In the Arms of the Elite

by Stunich, C. M.

  For now, we’re going to set this aside as a complete series, let the Bluebloods enjoy college, and then go back to visit Charlotte Carson at Adamson All-Boys Academy to see what happens when the new girl at an all-boys school finds out that the last girl who went there … ended up dead. Check out my other high school bully romance here, and then get ready for a crossover between that series and this one. I have a title, a cover, and I can’t wait to reveal it to you all.

  Look for that release in late 2019.

  Love, C.M. Stunich

  I Was Born Ruined, Death By Daybreak MC #1

  Adamson All-Boys Academy, Book #1

  Flip the page for an excerpt of The Secret Girl(Book #1).

  Chapter One

  It looks less like a school, and more like a castle.

  I stand at the edge of the lawn in front of Adamson's All-Boys Academy, and I try to remember how it feels to breathe. Orange, red, and yellow leaves swirl around the ankles of my slacks as I hitch my bag a little higher up on my shoulder and push on down the curving path toward the employee entrance.

  My dad's not far ahead of me, cursing at the random droplets of rain spattering down on our heads. He unlocks the door, gestures me inside, and then closes it behind him.

  “Why don't you head down to the cafeteria, find a spot, and get settled?” Dad asks, trying to smile at me. I'm frowning at him. I'm still mad. I'll probably stay mad the rest of the year because …

  “My boobs hurt,” I blurt, and he flushes bright red. “And the bandages are pulling on my nipples.”

  “Charlotte,” he snaps back, reaching up to rub at his forehead. “May I remind you that this was your idea, not mine. It's day one, and it’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “No thank you,” I quip, turning and pushing out of the office and into the hallway. From bright California sunshine, beaches and bikinis, to … this. Frost-nipped air, piles of slimy dead leaves, and an all-boys school looking to experiment on me. I’ve been here two minutes and already I don’t like it. Back in Santa Cruz, I had friends, a boyfriend, and a passion for surfing. Here in … where are we again? Nobody-Gives-a-Crap, Connecticut?

  The hallways here are cavernous, with stone arches and brick walls, windows made of delicate stained-glass, and mosaic floors. The teachers are all stuffy and dressed in suits, as opposed to my last school where most of the staff wore shorts and sneakers.

  My chest is tight as I pull up the school map on my phone and make my way to the cafeteria. Apparently, Adamson has won all sorts of awards for their school food. It’s all sustainable, and primarily grown in greenhouses in the back. There’s even a chicken coop that all students are required to take a two week shift helping with. Yeah, so not looking forward to that.

  Slipping in the big, double wooden doors, I find the room empty save for a single boy in the corner, hunched over a bowl of cream of wheat or oatmeal or something. He glances up as I walk in, adjusts his ear buds, and then looks back down at the open book sitting beside his bowl.

  For a moment there, my heart stops, and I freeze just inside the door, holding my back and reaching up a hand to touch my newly shorn hair. Back in California, it was long, blonde and luxurious. Now, it’s … cut in this nerdy, androgynous sort of way—long in the front and on the top, short on the sides and back. It’s naturally curly, too, so if I don’t straighten it, it flops in ringlets over my forehead and looks even shorter. Paired with my thick-framed black glasses (I usually wear contacts), an oversized blazer, and the athletic tape I wrapped over my breasts, I don’t think anyone will look at me twice.

  It’s a strategic move on my part to pick a seat near the trash cans. Hopefully nobody will sit near me, and I can make it through breakfast without having to put up with awkward conversation. My whole goal here is to convince my mother—who lives in Los Angeles—to let me move in with her. I’ll still be five hours away from my boyfriend, Cody, and my best friend, Monica, but that’s better than a forty-four hour drive like it is now.

  Flopping my backpack onto the table, I put my elbows down and then rub my hands over my face. I’m not wearing any makeup, so it’s not like it matters. Dropping my hands to my lap, I look around the room, taking in the shiny wood tables, the reclaimed wood floors, and the chandeliers made out of … antlers. Mm. Not exactly my aesthetic.

  I leave my bag where it is, and head over to the counter, scanning my student ID badge and taking a tray. It might be a cafeteria, but the food looks good. I’m used to cold cereal, packages of oatmeal, and dry muffins for school breakfast. This place has scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and even smoothies. I’ll admit it: I’m mildly impressed.

  That feeling only lasts so long as it takes for the cafeteria to fill up with students.

  I’m the only girl at this school, the first female student in Adamson’s new integrated curriculum, but I’m not about to be their guinea pig. My dad calls it social progress; I call it an experiment with unknown outcomes. It’s great that the academy wants to have a mixed gender population. I mean, what is it, the sixteen hundreds or something? There’s no room for an all-boys school anymore, especially not when most people recognize gender norms are ridiculous social constructs.

  Still, I’m not exactly a pioneer or an activist or anything. I like surfing all day, collapsing on the beach with a book, and then reading until the boardwalk lights come on. My friends and I would stop and get a seventy-five cent corn dog and a dollar soda, and then walk home while making plans for tomorrow. Everyday was an event, always something to look forward to.

  But here …

  There’s a lot of shouting, greetings called across the cavernous room, and a sea of blazers, cardigans, slacks, and ties. I’m drowning in my navy blue jacket, cream colored tie, and white shirt. I asked for my uniforms to be made about two sizes bigger than they should be. With the jacket hanging off my shoulders, my breasts and hips are swallowed by fabric. I’m totally incognito.

  “Hello there.”

  Two voices surround me at once, and I jump as a pair of boys sits on either side of me.

  Looking between the two of them, it becomes immediately obvious: they’re identical twins.

  “Micah.” One of them says, extending a hand.

  “Tobias.” The other one reaches out to shake with me, but I’m not about to accept an invitation from either. Some stupid, silly part of me thinks that if I take their hands, they’ll know, and I’ll have to get used to every guy in the school staring at me. I’ll be the odd one out by default, the outcast, the pariah.

  Snatching my bag, I launch up to my feet, hop over the bench and take off.

  The twins are right behind me.

  “Are you okay?” they ask, still in unison. It’s seriously creepy. They’re both green-eyed, red-haired, and far too interested in me already. Back in California, I was loud and outgoing. Maybe I wasn’t the most popular girl in school, but Monica was. By proxy, I had plenty of attention, invites to parties, casual friends and acquaintances to hang out with. Here, I need to blend into the background, keep my head down, and ride out this nightmare until I can convince Mom to let me move in with her.

  I pick up my walking speed, turn the corner, and then come to a grinding halt as the twins slide in front of me, blocking my path. They both look at me like I’ve sprouted tentacles or something.

  “Does the new kid speak English?” they ask, exchanging a look. Their attention swings back to me, and I can feel that scrutiny like a laser burning into my skin. “Buenos dias. Como te llama?”

  Great. Now they’re asking me my name in Spanish.

  “Excuse me,” I blurt, using my shoulder to push between them. They’re both tall, and clearly very fit beneath their uniforms. As I squeeze by them and take off down the hall, I can feel that they’re still watching me. Fantastic. I’ve barely made it past breakfast, and I’ve managed to fall on the radar of some weird, but stupidly attractive twins.

  Junior year just got interesting.

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  About the Author

  C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.

  She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over eighty novels - romance, new adult, fantasy, and young adult included. Please, come and join her inside her crazy. There's a heck of a lot to do there.

  Oh, and Caitlin loves to chat (incessantly), so feel free to e-mail her, send her a Facebook message, or put up smoke signals. She's already looking forward to it.