by E. M. Moore
“Stay out of her way. And if you tell her I said something, I’ll…” She trails off, then looks up like she’s trying to figure out the best threat to make. Clearly, she doesn’t have a lot of experience with this.
I like her immediately, which means I need to stay the hell away from her. “Thanks,” I tell her, before stepping toward the main doors again. I need to get home, put some ice on my fucking forehead, and regroup before I do this all again tomorrow.
The big reveal can’t come soon enough.
I walk around her toward the doors. Her stare is like a hot poker burning a hole into my side, but I don’t slow up or try to be nice or try to make a friend. In any other world, I would have. I’d want a friend to get through Rawley Heights with, but I’ve never been all that good at having friends, first of all, and second, it’s just not the time.
I have only one goal here, and it’s not to find something real.
My life in Rawley Heights is fake. It’ll be raw and dirty and bloody. Filled with betrayal, revenge, and fucking satisfaction. I don’t need to add another casualty when I leave this fucking place with murder on my hands.
Behind me, the girl groans. Her footsteps slap the worn flooring as she catches up to me. “Don’t ever go out the main doors by yourself when security is around. They’re fucking child rapists, you understand?”
I turn toward her, eyebrows in my hairline, which really fucking hurts by the way. I can look up and see the goose egg on my forehead. “Good to know.”
“If you’re alone, go out the side door. I’ll walk out with you tonight though. Don’t make eye contact with them. Or bait them either. You look like trouble follows you everywhere. At least it will in the Heights.”
“So I’ve noticed,” I deadpan.
We walk through the glass doors. I don’t look around, but the hair on the back of my neck stands, so I know what this chick has just told me is correct. The security team are predators living right with the prey. And the school doesn’t give a fuck.
We part ways in the parking lot without a word. She doesn’t try to talk to me again, and as I said, I don’t need real friends. My life can start after I’ve finished what I’ve come here to do.
My aunt and uncle have no clue why the hell I’m here. They think I’m throwing my life away at a shitty school that won’t impress any colleges. They’re wrong. Well, they’re right. Rawley Heights doesn’t impress anyone, but I’m not throwing my life away. I’m making sure I actually have one. One where I can live without regret. Without terror. Without what ifs.
Once I kill Big Daddy K, head of the Heights Crew, I’ll finally be able to start my life. It’ll be like a rebirth. A christening. Sure, not any christening I’ve ever been to unless it’s blood they’re using to bless people with instead of holy water. But to me, this is everything. I’ve bided my time. I’ve made my plan.
Now, I just have to execute it.
3
As soon as I get home, I place a bag of frozen vegetables on my face.
I spend a half hour just sitting on a hand-me-down armchair I got at the Salvation Army, the footrest kicked out, eyes closed, and face tipped toward the ceiling in the middle of my living room. Eventually, condensation builds up and trickles of water drip down the side of my face. That’s my cue to stop replaying the day in my head. My replay isn’t a scene-for-scene reenactment of what actually happened though, it’s better than that. I imagine what I would’ve done if I wasn’t playing a part. It turns out much more fun for me. One, there are no frozen vegetables needed at the end of the day, and two, I kick that Nevaeh girl’s ass. The preening bitch.
The second-hand chair groans as I push the footrest down and stand. I open the freezer and toss the buttered corn back inside. Turning, I take in my new apartment. It’s not half bad. The inside looks better than the outside of the building, that much I know. I can tell they put down new carpet and painted in here right before I moved in. I mean, it’s not the Taj Mahal. It vaguely smells like mildew and a crazy amount of bleach, which makes me wonder what it was like before I got it. But listen, I’d rather it smell like straight up caustic cleaner than something else.
The faucet in the kitchen leaks. The caulk in the bathroom is an off-white, not chosen by color aesthetic, but lack of cleanliness, and the walls are super thin. Next door, a couple argues about money, and the distant sound of a baby crying carries from down the hall.
If the life I grew up in was Neverland, I’m definitely in Hell. None of that matters though. I’ll wade through the flames and pitchforks all day every day to come out the other end safer and stronger.
I go to the small, separate bedroom and pull down the secret compartment on the ornate shelf I have hanging on the wall. I ordered it brand new off the internet from a nut who has a conspiracy theory website. When it came in, I had to rough it up so it would go with the rest of the decor. Chips in the wood mar the surface, and I did a really shitty job of painting so it blends in. But what still works perfectly is the hinge that drops down a secret compartment where I keep my sacred things.
I check the phone I have stashed inside. That and the picture of my parents I have sitting on the shelf are the only things I own in here that connect me to my old life. A text awaits me from my aunt, telling me she hopes I’m okay. I send her a quick one back telling her I’m fine and that I started school today with no issue.
She hates that I’m here, but I also know she and my uncle never wanted kids. They took me in after my parents died because that’s what you do, but I never fit in with their upscale life, and I don’t need any ties to that life here. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll go back to being Kyle and Anna’s daughter again. I’ll go back to the life I should’ve been living all this time. Which means this one needs to stay completely separate from the other. They cannot mix. No one can find out who I really am.
Keeping the phone out, I make sure my aunt’s not going to text me right back. When a response doesn’t come within ten minutes, I shut the phone off and put it back, sliding it next to the sweet silver pistol I have there, which was surprisingly too easy to buy on the street. Sure, it’s not legal. The scratches over the serial number tell me that, as did the shady-as-fuck guy who sold it to me, but I’m okay with that. This gun represents Kyla Samson’s life—her goal—and as soon as I’m done with it, I’ll toss it into a sewage drain.
I push the compartment closed, making sure it looks like a regular old shelf before heading into the bathroom. My head still throbs, so I open the medicine cabinet and take out a couple of Advil. When I move the mirror back into place, I stare at my reflection. Well, honestly, the glaring blue and purple bruising over my eye catches my attention more than anything else.
I sigh. The girl didn’t even shove me that hard. It must’ve been the angle. Looks like I’ll have to use a shitton of makeup tomorrow to try to cover whatever the frozen vegetables don’t help with. Though I’m pissed I have a shiner, it probably works in my favor. What makes a girl look more defenseless than bruising from a fight? A fight I didn’t even react to?
The thing is, I get how the Heights Crew works. I’ve been studying them from afar, standing in the background like a shadow. I’ll need to get to the top to take my revenge. But in order to get to the top, I have to start at the bottom. If I came into Rawley Heights with a chip on my shoulder, no one would’ve let me in on the underground fighting biz they have going on. At least not for a while. They don’t like newcomers. They don’t trust them. To them, things are black and white. You’re either a friend or a foe, and if they don’t know you, you’re automatically placed in the foe category.
But, by playing the victim, they’ll let me in quicker. All I have to do is play soft, act like I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve already caught the eye of Oscar and Brawler. The latter arranges the fights in the underground fighting ring. He’ll throw me in as a gimme to one of the girls who wants to climb to the top. Or, I’ll seek that girl out myself, get under her skin, and make it so
she wants to take me on. When she calls me out, that’s when I’ll step up. I’ll make them see me. From that point on, it’ll just be about ascending the ranks, capturing their trust, and then using it against them in the end.
My mind flicks back to Johnny, a.k.a. “Rocket”, getting head in the fucking Rawley Heights’ Main Office. He isn’t even a student there anymore. My skin pricks at the way he looked at me. At the desire in his eyes. I clench my fingers, and they bite into the skin of my palm. Johnny Rocket is vile. He’s disgusting. He’s—
Three heavy knocks sound on the apartment door. The crying baby’s lungs expand at the intrusion, making the cry worse and testing the limits of my hearing. I stomp out into the main living area and head toward the door. Another three knocks sound before I even have a chance to get to it. “Hold on,” I snap. I take a quick peek through the peephole and freeze. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
The view outside the door is distorted in a way only peepholes give, but Brawler is most definitely standing outside my door right now. The Brawler. Fuck. Before I can start freaking the hell out, convincing myself that he knows who I really am, I pull the door open, my heart lodging itself in my throat.
He looks lazily over at me, but then his eyes widen a fraction before he schools his features.
“Hey,” I say. I tug at my clothes and run my hands through my hair like I’m worried about my appearance. Then, I cock my head. “You go to Rawley Heights, right?” Like I wouldn’t have recognized him. He’s exactly my type.
He peers behind me. “Everyone in this shithole our age goes to the Heights.”
I shift ever so subtly to impede his view. I’ve tried to nail the shitty home life, but I also don’t want to get found out on a technicality.
“Oh right,” I mumble.
“Here.” He thrusts a package at me.
I take a step back, my hands immediately moving up to take the paper plate wrapped with foil. I look up from it, blinking at him.
“My mom likes to welcome the neighbors. She heard someone moved in down the hall.”
Well, shit. I was not expecting that. Everyone else I’ve walked past in this building has either looked the other way or stared me down to prove their dominance while I avert my gaze. “That’s really nice,” I say.
His voice remains curt. “Don’t get too sentimental. She can’t cook worth a shit.”
Okay, then. I see he’s all about the warm and fuzzies. I shrug. “It’s the thought.”
When I look back up at him, I catch him staring at the goose egg above my eye. When he sees me looking, he casually slides his gaze away and looks into the apartment over my shoulders. It would be too obvious if I tried to block his view now.
His eyes burn with questions, but he doesn’t say anything as he easily peruses what he can see behind me. I lift the foil on the plate and find a heap of chocolate chip cookies stuffed inside along with a very distinct burnt smell coming from them. I package it back up and set it on the small table just inside the door.
I peer down the hallway looking for any sign of where Brawler lives. I knew he lived in this building, along with a bunch of other Rawley Heights students and members of the Heights Crew, but I didn’t know he was on the same floor as me. “Should I come thank her?”
“No,” Brawler says definitively.
I widen my eyes at him like I’m a little too innocent.
His face darkens as shadows descend over his gaze. “Look, are your parents around?” he asks. He takes a quick look behind me again. Then, his gaze moves to the door.
“I don’t have parents,” I tell him. It feels good not to lie about this one thing. I even let some of my natural anger about that seep out.
He looks me up and down again. “You look like you have parents.”
“I don’t,” I snap. “I have guardians, and no, they’re not here. Why? Are you planning on coming in here to finish what your classmates started earlier?”
Okay, I was wrong about the shadows before. Now his eyes are truly black. “I don’t hit women.” Anger wafts off him. So much so that it pricks my nerve endings again.
Brawler’s drop dead gorgeous. It has to be the eyes. Blue. But not light or dark, they’re more like turquoise that turn into sapphires when he’s pissed. He’s wearing a wife beater, and a chain of tribal tattoos adorn his upper arms. If I didn’t already know he was a fighter, I’d be able to tell now. His fists clench and unclench, causing his biceps to pull tight, his tattoos rippling with the movement. “The girls take care of their own,” he says finally, flippantly.
“They don’t seem to like me very much.”
He laughs, the sound ricocheting through the barren hallway and temporarily overpowering the screaming baby a few doors down.
He doesn’t follow that up with anything insightful, so I give him a look. “You seem to think that was a given.”
He shakes his head. “You stick out like a virgin in a whorehouse.”
“Um, I think that’s a compliment.”
He twists his head to the side. “To them it’s not, Princess. To them, it’s a threat.”
He shows off a set of white teeth, but his smile isn’t jovial. It’s predatory. Him standing here in his wife beater, his tattoos showing, and that smile make my stomach tumble over itself. The fact that I know he’s a fighter makes it all the better. Yes, I have a type. A definite type, and Brawler ticks all my sweaty, spasming, sheet-twisting boxes.
His jaw ticks the more he stares at me. The smile melts until he’s glaring. “You give other guys that same look, and they won’t walk away like me. Buy an extra lock for your door. Don’t open it when your guardians aren’t home. Stay out of trouble.”
With that, he walks away, his giant stride taking him quickly to the stairway door at the end of the hall.
Now that it feels like an entire bucket of ice water has been thrown on me, I step back and slam the door shut. I lock the five locks I have on the door already. Two I installed myself, thank you very much. And then I sit back down in the recliner.
He read me like a damn book.
I spend the next half an hour schooling myself on how to keep my thoughts in check in front of Brawler before I fall asleep for an hour and wake up in time to take the bus to the parking garage where my car is parked. I can’t have anyone knowing I have a car a forty-year-old would drive. Plain, but nice. A tad fancy, but more economical than anything else. It was a gift from my aunt and uncle, but it screams another life. One I can’t show here. I take it to Walmart to grab the lock and bolt cutters, and then I return to the tiny apartment to spend the rest of the evening watching murder mysteries with a bag of frozen vegetables over my forehead.
Before I head to bed, I throw away the cookies Brawler’s mom made. I smile when they thunk one-by-one into the trash. He wasn’t kidding. His mom can’t cook. He probably saved me from chipping a tooth.
Him walking away also saved me from getting involved in something I shouldn’t. I have one focus and one focus only while I’m here.
4
The swelling in my face has gone down the next morning. Heavy makeup hides some of it but it’s still noticeable that I got my ass beat yesterday. It’s a fine line I’m trying to walk, actually. I want to seem demure, but at the same time, I can’t become a target. If I become a target, they’ll stop at nothing to take me down. People prey on the weak. It’s just the hierarchy of things. It’s like the food chain. The lions eat the smaller animals and the smaller animals eat the even smaller animals, plus plants and shit.
I can’t be a plant. Or shit.
I hike my bookbag up my shoulder as I fall in line with the other kids who live in my building who are now making their way toward school. The back of my neck heats. I have no doubt several people stare, wondering why the hell I’m even bothering with school today. Though rough, Rawley Heights isn’t that big. Everyone knows I’m the new girl, and everyone knows Oscar made that declaration about me only lasting two days. Maybe they’re trying t
o find a way to make that happen. Everyone wants to get on the good side of one of the Heights Crew.
I run my hands through my hair and casually look over my shoulder. Instead of seeing some sharp-eyed bitch making plans for me, I find Brawler. He’s not looking at me. In fact, it’s like he’s making a point not to look at me, which makes me think he was definitely the one giving off the vibe that I was being watched.
His attention unnerves me. It’s what I want—what I need—to accomplish what I’ve come here to do, but I think I’ve gained his attention in a way I didn’t mean to. I should’ve known better than to show my attraction to him, but it was literally impossible to deny. He basically personifies my entire wish list—and he’s in the flesh, not just in my head.
I move to the edge of the sidewalk and slow down, pretending I have to tie my shoes so he’ll pass me. He turns his head to glare at me, and I give him a disinterested look as I kneel. He walks past, and I get a glimpse of his threadbare shirt that’s doing a terrible job of covering up his sinewy muscle. His jeans hug his ass with perfection, and he strides like he’s a runway model though he’d kill anyone who made that reference. It’s the confidence in the way he walks that gives me that vibe, not a flare for the dramatics. He owns himself. People part for him because of who he is, but also the way he carries himself. When he gets to the next street, he stops to lean against the pole littered with rusty, leftover staples, a representation of party fliers from the local bar and clubs.
I know that because that’s where I did my research. That’s where I learned about the Heights Crew. It’s amazing what you can pick up by standing in the shadows of a disgusting bar, watching and listening. Drunk girls have no filter, so it was easy to listen to the names I needed. From there, it was just putting the faces with the names.
A few weeks ago, I witnessed Brawler fight. Well, I witnessed him almost get into a fight which was scary as fuck—and a turn-on. The anger that washed over him crept out of nowhere. Even now, I don’t understand his trigger only that it had something to do with a girl. A girl I don’t even think Brawler is seeing. From what I’ve heard, he’s one of the unattainables. He’s like the guy every girl wants to fuck but can’t get because he always has a girlfriend. With Brawler, there’s no girlfriend, but there’s that same air of don’t even bother. No one gets close enough to him despite rampant attempts by desperate girls.
