I’m done.
I don’t even think.
I slam my fist into Alec LeMarque’s nose.
6
Mackenzie
I’ve been at Stonehurst Prep less than five hours and I’m already in the principal’s office.
I stare at the wall behind Mrs. Foster’s face as she drones on about responsibility and solving my problems without violence. It’s weird – the adults in my life have never tried to dissuade me from violence before. Violence has always been part of my world.
Not at Stonehurst, it appears.
I rub my sore knuckles, feeling the satisfying jolt of pain from where my fist connected with the cartilage in Alec’s nose. I wonder if he’ll get a lecture about not sleazing onto girls who aren’t interested. He got carried out of the cafeteria in an ambulance, screaming something to me about a lawsuit. Which I definitely need to ask Antony about, but it has to wait until Mrs. Foster’s tirade is over.
I itch to touch the locket hidden under my collar, but I don’t want to give Mrs. Foster a reason to prolong this torture.
“I know you’ve had it tough, Mackenzie.” She steeples her fingers together, and there’s this look on her face like she’s trying to pretend she gives a fuck. “These past few years can’t have been easy on you. What with your parents… But that’s no excuse for antisocial behavior. If you need to talk about what you’ve been through, we have a guidance counselor available any time you need, and my door is always open if you want to talk.”
The question hangs in the air between us, unasked and unanswered. She doesn’t give a shit about getting me to talk about my feelings, she just wants the scoop like the rest of them. What happened to your parents, Mackenzie? Why are you suddenly back at school? Where have you been the last four years?
By the time she dismisses me with a month of detentions and an order to write a note of apology to Alec LeMarque, I’ve got one class left – Political Science.
The eyes follow me as I take the only available seat, near the windows. Only instead of curious, they’re hostile. I hurt their leader, their king. I made a big ugly bloodstain on the pristine white tablecloth.
I don’t belong.
My seat is next to the dark-haired hottie, the one with the eyes like coals fresh from a fire. The one who could be an MMA fighter for all his bulk and the danger rolling off him in waves, but he’s too pressed and neat in his tailored uniform to last a round in the ring.
“Mackenzie.” He rasps my name under his breath, quiet enough only I can hear. There’s a finality to his tone, like a wizard speaking a curse.
(I also watched Harry Potter this weekend, just in case Stonehurst turned out to be a wizarding school. Can’t deal with any surprises this year.)
I glare at Coal-Eyed Wizard. “What do you want?”
“You should have stayed hidden. You should never have come back.”
His shoulders square, and the hatred in his eyes is so deep, so dark, that a shiver of fear runs down my spine.
“An eye for an eye, Mackenzie Malloy,” he hisses, and my blood turns cold. “You took something special from me. I’ll take everything from you.”
7
Mackenzie
That was a day.
I trudge through the small wood running between my house and the neighbors’ perimeter wall to my secret entrance. I keep the front gates locked (and will continue to do so, now the police paid to replace the broken gate) to continue my ghost facade. The longer we can hold off on the press getting ahold of my story, the better. My house contains a ten-car garage on the first floor, with a car lift that can drop a vehicle into the basement where they exit down a concrete tunnel under the garden onto a private road at the rear of the property. The maintenance shed for the lift, the security gates, and the house’s extensive electronics and networking has an external door to allow staff and repairmen to come and go. It’s this door I unlock now and duck inside.
I hurry between the racks of switches and into the tunnel. It’s pitch black inside, but I can find my way in my sleep so I don’t bother with a light. The clop-clop of my heels echoes along the length, rising with the slope so it almost sounds as if I’m chasing myself. Mrs. Foster expects me to be in regulation shoes by the end of the week, but Mackenzie Malloy doesn’t give a shit about the rules when an extra three inches of height are involved.
I clamber up the spiral staircase into the garage, cross between the rows of dusty vehicles, and reach for the door that connects the garage to the house. I kick off my heels with such force they hit the wall and leave a black scuff against the pristine white paint. My right big toe stings from the stiff leather pinching them all day. One must suffer for beauty.
Queen Boudica sits on the rug, her black fur gleaming from the shadows, her head cocked to the side as if she’s been waiting there for me all day.
“Meow.” She stomps one foot on the rug, demanding to know where I’ve been.
“Don’t give me that shit. I’ve had a bad day.” Too tired to drag myself upstairs to the media room or across the house to the ballroom, I flop into one of the uncomfortable chairs by the French doors that look out over the pool.
Big mistake. A black paw jabs me in the ribcage as Queen Boudica – sensing a lap has been created – climbs up and settles in. Cat gravity officially in effect. Now I can’t move. And I have homework to do.
Homework. What the fuck? I thought rich people didn’t have to do homework. Isn’t that the point of being a rich asshole – you get to make the rules, and the rules never include algebra.
I stroke Queen Boudica’s fur as I gaze out across the ruined pool. Sunlight gleams off the puddle of murky water in the deep end. Weeds choke the filter and dangle over the cracked tiles, snagging a deflated unicorn floatie.
I allow myself to imagine how inviting it would be tidied up and filled with clean, azure water, how good it would feel to dive in and let the water wash away the stench of today.
Maybe one day, if I can make it through this year, I’ll be able to do what the fuck I want with the pool. And the whole house.
If I finish my homework.
But I don’t move. I stare out at the pool and think about everything I have to lose. Sitting by these windows is a risk I don’t normally indulge in, even with the tinted windows and the high perimeter wall. If someone sees me here, during the day, looking less like a ghost and more like a pissed-off brat, I’ll bring a world of trouble down on my ass.
Antony said it was risky going to school, but it would be worth it in the end. I’m not so sure.
I’m crazy to think I could pull this off. I can’t—
My phone buzzes. Only one person has this number who actually calls me. I press it to my ear.
“Tell me all about your first day, Claws,” Antony purrs, using my childhood nickname. I can hear music and people talking in the background. He must be at his club. I wish I’m there, too, drowning my sorrows with cheap whisky and watching men beat each other bloody.
“It was shit. As predicted. Gabriel Fallen goes there. And I broke some teen actor’s nose.”
“I knew you wouldn’t last one day at that stuck-up school.” Antony laughs. I love his laugh – it’s so him; uncontrolled, teetering on the edge of mania. People fear that laugh, because it usually precedes bloodshed. I find it comforting.
What that says about me I don’t like to consider.
I tell Antony about Alec LeMarque’s blood splattered across the table. “By the way, could he sue me for that?”
“A guy like him?” Antony snorted. “Fuck no. First of all, he believes you have the power of your father’s fortune and connections behind you, and he’s not gonna cross that. Second, if he goes after you he risks the press getting hold of the story. Little Alec won’t want the world to know he got beat up by a girl. His revenge will be in private, away from prying eyes. You’d better sharpen those talons of yours, Claws. If he does come after you, call me. I can have someone over there—”
&
nbsp; “I’ll handle it.” I decide not to tell Antony about Elias recognizing me or me recognizing him, or Coal-Eyes’ threat. That look in Coal’s eyes concerns me more than Alec, but I need more information before I get Antony involved.
“Fine, fine. I know not to mess with you, Mackenzie Malloy.”
Just saying my name has Antony in a fit of giggles again. He must be drunk. Or high. Probably both. My older cousin loves a good time.
“By the way, thanks for fixing things with the school for me. And for the ID.” I pat my pocket containing my new driver’s license. “You saved my ass.”
“It’s an ass worth saving. But we’re not through this yet, Claws. Our plan just got risky. The press will get wind of your return. Family members might reveal themselves, people we can’t trust. Are you prepared for that?”
No. “Yes.”
Antony sighs. “Claws…”
“What? We’ve come this far. It’s only a matter of months. I can deal with anything for a few months if…”
…if it gets you out of that world. I don’t say it, because I know Antony doesn’t want to hear it. He hasn’t agreed on our next step. But in nine months it won’t matter what he says.
My phone beeps. A message. “That better not be a picture of your dick.”
“Not me. Maybe it’s Fallen’s dick. You should try selling the pic on eBay. Maybe you’d get enough for it that we wouldn’t need your crazy plan.”
I peer at the screen. The name reads ‘Jace’ – one of the few contacts in the phone without a last name. I remember Jace leaving a ton of text messages a few years back, when my family first went AWOL. I never answered any of them, and he must’ve got the message because I haven’t heard from him again. Until now.
“Why wouldn’t you talk to me at school today? What happened to you?”
Great. This Jace goes to Stonehurst Prep, too. It’s bad enough with Elias staring at me and Dark-Hair’s threats, but now I’ve got another guy on my ass who knows me from before? I thought Mackenzie Malloy didn’t have real friends. At least, that’s what my report cards from eighth grade say.
I glance at the time and groan. “I gotta go. Work calls. It’s my last night.”
“Good. I never liked that you worked there. It was too risky, even with your disguise.”
“I was never going to hide away in here and let you pay for everything,” I roll my eyes. “Who knew state-of-the-art mansions have such insane property taxes?”
“Hopefully we won’t have to worry about that for much longer. Be careful, Claws.” The irony of Antony telling me to be careful when I just heard a guy’s skull crack against the concrete behind him makes me smile. Antony and I are more alike than we first appear.
I toss the phone on the chair, push a protesting Queen Boudica off my lap, and pad down to my room. My real bedroom is on the second floor – a suite of rooms painted soft pink with a balcony overlooking the swimming pool. Sleeping in there is not an option – far too freaky with all the porcelain dolls lined up on shelves and closet filled with clothes too small for me – so I’d taken a guest room on the first floor. It’s more my taste – dark jarrah wood floors, crimson linens, soft, modern lighting, and a bathroom lined with tiny black and silver tiles that looks like something Mötley Crüe would shoot up in.
I step under the rain shower, letting the water and fancy bath products sluice away my makeup. My armor removed, I pull on my uniform, tucking my hair into a bandana until not a single scrap of blonde shows through. I tilt the makeup mirror toward me and apply a completely different face – natural colors, dark eyebrows and lashes, a light pink lipstick that makes me look younger, more innocent.
When I stand back to admire myself in the mirror, Mackenzie Malloy has disappeared. In her place is Claudia Jones – waitress from the wrong side of the tracks. Claudia grabs her purse, gives Queen Boudica a scratch behind the ears, and walks down the hill to catch the bus to her final shift at her shitty job.
8
Gabriel
“I just… can’t believe… she’s back,” Eli puffs, drawing back his racket to serve. I brace myself, knowing this is going to be hell.
SMACK.
Eli’s racket connects. I dive out of the way as the ball hurtles toward my face. My knee slams into the turf just as the ball smashes into the wall behind me, sending leaves and chips of tile flying everywhere.
“Bloody hell, mate.” I stand up, wiping off my palms even though they aren’t dirty. Eli’s mother would never dare let a single speck of dirt blow onto her tennis court. My knee throbs, but at least I don’t need it to play guitar.
Why does it matter? You’re not playing anyway, a voice taunts me. My own voice. The voice that used to gift me with lyrics to break girl’s hearts and open their legs, but now spends its days making me as miserable as possible.
“Watch the face, okay?” I glare at Eli. “I’m shooting with Rolling Stone next week.”
“Fuck Rolling Stone.” Eli wipes sweat off his brow. “Can we take five, bro? I need a drink.”
You need ten drinks, mate. But before I can reply, Eli stomps off the court. He heads over to where Noah lounges under a palm with his face buried in one of his AP History books.
“Scotch,” Eli barks. Noah doesn’t glance up.
“Make mine a double.”
Eli grabs a bottle from the outdoor bar and slams down three glasses. He sloshes top-shelf Scotch all over the table, managing to get some of it into the crystal. Noah grabs a glass and knocks it back in one hit, not even looking up from his book. Eli takes his and stands on the edge of the garden bed, twitching with agitation. This is fucking weird. Eli is usually the calm one. Nothing can ruffle his Tennessee feathers.
I glance between them. “If you two insist on being miserable sods, I’ll go home, shall I?”
Neither of them responds.
“We should be celebrating. It’s senior year – nothing but one endless party. Or are you two threatened by my presence? I understand completely – there will be less hot women to go around now that I’m back.”
The glass weighs a hundred pounds. I raise it to my lips, but I don’t drink.
“Why are you back?” Eli fixes me with that stare of his, what I like to call his ‘Sherlock-Holmes-Orgasm’ face when I feel like pissing him off. Eli loves to figure things out, solve problems. He always wants to be the one to find a solution, which is a super-annoying trait in a friend when you’re trying to hold your secrets close. “Aren’t you supposed to be making a new record?”
“I can write music and go to school and continue to be the same lovable rogue who makes your lives worth living.” I slump into a lawn chair, dangling the glass from my fingers. “It’s called multitasking.”
“Multitasking is a myth perpetuated by productivity gurus,” Noah mutters without looking up. He makes a note in the margin of his book. “And you’re a bastard.”
What is going on here? “As much as I adore indulging in my favorite topic of conversation – myself – I want to know who shoved giant sticks up both your arses, and why they didn’t call to let me in on the fun.”
Nothing. Noah’s shoulders tense, and Eli shifts his weight between his feet, glancing back at the tennis court like he wishes he succeeded in decapitating me.
I take a guess. “This is about the new girl, the Ice Queen?”
Eli stiffens, and I know I’m right.
Mmmmm. Mackenzie Malloy. Just thinking about those crimson lips, that haughty pout, the way she peers down that perky nose and makes lesser mortals quiver like jelly…
She’s tempting. She’s dangerous. I see myself reflected in those cold eyes. Behind that shell of ice, Mackenzie Malloy is bleeding on the inside. When her pain and my pain crash together, the world better watch out.
But I can’t say that to these two, because you don’t, do you? You can’t talk to your mates about the dark things in the corner of your mind, about the wounds that cut where no one sees, about how nothing you do to yourself
can ever hurt enough to make up for the pain you caused someone else. So instead I say what they expect me to say. “I bet the new girl is hot as fuck in the sack, as long as she doesn’t give my dick frostbite.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Eli snaps, then clamps his hand over his mouth.
With a snarl, Noah hurls his glass at Eli’s head.
Eli ducks just in time, and the crystal hits the palm tree, shards raining down into the garden.
“What crawled up your ass and died?” Noah’s usually a mess when he stresses about school, which is pointless because he’ll probably be valedictorian unless Eli swipes the crown. But this is worse than I’ve ever seen him. “It’s not as if you’re lining up for a go. Or are you? And you’re pissed I got in first. All’s fair in love and war, and if it’s any consolation, she seems immune to my many charms—”
Noah slams his book shut. He flashes me a murderous look and storms toward the house. While Eli watches him, I tip my Scotch into a planter box.
“Fuck, Gabe.” Eli glares at me.
“What?” I pull a platter of cheese across the table and start loading up a cracker. Whenever we show up at Eli’s house, his maid Maria throws food and drinks at us like she’s afraid we’re being starved. Maria was Eli’s nanny, and she stayed around to look after the house when his dad went away. She still dotes on him like he’s her own son – just as well, because Eli’s mother’s too busy with her yoga instructor to remember Eli exists. And Eli’s dad… the less said about that sanctimonious wanker, the better.
“How can you be so dense?” Eli looks at me like I’ve sprouted tentacles. His Southern accent appears on the edges of his words. That only happens when he’s upset. He assumes I don’t notice shit like that, but I haven’t made a career putting emotion to music by not noticing shit. “You can’t talk to him like that. The new girl is Mackenzie Malloy. Malloy.”
My Stolen Life: a high school bully romance (Stonehurst Prep Book 1) Page 4