by Doyle, Dawn
“Miss. Jensen, you need to slow down!” a feminine voice called out. “Do you know where you’re going?”
I looked over my shoulder. “To see the dean.”
“You’re going in the wrong direction,” the short lady said.
I stopped, and she walked toward me, her graying brunette hair swishing about her jawline. When she halted, her sharply cut bob stopped too. “Her office is next to the administration—” she thumbed over her shoulder—“right there.”
My shoulders dropped. “Oh.” I was too quick to get out of there that I hadn’t noticed it.
“Come on,” she said, smiling sweetly at me. “I’ll walk with you, honey.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to,” I replied, eager to just get the hell on with the questioning I was about to receive so it could be done with already.
“Oh, honey, I don’t mind—not at all,” she shot back and gently patted my arm. “I want to make sure your first day here goes smoothly. We wouldn’t want you to regret choosing our college now.” Her quiet chuckle put me at ease a little.
As we approached the closed door of the dean’s office, a roar in the distance sounded. Quiet at first, but grew louder with every passing second until it seemed like it was right outside.
When the sound reached its deafening peak, it stopped, causing a deathly silence to fall in the dull hallway.
Sunlight shone through the square glass windows of the entrance doors down the light-beige hall, the frosted glaze obscuring whoever was approaching. One of the doors opened, and a figure walked in, black jeans ripped at both knees, ending at a pair of black shoes or boots—I couldn’t tell.
I never bothered to see what the person looked like—I didn’t care at that point— so when I turned to my escort, her wide-eyed expression had my curiosity piqued.
I turned my head back to see that the person was closer to us, their deep-red shirt covering the top of their jeans at the waist. I let my gaze move up, over a black leather jacket, and further.
Dark hair fell over a tan face, bruises dotting in places, and a black eye—the other slightly reddened—took center stage.
“Mrs. Montgomery,” the person said, his voice low and a little rough like he’d just woken up.
“Mr. Dexter,” she replied, her tone clipped. “Tardy, I see.”
My eyes fell to his mouth, the corner quirking up into a smirk, which revealed a split in his full lower lip.
He continued to look straight ahead. “You missed me,” he said without stopping or glancing at her. “How lovely.”
When he got further down the hallway, Mrs. Montgomery released a breath. “So much for an uneventful day,” she sighed, then smiled wide at me as though just remembering I was there.
I lifted my hand slightly to point in the direction the tall guy had gone. “Do a lot of students come in looking like that?” It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. I hadn’t heard anything about this college, good or bad, but my mom had insisted I applied. She’d told me that the courses were what I had already signed up for at Crosshall, and the classes were much smaller, meaning I’d have more attention from the professors.
Mrs. Montgomery shook her head. “Fortunately, no,” she replied, her shoulders sagging as though relieved. “That boy is… Well, I shouldn’t talk about other students, so let’s get you where you need to be.”
Before I could say anything, she raised her hand and rapped her knuckles against the dark-wood door, underneath the shiny silver plate bearing the dean’s name.
“Come in,” a sharp toned voice said from inside.
Mrs. Montgomery turned the highly polished doorknob and opened the door. “Miss. Jensen’s here to see you.” She ushered me inside when the dean waved me in. “If you need anything, Kinsley, just call into the office anytime.” She beamed once, then left me standing in the tidy, yet outdated looking office.
“Kinsley Jensen,” the dean said, gesturing to the dark-brown chair in front of her huge mahogany desk. “Please, take a seat.” I sat down in the uncomfortable chair, no doubt purposely put there so people would be more than happy to spend no longer than absolutely necessary in that room. I related to that. “I’m Dean Beaufort.” She tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, the style similar to Mrs. Montgomery’s. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too,” I replied, although it wasn’t. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
“Good.” She smiled warmly, and I instantly regretted thinking bad of her. “I know the circumstances surrounding your transfer here are sensitive in nature.” She nodded as she spoke.
Sensitive?
“Ridiculous, you mean,” I shot back.
Dean Beaufort’s brows shot up. “However,” she said, making it sound like two words, immediately letting me know to be careful of my words, “I must assure you that any incidents, regardless of severity, will be actioned against to the highest degree. Am I clear?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” Of course, I hoped I knew, because it’d be pretty shitty if somebody caused a shit storm and got away with it… Again.
She smiled again. “Our policies, from what you’re used to, might be relaxed in some ways, but we, like others, won’t take rule-breaking lightly.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I agreed so she’d get off my back. I knew exactly what she was trying to say, and no matter how many times I’d explained what had happened back at Crosshall, I was still seen as a troublemaker.
Mrs. Beaufort tapped some keys on her modern computer, a stark contrast in her old-style office, complete with dark bookcases filled with musty looking hardbacks. It was definitely older than her. She looked to be in her fifties, with the decor more fitting for the early 20th century. Smelled like it too.
“I see you have English class next.” Her eyes fixed on the screen, reading something while talking. “Do you have a map, or should I have someone take you?”
I held up the crumpled paper still in my hand. “I’m good, thanks.”
Her lightly made-up lips flattened to a tight smile, the dusty pink tone matching her loose blouse. “Very well, Kinsley. Have a good first day, and welcome to Broken Hollow. I hope your time with us is a pleasant experience.”
Quinn
I’d made four grand. I’d usually make a clear thousand, but with my bets, I made a decent amount. At first, I’d just collected my winnings, but when I’d had enough to be able to waste a little amount, I started betting to make a hefty coin. And I made sure that I fucking did.
The fight was over in less than five minutes, and I’d made enough for the next two months with a decent amount of change. No job I could get would able to give me those figures and the ability to sleep at night, knowing I had enough food in the fridge, so I wasn’t going hungry—something I’d done often growing up.
Paying into my bank account at first had become something of an event in itself. Seeing the look on the tellers’ faces when it was my turn was fucking hilarious. The bruises, cuts, and sometimes, stitches had them staring at me like I was about to rob the place. Handing over my cash and card had them confused as shit. They’d gotten used to me by now, though, turning up with a fucked-up face and an envelope of Franklin’s every other month, adding to the growing figures nobody knew about.
I was more familiar with the face in the mirror more than anybody. The patterns had decorated my body from a young age. I’d quickly gotten used to them. The impact, the sting that lingered, the fading of the hard bruises… It was an old feeling that I could ignore.
“Quinn, are you paying attention?” the professor asked from the front of the class.
Fuck, I’d zoned out again. “I am now,” I replied. I couldn’t afford to slip up, not when the entire fucking faculty were expecting me to. And why wouldn’t they? I was the ‘troubled kid.’ However, this guy was the exception. I wouldn’t fail in this class, not by a long shot.
“Eyes on the board, Mr. Dexter. Whatever’s outside that window will still be the
re after class.”
I sat straighter in my chair, my elbows resting on the small wooden desk, and stared at Mr. Cunningham. The bruising around my left eye didn’t hurt. The residual swelling made it only a little difficult to hold it, but it had the desired effect.
The professor swallowed hard, his eyes wide and his already pale skin growing whiter, making me smile. After a couple of seconds, he turned back to his board as though he hadn’t just been shit-scared of a cocky kid in his class.
“I think he almost pissed his pants that time,” Josh whispered from the seat next to me, chuckling under his breath.
“Almost, huh?” I asked loud enough for the professor to hear. I sat back, slouching in my chair, and extending my long legs for comfort. “I guess I’m losing my touch.”
Mr. Cunningham turned and glanced between us. I grinned, my eyes not leaving his while Josh held out his fist for me to bump. When I did, the professor stammered before getting his shit together.
“Do you think he knows?” Josh asked with a smirk.
I turned to him, giving no fucks that Mr. Cunningham was standing right there. “Undoubtedly.” It was only the fact that Junior’s buddies had big mouths and got screenshot happy with his social media group that anybody knew what he’d been up to.
Josh chuckled. “Well, from looking at your pretty face, and picking up your opponent from the hospital the other night—”
“It kinda gives it away,” I finished for him.
The professor knew better than to open his mouth about what had happened to his son a few nights ago. It was a well-known fact, but nobody breathed a word in front of the wrong people.
“What about his ride?”
I shrugged. “What about it?” It’d been left at the bonfire; Cunningham Jr. too fucked up to drive himself. “He couldn’t exactly drive away.”
“Yeah, being unconscious would do that to you,” Josh snorted. “Is it being dealt with?” His eyes widened when my brows pumped. His voice dropped. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I replied, holding my hands out in innocence. “I didn’t touch it.” It’s not like the guy didn’t deserve it; he was a piece of shit.
Josh licked his lips, then leaned closer to me. “If somebody checked it for, say, prints, would they say the same thing?”
I deadpanned and frowned. “You think I’m getting sloppy?”
“Just making sure you got all bases covered,” he said, glancing around.
“I sure fucking hope so. It’d be a damned miracle if they got anything off what I left behind.”
He shook his head and laughed again. “You’re fucked up.”
I turned to face the front of the class and stared at Mr. Cunningham. “Aren’t we all, Josh? Aren’t we all.”
“Quinn, can I have a word?”Mr. Cunningham asked when we made our way toward the class exit. He tried to stand tall, getting some balls to talk to me. But, as I towered over him by at least four-to-five inches, he seemed to shrink back down when I got closer.
“Sure.” I nodded to Josh to go on ahead. “How can I help you?” I had no intention of helping this fucker, or anybody else, except the only three people in my life that mattered.
With a shaky hand, the professor grasped the doorknob and closed the door, leaving him alone with me.
Brave but sensible.
“This is about David,” he said. “My son.”
“What about him?” I asked like I had no clue... As if it wasn’t his face that had bruised my knuckles.
“I think we both know what this is about,” he retorted, looking pointedly at the evidence still marking my face. “David’s still recovering. What you did to him—”
“What I did to him?” I cut in, nodding, and he flinched back, paling all over again. “What about the fact that he showed up, willingly, betting cold hard cash that he could take me?” I took a step closer to him. “He knew what he was getting into, and I won’t deny saying that I enjoyed every second of the beating I gave him, that you and I both know he fucking deserved.” My narrowed eyes bore into his, my mouth tightening in disgust. “If he ever comes to the circle again...” I let my tone lower, enough to show that my words weren’t an empty threat, and I inched closer. He swallowed hard. “I won’t be playing fair, and this—"I gestured to my face while releasing a smile that didn’t reach my dead eyes—“he won’t get a chance to repeat.” I straightened to my full height, snorted a quick laugh, and left the professor behind in a hot, yellow puddle.
***
“Hey, did you get my message?”
I looked toward the direction of the voice that had appeared beside me. “Hey, Layton, I haven’t checked my phone yet, why?” I shifted my hood back a little so I could see him.
He was closer to Josh than me, but we still had a bond no two ordinary housemates shared.
Layton ran his hand through his messy blond hair, making it stick up, then smoothed it down the second he saw some senior girls heading our way. “David’s car was found this afternoon,” he said, his eyes firmly on the girl with the low-cut, light-blue shirt, her tits bouncing with every step that she took. “Fucking burned up.”
“Yeah?” I didn’t look at him, my concentration was on the girls’ decent cleavage. Maybe Josh was right. Maybe I needed to release some pent up aggression. When my eyes lifted, though, I lost interest. The owner snapped me right out of that spell the second I looked at her face. Jojo. I wouldn’t touch her, especially as she was friends with Phoebe, the girl who was like a bad case of crabs. You couldn’t get rid until you had to take drastic measures, like completely shaving your balls and surrounding areas. Not that I’d ever done that, or had crabs. Only, to get rid of Phoebe, you had to cut ties completely. Her friends, mutual friends, and anybody else who could give her some indication you wanted company.
“Yeah. Windows smashed out, seats were torn apart, and the whole interior burned to a fucking crisp. Someone sure had one hell of a fire going on in there to make it that bad, man. It must’ve been going all night,” he said, breaking my thoughts. “It’s such a shame.”
I turned to him then. “Any idea who did it?” When he shook his head, I shrugged one shoulder, my mouth turning down. “He should’ve taken it to the circle or gotten a ride with someone. Everybody knows not to leave a car at the beach. It’s open season for any wheels left behind.” And I should know.
“All I know is that whoever did it left nothing behind. Completely clean. They meant to torch his car, man.” He laughed, then looked at me, his face clear of what he knew for the sake of anybody overhearing. “Fuck, if that were me, I’d be shitting in my pants. Someone seems to have it out for him, Quinn, I swear. Setting up for the fight with you was one thing, but going after his prized possession? That’s fucking cold.” A sly smirk caught the corner of his mouth, but he hid it well.
I gritted my teeth, the pressure making my jaw ache. “Yeah, well, that’s his problem now, Layton. He knew the risks, yet he took them anyway.”
Layton tipped his head to the side. “That he did, my good friend.” He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “That he did.”
We reached the outdoor seating area where Josh was sitting, surrounded by a few guys, but a shit ton of girls on neighboring tables. Their eyes lit up when they saw us approaching.
“Fuck this shit,” I grumbled.
Layton laughed and shook my shoulder where his hand still rested. “Come on, superstar, come and give your fans some FaceTime.” He knew as much as Josh that I hated this part of my chosen career, or whatever it was.
“Go eat a dick.” I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans and begrudgingly walked over, preparing myself for the conversations aimed right at me, and thinking up ways to get out of it before my ass had even warmed the bench.
“You don’t even look bad,” a girl said from behind me. I didn’t know who it was because I didn’t turn around. “Does it hurt?” I ignored her and continued to eat my sub. “Quinn.” She tapped me on my shoulder, and I s
tiffened. “I asked—”
“I heard you,” I cut in, my voice low, but I still didn’t look at her. I didn’t want to give anybody any reason to think I was interested in a conversation. My knee bounced under the table, my elbow digging into the wooden top.
“Well, does it?”
I lifted my head, my eyes dead ahead with annoyance. “No, it doesn’t.”
She must’ve taken that as an invitation to talk because the second I answered, she continued. “So, how long do the injuries usually take to heal? I mean, I know it depends how bad it is, but you still look great,” she gushed, her hand flattening on my shoulder blade. Her fingertips moved in circles, caressing the muscle covering the bone.
Josh pulled his lips into his mouth, and Layton stuffed food into his to avoid laughing. The other guys just kept theirs shut.
Small fingers prodded me again while hushed female voices jumbled together behind me. “Are you even listening to me?”
For fuck’s sake!
“Days, sometimes weeks,” I snapped. “Now, did I answer your question to your satisfaction, or are you just gonna keep yapping at me while I’m trying to eat?”
She gasped, and the other voices silenced. “I was just trying to talk to you,” she complained, her tone clipped.
Light yellow jeans appeared next to my left shoulder, a white belt threaded through the tiny waist. I didn’t bother checking out the rest; I’d gotten bored by then.
“If I wanted to talk to you, don’t you think I would’ve turned around?” I asked with a little more bite than I needed. “As you can see,” I gestured to my unfinished lunch due to her constant interruption, “I’m busy, so if you don’t mind…”
“Kallie,” another girl’s voice said. “We should head out.”
Ah, Kallie Montessa, I should’ve known. A senior like me, and a royal pain in the ass.
“So, when you’re not busy…” Kallie drew out, running her fingers over my shoulder. “Call me.” She held out a small piece of paper between light-pink painted nails, which I ignored.
