Trinity High: High School Bully Romance

by Savannah Rose

  “I see defeat has made you quite bitter,” Giselle snickers.

  “If you call breaking my ankle on purpose defeat, sure, Toots,” I reply dryly, then look at Elias again. “Now, move the fuck out of my way.”

  He smirks, with no intention to let me through. The hate between us is almost palpable. It’s been going on for years, and while our venomous exchange might draw a gasp from those around us, Elias and I are actually used to it. In fact, it’s our way of saying hello to one another. We’ve been taught to exist as enemies.

  I do remember a time when we tried to get past it, but it blew up in our faces.

  “That’s my girlfriend you’re calling a whore,” he says.

  “I only said ‘easily spreadable’ legs. It doesn’t necessarily imply such a harsh word, Elias. But if you think your girlfriend is a whore, maybe you should tell her now, before you guys get in too deep,” I hit back, the rage bubbling beneath a perfectly still surface. My ankle is hurting more and more, which makes me itch for another pill, but I have to keep some kind of control over this. I have to…

  “Kira, I’m sure there are other career opportunities for you,” Elias sighs, crossing his arms. “And I understand you must have some frustrations, now that Giselle is above you. Maybe that’s why you’re lashing out. Maybe you’re projecting something. Either way, you should fuck off into a dark corner, you’re beginning to feel like a sore sight for my eyes.”

  There’s a string of expletives waiting to get splattered all over him. I’m gripping my books a little too tight against my chest, my other hand balled into a fist around the pen. The devil in me wants me to stab him in the eye with it. But that would just make me look like an idiot in front of Principal Hargreaves, for whom I do harbor an inkling of respect.

  “You’re the one who’s in my way, Elias,” I ultimately say.

  Giselle smiles. “It’s a shame we won’t be seeing you in ballet class. I noticed you didn’t sign up at the beginning of the year.”

  There’s a perverse satisfaction oozing out of her, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let her have any. No, she almost destroyed me. I may not feel like I’m ready to come back. I may never come back… But Giselle cannot win today.

  “That’s because I’ve been studying from home, Walmart Barbie,” I reply. “I’m here now.”

  Elias finally steps aside, just as Giselle is about to say something. He keeps her to the side, though, squeezing her upper arm, as if to keep her quiet. Surprisingly, she obeys and just bares her pearly whites at me like a caged animal. Lorna can’t even look at me anymore. I know she knows. I know there’s a thread of common sense inside of her, still, otherwise she’d be just as vocal against me as Giselle is.

  I go inside, suddenly welcoming the sea of surprised looks. No one thought I’d come back—at least that’s what the students’ expressions are telling me. Slipping into the last desk by the window, I pop the pillbox open without taking it out of my pocket. The Oxy disappears between my lips without anyone noticing, and I swallow it, hoping it will dull the pain again.

  My ankle is burning, and it has taken every conceivable effort to stop myself from crying. Elias, Giselle and Lorna come in, taking their seats. Elias steals a glance at me and, for the briefest of moments, I swear there’s a semblance of sympathy in his eyes. Maybe he can see my pain. I don’t know…

  What I do know is that the Oxy is starting to matter too much, and I fear I might be losing control soon. I want to dance again, but… fuck, it’s starting to kick in. The pain in my leg is magicked away.

  I look at Elias. That softness in his gaze is gone. There’s hate, now. He wants to start some kind of war, it seems. Our previous scuffles haven’t taught him anything. If he wants a war, he’ll get one. But I won’t be the one moving to another school, this time around.

  My mind clears up, and my objectives begin to stand out, once more. It’s my last year of high school, and I am not letting this conniving bastard nor that bleached tart ruin it for me. Not when there’s another Julliard scout coming to the winter show this year, as well.

  4

  Kira

  If there’s one thing my dad knows how to do well, aside from his business, it’s throwing a party. Where he lacks in the fatherhood department, he sort of makes up for in his charity events. Our house is packed every other month with one to two hundred people, each eager to sign checks for some of his charities.

  William Malone supports many causes—though, to be honest, I doubt he actually cares about dolphins and orphans and ALS. It’s mostly for tax purposes. But the parties… damn. Tonight, he’s hosting a masquerade ball sprawling on the whole ground level of our house, as well as the back garden. There’s a DJ playing some smooth electronic music, the bass rippling through the lounge area and upwards into the first-floor rooms.

  I stand in the open hallway above, overlooking the crowd—sequin details of gold and silver, Venice carnival-style masks, many custom-made and fitted with Swarovski crystals; bare-back dresses and snazzy tuxedos; expensive watches and Harry Winston neck-pieces; French champagne and caviar; the epitome of pretentiousness crammed into one mansion, all for the sake of pretending that they care about the environment while they look perfect for the cameras. The local tabloids will have a field day with this party. My dad makes sure of it, whenever he organizes an event.

  Some heiress will get pissed tonight and jump into the pool. There will probably be a sex tape circulating on Pornhub tomorrow, featuring at least one trust-fund baby and two of the waiters. All the service staff are proficient exotic dancers who underwent several hours of hospitality service training. It’s part of the schtick. Everyone looks good. Everyone gets drunk. At least half will be snorting cocaine in dad’s private lounge by midnight.

  By tomorrow, the Hampton Height’s Nature Fund will receive at least two million dollars in donations from this event. You take the good with the bad, I guess…

  I don’t want to be here tonight, but I can’t show any weakness going forward. I’m back in school now, and I’m eyeing that Nutcracker audition again. Chances are my ankle won’t let me go through with any of my recovery plans, but I’ll try, nonetheless. Most importantly, I cannot let anyone see I’m suffering.

  It’s nine in the evening, and the party is just getting started. I keep a bottle of vodka in my room, so I’ve already warmed up—just enough to be able to tolerate all the snazzy bullshit that the guests will throw in my face.

  Bracing myself for a few hours of fake smiles and even faker compliments, I down the rest of my glass and leave it on a side table as I make my way down the stairs.

  “There you are,” Dad says, standing at the bottom of the semi-circular stairs. He looks dashing in his tux. I remember the younger version of him in a similar attire, but with mom’s arm hooked around his. She was always a vision… “Took you forever.”

  I glare at him, unwilling to get into an argument this early. There isn’t enough alcohol in my system to put up with his garbage. “Be thankful I even came down,” I reply dryly.

  “You look beautiful,” he mutters, briefly smiling. I suppose I remind him of mom. I’m a lot like her. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the pale skin. I’m wearing a long and tight black dress, layers of silk and tulle overlapping. Diamond glimmer around my neck, paired with a delicate bracelet and teardrop earrings. My Venetian mask is bigger than most, with satiny black feathers fanning out and tiny crystals mounted in elegant swirls over the temples. If there’s one thing I stay true to, it’s the image of a Malone. Flawless, never giving the tabloids a reason to rub their hands together.

  “The Malones are entertainers,” my mom used to say. She loved these events. She was adamant that our fraternization with the guests had its limits. If anyone wanted to engage in any kind of debauchery, it was our job to facilitate, not to participate—which is why no one ever sees my dad snorting coke lines in his lounge along with his guests.

  “How’s it looking so far?” I ask Dad. Mentally, I am som
ewhere else. Physically, I certainly fit into this loud and glittery picture.

  “Quite mixed, if I’m honest,” Dad replies. “The oldies are mostly flocked around the cocktail bar. The young ones, as you can see, are already high as kites and gradually moving the party out in the garden.”

  “Not a bad thing, if you ask me,” I mutter. “It minimizes the risk of anyone puking in the Murano vases.”

  Dad chuckles. “Oh, honey, I’ve had those put away, already.”

  Looking around, I see what he means. Glass copies have replaced them on every single display surface—not that I can blame him. A single piece costs about five to ten grand. We may be rich, but we’re not wasteful, my dad likes to say. I guess it’s this mentality that has kept him above the line for decades.

  “Smart move,” I say, and we smile at each other for a most precious second. It’s one of those rare moments where my dad and I are in a sync of sorts. “For how long do I have to be here? I’ve got ballet practice in the morning.”

  Dad frowns, his eyes scanning my face. “You’re still going ahead with that?”

  “I told you I wasn’t going to quit.”

  The music is loud and getting on my nerves, so this is the last conversation I’d like to have right now. The sooner I end it, the better. “Kira, we talked about this,” he says, and I raise a hand to silence him.

  “No, you talked. Let’s not get into this right now.”

  “Fucking hell. You have better things to do with your life. You need to grow up already. Janelle might be good at her job, but I need you to take over when the time is right,” he says, his voice low. “Dancing was nice and fun while you were a kid, but you’re eighteen now, and it’s time to start acting like an adult.”

  I’m about to respond, when something catches my eye. I know most of the people here tonight—socialites and heiresses, app developers and Ivy League darlings, but there is one couple I hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with tonight.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” I ask, watching Elias come through the front door, accompanied by Giselle. The butler takes their coats. Elias is rocking that tuxedo, the black fabric neatly tailored around his athletic frame, the sharp lines accentuating his most appealing features. Giselle looks hot in a tutu-style dress—pale pink sequins and a fluffed up cotton candy tulle skirt. They’re both wearing carnival masks, but I’d recognize them anywhere. Elias is tall, dark and hot as an active volcano. Giselle is as pretentious and as entitled as ever. Yeah, they’re not hard to spot, even in a big crowd.

  Dad follows my gaze, a smile testing his lips. “I’m surprised he accepted my invitation.”

  “Excuse me?” I croak, my blood running cold.

  My whole life, Dad has made a point of the rivalry between the Malones and the Dresslers. He hated Martin, and he fucking loathes his son, too. So, why did he invite Elias to this event? Something reeks here. I’m extremely uncomfortable.

  Elias spots us and gives Dad a polite nod. He and Giselle make their way towards us, and I feel like I’m shrinking, suddenly wishing for an invisibility superpower so I can just disappear.

  “I invited Elias,” Dad points out the obvious. “I know, it’s unexpected, but I think it’s time to move on. Martin is dead. Dressler Corp is doing well, still bidding against me on New York projects. I’m hoping I can build a bridge tonight,” he says, then looks at me. “So, don’t fuck this up, Kira. No fighting. No arguments. Nothing. Be on your best behavior.”

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “My whole life, you taught me that Elias and his dad were the boogeymen. Every fight I’ve ever had with Elias was because of you. You started this fire, and now you want me to be nice? Are you kidding me?”

  “Ancient history,” he hisses. “Leave it. Play nice.”

  God, I need more alcohol!

  Before I can slip away and get lost in the sea of bodies already grinding against one another, Elias and Giselle reach us. The bitch is smiling like she just inherited Buckingham Palace. Giselle’s from an influential enough family, but she’s plankton compared to the Dressler and Malone sharks, and she knows it. Her apparent affection towards Elias comes with a hidden agenda. She wants his last name. The privilege. The financial security. I know her kind, all too well.

  Girls like Giselle used to be my friends, until I realized they were with me because of the trust fund I’d walk into upon turning twenty-one. Girls like Giselle now hate me because not only do I push them away, but I make sure everyone knows they’re gold-digging sacks of garbage. I’ve been doing this since I was eight and first realized that none of the Giselles wanted to be my friends unless there were material benefits—weekends at our house, butler service by the pool, great seats at various events, holiday gift baskets from Nordstrom and Chopard…

  Once they were deprived of the many perks that came with being the friends of a Malone, the Giselles turned into the very creature standing before me tonight. Pretty and smiling, totally fuckable, too… but bitter and filled with nothing but poison.

  “Welcome, Elias, Giselle,” my dad says, smiling at them. I’m too busy trying to stay put, despite every muscle in my body wanting me to leave. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Malone. You’re right. It’s time for us to bury the hatchet,” Elias replies. I don’t like the politeness of his tone. I know him too well, and I know it’s not genuine. Then again, my dad’s equally full of shit, too. Whatever this is, it’s not an attempt to patch things up. They’re scoping each other out. To what end, I’m not sure, but they’re both hawks. Giselle is just… decoration.

  “Let’s talk later, after the charity auction,” Dad says. “In the meantime, make yourselves at home and have a wonderful time. Kira will be happy to show you around and help you with whatever you might need.”

  My blood runs red hot. Thank the stars for my mask, as it manages to hide part of my expression. I have no control over my face right now. Merely standing next to Elias makes my temperature spike and my breath ragged.

  “You look nice,” Giselle says to me. She doesn’t even bother to hide her disingenuousness.

  “Liking your tutu,” I reply bluntly, and she gives me a smile—or is it a sneer? It’s hard to tell with her, sometimes.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got the Mayor coming in,” Dad says and walks away. I keep my eyes on him as he walks over to the front door. At least he didn’t lie his way out of this particular moment. That is the mayor of Hampton Heights he’s welcoming, along with his wife and teenage daughter. I know the latter well. We have the same dealer.

  “Not a bad place,” Elias says, looking around. “I like the interior design.”

  I raise an eyebrow, but the mask hides it. “Really? Didn’t peg you for a décor aficionado.” My tone’s a little flat.

  Elias smirks. “I’m a developer, Kira, like my father. I’m able to appreciate a Marcel Wanders chaise or a Tom Dixon light. I like the Zaha Hadid-style lines, too. The hallway merges nicely into the back garden.”

  “You’re a high school student, Elias. Throwing a couple of popular names in my face doesn’t make you a developer.”

  I’d rather die than admit he’s right. That is a Marcel Wanders chaise he’s noticed in the lounge area. Those are Tom Dixon lights hanging from the ceiling in brushed shades of copper. And the walls’ decorative lines leading from the central hallways and into the back garden are a tribute to Zaha, indeed. The bastard knows his stuff.

  “Like I told your father, I’m here to bury the hatchet,” Elias replies, wearing a flat smile. He’s lying. I can feel it.

  “Just don’t bury it in my back,” I say. “I’ve had enough for this year. The bar is over there,” I add, pointing to the west corner of the lounge area. “The bartender is Cuban and he makes a mean Mojito. The original kind. Knock yourselves out.”

  “Whoa, you’re leaving us? Your dad said to show us around,” Giselle interjects, leaning into Elias, one arm slithering around his w
aist. There’s a knockoff Murano vase within my reach. I could whack her with it and end the night on a positive note.

  “So, what? You want to see my bedroom? You kinky little thing,” I shoot back with a chuckle.

  “It depends on what you’ve got in there,” Elias replies. His eyes are fire. His voice holding not an inch of humor. “I’m willing to bet you keep a small whip in your nightstand, though you’ve probably never used it. My guess is you’re holding out for the right guy to play with.” Elias is close now. Far too close. He’s stolen way too much of my attention with that devilish gaze and the fucking silk in his voice that I can’t even catch a glimpse of the expression on Giselle’s face right now.

  My cheeks are hot. My throat closes up.

  “Isn’t that right, Kira? Wouldn’t you just love someone,” he’s at my ear now, blowing hot breath against my lobe, “to bend you over,” he whispers, “punish you. Hard.”

  I try to swallow, but my mouth is far too dry. It feels like all the moisture has left it in favor of pooling between my thighs. There are a whole bunch of things wrong with what’s happening right now. For starters, no matter how fucking hot Elias cares to be, there shouldn’t be a damn thing about him that makes me crave something hard and long between my thighs. And he sure as shit shouldn’t have a clue what I keep in my nightstand. Either he’s been here before, somehow, and he’s checked every nook in my room, too, or he’s one hell of a mentalist. I’m inclined to have all our house staff interrogated tomorrow, just to be sure. I don’t like any of this…

  I also don’t like the image that pops into my head. The image of him using the whip on me. If there’s anyone I know can deliver a good punishment, it’s him. But hate has no fucking place in the bedroom. And that’s the only thing that exists between me and Elias.