Between (Tory's School for the Troubled Book 1)

by Katie May

  “She snuck into the employee’s only lounge and found this weird liquid. The professors have been drinking this to remain coherent when the rest of the students saw things through a blurry, distorted haze. A funhouse mirror, she would say. You only saw what the professors wanted you to see.

  “She gave us the liquid, and suddenly, we understood. We saw what they didn’t want us to see. Do you understand? Do you understand what I’m saying?” He pleaded with me with his umber gold eyes to believe him. To trust him.

  I knew he would continue to spin his lies like a spider spun a web. I also knew he was spewing nothing but bullshit.

  All I wanted was for him to shut the hell up.

  “You are so full of shit,” I murmured, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his lips down to mine.

  I kissed him with all of the pent-up anger and aggression I wanted to remain hidden. I kissed him like I was drowning, and he was my life preserver.

  My hands tangled in his golden-brown hair, turning his head to angle him the way I wanted him to go. His tongue prodded the seams of my lips, and I opened up eagerly, taking him in. It wasn’t a dance, but a battle. A war. Kissing Tanner was a fight between two broken souls, only one able to emerge victorious.

  His large hands cupped my ass, pushing me against his erection. I knew that he was large, and I wanted nothing more than to wrap my mouth around his thick girth. The need was almost painful.

  Leaving my ass, his hands lifted my shirt over my head. His thumb brushed the upper swell of my breast before lowering, pulling my heavy mounds free of the confines of my bra.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he muttered, ducking down to pull one of my nipples into his mouth.

  I slipped my hands underneath his shirt, touching his bare skin.

  His lips moved from my aching nipple, up the swell of my breast, before landing on my neck. He alternated between licks, sucks, and kisses until he finally reached my lips. I desperately kissed him back, reveling in the contact. The comfort.

  His hand slipped into the waistband of my shorts, rubbing me over my panties. I gasped into his mouth, a strange combination between a moan and a sob. I wanted—no, I needed—him to touch me.

  “Please,” I whispered, kissing the side of his mouth. I planted tantalizingly light kisses across his smooth jaw and down to his neck. There, I sucked deeply on his skin, relishing in his intake of breath.

  The horny bitch within me wanted to mark him as mine.

  “Please what, little gymnast?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Touch me,” I practically begged. Without another word, he pulled my underwear away from my aching core and stabbed a finger inside of me. He began to rub his finger up and down my slit. I pulled my lips away from his neck with a gasp, but he captured them once more with his own. Eating away my moans. Devouring them.

  A second finger followed the first one, followed by a third. His thumb found my clit, rubbing it in earnest.

  “I’m so close,” I whispered.

  “Come for me.”

  His words were my undoing.

  I didn’t just come. I exploded.

  He kissed me through my orgasm, fingers continuing their relentless pursuit. He was determined to unravel me. Destroy me.

  And damn, if it wasn’t working.

  Only when I was fully sated did he pull out. He brought his fingers to his lips, eyes intent on mine, before licking them clean. His tongue swirled over the tips, sucking them until the evidence of my arousal disappeared.

  If that wasn’t the sexiest thing…

  “You taste good,” he said with a casual shrug.

  His erection strained against his sweatpants, begging to be set free.

  With a coy smile, I patted the prominent bulge. He hissed, teeth clenching.

  “You can take care of that yourself,” I said, shouldering past him. “And thanks for the orgasm!”

  He stared at me, mouth agape, before he managed to stutter, “You don’t fucking thank someone for an orgasm.”

  In answer, I gifted him with my middle finger. I was confused, yes, as I tried to piece together what had happened. What he had told me. Nothing made sense. Not his words, not his actions, not my own traitorous heart. I needed a moment—or five-hundred—to get my bearings.

  “Have fun sucking your own dick.”

  12

  Tanner

  The sated moans echoed in the hall.

  I frowned at the noise, anxiously worrying my lower lip with my teeth. Braving to venture farther, I pounded my fist against the wooden door. Immediately, the moans subsided until it was utterly silent.

  “Open up, asshole!” I called. There was a shuffle—an indignant feminine curse followed by the wisp of fabric—before the door was thrown open. Aiden stood on the other side, dressed in only a pair of unbuttoned pants, and scowling.

  “What?” he asked darkly. He turned on his heel, stomping back into the room but leaving the door open for me. An invitation.

  I followed him inside, spotting immediately the petite, naked female sprawled on the bed. When she saw me, she pushed her naked chest out farther in a failed attempt to entice me. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Blond, of course, with dainty features and a lean body.

  “The face is different,” I told Aiden casually as he shoved a shirt on. He scowled at me but did not otherwise react. “Bianaca’s nose is smaller, and she has two dimples on her cheeks.” I pointed to my cheeks in demonstration, and his scowl only grew.

  The blond bimbo sat up in bed, lips pursed.

  “Who the hell is Bianaca?” she asked seconds before realization dawned. Turning toward Aiden, she feebly hit his now covered chest. “Is that why you called me B?”

  I snorted out a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand when Aiden glared at me.

  “I think you should leave,” Aiden told the girl curtly. She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “We haven’t even finished,” she whined, glancing from Aiden to me. When she met my eye, her smile turned coy, devious, and she flicked her nipple. She was cute, I would give her that.

  But she was…wrong.

  “He said leave,” I snapped, my already thin patience splintering. I had never been known as the “nice guy,” and I wasn’t about to start now.

  She helplessly glanced once more at Aiden, but he remained stone-faced. After one more ineffectual sweep of her thumb over her beaded nipples, she huffed, grabbed her clothes, and stomped into the hallway.

  Naked, of course.

  Rolling my eyes, I gifted Aiden a rare smile. “Trying to fuck Bianaca out of your system? You picked a real winner,” I teased.

  “Piss off.” He sprawled himself out on the bed, placing a muscular forearm over his eyes. I watched him with barely contained amusement.

  It was rare, if not unheard of, to see the great Aiden so unhinged. So disheveled.

  In the coming silence, I surveyed the small dorm room that he shared with Kace. Aiden’s side was adorned in black—black tapestries, black bedspread, black portraits he had commissioned me to paint. Kace’s, on the other hand, was a kaleidoscope of color. It was as if someone had vomited a rainbow on his half.

  The two were as different as night and day, black and white, but I had never seen a deeper bond before in my life. They were brothers, in every way but actual blood. I knew Aiden felt responsible for Kace, especially after…

  I didn’t want to think about that.

  “Did you tell her?” Aiden drawled, not bothering to lift his head or open his eyes. I moved to sit on the desk chair, kicking my feet up. The room felt vacant without Kace’s presence. A part of me wanted to go look for him, but my rational reasoning warned me against it. Kace would come to us when he was ready. Until then, it was best to let him be. Let him hide.

  I wondered what new crevice of the school he had found to hide away in.

  “Yup,” I answered Aiden.

  Unbidden, my mind traveled back to the moment in the gym. Her hooded ey
es, emitting lust in palpable waves. Those mewls escaping her pretty, pink lips. Those fucking tits…

  My cock stirred just at the memory.

  I had always laughed at the nonsense of people coming in their pants with just a look, but with her, I believed it was entirely possible. I had never wanted to come as badly as I did right then and there. Her soft lips melding against mine, making us one. Those long tresses just begging me to run my fingers through.

  Aiden’s voice pulled me out of my wistful fantasy. My daydream.

  The fact of the matter was, Bianaca hated me. She was sexually attracted to me, sure, but her feelings did not extend further than that.

  I didn’t know why that bothered me as much as it did. I didn’t want or need a girl in my life. There was a reason people called me an ass, and it wasn’t just because I had a nice one. Hell, I couldn’t even remember my last “girlfriend’s” name.

  Honestly, I couldn’t remember anything besides how soft B felt in my arms, as if she was made specifically for me.

  Fucking cheesy ass shit if you asked me.

  “Did she believe you?” Aiden asked, once more pulling me from my reverie. From the slightest tilt of his head and the quirk of his brow, I realized he had probably asked this question more than once. My face wanted to burn in shame, but I schooled my features carefully. Aiden was a shark. The second he smelled blood, he would pounce.

  “No,” I answered.

  He snorted. “As eloquent as always, my friend.”

  “Whatever.”

  Shaking my head, I stood, stretching my arms over my head.

  “She has you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she?” Aiden’s voice dripped with condemnation. Amusement. It was an odd combination that he was able to pull off perfectly.

  “I’m not the one fucking other girls while screaming her name,” I snapped. If I expected a reaction out of Aiden, I was sorely mistaken. He merely grinned, dark eyes shining.

  “You wouldn’t need to fuck other girls, would you?” He sat up, that perpetually amused smirk still in place. When I didn’t answer, he continued, “You know exactly what she feels like, don’t you?”

  Damn him. Damn his perceptiveness.

  I kept my face stoic. Impassive.

  As always, he could see right through me.

  “How did she feel?”

  “I’m not talking to you about this.” Jumping to my feet, I made an immediate beeline toward the door.

  “Did you taste her?” he continued his crude line of questioning.

  “Shut the fuck up, Aiden.”

  I knew he was trying to get a reaction out of me, setting bait like I was a damn fish he could catch, and damn, if I didn’t play along. He had that way about him—a way of inherently annoying the shit out of me while simultaneously making me want to spill each and every one of my secrets.

  “Don’t let feelings get in the way of our plan,” he called to my retreating back. I froze, muscles tensing.

  “Your plan,” I countered, not bothering to turn around. “Not our plan.”

  He made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

  “Just stay focused. Think with your head, not your dick. And especially not your fucking heart.” He said the last word as if it was a vulgar curse.

  I didn’t have to worry about that, though. I didn’t have a heart. Not after everything I had been through.

  Saluting Aiden with my middle finger, I made my way down the hall and to my own room.

  “Where is he?”

  The punch landed squarely on my cheek, wrenching my head to the side. Blood gurgled in my mouth, but I defiantly spat it out.

  “Fuck off,” I hissed. Talking was painful. Moving was even more painful. My body felt as if it was weighed down by lead weights. Each of my muscles ached. I was barely capable of keeping my eyes opened.

  Breathing raggedly, I braced myself for the next round of pain. And the pain would come, of that, I was certain.

  Punch after punch assaulted me. I knew my face was a hideous canvas of blues and greens and blacks. Faded bruises mixing with fresh ones.

  Still, I had to give myself some credit. I didn’t cry or scream once. Not when they broke each of my fingers. Not when they pressed a knife into my sternum. Not when they showed me pictures of my mother.

  “Daddy left me, just as he left you,” I taunted. The man roared, pulling his hand back once more. The second before his fist would’ve connected with my face, he paused. Blinked. Smiled.

  I hated that fucking smile. It was a smile that promised pain. Agony. Endless torment. I made a vow, right then and there, that I would never smile again for as long as I lived. If smiling meant pain…

  “Where’s your dad, kid?” he asked, tone curt. “We don’t want you. Just your father. Do you get that?” He had a strange accent, this man, but I couldn’t pinpoint the exact location. His skin tone suggested he was middle-eastern, but his lilt hinted at European origins.

  He flashed a smile, white teeth flashing.

  “All we want is the money your dad stole from us. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “If I knew, don’t you think I would’ve told you? I have no loyalty to that bastard.” I thought of my mom just then. How he had left her to die. The woman he had promised to love, to protect, had been discarded like yesterday’s trash.

  I had tried to protect her, but there was only so much I could do against a dozen grown men with guns.

  Tears burned my eyes, but I knew they wouldn’t fall. They never fell.

  “What about your grandma?” the man asked, and a wave of ice slithered down my back. Despite the fear gripping my heart, I kept my face blank. Giving nothing away, but taking everything in.

  “What about that old bat?” I asked nonchalantly. I spat once more, smirking slightly when the blood landed on his pristine white shoes.

  His eyes flickered downward, a scowl on his face, before they rested once more on me.

  “If you’re going to be like that,” he muttered, stepping away. I heard, rather than saw, him shuffle through stuff behind me. The ropes dug into my wrists and ankles. Blood matted my hair to my scalp, and my clothing was in tatters. There was only so much the fabric could take when faced with a knife.

  The man returned, smiling coldly. In his hands was a container of gasoline.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, staring at the object with wide eyes. For the first time, I felt the beginnings of panic burn in my chest. He wasn’t just going to hurt me.

  No, we had passed that. The asshole planned to kill me.

  “Stop.” I struggled futilely against the bindings. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  The liquid was poured over my head, dousing me immediately. My eyes were wide with panic, and my body trembled. Tears welled, and I didn’t hesitate to let them escape.

  Perhaps they could be mistaken as the gasoline.

  “One last chance.” The man idly played with his lighter, a brilliant flame emerging before disappearing almost immediately. “Where’s your father?”

  “I. Don’t. Know.”

  And then it was agony.

  I woke with a gasp, heart hammering and sweat coating my skin.

  I must’ve fallen asleep, though the clock showed it was only noon.

  And I had the dream, the nightmare, again.

  Scrubbing a hand down my face, I stared up at the white-painted ceiling.

  The same dream. Every night. Every day. Every damn time I closed my eyes.

  What the hell did it mean?

  13

  Bianaca

  I used to have this recurring nightmare.

  Every night, every day, every damn time I closed my eyes, the nightmare would assault me like a freight train. I staggered helplessly under its weight, but it didn’t relent, tugging me into an icy embrace.

  I’d wake up blinking rapidly, unable to conjure up the remnants of my dream. All I remembered was terror. Absolute, overpowering terror.
It was the terror that paralyzed you, cementing your feet to the ground. It was the terror that bypassed your fight-or-flight response until all you could do was stand there, trembling. It was the terror that made sweat bead on your forehead and your hands shake, a scream lodged in your throat.

  I never remembered the explicit details of the dream, only that he played a pivotal role in it. He couldn’t just haunt me when I was awake; he had to seep into my dreams as well.

  He wasn’t traditionally handsome—his forehead too large, his nose too small, and his hair too greasy—but he carried an arrogance, an imperiousness, that put others to shame. He held himself as if he owned the world and everyone in it. As if he owned me.

  If there was one silver lining of joining a new school, it was escaping Dylan. My nightmare incarnate.

  Why did he always have to follow me?

  He stood on the other end of the hall, eyes narrowed into thin slits. The few students present provided a barrier between me and him, but I knew he could still get me if he chose to. Dylan always got what he wanted, and what he wanted was me.

  Fear clogged my throat, choking me, but I did not break eye contact. I had a feeling it would be seen as a sign of weakness, and that was the last thing I wanted to be. With Dylan, I had to be brave and strong. The second he knew how much he affected me would be the same second he won.

  And I would be damned if I lost this battle.

  Skin prickling, I raised my chin and continued walking. To get to the cafeteria, I would have to pass him.

  One step.

  Two step.

  “B.” His voice slithered over my skin, a tangible being. Fear gripped my heart in a chokehold, but still, I walked on, ignoring him. “Little sister.”

  At that, I spun on my heel to face him.

  “Don’t call me that,” I hissed. Disgust curdled in my belly. Those two words shouldn’t be permitted to ever leave his mouth.

  He smiled coldly, teeth remaining hidden behind thin lips.

  “That’s what you are, is it not?”