by MV Ellis
None of it is the start I’d hoped for. In fact, Mr. Ego is exactly what I feared I’d find at the school—a bunch of entitled pricks who think they’re masters of the universe. I have to fight with every ounce of willpower I have to resist the urge to pack up my shit and just leave,
Ha! Who the fuck am I kidding? I didn’t and don’t have any choice. Despite the choppy start, what keeps me focused on being here is that it’s my best option, and my only ticket out of my shit-stain of a situation. That’s worth its weight in gold, and I need to make it work, no matter what.
Not only that, but I’ve faced bigger and worse bullies than Mr. Ego, so one spoiled rich boy throwing his weight around because he can, isn’t enough to deter me from my plan. Not even close. Getting what I want from this experience is definitely worth putting up with some entitled, loaded dude trying to be gangsta.
I do my best not to throw the teacher shade, and just about manage it, while trying to work out where the hell I’m supposed to sit. I really don’t want to take the seat that has just been vacated by Mr. Ego, or the one he barred me from.
Not only do I want to avoid a showdown in the highly unlikely event that he returns, but even if he doesn’t, I don’t want to soak up his bad juju for two hours. It sounds kooky, and maybe it is, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s a thing.
Just as I’m about to give in, and suffer the consequences, someone throws me a bone.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Language,” warns Mr. Carlisle.
“Whatever. I’ll say a couple of Hail Marys, and I’ll be good with JC,” the owner of the voice huffs out, sounding beyond bored. I imagine some heavy eye-rolling accompanying the words, though I can’t see him so I can’t be sure. “Just fucking sit here.” The words are accompanied by the scraping of a chair.
I follow the sound with my gaze, locating it to a seat along the same row as Mr. Ego has just left. Shit. I instantly recognize the owner of the voice as the second guy in the room I accidentally crashed last night.
Holy shit. I noticed him the first time, but I was more than a little distracted by Mr. Ego, with his intense, piercing blue eyes and his body that looks like a forged bronze sculpture. He’d taken my breath away then, and I’d never really gotten it back.
Now, with only one of them in the room, I can focus on the other guy, and I find myself equally as attracted to, and curious about him as I was about his obnoxious friend previously. Jesus, what is it about these guys?
There are good-looking kids at Moreton High; of course there are. In fact, a few of them are fine as all hell, but these boys are a different thing. The combination of looks, off-the-charts arrogance—plus the apparent power that goes with it—and money is something totally new to me. New, and disconcertingly hot.
I wonder idly if being filthy rich automatically makes someone seem impossibly good-looking, or if I’m simply viewing them through greenback-tinted glasses.
The second guy is also a dirty blond, but unlike his friend, who sports a low crop, this one’s hair flops over his forehead. Look up ‘cliché bad boy,’ and no doubt there will be a photo of a dude looking just like this one staring out moodily and flicking the world the bird, like he’s the first ever hothed to break the rules.
“Le Claire, I said watch your language.” I’m pretty sure Carlisle’s feeble words don’t even convince him he’s serious, let alone anyone else. The guy is piss-weak.
“Yeah, and I said what-the-fuck-ever.” Just as I suspected—zero fucks given. This shit is wild. The kids literally do and say whatever the hell they want. I would love to see how this would go down at MHS. And by love, I mean I’d pack my popcorn and settle in to watch the drama play out from afar.
As it is, I’m way too close to the action for my liking, and that’s not how I roll—not at Moreton, and not here—if I have anything to do with it, which at the moment, I don’t really seem to. It’s a situation I want to fix, because drama is the exact opposite of what I’m here for. In fact, coming here is supposed to be a way out of my existing drama, not a mainline to more.
Le Claire’s eyes are a deep shade of green, like rare sea glass. As he stares at me expectantly, I note that, while his gaze is in some ways just as intense as his friend’s, it somehow lacks the ferocity of Mr. Ego’s angry glare. In fact, although I’m clearly irritating him, overall, he doesn’t seem to have the same hard edge about him, period.
Yes, they both have the air of jaded boredom, and rebel without a cause with zero fucks to give, but with Mr. Ego I’d seen something deeper and harder in his eyes, something that chilled my blood and stopped me in my tracks.
“Jesus Christ, are you waiting for a personal invitation from the motherfucking Queen of England, or are you actually a goddamned deer in the headlights? Sit the hell down, before I revoke my offer, on account of the fact that deer don’t have opposable thumbs, so there’s no way you’ll be able to grip a pen.” A small wave of laughter ripples through the room at his words. “What’s it to be?” He slaps the seat of the chair, presumably by way of invitation.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Le Claire. Settle down everyone, before I put the whole class on detention for the rest of the week.” That comment elicits groans from everyone, with all eyes turning to glower at me. Well, my first twenty-four hours here are going well—I’m making friends and influencing everyone. Not.
“Ms. Allen.” Mr. Carlisle gestures toward the seat, also. “If you please.” I make a mental note to hate him for the rest of eternity, for the way he’s hung me out to dry, and is in no way trying to help, or taking charge of the situation.
I shrug my gratitude to Le Claire, and he winks his reply. I shuffle along the row to the proffered seat, only realizing my mistake once it’s too late. We have to squeeze past each other now, and I don’t miss the bulge of his erection as it brushes against me. Nor do I miss the way my heart stops, and certain parts of me tingle in response to the contact. In fact, my whole body is buzzing.
Just as I think I’m free and clear, he lowers his lips so that they’re indecently close to my neck.
“Welcome to the motherfucking forest, Bambi. Word of warning...watch your back, or the predators will.”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Chapter 7
Tyce
* * *
“Dude, what the fuck was that?” I throw my lunch tray down on the table next to Zeph and flop into my chair. One thing I hate about this place is the food. I mean, it’s all top quality organic ingredients, chef-prepared, nutritionally balanced, grain-fed, hand-reared, micronutrients, blah, blah, blah... all the stuff our parents cream their panties for when they hand over hefty wads of cash every year, but I can’t stand any of it. I’d happily swap it for a roadside burger, a chili dog, or a $2 slice covered in too much cheese and deli meats of questionable origins.
In fact, it is pretty rare for us even to bother to make an appearance in the cafeteria. We normally order up a bunch of stuff from a couple of delivery services, despite it being against school rules. Like we give even the slightest fuck about that, anyway. Or worst-case scenario, we fill up on crap from the vending machines for lunch, then order up for dinner.
I idly wonder if our sudden appearance at the lunchroom has anything to do with the very high possibility of seeing one hot-bodied new girl here. I’m willing to bet a whole stack of pizzas that it is.
“What was what?” Zeph doesn’t look up from his tray, just carries on shoveling spaghetti into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten for a week. Another sign that something is up. He normally treats the food with as much distrust and disdain as I do. Now suddenly he’s eating like he’s never tasted better.
“Man, don’t fucking give me that. That hissy fit you threw in geography before. Are you out of your mind?” He lowers his fork slowly, and I note that Thunder, Jagger and Lennon turn their attention to the two of us as we speak, no doubt already assessing whether they need to step in or not. With the mood Zeph is in, I’d like to see them t
ry—it would be a fucking bloodbath.
“Watch yourself, Ty, because you know how it goes... it’s all shits and giggles until I tear you a new asshole.” Jesus. He’s highly strung at the best of times—my words, not his—but today he’s off the charts.
“Yeah, well, you know as well as I do that I’m not going to go mano a mano with you, brother. But in any case, you should probably stop acting like a bitch over some girl you haven’t even formally met.” I know I shouldn't poke the bear, but sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
“It’s not like that, and you know it.” He throws me enough shade to eclipse the sun, and I decide to let up a little. Not because of his threat, but because living with Zeph means constantly choosing my battles, and if I don’t pick wisely, we’ll lock horns all day, every day.
While I’m sure he has the energy or bloody-mindedness to endlessly fight to the bitter end over the most trivial bullshit, I really don’t. I mean, I can get as wound up as the next guy—unless the next guy is Zeph Cross—if the situation requires, but I really don’t have the fucks to give about everything even mildly irritating like he does. I let a lot of shit go past me without a reaction, just to keep the peace. I guess that’s one of the reasons our shit works so well.
“Well, ladies, as entertaining as this little show has been, I think I speak for all of us—” Lennon motions to the rest of the guys. “When I say, ‘what the fuck is going on right now?’”
“Zeph is losing his mind over the new girl—you know the one I told you about last night, who accidentally stumbled into his room?” I fill in the blanks for the others.
“I haven’t lost my mind. I just don’t like her, and I don’t want her here,” Zeph fires back. “And you of all people should know and understand why, under the circumstances.” He glares at me as though there’s a chance I won’t catch his meaning.
“Why, what’s going on?” Jagger is quick to pick up on the vibe. He and Lennon, his identical twin brother—their parents are clearly idiots—are pretty good at reading the room, and definitely have some kind of freaky ESP shit going on when it comes to knowing what the other twin is thinking and feeling.
Zeph stays silent.
“No secrets, just Zeph being Zeph.” I can feel that he’s not ready to fill the others in yet, and I’m not about to throw him under the bus. As much as he can be a total asshat at times, he’s my bro, and I have his back. Always.
Not just that, but I’m as implicated in the whole situation as he is, so I guess I’m protecting myself, too. Not that the guys don’t know what happened—they do—but Zeph and I clearly need more time, and possibly a game plan before we spill our guts to the others about the video.
“You know how he can be. Once he gets an idea into his stubborn mule head, don’t go expecting logic. Meanwhile, I’m over here looking at her like ‘she’s fine as a motherfucker, and I’d totally tap that,’ while Zephy’s busy putting a hex on her.” The other guys laugh and I join in. I have to admit I’m a funny fucker sometimes. That’s kind of part of our schtick, too, Zeph and me. He’s the straight guy to my comedy antics.
If looks could kill, I’d be the definition of dead right now. So dead. But I’m protecting Zeph, so he’s going to have to forgive the fact that I’m making him sound like a hormonal lunatic at the same time—it’s better than the alternative.
“Fuck you.” He flips me the bird as the other boys perk up at the mention of fresh meat.
“How hot are we talking, on a scale of one to smoking?” Thunder’s eyes gleam. Thirsty asshole.
“Like, so hot, she burned down the whole motherfucking forest. Easily a twenty.”
Lennon’s eyes widen. “Out of what?”
“Ten.” I deadpan.
“Oh shit.” Jagger’s face almost splits in two as his lips curl upwards in a shit-eating grin.
“Serious?” Lennon pipes up again, eyeing his brother.
“As cancer. She’s fire.” I’m not lying.
“She’s not going to be here long, but even if she was, she’s off limits, so don’t even think about it.” Zeph’s voice is so sharp it could cut through granite.
“Off limits how?” Thunder looks thoroughly confused, as he’s justified in being.
“In every way, and for everything unless it involves ‘encouraging’ her to leave.”
“Says who?” Jagger’s grin has fallen, replaced by a heavy frown.
“The Pope. Me of course, shit-for-brains. Who the fuck else do you think? Just forget you ever saw her.”
“Well, we actually haven’t seen her. Yet.” Thunder motions between himself and the twins.
“Which will make it easier for you to have nothing to do with her.” I shouldn’t have worried about making Zeph sound crazy. He’s doing a fine job of that all by his damned self.
Thunder gives me a “What the actual fuck?” look, to which I shrug and shake my head, almost imperceptibly. Thunder knows better than to pursue it further, publicly, at least, though he’ll no doubt corner me for more information in private at some point.
That’s a problem for future Tyce to deal with, though. I’m sure as much of a God-complex as Zeph has, he knows he can’t stop us from talking about him behind his back. It’s a free country, and as far as our shit goes, what Z doesn’t know, can’t hurt him.
“You know you’ve basically given everyone an open invite to hit on her now, right?” I quirk an eyebrow as I speak, and Zeph stares at me as though he can’t tell if I’m serious or not.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” His scowl is etched deep into his features.
“Sure you do.” I flash my cheesiest grin. “Reverse psychology. You know, like how if your dad says, ‘Don’t touch the liquor cabinet while I’m away on business,’ the first thing you do as his car rolls down the drive is bust open that motherfucker and get lit all the way to hell and back? This is the exact same thing, except instead of sucking on Henny, it’ll be Blake Allen’s sweet nectar we’re all licking from our lips. Bottom line…the minute someone is told they can’t have something, that’s suddenly the thing they want most in the whole world, and they fixate on it like a crazy person. Reverse. Psychology.”
Zeph is deathly still, and I’ve learned over the years that this is the calm before the storm. The very big, raging, wild, storm. His eyes stare out, steely, yet somehow unfocused at the same time. I guess that’s where the saying “blind rage” comes from. I know from experience that when he gets like that, he can’t see anything except his anger.
Right now, he takes a few deep breaths, presumably to try to calm down, before epically losing his ever-loving shit in the lunchroom.
“First of all, you know I don’t stay at ‘home’ unless my parents aren’t going to be there. Second, Xavier knows better than to try to tell me shit, but if he did, for some reason, lose his mind and attempt it, I’d be pouring myself a triple before he could even finish saying the words. So, yeah, I don’t fucking know what you mean.”
“Come on, Z, you’re a smart guy.” One of the smartest I know, in fact. “You get it, even if it doesn’t apply directly to you. But I’ll humor you, and spell it out anyway.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice if I wanted to, which, given the way Zeph is behaving, I don’t. He’s starting to piss me off “We’re dudes. We’re hard-wired to be assholes, it goes back to our caveman days. So now everyone is going to bust a nut trying to bang the new girl, just because you said they can’t.”
“Oh, is that so?” He hisses the words, as the other boys watch the two of us like hawks, waiting to see how the situation will pan out.
“Yep. One hundred percent. It’s on like Donkey Kong.” I stare him down, willing him to challenge me.
“Over my dead fucking body.” Of course he’s not going to back down. He’d literally rather die.
“Well, that’s one way to go about it, I guess.” My challenge is clear. Game on. Brother.
Zeph is up and out of his seat—se
nding his chair clattering behind him—before the words have fully left my lips. Standard procedure.
The sound of metal and brittle plastic crashing onto the ancient hardwood floor causes silence to sweep through the room, with all eyes on us. But while the last thing I want is to cause a scene, Zeph has already grabbed me by the collar, attracting even more attention. Shit.
Thunder reaches for Zeph’s arm, and I note his fingers stiffen as he squeezes our friend’s bicep. His fingers sink into the plush burgundy fabric of the uniform wool blazer, and his knuckles blanche. He must be squeezing hard. He clenches his teeth, while a fake smile crossed with a leer graces his features. His voice is too low for anyone but us to hear.
“Dudes, settle the fuck down. Whatever this is—” He motions almost imperceptibly between the two of us. “Let’s deal with it in private, instead of in front of the entire fucking school, yeah?” He keeps the grimace fixed in place while he curls his fist even tighter on Zeph’s arm.
I watch as Zeph reaches for Thunder’s forearm and mimics the same motion, no doubt squeezing even harder, given he’s never someone to be outdone. He also returns Thunder’s awkward ‘smile.’
“Get your motherfucking hand off me, or I’ll rip your arm out of its socket and beat you to death with it.”
They’re at a stalemate for a few moments, and I can see that Thunder is thinking hard, probably weighing up his options, then realizing that he has none. He releases Zeph’s arm slowly, and Zeph returns the favor.
“Jesus, Z. Take it easy. Like, maybe calm your farm just a little. Every fucker in the goddamned school is watching this go down right now.”
He’s right, everyone is tuned in to us—not that they ever aren’t.
However, there’s now a new set of eyes witnessing our dick-swinging display. I’m not sure when Blake Allen entered the room, but now that I’ve noticed her pretending to ignore us, I feel like her eyes are boring into my soul.
