“You’re in my way, Elias Hart.” She places a hand on my pec. The touch is so sudden, so unexpected, that I let out a weird noise, like a wheeze. Smooth, Eli.
In my defense, I did not expect Mackenzie Malloy to be touching me today.
She’s painted her nails with a minty-colored polish that matches the cold of her eyes. Her fingers curl slightly, like claws. She shoves me. Hard. Caught off balance, I step back, crushing Noah’s foot with my heel. Noah grabs me before I fall on my ass again.
There’s a collective intake of breath – a reverse hurricane sucking the air from the corridor. I may be making an ass of myself, but I’m still Elias Hart. I’m not someone you fuck with if you want to survive at Stonehurst Prep.
“Fuck you, Mackenzie.” Noah fixes her with his own signature glare – burning hot with a rage he’d never be able to control around her. Surely she remembers Noah. He’d sure as fuck never forgotten her.
Mackenzie regards him with a detached interest. I watch the anger take hold of Noah, squeezing him inside until he bursts. His arm flies out, and I throw up a hand to deflect him. But he’s not trying to land a blow. Before I can stop him, he storms off toward homeroom. Great, now on top of everything else, I’ll have to deal with sulky, moody Noah.
Mackenzie doesn’t acknowledge his departure. She slams her locker door shut, spins on her heel, and strides off toward the Humanities block, her skirt hugging her thighs in a way that makes a hard lump form in my throat and something even harder strain my uniform pants.
Mackenzie Malloy.
After all these years, how is she back in my life?
And why is she pretending she doesn’t know who I am?
4
Mackenzie
Fuck. Fuck.
I knew it.
I knew this was a bad idea.
That guy at my locker, Elias Hart – the one with the too-perfect golden hair and the faint Southern drawl and the eyes that shine like the ocean. The one whose face seems oddly familiar, but I can’t place the how or why.
He knows me. Somehow.
If he knows me, he can undo me.
I checked everywhere. No mention of an Elias in any of my diaries. No photographs of the boy with the sunset smile and fuck-me-slowly eyes hidden in my room. I’d remember that face – it’s hard to forget, especially when he looked at me like I’m more than a morbid curiosity, like something precious he thought lost forever has suddenly appeared again.
What disturbs me the most is that some part of me recognizes him, too. Some part of me feels a connection to him that reaches back into the past, into before. And that’s fucking terrifying.
And his friends… the angry one behind Elias, with the eyes like charcoal tears and the wavy hair that just begs to run my fingers through it. And that other dude with the labret piercing who looks uncannily like Gabriel Fallen, singer from Octavia’s Ruin – only my favorite fucking band of all time. He even sounds like Gabriel – all sexy and British – but that’s impossible because Gabriel’s in Europe, writing a new album to honor the death of his drummer.
I shake it off as I walk into my assigned homeroom and slide into a seat near the back. I can’t afford to get distracted by guys this year. It’s tempting, because the whole sex thing is part of my stolen life, part of what I’m here to reclaim. But guys like them are also dangerous, in more ways than one. The only way I’m going to pull this off is to focus on getting through this year with my secrets intact. I can’t afford to let some dude – or dudes – derail that.
Even if they…
I pull myself from my thoughts as the room fills up. Eyes flick to me, over me, exploring and delving, drawing conclusions from every tilt of my chin and fidget of my fingers. Heads lean together as students whisper about me. I roll my eyes and take out my phone, tapping on the screen as I pull up the contacts list. Who the fuck cares.
Let them stare.
I scroll through the contacts. The iPhone is pretty old – at least four years old, to be exact. It’s got a case with a glittery pink heart on it, too young for me now, but I like it. The screen freezes, and I tap it on the edge of the desk. There are only twenty contacts, and I know them all by heart. I check anyway.
No Elias.
So who is the golden-haired god?
I glance through a curtain of hair as someone takes the empty seat beside me. Great. It’s that Mr. British from the lockers. He shouldn’t put so much effort into looking like Gabriel Fallen; it’s embarrassing. He drapes his arm over the back of his chair, angling his body toward me and doing a man-spread so epic poets should boast about it. The front of his uniform shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a torn Iron Maiden tank and beautiful black-and-grey ink underneath – thorny roses entwined around a Classical woman who reaches up with open fingers, releasing butterflies that flutter across his neck. Pathetic. He’s even copied Gabriel’s ink. Piercings dot his ears in blatant defiance of the school’s uniform policy. His tongue plays with the bar threaded through his labret, and I notice he’s also got a tongue stud that’s identical to Gabriel Fallen’s.
Ew, fanboy. I wonder if he went the full-hog and got Gabriel’s dick piercing, too?
“Nice to see you back, Gabe.” A girl with honey-blonde hair turns in her chair to bat her eyelids at him. Mr. British nods at her, but his gaze is on me as he flirts back at blondie. The intensity in his shale-grey eyes shocks me – the way he talks is all surface charm, but that look… it’s like he’s lifted up a corner of my skin and is peeking at my soul, and for all the blood and bruising, he likes what he sees.
Fuck.
He doesn’t just look like Gabriel Fallen, he is Gabriel Fallen. My ears ring as the lyrics to my favorite songs filter through my head. How did I miss the fact that Gabriel Fallen goes to Stonehurst Prep?
Fuck me dead.
Thanks, universe – way to make my ‘no boys’ rule infinitely more difficult to follow.
It makes a sick sense – Stonehurst is the most prestigious school in the city. All the rich families send their kids here. Emerald Beach is built close enough to LA to be a hub for the entertainment industry. Many of the major studios have lots out the back of Beaumont Hills, not far from my place in Harrington Hills. The school’s brochure lists famous actors who’ve graced the halls, so I expected a ton of teen stars and social influencers.
I just never expected him.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot back at the lockers,” Gabriel says to me, blondie forgotten. He blinks at me, and his eyelashes are so long they tangle together. I say nothing, because if I open my mouth I will throw up.
We’re the only two people in the back row. Gabriel leans over my desk, using his index finger to turn my schedule toward him so he can read it. A rush of his scent hits me – this sultry, sugary, smoky fragrance that makes me think of torrid winter nights dancing around a wild bonfire. Not that I’ve ever danced around a fire like a pagan, but if Gabriel asked, I wouldn’t refuse.
He studies my schedule, then studies me. His arm presses against mine. I’m coming apart under his gaze, my edges fraying, my secrets dancing on the tip of my tongue.
“I’m Gabriel. And you are?”
Gabriel fucking Fallen is touching my arm.
This is like the start of a bad teen movie. I marathoned a ton of the classics over the weekend – Mean Girls, Easy A, Clueless, 10 Things I Hate About You, The Craft (because you never know, witches could walk the halls of Stonehurst and I want to stay on their good side) – hoping they might somehow prepare me for my first day of high school. But nothing could prepare me for the electric jolt that fires through my veins at Gabriel’s touch.
“Mackenzie Malloy,” I manage to choke out. I fancy my voice sounds husky, mysterious. Not like I’m desperately trying to hold back bile. “Your friends seem to know me.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Mackenzie, which is the way a reputation should be.” Gabriel’s smile manages to look both arrogant and mischievous. “I’m pleased I deci
ded to come back to school this year after all.”
I nod, because that’s what you do when the singer who’s wept with pain from your speakers implies he wants to spend time with you.
“We have our first two classes together,” he continues. His British accent makes every mundane word sound musical. “I’ll walk you there – this place can seem a bit like Pan’s Labyrinth.”
“I don’t need your help.” I swipe my schedule back and shove it into my notebook. Too late, Gabriel notices the sticker on the inside of the cover. The latest Octavia’s Ruin album art. Fuck. Now he’s going to think I’m a band-junkie stalker.
“Nice taste in music.” That arrogant smile tugs at his lip again, making the piercing wiggle. “I’ve heard their lead singer is a real wanker. Though he makes up for it by being a demon in the sack.”
I turn my face away, willing the heat rushing through my veins to leave my cheeks the fuck alone. My heart hammers against my chest. It’s like the universe is determined to mess with me. It knows how important this year is to our whole fucking plan, so it throws the one guy in front of me I might’ve wanted to get to know.
All those nights when the silence of the house gets too much for me, when the walls close in, dripping with memories I don’t want to face, I turn on Octavia’s Ruin and scream the lyrics into the empty rooms, attacking the silence with power chords. Questions swirl inside my head – all the things I’m dying to ask Gabriel about the meanings behind his lyrics, about the way his voice cracks on ‘Requiem for a Rose’ as if he can barely stand the pain any longer…
But I don’t.
Every moment of homeroom is torture as I force myself to ignore Gabriel. The teacher reads announcements, and I don’t hear a word. All my brain-space is taken up with the awareness that Gabriel’s leg hovers next to mine and how fucking tempted I am to drop my knee against his and feel that heat searing between us again.
Finally, the bell rings and I snatch up my bag and shove my way to the front of the room. The homeroom teacher calls my name, but I’m already out the door.
So much for my Visigoth pride. At this rate, by the end of the day I’ll be a puddle of goo formally known as Mackenzie Malloy.
5
Mackenzie
In chemistry, we sit in groups of two along laboratory benches filled with equipment I don’t recognize or understand. I slump down beside a brunette in the middle of the room. She opens her mouth to say something but I hit her with my classic Mackenzie Malloy death glare and she leans back, folding her arms and staring straight ahead. At least my superpower still works and I have a partner who won’t distract me with sexy Britishness or a weird magnetic connection.
Gabriel saunters in last. His eyes meet mine and he stops by our table, flicking his head at the girl. Without a word, she gets up and walks to the back of the room, and Gabriel takes her empty seat.
Bastard.
“I guess we’re partners,” he says, flashing me that smile – the smile of a guy who isn’t used to hearing no. I desperately want to be the one to fling that word at him and make it stick, but he’s Gabriel fucking Fallen, and I’m only human. I settle for glaring at him, but all that does is make him stick his tongue out to wiggle that bar at me.
“You’re cute when you’re mad.” He opens his textbook and gestures to the glass tubey things in front of us. “I hope you’re good at this stuff, partner. Because I’m terrible.”
He isn’t lying. As the teacher leads us through a simple experiment, Gabriel mixes the wrong chemicals and creates a putrid stench that clears the classroom for a good ten minutes. Then, he measures out 50mls instead of 5mls of hydrochloric acid. I grab his arm before he pours that into our beaker and singes off his perfect eyebrows. I deserve a medal for public service for that one. Not least because touching his skin is like sticking my hand in an electrical socket, but in a fun way.
I’m not any better at the work. Every brush of Gabriel’s skin against mine sends my heart into freefall. By the end of the class we’re the only ones who haven’t completed the experiment, and I’m a puddle of fangirling mush on the floor.
“That would usually be an F on this module,” Mr. Dallas frowns over our station. “But I know you’re new, Mackenzie, and you might need some time to catch up. And Mr. Fallen, the faculty are aware that you’re dealing with certain personal situations. So if you come after class one day this week and try again, I’ll allow you to make up the grade.”
Gabriel leans over and squeezes my hand. “Our first date. Should I bring the Champagne, or are you more of a beers behind the bike shed kind of girl?”
I race from class with Gabriel’s laughter peeling behind me. I can’t decide if he’s amused by himself, or if he’s laughing at my expense. No one else laughs at me. Yet. I’m too new, an unknown. Plus, there’s the fact they all thought I was a ghost until I strutted in the door.
My next class is English, which I expect to be easy, but is anything but. Isn’t Shakespeare supposed to be in English? I glare at the nonsense in my textbook while Gabriel’s grey eyes dig holes in my back. A pair of girls in the front row with cheerleading jackets slung over their chairs keep turning around to look at me, then whispering to each other. As I fly out of class the moment the bell rings, I overhear a snatch of their conversation.
“…I heard she killed them and hid the bodies in the basement. Gabriel better watch out, or he’ll be next—”
My next class is Physics, which might as well be Sanskrit for all I understand. A bell rings for lunch, and I’m swept along in the crowd. My stomach growls, but I hesitate in the doorway of the dining hall, taking it all in. Waiters in coat and tails sweep from the kitchen doors, carrying platters piled high with gourmet food, which they deliver to a magnificent buffet where students line up to serve themselves. Steak in some kind of red-wine reduction. Broccolini toasted with pine nuts. Mashed potatoes sculpted into tiny wedges, an entire table bulging under the weight of cakes and desserts. My mouth waters – this sure beats the fried crap I scarf down at the diner whenever I can catch a spare minute on my shifts. I grab a tray and pile it as high as I dare. If school lunches are like this every day, I won’t need to worry about dinners. More money saved.
I palm a soda and turn toward the tables, and the flaw in my plan becomes apparent. All around me, students wave to their friends as they sit at their regular tables. Every face a stranger, every pair of eyes promising an interrogation.
My mind goes to all those teen movies I binged over the weekend. They always start the same way, with the new girl staring out at a sea of faces who all know each other but don’t trust her. At the last minute, she’s saved from loserdom by a hot guy or a quirky but lovable new BFF—
But this isn’t a teen movie, and I don’t need saving. I need to be left the fuck alone.
I spy an empty table in the far corner and make a beeline for it, dropping my book bag into the chair next to mine in an attempt to keep others out of it. I pull out my history book while I shovel food into my mouth. At least my afternoon classes will be more my scene – we have units on the Founding Fathers and Classical history and Tudor-Stewart England…
“Mackenzie Malloy, as I live and breathe.”
I glance up as a guy shoves my book bag off the chair and slides in beside me. He’s got the broad shoulders and cocky smile of a jock and the cold eyes of a serial killer. He looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t care enough to enquire further, especially not when he leans close and I catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath.
“Not interested.” I shovel another mouthful of food, hoping he gets the point.
He doesn’t.
“I’m surprised you don’t remember me.” He takes the fork from my hand and tosses it at a nearby waiter, who nearly drops the stack of dirty plates he’s carrying. My unwelcome table guest flashes me this smile that’s all white teeth and menace. Behind him, I notice a couple of other jock-looking dudebros watching the scene with interest. “I’m Alec LeMarque. We went to j
unior prep together. You slammed my hand in a classroom door.”
“You deserved it.” I don’t remember, of course, but it’s a solid guess.
Alec LeMarque… that name sounds so familiar… I’ve seen it written somewhere recently… I sneak another look at him through the corner of my eye and realize he’s one of the stars from a dorky teen movie I watched. He plays the obnoxious jock that gets his ass kicked by the geeks in the end. Justice at its finest.
“I believe that’s what you told our teacher. But look at you, all grown up now. An ass like that, you don’t belong in this corner all by yourself. Come join my friends.” Alec pops a shoulder in the direction of a rowdy table at the end of the room – a prime spot in front of the French doors opening out into a sunny courtyard lined with palms. Gabriel Fallen sits at the end of the table, telling a story to three model-thin girls who are hanging on every word. He sees me and waves. Beside him are the other two guys from my locker this morning. The dark-haired one stirs his food around his plate, but the golden-god, Elias, stares at me with this intense look, like he’s reading my secrets from my skin.
Nope. Not happening.
“Pass.” I angle my chair away. Alec still doesn’t take the hint. He places both hands on my shoulders and starts rubbing in circles. It’s fucking gross. My skin crawls under his touch. It’s the exact opposite of what happened with Gabriel. I flinch away as he leans in close to coo in my ear.
“You know, the hard-to-get act is old, Malloy. I’m king at this school, and my friends are like a royal court. You’d be well advised to take this offer before it’s rescinded and you end up another one of the plebs. I know for a girl like you that’s a fate worse than death.”
He hisses the last word, the death. He wants me to feel it. His hot breath curdles my skin, and it takes me back to another night, another guy’s hot breathing on my ear, another set of hands on me that I didn’t ask for. Stale air. A satin-lined box I couldn’t escape…
My Stolen Life: a high school bully romance (Stonehurst Prep Book 1) Page 3