Rich Boys vs. Poor Boys (The Cruel Kings of Castle Hill Academy, Book 1) by Devon Hartford kd103

by Hartford, Devon

  Oh no. No, no, no, no.

  I already know where this is going. Nobody talks to me like this twice and gets away with it. I don’t care how big and dangerous he is. Total ass-helmet. Just as I’m about to cut him off and tell him to F the F so far off he Fs his way out of this car and off the planet, I recognize those eyes. And the neck tattoos. And the motor oil.

  I blurt, “You’re that guy from Friday night!”

  He freezes stone cold.

  “Oh my god!” I gasp. “It is you! I remember your eyes! You’re Alpha!” I dreamt about those eyes all night, but I don’t mention that. I’ll never tell him that.

  “Shut up,” he hisses.

  “You were at the car with the money! With your three friends!”

  Alpha, aka Prison Rob, or whoever he actually is, lashes out so cobra fast, I never see it coming. With his big hand, he locks my entire forearm in a crushing grip.

  White hot hammers smash my bones. It hurts so bad, I can’t even squeal. Pain has taken over and I’m completely at his mercy.

  He flicks his eyes out the back window at Mr. Ralston still on the phone, then gets right in my face. His eyes are blood fire. His face knots with rage. In a hiss so faint a snake might miss it, he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mouth. We have never met. You don’t know me and you never will. Do you understand?”

  I’m in so much pain I can’t answer. My leather jacket offers no protection. The stud backs on the sleeve make it worse, digging into my skin like spikes. Doesn’t seem to bother his hand any, and he’s getting the pointy ends of the studs, but it’s killing me.

  “Do. You. Understand.” It’s an order, not a question and he growls, actually growls like a grizzly bear.

  The only thing I can manage is the weakest squeak.

  He relaxes his death grip on my wrist slightly and says, “Yes or no, Mouth? Do you understand?”

  “Y-y-yes,” I whisper-whimper.

  He releases my wrist and sits up statue straight, eyes forward like nothing happened.

  I cradle my arm to my chest. I don’t need to peel off my leather jacket to know I probably have bloody marks in my skin from the stud backs. Even if I don’t, I’m sure my entire forearm will be bruised come morning. What an ass!

  I’m about to let vent my anger at him for being so harsh when I think better of it. Another peep might be the death of me. But I want to reassure him I would never tell on him, never rat him out to the sheriff or anyone else. I want to tell him I’ve got his back. Assuming that was him Friday night with Red, Giant, and Wicked Eyes.

  Was it?

  I know Rob isn’t Red or Giant or Wicked Eyes. I got good looks at those three with the light from my phone Friday night. I never really saw Alpha except in shadow. I mean, I thought I saw neck tattoos, but it was really dark, it could’ve been a trick of the moonlight, and everyone has neck tattoos these days anyway. With Rob sitting down beside me, I can’t even compare his size with my memory of Alpha’s size Friday.

  What about his reaction now?

  That was damning.

  Does it mean he’s Alpha?

  Not necessarily, but he’s acting very guilty of something.

  Mr. Ralston opens the driver door in front and folds himself creakily into the leather seat.

  “My sincerest apologies for the delay,” he gasps from the effort.

  Even I know old vampires don’t gasp from effort, they’re super strong. Ergo, he isn’t a vampire.

  Unless he’s faking.

  “Are you two settled in?” His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.

  “Uh, yeah, I guess,” I mumble.

  Mr. Ralston’s eyes narrow, “Something wrong with your arm, Miss Angerman?”

  “Uh, no,” I lie. “It’s fine.” I lower it to my lap and try not to wince. “Perfectly settled and ready to go.”

  “Excellent.” Mr. Ralston starts the car.

  With ass-helmet Prison Rob sitting next to me, it’s scientifically impossible for me to be settled. The only thing now is figuring out why. Is it because after the way he grabbed me just now I insta-hate him, or after what he and his friends did Friday night, it might be insta-luh—

  Ha.

  As if.

  <(—)>

  “Are we there yet?” I whine dramatically an hour later, half joking, half not.

  Mr. Ralston says, “In due time, Miss Angerman. In due time.” He says “due” like “dyoo.” It’s funny. So are his leather driving gloves and driving cap. It’s not like we’re in a convertible. But this is the closest I’ve ever come to riding in a limousine.

  I’m sitting in the back of his big black Mercedes and he’s been driving the whole time. Rob is next to me. I swear, he hasn’t moved a muscle since we left juvi. He may as well be a stone slab.

  My arm is feeling better, the pain no more than a dull throb, which might just be me because sitting next to Rob makes me throb all over. What can I say? I like danger.

  It’s hard to stay angry at Rob because he doesn’t seem to care about whether or not I exist. I know, that sounds pathetic in more ways than I can count, but his wall of disinterest is a reminder he never would’ve touched me if I hadn’t pestered him with questions.

  I mean, yeah, he totally over-reacted, unless you consider that I may have witnessed him and his friends steal a million dollars and maybe kill some people Friday night. No big whoop.

  During the drive, Mr. Ralston asks me a few friendly questions to break the boredom. I answer reluctantly. It’s awkward with Rob listening. If he wasn’t here, I’d be more likely to talk because Mr. Ralston seems nice enough, and you can never have too many friends, especially when you have zero. Those four werewolves Friday night don’t count because I’ll never see them again.

  Unless Rob is Alpha?

  Too bad he’s such a chore.

  I wish his three funner friends were here instead of him.

  Sigh.

  I look out the window at the passing trees. I have no idea where we’re going, other than to Castle Hill, wherever that is. Somewhere way, way, way out in the country, obviously.

  This whole time, I’ve been clutching my forgotten backpack in my hands like a shield. Blame Rob. He’d make a welcome mat defensive. When I realize I’m holding it, I rip the zipper open and dig through clothes until I find the money Red gave me. Still there. All $2,320 of it. It’s a freaking fortune and it’s all mine!

  Next, I check for the other precious cargo I’ve been carrying around with me since forever:

  A dog-eared library copy of The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf. I’ve read it a dozen times.

  Grayson’s knife. When I stole it two homes ago before running away, I left him one of my earrings so he’d know it was me. A little silver dagger. A knife for a knife. It’s symbolism. Sometimes I imagine him keeping my dangling dagger earring like I kept his knife. But you know boys. They lose everything that isn’t attached. That’s why I never gave Grayson my heart. I wanted to, but I knew he’d lose it.

  My journal, which has the one remaining picture of my birth parents stuck inside. It’s a nothing photo. Just them as high school sweethearts. It’s so normal, which is why I love it so much. You can tell they’re best friends. They’re kissing and smiling while holding soft serve ice cream. My mom’s cone is tipping over and the ice cream looks like it’s about to spill off, but she’s too focused on kissing my dad to care. Same for him. They’re smiling so big, the kiss is more teeth than lips. It’s awkward but it’s honest.

  That’s why it’s perfect.

  Someone took the picture for them. I don’t know who. One of my grandparents? I’ll never know. They’re gone too. Both sets.

  In the background of the photo, you can see a fairy tale castle. It’s the one from Disneyland or Disney World. I can’t tell which because I’ve never been to either. At the rate I’m ruining my life, I probably never will.

  I also have my birth mom’s engagement ring and my dad’s wedding band in a frayed
velvet box. Those rings are the only things left of either of them besides this one picture.

  I miss them so much it guts me.

  Every night when my head hits the pillow, I think about them. Close my eyes and send my thoughts out to them, hoping they catch one or two. They’ve never answered back because that is a fairy tale. I know it’s stupid, but that never stopped me from trying. Sometimes a stupid dream is all you have.

  I find my copy of The Voyage Out near the top of my backpack. I have to dig for the ring box. When I open it a crack to peer inside, I hunch over it, acting like Rob might try and steal it or my money. When I see the rings, I breathe a slight sigh of relief and stuff them away.

  Does Rob look?

  Of course not.

  When I dig out my journal and find the picture of my parents inside, my relief is complete. I press the picture over my heart for a moment, then look at it.

  Mom! Dad! You’re never going to believe the news!

  I don’t quite believe it either.

  As far as I can tell, Mr. Ralston is legit. But you never know. Could be he is a vampire, and Rob is his mindless human muscle. No, that’s stupid. Life isn’t that show NOS4A2.

  Either way, I fish through my backpack looking for Grayson’s knife.

  It’s gone.

  That’s not good.

  I immediately feel a trickle of fear, and quickly whip my head around to make sure Rob isn’t about to suffocate me with a rag or plastic bag or whatever.

  He isn’t. He’s still nothing but a handsome gargoyle looking straight ahead. Do vampires use gargoyle henchmen? Is that a thing? I don’t know. But I do know you should always have a knife. No matter where you go, or who you’re with, carry a knife. Grayson taught me that, and I couldn’t agree more. More importantly, that knife is the only piece of Grayson I have left. I really want it back.

  I say, “Mr. Ralston, did they give you back my knife?”

  “They did.” Mr. Ralston tosses a quick smile over his shoulder before putting his eyes back on the road.

  “Can I have it back?”

  “In dyoo time.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Patience, Miss Angerman. Patience.”

  For a second, I think I see Rob’s cheek curl into a ghost of a smile, but that must just be me. Everybody knows stone gargoyles can’t smile.

  <(—)>

  They weren’t kidding about the hill.

  Going slow, it takes us like two hours to drive up a long and winding mountain road before we reach the summit.

  They weren’t kidding about the castle either.

  I see the flying Spanish spires long before we get there. When we finally do, the place reminds me of the pictures I’ve seen of the legendary Hearst Castle in San Simeon, but more grand and much larger. Almost like a Spanish Hogwarts, but this place is real, an actual stone castle in the middle of nowhere. Then I see the terraces and columns and green gardens climbing up the hillside. They add a uniquely Greek or Roman flair that most definitely isn’t Hogwarts. I almost don’t want to use the word castle. It sounds too medieval, too grungy and dirty.

  This place is… palatial.

  Elegant and immense, delicate and strong at the same time, the sparkling picture-postcard of every girl’s fairytale castle made real. How have I never heard of Castle Hill Academy before? Anyway, if Disney or Universal Studios or whoever knew about this place, they’d sell tickets.

  I say, “Do you guys have rides?”

  “Come again?” Mr. Ralston replies from behind the wheel.

  “You know, roller coasters and stuff.”

  “Oh, no, certainly not,” he chuckles. “But I do believe you will find your academic studies more than thrilling.”

  That’s a laugh. Studying isn’t thrilling. Unless…

  My eyes light up and I suddenly say, “Wait. You guys don’t teach students how to be wizards, do you?”

  “No, Miss Angerman,” he laughs. “Nothing of the sort. But our graduates frequently go on to shape the world as we know it.”

  “Huh?”

  “In dyoo—”

  “Dyoo time, Miss Angerman,” I finish for him in my best upper-crust impression of him. “In dyoo time.”

  “Indyoobitably,” he grins.

  You know what?

  I like Mr. Ralston. If the teachers at the academy are anything like him, I’m going to love this place.

  As for Rob, it’s like I don’t exist.

  Whatever.

  I don’t care because freaking Spanish Castle Magic is right in front of me! Yeah, Dwight is heavy into classic acid rock and he plays Jimi Hendrix every time he bites the bong, which is every day he isn’t drinking. But I don’t care anymore! I’ll never see Dwight again! Or Shayla! Or Emily and Kaitlyn and their reptile friends!

  This is my new home!

  Bye, bye, Roosevelt High!

  Say hello to Castle Hill Academy!

  I couldn’t be happier.

  The sad part is, had someone told me what I was about to get myself into here at the academy, I would’ve opted for prison.

  Chapter 6

  “Thank you for the company, Mr. Fletcher,” says Mr. Ralston. He’s talking to Rob, who I’m assuming is Mr. Fletcher. We’re parked in the Mercedes somewhere in a massive modern underground parking structure underneath the castle. We all climb out. “Mr. Fletcher, would you be so kind as to guide Miss Angerman to see the headmistress? I shall catch up in a moment. My bladder isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid.” Mr. Ralston finishes with an embarrassed smile.

  “Sure,” Rob nods and Mr. Ralston goes the other way.

  When my sunlit eyes adjust to the darkness underground, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The parking structure is so clean and white, doctors could operate, and it’s bursting with the most expensive cars I’ve ever seen. Ferraris, Lambos, Bugattis, Bentleys, Aston Martins, Rolls Royces. By comparison, the Porsches, Jaguars, Mercedes, Range Rovers, and BMWs here look embarrassingly cheap.

  “Whose are these?” I blurt in total awe. When Rob doesn’t answer, I turn and see him walking away. “Hey! I asked you a question!”

  He ignores me and keeps going.

  I shout, “Were you in detention the day they taught manners class?” That doesn’t stop him. I need to up my game. “Or just out behind the bleachers getting high?” Still nothing. “Skipping school and stealing cars?” He’s still walking. I almost laugh because this guy is ridiculous. “Doing doughnuts in the football field with the groundskeeper’s pickup truck?”

  He stops. Turns. Glares, “Are you done?”

  “What?” I snicker. “I’d totally do that. We can do it together. Do you know where he keeps his truck?” Yes, I’m flirting. Because, look at him! After we do those doughnuts, who knows what he might do? Or who. I know, it’s stupid. He’s too temperamental to bother with, but I can’t help myself.

  “You’re wasting my time.” Because you’re a waste of time. He doesn’t say it but his face does. “I have more important things to do than babysit you. Get your ass moving.”

  “Screw you! You can’t talk to me like that!”

  He explodes. Marches toward me like the Terminator or some other psychotic cyborg that cannot be stopped. It’s either the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, him coming at me like this, or the scariest. No, after the way he grabbed me in the car it’s… Okay, I admit it’s both.

  My heart races and I rip my backpack open, digging for my knife, which I don’t have because Mr. Ralston took it! Shi—!

  A hard hand clamps down on my right wrist, the one that’s not sore, before I can finish my thought. I fight hard, trying to break free, but his hand is a handcuff. I should’ve run!

  “What are you doing?!” he demands.

  “Let go of me! You’re hurting me!” He isn’t, but I whimper like he is. Never show your strength until you have to. Another thing Grayson taught me. “Would you let go already?!” I’m pulling as hard as I can, using my whole body, but he d
oesn’t budge.

  Rob tears my backpack out of my hands and digs through it, letting go of my wrist.

  “That’s mine! You can’t do that!” Now I’m worried about my journal, my parents’ photo, and their rings. “Be careful already!”

  “Your knife,” he grunts. “Where’s your knife?”

  “Mr. Ralston still has it!”

  Rob’s shoulders relax, but his eyes are dark fireworks. He shoves my backpack at me even though I’m still holding it, towering over me like a monument.

  Now I really do want to run, but I’m paralyzed by those eyes.

  His face changes, full lips peeling back over clenched teeth. I want to say fangs, but that’s not quite right. His teeth are too perfect for fangs, but no less dangerous. He clamps his hand back on my wrist.

  “Ow!” I whine for effect.

  “Listen to me,” he hisses. Glances furtively over each shoulder. What’s that about? “I know what you did.”

  “Oh yeah?” I cock my hip defiantly. “I know what you did.”

  His snout does that hot werewolf thing and he glares at me. Two can play at his game.

  I sneer, “I was there, remember? I saw what you did.”

  His snarl relaxes into the cockiest smirk I’ve ever seen and he says in a surprisingly friendly tone, “Really? What? What’d I do, Mouth? Tell me. Tell me everything you know that I did. Don’t guess. Tell me the facts. What facts do you know, Mouth?”

  “I… Well… You… Uh…” I release my breath, which I didn’t realize I was holding in fear. I also realize he keeps calling me Mouth, and I can’t decide if I love that he gave me a nickname or hate it, because who wants to be called Mouth? It’s bad enough for a guy, but when you’re a girl? It conjures nothing but sluttishness.

  “You don’t know shit, do you, Mouth?” His smirk gets cockier, if that’s even possible. “You know what I know? I know the sheriff charged you with attempted murder.”

  I roll my eyes, “That’s not what happened.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “How would you know? You weren’t there. What facts do you have, Rob?” Another thought barges in as I piece things together. “Wait, did Mr. Ralston tell you why I was in jail?”