Rival (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 1)

by Ketley Allison

  I offer a weak wave to my table of sort-of-but-not-really friends, but it’s Eden I notice, watching us closely as we leave.

  18

  The sun is out in full when Ivy and I step out, the September air bringing cool ribbons of wind to help dissipate the remaining summer heat.

  I sniff, my nostrils tingling with salt.

  “The eastern breeze must be bringing some ocean with it,” Ivy observes as we head down the staircase.

  “Is there any way down the rocks to see the ocean?” I ask. “Like, a cliff walk or something?”

  Ivy shakes her head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Too bad.”

  On the rare weekends my mom took off, sometimes we’d head upstate in pursuit of hiking trails. We’d never stay overnight in the woods—we laughed that we weren’t that boho chic—but would book an overnight at a local bed and breakfast, then hit the trails. After, we’d try the popular restaurant in whatever small town we chose that weekend, trying out the local fare.

  And, to be honest, I was more about the eating part than the trekking one.

  The memory brings expectant sadness, which I push away by using the subject to ask Ivy, “Is there a bus or anything that takes us into town?”

  Ivy turns us left, skirting around the massive school building and bringing us closer to the ring of trees at the bottom of the hill.

  “Nah,” Ivy says. “Nobody goes into town.”

  “But what if somebody wanted to?”

  “Like you?”

  Ivy's question isn’t judgmental, but it’s definitely flabbergasted.

  I respond cautiously. “Yeah. I need groceries. Piper will have my head if she realizes a rodent’s been gnawing at her food. It’d be cool to also explore the town—”

  “We get our groceries delivered,” Ivy cuts in, then motions for me to veer left with her.

  My chest tightens when I realize the path we’re taking, but Ivy doesn’t give me time to peer through the trees and see if remnants of the bonfire are still there, or maybe a discarded cloak stuck in the branches and flapping in the wind.

  The memory of the man under a cloak, standing above me as I fell to the ground without offering a hand, comes to the forefront, the hood’s folds obscuring his face…

  “All you have to do,” Ivy says, unaware that I’ve craned my neck around her to better look through the copse of trees, “is fill out an online shopping cart on Briarcliff’s website. Groceries are taken out of your stipend and delivered Saturday mornings.”

  Her information makes me glance back at her. “So, no one leaves campus, like ever?”

  “Well, I didn’t say that.” Ivy's shoulders shake with indulgent laughter. “I’ve yet to tell you about the parties.”

  “Parties?” I echo.

  “Being on the fringe of the social ladder, I don’t go to many, but we all know the types of parties Chase and his friends throw. Sometimes at the cliff, other times at the lake houses owned by various rich parents nearby. Usually on Fridays, but any day of the week is fair game.”

  I hum in acknowledgment, but given my current situation, joining their fun and games doesn’t seem too fun for me.

  “It’s just through here,” Ivy says, and I’m forced to walk behind her as we take a thin, dirt path through the trees.

  “Are you sure there’s a boathouse and not a labyrinth at the end of this?” I ask through stiff lips, since my focus has gone to avoiding errant branches. I’m forced to dig up long-ago buried memories of exploring trails with Mom in order to navigate foreign terrain without face-planting.

  “You should try doing this at five in the morning,” Ivy says over her shoulder, “during season when training is in full effect.”

  “Please tell me flashlights are involved.” And you don’t encircle a campfire.

  Ivy laughs. “Some use the flashlight on their phones, but I could navigate this in my sleep.”

  “I bet,” I say as she nimbly avoids exposed roots in the trail.

  I’m so focused on scattered stones and slippery, damp leaves blown onto our path that I almost stumble into Ivy’s back when she stops.

  I lift my head to notice we’ve reached a clearing with a sparkling, flat lake in front of us. It’s unbelievable that this is manmade, a special body of water created for Briarcliff’s wealthy and elite. Adding to the glamour is what most people would think is a lake house for the rich and fabulous.

  Those people would almost be right.

  “Welcome to Briarcliff Boathouse,” Ivy says cheerily, and grabs my hand to pull me closer. “A gift from former crew alumni.” Ivy notices how I’m catching flies, and adds, “Rowing has been a dedicated sport of Briarcliff since it debuted in 1820. As you can imagine, there’s been some sizable alumni wallets passing through.”

  I’m in awe of the size and architecture. If I thought Briarcliff’s campus resembled a gothic church, this mere house perched on a lake is like a ski resort mansion without the snow and laid with brick and wood three stories high. Four or five garage-like doors face the water, with wooden docks sprouting from each.

  I’m not fluent in boat-talk, so all I can say to Ivy is, “Hot damn.”

  “Shoot,” Ivy mutters. “You see him, too. Jeez, he trains any chance he gets. I hope he hasn’t spotted us.”

  That grabs my attention. “Who?”

  But Ivy doesn’t have to answer. I notice Chase lifting himself from a thin, vertical boat, pushing onto the dock with his arms, then deftly landing on his feet. He lays his two oars aside, then pulls the boat from the lake, twists it effortlessly, and balances it above his head.

  With a frickin’ boat for a head, Chase strides from the docks and into the boathouse, his body’s profile in full, detailed effect. He’s wearing some sort of maroon and black spandex short-and-tank combo, so tight I admire the perfect melons of his ass-cheeks and the sculpted muscles sprouting underneath. The shorts stop at the knees, and after that, it’s just golden skin covering bulging calf muscles as he walks.

  “Is he carrying an entire boat?” I whisper, and Ivy elbows me at the waist, stopping me from ogling. “And what is he wearing?”

  “That boat is a scull—it’s what they call single shells when we’re out training on our own. And he’s wearing a unisuit,” Ivy informs. We start toward the boathouse again. “The mean girl version of a uniform. You have a flaw? It’ll show it.”

  “Got it,” I say, and blink rapidly before my vixen mind can show me what Chase’s front must look like.

  Ivy pushes on a red, wooden door at the side of the building. I follow her inside while she drones on about the boathouse, surprised Ivy has to turn on the lights, since Chase came in before us.

  “Where’d he go?” I ask.

  “Probably the showers,” Ivy says offhand.

  Her tone clues me in to shut up. I shouldn’t care what Chase is doing or where he is, and Ivy will start to think I care if I keep at it.

  “If he’s here, then Coach is in her office upstairs,” Ivy says, “I’ve got to talk to her for a sec. Go that way.” Ivy points to one of the boat bays overlooking the water, where shells are stored on racks bolted to the walls. “The view’s insane if you step out onto the dock.”

  “I, uh…” I say, but Ivy's already dashed to the back, her motion flickering on the overhead lights as she passes by. When she opens a door, I inwardly shrink at the sight of water tanks. They are goddamned giant fish tanks with eight-person rowing machines in the middle of them. Getting stuck in one would be my worst nightmare come to life.

  As soon as the door shuts behind Ivy, my vision clears, and I wander far away from them and through the sitting room of the giant space—the Club Room, Ivy called it— with fabric-covered patio furniture in Briarcliff’s colors—white, black, and maroon. There is a line of windows overlooking the lake, showcasing the wild forest across the water.

  As if on instinct, I’m drawn into the sunlight instead of the shadows. I step through one of the four boat bays li
ned parallel to the water, my hand trailing across one of the “shells” hung up at waist-level. It’s wet, and I assume it’s Chase’s boat. My fingers touch the seat inside, still warm to the touch.

  I walk across the thin platform to the dock outside, attuned to the lapping water below. I assure myself that an expensive structure like this would be safe and sturdy. I’ll just stay away from the edges.

  My shoes make hollow sounds as I pass over the floorboards. I pull at the hem of my skirt when I look down and see spaces between the wood, the water flowing underneath.

  Why did I let Ivy bring me here again?

  “For God’s sake, Callie,” I mutter. “You’re in a mansion they call a boathouse. You’re fine.”

  A noise sounds out, and I startle at the echoing clang.

  It’s just Ivy, I reason. Or Chase, skulking around in the corners—

  “The fuck are you doing here?”

  I cry out when the voice registers at my shoulder, then whirl, my hands up in defense. The movement sends my feet in a tangle, and I topple sideways—

  Strong arms hold on and drag me to the safety of the dock.

  “Christ, new girl,” Chase says as we disentangle.

  Gasping, my throat tight with stress at the mere thought of my lungs filling with lake water, I stare up at Chase, whose relaxed pose is the complete opposite of a boy who just saved a girl from certain death. He smirks.

  “I was…” I gulp. “I mean, I was exploring.” I catch my breath, but my hand stays at my throat.

  Sunlight beams onto Chase's head like a fallen angel’s unearned halo.

  Droplets of sweat shimmer on the exposed parts of Chase’s chest, lifting rhythmically as he breathes. When he’d grabbed me, and I held on, his arms were damp and sticky, but the scent of him, though similar to the boathouse, wasn’t as cloying. It was … indescribably addicting.

  Conscious of how obvious I must look, I tear my gaze from his torso and meet his calculating, metallic eyes.

  Chase's golden glow doesn’t meet his intentions. He asks, “You interested in crew?”

  Chase looks me up and down. I feel naked, even though I’m dressed in Briarcliff uniform. The sun warms me, but I shiver.

  He continues, “Because you need more grace than that.”

  “I’m—that’s the last thing I want,” I say, and move closer to him, if only to get farther away from the dock’s edge. “Ivy said something about the view being nice…”

  “You like what you see?”

  My back is to this allegedly epic view, and I’m focused solely on the boy in front of me, who looks nothing like the boys my mother would want me to get to know.

  And yeah, the front of him is precisely what I pictured it’d be in the unisuit.

  In an effort to release this ridiculous hold Chase has, I say, “What I don’t like is what your girlfriend’s doing to me.”

  Chase's cheek tics. “I told you, she’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Then whatever she is, tell her to stop. This morning was epically fucked up.”

  “Ah yes, the famous rat infestation.” Chase raises a brow. “What makes you think she was behind it?”

  “Because she has all of you,” I spit. “You asshole Nobles who think you can hurt people the way you do and think there won’t be conseq—”

  “What did you just say?”

  Chase closes the space between us with such viper-quick movement, I’m caught off-guard. My heels scrape back, dangerously close to the edge.

  I sense where the dock ends and the depthless water begins, so I cling to his arms for balance. Chase’s eyes tunnel into mine. There’s no savior here now, fallen or otherwise.

  My fingers dig into his bare arms, his muscles hardening beneath, yet he doesn’t shake me off.

  I respond, keeping my voice level, “I said, you Nobles are assholes.”

  Thunder rumbles in Chase’s chest. “I’ll ask you one more time. How do you know that name?”

  I’ve rankled him, and I decide to keep going. “Isn’t that what your immediate fanbase calls you? What about the girls you sleep with? Don’t you let them in on your cool clubhouse name—?”

  “Shut up.”

  He says it with such succinct poison that my teeth clank together.

  Chase lowers his head so we’re nose-to-nose. I can smell his breath—spearmint—I can smell him, sweat and freshwater sweetness.

  I refuse to buckle, but my hands don’t leave his arms. I doubt they’ll do it of their own volition until I’m well off this fucking floating wood.

  He says, “Don’t mention that name again, to anyone. You understand?”

  My brows smush together. “Why? You’d think you’d be proud of the title. I was positive it’s what you and your buddies put in front of your name when you present your dicks.”

  Chase snarls, but it only brings our lips closer together. Electricity sparks between us, a tingling spread that will dissipate if one of us backs away.

  Neither of us does.

  I stop breathing, and Chase takes my air as his own.

  He rasps, “And you wonder why there were dead rats in your locker. Your big fucking mouth’ll get you in trouble. Consider this your one warning.”

  I resist the temptation to grasp the back of his neck and ram my mouth against his, the craving to taste him unlike anything I’ve been brought up to do with a boy.

  “So, you jerks did have something to do with it,” I snarl.

  Chase backs off, his upper lip lifting in a half-cocked grin. “We don’t dabble in pest control.”

  “But you dabble in something,” I persist. “Does it involve cloaks and roses?”

  Chase steps away, leaving my hands bereft as I’m left to face my vertigo on my own. He turns on his heel and starts down the dock, leaving behind no clues as to whether I’m right.

  “Chase!” I call. “What the hell? We were having a conversation!”

  “No, we weren’t,” Chase says, his voice fading with the additional distance he’s putting between us. “And I never saw you here, either.”

  “What the…?”

  But Chase disappears into one of the boat bays, and that’s the last I see of him.

  Lake water glugs against the dock, the noise of the waves making me scurry into the boathouse, oddly chilled despite being greeted by the warm September sun when I got here.

  “Sorry, Callie, but I’ve never heard of this craziness you’re talking about.”

  I decide to fill Ivy in on my secret roses on our way back to campus, our school-issued shoes plodding along the dirt trail as we walk uphill, Ivy leading the way.

  “Really? Nothing?” I ask. “I thought you were all about Briarcliff’s gossip.”

  “Well, I am. But I’ve never heard of a student receiving black or white roses. Not even on Valentine’s Day.”

  Drat. I’d hoped Ivy of all people could shed some light on my mysterious admirer … or enemy. I suppose it would depend on whether I’m talking about the gift of furniture or the rat presents, and I’ve informed Ivy of the latter. At the moment, I keep the unexpected nicety close to my chest. So far, it’s the one unsullied memory I have at this school.

  “But you know of the Nobles,” I say.

  Ivy comes to an abrupt halt, keeping her back to me. “The who?”

  “Ivy, come on.” I climb to a stand beside her, but she won’t face me. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No.” Ivy glances at me briefly. “I don’t.”

  She starts walking again, much faster, and I scramble to keep up. “Yes, you do! Remember, in the bathrooms, when I was cleaning up all that damn spaghetti sauce—”

  Ivy wheels around and latches onto my arm. She coaxes me to meet her eye before saying, “I didn’t say anything, and you didn’t hear anything. Okay?”

  I’m witnessing fear in her expression. Real trepidation. “Ivy … you told me that’s what they are called. Chase and his friends. Remember?”

  “You heard
me wrong. I said that their reach was global, and for you to be careful. Yeah, they’re our age, but their families are rich and powerful. Their influence is never-ending.” Ivy squeezes my arm and says, “Do you hear what I’m telling you?”

  I shake my head. “That’s not—”

  The deep, echoing ring of the clocktower reaches our ears, and Ivy releases my arm and shoots forward. “That’s our warning—we’re gonna be late to class.”

  “Ivy, wait.”

  “Can’t!” Ivy throws a wave in my direction as she kicks into a run. “We’ll talk later!”

  “I’m not done with this subject!” I call in a warning, but at this point, I’m yelling at her butt as she sprints up Briarcliff’s stairs and runs into the building.

  Jeez. That’s two people in less than an hour who’ve pulled a disappearing act on me.

  I think of the wilted white rose, crushed at the bottom of my backpack by my books, and I know, with resolute certainty, that I’m not finished with either Ivy or Chase.

  Ahmar always joked that if my mom was going to pass me down anything, it would be her dogged tenacity. His sobering voice adds inside my head, Yeah, Calla. The trait that got her killed.

  But I brush that thought away and stride to Briarcliff Academy, my thumbs digging painfully into my backpack’s straps.

  19

  I’m starting to enjoy moonlight more than I appreciate the sun, since the moon’s face is the friendliest I see by the time the week is over and a fresh one begins.

  Ivy is missing from the dining hall Monday evening—a girls’ crew meeting, she said—so I brave the masses alone, without the confidence to join Eden and the scholarship kids when Ivy’s not around.

  At first, it doesn’t seem so bad.

  The few students also enjoying an early dinner don’t notice me walk in and head to the serving station, grabbing my tray and choosing between steak or chicken cordon bleu. No shoulders bump into mine, nor are there any hisses or jeers behind my back.

  I relax, thinking I avoided the worst, since Chase, Piper, and the rest of their posse aren’t here yet. The timing was deliberate on my part—I didn’t think they’d be so pedestrian as to arrive for 5 o’clock dinner service, crew meeting or not.