Jane’s knee is jerking nervously, and we need to have a private conversation. “We’ll be dropping Ms. Ford home first, Jeremy,” I tell my regular driver. “And we’d like some privacy, please.”
“As you wish, Ms. Abigail.”
Jane holds her tongue until the privacy screen is in place and then she detonates. “Oh my God, Abby!” she squeals. “I can’t believe you punched him!”
“He was feeling me up. He deserved it.”
“He’s a pervert,” she loyally agrees, “albeit a really hot one.”
I lean my head back against the headrest. “These guys will be problematic,” I admit. “I need to figure out a way to manipulate them.” And there’s little time to waste.
Both our phones ping, and Jane whips hers out, gasping as she swipes her finger across the screen of her iPhone. “Someone’s just uploaded a video from the hallway online,” she confirms my suspicions, “and it’s already got two hundred views.”
“Let me see that.” I snatch the cell from her hand, inspecting the profile, but it’s obviously a pseudonym. If the guys were here, no one would dare upload that. I hate that it’s only day one and people are already breaking the rules. At least the guys will see I’m taking control of the situation. Even if it’s only a façade. Jackson, Cam, and Sawyer have me in a bind, and they know it.
The car turns into Jane’s driveway. She faces me, chewing on the edge of one fingernail in a clear tell. “You’d tell me if there was something else going on, wouldn’t you?” she hesitantly asks.
“Of course.” I hate that I’m lying to her, but I can’t tell anyone what they’re holding over me.
“What will I tell Drew when he calls?”
“If he asks, tell him the truth.”
The car draws to a halt, and the driver gets out, holding Jane’s door open. She hugs me. “Enjoy rehearsal and call me later.”
Jeremy drives downtown, depositing me in front of the theater we’re rehearsing at this week. Oscar comes with me, standing outside the changing room while I shuck out of my uniform and change into my leotard, tights, and ballet shoes. I brush my hair, smoothing it back into a neat bun, loosening my head from side to side in an effort to rid myself of the stress that has invaded every muscle, ligament, and tissue since the lunchtime showdown.
Mom was an amazing dancer, and she enrolled me in ballet classes from the time I was three. I took to it immediately, and I’ve attended weekly classes ever since. Dance has been my savior in difficult times and an outlet to vent when the pressures and frustrations of my life get too much.
I need this so badly right now.
I enter the auditorium, kissing Madam on both cheeks, and then I limber up as she explains which scenes we are rehearsing today. Our recital of Swan Lake is taking place here on Friday night, and we’re running through scenes this week for the final time.
The music starts up as she calls us into position. I’m in the lead role this time, playing the tragic Odette, and I glide to the center of the stage, lifting my arms up and tilting my head, holding myself steady until my cue.
The theater fades out as I dance, spinning and turning, my body moving naturally with practiced ease. The music is haunting, and it reaches deep inside me, connecting to my soul. I let go. Allowing the emotion of the scene to sweep me up, projecting me into a different place and time and I’m no longer here, no longer plagued with worries as my body floats across the stage, my limbs exuding passion and longing, as I live and breathe Odette.
When the music ends, I slowly return to the moment, my chest heaving and my brow dotted with sweat, conscious of someone joining Madam in applause.
“Belle. Merveilleux.” Madam kisses both my cheeks as I stare at the rows of seating, bile flooding my mouth when my eyes land on the other person clapping.
Jackson is standing, loudly smacking his hands together, as he winks at me. Sawyer and Camden are still in their seats, staring at the stage with neutral expressions.
How the hell did they know I’d be here?
And how dare they invade my private space. My eyes anxiously scan the theater for Oscar as Jackson’s applause dies. He’s standing by the side of the stage, frowning with his eyes focused on the boys.
“You know them?” Liam inquires, whispering in my ear.
“They’re new to my school,” I tell my dance partner. Liam is a junior at Rydeville University, and he’s a nice guy. We’ve danced together for years, and he’s the closest I have to a male friend, besides Xavier.
“Why are they here?”
“Because they enjoy tormenting me.”
Liam’s brows climb to his hairline. He’s grown up here, so he gets it. “Or they have a death wish.”
“That too,” I agree. “Not that they seem to care.”
Forcing myself to ignore them, I finish rehearsal, but I’m on edge, and Madam can tell.
I get changed in record time, fleeing the dressing room in skinny jeans, a pale pink silk blouse, and black ballet pumps. Dad would skin me alive if he saw me dressed like this outside of the house, but he’s not here to complain. Oscar places his arm around my shoulder, escorting me through the theater as he keeps his eyes peeled for signs of the guys.
We step outside, into the fading daylight, and there they are. Propped against the wall, waiting for me.
Jackson is smoking pot, shock horror, and the other two hold poses the wax models in Madame Tussaud’s would be envious of.
They watch my every step with calculating intensity, and panic bubbles up my throat. Oscar narrows his eyes at them as we pass, but I keep my gaze focused dead ahead. It doesn’t matter though, because I feel their eyes burning a hole in my back the entire walk to the car, and every nerve ending on my body stands on high alert.
I release the breath I was holding the instant I’m securely stowed in the car, for the first time grateful I have a bodyguard and a chauffeur.
I’m still rattled two hours later, sprawled across my bed doing homework, my attention shot to pieces. I check my burner cell for the hundredth time, but there’s still no response from Xavier.
A loud knock claims my attention, and I close my book, sliding the cell under my comforter before padding toward my door.
“Ms. Abigail,” Mrs. Banks, our housekeeper, says, when I unlock it. “Your friends are downstairs. I’ve put them in the burgundy living room. Shall I make coffee?”
Jane is the only friend who drops by, and I don’t need to be a genius to figure out who’s here. “No coffee!” I hiss, racing past her in my bare feet. “They won’t be here long enough to drink it.”
I’m panting by the time I reach the formal living room. I burst through the varnished mahogany doors with steam billowing out of my ears.
Jackson is standing on the marble fireplace, stretching up as he prods the stuffed moose head with his finger. Camden is slouched on the brown leather couch with one leg crossed over his knee as if he owns the place.
“What the hell are you doing, and how did you get in here?” This would never have happened on Oscar’s watch, but Louis is a lazy shit who’s begging for an ass kicking. I bet he’s in the kitchen stuffing his face with homemade pecan cookies or he’s banging one of the younger housemaids in the laundry room.
“I can’t believe you live here. This place is creepy as fuck,” Jackson proclaims, still poking the moose, as his eyes skim the room.
I don’t disagree. Not that I’m telling him that.
Most of the furniture in our house are heirlooms, and, because Father is so focused on maintaining traditions, he’s loath to change a damn thing.
All the wooden furniture in this room is walnut, matching the dark wood paneling covering the walls and ceiling. The mezzanine level, with its oppressive railing, casts shadows on the floor below, making the room appear gloomier.
The ornate chandelier in the center of the room doesn’t provide adequate light, and the glow from the lamps sitting atop a multitude of tables isn’t enough to lift the spa
ce. Heavy drapes the color of seaweed hang in straight lines from the only window in the room, blocking most of the natural light.
The only feature I like in the room is the burgundy-and-gold-patterned rug that adorns most of the floor space.
Pulling myself back into the moment, I jab my finger in the air, glaring at them. “Get the fuck out.”
“Your language is appalling for someone apparently well bred,” Camden says, inspecting his fingernails with a bored look.
“And I give zero fucks what you think,” I say, striding to the phone on the wall and punching the button for the kitchen. It’s answered immediately by an unfamiliar female voice. “Where the hell is Louis?” I snap, watching Jackson move around the room, drinking it all in. Camden stands, eyes narrowing as he makes a beeline toward me. “Well, find him!” I roar down the line. “And I want a word with the security desk. Ask the guard on duty at the gate to come up to the house.”
Camden pries the phone out of my grip, slamming it back in its holder before dragging me over to the couch.
At least it’s not by the hair this time.
He summons Jackson with a subtle jerk of his head, and he gives up his nosy perusal of the room, sauntering toward us with a lopsided grin. Camden pushes me down onto the couch before sitting beside me, his large hand clamping down on my thigh to hold me in place.
Before I can shuck him off, Jackson is sitting on my other side, his hand moving to my other thigh. Both their legs are pressed against mine, their torsos exuding heat and masculine pheromones as they cage me in with their bodies.
I hate the flurry of butterflies invading my chest and the heat that pools between my thighs, rapidly spreading upward. I could escape their clutches if I wanted to.
But I don’t.
And I’m curious to see where they’re taking this, so I sit still, letting them believe they have me trapped.
Camden trails his nose up and down my neck, inhaling deeply as Jackson’s hand creeps higher up my thigh. “How is it that someone so ugly on the inside looks and smells so beautiful on the outside,” Cam whispers, his tongue darting out to lick a line from my ear to my collarbone. I can’t control the shudder that snakes through my body, and Jackson chuckles, his fingers inching closer to the apex of my thighs.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply.
“Ugly isn’t strong enough of a word to explain what I’m like underneath this exterior,” Cam says, yanking the hair tie from my hair and pulling my head back with the motion.
“Try fucked up. Evil. Twisted,” Jackson adds, “and you still wouldn’t be close.” He slides his hand up my body, brushing the underside of my breast. “We’re your worst nightmare, baby.”
Cam traces circles with his thumb on the inside of my thigh, and my breath hitches in my throat. “What do you want?” I rasp, struggling to maintain control. My head understands these guys are my mortal enemies, but my body refuses to get with the program.
“Your complete submission,” Cam says, nipping at my earlobe.
“Yeah, so not happening,” I sneer.
“Your body says otherwise,” Jackson says, cupping one breast and kneading it over the flimsy silk material. I move my arm to swat him away, but he clamps down on it as Cam pushes my other arm back with his body, negating my ability to move. I’m now well and truly caged, and I doubt I could extricate myself if I wanted to.
“The elite’s rule over Rydeville High ends now,” Cam says, watching Jackson fondle my body, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “And you’ll help us do it.”
“Why?”
“We have our reasons.”
“If you want my cooperation, you’ll need to share those reasons.”
The corners of Cam’s mouth lift as his eyes follow Jackson’s hand as it moves to my other breast. It’s becoming hard to concentrate with the expert way his fingers are teasing my nipples.
“You are fucking dumb,” Cam taunts. “Because you still don’t get it. You don’t have any say.” He pulls his cell out, swiping across it and holding it out.
All the blood drains from my face as I read over the scanned copy of the arrangement between my father and Trent’s. “How did you get this?” Because I haven’t even seen the actual paperwork.
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Sawyer asks, striding into the room, a flash of annoyance crossing his perfect face.
“Playing with our shiny, new toy,” Jackson replies, grabbing both my breasts in his hands and squeezing.
I swat his hands away now one of my arms is free, glaring at him. “In your dreams, asshole.”
“Oh, don’t worry, you already have a starring role in my dreams. And now I’ve added the image of you up on that stage into the spank bank.” He presses his mouth to my ear. “That leotard got my dick so fucking hard.”
“You’re disgusting.” I try to lean away from him, but that only presses me up closer to Camden, which is no improvement.
“Let her go,” Sawyer says, his lips pursing as he eyeballs his two friends.
“Hey, where the hell were you?” I ask, jumping up as Cam and Jackson stand.
“Little boys’ room,” Sawyer deadpans, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
I narrow my eyes to slits. “Bullshit.”
“Such a potty mouth,” Cam says, shaking his head.
“I’ll find out what you were up to.” They don’t know my father has cameras hidden all over the hallways, some of the living areas, and the exterior of the property.
“Knock yourself out, sweetheart,” Sawyer says with a smug grin.
“Tomorrow, you’ll invite us to your table at lunch,” Cam says, as the three guys move swiftly, trapping me in a circle. Hairs prickle on the back of my neck as I’m caged in, and I hate feeling dwarfed by their smothering presence. Heat rolls off them in waves, and they exude a “don’t mess with us” vibe that is equally scary and exciting. “Don’t cross us. Don’t throw shade. Or you’ll be sorry.” Cam waves his cell in my face, and I get the message loud and clear.
I’m royally screwed.
CHAPTER NINE
After chewing Louis out and advising Mrs. Banks and the security guard at the gate to put the three guys on the denied list, I dismiss them all and head to the security room, at the rear of the house, where the cameras are stored.
Picking the lock, I slip inside, ensuring no one sees me, and sit down at the desk, quickly hacking into the system like Xavier trained me to do. I pull up all the camera feeds from the last hour, tracking the guys’ movements from the moment they stepped foot inside the house.
I watch as Sawyer attempts to open my father’s study, smirking at the displeasure etched across his face when he realizes it’s padlocked. I fast forward the recording as he runs upstairs, stalking past closed doors, making a beeline for my bedroom.
I press pause, leaning back in the chair, distractedly running my fingers over my bottom lip as I try to figure out how the fuck he knows the layout of our mansion.
Who the hell are these guys, and why have they come to Rydeville?
Placing my elbows on the desk, I press play, watching Sawyer sneak into my bedroom with mounting apprehension. There aren’t any cameras in the bedrooms, so I don’t have a clue what he was doing. Before I go to investigate, I listen to the feed from the burgundy living room, but Camden and Jackson don’t speak, as if they knew there were cameras capturing their every word.
If that’s the case, why wasn’t Sawyer bothered about getting caught? Do they want me to know?
None of this adds up. I’m lost in thought as I wipe the feed, removing all trace of Sawyer’s snooping, lock the door, and walk toward my bedroom.
I tear it apart. Examining every square inch. Pulling up furniture. Checking under the bed. Ransacking my walk-in closet. Inspecting the content of my en suite bathroom. And the only evidence I can find is an open underwear drawer and some missing panties.
Did Sawyer seri
ously break into my room to steal my panties? And if so, why?
Tuesday dawns, and I’m no closer to finding answers. Xavier is ignoring me, and I’m on edge, still puzzled over what the guys were doing at my house. Morning classes fly by way too fast, and it’s lunchtime—crunch time—before I know it.
I spent a restless night tossing and turning over what to do. I’ve two options.
Comply, and invite them to sit at our table, proving I’m their bitch.
Or call their bluff and buy myself time while I try to dig up dirt I can use against them.
They have something legit to hold over me, but they won’t use it yet, because they’ll lose their leverage, so I figure I have some leeway to try to find out what their game is. It’s risky, and it could backfire, but I’ve got to try. I can’t capitulate at the first threat.
So, I ignore their heated stares when they enter the cafeteria, pretending like I don’t see them.
“They’re staring at you, and everyone’s noticed,” Jane whispers in my ear, and I tune Chad out on my other side. He’s boring me to tears with some stupid story about a freshman.
Keeping a neutral expression on my face, I lift my chin and stare across at their table. Cam’s searing gaze burns straight through me, and his eyes narrow in silent command. I glare back at him, tilting my head up defiantly, letting him know I’m not backing down. We eyeball each other, throwing silent insults at one another as an expectant hush settles over the room. My cell pings, but I ignore it, continuing to face off with my enemy. Jane grabs it, reading the message. “It’s from Sawyer,” she whispers. “He says last chance, whatever that means.”
My heart pounds in my chest, and my palms grow sweaty as terror creeps up on me. They’ve got something planned. I feel it in my bones. But I can’t back down now. I’ve got to see this through. “Hand me that.” Jane places my cell in my palm, and I tap out a quick reply.
Go to hell.
I return my attention to their table, watching as Jackson chuckles and Sawyer and Cam have a brief, heated exchange. Sawyer locks eyes with me, almost pleading, which is confusing, but that’s what they probably want. To mess with my head and my emotions.
Cruel Intentions Page 8
