facility. They said her nerves—”

  “And what about the pregnancy, huh? Did you know that that poor girl is stuck with a horrendous decision now, because one of those assholes actually got her pregnant?”

  Darhower’s face turns ashen, the color draining from his cheeks. “No,” he mutters. “No, I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

  “Well, she is. What are you gonna do if she decides, even though she was violated repeatedly by those sick fucking assholes, that she can’t face having an abortion on top of everything else? Are you going to expect her to come back to this school, too? And make her walk the halls with Jacob Weaving sneering at her swollen s belly every time he passes her on the way to class? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Cam—”

  “No, Jim. If that boy steps foot inside this school, there will be consequences.”

  Darhower looks at me, a skittish, brief glance that says a lot. He hates that a student’s parent it talking to him like this, and he hates that I’m here to witness it. In fairness, I really wish I wasn’t. He puffs out his chest, drumming his fingers against his desk. “Threatening me is ill-advised. I’m sure Karen heard that.”

  “So what if she fucking did? Karen’s a good person. She’s probably drafting up her resignation letter as we speak. I can’t imagine for a second that she’d want to continue working here, for a man who’d let something as heinous as this happen on his watch. I’m gonna to be frank, here. You’re gonna call whoever’s been charged with watching over that bastard Weaving, and you’re gonna tell them to keep him faaaaaar away from Raleigh High. If you don’t, I’m gonna drive myself over to Bellingham and I’m going to visit every single newspaper and new station I can find, and I’m gonna lay out this mess out to them the same way I just laid it out to you, and I’m gonna see what they think of it. And when I’m done in Bellingham, I’m gonna drive to motherfucking Seattle, and I’m gonna do the exact same thing there. I’m gonna give them your personal address. I’m gonna give them your cellphone number. And then, when I’ve got everyone good and riled up, I’m gonna remind them of the shooting that took place here not that long ago, and the very stirring speech you gave to my kid about how you were gonna do fucking better—”

  Principal Darhower is visibly shaking as he rocks back in his chair. “To what end, Cameron? What good would any of that do? Stirring up painful memories is only going to hurt—”

  “I don’t care who it hurts,” my father hisses. “I care about my daughter and the shit that she’s been through. Now you make that call right the fuck now, while I’m sitting here in front of you, or I swear on all I hold dear, I am quickly gonna become your worst fucking nightmare.”

  27

  ALEX

  Muffled chatter leaks into the hallway, spilling out from the gaps underneath the classroom doors as teachers mark off their students one by one. I should be in my own home room, grunting out a response when my name is called out, but my perfect attendance record is irrelevant now. Maeve and Rhonda might leave a voicemail, griping about my d
ecline in fucks given, but frankly I couldn’t care less. I have an itch that needs to be scratched, and it isn’t the kind of itch that’ll just go away on its own. Left unchecked, this itch will turn into a full-blown obsession, liable to cause some serious trouble.

  From around the corner, footsteps, quick and urgent, echo off the walls, growing closer. I take a step back into the recessed doorway to the men’s bathrooms, willing the shadows the hide me. It’s only that Mr. French is heavily distracted when he comes into view, lasering in on the door opposite me, that he doesn’t notice me lurking in wait.

  He raps briefly on the classroom door but doesn’t wait before steamrolling in. I get a brief snapshot of students sitting at their desks, faces turned up to Mr. French as his hushed voice disturbs their morning ritual. “Ah, Ms. Jarvis. Sorry for the interruption. I need to see Jacob Weaving.”

  The door closes, blocking my view of the intrigued faces beyond and stealing away the sound. I bounce on the balls of my feet, impatience running rife in my veins. Any second now. Any second…

  “THIS…CAN’T DO THIS…FUCKING BULLSHIT!”

  Only half of Jake’s outraged shout is audible through the classroom door, but I get the gist of it. He’s making a scene. I paint the mental picture—Jake, sitting behind his desk, oozing swagger, smug as the obnoxious prick he is, planning out how best to taunt the girl I love with his presence. Then, Jake suspicious, wondering why he’s being beckoned out of class already, when the day hasn’t even started. Jake, asking questions, demanding answers. And now, losing his fucking mind when that poor bastard French tries to ‘manage’ him.

  “NO! I’m not…anywhere. I… is my right! The cops… sorry you ever… hands off me, you…”

  I smirk into the collar of my leather jacket like the sick motherfucker I am. Inside the classroom, there’s a scraping of chairs and a stifled shout. Loud clattering follows, and the sound of Ms. Jarvis’ shrill voice rising into a startled yelp. A second later, the classroom door opens, and a confusion of sound and movement pours out. Jake stumbles—Did French just push him? My god, has he been a secret badass this whole time?—catching hold of the doorjamb for balance. His bag skates along the ground in front of him…and comes to a stop right at my feet.

  Jake’s eyes travel from my Stan Smiths all the way up my legs, my stomach, my chest until they reach my face, and a look of abject hatred twists his features. “What the fuck are you looking at?” he snarls, snatching his bag up from the floor.

  Yup. Nothing’s changed. He’s still the same arrogant cunt he was before he got locked away. You’d think becoming intimately acquainted with the inside of a jail cell would have humbled him a little. Some guys rot in that environment, though. The vilest things about them, their anger, their prejudice, their vitriol, fester in the dark, and when they step out into the light again, they have become the very worst possible versions of themselves. I didn’t think Jake could get any worse, but seems as thought I was wrong.

  “Look like you lost some muscle, Jake. Most people pack it on in prison.” I can’t help it. It’s in my nature to want to destroy this evil cocksucker. I want to take hold of something serious and sharp and drive it up underneath his ribs until I hear his breath turn wet and crackling. I want him to experience a paralyzing level of pain that will make him beg for death. A verbal jab won’t come anywhere close to satiating my need for violence, but unfortunately it’s going to have to do.

  An ugly sneer contorts Jake’s face. “Getting shot’ll have that effect,” he snarls. “I spent weeks on a hospital ward because of you. You’re lucky I didn’t die.”

  “Lucky?” I step out of the bathroom doorway, my mouth turning down as I pretend to consider this. I don’t stop walking forward until I’m good and right in his face. He smells like laundry soap and expensive, fancy cologne—some ultra-masculine scent that probably has a name like ‘Victory’ or ‘Warrior’. I can still smell the metallic, unpleasant, desperate odor of prison on him, though. It’s a smell like no other and takes a long-ass time to fade. “Luck’s subjective, I guess. Personally, I would have felt a little luckier if you’d bled out and expired—”

  “Moretti, what the hell are you doing out here? Get to class!” Mr. French storms out into the hallway, his face a livid shade of red. I almost pity the guy; he wasn’t built to handle this kind of situation. He trained to become a teacher, not a glorified bouncer, tasked with dragging wayward teenagers across school grounds. From the looks of him, his grip on this situation’s weak at best.

  I flash a stark, hostile smile at Jake, staring him down, before taking a healthy step back, holding my hands up in the air. “Just saying hello to an old friend.”

  “You’re so fucked. You know that, right?” Jake thunders. “You don’t know when to play it smart. I’m out, Moretti.” He holds his hands out, posturing as he looks around, proving his point. “I’m out, and I’m not going back. My old man’s taken care of everything. There’s nothing you or that cunt girlfriend of yours can d—”

  “NO!” Mr. French roars, grabbing Jake by the scruff of his shirt. “Absolutely not. No chance. That is not a word I will tolerate. Get moving. Now.” He shoves Jake, who hardly even moves. Baring his teeth at me, he pointedly ignores the teacher.

  “Wait and see, Moretti. Your precious social worker can vouch for you all she wants, but you’re on borrowed time. Dad’s going after Monty. How long do you think it’ll be before that stupid motherfucker turns you over to the feds, huh? They know about the drugs and the guns. They know all about your little midnight deliveries. And who have you got, huh? You think your dad’s got enough pull to negotiate a deal for you, asshole? Hell no. I know all about your old man and he’s a fucking dumb, drop out loser, just like his son.”

  I mean to throw the right hook in my head, but somehow the imagined action fights its way out into reality. My fist connects with a satisfying crunch, and a stunned, laughably hurt expression flickers over Jake’s features before he staggers back, tripping over his own feet and landing hard on his ass.

  The classroom door’s still open. Jake looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide with embarrassment as the students, who have all been watching on, look away, suppressing smiles and whispering to one another. None of his brainwashed football buddies are here. No, the students sitting at the desks are mostly girls. Once upon a time, they would have had his back. They would have urged him to get up and return the hit. Now, they look disdainfully down on the boy they used to worship, and their message is clear. Even I can hear it, silently screamed, as one by one they all avert their eyes.

  We know what you did. We know what you did. We know what you did.

  “You saw that, Mr. French. You were witness. He attacked me,” Jake spits, scrambling to his feet. He turns to the other students. “You all did!” he rages. “My lawyer’s gonna want witness statements from all of you!”

  No one says a word. Ms. Jarvis appears in the doorway. She refuses to meet Jacob’s furious gaze. She looks to me for a second, and—what is that in her eyes? Condemnation? Commiseration? Looks more like gratitude—before she slowly swings the classroom door closed.

  “Fucking bitch,” Jake hisses.

  “Enough!” Mr. French grabs Jake by the arm, jerking him toward the exit. “This is over. Time to go, Jacob. One more word out of your mouth and I’m gonna have to have you forcibly removed.”

  “By who?” he snorts, ripping his arm free. “You really think you can take me? You’re pathetic, French. You couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag. You’re gonna tell them what Moretti did to me or my father’s gonna sue for you every penny you have.”

  “That shit won’t work on me, asshole. I’m flat broke, and besides, I doubt your daddy’s feeling very litigious. He’s got more important things to worry about. Now get the hell out of this school before I call the cops.”

  Jacob runs both of us through with a viciously sharp glare. “You think this is gonna last? Seriously? I’ll be back before the end of the
week. You’ll see. Yeah, you’ll fucking see.”

  He charges for the exit, pausing halfway down the hall to piledrive his fist into a locker door, his shout of rage loud enough to wake the dead. More amused than upset, I realize that it’s my locker he’s just dented, and I begin to laugh quietly under my breath.

  “I mean it, Moretti.” Mr. French pants, his shoulders hitching up and down, probably from the adrenalin that’s just hit him square in the chest. “Get to class. I swear on my dead grandmother’s grave, I am so sick of this shit.”

  28

  SILVER

  “He didn’t.”

  I snap off a piece of Red Vine, digging my fingernail into the red, gummy candy. “He did. And then he insisted on walking home in a rage instead of just taking my car.”

  “Wow. I can’t picture your dad going full psycho like that. He’s always seemed so…un-provoke-able,” Halliday says, inspecting her split ends. Zander hums, laying down on the backseat of the Nova, sticking his booted feet out of the open window. Gradually, he seems to be surrendering his preppy disguise and his true colors are bleeding through. He’s still sporting a button-down shirt, but his chinos are gone, traded out with semi-smart looking black jeans. I’m guessing by the end of the week he’s gonna be rocking a band tee, and the clean-cut image he’s been trying to project will be gone completely. “I can totally see it,” he says, prodding a finger at a small hole in the fabric of the Nova’s roof.