The fact that my father communicates with me via the butler shouldn’t sting so much, considering Daddy dearest hasn’t spoken more than two words to me in the three days since I’ve arrived. I can’t blame him. Then again, I guess it’s a drastic improvement from the zero words I’ve received from him in the five years I’ve been living abroad with my mother—the woman he despises just a bit more than me. Even now.
“Miles isn’t home?” I remark, using my father’s name as I smooth the blanket before he places the tray onto my lap.
Victor, I believe is his name, shakes his head before changing the subject and turning to walk toward my closet.
“Some of your things arrived today from your mother’s. I was quite surprised to see them so soon. Overseas shipments typically take longer than a few days to get to their destination.”
“Mmm,” I answer, while taking a bite of the sweet fruit adorned in honey and yogurt.
“They’re probably the things that were stored at our apartment here in the city.” A “good riddance” gift from her. I’m fairly certain she didn’t shed any tears when I got on the plane.
Ignoring my statement, Vic points to my closet. “Your uniforms are back from the dry cleaners, miss, and the accessories laid out. The dress code is stringent,” he states with a lift of his brow. “I know your previous experience with adhering to the rules of higher education have been questionable.”
My eyes narrow at the insinuation, midbite. It seems my reputation has leaked out all the way to the staff. I should smile and nod, but that’s never really been my style.
“Is that so?”
Pushing the tray aside, I twist to hang my feet over the side of my bed and stand, gathering my long honey-blonde locks onto the top of my head as my T-shirt brushes my toned stomach.
“Victor? Right?” I question over my shoulder with a cunning grin. “As much as I’m enjoying the jabs you’re throwing out, unless part of this new regime is to dress me, I think I’ve got it from here.”
Flustered huffs fill the room as he straightens his uniform jacket, and I let out a small laugh, turning to face him.
“No, miss. That is not my intention.” Vic starts toward the door, seemingly offended, but pauses just inside the doorframe with his back to me. “One last piece of business. Your father wanted me to remind you that your new school is an admired institution, not a place for you to cause more trouble. The families that attend are legacies. You need to remember who you are.”
I’m glad he isn’t looking at me. Saves me the indignity of having to see his face when he reminds me of my father’s disappointment.
A rush of breath sweeps past my lips as the door closes. “I’m trying, Vic. Trust me, remembering is harder than you think.”
I knew what I was coming back to endure. I knew this would be hard. Change only happens through unbearable pressure, but my alternative was staying in Spain with my absentee mother and finding out that what I thought was rock bottom was only the tip of the iceberg. Sometimes you have to go back to the beginning to figure out how you’re supposed to end.
So now I’m back where I started, trying for a happier ending to my adolescence.
Walking to my en suite bathroom, I turn on the shower in the expansive half-open glass enclosure and turn back to the mirror to brush my teeth. God. I look as wrung-out as I feel. It’s funny how your reflection can change in the blink of an eye, making you a stranger to yourself.
The tart toothpaste fills my mouth as I brush, becoming spicy, until I spit into the pristine white bowl and lift my eyes to stare at myself again. How did I get here? That’s a dumb question. I know exactly how.
Cupping my hand with water to rinse my mouth, I close my eyes until I drag the back of my hand across my full lips to wipe away the droplets of water left dangling. It wasn’t one moment that brought me down, more like a messed-up calamity of terrible decisions that sent me in every single wrong direction.
“Get your shit together, Donovan. This is your last chance. Don’t fuck up.”
Steeling my resolve, I turn to disrobe and pull the tie from my hair before stepping into the shower. I dip my head under the water, letting it bathe me in warmth, and wash away the last of my thoughts.
Everything will be better.
I will be better.
Because it can’t get any worse than sleeping with a married man, getting caught doing every possible drug, destroying lives (especially my own), and having to leave the country. All by the very mature age of seventeen. Here’s hoping eighteen continues as uneventful as it began—alone, sober, and heading home to New York.
Finishing up quickly, I step out to towel off. Wrapping it firmly around myself, I grab my hair dryer, blowing the wet locks away from myself. My head tilts to the side, the hot wind brushing my skin while I run my fingers through the long strands, weaving them in between the streaks of lighter and darker blonde that naturally exist—a gift from Mommy dearest.
People say I resemble her, my mother. They say we could be sisters. She loves that, usually because whatever asshole who’s giving the line is someone she wants to fuck. I don’t mind being her twin. She’s gorgeous. A classic beauty. Men lose themselves in her eyes and go mad with the need to possess her. It’s acting like her that bothers me.
I don’t want to become some sad, unlovable forty-something, whose smell of desperation becomes so hard to ignore that it always repulses everyone who gets too close.
My cell ringing from the other room brings The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” blasting into my bathroom, just as I turn off the dryer. Glancing in the mirror, I zhuzh my shaggy bangs before walking out. I pick up the pace, taking quicker steps on the balls of my feet to grab the phone in time.
“I was just thinking of you,” I answer sarcastically, seeing the name on my screen.
“I’m sure all good things. I need you to ask your father something.”
Hello to you, too, Mommy.
“No.”
“Donovan.”
“No,” I repeat with more force.
“You chose to live there. And you left me with quite a large mess to clean up. So, I think the least you can do is pass a message or two. Don’t you?”
God, I hate my mother. Her only child spirals out of control, and still, all she can think is how to use me to her advantage. Frustration roils inside of me, all the despicable words volleying to be said first on the tip of my tongue. But the very first insult I think clamps my mouth shut, because, as much as I want to say no, my guilt trumps my hatred. I did fuck up, and I did bail.
“Fine.”
I hear her sigh in relief, and it makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. Pivoting to my walk-in closet, I hold the phone to my ear as she speaks. “Tell him I want the Boulders for the holidays.”
I bark out a laugh, grabbing the tie from where it’s hanging next to my school blazer, and hook my finger around the coat to carry both back to the bed, tossing them down.
“Do you think if I ask for you that he’ll finally say yes? Jesus, Mother.”
“Don’t act so affronted,” she huffs.
“I’m not. I meant it as a direction. Jesus—that’s who you should ask because you’re hoping for a miracle, and I think he’s the only guy who’s ever been known to dish those out.”
“Less sarcasm and more help, Donovan. God, you’re just like your father.”
I wish that were true. Love isn’t a word he cares to explore. It’s empty, but at least then I wouldn’t be in my current mess. Tossing my towel to the ground, I put the phone on speaker as I get dressed.
“You’ve been trying for that house as long as the two of you have been divorced. He always says no. What makes this year different? It’s not as if he’s thrilled that I’m here, Mother.”
“He still has you to entertain. And God knows I’ve made plenty of sacrifices in my life for you, since your father and I parted ways.”
Yeah, right.
That house has always been a point
of contention between them. My father bought it for her as a wedding gift. She loved it. When she broke his heart, he took the only other thing she loved away from her—a house. Not me. A house. But legalities are tricky; she still has an interest until he sells it, and he won’t ever do that because it’s much more fun to dangle it over her head.
My hand’s still on the waistband of my skirt, dumbfounded by what she’s said. “You’re serious. Sacrificed? Last year for New Year’s, you disappeared for a week to party on a yacht. I sat alone. I’ve been taking care of myself, and occasionally a hungover or heartbroken you, for quite some time.”
“Just ask him.”
This woman would have eaten her young if she was allowed.
“Yep.”
The light dims on my cell as the call ends, my head slightly shaking while I stare at it. I hate that it still hurts. One day I hope I can feel for her as much as I do for a complete stranger. People should have to take a test to procreate. Maybe like something that differentiates between narcissistic egomaniacs with a dash of insecurity and all those who would make good parents. That way kids wouldn’t be tricked into loving the wrong people.
I shake my head again, wiping some moisture from under my eye. I don’t have time for this. My eyes dart to the clock on my nightstand, and I realize I’m going to have to haul ass if I’m going to be on time, and I need to be on time to make a good impression.
Rolling the dark navy plaid skirt, so it’s a tad shorter and trendier, I leave my white button-down untucked. They can’t hold my fashion sense against me. The sleeves on the blazer fold easily, so I push them up my slender forearms, adding some bangles to my wrist full of bracelets. I throw my tie over my head, letting it hang loosely, tugging my hair free to drop down my back.
I grab my favorite necklace, letting the tarnished pendant fall over my chest from the long chain it’s attached to. My fingers linger on it, remembering the precious moment. So long ago and yet so vivid in my mind. It’s one of those moments I’ve hung on to a lot lately.
“Here. To remember us. It’s Liam’s lucky penny. We took it to one of those machines that makes it flat.”
“But, this is only from Liam.”
“It’s okay. When you think of him, you’ll think of me too.”
“No, give me something from you, too, so I can add it on. What’s your good luck charm?”
“You.”
Throwing on my black suede riding boots, I take one last look in the mirror, letting my memories fade.
“Gossip Girl chic. I can do that. Shit—” I breathe out and run to the bathroom to grab my makeup bag. I’ll do it on the drive.
Leaving my bedroom door open, I rush out into the hallway toward the stairs. My boots are making my presence known as I hurry against the marble floor, only having to turn back to grab my shoulder bag and cell. A growl is produced from my fluster as I retrace my steps and back again. Jesus, I’m batting a thousand today.
By the time I make it to the ornately metal glass front door of my building, the driver is already standing at the curb, holding the car door open, seemingly annoyed. I get it, dude. Traffic in the city is a nightmare, and it takes at least a half hour to get to the posh all-girls’ estate that’s my new prison—I mean, my new school.
“Sorry,” I offer, batting my eyelashes and watching his stern expression relax.
He gives his head a shake, amusement growing on his lips, as I bite mine, innocently. Except not at all. God, it’s just so easy.
Opening my door for me, he steps back, and I mouth a thank you before I toss my bag inside, cutting the charm just as Victor calls out behind me. His voice bellows over a horn honking in the background.
“Miss—”
I cut him off, turning over my shoulder. “I know, Vic. Try not to be a whore. Mind my manners and don’t embarrass my father. I got it. At ease.”
His lips purse, making him seem more constipated than usual, and a smile erupts over my face, but I hide it, turning back to duck into my ride. The driver slides into the front seat, and we begin rolling, slowly joining the heavy traffic.
Here we go. From one war zone into another. Happy freaking Monday.
The drive isn’t too harrowing, but any chance of caking on the makeup wasn’t happening. Thank you, New York City potholes. The natural vibe has always been my favorite anyhow. Living on the coast of Spain all these years has instilled a much more bohemian beachy vibe into my style. I’m a shaggy-banged, early seventies throwback with high-waist button flies, bangles, and gloss stuffed inside a prep school uniform.
I lay the side of my head back against the cool black leather seat and stare out the window, watching the familiar buildings pass by. It’s weird. It looks the same but different. The last time I was here, I was twelve. Everything seemed so much bigger to me back then.
My necklace twists between my fingers as I think about that time. Two familiar faces pop into my mind again, causing the side of my lips to pull upward.
Grey and Liam. My best friends. My secret crushes.
I’d thought about reaching out when I got back, but it seemed strange. Five years have passed; they’re practically strangers to me now. Plus, I’m swearing off men—all of them. I’m trouble, and I’ve never met any guy who’s not all too willing to explore my brand of it. Therefore, a complete ban is needed.
Thankfully, the school will be a massive help in that department. Madison Prep is the perfect all-girls’ school. Full of Upper East Side bitches, all scrambling to climb the social ladder. They’ll be nice to me because of my name alone. My family is multimedia. Newspapers. News. Media. You name it. We own it.
Unfortunately for the world, my father is one of the few men in the one-percent who controls the narrative. He’s also a completely out of touch egotist who believes he’s earned his worth just by being born with his name. A name I share, much to his dismay.
The road begins to sound different under the tires, breaking me from my thoughts. My eyes refocus from staring out of the window to see rows of stately oak trees lining the sides as we drive past.
I reach forward, pressing a button to bring down the privacy window, so I can see out the front to admire the elegance of the grounds. Two white, ornate pillars connect a black iron sign that reads Hillcrest Preparatory Academy. It makes the kind of statement that would cause anyone to sit up a bit straighter, but that’s not what has my attention.
Motherfucker.
“Pretty remarkable, wouldn’t you say?” the driver remarks.
“Yeah. It’s definitely a statement and incredibly unexpected,” I answer, pulling my cell from my bag.
The building looks old and well-kept like the money that funds it. It’s stately and elegant, with bricks full of intimidation and history. There are only four schools that matter in a world like mine: Red Oak, Madison, Burr, and the almighty Hillcrest.
Almighty, because it’s housed at least fourteen presidents and every big CEO and leader of industry in the world. It’s not just a school; it’s a breeding ground for legacy and fortune. It’s also the one place I can’t blend in or hide. Too many people will know my family’s history and maybe even their secrets because, in a place like this, secrets are like fucking currency.
My heart is beating quicker than I’d like as I dial my dad. I listen to the ringing, growing angrier as he doesn’t pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.
“Make it fast. I’m busy.” Hallelujah.
“Hillcrest? I’d hoped you had a small amount of love for me.”
“Get over yourself, and stop being dramatic. Face your shit, then learn from it. Hillcrest is the best school. I won’t coddle you like your fucking mother.”
I almost laugh at the idea. Coddle? Is he kidding?
“I’m not sure either of you has ever known anything as nurturing as coddling.”
“Is there something important you need, Donovan?”
My teeth find the inside of my cheek as my eyes stay cast down. Staring at the pattern of m
y skirt, I don’t know what to say. But this is the most we’ve spoken in what seems like forever. Right now, my nerves are starting to rattle, and I wish he’d just, I don’t know, be my dad.
But I know better. Weakness is for the weak.
“Nope. Consider this conversation my suicide note. Then again, you’re the one throwing me to the wolves, so I guess it’s more like my murder.”
“Goodbye, Donovan.”
The line dies, and I drop the phone next to me, letting out a breath. I could’ve used a break, life. Thanks for nothing, you cruel bitch.
Our car slows to a stop, and I see what I presume is the dean standing and waiting for us at the curb. Jesus, this gets better and better. He’s going to schmooze me to ensure my father’s support. I’m of no help, buddy.
Gathering my things, I smooth my blazer, finally noticing the damn H in the logo, and roll my eyes, but another thought pops into my mind. What are the chances I see… No. But maybe. Doesn’t matter—there’s no turning back now. My door is opened, and I throw out a leg, steeling myself ready for what’s to come. If this is the test I’m forced to take to get my life back, then so be it.
Keep it coming, karma. You aren’t knocking this girl out for the count just yet.
Grey
THE DEAN’S NEED TO HEAR his own drivel makes me want to take a dirt nap, right here, and since his office is the size of an expensively furnished coffin, it would be fitting.
“I expect you to be my ambassador on this, Grey. I want you to make a fine impression today. Hillcrest is not merely a high school. We are an institution that breeds…”
For fuck’s sake. Shut the fuck up.
I’ve been stuck in his overrun-by-paper, piece-of-shit office for the last ten minutes listening to his “do me a favor” speech.
Normally, I wouldn’t entertain him, and he wouldn’t dare to ask, but he has something I want, and he knows it. Unfortunately for me, he holds the authority to allow the rowing team to compete in a “friendly” match with our rivals on school property.
Filthy Little Pretties Page 3
