Not My Prince: A Dark Bully High School Romance

by L V Chase

  I scream and tear myself away.

  Something itches the top of my belly. I look down, seeing the dollar bills peeking out from my pants. I yank them out and hold them up to get a better view. There are two five-dollar bills. Ten fucking dollars.

  The room explodes with laughter.

  I move around Grayson, avoiding his eyes, and slap the ten dollars on the counter. The cashier glances between the money and my pants’ waistband.

  “One gourmet cheeseburger,” I say.

  The cashier’s gaze shoots up to my face. He nods once, quickly busying himself on the grill. I keep my eyes on the grill, too, but I can still see Grayson out of the corner of my eye. He’s walking away, and his friends are all sucking up to him, telling him that he’s funny as hell. Yeah, a big fucking hoot.

  After getting my food, I turn back to the rest of the dining hall. Everyone’s huddled together, eyeing me like I’m a diseased rat scurrying towards them. I take a few steps forward. A girl at one of the tables closest to me covers their empty chair with a tray, blatantly staring at me. On the other side, the group of boys and girls lean closer to each other, whispering while watching me.

  I’ve become a pariah in record time. I can’t even be angry about it. I accomplished something I didn’t know was possible.

  I carry the plastic basket with my burger and fries out of the dining hall. The fresh air should be refreshing after the public humiliation, but staring at the lush fields and the school’s statue—some old guy with a shiny crotch—I’m struck by how much I don’t belong here. An actual rat belongs in a subway more than I belong here.

  The art room. Art has always pulled me closer to a place where acceptance doesn’t matter. When I’m painting, the only thing that matters is what I’m creating. If I’m going to feel like I belong anywhere, it’s going to be there.

  I take long strides to cross the campus. The art building curves behind the west side of the academic building and the east side of the health and fitness building. Its exterior inspires a sense of reckless liberation with an abstract mural that has echoes of both the ocean and the Grand Canyon. Inside, various paintings and drawings, most in a neo-contemporary or commercial style, hang along the walls. Student pieces, according to the labels. It’s intimidating, really, seeing everyone else’s work. I would have expected a bunch of rich snobs to have a terrible eye for art, but some of the pieces are truly impressive.

  I pass by the dance room, the music rooms, and the recording studio. The art room is at the end of the building, preceded by the smell of oil-based paints lingering in the air.

  I’m about to dart into the room, but someone’s already sitting at one of the tables. He’s working on a cheeseburger, with a drawing pad to the side. He barely looks up as he notices me.

  His dirty blonde hair falls a couple of inches past his shoulders, swaying dangerously close to his food as he draws. He’s built like a surfer, but he’s wearing a vintage band t-shirt under a black blazer. The creative side of me finds him fascinating while my ego sees someone who’s already claimed my haven.

  “Sorry,” I say, taking a step back. “I didn’t know anybody would be here.”

  He shrugs. “It’s not a private room.”

  His hand moves smoothly across the paper. I can only see a small section of the drawing with his hair and the burger hiding the other half, but I don’t need to see the rest to know he’s skilled. His ease makes me jealous. I know I’m talented, but it’s always felt like I’ve needed to put a lot of time and effort into everything I create.

  While he isn’t being overtly friendly, his posture isn’t hostile. At some point—likely during the next class—he’ll find out that the whole school hopes I choke on my food. For now, though, he isn’t hoping for my imminent death, which is a step up from everyone else.

  I sit down a couple of chairs away from him on the other side of the table.

  “I’m Cin,” I say.

  He raises an eyebrow, looking up at me. “You’re sin?” he asks.

  “My name,” I say. “It’s Cin. It starts with a C.”

  “Cool,” he says. “I’m Jay.”

  I tuck my hair behind my ears. “I should warn you. I’m basically the Devil to everyone else.”

  “Because you’re sin?”

  “Because apparently I pissed off the fucking god of this school,” I say.

  He smirks. “I don’t give a damn about the gods of this school or their believers. You could say I’m a heretic.”

  I pick up my cheeseburger, smiling. “Well, here’s to blasphemy.”

  He looks up at me and picks up his burger. He taps it against mine. “Here’s to sin.”

  Without his hair and the burger in the way, I can see his drawing now. It’s an angel, reaching up towards a sphere of light. I was right—he’s maddeningly talented. I should be captivated by his artistry. But instead of imagining his fingers running over my body with the same dexterity that he draws with, I remember Grayson’s fingers slipping under my pants. I feel a pulse under my skin, hovering at the line between fury and fervor.

  7

  Grayson

  Eric and I are fucking around at Pogo's after school, shooting pool. A handful of other guys and girls are chilling here, playing at the other table. A few are drinking. It's my turn, so Eric goes over to the bar, vaults over it, and helps himself to the tap.

  The owner, Les, is busy cleaning the tables. He doesn't bat an eye at what Eric's doing. He knows his liquor license is safe as long as he doesn't piss off Dad, which is the same as not pissing me off. Well, not exactly, but Les doesn't know that. The bar doesn't open until five, so he lets me hang here with whoever I want before then.

  I point with my cue. "Seven. Corner."

  Eric has one eye on me while filling his glass with a dark amber brew.

  I line up my shot, but when I see the dark maroon of the ball, I can't help but notice that it's the same shade as her lips earlier today. All I can remember is her mouthing off with those lips of hers.

  I stand up and frown. I lean over the table again and line up the shot.

  Fucking hell. I can't believe I let her mouth off in front of everyone and get away with it.

  "Damn it!" I slap the table's railing with my hand, shaking my head.

  The others glance nervously at me, but only Eric has the balls to actually say something. He comes over, drink in hand, then examines the table.

  Eric swallows a big gulp of beer. "What's the matter? You had a clean shot."

  "Fuck this." I toss my cue onto the table, scattering the remaining balls.

  Eric shrugs and waits for me to say something. He knows what I'm like when I'm stewing.

  I shake my head and talk in a lower voice meant only for him. "That bitch didn't know her place. I can't believe I let her go so easily. Shit, that was soft."

  "You're talking about that scholarship chick?" Eric asks. "The one who looks like she'd win stripper-of-the-year?"

  "You know who I'm talking about." I'm almost growling.

  "Her name's Cin. Short for Cinnamon, I think."

  Cinnamon? What the fuck kind of parents name their kid Cinnamon? I let the shorter name, Cin, roll across my tongue, testing it, tasting it. Cin, is it? Cin, Cin, Cin.

  "She was talking back to me, like I don't fucking own her already?" I glance around at the others hanging out at Pogo's. The thin smiles, the uncertain eyes, all eager to tell everyone that they hung out with us. With me.

  I have to make her pay. I got a cheap laugh off of her already, but that's not enough. Let a little disrespect go, and it snowballs. I'll end up with more assholes thinking they can do whatever the fuck they want instead of behaving.

  Les, there. He behaves. That's what my Dad built. A reputation. An empire that's more than just a company. Real power. The little cracks, the little flaws—you have to crush them before they become something more. That's how Dad got to where he is. That's why all of us high school kids can hang out in a fucking bar drink
ing whatever we want. It's what happens when everyone knows his place.

  My phone buzzes. Only a few people have this number. I check the screen.

  It's Dad. Weird, that he'd call me in the middle of the afternoon. I answer the call.

  "Yeah?"

  "Get over here." That's all he says, just like that.

  He gives a command, and he expects everyone to follow it, even me. See? That's how it's supposed to be. Now I'm even more mad that I let that Cin bitch get away. Just because she's fucking hot doesn't mean she can play outside the rules. Probably thinks she's a damn special snowflake because all the boys are eyeing her.

  "When?” I reply “Like, now?"

  "Yes, now." He hangs up.

  Whatever. I'm done here anyways. We're downtown already. Dad's place is just a couple of blocks away.

  I clap loudly. "Clean your messy shit up and get out of here. Les has got a fucking business to run."

  I give Les, who's arranging some chairs, a nod. I hold up a couple hundred-dollar bills so that he can seem them, before leaving them on the bar counter. That's how it works. We do our part, take care of shit, and everyone else does his part. Everyone's happy. The system works. Someone needs to tell girls like her to stick to the fucking system.

  I motion for Eric. "Come on."

  "Where we going?" he asks.

  "The company."

  Eric groans.

  "You can check out the interns,” I say. “Should be a fresh batch for the school year."

  Eric perks up at that. "Mm. We talking about college coeds? The experienced type?"

  I nod. "Let's go."

  Fifteen minutes later, we're sitting in a quiet waiting room outside Dad's office. Well, it would be quiet, except Eric's watching videos of girls from school trying to be social media stars. At full volume. Dancing, singing, and talking about their boring lives as if someone actually cares. He's sending messages to the hot ones, pretending that he gives a fuck.

  "Yo, check this one out." Eric shares his phone's screen with me. A long-haired girl with a thick booty's showing what she's got.

  "I've seen better,” I say.

  I look towards Dad's closed steel door. His office has glass walls, but the shades are drawn, so I can't see if he's alone or not. The secretary catches my eye. She's a young one, probably fresh out of college. Maybe even a damn intern. Pale, wearing a tight blue dress, shoulder-length blonde. She gets up to knock on Dad's door, showing off her taut thighs and black fuck-me heels. I wouldn't be surprised if Dad's sleeping with her.

  Eric catches me checking out the secretary's from behind. He jiggles his head like he's coming to a decision. "I've seen better." He chuckles.

  "I'm not touching my dad's shit. Fuck, that's gross." Besides, right now I'm thinking about another round butt. I'd already slipped a bill into the pants of that perfect, pert figure. I'd be lying if I said I've seen better.

  The secretary knocks, then calls through the door. "Mr. Voss. Your son's here." She turns to us. "He'll just be a few more minutes." She gives me an extra bright smile before sitting down.

  I stare at the windows to Dad's office. "Right."

  Eric elbows me after we've been silent for a minute. "You still thinking about her, aren't you?"

  "She's a problem. And we're going to solve that problem."

  Eric makes a bored face. "Right. What about the interns?"

  I lean closer to Eric and lower my voice. "You're going to like this. Listen up."

  Eric grins as I tell him the plan. His phone's still blasting music, and I'm talking more quietly than usual, but it's obvious that the secretary can hear what I'm saying. Her face twitches exactly once, but when she sees me watching, she gives me the same bright smile as before. She's good. She knows her place. Dad keeps things tight here.

  "He's ready," the secretary says. "You can go in."

  There's no call or indication of a signal from Dad, but somehow, she knows. I nod to Eric. "Don't fuck around too much while I'm gone."

  "Oh, you know me." Eric licks his lips in the secretary's direction.

  I shake my head and open the door to Dad's office. He's seated behind a wide desk made from a smooth black material. There's nothing on top of his desk except a phone, one of those big ugly green things from a museum that has a ridiculous rotary dial on it. Otherwise, the decor in the whole office is modern and minimal. Gray floor and walls. No pictures of me or Mom, but one wall of the office is reserved for pictures of him shaking hands with the rich and famous.

  I sit down in the black office chair without waiting for him to say anything first. When I was younger, I was tempted to put my feet up on that clean, shiny table of his. Now, I just want to get this over with and the fuck out of here.

  Dad leans back in his chair. It's a goddamn throne compared to the hard, cold metal of the seat I'm in. Yeah, cold, because it's right under the vent for the air conditioning. It's no accident. When you sit in this chair, he wants you to know who's who.

  But I'm not a little kid for him to push around. I stand up and slide the chair to the side. It screeches. I sit down and rest one foot against the side of his desk.

  Dad doesn't blink. "You making progress? I'm working on some deals. Going to need some honey to sweeten things up."

  He wants girls for his business buddies. They like them fresh, the ones that just turned eighteen straight from school. It's creepy, the thought of old fuckers like Kline pawing at these girls, but it's not like Kline's girl was complaining about her wedding. They'll be getting an introduction to money, which is exactly what they'd want anyways.

  This is my job, my lesson from Dad. He's always had his hand in how the school runs certain things. He isn’t on the scholarship committee by chance. This year, it's my turn to handle it, to prove that I’m a man.

  "Yeah, yeah." Those others blondes are attention whores. They're perfect for the job. And then there's her. "Those scholarship girls are what you want, like you said. Except for this one bitch." I'm shaking my head slightly as I remember her fucking nerve.

  "Bitch?" Dad leans forward a bit. His eyes become a little more dangerous. "You’ve got a lively one?"

  I lean my head against my hand. "Yeah, a real bitch that doesn't know her place."

  Dad nods. "I like the sound of that. I got one guy Brady—nevermind. I got one guy coming up this election. He loves breaking in feisty bitches. One sick motherfucker."

  As if you're not one, too, I think. But there's a difference between us and them. We give them what they want. Both the girls and the guys. We don't make anything happen that they don't already like. We let them be who they are. No lies, no shame.

  Yeah, I'd like to see that bitch Cin's face when she's on her knees before a fat fuck, knowing what she's really worth.

  Or maybe not. It's what she deserves, but I can't quite stomach the picture of it in my mind. Something about the idea of Cin sucking another guy off makes me mad.

  Jesus.

  "What's the matter?" Dad says. "You're frowning."

  "Nothing."

  "You think she'll do? This bitch of yours?"

  He's right. I'm frowning, although I'm not sure why. Will she do, though? I force myself to smile. "Yeah, she'll do. She'll do whatever the fuck I tell her to."

  Now I see her in my mind again, kneeling before me with those lips of hers open, desperate, begging. I can't help but scowl again. Damn her. She's like a bad song that you can't get out of my head. The sooner I put her in her place, the better.

  Dad turns away and calls someone on his phone. That's it. Without a word, he's letting me know that he's done with me. Fine with me.

  I let myself out. Eric's got his arm around the secretary, leaning over her by her desk. Both their backs are facing me. The secretary practically jumps out of her seat when she hears the door open. Eric slowly turns.

  "You busy?" I ask.

  Eric glances at the secretary, who's face is turning beet red. "No, I'm good."

  Funny. She didn't lo
ok like the shy type.

  "Let's get to work." I head towards waiting room's door. "The tunnels. We'll use the tunnels."

  Eric jogs to catch up to me. "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. Start the year with a bang. Can't wait to see their damn faces—ha!"

  But there's only one face I want to see.

  8

  Cin

  It takes nearly two hours for Diana to unpack her bins and organize all her possessions into various piles. She’s finally begun putting things away. The only time she looks at me during the whole affair is to watch me put my clothes in the closet, my toiletries in the bathroom, and shove my suitcase under my bed.

  I leave to get dinner, avoiding the glares of everyone in the dining hall. I'm back, and Diana's still working on her piles. I watch her move back and forth through the room while I sit in the alcove, eating my spicy lasagna.

  “Are you taking AP Psychology?” I ask. “It wasn’t offered at my old school. I bet it’s really interesting.”

  “No,” she states, stalking through the room. She shoves her pajamas into the closet.

  “My old school didn’t offer sign language either,” I add.

  “I don’t care,” she says, her hands on her hips as she turns toward me. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. You could have ruined the whole year for me. Twice.”

  “Because you want boys to call you names the whole year? You want to be Grayson Voss’ little slave?”

  “Yes!” she says, throwing her hands up. “Do you know why he called me crack baby?”

  “A mix of low self-esteem, compensation, and utter immaturity. On his part, not yours, in case that wasn't clear.”

  Diana rolls her eyes. “Because my mother spends her life strung out. And I’d rather be a slave to someone like him than spend the rest of my life cleaning up my mother’s puke, or waiting for the call that she’s dead. I’m moving on.”

  I hadn’t been expecting that. It strikes too close to home for comfort.

  “But a diploma from this school could open up so many doors. You don’t need to—"