My hands trail over the walls, feeling their sleek, metallic impression against my fingertips. They’re a burnished copper, in sections of four by four squares, and shine from the accent lights in the ceiling. I turn in a full circle, spying a large, flat screen television built right into the wall, resting just over a gated fireplace.
“Dear fuck, these people like to throw around money,” I whisper in awe.
Walking over toward the bar on the other side of the room, I peek through it. My eyes, if it could be possible, widen even more. They actually have the bottles filled, and something leads me to believe, they’re not full of the cheap stuff, either. No, it’s the real deal. But damnation, there are no adults living in this dormitory. Not even if they were in their last year here, no one would be old enough to drink.
I hesitantly grab a crystal stopper off one decanter, unplugging the bottle. The smell of alcohol immediately hits my senses, causing my eyes to burn from the fumes.
“So, the little brat’s a drunk. Good to know.”
Oh, dear God, no. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Please tell me I’m dreaming.”
Replacing the stopper, I heave a sigh and turn around to spy Brett leaning against my front door. He crosses his arms over his chest, making the shirt he’s wearing strain over his muscular frame. I try not to, but find my gaze dropping to his chest, running along the thick, expanse of his arms, then back up to his face. A smirk of arrogance twists his features.
“This isn’t your building,” I say, hoping I’m right. “You need to leave before I call the headmaster.”
He barks out a laugh at that, showcasing straight, white teeth. “Call her.” When he brings his eyes back to mine, I see a sickening glint of something flash through his iris. “I dare you.”
“You think just because your parents founded this school, you can do anything you want?” I scoff.
“My family; not parents. There’s a difference.” Pushing off the frame, he continues on inside like he owns the place, and in a way, I guess you can say he will … one day. But that’s not today.
He shouldn’t even be in here. This is a girls' dorm; I saw nothing in the pamphlet about it being a co-ed academy.
I swallow hard. It’s so much easier to disregard him when there are people around. But when it’s in my dorm room, and no one is within earshot, it’s so much harder than it should be.
I told you I love the assholes. It’s not that I particularly like them being assholey toward me, but it’s more about the way they carry themselves. They have this air of control and power that swirls around them, like they can make anything happen if they put their mind to it. However, an asshole without a pot to piss in can be just as alluring as the guy who pisses in a pot of gold.
My mother always told me to be true to myself, not to allow anyone to take that away from me. And the truth is, I find Brett sexy. I find him mouthwateringly delicious. I wouldn’t mind getting a piece of him. However, another truth is—I’m not some two-bit tramp that will fall all over her feet to bed a guy she’s just met. Wine, dine, then fuck, remember?
“Mr. Kingston, you are not allowed here.” Why the fuck am I being so … nice? Any other time, I’d be scratching out eyes and kneeing some family jewels.
He ignores me, growing closer and closer. My entire body wakes up at his nearness, a small knot forming in the pit of my stomach when I catch the smell of his cologne. It’d be so much easier to blow him off if he didn’t smell like walking sex.
“It’s funny you believe that.” He comes to a stop inches away from me. With every rise and fall of his chest, it rubs against my aching breasts. Tendrils of delight dance just beneath my skin, and I fight a shudder that threatens to unleash when I feel his strong, tight grip land on my hip.
“I’m not fucking you,” I force out, albeit a little breathlessly.
Fisting my hands by my side, we stand in silence, basking in each other’s nearness. There may be some less than savory people in New Jersey, but I’ve never come across someone so blatantly arrogant. Brett’s ego is the size of the sun. It’s just too bad his body is just as hot. You’d think someone would have the common decency to pretend to act civil to a complete stranger, not demand things upon first interacting with them.
Again, common fucking decency, people.
“Oh, brat, you wouldn’t be the one fucking anything,” he seduces, then steps forward that last inch, making the front of our bodies press tightly together.
I back away, disgust evident in the curl of my lip and narrowed eyes. “We literally met a few hours ago. You were an asshole, I wrote you off, and you still think I will have sex with you. Unbelievable.”
He shrugs, as if none of this is a big deal. “When I see something I want, I take it. Doesn’t matter if it’s money, booze, drugs, or women.” He eats up the distance I put between us, biting his full lower lip. “You’re the one making a bigger deal out of this than what it is.”
Rolling my eyes, I put more distance between us. My hands itch to delve into my pocket and grab my phone, calling someone to come help me with this maniac. Everything about this situation is questionable, down to the way his leering gaze sweeps across my body.
But something stops me, if only just. I don’t know what it is until it’s too late. A booming chuckle resounds off the surrounding walls, it’s menacing cadence slicing me to the bone and causing my eyes to snap up to his.
“You should see the look on your face,” he forces out through a chuckle. “I wouldn’t touch you with my enemy’s cock, let alone mine.”
Then why did he do all of th …? My eyes clench shut at the thought. This has to be some kind of hazing shit they do to all the newbies. When I peer up into his eyes, seeing the sadistic glee he’s getting off my reaction, I’m almost certain of it.
I watch as he backtracks toward the door, exuding raw power with each step. The further he gets away from me, the more I spot indifference settling in. I don’t know why, but it feels like he’s thrown the gauntlet down between us—the new girl and the guy that’s probably labeled the ‘prince’ on campus.
When he gets to the door, he stops. My heart beats once, twice, then three times, before he says, “Welcome to Kingston House, brat. I hope you’re ready for some fun.” Then he leaves, flashing a look full of intent and promise over his shoulder.
CHAPTER 4
As it turns out, the freaking dorms are co-ed. Like, this school has a lot of faith their students will not end up in a precarious position.
Worse than that, they’re password/keycard protected. The only people that have the code are the faculty members, including but not limited to, the headmaster. They did that to keep unwanted persons who don’t live at Kingston House from getting in, because they have known of them doing that before. Just my luck, right?
Yeah, imagine my surprise when I hit up the headmaster this morning, explaining my woes, only to find out that Brett Kingston—heir to Kingston Enterprises (A multi-million-dollar franchise that takes part in real estate and booze)—lives in Kingston House. The name should have been a red flag, but I was already stressing last night to put it together.
Oh, and if that doesn’t make matters worse, my other two housemates are none other than Dorran and Chaz. Yes, the two assholes that interrupted my discussion with Brett yesterday. Dorran Ivy, heir to I.V.Y Diamonds (name fucking speaks for itself), and Chaz Mikaels, heir to the DeMika Amor Empire (a goddamn clothing line for the rich and impossibly richer).
It’s like God took one look at my life, broke into a fit of chortling laughter, then through his hilarity, stated, “Watch this,” as he then stirred the shit pot.
But it’s okay. I’m okay. This entire fucking situation is okay. I will not lose my mind, thinking about those guys being right down the hall from me. I will not think about what shit they bring into the building, because you know, they’re young guys with needs. It’s going to happen. I’m bound to find them in various states of undress and unsavory positions while here. I just
hope it doesn’t come with a sexually transmitted disease or something.
There are just some things Ajax can’t take off, and I will not play the part of a ‘House Mother’ to three guys while skirting around in a hazmat suit cleaning up after them. Yeah. Nu-uh. No. Freaking. Way. If I’m stuck here until I can beat feet, then I will not waste time focusing on them, what they do, who they do, or what kind of bromance they have with each other.
I’m going to put my head down and do what Xavier sent me here to do. At least, until I can swindle enough money off the Amex Laura left me with, then I’ll disappear until my eighteenth birthday.
Making my way across campus, I huff and curse under my breath at the sweltering heat beaming down on my back. Even in the uniform—a mid-thigh plait skirt in various shades of navy, ruby red, and gold, I’m wearing the academy style polo with the insignia on my left breast in a dastardly shade of ruby red. Paired with the ensemble are knee-high stockings and my shitkicker boots. There was no way I was wearing those fucking ‘school provided’ heels.
Yes, apparently, all the girls in this school are given a pair of oxfords if they’re a junior, a pair of one-inch heels if they are a senior, two-inch heels if they are a freshman in college, and three-inch heels if they are a sophomore. Under no circumstances can they have eclectic footwear or wear footwear that is not regulation for their grade. This is a school of prestige and class, and the individuals that go here need to properly dress at all times.
Fat lot of good that will do. I can barely walk in my boots, let alone some freaking heels.
So, no matter how bad they want me to conform, there’s no way I’ll do that. I mean, I’ll wear their uniform, as bad as I hate it. I’ll even adapt to what they want to envision me as, to a certain extent. But the shoes … they have to go. I’m not some floozy that’ll traipse around in a low heel for hours. I like my feet. I’d rather keep from getting blisters on them.
Stopping in the middle of the walkway, I twist around and dig into my backpack. Grabbing my schedule, I scan the contents once more.
Monday-Thursday
Block One – Pre-Calculus (08:00 – 09:15) – Room 235, in Blake Building.
Block Two – English 104 (09:30 – 10:45) – Room 115, in Bartholomew Building.
Block Three – US History (11:00 – 12:15) – Room 68, in Kingston Hall.
Block Four – Lunch (12:30 – 13:15) – Located in Blue Ivy Building.
Block Five – Business and Economics (13:30 – 14:45) – Room 72, in Chase Building.
Block Six – Law and Ethics 332 (15:00 – 16:15) – Room 45, in Gerald D. Building C.
Block Seven – Study Hall (16:30 – 17:45) – Room 88, in Building B—Library. (Optional).
I roll my eyes. “How pretentious do you have to be to have two buildings named after you?”
So, his family donates to the school. Big whoop. That doesn’t mean he should get any special treatment, because they should choose no one above any other student in the school’s population. However, the more I think about everything that’s happened since arriving yesterday afternoon, the more the breakfast I ate churns in my stomach.
To the people at this academy, Brett Kingston, Dorran Ivy, and Chaz Mikaels and their families are Gods. They can do no wrong as long as they continue providing for the school every year. Lord knows how much they donate, but if they have buildings named after them, and they allow Brett and the other two to get away with murder, then it must be substantial.
Just remembering how Brett walked right into my dorm causes fire to simmer in my belly. It’s like he owned the world, and everyone should bow down at his feet. I don’t care if you’re the president’s son, you should not be allowed that kind of freedom. But Brett seems to have it in spades. He can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and there're no repercussions against him if he falls short.
How can someone like Brett be in the top of our class? He doesn’t seem to pay any attention in any of them, if first and second block give me any indication of his academic aptitude. He seems to skate right on through, as if people are afraid to make his family angry. I, for one, think they should judge him just like the rest of us. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you can do whatever the hell you want.
Huffing, I peer down, then make my way across campus toward Kingston Hall. The only good thing about this campus, besides the bright colors and well-maintained landscape, is the ease of finding out where you’re going. Each paved sidewalk is marked with signs, leading you to know what lies at the end, whether it be the gymnasium, cafeteria, sports fields, or buildings where they hold classes.
I spy the sign that reads ‘Kingston Hall’ and veer left. Making my way past the main building, I walk up and over the knoll and release a puff of exertion. Walking all over the place will take some getting used to.
Back in New Jersey, there was one school building. Just one. It ranged from grades preschool to senior year. The only exerting thing we did to get to our classes was walk up and down a set of steps all day. Here, though, we have to trek what seems like miles. No fucking wonder everyone here looks like they could compete in the Boston Marathon. They have to walk as much on any given day.
“Look who it is,” a voice calls out from behind me. “Brat and I have third block together.”
Sweet Messiah, are you drunk? Huffing, I turn toward the carrier of the voice, seeing none other than Brett fucking Kingston striding toward me, a sexy, determined pep to his step. Behind him, Chaz and Dorran loiter around, not appearing as if they’re in too much of a hurry to get to US History.
“Leave me alone.”
With a roll of my eyes, I push off and make my way toward Kingston Hall. I don’t take the time to peer all around me, taking in the sights and sounds of Reighton. I don’t take the time to people watch as I make my way down the sidewalk, and onto the stone steps that lead to the entrance of the building. I put my head down and do it, hoping they’ll all get the hint and leave me alone.
But that’s wishful thinking, though. If anything, Brett seems like a bulldog with my throat caught between his teeth.
“Have a good night?” he questions merrily, sidling up next to me.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes once more. He knows I didn’t have a good night. I had to see his face before I shut the lights off and settled between—what I believe to be—thousand count sheets. I would have had the best night of sleep in ages, if it hadn’t been for my late-night visitor.
Instead of engaging, I ignore him and push through the door. The moment I step inside, a waft of air conditioning causes me to shiver as the sweat lining the back of my neck cools and dries. Rubbing my arms to help alleviate the goosebumps, I head down the singular hallway, looking for my classroom.
Since they were in my first two classes of the day, and now this one, I have a niggling feeling that Brett set this up somehow. Knowing my luck, we probably have all our classes together. I can’t prove he had anything to do with it, but if it continues this way, I’m blaming him, anyway. Otherwise, there’s no way they could possibly have all blocks with me. That’s not how high school works. You have classes with some individuals, and some without.
“Oh, silent treatment.” He stops in the middle of the hallway, holding a hand to his heart. “That hurts, brat.”
Growling softly, I locate my classroom and go to step inside. Except, I can’t. A hand lands on my arm, thick, calloused fingers wrapping around my elbow to stop me from advancing. Tilting my head downward, I stare at the offending appendage, willing it to form some flesh-eating disease or something.
“Remove your hand or I’ll remove it for you.” My gaze rises to meet Chaz, spotting a nauseating delight gleaming in his eyes. His triumphant smile causes my eyes to narrow in return.
“So feisty.” He smirks. “But, seriously, wait your turn, brat. Thanks.”
My mouth parts in disbelief as the guys bypass me, chuckles staying behind in their wake, as they step into the room. The air surroundi
ng them fills with oppressive arrogance as they strut their way toward three of the four only available seats in the room. What I can guess is my seat, is located right in front of Brett, and the filthy glint he’s shooting my way tells me it didn’t slip past his attention.
Day two, and already, I’m contemplating murder.
“You must be Ms. Charles,” my teacher—a robust, elderly man—states.
I scowl. “Nikohls. My last name is Nikohls.”
Scrunching his brow, he peers down at the list in front of him, then glances back up to me. “No, I’m afraid not, ma’am. It says here Ariyal Charles.”
The liquid in my veins freeze. The other teachers got my name correct earlier this morning, so what gives with this man. I understand I’m attending RPA under Laura Charles, but that doesn’t mean I’ve taken her last name. In fact, I’d probably disown myself if I even contemplated it.
“I can assure you it’s Nikohls,” I grind out.
What’s happening with people today? In first block, the kids all glared at me like I was a piece of disgusting scrap meat that belonged in the garbage. In second, the girls had daggers for eyes. And now, the goddamn school is trying to change my name.
I need to form a plan tonight on how to get out of here, or else I will go crazy. There’s been too much change in a short amount of time, and I refuse to get to the point where I merely lie down and accept my fate, rather than stand up and fight.
“Have a seat, then. I’ll put in a call to the headmaster and have it looked into.” Like he needs to do that. She’ll tell him the same thing. I am not a Charles, but a Nikohls. It seems kind of redundant to keep inquiring about it if you ask me.
Huffing, my eyes peer back toward the chair in front of Brett, eyes narrowing into slits as if it offends me. Then, I peer up at him, seeing a cool, calculating smirk resting across his kissable mouth. But instead of acknowledging it, I push forward with as much dignity as I can muster. I fight within myself to meet the curious gazes of the students already seated, and force myself down the aisle, quickly closing in on my doom.
Little Plaything: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Reighton Preparatory Academy Book 1) Page 3
