by Thorne, Leia
“What’s the Broken Saints Society?” I ask, looking between Sawyer and Palmer.
“You’re with them, babe,” Sawyer says. “Are you ready to level up your high school career?”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Why the hell not?”
She turns up the volume on the car stereo. “That’s my girl.”
* * *
Four hours and one bikini wax and brutal makeover later, and I’m standing outside the biggest house I have ever seen. I guess you wouldn’t refer to it as a house; it’s a mansion.
The front is lit up like New Year’s Eve at Times Square. Shiny, sleek cars and SUVs blanket the wrapped driveway, and heavy bass thrums from within.
I tug at the strap of my dress, the silk slip dress Sawyer insisted she buy me that day at the mall. There, I felt good about the idea of wearing it. Sawyer made me feel like I could wear anything, I was that taken with her praise and supportive empathy. But now…
Anxiety coils in my stomach like a viper.
I feel as if the tattooed scars on my back are lit up—a bright, neon beacon—like the house before me. A literal target on my back to be judged. My past crashing down on me in warning: one look at you, and they’ll know just how shameful you are.
“Don’t.”
It’s Sawyer’s voice that floats to me from behind. She slips her finger through the dress strap and draws it up, adjusting to fit. “Don’t second-guess yourself. You’re owning who you are, and doing so will make every girl at this party green with envy. Confidence is sexy, Remi.” She steps in front of me, her sequin tank glittering in the lights. “Are you confident?”
I nod, then say, “I am.”
“Good.” She starts toward the house. “Because the vultures of Brighton can smell weakness. And they’re just waiting to pick our carcasses. Don’t give them the pleasure.”
That image doesn’t invoke confidence, but I push past it, gripping my clutch and taking up Sawyer’s side as she meets Palmer on the stone steps of the mansion. Had you told me six months ago that these two divas would be my new friends, I would have laughed. I couldn’t have less in common with them—we come from two completely different worlds—and yet, I feel safe with them. Like an invisible bubble shields me from the real world when I’m in their presence.
Sawyer doesn’t knock, she simply enters the house and follows the beat of the music.
I shadow closely behind, and one last tendril of fear slithers through me, before I lift my chin and force bravado. We head up a spiral staircase, and the whole sprawling second level is packed with bodies.
Admittedly, when Sawyer invited me to this “kickback”, I envisioned parties like at my former school. A group of us all sitting around and getting smashed. Chilled, laidback. Which, is what she led me to believe…and if this is what Brighton considers a hangout, I’m scared to see one of their full-blown parties.
The only difference between an 80s movie and this crowd is the attire. It’s like they had their own personal designers prep them for a fashion runway. Sawyer weaves ahead through the crowd, greeting people and kissing their cheeks, like we didn’t just see them a few hours ago at school.
A few of the girls I recognize from my blocks smile at me and come in for a hug. This is a strange universe. “I love your Chanel,” one girl says. “Is it couture?”
My mouth parts, and I feign a smile. Own yourself, Sawyer’s words come to me. “I have no idea,” I admit.
She laughs. “Fierce,” she replies. “I love it.”
I move ahead and swallow the lump in my throat. I can feel eyes lingering on my backside, gazes burning into my skin like lasers. But I don’t look back. The dress only covers half of the cross tattoo and scars. It has only been for me…until this moment. But no one here knows my story, and they won’t.
The corner of the landing has a mini-bar setup. No kegs for Brighton’s finest; bottles of expensive liquor line the bar top. No red plastic cups; a man in a suit behind the bar pours drinks into fine crystal shot glasses and glass tumblers.
Emry, Rush, and Gage stand in a circle near the bar. Palmer breaks off and jumps into Emry’s arms. Amid the many whispers this week, I heard that they’ve been a couple since sophomore year.
“They’re truly in love, aren’t they?” I say to Sawyer.
She shrugs. “They think they are.” She accepts a pink champagne drink from Gage. “That’s all it boils down to. What the mind wants to believe.”
“You’ll have to excuse my best friend here,” Gage says to me. “She’s a jaded—”
Sawyer points at him. “Don’t you dare say that word.”
Gage smirks, his gaze taking in Sawyer before he looks at me. He’s not wearing his glasses tonight, and the depth of his crystal-blue eyes is disarming. “She’s a lovely person, I mean.”
I smile. It’s the most words I’ve heard him speak, and I wonder if alcohol loosens up his typically cool and reserved demeanor. Then I realize he’s not holding a drink. “Best friend?” I question.
“Ah,” he nods, “that’s what you got out of that.” He wraps an arm around Sawyer’s shoulders. “Since grade school. The devious duo.”
“And they’re both still douches,” Rush interjects.
Gage punches Rush in the arm, and it’s all so…normal.
Sawyer hands me a pink champagne, and I take a sip. Slowly. Only one drink. That’s the deal I made with myself for tonight.
Rush tics his chin at Sawyer. “I got that thing you wanted.”
Sawyer lowers her champagne glass. “What are you talking about?”
“The molly,” Rush says, annoyed.
She rolls her eyes. “Rush, that was so two weeks ago. Besides, I don’t like to roll at parties, you know this.”
“Whatever,” Rush says under his breath.
I haven’t had the chance to really get to know Rush, but what I have deduced, is that he tries hard to impress Sawyer.
As Gage and Sawyer and Rush chat about the latest at school, I study the devious duo. They look so good together. I wonder if they’ve ever been a couple, intimate—like what Roland claims he saw in the locker room—but I keep that question to myself. “It must be nice,” I say. “Knowing the same people all your life, growing up together.”
Gage tilts his head. “And this must be hard for you. To move here and attend a new school during your final year.”
I lick my lips, hesitating. I watch the way his gaze follows that motion, predatory. The way he’s watched me this past week. I thought he was trying to decide if I was acceptable to his group, but now I wonder if it’s more.
“The move wasn’t easy,” I say, then smile at Sawyer. “But Sawyer and Palmer have been so welcoming. I’m honestly not sure I would’ve survived the transition without them.”
Gage kisses Sawyer’s temple. “She plays tough, but she’s really a sweetheart. Aren’t you?”
Sawyer smiles dramatically. “Pure sugar.”
I take another sip of the tart champagne as Palmer collides into the group. “Bryce is opening up the pool. Let’s go.” She tows Emry behind her and he shrugs, as if he has no choice.
Sawyer laces her arm through mine. “And we’re off.”
As we take an elevator down to the bottom level, I recognize Bryce from third block. He moves beside me and grins. I smile back, looking away quickly. I’ve heard he has an identical twin brother, Asher, who apparently doesn’t party as much. According to Sawyer, Asher is away visiting the Harvard campus with his parents this weekend.
I thought this was just like the movies—the rich kids playing while the parents are out of town. But she laughs. “Usually, they’re parents are here, too.”
The pool is an enclosed, Olympic size body of water that features a giant spa and waterfall feature, with alternating neon lights. It’s gorgeous, and no one hesitates to jump in.
Some strip down to their underclothing, others go in fully clothed. Palmer sheds everything, and a clipped laugh escapes me as I watch her wad
e, completed naked, into the pool.
Sawyer shrugs it off as we find a seat on the wraparound bench. “I told you, Palm has zero shame. Which,” she adds, topping off my drink from the bottle she brought with her, “wasn’t always the case. She’s a dancer.”
I nod like I understand, but ask, “What kind of dancer?” I thought before that Palmer had a dancer’s body. Lean and fit. Delicate and strong all at once, but yet still graceful and fluent even in her slightest movements. But without the anorexic appearance of some ballerinas.
So when Sawyer says, “Ballet,” I feel even more clueless.
“She had an eating disorder?” I try, but back it up with: “I don’t want to pry.”
Sawyer waves it off. “It’s fine. Palmer really is shameless. She’s quite the exhibitionist now, compared to how withdrawn she was in our tenth year.”
Sawyer takes a long swallow, then goes into detail. “Her mother put an insurmountable burden of pressure on her to be the best. Her grandmother was prima ballerina of the Paris Opera Ballet.”
“Wow. That’s a lot to live up to.” I’m taking smaller sips now, my head feeling fuzzy and light, my skin warming. Little tingles of panic wind through my chest.
“Yeah, it is,” she says, her gaze following Palmer as she splashes and plays next to Emry. “She was practically a skeleton two years ago. Practiced more than she ate. She collapsed of exhaustion one day at school, and I took her to the ER. Discreetly, of course.”
I glance at Palmer, happy and smiling. “That’s horrible. So she’s better now? Does she still dance?”
“She’s the most talented ballerina at her school. She’ll be accepted into the same ballet company as her grandmother, and she eats when she wants, practices when she wants.” She looks at me. “Fucks when she wants. And does anything she wants to do.”
I shake my head. I don’t get it. Is there a point I’m missing? “So what changed, then?”
Sawyer takes my hand, laces her fingers through mine. “The society,” she says.
I swallow, my throat feeling thick. Roland’s words drift back to me: some occult-type shit.
But even so, aren’t all groups and cliques little occults in themselves? If Palmer was that sick, and now she’s better, happy and thriving…? Does it matter?
I shake my head, my mind swimming. “Palmer has been so nice to me,” I say, trying to find a tangible thread in the conversation. “She really is sweet.”
Sawyer’s thumb traces the back of my hand. “Sweet…and deadly.” She laughs. “Don’t let her kindness fool you into thinking she’s weak. Palmer is loyal and fierce, and if provoked, has a temper to rival a jock on steroids.” She tosses me a wink. “I’ll tell you more, but later. Right now, I think we need to swim. Enjoy the moment.”
Christ. As I watch Sawyer head toward the steps of the pool, all I can think is that I’ve somehow drank more than I realized, that I’m getting sucked into this society all wrong—but then I see her wrap her arms around Palmer, how protective she is over her, and how Emry adores his girlfriend, letting her be exactly who she wants to be without one ounce of jealously. And maybe…I’m the one who is brainwashed.
What’s wrong with me, or Roland, for that matter, to think that anything is averse with them for being so open with each other? I’m the jaded one. Unable to trust.
I set my champagne glass down on the stone bench next to my clutch and stand. I think once, then twice, about taking the exceedingly expensive dress off as not to ruin in, but I’m just not that brave. I walk toward the edge of the pool, my steps a little sloppy.
I seat myself on the edge, dipping my legs into the pool. The water is heated, and it feels like the perfect temperature of bath water. Luxury at every turn.
Sawyer swims up to me. “Come in.”
I glance down at my dress. Technically, her dress, since she paid for it. A fucking Chanel. Before Brighton, labels weren’t that important to me—they’re still not, but even the new money my dad has to throw around won’t buy me a new designer dress every week.
“The point of life is to enjoy the moment. It’s too ephemeral to worry, Remi.” Sawyer says, grabbing my legs. “Fuck that dress. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.”
And so I do. I say fuck the dress, and push off the edge. My head is spinning as I hit the water, and I bob up, pushing my wet hair out of my face. I feel hands on my waist and suddenly I’m hoisted up. Rush holds me above the water, then tosses me into the deep end.
I plunge to the surface, sputtering and laughing, my side starting to cramp. But I push past the pain and swim with the others, no longer aware of the difference between my new world and my past one.
Whoever Remi St. James was, whatever pain she suffered, whatever she was hiding from…is gone. I lose myself in the moment.
I’m drunk on pink champagne and this new life experience, when my vision starts to flicker at the edges. Suddenly my feet are lead, and my limbs are too weak to tread water.
Something tugs at my ankle, and I go under.
The thought of screaming comes too late, and water rushes my mouth. My lungs burn as chlorinated water tunnels in.
Above me, bodies move across the surface of the pool, the silhouettes becoming dimmer and dimmer as my vision blacks, and I lose consciousness.
Chapter 9
Gage
The Kingsley pool is becoming crowded, which seems damn near impossible for its size. But people are sheep. And where the inner circle go, the others must follow.
I glance around, noticing one of ours is missing from the fun. “Where’s Remi?”
Sawyer’s deep-green gaze widens when she realizes Remi is gone. We both uselessly try to push water out of the way as we stare down into the depths of the pool. I spot Remi’s black dress near the bottom and take in a lungful of air before I dive under.
I swim hard and fast, kicking my feet and pushing against the water. Remi floats near the bottom, her hands above her head, eyes closed. I anchor an arm around her waist and push off the floor.
When I reach the surface, Sawyer tries to help. “I got her,” I say, breathless.
I paddle us to the ladder and shout for help. Bryce is there to grab Remi’s arms and hoist her onto the pavers. I’m seconds behind, and I help turn her onto her back, checking for a pulse. She has one, and I clear my face of water and take a deep breath.
Pressing my lips to hers, I blast air into her lungs. Her chest rattles with water against my palm. I pull back and pump her chest with compressions. Another kiss to her mouth, pushing air into her closed-off lungs, and I taste the lingering sweet champagne on her soft lips.
I continue CPR as a group circles around us.
“Gage…” There’s a warning in Sawyer’s voice.
“I got this,” I say to her again. I give her a stern glare before I pick up pace on chest compressions.
Sawyer wasn’t privy to the plan. Her concern is real, although I sense her suspicion, wanting me to admit in our secret code that I staged this for my own benefit. I turn my ring around quickly, with the Broken Saints’ crest facing backward, giving Sawyer what she wants.
I see her stalk off out of the corner of my eye. She’s angry now because she’s relieved. I can be a right asshole, but after what she went through with Lesley, I don’t want to put her through the worry for even a second now.
Bryce stands nearby, but I see his Tom Ford sneakers receding as he backs away from the scene. It was him who spiked Remi’s champagne in the elevator, and who wrapped the pool rope around her foot in the water. If this goes south, he’s putting hard distance between her and him.
I could’ve executed this myself—but why have lackeys if you don’t use them? Besides, if this does, in fact, go south, I have no hand in it. Bryce’s biggest mistake would be to ever point the finger at me.
But as I blast one last lungful of air into Remi’s lungs, she sputters against my lips. I hold there, tasting her mouth, making sure when she opens her eyes, I’m the first thing s
he sees.
Her gaze is distant, but soon recognition hits, then the panic. I back away as she turns her head and coughs pool water from her lungs. Then I kneel beside her and scoop her into my arms.
“Excitement is over,” I say to the crowd.
I push past Sawyer and Rush, ignoring the heated look Sawyer gives me as I head toward the pool changing room. She’s had a week to plant her seeds and foster a relationship with Remi.
Now, it’s my turn.
Remi rests her head against my chest. “It’s all right,” I tell her. I try to conceal the smile that wants to take over my face. For a second there, I did get a little concerned she wasn’t going to wake up.
That would’ve been a problem. And Bryce would’ve had an issue. I told him to spike her drink with a sleeping meds—just enough to make her groggy. He’s lucky I noticed she went under right away.
I kick open the door. “Everyone out.”
Shocked expressions turn my way as I carry Remi to the cushioned lounge in the corner. But they listen, leaving quickly and shutting the door behind. I lock the door.
“That was so embarrassing,” Remi says, as I lay her on the lounge chair.
“It was nothing,” I assure her. “They’re all wasted, and come Monday morning, all the gossip will be about whatever dumb shit Jessup does.”
She tries to arch an eyebrow, but she’s still so out of it. I laugh. “You’ll meet him soon enough, then wish you hadn’t.”
“I’ll trust you on that.”
Trust. That’s exactly why we’re here. To build a bond of trust.
She attempts to sit up, and grabs her head.
“Just lie back,” I say. I take an oversize towel from the closet and drape it around her, then I help her ease back against the cushion.
Her lips are a pale. I brush my thumb along her bottom lip, and she visibly shivers. “Your lips look cold.”
“I’m cold,” she says. Her gaze flits over my mouth, and I know she’s remembering the feel of my lips on hers.
