The Knight (Coleridge Academy Elites Book 2)

by Lucy Auburn

Walk. Just take a step forward. That's all I have to do. Then another, then another... but I don't want to see his face. Those eyes of his, the fact that he looks so much like Lukas. Knowing that he's somehow connected to my brother's death. It's all too much for me.

  "Brenna?" A familiar, European-accented voice drags me out of my spiraling thoughts. "Something wrong?"

  Glancing over my shoulder at Lukas, I give him a shaky smile. "Nothing you have to worry about."

  But he's studying me, and those bright blue eyes of his don't take long to get to the truth. "C'mon, I'll go with you to lunch."

  "You don't have to—"

  "I want to," he says lightly. "Besides, someone has to look out for you. As we found out the other day, you're prone to disappearing at the most inopportune times."

  I grimace, trying to adopt a light tone. "Let's hope that never happens again."

  "It won't."

  "Sure."

  "I mean it." Reaching out, he captures my elbow in his hand, gently holding me still. "I want you to stay safe. Maybe someone should make sure you get back to your room okay, and don't go missing in the middle of classes. After all, those men who kidnapped you clearly know which school you go to."

  "There's security around campus already," I point out. "I'm pretty sure someone will notice two strange adult men showing up out of nowhere."

  Lukas's voice is soft as he asks, "What if they don't notice until it's too late, and you've been hurt? Those men incapacitated you very quickly. Don't you live alone in Rosalind Hall? Maybe someone should—"

  "Lukas," I chide him softly, "I don't need you to protect me."

  "Maybe you do." He's looking at me so intensely that I can see every shade of blue in his eyes. There's so much more there than you see at first glance. "I want to keep you safe, Brenna. I just don't know how."

  "You could tell me what's going on," I point out, wishing that he would. "I know that I'm not being told the whole truth."

  Lukas looks away, his hand falling from my elbow, and I know that I've hit the target right in the center. "Telling you the whole truth would put you in more danger, not less."

  "How am I supposed to know what I should be scared of if you won't even tell me?"

  "Be scared of everything," he advises me, sounding like a paranoid conspiracy theorist more than anything. "And hope that when this is all over, you can go back to your old life."

  "Without Silas, that's just not possible."

  Sadness turns his eyes down. "Regardless. You'll be better off when you've moved on from all this. Now—can we please just go to lunch? I hate not being able to answer your questions truthfully."

  "Then answer them."

  "Stop asking them." He's looking at me the way most people look at three-legged puppies. "Please? At least until finals are over. We can get you what you want without you knowing all the gory details of, well, everything."

  He means that we can put Hass away and he can keep his secrets—though I suspect most of them are his friends' secrets more than anything else. His playing of both sides makes me grind my teeth, but it also gives me an opportunity, as we walk through the double doors to the dining hall, to ask a pointed question.

  "How are the four of you going to help me get what I want? After all, it's not like..."

  I go quiet as I see them.

  Georgia and Hass.

  No longer separate but clearly—based on the way he's practically giving her a hickey in front of the entire student body—together again, for better or worse.

  Watching them makes my stomach roil uncomfortably, so I have to look away. A dozen questions race through my mind, though. More than anything I want to know what he told the police—and what he didn't tell them. However it is that he wound up becoming the person who "stumbled" on me unconscious in the trunk of a car, I know it wasn't an accident.

  As soon as I look away, though, curiosity draws my eyes back to them. Georgia has her head tilted back, neck bared to his attentions. They're sitting at a round table with other students—mostly ones I barely know. No one seems to be giving their little show a second glance, though.

  I wonder how it is that she can let him kiss her like that after everything he's done to her.

  I don't know why I care, after everything she's done to me.

  Those clever eyes of hers flick over and land on me, and I quickly look away, pretending as if I wasn't staring at their PDA even though it's the only thing interesting going on in the entire dining hall. Lukas doesn't seem to have noticed my wandering attention; he guides me towards a table in the back, tells me to get a seat, and offers to grab some food for me.

  "You don't have to do that," I tell him, face reddening as I wonder if he thinks I'm that poor. "I can get my own food."

  "Actually." He awkwardly scratches at his neck, right near the collar of his ironed button-up shirt. "Your student ID was apparently deactivated by the administration. You'll have to get a new one now that you're re-enrolled. Until then it won't work."

  That explains why I had to wait for someone to let me into Rosalind Hall at my return. Face burning, I realize what he's very politely not saying: that I can't afford a meal here without access to my scholarship fund. The real reason why he insisted on escorting me to lunch is abundantly clear.

  The differences between us couldn't be more stark: I can't afford lunch, and he doesn't even have to think twice about offering to buy it for me. Making myself smile politely, because it's not Lukas's fault that I was born into a far poorer family than him, I nod. "Thank you. I didn't even realize that my ID wouldn't work, but... of course. It makes total sense. Just get me whatever is on the menu and looks good."

  "Be right back."

  As he melds into the lunch line, fitting in perfectly with all the rich kids, I let my eyes wander the full length of the dining hall. There's Georgia and Hass again, this time sitting next to each other instead of her on his lap, having an animated conversation with the rest of the table. I spy Piper Lyons, with her short dirty blonde hair and superior attitude, sitting at a table with a few other impossibly lithe girls. Veronica Pierce and Heather Tan are looking in my direction—at least until I stare at them and they duck their hands, exchanging no doubt pointed barbs. And at another table, there are a few somewhat familiar boys and—Hector.

  Hector, who didn't text me while I was missing, who helped me sneak into Cole's room and steal his journal, who has a beef with him because of their fathers. He's sitting at a table with a few friends of his I don't know, talking as he twirls his fork in a pile of spaghetti. I must stare for too long, because his shoulders tense like he feels me looking his way, and then he glances up right at me—only for his gaze to skip over to someone standing a few feet away.

  "Found yourself a nice table, haven't you?"

  A familiar drawl drags me away, and I look up at the face that Hector was no doubt staring into: handsome tanned skin, dark hair, an impossibly roguish smirk, and the kind of charisma that can lay a girl flat on the ground in an instant. Tanner Connally will never change, and there's something reassuring about that. A girl could set her clock to his innuendo.

  "Lukas wanted me to sit with him," I tell Tanner, letting a hint of a challenge sink into my tone. "Unless you have a problem with that?"

  "Never, Brenna." He so rarely says my name—it's almost always nicknames with Tanner—that the sound of those two syllables spilling from his Kentucky-soaked mouth sends a little tingle up my spine. I hate myself for it even as the hairs on my arm stand on end. "Just wondering if you planned on poisoning my food. Or maybe something more sinister, like seducing me. Setting me on fire? One never knows, with you. Always so creative."

  Grinding my teeth, I point out, "I've never done anything to you that you didn't invite by being a complete asshole."

  "True enough." Sitting down, he takes out his phone and taps through an app that I realize belatedly is a food delivery service. Technically we're not supposed to have any outside food delivered to campus on week
days, but that won't stop one of the Elites. "My father is still in a tizzy about all your revelations. He's worried I'm going to get my own DUI."

  "You haven't?"

  "Not for lack of trying." He flashes those white teeth at me, charming and dangerous all at once. "I mostly get drunk and ride dirt bikes through the Kentucky countryside, though. Maybe I should upgrade to a Ferrari, really get the gossip rags going."

  "And I guess if someone gets hurt that doesn't matter."

  He gives me an exaggerated wounded look, putting one hand over his heart. "Me, maim or kill someone? Never! The plan would be to drunkenly drive my car into a tree. Maybe a mall, just to really get the scandal going. There's never anyone in malls these days."

  I snort, shaking my head at his antics. "Your father's campaign manager must have a heart attack just thinking about your existence."

  "You have no idea."

  The way he says it makes it sound like there's something I don't know—some Connally family secret that could take down the whole operation. Trying to investigate it is a huge temptation, but Tanner is a small, moving target compared to Hass—though I haven't sworn that I would stop exposing the Elites. Just taken a break momentarily because it's easier to be on their side than against them.

  Licking my lips, I ask him, "What could I possibly not know about you? After all, you're an open book. Especially these days."

  "You mean especially after you posted that video of me punching another boy, and I had to go on the morning talk show circuit to give a sad tale of origin to explain it all." Tanner sighs dramatically. "How heartbreaking it was, opening myself up emotionally on national TV. Woe is me."

  "You don't have to be such a dick about it. Just don't answer the question."

  "Where's the fun in that?" Another flash of a grin, another white smile that makes my stomach do uncomfortable, embarrassing things. I don't want to admit to myself how much of an effect he has on me, but there's no denying it, especially as he leans forward and practically growls, "If you want to know more about me Brenna, all you have to do is ask... at the right time, in the right place. I'll reveal it all to you. Bare anything. Strip naked."

  "I get the metaphor," I tell him, trying to sound offended and uninterested even as uncomfortable things happen between my thighs at the thought of tanned, ripped Tanner taking his clothes off in front of me and confessing all his secrets. "Do you ever turn it off?"

  "Nah, I'm always turned on."

  Before he can slip another bit of innuendo in, Lukas shows up with our food, and Tanner shocks me by falling silent. I wouldn't think he'd care one way or another whether or not Lukas is around to witness his shameless flirting, but apparently he has at least a little bit in the way of standards.

  "Thanks, Lukas." Warm gratitude suffuses me as he sets the tray of food in front of me. "I guess I'll have to get that new ID card soon."

  "You can make an appointment for later today." Sliding his eyes over to Tanner, Lukas asks him, "Have you decided what you're doing about your finals yet?"

  He shrugs. "Maybe I'll fail 'em on purpose, maybe I won't. Figured I'll decide when I sit down in front of each test."

  "Why would you fail them on purpose?" I ask, curious despite myself.

  "Easy—to piss the old man off. And cause trouble for him. No way he'll let me fail out of Coleridge, but keeping me here after so many Fs would cost him a shitload of money." Tanner grins, the shape of it pointed and feral. "So I fail on purpose. Just to fuck with him in the middle of his campaign."

  No one dislikes George Connally as much as his son, it seems. I can't understand that kind of hatred—even the way I feel towards my father is a slow-burning thing, not the kind of resentment that leads to self-sabotage. I get the feeling Tanner would do anything just to make his father angry, even ruin his own life.

  It's a dangerous thing. Pointing this out to him, though, would be like saying water is wet. I have the feeling he already knows—and doesn't give a shit. So I just take a bite of the sandwich Lukas got me and try to mind my own business.

  Something that becomes impossible when Cole and Blake walk up to our table, and Cole declares, "I know how to get you what you want, Wilder."

  Chapter 10

  Hearing my true last name out of his mouth, even after all this time, makes my stomach churn uncomfortably. It'll be hard to be a Wilder again after so much time spent as a Cooke, but my father's name was my brother's name, and at least this way I'll be living the truth. For him, if no one else.

  "Share with us," I tell Cole, who's standing there expectantly. "I suppose you've got some big dramatic plan that requires a lot of time and money."

  "No. Just the opposite." Cole takes the seat right next to me, and I have to fight the urge to pull my chair away, even as his altogether too familiar scent washes over me. He smells like warmth and comfort, an impossible thing given who he is, with the light scent of apples wafting from his clean warm brown hair. "What I've got planned is going to be very easy and only mildly risky. Expensive? Not at all."

  "It's not just your plan." Blake sounds peeved as he takes the remaining seat between Tanner and Lukas, his cold eyes narrowing at his friend. "I'm the one who reminded you what Hass likes to do at the start of every semester."

  "The start? So this would be for January."

  "Exactly." Cole smirks at me, leaning forward into my space until I can feel the warmth of his body in the air around him like a physical presence. "You'll have plenty of time to prepare. We'll even help—though you'll be on your own with this one. All it'll take is one simple night and a few minutes of effort, and Hass will be done for. Probably for a while."

  "Tell me."

  Blake is the one who starts. "He has a little tradition for the start of every semester of school: he buys all the drugs, alcohol, fireworks, and anything else he's not supposed to have and smuggles it on campus right before classes start. Then at the end of the semester, he makes it a mission to use it all up—calls it his last chance party and everything."

  "Gross." I wrinkle my nose. "But somehow I doubt buying a few tabs of molly and some Roman candles will put him away."

  "You're not wrong," Cole says, his voice so near that I can feel his breath on my cheek, making me warm in places I try not to think about. We're almost as close now, physically, as we were when we kissed—when I kissed him—and it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, my toes over open air. "But word is—courtesy of a little digging Blake and I did this morning—that Hass is buying more than just some party favors this year. Apparently he's got more exotic tastes in mind."

  I frown. "What, like a white tiger? Italian molly? I can't imagine what he could buy that would possibly get him thrown in jail."

  An expression crosses Cole's face, one I haven't really seen before, something in between disgust and rage, guilt and shame. In a low voice he says, "What do you think rich boys buy when they know they can get away with it?"

  It's Blake who answers, even as my mind catches up. "Girls. He's buying himself his own little sex slave to keep in the family summer house nearby. All the way from overseas."

  My gut churns, and I find myself glancing over towards Hass and Georgia's table. They're no longer canoodling, but she's staring at him with this rapturous expression on her face that I can't for the life of me understand. It's like she thinks he plucked the moon out of the sky, when really all he did was inherit a trust fund and act like a sociopath.

  She looks up at me, stares me straight on, and smiles. I don't look away at first, forcing myself to meet her gaze despite the sick pit in my stomach. It's impossible to tell the source of the dread. I'm just as worried for Georgia as I am upset just at the sight of her, after everything she did to me at the Blind Ball.

  I wonder what it'll take for her to break away from Hass's orbit. Even she deserves better than a boy like that one. Hell, no one deserves Hass.

  Least of all someone who has no opportunity to say no to him.

  Turning back towards
the boys, I see they have some of the same dread and disgust on their face that I feel. Drugs, parties, even DUIs were one thing, but this is more like the body in the trunk of that car, the one Cole claims he had no idea about—something I'm shocked to realize I actually believe. And just like the governor tried to cover up for his son when he got pulled over with Cole, that girl stuffed into the trunk, Hass's rich parents will try to cover for him.

  "How do we make sure that when he gets caught it won't all get swept under the rug?"

  "That," Cole declares, "is where you come in."

  The plan is for me to make sure Hass is exposed publicly—and on film—simultaneously as he's arrested, so that he can't run and hide from the charges. I'll do it anonymously, using my Legacies blog, because as the boys warned me, this is not the kind of thing I want to do under my legal name. It should all be over with by the end of January—along with my time here at Coleridge, if Hass gets charged quickly enough, which Tanner promises he will be.

  One wrinkle: between then and now I have to pass my final exams. And other than Visual Arts, I'm starting to wonder if that's even possible. It's one thing to write an essay or prepare for a one page quiz; Coleridge finals, from everything I've heard, are an absolute nightmare to pass, even for the kids who have been going to top tier private schools their whole lives, or the scholarship students who actually earned their place here.

  I'm nowhere near as smart as either.

  So I'll just have to be twice as studious. Even though my mind keeps wandering back to the feeling of strong arms grabbing me in the rain and stuffing chloroform over my mouth. I can't stop thinking of that moment when I woke up in the trunk, bound and gagged, and wondering if I could've done anything to escape or call for help. But more than anything, my mind keeps ruminating over the fact that I have no idea how it is that I'm still alive—and the one person who knows is the one who won't be giving me any answers.

  Even when stories about my kidnapping and rescue start showing up in the news, the statements Hass gives are all perfunctory and smell of lies: he was driving late at night to unwind, he saw a car parked on the side of the road and two suspicious men, and after chasing them off discovered me in the trunk and called the police. No word where the men went or how they got away on foot. No explanation other than coincidence as to why he just happened to be there at the right place and time.