<(—)>
“I’d kill myself if I looked like you, you ugly bitch,” Emily Calhoun sneers behind me.
“We can help, Mary,” her cheerleader friend Kaitlyn Sharp says with acid compassion. “Just say the word.” She isn’t talking about giving me a makeover.
I ignore them and keep walking, heading toward the gate in the fence across the field and just past the bleachers.
Emily, Kaitlyn, and their two reptilian friends Riley and Megan follow like a pack of velociraptors scenting blood.
An hour ago, I waited inside the Roosevelt High school library after sixth period ended to avoid this exact confrontation. Maybe I didn’t wait long enough, or maaaaybe I shouldn’t have been talking to Emily’s boyfriend Booth at lunch today.
Guess who saw us?
Emily, the Reptile Queen.
What can I say? Booth is rockstar hot. Spiky hair, spiky tattoos, spikes in his ears and full lips. We have English III, aka American Lit, together. For whatever reason, he decided to sit with me in the cafeteria and ask me what I thought of The Catcher in the Rye, which we’re reading. It was the first time Booth ever talked to me in or out of class. I thought he didn’t know I existed. Was I supposed to tell him not to sit with me and talk about class?
Now the raptors are right on my heels.
I speed up my walk. My battered Doc Martens kick through the green grass on the field in quick flicks.
Emily says, “Booth doesn’t like you, you dog face bitch! He just wants help on his English paper.”
Kaitlyn adds, “Booth only fucks dogs like Mary doggy style.”
“Shut up, Kaitlyn!” Emily hisses.
“What?! It’s true!” she mutters.
Someone shoves me from behind.
I stifle my surprise and stumble forward but keep walking. I’d turn around and start clawing eyes out and kicking shins, but I’ve already been suspended twice for fighting, and I’m desperately trying not to get kicked out of yet another school. I swear, at every one I’ve been to, it’s always like this. The ass-tampons like Emily and Kaitlyn and their cruel cronies always seem to find me and devote themselves to making my life miserable.
Like the gullible girl I am, I hoped when I transferred here to Roosevelt three months ago (Go, Eagles! — Not.), I might make some friends for once. So far I have zero. It’s what happens when they boot you from one foster home to the next.
Thank goodness I have my book boyfriends. They keep me company wherever I go. You know, the usual hooligans. First it was Harry. Then it was Edward and Jacob, then Gale, then Four, then all the rest. Now it’s Holden. Maybe next it’ll be Booth, and he’s real. Sadly, none of them are here to banish Emily and the reptiles behind me. If I had Hermione’s wand, I’d do it myself. Too bad she keeps it for herself in the pages of a billion books, and yet, it doesn’t effing exist. That’s magic for you.
Hurrying, I make it past the bleachers and go through the gate.
The reptiles follow me off school grounds into the neighborhood. Houses, parked cars, and empty sidewalks. Not a single person to save me if something happens.
What else is new?
Two blocks later, the raptors attack.
I hear them make their move and I start running.
I’m fast, but Emily is faster. She runs track and it shows. She grabs me by the backpack and pulls hard. I’d shrug off my backpack and let her have it so I can run faster, except it holds everything that is precious to me. Living in foster care, you learn to keep anything valuable on you at all times.
Somehow, I manage to tear free of Emily’s grip and keep going. I’m running as hard as I can, but she’s right behind me every step of the way.
When I turn a corner, she knocks me down.
I go tumbling onto someone’s lawn.
Emily lands on top of me and starts swinging.
I protect my face with my arms. Good thing I’m wearing my studded leather jacket. It’s not just for show. It’s armor. The studs are also great weapons. I swing back, trying to clock Emily in the face with my fists or forearms, whatever I can hit her with.
The other three reptiles arrive.
“Two of you hold her arms!” Emily screams. “Someone sit on her legs!”
They do.
I literally can’t move.
Emily reaches over my head and I hear ripping noises. I think she’s pulling out my pink mohawk by the roots until she shoves clumps of grass in my face. I clamp my eyes and mouth shut to keep the dirt out.
Six blades of hot hate rip down my cheeks.
I have so much adrenalin pumping through me, I barely notice.
“Stay away from Booth,” Emily snarls and jumps off.
Someone kicks me between the legs and it hurts so bad I want to die. I’ve never been kicked between the legs before. I thought it was only supposed to hurt this bad for guys. Guess not. I’m writhing in agony while Emily and the other raptors sprint away to safety.
When the pain finally subsides, I sit up and spit dirt out of my mouth. That’s when I realize my cheeks are burning. I reach up to touch them gingerly.
Blood.
Bright red and wet.
I can’t tell without a mirror, but I’m pretty sure Emily clawed my cheeks open with her nails. I won’t know how bad it is until later.
I hope I don’t need stitches.
<(—)>
That night, I run away from foster care.
Care is too nice a word because my foster parents Dwight and Shayla don’t care. Per usual, they’re both blackout drunk and snoring in their own filth on the floor of their trailer, same as every Friday night since I moved in with them 122 days ago. Of course I counted. When you don’t have your freedom, you’re always counting the days until you do.
On my way out, I stop in their fake wood-paneled war zone of a living room. Half-assed Dwight and Shayla are sprawled on the floor like victims of a bar fight, which they basically are. They always go at each other whenever they get loaded. Broken liquor bottles and crumpled cans are everywhere. An exploded bag of potato chips coats everything with salty snowflakes. Food flung against a wall sticks and glistens. Furniture is turned over. A window newly broken.
Wait, is that the kitchen sink sticking half out the wall?
Kidding. Only about the sink.
I swear, I’ve slept in better dumpsters than this place. Not exaggerating. That is literal fact. A clean dumpster is better than a tent. I’ll tell you about it some other time.
I’m about to walk out when something catches my eye. Is that a baggie of coke on the glass coffee table? Coke as in blow?
Nah, they can’t afford upscale drugs.
Crystal meth, frequently. But not coke.
I step toward it and stare at it.
I know it’s poison, but I might be able to sell it.
No, I’ve got enough problems tonight already, and I’m barely getting started. The last thing I need is to get caught carrying drugs.
I take it anyway, then rifle through Shayla’s dirty purse. All I find is change. I take that too. Every coin counts when you’re running away.
I crouch over Dwight.
He’s snoring like a chainsaw.
I carefully grab the metal chain attached to his belt and give it a tug.
He groans.
I cringe.
He goes back to chainsawing.
I get his tattered leather wallet out and pop the snaps.
Six greasy damp dollars. Probably change from Sticks, Dwight’s favorite dive bar. He always preloads there before coming home to drink more here and fight with Shayla.
Whatever.
I crumple the bills and stuff them in my backpack with the change, coke, and my crappy Cricket phone.
I sneak out of the trailer to steal Dwight’s dusty old Kawasaki motorcycle. He never rides it.
But I know how.
Kade taught me. He taught me a few other things too. Ever since I can remember, I’ve flirted with every boy who rode a
motorcycle for obvious reasons. But also so they’d teach me how to ride. I was never satisfied only sitting on the back. Okay, maybe I enjoy wrapping my legs around the slim hips of a broad shouldered boy who knows what he’s doing. Or man. Age is just a number and I never keep score.
Standing outside in the night, I sling my grass-stained backpack over my shoulder. I’m wearing my studded black leather jacket over a random band shirt and ripped jeans. You can’t ride in a skirt. The wind won’t behave.
Oh, don’t forget my pink punk mohawk, plenty of piercings, and enough eyeliner to offend a family of raccoons. Anything to ugly myself up. Most guys think I’m a lesbian, which is the whole point. When you hit puberty living in foster care, you learn real fast to downplay anything feminine. It’s safer. I’ve known more than one creepy foster dad who lived up to the stereotype. Same is true for running away. Going ugly is the only way to go.
I swing my leg over the seat of the Kawasaki. It’s a little tall for me, but I manage. I hit the ignition again and hope for the best.
The engine spits and barks to life. I sigh with relief. It sounds a little ragged, but it doesn’t quit on me. If it manages to get me where I’m going tonight, anywhere other than here, it’ll be the only thing that hasn’t in the last seven years.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Dwight grumbles sleepily as he whacks the screen door open.
Okay, I was wrong about his degree of drunkenness.
“You can’t ride that! You don’t have a license!”
That’s where he’s wrong.
I may not be old enough for a license, but I’ve never let anyone else’s rules stop me from taking care of myself. Since the system won’t, and no one else will, it’s on me.
I twist the throttle and slice into the night.
Dwight shouts after me, “Get back here with my bike, you little piece of shit!”
Keep dreaming, you big piece of shit.
I’m out.
Chapter 2
Two hours later, I run out of gas on a lonely road in the woods. It’s graveyard dark and dead silent. Slivers of moonlight cut through the trees and carve ghoulish shadows on the ground.
Great.
Time to start walking.
Not a single car or truck passes me in the next twenty minutes. No owl hoots, no growling coyotes, no curious raccoons. Not even crickets.
Just woods.
Until I find the motorcycles.
Four of them parked just off the road. I would’ve missed them if the moon hadn’t glinted off bare metal. I push through bushes and creep past trees to get a better look. Wow.
I’m not a gearhead girl, but I can tell these are sweet bikes.
Racing motorcycles.
Midnight black from wheel to wheel.
Bigger and faster than anything I ever rode on my own. Men’s motorcycles. Too big for a girl like me. What are they doing out here?
I walk softly toward them, admiring their lines. Sexy as hell. I run my hand across one of the gas tanks, wondering whose they are. The heat on my legs tells me the engines are warm. Someone road these recently. I’d sure love a riding lesson from whatever bad boys own these.
The chill night air gives me a shiver.
As much as the mystery of these motorcycles and their riders intrigues me, I need to keep moving. I don’t want to freeze out here.
I head back to the road and continue walking. Around a curve, I see a car parked on the gravel of the shoulder with its trunk open. A classic muscle car. A Pontiac GTO, I think. I have no idea what year, but it’s old. Looks like the driver had a flat or a breakdown or whatever?
“Hello?” I call out then regret it.
I’m a girl all alone on a midnight road.
There’s no telling which serial killer’s car this is.
Better keep moving.
I glance in the open trunk as I pass.
No way.
Is that?
I unsling my backpack and pull out my Cricket phone. I’m out of minutes but not battery. I flip it open and shine it in the trunk.
No. Effing. Way.
There’s like a million dollars in cash in the trunk.
Just sitting there in open black duffel bags.
My heart races.
This is enough money to live on forever.
Crap. I can’t carry it. Maybe I can steal the car?
I lean in the open driver window and look for keys. Don’t see any. Hmm. Aren’t these older cars easier to hot wire than a modern racing motorcycle? Crap! Why didn’t I watch any YouTube videos about hot-wiring classic muscle cars when I had the chance?
I bite my lower lip and think.
I don’t need all the money. I’m not greedy.
I dash around to the back and reach into the trunk. Pick up a bundle of cash that’s four inches thick, tied together with fat rubber bands. I riffle through a corner and see nothing but twenties. How much money is four inches of twenties? Thousands of dollars? Tens of thousands?
I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure my backpack alone will hold enough money for me to effing retire!
Using my phone for a flashlight, I unzip my backpack and start throwing out the clothes I don’t need to make room. Bras, panties, socks. They may be essential, but I can always buy more!
This is in-freaking-sane!
“The fuck you think you’re doing?” a gravely voice crackles behind me.
I gasp like a heart attack.
Another voice says, “Put that the fuck back, or I’ll put you six feet under, bitch.”
I turn slowly and see two big and scary men holding handguns at their sides. In the darkness, their faces are nothing but evil alligator eyes and flashing fangs. It’s not what I see that scares me. It’s what I feel. Pure, cannibalistic hatred.
Oh, crap cakes.
When in distress, flirt.
“Hey, boys.” I flip my broken mohawk out of my eyes and stick my chest out. “What’re your names?”
The first man rushes me, grabs me by the throat, and hurls me into the trunk. The other slams the lid, locking me in total darkness on a mattress of money.
“Get in the car,” one grunts outside.
I kick the lid with my Docs and scream, “Let me out of here, assholes! You’re not kidnapping me!”
Two car doors slam.
The engine rumbles to life.
Backfires twice.
“Let me out!” I scream, kicking with everything I have. “I said, LET! MEEEEE! OUUUT!”
The engine turns off.
Dead silence.
Boots grinding gravel, coming toward the trunk.
I ready my flashlight to shine it in their eyes. It’s the only thing I can think. Distraction is all I have at this point because I’m literally cornered.
The trunk pops open.
Three men look down at me. Three different men dressed in black and leather. In the light of my phone, they’re scary gorgeous. Youngish, but older than I am. They’re eighteen? Maybe twenty? Twenty-five? I can’t tell.
One guy is gigantic. Big as an NFL linebacker, his shoulders so broad he doesn’t even need pads, but he’s handsome, has close-cropped blond hair and emerald eyes, the epitome of big beastly beauty without any of the galoot.
The middle guy has short-cropped hair maybe a quarter inch long. On him, the look enhances his rugged charm and leads your eyes right to the wicked gleam in his sparkling sapphires. He’s not nearly as big as the giant, but he’s wearing a black tank top that shows off his very muscled shoulders, which are strapped with tattoos.
The third, who’s the slimmest and trimmest, has dyed scarlet red hair dangling over chocolate eyes, and lush red pierced lips, giving him a mysterious allure I desperately want to kiss. He’s the pretty boy of the bunch.
Wowie-wow wow-wow, these boys are beautiful. Total Baldwins.
Red says, “What’s with the war paint?”
I reach up toward my cut up cheeks but don’t touch them. “Erm, long story.” When
smitten, flirt. I grin at them, “What happened to the two cannibals?”
Wicked Eyes locks eyes with me and smirks, “You guys can have the cash. I’m taking the girl.”
The giant chuckles, “Not so fast. I saw her first.”
“I claimed her first,” Wicked Eyes insists.
Claimed me? Who said I was claimed?! I’m nobody’s property! Not that I wouldn’t consider it, under the circumstances.
Giant says, “We split her three ways.”
I giggle nervously, “Nobody’s splitting me.”
Wicked Eyes grins, “He meant we’ll split you three times. I split first.”
“Split me?” I snort, mildly offended because I’m pretty sure I know what they mean by split, and it isn’t cannibalistic. He means the animalistic kind of splitting. The kind I should find offensive considering they don’t even know me, but instead find intensely appealing. What can I say? They’re that hot.
Red says, “Ignore these two douches. They’d rather fight each other than wrestle you. Me on the other hand…” He flips me a sexy wink and offers his hand. “The pleasure is all… yours.”
“Mine?!” I titter. How can I resist? I take Red’s hand and he helps me out of the trunk.
Wicked Eyes does a wolf-whistle as he looks me over.
“Would you stop?” I shift from boot to boot on the gravel.
“I’m just getting started, babe,” he says.
I almost tell him not to call me babe, then I realize I like it.
Wicked Eyes fingers the lapel of my studded leather jacket.
“Nice hair,” Giant says, and tousles my broken mohawk.
Before I can even react, Red pulls me away from the other two, still holding my hand.
Did I mention my hand is on fire? The one Red is holding? Flames rush up my arm and light up my heart. I did say he’s the prettiest. If he wasn’t holding my hand, I’m pretty sure I’d swoon. My knees are melting from the heat. When I catch the heady scent of rosewood and spice, they nearly buckle.
“Who are you guys?” I ask. As sexy as they are, I’m a trifle terrified by their rutting and wolfish eyes. “And what happened to the two other—”
Two backfires crack the night silence. Wait, the GTO’s engine is off. They can’t be backfires, unless it’s some other car off in the distance. Or gunshots. Hold on. Were the two backfires I heard earlier actually backfires too? Or were they—
Rich Boys vs. Poor Boys (The Cruel Kings of Castle Hill Academy, Book 1) by Devon Hartford kd103 Page 2