Soulless: A High School Bully Romance (The Privileged of Pembroke High Book 2)

by Ivy Fox

  Is she that happy her meal ticket is still intact?

  I don’t have time to delve too deep and dissect Vivienne’s reaction to the news of her husband waking up from his long-ass nap. Dr. Nasir sees us approaching, so he hands the weepy woman to one of her friends and meets us halfway. His features are just as grave as the people behind him, so I wonder if their serious glowers have something to do with Snow.

  Did the fucker not really think things through and pointed at our girl as being his would-be-murderer?

  “Gentlemen, I’m so glad you’ve come, but unfortunately, I fear you are too late,” Dr. Nasir begins to lament, true sorrow in his eyes.

  “Why? What happened, Doc?” Ash interjects, wanting to get down fast to what the fuck is going on.

  “I’m afraid your father passed away a few minutes ago. There was nothing we could do.”

  And just like that, Christmas just became my favorite holiday.

  Epilogue

  Asher

  Ding-dong! The bastard is dead.

  We should be having a party filled with loud music, dancing, and ostentatious fireworks. This city’s skyline should be illuminated with bright colors in celebration. Actually, that’s thinking too small. It wouldn’t do this spectacular moment the justice it deserves. His death should be marked as a national holiday, worthy of a damn parade. Have all of New York City busting out onto the streets, all joyously commemorating his epic fall from grace, as if the Yankees just won the World Series or something.

  Now that, I’d be down with. Not this shit.

  Having to muddle through this poor excuse of a dog and pony show that Rome set up as a wake, is killing my buzz; if I had one to spoil that is. We were all ordered to be in our Sunday best, with grave expressions plastered on our faces. We greet the somber mourners that invade our home, having to suffer the endless babble of them telling us what a wonderful man Judge Grayson was and how greatly he’ll be missed.

  What a fucking joke.

  Most of these fuckers have only shown up in a desperate attempt to stand out from the herd in some way or another; hoping we’ll remember their kindness and generosity when the time comes to return the favor. If I’m reading the room right, it will be less than a month before at least one of these pricks are knocking on our door, hands out for a signed check or an endorsement to further his ambition. Every last one of them has come to us with their tearful condolences on their lips, subtly dropping hints on their current ventures. All of them showing apparent concern for our future, when in reality they’re just trying to get a slice of the inheritance, now that our father is out of the equation.

  It sickens me how most of these money-hungry assholes can’t hide the dollar signs from their beady, little eyes, convinced that manipulating a bunch of college and high school students into sharing their wealth will be a walk in the park. They didn’t fare well doing the same with our dick of a father because they knew the ruthless king never gave anything away if he didn’t get something greater in return. But now that everyone thinks the Grayson’s fortune has been passed to us in its entirety, they see a chance to line their pockets, wanting to strike while the iron is hot and we’re vulnerable to their scheming ways.

  Little do they know that dear old dad was a scrooge because we were the ones holding his purse strings—a tidbit of information which has always been well-guarded in our family. Our father, sure as shit, didn’t want anyone to find out his wife had stiffed him good in her will. It would tarnish his powerful and prestigious image. And it wasn’t in our best interest to shout it out to the world either because we knew the vultures would hover over us like hungry scavengers, waiting to take a bite at the rotten flesh.

  Case in point, I watch how Senator Hurst hasn’t been able to take his eyes off Rome all night, licking his lips just thinking of all the ways he can use my older brother for his benefit. Not that I should give a fuck, but it troubles me how little Rome is picking up on the lingered stares our guests are giving him. He’s usually the first one to swat these greedy flies away from him, but my brother’s attention is totally focused on something else—or rather, on someone else. He’s too caught up looking at Snow, as she mingles around the room with Elle on her arm.

  Asshole.

  Do I sound bitter? That’s because I fucking am. I still can’t believe he stole my girl right out from under me. Guess I made it pretty easy for him, though. Somehow, I always seem to fuck shit up with Snow. Never saying or doing the right thing. Instead of being there for her when she needed me most, I just crawled into my own hole of depression, pushing everyone away—including her. In my own mind, I thought I was doing her a favor. She deserved better than me—better than us. All we brought her was pain and heartache.

  Yet a small part of me always thought she’d find solace in Ollie’s arms, knowing he was the better choice for her. Never once did I think Rome would be the one she turned to. But somehow, he got to her, and those silver eyes that used to hold such love for me, now sneakily search my older brother out, throwing him a shy smile every time he glances back at her. Not that his stare wavers for long. Fucker has it bad for her. And I get it. I do.

  I understand Rome falling for Snow. I mean, she had me tongue-tied and stupid with just the way she used to say my name. Loving her is as easy as breathing. It’s her loving us that’s a clusterfuck. Or at least that’s what I thought before I started therapy.

  I still laugh at the lengths I’ve gone to, in trying to be a better man for my girl. Fuck, who am I kidding? I’ll probably even forgive Rome for being such a dick and making her fall for him. I’d do just about anything I could to get those half-mast eyes looking at me the same way she’s looking at him.

  “Hey, you okay?” Ollie asks me, offering up the glass of whiskey he has in his hand, but I shake my head and pass. My mind is still jumbled enough without adding alcohol to the mix.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You’re sulking in a corner, empty-handed, and looking at everyone like they are pissing you off.”

  “They are,” I say, wringing my hands together behind my back.

  My twin looks deep into my eyes and then stands beside me, taking stock of the same fake faces that I am.

  “Not drinking today?” he mumbles, taking a sip of his own alcoholic beverage, contemplating the crowd from above the rim of his glass.

  “Nope.” I pop the P exaggeratedly.

  “Hmm. Your eyes are as clear as mine today, too. I don’t see the usual cloud of smoke hovering around you, either.”

  “It’s a wake, Ollie. Not like I’m going to light up in front of these stiffs,” I joke.

  “Hasn’t stopped you before,” he mocks with a knowing smile.

  “Yeah, but that’s when I wanted to piss our father off. He’s not really here, now is he?”

  “Nope.” He mimics me by popping the P, too, making me almost chuckle under my breath.

  Things with Ollie and I haven’t been smooth sailing either these last four months, and I have to admit, I miss him. We’ve never been on the outs for so long, and knowing that I’m the cause behind our rift doesn’t sit well with me.

  I feel like I have so much to atone for, and I’m a little overwhelmed as to where I should start. Some things will be easier to forgive than others. I know that, but I just hope it isn’t too late to patch things up with him. I don’t know how I would survive without Ollie in my life. It’s bad enough that Snow doesn’t seem to want any part of it. If I lose Ollie too, then I’m not sure that I won’t fall again into the dark abyss I had been living in, knowing this time I’d have no reason to claw my way back up.

  “You want to hear something funny?” He begins with a crooked grin, bringing me memories of better days and a better life. “Everyone showed up for a wake, but technically, this is just one lame-ass party. Do you see a body anywhere?”

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Because he’s a cold stiff in some morgue, while t
he pricks that used to kiss his ass are now puckering up to kiss ours. He’d hate that.”

  “Yeah, but if you think about it, he was a cold stiff in life, too.” We both look at each other and chuckle with the brief, humorous moment.

  Ollie is right. Our father would hate this shindig. This really isn’t a wake at all. Rome made it clear that our father, dead or alive, would never return to this house. Still, he threw this bash anyway. Rome was adamant that it would be done. He wants us to keep the image of grieving, orphaned children for as long as possible. Says it’s our best shot to prevent raising any suspicion about the way he met his maker.

  I think it’s all bullshit and a waste of our time. No one suspects a goddamned thing. How could they? I mean, we’ve spent the last two days being consoled by strangers, all voicing their sympathies for losing our father in such a devastating way. Not one person has accused or raised a finger at Snow for being the culprit behind his death.

  Not that he didn’t have it coming to him. The fucker deserved what he got. I just regret that Snow had to be the one to send him to the fiery pits of hell where he belongs. I bet most of the fakers here will be joining him eventually. Maybe they won’t make a dramatic exit as he did, but I’m sure hell has a scalding spot reserved for them, too. One, in particular, comes to mind—Vivienne.

  I scroll the crowd and find her, dressed from head to toe in all black, looking like the forlorn widow everyone expects her to be. Vivienne has gone all out, going as far as using Jackie O’s trademark sunglasses under a black, fishnet veil to cover her whole face. She’s most likely trying to conceal the absence of bags under her eyes that would be present if she had spent any time crying over her late husband. Yeah, no one will see a damn tear coming out of that witch unless she sneaks a drop of Visine into her eyes. I scoff as she keeps looking at her watch, chewing on her lower lip as if ready to get out of here, stat. Never thought I’d agree with the bitch on anything, but on this matter, we’re both on the same page.

  I’m sober as a priest on Sunday, and I’m seriously contemplating if I shouldn’t sneak up to my room to light up, just so I can endure the rest of the night. However, I’ve learned the hard way that I need to stay clear from booze. Apparently, it’s my kryptonite. It turns me into an even bigger asshole than I already am. One addiction I won’t miss saying bye to, that’s for sure. But a blunt filled with prime Californian Banana Punch weed is just what the doctor ordered. It’ll keep me mellow and prevent me from getting in anyone’s face. I’m about to say as much to Ollie, asking him if he wants to join and maybe hash some stuff out when I hear our butler’s alarmed voice ring out in the hallway.

  “You can’t just come in like this! This is a private affair!” I hear him shout out, aggravated.

  “This warrant says otherwise,” a familiar female voice replies sternly.

  When Detective Michelle Gomez breaches through the living room’s threshold, with a slew of men-in-blue stampeding behind her, my eyes instantly go straight to Snow. The mad panic settles inside my chest, robbing the air from my lungs.

  I don’t think, I just act. I fly through the crowd blocking the way between the girl who has my heart clutched in her hands and me. I hear Ollie call out my name from behind me, but I’m a man on a mission, determined to keep these fuckers from taking away the woman I love. Her face is ashen and terrified. When I’m almost close enough to touch her, I freeze as a piercing banshee cry leaves her cupid lips.

  “No! Wait!” Snow belts.

  “Roman Grayson, you are under arrest for the murder of Judge Malcolm Grayson,” Detective Gomez announces over the buzzing crowd.

  I crane my neck to the other side of the room, my feet faltering, becoming glued on the spot, as two officers hold my brother’s arms behind his back, cuffing him while the detective reads him his rights. My stomach drops when I see the sheer terror in his eyes.

  This isn’t my brother. Rome fears nothing. He’s always been an impenetrable stone-god, but I continue to gawk away, utterly stunned, witnessing for the second time in my life how Rome is genuinely terrified. The first time was when we all watched Snow lose her shit on the makeshift catwalk back at Pembroke, and then fall to the ground like a ton of bricks, completely unconscious and unresponsive. His cool, controlled composure was nowhere in sight that night, and now that same petrified gleam lives in his eyes once again. It’s only when I follow his line of sight that I understand why he’s so scared.

  Snow is pushing people left and right, doing everything in her power to reach him, tears streaming down her face as she continues to roar incoherently, only a few odd words here and there making any sense.

  “You’re making a mistake!!!” she yells manically, and the guests around us don’t know which train wreck they should be paying more attention to—my brother being hauled out to jail for murdering our father, or our stepsister who is having a nervous breakdown because of it.

  “Asher!” Rome lets out, grabbing my focus on to him.

  There is a silent plea in his eyes, mixed with dread and worry. His imploring, golden pools, filled with conviction, send me his final command, begging to do this one last thing for him. I give him a clipped nod in reply, and immediate relief cloaks his whole face, making him relax into his cuffs as if they were just another piece of expensive jewelry.

  In three quick strides, and without any hesitation, I throw myself in Snow’s way. I grab her, turning both our backs to the scene playing out behind us. She struggles in my grip, fighting me with everything she’s got, but I keep walking, making sure I put as much distance as I can between us and New York’s finest. Not once does she relent, kicking and screaming as I try to get her safely out of the room. I place my hand over her lips, to make sure she doesn’t blurt out something we will all regret. I then lower my mouth to her ear and tell her the words I read in my brother’s eyes.

  “If you love him, you won’t say another word,” I whisper, her skin turning ice-cold in my strong embrace. “It’s over now. Rome’s got this.”

  To be concluded in Faithless.

  Thank you so much for reading Soulless.

  If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving an honest review.

  It may only take you a minute to write, but reviews are what get books noticed by other readers.

  By writing a small review, you are opening the door for my love stories to be enjoyed by so many others.

  If you liked the suspense, twists, and turns of Soulless, then check out another book baby of mine with just as much angst-filled love written in its pages and even meaner villains wreaking havoc — Rotten Girl.

  Hope you give this baby a go. <3

  I’d also love it if you would check out my author page and I invite you to join my Facebook group, Ivy’s Sassy Foxes.

  Much Love,

  Ivy

  xoxo

  Ivy Fox Novels

  The Privileged of Pembroke High

  Heartless

  Soulless

  Faithless

  Rotten Love Duet

  Rotten Girl

  Rotten Men

  Bad Influence Series

  Her Secret

  Archangels MC

  After Hours Series

  The King

  Acknowledgments

  I always get tongue-tied when I get to this part.

  Basically, because I don’t think any words I write here will do justice to how I feel about the incredible people who have done everything in their power to get me one step closer to fulfilling my dreams.

  I won’t sugar-coat it.

  Soulless was gruesome to write. I’ve written many other stories where there was some really screwed-up shit involved, but this baby took the cake. I had to stop and pull myself back just to gain the courage to write some scenes that absolutely gutted me. The worse thing is, I knew they were coming! I knew!!! And they still killed me.

  So, to have these incredible people in my corner, cheering me every s
tep of the way, is nothing short of miraculous.

  I seriously love you all so much!

  The first thank you needs to go out to my husband and son. Trust me. They earned my gratitude. LOL.

  They didn’t have any vacations this year just so I could buckle down and write this baby. They never complained about me, always being in my cave once. I promise you, boys, I’ll make it up to you next year, and you can have all the beach days you want. *cough* As long as I bring my laptop *cough* #MommaGottaWrite

  Heather Clark, my kick-ass editor. Without you, none of these books would look half as good as they do. You are the fairy godmother that makes all my babies sparkle. Your dedication, sleepless nights, and professionalism are awe-inspiring. Thank you, doesn’t even cut it.

  To my spectacular PA, Courtney Dunham. With every new launch, I feel more and more like you were put in my life to hold my hand through all my craziness. While I’m all over the place, you’re the steady force that keeps me grounded. You see when my plate is full to the max, and remove all the excess so I can focus on what’s important. Everyone should have a Courtney in their lives. #ThisOneIsMine

  Amy Naylor, Laura Bakis, Kelly Louise Stock, and Victoria Schaefer. How can I even begin here? Although we haven’t met face to face, I still consider you to be one of my dearest friends. You get my goofy, dorky side and still love me for it. An author’s journey is sometimes a lonely one. But to know that you ladies are just a pm away, settles my anxiety and nerves. I adore you all so freaking much!

  I also need to give a shout out to my girl, Lucy Smoke, for pushing me into getting just those last thousand words in each day when I thought I was too exhausted to even move. I adore you, babe!