The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels Series Book 1)

by Callie Hart

  Copyright © 2019 by Callie Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. SILVER

  2. SILVER

  3. SILVER

  4. ALEX

  5. SILVER

  6. ALEX

  7. ALEX

  8. SILVER

  9. ALEX

  10. SILVER

  11. ALEX

  12. SILVER

  13. SILVER

  14. ALEX

  15. ALEX

  16. SILVER

  17. SILVER

  18. ALEX

  19. SILVER

  20. ALEX

  21. SILVER

  22. ALEX

  23. SILVER

  24. SILVER

  25. ALEX

  26. SILVER

  27. SILVER

  28. ALEX

  29. SILVER

  30. ALEX

  31. SILVER

  32. ALEX

  33. SILVER

  34. ALEX

  35. SILVER

  …

  36. SILVER

  Epilogue

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR…

  Surprise!

  ALSO BY CALLIE HART…

  KEEP READING TO MEET FIX MARCOSA…

  FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM!

  37. DEVIANT DIVAS

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Grave robbery has never been that high on my to-do list, but tonight, with a frigid Washington wind blowing in off Lake Cushman, I find myself up to my waist in dirt with a shovel in my hand. Weird how life likes to fuck with you sometimes. There are plenty of other places I could be tonight, and yet here I am, the muscles in my back aching like a bitch as I lift the haft of the shovel over my head and I pile-drive the steel blade into the unforgiving, frozen earth.

  “Dorme, Passerotto. Shhh. Time to go to sleep.”

  I ignore the soft whisper in my ear. That voice is long gone now. It doesn’t serve me to remember it, but…forgetting wouldn’t be right. Forgetting would feel like a betrayal.

  The cut, scrape, swish of my work fills the night air, and a river of sweat courses down my spine. My body’s no stranger to physical labor, and I’m grateful for the fact as I press forward, hurling clods of icy dirt over my bare shoulder and out of the deepening hole. This task would be way shittier if I weren’t in shape. Scratch that…it’d probably be impossible.

  I don’t believe in zombies, vampires, ghosts, or any other kind of apparition, but there’s something about this place that creeps me out. Yeah, it’s a graveyard, Poindexter. You’re surrounded by rotting bodies. I roll my eyes at my own inner monologue, again lobbing loose grave soil out onto the well-manicured grass to my right. It’s only natural that this place would have a sinister edge to it. It’s abandoned, not a soul in sight (very convenient for me), and yet there are signs of the living everywhere—laminated cards bearing the smiling faces of children; floral tributes, tinged with the first signs of fading decay; stuffed animals, fur matted and crusted over with frost. The people who left these trinkets and treasures are safe in their own warm houses now, though. It feels like the end of the world out here, a neglected place, filled with neglected memories. The moon overhead, round and fat in the clear September sky, casts long shadows, making spears out of the headstones.

  I wipe at my forehead with the back of my forearm, grit and clay smearing my skin, and I consider how much further down I need to go. They bury people deeper than usual here in Grays Harbor County. I read that on the cemetery website yesterday morning when I was scoping the place. They said it was because of the bears. Seriously fucked up. I try not to think about that as I quicken my pace, eager to accomplish my goal and get the hell out of here.

  A loud, metallic clang eventually signals that I’ve come to the end of the road, I’ve found what I’m looking for, and that hard part, the disturbing-as-fuck part of this evening’s adventure has finally arrived. Takes some time to clear off the coffin and figure out how to open the damn thing. This kind of thing is always made to look so easy in the movies, but it’s not. Far from it. I nearly rip the damn nail from my index finger as I try to heave back the lid.

  “Figlio di puttana! Fucking piece of shit.” I nearly shove my finger into my mouth to suck on it, but then I remember the fucking grave dirt underneath the nail of the finger in question and I decide against it. Dirt is dirt is dirt, but grave dirt? No, thanks.

  Upon close inspection, I conclude there’s no way to finesse the coffin open, so I resort to brute force, heaving on the wood until the coffin makes a splintering sound and the lid frees, groaning as it yawns reluctantly open.

  Inside: the body of a man in his late fifties, dressed in a red button-down shirt and a black tie. No suit jacket. His face, a face I know all too well, is as severe and downturned in death as it was in life. Hooked nose; pronounced brow; deep, cavernous lines carved into the flesh of his cheeks, bracketing his thin-lipped, angry-looking mouth. His hands have been stacked on top of his chest. Beneath them: a copy of the Gideon’s Bible. The cheap, generic kind you might find in the drawer of a nightstand in a Motel 6. I scowl at the sight, a familiar, slick, oily knot tightening in my chest. Ahh, rage, my friend. Fancy seeing you here, you sly old fuck.

  Speaking to a dead body isn’t nearly as weird as you might think. “Well, Gary. Looks like the piper wanted to be paid, huh?” Sweat stings at my eyes. Crouching down, feet balanced on either side of the coffin, I take my t-shirt from my back pocket where I hung it for safe keeping, and I use it to wipe at my face. Before I arrived here tonight, I’d prepared myself for the sickly-sweet odor of death, was ready to face it, but two feet away from Gary, the only thing I can smell are the winter pine trees on the wind. “Figured we’d end up here eventually,” I tell him. “Didn’t think it would be so soon, but hey…I’m not complaining.”

  Unsurprisingly, Gary has very little say in return.

  I contemplate his face. His sallow, sunken in cheeks and his pinched, withered features. When did he get so gaunt? Was he always like that, or did the process of dying shave twenty pounds off the guy? I suppose it’s a mystery I’ll never solve now. It’s been six months since I saw him last; there’s every chance the bastard joined Jenny Craig during that time.

  I stoop low over him and reach out a finger, prodding at his cheek, expecting to find some give in him, but there’s nothing. He’s solid. Stiff, like a calcified husk. Like I said, I didn’t come here unprepared. Gary’s been dead for four days, so it seemed prudent to read up on what kind of shape the motherfucker was going to be in when I unearthed him. His corpse isn’t bloated, though. His tongue isn’t protruding from between his teeth. He looks…he looks kind of normal. Even the makeup they must have put on him at the funeral home still looks like it’s holding up.

  It’s the cold. Has to be. There’s no way he’d be so perfectly preserved otherwise. Honestly, I’m a little disappointed. A part of me was looking forward to seeing the bastard’s skin sloughing from his bones.

  With quick hands I get to work, first grabbing the Bible and tossing it out of the grave, hissing between my teeth. Gary’s hands are next. I wrench them apart, then hinge his arms down by his sides, giving me room to unbutton his shirt and fold the material back. He’s wearing a vest, but that’s no big deal. I stand briefly so I can get my hand in my pocket, and then the short blade of my
flick knife is gleaming brilliantly in the moonlight. The sharpened steel cuts through the thin polyester in two seconds flat.

  Gary’s narrow, twisted pigeon chest hasn’t been rouged up like his face, and here I find the evidence of decay I was looking for. His skin’s pale, tinged an unhealthy blue, mottled like a fine-veined marble. And just off center of his torso, a little up and to the right, a small, neat, black hole with puckered edges punctures his skin.

  Do morticians charge for sewing gunshot wounds closed? If they do, then Gary’s penny-pinching brother from Mississauga declined to cover the added expense. I never met him—the brother. In the three years I lived under the roof of Gary Quincy’s doublewide trailer, I only ever heard his brother’s voice on the other end of a telephone, and even then I knew I didn’t like the fucker.

  “Had to make sure, Gaz,” I say. “Needed to see with my own two eyes. Now. Where’d you put it, hmm?” I pat down the pockets of his cheap suit pants, feeling around carefully…

  I didn’t just come here to make sure Gary Quincy was dead, though that was a big part of this. I’ve spent the last two hours laboring in the dirt, digging his ass up, because he has something that belongs to me, something he took from me, and I want it back.

  His pockets are empty. Juuuust fucking perfect. I lift his head, checking his throat, just to make sure, but it’s not there, either.

  “You swallow it, Gary?” I ask, glancing at the knife I rested on the edge of the coffin. “Wouldn’t put it past you, you fucking psycho.” I take up the knife, dread lacing my bones as I survey the concave shell of his stomach, wondering if I have the stones to even proceed with such a fucking crazy idea. Cutting Gary open, unraveling his intestines, feeling around inside the cavities, nooks and crannies of his insides will not be something I’ll ever be able to forget. Something like that changes a person, I’m betting, and I don’t really feel like undertaking that type of a transformation right now. I like being able to sleep at night.

  “Dorme, Passerotto. Shhh. Time to go to sleep.”

  Fuck. No, not here. Not now. I push the voice aside, shivering away from the comforting warmth of it, and I’m left chilled to my core, a cold, angry fist closing around my heart.

  “Fuck you, Gary,” I growl under my breath. “It wasn’t yours. You should have known I wouldn’t let you keep it.” Steeling myself, I pick up the knife and lower the blade, its shining tip hovering an inch above Gary’s stomach. I’m ready. I can do this. I’ll gut him from stem to sternum if it means I can reclaim what’s mine.

  The knife meets Gary’s skin, and…

  The moonlight strengthens for a second, the shadows inside the grave peeling back, and I catch an unexpected flash of gold out of the corner of my eye. A brisk gust of wind moans through the trees, and I stop dead.

  There…in Gary’s right hand.

  “Motherfucker,” I hiss. “I knew it. Couldn’t just leave it for me, could you? Had to make sure I never found it.” Prizing Gary’s fingers open takes work. I don’t even flinch when I feel the snap of his middle finger breaking, though. I actually have to fight the macabre urge to break even more of his bones as I pluck the small gold medallion attached to the delicate gold chain out of his palm and close my own hand around it.

  Suddenly, I’m five years old again, watching owl-eyed as a woman with hair the color of sunshine kisses the small, golden medallion and tucks it inside her shirt. “St. Christopher, holy patron of travelers, protect and lead me safely on my journey.”

  Jesus, the past is hitting hard tonight. It’s as if my close proximity to Gary’s empty carcass is opening all kinds of doors to the dead, and I can’t fucking take it a moment longer. Standing, freezing cold now that I’ve been still for a while and my sweat has cooled, I adopt a wide stance with my feet still planted on either side of the coffin, and I unzip my fly. “Sorry, Gary. But you and I both know you deserve this.”

  Steam rises from the coffin as my piss splashes down onto Gary’s chest. I’ve been waiting for this for a long, long time. It feels…Damn, it feels fucking—

  “Hold it right there, kid. Stop what you’re doing this instant!”

  Oh, come on.

  I tense, freezing in place, every part of me rigid.

  The female voice behind me is alive with anger as she repeats her command. “I said stop what you’re doing, asshole!”

  I risk a glance over my shoulder and my stomach sinks when I see the uniform. The badge. The gun aimed at the back of my head. “If you’re referring to the fact that I’m still pissing, Officer, then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Stopping mid-flow is bad for the prostate.” I smile to myself, knowing I’m not helping matters. Fuck it though, right? I am going to be arrested. No doubt about it. And if my ass is getting thrown in jail for this, then I’ll be damned if I don’t finish what I started.

  “Kid, if you don’t quit right now and put your dick away, you’re gonna get Tazed. You understand me?”

  Ahh. Tazer, not a gun. Well, I guess that’s something. I surrender a long, resigned sigh. I do not stop.

  “Last chance, dumbass.”

  There are worst things to be in this life than stubborn and dedicated to a cause. And let’s face it…this opportunity will never present itself again. I brace, even though bracing is pointless, and I wait for the pain.

  When it comes, lancing into my back, striking like lightning down my arms and into my legs, I retain just enough control to make sure I sag sideways into Gary’s grave and not forwards.

  After all, the very last thing I need, on the back of such a long and successful night, is to find myself slumped over the deceased remains of the man who repeatedly beat me while lying in a pool of my own piss.

  Somehow, through my gritted teeth, my tensed muscles, and the blinding ball of pain that’s lashed itself to my back, I manage to choke out a single, bitter burst of laughter.

  The sound echoes like a gunshot over midnight Lake Cushman.

  1

  SILVER

  Silver Parisi: most likely to suck dick for dollar.

  I stare down at the slip of paper on the table, creased and stained on the back by something that looks suspiciously like mustard, and my temper riots. This, right here, is some fucking bullshit. I’m used to detention, I’m a regular attendee, and I’m used to the chores we’re tasked with, but tallying the nominations for yearbook has turned out to be a rather cruel and unusual form of punishment. Because this isn’t cleaning erasers or scrubbing graffiti from the girl’s bathroom stalls. This is fucking personal.

  Silver Parisi: most likely to contract syphilis.

  Silver Parisi: most likely to cook meth.

  Silver Parisi: most likely to fuck your boyfriend behind your back.

  The suggestions are colorful and aplenty. I already know who’s behind the offensive, hate-filled superlatives: the football team, the cheer squad, and the sheep who follow the Raleigh High elite around with their noses pinched firmly between their pampered, trust fund ass cheeks. I’d say the spiteful nominations stacked on the desk in front of me right now are innumerable, but I’ve actually had to count them, and I know exactly how many there are. And of the twenty-three vile suggestions that have been made in my honor, so far there’s one clear winner.

  Silver Parisi: most likely to die on prom night.

  The Raleigh High Year Book Committee is going to replace this. No way they’ll allow such a terrible thing to be printed beneath the photo of one of their graduating class students. In fifteen years’ time, anyone who just so happens to be flipping through the pages of their dusty old high school yearbook will see a photo of a pale, seventeen-year-old girl with solemn, intense blue eyes, mousy brown hair, and an unusual shaped birthmark on her neck, wearing a Billy Joel T-shirt, and they’ll read:

  Silver Parisi: most likely to learn a foreign language.

  I can already see it now. Fucking foreign language. No one will remember me. No one will come across my picture and suddenly recall all of the fu
n, amazing times they shared with me. No, they’re going to take one look at my stern, unhappy face, and they’re gonna recoil. Jesus Christ, who was that girl, again? And why the fuck was she so damn miserable all the time?

  They won’t remember the shit they all put me through in the final year of high school. Most conveniently of all, they’ll have forgotten all about the fact that they subtly threatened my life and implied they were going to murder my ass on the night of prom.

  Assholes.

  I snatch up the slip of paper and scrunch it in my hand, then toss it across the room. I’m aiming for the trash can, but I’m a terrible shot. I miss, and the balled-up nomination slip ends up on the floor with all the other anonymous threats to my life.

  Out of the corner of my eye, Jacob Weaving hunches over his desk, scribbling furiously into his notebook. He’s supposed to be writing an essay on the Cuban Missile Crisis, but I can picture the scrawled mess he’s drawn instead—a manga fuck doll with giant, bare tits and parted lips, legs spread wide open. Anime porn is Jacob’s specialty. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches me watching him, and a smug, infuriating smirk fishhooks his mouth, pulling it up at one side. “Need a ride home later, Sil? Cillian and Sam are waiting in the lot. We really enjoyed the last time we all hung out.”

  “I’d rather crawl on broken glass.”