Stone Cold Queen: Sick Boys Book 2

by Smoke , Lucy

  “Are we still keeping an eye on her?” Braxton asks. It's almost as if he's asking the question to make it official. He knows the answer. After all the shit that's happened so far, there's no fucking way in hell I'm letting Avalon traipse off to wherever with whoever. She doesn't know it yet, but I've got eyes and ears on her at all times.

  "Yes," I confirm as I pull out my cell and type a quick text to that trump card I was thinking of before clicking send. Thirty seconds later, I've got my answer. Yeah, Avalon is on lockdown. Only this time, she won’t know until it’s too late.

  “What about when summer break starts? She can’t stay in the dorms," Abel points out.

  "I've got something in the works," I answer. "She'll be covered."

  "Do you think they know?" Abel asks. "The old men?"

  I don't know. I fucking hope not. I've never particularly liked my father, but this would push my dislike into dangerous territory. There are only two things that happen when I hate someone—I either fuck their lives over or I end them. With my father and with what's at stake, there's only one of those options available. Whoever set her up will pay. With blood and pain.

  “Come on,” I say after a moment and head towards the Mustang.

  “Wait, we’re just going to let her go back to the dorms?” Abel asks as he rounds the side, heading for the driver’s seat with Brax behind him.

  I crack the passenger side door and cup my hand over the top of the glass window before looking at him over the open top. “Let her think she’s in control for now,” I say. “She’ll learn soon enough.”

  Abel sighs and then shakes his head. “She’s going to tear you limb from limb,” he warns me. “She’s just that kinda woman.”

  Braxton laughs. “I think he’s looking forward to it.”

  Again, he’s not wrong. If Avalon wants to rip her little claws into me, I’ll let her. I’ll take any of the scars she’s willing to give me, and sooner or later, she’ll realize I can handle whatever it is she throws at me. And I can dish it out too.

  4

  Avalon

  Waves of cold and hot wash over my skin. I shiver. My breathing picks up. Like a fucking pendulum, swinging back and forth—my heartbeat grows louder and softer as if the damn thing is running back and forth in my skull rather than pounding against my ribcage. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  An electrical current sweeps through me. The small, baby hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Somewhere in the confines of my dorm room, the air conditioning kicks on. More cold air runs down my flesh and goosebumps rise. I know I'm not awake, but neither am I truly sleeping. It's like being trapped in a strange half-world. Something I'd gotten used to when I'd lived with my mom. Alert. Semi-awake.

  I’ve gotten too complacent here. Now, my mind is back in battle ready mode. Waiting for the inevitability of someone sneaking up on me when I'm most vulnerable. In the background, I hear the soft snores of Rylie. Every once in a while, she'll hiccup a little in her sleep—disrupting the consistent noise—and then go right back to it.

  Somewhere down the hallway, a door closes. Someone coming in later than usual. It wasn't like this with Dean. When I'd slept with him, I'd truly slept. Conked the fuck out. I didn't remember a thing. A split second after that memory enters my mind, I mentally scowl at myself. Why am I thinking about that asshole right now? I should just try to forget and get as much sleep as I can.

  Even though I think that, however, there's no getting rid of the truth. Why had I slept with Dean? Not fucked him, but fallen asleep in his arms, at his side. Because … for the first time in my life, I'd actually felt safe.

  I hate him.

  I hate him for giving that to me and then making me rip myself away.

  Comfort is a cruel thing. It seduces a person into wanting it so badly, they're afraid to live without it. But not me. That small taste Dean had given me had been a slice of heaven I'd known I was too bad for. No one like me is deserving of it.

  I roll over on the narrow twin mattress and finally crack my eyes open, staring into the shadows of my dorm room. Dragging the covers up to my neck, I clutch them against me until the cold shivers slowly fade. I remain like that for hours. No longer half asleep, but wide awake, as I watch the darkness of night fade and the sun begin to rise outside of the dorm room window. The soft chirping of birds echoes through the double-paned glass, and minutes before my alarm is set to go off, I reach over and flip it off.

  Leaving behind the still cold room, I grab a gray shower caddie I'd scavenged from the lost and found box downstairs. It's drab and cracked, but it holds the dollar store essentials I need to clean myself, and right now, I really need to feel clean.

  There's no one awake this early—at least no one that doesn't have to be. I pad through the empty hallways and into the shared bathroom several doors down from our room. Someone's left the window cracked on the far side, but even with the tiles that suck all of the heat out of the floor, the room has retained at least some of the heat from showers the previous night. I head towards a shower stall on the end, lock the door and strip down before cranking the water.

  I don't know how long I stand there, under the spray. Long enough for my fingers to grow pruny. But it doesn't feel like enough. The volcanic, scorching heat from the shower dulls until it's a trickling lukewarm temperature. A part of me wants to shut it off, step out and wait for the water to heat back up again, but no matter how many showers I take, I know I probably won't ever be able to wipe the dirt and grime and grotesque, disgusting feeling that now resides under my layers of flesh and bone.

  The door to the bathroom creaks open, telling me it's time to start moving. I haven't had a chance to face any of the girls that live in Havers aside from Rylie, and I really don't want to start today. Shockingly enough, though, after I finish dressing and step out of the shower stall—it's not one of the faceless, nameless girls from the floor. It's Rylie herself. She sits on the counter, dark bags under her eyes in her overly large white band t-shirt and pajama shorts.

  I stop when I see her. Her messy rat's nest of a hair bun lifts and she eyes me, darting a look down to the shower caddy in my fist. She speaks first. "You're up early," she comments.

  "Couldn't sleep," I say with a shrug as I force my feet forward. Setting the caddy on the end of the row of sinks, I turn the tap and run a toothbrush under it. "What do you want?"

  Rylie doesn't answer as I shove the bristly brush between my lips and start scrubbing. A tingle of awareness creeps down my spine as she watches me brush my teeth. No one else comes in and when I finish, I rinse off the brush with too-fast movements before throwing it into the caddy and turning to her.

  "If you've got something to say, fucking say it," I order.

  She bites down on her lip, looking just as tired as I am though I know she slept through the majority of the night. "Are you okay?" she asks.

  I blink at her, one corner of my mouth lifting and the other curling down into a warped grimace. "What the fuck kinda question is that?" I demand.

  A dark-rooted purple strand of hair falls over the side of her face, and she blows it out of the way. "Just a regular one."

  I shake my head and grab a towel from my caddy, scrubbing it over my scalp as quickly as possible. I don't know what the fuck is going on with her this morning, but I feel sharp little stabbing sensations at the base of my spine every time I notice her penetrating gaze.

  "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to," I reply.

  "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know."

  My towel slaps against the counter with a semi-wet plop as I growl and turn on her. "Did they put you up to this?" I demand.

  "The Sick Boys?" she clarifies.

  "No, the fucking Wiggles—yes, the Sick Boys," I snap.

  She tilts her head to the side. "Would you answer if I said no?"

  That's answer enough. I pick up the towel and fling it into the caddy before snatching it up and heading for the door. Just as my ha
nd reaches for the handle, she speaks again.

  "No, they didn't put me up to this," she says quietly. "But I can tell something's up. You've been different since you came back from spring break. Did you and Dean break up or something?"

  I pause, clenching my fists at my side. Slowly, I pivot back to face her. I really hate that I can't tell if she's being honest or not right now. Maybe I'm too tired to get a good reading, or maybe she's been fooling me this whole time, and she's a world class liar. Fact is, I know Rylie is a lot like me. Both of us are here on program money that neither of us can pay back even if we worked our whole lives. She's got the same attitude as girls I've known from my own neighborhood my whole life. But right now, I can't tell if she realizes that she's a hair's breadth away from getting her back slammed into the tile, and my fist in her face or if she just doesn't give a shit.

  "We were never together," I say, answering her.

  She sinks against the mirror and leans her head back against it, watching me. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.

  "No."

  And just like any girl from the wrong side of the tracks who's grown up around broken people, she merely nods, puts her hands around the corner of the counter, and hops off. "Okay." That's it. Just 'okay' and she's heading towards me, brushing past me as she grabs the handle of the door and pulls it open. She stops just before she leaves though and looks back at me. "Cafeteria opens in thirty minutes for breakfast," she says. "If you wanna go?"

  My breath catches in my throat. It's an olive branch. A peace offering. She won't push, but she also won't pretend like she doesn't see something. Even if she doesn't know what that something is or what it means. Fuck if I don't admire that about her.

  "Thought you didn't want to eat with me?" I can't help but shoot back.

  A scowl touches her lips and she scoffs. "Just an offer," she snaps. "If you don't wanna—"

  "I'll be there in a minute," I say. "Just gotta ... take a piss or something first."

  Rylie's multi-colored hazel gaze stops on me. It's kinda weird how much brighter they look without a ring of black lining them. "Fine," she says after a moment. "But hurry it up, if we get there too late, all of the good tables are gone or filthy."

  I nod, but she doesn't stick around to see if I agree. She just waltzes out and the door swings shut behind her. With slow, steady steps, I walk back towards the mirrors and set the caddy down before gripping the edge of the first sink I come to and leaning heavily into it. Air squeezes past my mouth and into my lungs, filling them up. I inhale and exhale repeatedly, letting it flow, but it doesn't seem to calm the raging storm inside of me.

  When I lift my head, my eyes catch on the movement in the mirror, and I find myself face to face with a blue and gray eyed monster. Myself. A darkening bruise is forming on the left underside of my jaw—a battle wound from the night before. There are more just like it, in all stages of healing under my clothes from the rest of the week. I can't help it. Every night, I try to exhaust myself, and sometimes it works. Other times, even when I think it does, I'll come crawling back to my dorm room and lay awake until the sun comes up.

  Slowly, my gaze drifts down to the rest of me. The dark shadow of cleavage beneath my tank top. Soft, pale skin. Pink lips. Sunken in eyes. Dark bags even deeper than Rylie's. Those eyes irritate me. Because in those depths, beyond the flesh and bone and innocent-looking irises, lurks something sinister. The person beneath is evil. She's wicked and ruthlessly enticed by the violence I let her commit. Soon enough, even the brief stints of my adrenaline rushes won't be enough to keep her at bay. She's had a taste for blood, and she won't stop until she's bathing in it. Before I can think to stop myself, my fist is flying towards it and crashing into the image. The mirror cracks and pieces come off, stabbing into my knuckles.

  That's when I acknowledge, Dean Carter isn't the only person I hate.

  5

  Avalon

  If Rylie notices the cuts on my hand from the broken mirror, she’s wise enough not to ask. She hangs out, flicking through her laptop as I get dressed. My phone dings and I check it automatically, half expecting that it’s Dean or one of the others. It’s not. It’s an email from the student medical clinic. I click it, my hands beginning to sweat. It’s only when I read the negative results that I calm again. I archive my results without a second thought. I don’t want to have to think about it again. Even the relief I feel from the results is temporary. Just remembering the STD tests makes me want to take another shower.

  I tap the door to let Rylie know I’m ready to go, and she closes her laptop without protest before following me out of the dorm. We head to the cafeteria to grab some food and sit as far away from others as possible. When we're done, she heads for her next class and leaves me behind. I don’t mind. I'm craving a fucking cigarette anyway and I’ve still got about thirty minutes or so before my first class of the day begins.

  I find the same bench I'd marked before—within the first weekend of my arrival—and pull out the nearly empty three-month-old pack I've got in my bag. There are only four left, each one of them smooshed in some way, shape, or form. I don't care. Nicotine is nicotine in my book. I put the flat, white end between my lips and start digging for a lighter.

  Minutes later, I'm ready to curse a fucking blue streak. "Come on, come on," I mutter as I upend one side of my bag onto the other half of the bench and start sifting through my materials. Pens. Pencils. Broken hair clips. Fuck! No goddamn lighter.

  "Need something?" A hand appears in front of my face, and the only reason I don't reach up to break the motherfucker's fingers is because there's a transparent red lighter dangling from it. I snatch the thing and press my thumb against the wheel. A blessed fucking flame sparks to life, and I quickly stick the end of my cigarette into it. A heady rush of relief fills me, and I hand the lighter back before finally looking up to see who it is.

  "Hey." Jake smirks as he takes the lighter and stuffs it back in his pocket. He shuffles some of the shit I poured out of my bag to the side and sits down. "Haven't seen you in a hot minute. Where the hell'd you run off to from the beach house? Corina's been looking everywhere for you."

  I inhale and let the slow drag of nicotine fill my system before I answer. "Funny," I say, pulling the cigarette from my mouth and blowing out a stream of smoke. "She knows where I live."

  He shakes his head and starts picking up the pencils and pens I dumped out. Absently, I watch him shove them back into my bag without thought. "Yeah, but you completely disappeared from the face of the Earth for a while. I've seen you around campus, but uh … well, wasn't really sure what happened. Didn't know if you'd want to talk to us; you seemed pretty pissed."

  "You could say that," I agree.

  Jake's head lifts as he finishes picking up my shit, and he hands the bag back to me. I accept it and push it to the ground as I take another drag of my cigarette. "Did you and Dean have a fight or something?" Jake asks. "It seemed like you two had finally worked shit out."

  "You could say that too," I mutter and then shake my head. "Dean's not my problem anymore. I've been busy, that's all. Had to leave because of a … uh … family problem."

  "I see," he says as I finish my cigarette and lean down, stabbing it against the concrete ground. "Well, I'm … uh, glad you're back. Heard you were at the warehouse too."

  "Yup," I say.

  "Congrats on your win last night."

  I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. "Thanks."

  He rises at the same time as I do. "Maybe we can hang out sometime, if you've got time—you know, before finals and shit."

  I reach into my bag, finding a pair of sunglasses, and slide them over my eyes before I reply. "Yeah, Jake. Sounds good."

  He hovers, as if unsure whether or not he should stay, and maybe a few weeks ago, I would've welcomed his presence. He's not a bad guy, but I just don't feel like being around anyone today. Especially not someone as normal as he is. The only person I feel like being around is not someon
e I should want to be around.

  Finally, Jake makes his decision. He takes a step back, lifting his hand in a casual wave as he starts walking. "Catch ya later," he says, turning and striding away.

  I don't even bother to form a response. Instead, I turn on my heel and head towards my first class of the day, mentally preparing myself for the three dumbfuck amigos as I go.

  * * *

  I see them the second I enter class. They're already there, as if they've been waiting for me. Dean lifts his hand and crooks a single finger my way. With the shittiest smile I can muster, I lift my own hand and present him with my middle finger—right there in front of all his subjects and his best friends—and then proceed to stomp towards one of the front rows, as far from him as possible. I should've known it wouldn't work to keep him away.

  Less than a minute after I've taken my seat, a bag drops down in the seat next to me, and Dean slides in. I stand, only to stop when Braxton rounds the other side of the long, narrow table and takes a seat next to me. I don't have to look back to know that Abel's behind me.

  "Haven't we done this before?" I snap.

  "And what happened that time?" Dean asks, but it’s a rhetorical question.

  It's almost a routine now. They've been giving me space since we got back, but I guess after last night, that little reprieve is over. My ass slumps back into the seat and if the professor, Dr. Douglas, notices how close they're all sitting or the fact that all of the other students avoid the front rows like the plague, she doesn't say anything. None of them ever will.

  The class drags by, the teacher droning on. Today's not even a real class day. As finals grow nearer, every class seems to be in the review phase as we prep for the real test. Halfway through the class period, Dean leans over and glances at my open notebook.

  "When do your exams end?" he asks.

  Tapping the ballpoint of my pen against the paper and imagining it as a knife I'm stabbing into his neck over and over again, I ignore him. His arm falls across the back of my seat, and I stiffen as he moves closer—close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. That doesn't bother me nearly so much as his lips when they press to the outline of my jaw and slide up to my ear.