“I’m sorry, b—Trent. I just thought, after last night—”
Trent lets go of me, grabbing her around the neck and shoving her inside the building. Drew, Jane, and Charlie follow us in, the crowd trailing behind them. “Let me make one thing clear,” Trent growls, slamming her up against the wall. “You mean nothing. You’re a hole to fuck when I’m bored or drunk, and you’re not even a good fuck at that.”
Her eyes widen, her skin turning a bluish-gray as Trent tightens his hold on her neck. “If you disrespect me, disrespect my fiancée, in public, like that ever again, I’ll bury your skank ass in the woods and let animals pick the flesh from your rotting bones.” Trent increases the pressure around her neck before letting her go. Tears well in her eyes, and her hands automatically move to soothe her sore neck. “You are nothing. You are the dirt under my feet. Less than insignificant. Do you understand?” he demands, pinning her with hard eyes.
Her lower lip wobbles as she nods, fear transparent in her gaze.
This is why there are rules and places in our society. Why girls in the lower echelons— those from new money—are rarely given the time of day by the elite. For three hundred years, our families have controlled Rydeville, each generation ruling supreme in Rydeville High during their teenage years.
It’s more than tradition.
It’s law around these parts.
Parents enroll their kids here, fully understanding the hierarchy.
They know our families’ histories. How it was Manning, Montgomery, Anderson, and Barron who founded Rydeville on the north shore of Massachusetts back in the eighteenth century. How the town prospered as the businesses started by the four families developed exponentially, growing into the multi-billion corporations that our fathers’ control today. Those same businesses Charlie, Drew, and Trent will inherit soon.
Rochelle thought she’d broken through the social barrier, and a whole host of eager girls were lining up to get on their knees for the three hottest guys in school.
Today, that fantasy shatters.
Trent puts her in her place in front of an audience for a reason.
To teach the others their rightful place in the order of things.
She knows better than to approach one of the elite without being summoned. Stupid girl. I shouldn’t feel sorry for her, but I do. I’ve been the focus of Trent’s dark glare and hurtful words before, and I don’t call him a psycho for nothing.
Trent is unhinged.
Hands down, the most damaged and the most fucked up of the elite.
I might dislike this girl and her pitiful attempts to bully and belittle me, but she’s done me a favor. While Trent’s been fucking her, he’s left me alone, and I figure I owe her for that. But I can’t show compassion toward her in public, so I paint a snarl on my lips and level a derogatory glance over her body. “Cover yourself up,” I hiss. “Your bruises are showing.” I guess Trent is less circumspect about marking his fuck buddies in obvious places.
The screeching of tires from outside draws our attention away from Rochelle. Trent, Drew, and Charlie share a knowing look. “What?” I ask, wondering what intel they’ve kept from me this time. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Rochelle scurrying away, tears streaming down her face.
“I thought your father put a stop to this,” Drew says, eyeballing Charlie.
“Put a stop to what?” My question falls on deaf ears again, and blood boils in my veins. I step up to my brother. “Andrew.” I plant my hands on my hips. “What don’t I know?”
“We thought we dealt with the problem,” he cryptically says.
“Never trust a fucking Barron to get the job done.” Trent pins a sneer on Charlie, but he’s too busy stabbing buttons on his cell to notice.
Rumblings from the crowd outside remind us there’s a situation to handle. Drew shoots daggers at the people blocking the entrance, and they immediately move aside, clearing a path for us. Trent grabs my hand, pulling me back out through the double doors.
A bright red Ferrari parked at the curb has captured the crowd’s attention.
Or rather the two hot guys accompanying it has.
A guy with messy dirty-blond hair is sitting up on the hood, knees bent, blatantly smoking a blunt while shooting fuck-me eyes at a couple of girls gawking at him with their mouths hanging open. His red and black tie is loose around his neck, his white shirt crumpled as if he slept in it, and he’s not wearing the obligatory black blazer with the red trim and Rydeville High crest.
The second guy is casually leaning back against the side of the car, his long legs encased in the standard-issue gray uniform pants, crossed at the ankles, emitting a vibe of someone who doesn’t care. But his sharp eyes scan the crowd with intent, suggesting he’s the leader of this little twosome.
He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome with his dark brown hair teased off his face in a classical style highlighting a face models would kill for. He’s all angular lines and high cheekbones with full lips and thick brows. A slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth as he watches his friend flirt with the gaggle of girls now swarming his side.
Fuck. There’ll be hell to pay for this later.
Drew and Charlie hang back for a second, waiting for Trent and me, and we approach the car as a team.
This isn’t our first rodeo, and we know what to do.
Trent puffs out his chest, eyeballing the dark-haired guy. “You don’t belong here, Hunt. So, take Lauder and Marshall, wherever the fuck he’s hiding, and hightail it back to New York like good little minions.”
The smirk grows on Hunt’s face as he pushes off the car, standing tall. Lauder’s flirtatious expression transforms as he jumps down off the hood, landing right in front of Trent. Hunt moves to stand beside him, and they share some unspoken communication.
Lauder drags on his blunt, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs, his cheeks hollowing out as he eyeballs Trent. Trent clasps my hand harder, and tension is palpable in the air. The crowd has grown quiet and you could hear a pin drop.
Lauder blows smoke out of his mouth, directly into Trent’s face, and I don’t need to look at him to know he’s enraged. The familiar musky scent swirls around me, tickling my nostrils.
Hunt’s smirk turns full blown, and I glare at him. His astute hazel eyes focus on me, and, holy fucking hotness, this guy is the definition of sex on legs. Not as sexy as the hot stranger I gave my V-card to but a close second. He rakes his gaze over me, and his slow perusal of my body is like a sensual caress. Trent squeezes my hand so hard it’s a wonder I have any feeling left in my fingers.
“Unless you want to wear a body bag, I suggest you take your fucking eyes off my fiancée,” Trent growls, aggression seeping into the air. He’s like this with every guy who risks looking my way, and it’s the main reason I have no male friends at this school, outside the elite. Even the guys in the inner circle are terrified to speak to me.
Lauder’s head whips sideways, and he whistles low on his breath. His piercing blue eyes almost appear laughing as he checks me out. He winks, grinning widely, showcasing a set of matching dimples and a dazzling set of pearly whites. With his tousled hair, stunning eyes, and flirtatious manner, he’s every bit as attractive as his buddy.
No wonder the girls at the curb were creaming their panties.
The only reason I’m not drooling are the three guys flanking my side.
I made the mistake of using a guy junior year to try to prove a point to Trent. I didn’t even kiss Fenton. I just flirted with him a little, and he was foolish enough to flirt back. Later that night, Trent beat him so bad he ended up in the hospital with several broken ribs, a smashed jawline, and severe concussion. He never returned to school, and I stopped trying to teach my unwanted fiancé a lesson.
Now, I avoid any reckless flirting with guys to protect them.
But Lauder isn’t in the know.
“Fuck. Me.” He steps into me, cupping my cheek in a super-quick move. “You’re beautiful.”
<
br /> “And you’re out of line.” I remove his hand from my face, deliberately ignoring the little spark from his touch. “Do you always touch women without their permission?”
“I’ve never been refused,” he says, pulling on the blunt again.
“You have now,” Trent answers before I get the chance.
“He always speak for you?” Hunt inquires, arching a brow.
“I’m well able to speak for myself. And you heard my fiancé. You’re not welcome here.” I bore a hole in the side of his skull. “Leave.”
“Damn. I love an authoritative woman. Really fucking turns me on,” Lauder adds, rubbing a hand over his crotch.
“If we have to physically remove you, we will,” Drew says, stepping forward and snatching the blunt out of Lauder’s fingers. He tosses it behind him for one of his minions to dispose of. “And stop eye-fucking my sister.”
“Andrew Hearst-Manning,” Hunt says, jerking his chin up as he levels a stare at my brother. “Son of Michael Hearst, CEO and majority shareholder of Manning Motors, the largest global car manufacturer, and Olivia Manning, daughter of the legendary Davis Manning, both now deceased. Twin to Abigail Hearst-Manning,” he continues, casting another glance my way, “who will become Abigail Hearst-Manning Montgomery after she weds Trent Montgomery the Second upon graduation next summer. How am I doing so far?”
“Less than average,” Charlie cuts in, ending whatever cell phone conversation he was having. “If you expect to impress us with a basic Google search, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Charlie is correct—all that information can be gleaned online. And all the locals know our second name should be Hearst but because the Manning name carries so much weight, our birth certs contain a double-barrel name.
Technically, I’m Abigail Hearst-Manning but everyone calls me Abigail Manning. It’s the same for Drew, and it’s something Father approves of. I’ve often wondered why he didn’t legally change his name.
“Spoken like a true Barron,” Lauder says. “And you look like a stereotypical rich prick with a point to prove.” He clicks his fingers, looking behind us. “You.” He points at someone. “Catch.” He throws his car keys, and they soar over our heads. “Park my baby. If anything happens to her, I’m holding you responsible.” He levels two fingers at the sorry bastard before grabbing my hand and bringing it to his mouth. He winks as he presses a kiss to the back of my hand, deliberately ignoring the steam billowing out of Trent’s ears. “Until we meet again, oh beautiful one.” Hunt snorts, shaking his head. “Later, assholes,” Lauder says, bumping Trent’s shoulder as he forces his way through the elite, taking the steps two at a time.
“It’s been entertaining,” Hunt deadpans, straightening his tie as he follows his buddy into the school.
“What the fuck is going on?” Trent fumes, sending poisonous vibes in Charlie’s direction.
That’s a question I wouldn’t mind the answer to either.
CHAPTER THREE
“Let’s walk and talk,” Charlie says. “We can’t be late for class on the first day.” I roll my eyes when no one’s looking. Perfection must be draining, but Charlie never shows it. He’s the most compassionate and considerate of the three male elite, but he takes his role so seriously.
Every word that leaves his mouth, every action and reaction, is carefully measured.
Charlie has never engaged in any conduct that would bring shame on the elite or the Barron name. I’ve rarely seen him lose his temper, and he never hooks up with anyone from school, preferring older college chicks.
He’s the only one not being forced into an arranged marriage because he has something the rest of us don’t—parents who dote on him and one another. His parents believe in love, so they’re allowing Charlie the freedom to choose who he wants to marry and when.
It’s a continuous bone of contention with Daddy Dearest and Christian Montgomery, not least because it shows a disregard for tradition. But Charles Barron, Charlie’s father, likes to push the boundaries and challenge the old rules, and he doesn’t seem to care if it causes conflict in the ranks. It’s not like he’s answerable to my father and Trent’s; however, if I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t pit myself against those two rottweilers. Their loyalty to one another only extends so far, and if Charlie’s dad continues to push things, he could find himself on the outs.
Charlie is a lot like his dad in many ways. While I can always rely on him to have my back, and he’s intervened in arguments with both Drew and Trent on copious occasions, he keeps his cards close to his chest, and he comes across as quietly manipulative behind that charismatic, affable front he wears.
At least with Trent and Drew, what you see is what you get, but Charlie is like those mute swans we studied in biology last year—all beautiful and pure until their territory is encroached, and then they attack. I’ve yet to see Charlie attack, but I know he’s capable of it, and I sense he’s the most vicious one of all.
Drew has ushered the crowd into the building, and we climb the steps behind them.
“Your father said he’d deal with this, so why the fuck are they here?” Trent barks, running dangerously low on patience reserves, as usual.
“Who are they?” I interject, ignoring the blistering look Trent slings my way.
“Sawyer Hunt and Jackson Lauder,” Charlie confirms, shoving his hands in his pockets as we step into the hallway.
The names ring a bell, and I trawl through my mind for the details, my eyes widening as I fit the puzzle pieces together. “Sawyer’s father owns Techxet, and Jackson’s dad is that crazy idiot who owns the world’s most successful Formula One team, right?”
“Yes, although Lauder runs a bunch of different teams. Not just at Formula One level. With Camden Marshall rounding out their merry band of thieves, they consider themselves the new money elite,” Drew scoffs, pursing his lips.
It’s no secret there’s little love lost between Rydeville’s old money elite and the new money elite who have moved into the area in more recent times.
The hypocrisy is astounding, but I gave up trying to apply logic to our society years ago.
That my brother has referred to them as thieves isn’t a throwaway comment either. All the traditionalists believe the new money elite are out to steal their crown and their status, and they will stop at nothing to drive them away. To deplete them of their wealth and reputation. To leave them with nothing.
And it’s not confined to Rydeville alone. I know at least some of the weekend conferences the guys have attended this past year were organized for strengthening ties with other old money elite in different states.
It’s a sick world I inhabit, and it’s the driving force behind my escape plans.
I don’t want to exist in a world where women are expected to look pretty and churn out babies while turning a blind eye to their husbands’ philandering ways.
Where progress, hard work, and determination are frowned upon unless you are part of the old money elite.
Where power and control are the primary aspirations and it doesn’t matter who you trample upon on your way to the top.
Where nefarious deals, criminal deeds, and acting with no moral compass is encouraged and applauded.
“Where is that fuckwit Marshall, anyway?” Trent inquires, his jaw still rigid with tension.
“I don’t know,” Charlie replies, “but he’s definitely enrolled.”
“And why is that?” Trent demands, slamming to a halt outside our lockers. “I thought Marshall liked to stay hidden like his recluse of a father.”
Jane and I deposit some surplus books in our lockers while the guys talk.
Charlie shrugs. “Maybe he’s coming out of his shell, or he keeps a low profile on purpose.”
“They can’t be here,” Drew supplies. “And Father will be furious when he finds out your father didn’t end this like he promised.”
“He had to use it as leverage to release us for the month for the training camp,” Charlie coolly rep
lies. I don’t know why the guys must attend during school term. Every other year, they’ve gone during school breaks.
“Bullshit,” Trent snaps. “We control this school. The founding fathers built it, and our massive donations keep the coffers overflowing.”
“That wasn’t the only reason,” Charlie continues, unruffled. “Lauder bribed Principal Sayers with a place on a Formula Three team for his son.”
“That dipshit still thinks he can race professionally?” Drew asks, arching a brow.
“Apparently,” Charlie says. “But the pièce de résistance is Hunt. Sawyer’s one of the most sought after QBs and
“After Bradley North’s accident, we’re down a QB.” Trent rubs at his temples. “Fuck this shit.”
“We’ll get rid of them when we come back from the trip,” Charlie says. “There’s no point bitching and moaning about it now.”
“We can’t leave Abby to deal with this alone,” Trent says, as I shut my locker and rejoin him. His fingers automatically thread through mine.
“I’ll handle it, and I’ll have the inner circle as backup.”
“I don’t like it,” Drew says, slinging his arm around Jane as we walk toward our homeroom.
“I hate it,” Trent agrees. “And if that fucker Lauder lays another finger on my woman, I’ll flatten his ass to the ground.”
I firmly believe that’s all I am to him.
A possession.
A status symbol.
A pretty bird to keep locked in a cage.
A toy to be played with when the mood takes him.
“I can deflect any unwelcome advances. And Oscar and Louis barely leave my side.” Except when I blackmail them into turning a blind eye, but the elite don’t need to know about that.
“Your bodyguards aren’t permitted within the school grounds, babe,” Trent says, stopping in front of the door. “That’s where you’re most exposed.”
Cruel Intentions Page 3
