The Knight (Coleridge Academy Elites Book 2)

by Lucy Auburn

  "Just like that?"

  "Yes." He tweaks my nipple, and I have to force myself to grab his wrist and pull his hand away, even as that part of my body wants nothing more than to feel more of it. Blake frowns at me, clearly annoyed. "What's wrong? I know you want me, that much is obvious. And it's not like you're saving it for marriage—neither am I. So let's practice together."

  With effort, I push him off, reaching back to try to put my bra together again. As I do so, I ask him, "Is this all just a game to you?"

  "Oh, Brenna." He rolls his eyes at me. "Isn't everything?"

  "No." Shaking my head, I jump off the chair and move past him, yanking my skirt down and pulling my socks up until I feel less like a fool. "I should've known better. You never had feelings for me."

  "Of course I didn't. I was thinking all wrong—what I thought was love was just attraction. Cole made that clear to me." He frowns at me, and as I grab my backpack and put the laptop back in it, he takes my wrist in the circle of his thumb and forefinger, holding me back. "I thought you'd be relieved. You don't want me to fall in love with you."

  The way he says it, so plainly, I find that I can't disagree. But for some reason I can't reconcile the boy in front of me, the obvious arousal in his pants and the coarse words, eager to get me over with and move on, with the boy who waited for me on the side of a busy road, worry in his eyes.

  They barely seem like the same person.

  I didn't realize until now that I wanted that boy on the side of the road. That my heart aches for him. The one standing in front of me isn't nearly a substitute—even when he is down on his knees.

  "I'll testify." Yanking my hand away from his, I pull my jacket over my shoulders and throw my backpack on. "But I don't want to ever be alone with you in a room again. Not after this. Not like this, either. You and Cole can play your games without me. I have more important things to do, like trying to stay alive."

  Blake looks stunned, and as I walk away I feel his eyes on me.

  He doesn't follow.

  Georgia's car is an impossibly bright hot shade of pink that must have been custom. It's a Tesla, shockingly earth conscious but still wildly expensive, complete with the screen up front and an automatic driving mode that she probably uses all the time.

  Leaning up against the hood, she watches me walk towards her, and frowns in my direction. "Couldn't you have worn something a little nicer than that?"

  I stare at her clothes, which are undoubtedly designer, then compare them to my uniform. She makes me look shabby—which is ridiculous because, as I tell her, "We're going to the police station, not a fashion show."

  "Still. This is public. We'll be seen together."

  "Just get in the car and drive, Georgia."

  "Fine!" She throws up her hands at me. "God forbid you improve yourself a little. Excuse me for wanting to be a positive force in your life."

  I ignore her words, biting down on a million retorts. If I'm going to get through this and make it to the other side, I need to get used to Georgia's eccentricities—or, to be more accurate, her absolute bullshit.

  "I took photos of the bruises last night when they were at their worst," she says as I slide into the car, pulling up a slideshow of her camera roll on the dashboard screen. "Look at this. It's fucking gnarly. Took me five layers of yellow concealer to cancel it out." Frowning, she looks at her reflection in the rearview mirror and realizes aloud, "Oh my god, they'll probably take my makeup off at the station. Then I'll have to go home like that."

  Because apparently it needs to be said, I point out, "No one you know will be at the police precinct."

  "Oh. Right." Her facial expression changes. "Well, let's do this then." She turns over the engine and fiddles with the buttons on the dashboard screen until pop music blares from the car speakers. "I pick the music—I'm not listening to your sad playlist. You probably don't pay for no commercials."

  "Fine by me."

  I let my mind wander as she drives towards the Great Falls Police Department, thinking, inevitably, of Blake. Some part of me wonders if I should've just gone through with it. Maybe that was the best chance I'll get to lose my virginity to someone who's handsome and attractive, obviously into me, and capable of doing more than just fumbling around and shoving it in.

  But it didn't sit right with me that the version of Blake I got wasn't the one I wanted. Besides, I can't go back to him now—that'll just look pathetic. I have to live with my decision.

  Even though I'll be thinking of that kiss, and what didn't follow, for days, maybe even weeks. No one has ever touched me like that before. It might be a while before anyone else even wants to. I just have to hope the next person to come along doesn't want to just "get it over with" like it's some sort of terrible task to check off a to-do list.

  Before I know it we're outside the precinct. Then I'm walking in with Georgia, who complains and makes me walk one step behind her. Soon enough we're at the front desk, telling them what we're here for.

  An officer comes out to meet with us.

  Then a detective. One who seems very interested in hearing about crimes the Von Hassells may have been up to.

  "Take it from the top," he tells me. "I want to know more about the girls you saw. Tell me about the men, too—what did they look like, and do you think they were related to the men who took you last December?"

  I tell him every detail, well-acquainted with this process by now.

  And I try not to think what will happen if the Syndicate decides I should die for this.

  Chapter 21

  Two Days Later

  I'm bent over my economics homework at lunch, double-checking everything, when someone taps me on the shoulder. Across from me, Holly frowns—I've been sitting at her table for lunch ever since the disastrous fallout with Blake—and as I turn around, I'm unsurprised to see that Cole is the one standing behind me impatiently.

  "You could come back to sit with us," he says, and I feel everyone at the table go still.

  The other girls don't seem to understand why the Elites have taken such an interest in me, and I haven't been able to tell them. Georgia hasn't wanted me to, for one. Now that Cole is staring at me like I'm a vexing problem, not a girl he has a crush on, hopefully they'll understand that it has nothing to do with romance.

  In an annoyed tone, he adds, "I need to ask you something. In private."

  "You can text me." I hold up my phone, flashing it at him. "Or message me. You can even email me. Those are all private."

  Tricia's mouth drops open, and Sasha elbows her until she shuts it. I can tell they're wondering why I'm back-talking Cole so thoroughly. I wish Hector were here to see this, but it pains me to admit that we'll probably never be friends again. He wasn't a fan of being lied to, and felt like I used him. I can't say that he's wrong.

  Impatiently, Cole grits his teeth and says, "I need to talk to you in person. Now."

  Looking over his shoulder, I see that Lukas is staring hopefully my way. Tanner seems to be distracted by the foreign exchange girl sitting next to him, practically in his lap—apparently he found a new toy, one to replace the fun he had with Georgia and the manipulating he did to Chrissy. I hate how it makes my stomach cramp to watch her touch his arm, then see him flex and run his fingers through her hair. I hate even more how terrible I feel when I glance over at Blake, who quickly looks away, his posture stiff and statuesque, face emotionless once more.

  Privileged asshole that he is, Cole Masterson doesn't care about any of the tension or awkwardness I'll feel sitting at his table. He probably knows what happened between Blake and me—I have no doubt they talked about it—and just doesn't give a shit about its effects.

  "Fine." Standing up, I reluctantly tell Holly, "I'll be back in a sec."

  "Of course." She looks casual, even though I know it strains her to have Cole in my life, especially now that we're friends again. "Don't fall in a pit on your way over."

  I laugh, telling her, "I'm sure you'll be able to
pull me out of it."

  Cole frowns at me as I walk over to his table. "What was that? A pit?"

  "Don't worry about it." I keep my voice light, enjoying the fact that it bothers him not to know what we were talking about. "Your ex and I are friends, but I doubt she'd want me telling you her business."

  "It didn't sound like her business. It sounded like yours. Did you fall and I didn't know it? Has anyone pushed you? The people we're going up against will be on high alert now that you've gone to the police, even with someone like Georgia testifying with you."

  "Stop worrying," I tell him, glancing over at Blake as I take my spot at the table, whose face is tense. No doubt he's worried I'll tell Cole I know all about the Syndicate, and he'll get in trouble for his loose lips. "Georgia and I are going after a shitty teenage boy who's been suspended and expelled from multiple boarding schools. I'm sure no one will care much if we add another blot to his record. And we made sure the officers we gave our statements to were ones you recommended—not that I understand why. Care to tell me?"

  Yet again he stiffens up, annoyance passing over his face. "You've been at Coleridge for months now. Haven't you learned that there are advantages to having connections? Some officers are better at this than others."

  "Yeah, well—" My voice is cut off by the sound of my phone ringing, something unallowed in the halls of Coleridge. Annoyed, I pull it out and glance at the screen; the first six numbers are familiar. "It's the police precinct."

  "Well, pick it up then. I'm waiting."

  "We're not supposed to take phone calls on campus, especially during class time or lunch."

  "You're standing next to me. You won't get in trouble."

  That isn't exactly true, and it doesn't thrill me if it is, but I answer the phone anyway. After all, getting a demerit mark is nothing next to the hope that Hass might be arrested. "Hello?"

  "Brenna Wilder?"

  "This is she."

  "This is Officer Munez. The District Attorney just called me. They want to press charges against Ferdinand Von Hassell. And they want to hear more about what you witnessed. Care to come down to the station?"

  It all goes by in a blur, faster than I thought possible. Like a boulder rolling down a sheer mountain face, it picks up steam the closer it gets to the end, falling faster and faster, threatening to create an avalanche.

  By the time Georgia and I make it back to campus, Hass is being arrested.

  I see the red and blue lights first. Georgia lets out a string of curses. "Fuckshitohmygoddamnit." She looks over at me, eyes wide, seeking reassurance. "We're gonna live through this, right?"

  For the first time, I ask her, "Do you know what we're up against?"

  "I know Hass's parents are richer than sin. They have political influence. He has ways to make things like this disappear." Her hands tighten on the steering wheel as she pulls into a spot at the edge of Coleridge's parking lot. "Fuck. He'll make this disappear, won't he?"

  "I don't think he'll be able to." I point towards the news van parked in the lot, and the reporter fast walking towards the arrest scene, cameraman in tow. "Look."

  The news van, of course, is courtesy of Blake. His family knows how to lead the media by its nose and point cameras directly at scandals. There's a reason why the Garrisons have never had anything negative written about them in the news—and why the Lee family, out of all the Korean media moguls, manages to hide in their estates without being bothered. When you give the media what it wants, feed it a diet of red meat and fresh blood, it grows full and looks the other way when you want it to. All Blake had to do was send an email to his family's publicist, and Hass's fate was sealed.

  As he's frog-marched to a squad car, hands cuffed behind him, the reporter is already on the scene. She asks for a statement from the cops, who remain tight-lipped. I look over at Georgia. "This is where we come in."

  "Where we—what?"

  "We have to tell the media what he did to you." The look she sends me is scathing, which is why I avoided this until now. "The charges won't stick unless there's public pressure. You saw what happened to the governor's son—he made a whole DUI go away, even with a dead body in the trunk. They're saying the family fixer killed the girl." Something I find doubtful, now that I know the Syndicate exists. "If that scandal hadn't gone public, no one would have ever known about it. The same with this one. It's hard to bury something this big."

  In a small voice, she confesses, "I haven't told my parents about what's happening yet."

  "Then you should probably shoot them a text, because we're about to go live." I tug on her sleeve. "C'mon—better to do it now, while it's still light out. Or do you want to be washed out on live TV?"

  That gets her attention. She walks out of the car with me, and we go to the news van, where the segment producer is leaning up against the tailgate smoking. The cameraman has his camera pointed at the ground, and the on-air reporter is re-powdering her already-powdered nose. If someone doesn't talk to them soon, give them more to air, this story will disappear. I can sense it.

  Sharks need chum in the water to get them going.

  So I walk right up to the producer, wrinkle my nose at the cigarette smoke, and tell him, "We know why Ferdinand Von Hassell was arrested."

  "Oh?" Dropping his cigarette on the ground, he steps on it, his full attention on me. "Do you really know, or do you just think you know? Because with a family this big, we've got to be sure."

  "We know." Shoving her way forward, Georgia pulls a makeup remover cloth out of her bag and, in one wipe, reveals the mottled yellowing bruise on her cheek in the distinct shape of a handprint. "He did this to me. And a lot worse, too. I'm going to make sure he pays for it."

  Leaning over his shoulder, the producer calls out, “Sheila! Reapply your lipstick. We've got a story." Then he looks to us, and asks, "How old are you two? I can't put little kids in the air."

  "Eighteen," Georgia says, sounding annoyed. "I'm not a little kid."

  "I'm seventeen." I frown. "Is that going to be a problem?"

  He studies me. "We'll just show you from the neck down. You." Looking at Georgia, he takes her in, and I know what he sees: a perfect figure, a sympathetic pout, natural red hair, and a beautiful face ruined by a bruise. "That face is so dramatic. Perfect for television. What's your name, sweetheart?"

  "Georgia Johnson, of the Plymouth Johnsons." I turn my head to roll my eyes where no one will see. Georgia adds, "You can talk to my publicist. A press release on all this will be going out shortly. We expect it to be news in the local papers tomorrow."

  Walking up to us, the on-air reporter says flippantly, "We're not local, we're national. This story is big enough to be front page news if we play it right. Rich boy hits girlfriend, gets arrested, is found in possession of cocaine, heroine, and ecstasy? The public will eat it up. Everyone loves when a rich asshole falls."

  Which means everyone will be watching this story.

  It doesn't matter, I tell myself. They'll show me from the neck down. Besides, the Syndicate already knows who I am.

  They came for me once. Two men tried to kill me. It can't possibly get worse than that.

  Or so I tell myself.

  Everything happens so quickly.

  My classes become intense. Georgia and I do multiple interviews, her on the record, me as "Jane Doe." Reporters swarm the campus; Hass is suspended pending investigation, and then, when they find drugs in his room, expelled. It doesn't matter that he gets out on bail after being arrested—the school decides he's finally guilty enough to get rid of for good.

  The post I make about it to Legacies gets thousands of hits. Ferdinand Von Hassell is all anyone can talk about. He's a symbol to them of what the rich have become: greedy, narcissistic, violent, and even, sometimes, above the law. The public calls for his head—and the DA promises to deliver it.

  For a while, it feels like the world has settled, at least a little. My relationship with the Elites returns to what it once was: tense, dist
ant, and mostly non-existent, save for the updates Lukas gives me on the laptop when he takes it for more encryption work. I barely look at Blake, and he doesn't even seem to try to look at me or not look at me one way or another.

  But Holly and I are friends again. Tricia and Sasha are part of that fold, too. Even Georgia and I have a strange kind of mutual respect born out of sticking our necks out together, though she still doesn't miss an opportunity to subtly put down my clothes and hair when she gets the chance.

  Chrissy doesn't really talk to me anymore, and neither does Hector. The former, I think, because I told her that I know what she did to Cole's little sister, and the latter because he can't forgive me for once being the Elite's enemy and now being something like their ally if not their friend. I tell myself neither friendship was really deep enough to matter, but the truth is that I miss them sometimes, when they're sitting at their own table and won't look my way.

  Weeks pass before Hass's court date is set. He's kept under house arrest, deemed a flight risk, mostly because the first thing he did after being bailed out of jail was get in his car and try to leave the state. Sometimes I hear kids on campus talking about him, taking bets on if he'll be found guilty or not, whether his rich parents can get him out of this particular mess or if they'll be unable to pay for their son's freedom.

  Somehow I manage to keep my grades up enough to stick around.

  Even more amazing, I find myself starting to really, truly enjoy Coleridge.

  My music teacher is a font of knowledge, and soon enough I can sightread music and play a few basic songs on the flute. In biology I excel at naming the parts of a cell and dissecting the frogs and sheep hearts they bring to us. French verbs still sometimes catch me unawares, but my teacher praises my accent, and soon enough I'm able to carry on simple conversations with other students. And while I'll never be excellent at economics, the macro and micro of it all catches my attention when my teacher manages to put things into perspective using real life examples and stories.