Complicit in His Chaos Book 1: Tempted

by Keilan Shea

  I adjust my glasses, and then my hand drifts down, fingers digging into the rich fabric of my pleated skirt.

  “You’ve seen Tom the Talking Cat, right?”

  “No.”

  Lucas gasps. “You’ve never found your way to this part of the internet? Are you even alive? No, don’t say a word. I can rectify this, and you can thank me later.”

  True to his word, Lucas shows me Tom the Talking Cat, video after video. The yowling tone and the way the raggedy orange tabby prattles on about the most random things as if he’s some senile old man gets me laughing so hard that tears stream down my cheeks. Lucas’s breathless laugh spurs me on, too. Endorphins light up my brain and I forget about feeling bad at all.

  CHAPTER 9

  I’ve never laughed this hard in my life.

  I don’t know how many cat videos Lucas and I watch or when I start gasping for air, shaking with uncontrollable laughter. A lack of oxygen should be painful. Our brains and the chemicals they produce are powerful, though. Although it’s rare, you can die from laughter. You can die from a broken heart, too. Sadness and happiness are opposites on the emotional spectrum, but they can both produce tears. Doesn’t that seem strange? All of it? What are tears, then, when even anger can command they fall?

  The melancholy thoughts are sobering. Balance is met when logic combines with simple sensation. The soles of shoes tapping pavers and the occasional white and black silhouettes in my peripheral vision snap me back into the world outside of Lucas. Dinner must be over, because the students assigned to the Crown return along with my inhibitions.

  Lucas pauses the video that I’ve paid no attention to. “Our private playtime is over. Next time, we should run amok.”

  “Next time, we should eat dinner.” My stomach punctuates that statement with an embarrassingly loud growl. No, wait. That’s Lucas’s stomach growling with mine.

  “Yeah, okay. Dinner.”

  Doubts set off warning bells. Next time? There won’t be a next time. Gordon Ignacio’s reputation precedes Lucas, and I have no luck with friends.

  “I should go.” I stand and pat my skirt to hide my nerves. “I told my sister I’d call her in twenty minutes.”

  Lucas rises beside me. Because he’s taller than me, I’m forced to look up to meet his eyes. I was complaisant before, hunched over with him as if we were comrades. His body heat mingled with mine and opposing temperatures reconciled. Now there’s ice in the space between us. This dynamic is unbalanced. Lucas isn’t gigantic like Caesar, but there’s something about the confident way he carries himself. All Gildeds roll back their shoulders and let their chests shine forward, outcast or not.

  “See you tomorrow, Melly Mel.” Lucas holds out his phone. “But before you go, let’s exchange numbers.”

  My hand reaches for my chest, but then I quickly lower it. I’m not digging inside my bra while he watches me and I can’t turn around or another unfortunate student will get an eyeful of my misconduct. I have my phone number memorized, but I shouldn’t give it to him. I really shouldn’t. “I don’t have my phone. I’ll tell you my number and you can text me later.”

  “All righty. Ready when you are.”

  I dictate and Lucas saves my information on his phone. Now I’ve given my number twice in one day—to boys. Nice boys … Thinking about Theo makes my heart drop and this needle-thin point on my chest throb. I resist the urge to massage away the discomfort and wave at Lucas before turning on my heel.

  The arduous journey to Selenite Hall is made worse because I don’t consult the map on my phone and my eyes are glued to the ground. The door greeter, at least, is happy to see that I’m not in such a rush, I think. She welcomes me and those walking ahead of or behind me and I acknowledge her with a polite nod.

  The susurrus of female students is like a nest of hissing snakes in the echoing corridor. Words are impossible to decipher, but I’m sure it’s just as well. I savor sweet silence when I close my bedroom door and rest my back against it. Not a sound leaks through.

  My eyes rest on the largest light fixture hanging from the ceiling. The milky selenite filters the would-be harsh glow, turning cool colors warm. I hadn’t noticed before. Everything was so white and new that considering such a minor detail escaped me. I don’t mind the white so much after all. Or maybe the books I set up around the room enhance the warmth with their vibrant covers.

  I’m coming for you, books.

  I tear at my clothes, trying to undress before I finish unbuttoning my shirt or figure out my tie. I run into the walk-in closet and grab a baggy T-shirt and shorts. Comfy reading attire. Oh, there’s a fancy thermostat hidden behind my hanging clothes. Wow, this means I can regulate the temperature in my room. That’s probably unnecessary.

  Finally, I take off my underwire bra and sigh out the sweet relief as I pull the T-shirt over my head and replace my glasses. Naomi has painstakingly helped me find the right-size bras, so they’re comfortable and offer great support, but when it’s time to lounge around for the night or sleep, it’s always good to rip them off.

  The closet door is partially closed, revealing the full-length mirror attached to it. My reflection stirs up an unpleasant memory of a boy who wanted me to do his homework and thought flirting would work. When I told him no for the final time, he belittled me. And, for some reason, he focused on my “saggy boobs.”

  I wish it were easier to forget these things. I shouldn’t hold on to what he said. I’m not actively doing it, but my subconscious is rebellious. So you have big boobs, Melody. Get over it. I stare at myself in the mirror and let my reflection know that I’m watching her by pointing two fingers at my eyes and then hers.

  Moving on.

  My first uniform is done for the week. Tuesday is all but over. I haven’t heard anything about where I can do laundry. It’s entirely possible, after experiencing this place firsthand, that I’ve been assigned a maid. I’ll ask the resident dean later. There’s a white hamper tucked into a corner of the closet, so I drop the used uniform inside it. Then, after taming my wild hair with my softest headband, I exit the walk-in closet. And almost forget my phone.

  The notification light is blinking blue. Message alert. Do I check it now or later? It’s probably Naomi.

  I longingly shift my gaze from one book to the next, lingering on The Sister Star. Not much longer now, my pretties. I promise. My eyes automatically travel to my nightstand, expecting Coco, but she isn’t there. Here. She isn’t here, but she’s safe at home.

  Unlocking my phone reveals a couple of text messages, neither one from Naomi. The first is from Theo. I hesitate because I’m not sure I want to read it. I could just delete it. I don’t, though. I open it to see a simple I’m sorry.

  I don’t text back, but I don’t delete his number either.

  The next message is from a number I don’t recognize. When I open it, a picture of Tom the Talking Cat sitting like a human on a couch pops up. This is Lucas’s number. I enter him into my contacts before replying with a laughing-crying emoji. Is that a good response? My thumbs hover over the screen as I do my best to conjure up a proper response. I tap a couple of letters and then delete them. This cycle lasts longer than I care to admit before I settle on Thank you.

  I’m so stupid.

  I drop onto the round canopy bed, somehow tangling myself in the lacy drapery even though it’s tied to the bedposts. Well, three of them. One of them is now untied. I push the vanilla-scented fabric aside and crawl to the head of the fluffy bed, where there are enough feather pillows to make a fort. They puff out air as I throw my back onto them and wriggle between them. It would be snug if I wasn’t gripping my phone so tightly; my knuckles are bone white.

  Swallowing, I check my phone. It’s on silent and unlocking the screen reveals no new messages. I’m such an idiot. Of course Lucas isn’t going to text me back. That reply wasn’t exactly a conversation starter.

  I call Naomi and ignore the heat creeping up my neck. She answers after the second ring
and is already talking, but not to me. “Cover for me. Fifteen minutes.” Leaves rustle. “All right. I can talk now, Mel.”

  “Are you hiding in the garden?” I ask. “I thought you were taking the day off.”

  “It’s busy.”

  “Then I’ll call back later when Lobo Azul is closed so I can Zoom with the whole family.”

  “No, it’ll be too late. You need to be well rested for tomorrow. We’ll Zoom on the weekend and then you can tell everyone if Gilded Academy is as superior as they claim.”

  I don’t know what to say, and the silence stretches longer because of the distance between us. I was hoping Naomi would volunteer to pick me up this weekend.

  “You don’t miss us that badly, do you? I’ll grab someone to join our calls whenever I can and put you on speaker.”

  “Of course not.” My voice cracks. “I’m glad Russel isn’t here to pester me.”

  “You haven’t met a single person who isn’t a snob?”

  “I-I’ve met two nice people.” My voice drops to a whisper. “Maybe made a couple of friends.”

  Naomi practically shouts, “Really?!”

  I explain the Theo situation, starting with when I found him crying in the library. I leave out what I overheard him and Ritsuki discussing and the perfervid school politics. I’m not getting involved and Lucas isn’t fretting over Caesar’s “scare tactic.” I end my Theo tale with Richter Palace and Theo’s hostile friends.

  “You left?” Naomi demands. “Theo Earnshaw was ready to defend you. You should have held your ground and supported him. Melody, next time you see him, you won’t run away. He’ll pick you over his so-called friends. Maybe he already has.”

  “Yeah,” I reply noncommittally.

  “Good Lord. So the Earnshaws are everything the media has made them out to be. That’s both inspiring and irritating. This is going to take some getting used to.”

  “I guess.”

  “What’s wrong? Is Blake an asshole? You met him too, didn’t you?”

  “Blake’s supposed to be the Crown President, but he isn’t here. Theo says he’s coming, though.”

  “But he didn’t explain Blake’s absence?”

  “It’s probably personal.” Abnormal and a secret. “Even the Earnshaws deserve some privacy, right?”

  “That’s the correct answer, but you know I thrive on celebrity gossip. Or I did. It’s weird now since you’re among them and they’re real people.”

  “That’s just sinking in?”

  “I liked celebrity gossip because it was so far removed from my reality that it was basically a drama. It’s the same reason why you like your fantasy books. You can’t hurt anyone by talking shit about a character you don’t like.”

  Her confession gives me a little boost of courage. “I was feeling down earlier, after the Theo thing, and ran into Lucas Ignacio. He showed me funny cat videos to cheer me up. Tom the Talking Cat is my favorite. I know none of us are exactly cat people, but Tom is really funny.”

  Naomi is silent. I hold out my phone to see if the call was dropped, but it wasn’t. My sister’s name and the timer counting the length of our conversation are on the screen. “Naomi? Are you still there?”

  “Lucas Ignacio?” Her voice is so quiet and phone speakers are always so crackly that I barely hear her. Her next words are clear and loud, though, a command. “Don’t go near him again.”

  I feel as if I’ve shrunk a few sizes when I ask, “Why?”

  “He’s trouble. You know his father gave a cabana boy a concussion. I’m surprised they let Gordon’s son into Gilded Academy, money or not.”

  “I know his father has a bad temper, but Lucas isn’t him.”

  “Like father like son. Lucas was sequestered at an all-boys boarding school when he was six but made up for it by being a terror for his steady stream of replacement nannies during summer vacations. Eventually adult supervision diminished, and he developed a love for a variety of misdemeanors. Then he ran away at age fifteen with some girl. When a couple of rangers found him and that girl high as a kite and in the middle of a forest fire, he was sentenced to Waypoint Academy, an all-boys ‘therapeutic’ boarding school, where there was another fire in January. They start in his presence, Melody, one too many for it to be a coincidence. He hasn’t been convicted of arson yet, but he’s dangerous. I’m going to call the superintendent to inquire about this.”

  My mouth and throat are dry and cottony. “Th-that can’t be right. He made me feel better. He’s nice.”

  “Because he wants you.”

  “He didn’t say anything like that.” I blush and sink my face into the wide collar of my T-shirt, hiding like a turtle retreating into its shell. “Nobody sees me that way, Naomi. I’m not pretty like you.”

  “That’s bullshit. You’re so cute and innocent you’re like a predator magnet. All those guys coming to you with their homework wanted to do more than improve their grades, but they were hasty and decent enough to leave you alone when they realized how oblivious you are—thank God. Lucas has figured out that what you want is a friend. That means he’s patient enough to play the long game if it means scoring virgin pussy.”

  “Stop.” I squeeze my eyes closed. “You’re being vulgar.”

  “I’m telling you exactly how it is so that you’ll be careful. You never showed any interest in these other assholes, and I’ve told you to beware of men before, but now it’s serious. You like him, but Lucas doesn’t care about you, Melody. I’m trying to protect you. I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt. Stay away from him.”

  I grip the loose fabric of my T-shirt and twist it until it’s taut. “Okay.”

  “Good, because I need to make that call. I’ll leave a message if I have to and call again in the morning. Whatever it takes until I get answers.” She sighs. “Don’t stay up too late reading and have a good day tomorrow. You’re going to conquer this school. If you’re not top student within the week, I’ll shave my head.”

  “That’s unnecessary.”

  “Because you’re going to prove me right. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Naomi ends the call. I drop my phone and watch it sink into the fluffy duvet. I’m not as innocent as Naomi thinks. I was awake the night one of Faith’s boyfriends sneaked into our room, before Naomi began evacuating us, and covered Naomi’s mouth with his hand so she couldn’t scream as he dragged her into the hall. I pretended to remain asleep when she returned, wrapped her arms around me, and silently sobbed. Not even Benjamin knows about that. Naomi hasn’t told anyone and she never will.

  My phone screen lights up with a text from Lucas. My heart beats into my chest, then my throat, as if it intends to crawl out of my mouth. I want to check his message, but Naomi’s accusations make me uneasy. I’m sure he earned the privilege of being a student here, but perhaps the superintendent’s decision, or whoever’s, was premature—or money-motivated. Lucas has already gotten into trouble. And he did express … interest in me.

  Lovely.

  I open his text to see Anytime. The corners of my lips twitch upward before I can stop the smile. You don’t know Lucas, I chastise myself. But neither does Naomi.

  The Sister Star is waiting for me to read it again and several other books are vying for my attention, but I ignore all of them for my rose-gold laptop. I don’t rest at the crystalline desk, though. I return to the princess bed, sit cross-legged, and click on a web browser. My fingers shake as I type Lucas Ignacio arson in the search bar.

  The first link to pop up takes me to an article that cites the news reports of the fires “involving” Lucas in chronological order. Convenient. I click on those rather than burn out my eyes with the diatribe. I want facts and nothing more.

  The first fire scorched the Ignacios’ mansion in Gilded during the summer when Lucas was twelve years old. It started in the primary kitchen. Their chef resigned afterward, presumably too ashamed to admit that he had left the stove on and therefore caused the f
ire, but no one was ever officially blamed, and it was ruled an accident.

  The next report covers the forest fire Naomi mentioned. In Idaho. He must have been serious about running away with “Angel Vargas” to have made it that far from California. No, that’s a conjecture. I scan the article for more facts, but Lucas never explained himself. Neither he nor Angel started the fire because it originated in a campground and blazed a trail through brittle forest (the result of a dry summer) to the derelict cabin the AWOL teenagers claimed. However, they were smoking cannabis and were reluctant to comply with the rangers.

  This brings me to Waypoint Academy, the location of the most recent fire. It started in an old church, technically part of the academy. A candelabra, flammable drapes, and old wood became a pyre. Lucas reported the fire when it was raging. He claimed to have just arrived and witnesses saw him emerge from the roaring flames covered in soot not long after, dragging a singed, unconscious boy named Drake Griffin with him. He told the firefighters that a teacher/therapist was still inside, but it was already too late. Peter Humphrey was seemingly immolated. When Drake regained consciousness, he reported that the fire trapped him and Peter inside the church long before they noticed the smoke or flames. Lucas’s appearance was a lucky coincidence as he had arranged to meet Drake at the church after his private therapy session concluded.

  My mouth is so dry and swallowing doesn’t help. I should get water. The en suite bathroom is right there, but my legs are numb from sitting like this for so long and I can’t move. I use my hands to unravel my legs and wince as my veins ferry static to my toes.

  That’s enough for one night. I don’t think my mind and body can take much more. But … maybe just one more search.

  Drake Griffin.

  A word in the headline marking the first link to appear makes my lungs seize. Suicide. My finger trembles and I miss tapping it, but I succeed on my second try.

  Waypoint Academy student Drake Griffin hanged himself. The words smoosh together and I skim over the article until found by his roommate, Lucas Ignacio comes into focus. This happened in May.