by Jordan Grant
Great, she already hates my guts, and we haven’t even really gotten started yet. Them the Rules and all.
Fear of getting in trouble wins out in the end because the girl hurries to the empty desk in front of me, tumbling into her chair with the grace of a charging elephant.
I tip forward in my seat, and the scent of her floods my nostrils and drags me under. I’m a goner as my eyes glaze over.
Thick sugary sweetness. Fresh-cut apples. A hint of cinnamon. Mixed with a bit of coconut from her shampoo.
I am torn between licking her and taking a bite. She probably would not appreciate either, but then again, maybe…
Fuck. Me.
I want to play with her hair, my fingers itching to let the soft strands glide across my skin. Okay, what I really want is to hold onto it as I take her from behind, but again, she would probably not appreciate that.
My cock is determined to imprint itself on my zipper, and I reach a hand between my legs to pull my ever-tightening pants away from my crotch.
Patience, I chastise myself. But I’ve never been good at waiting my turn, so what I do next is utter torture. It’s like reaching for a skillet on the stove, only when you realize the handle is hot, you don’t let go. No, you cinch your hand tighter and feel your flesh sizzle.
My lips brush against the side of her head, pushing her hair flat against the shell of her ear.
“It’s time to a play a game, Ms. Weathersby,” I breathe. “And I don’t know about you, but I intend on going all the way.”
She shivers under the heat of my breath and jerks her head like she’s about to retort in that lusciously smart-ass way I heard her talk to Berkshire this morning. Ms. Edmonds eyes us from the front of the room with a frown on her painted lips.
The girl stills, squares her shoulders, and focuses straight ahead. She may have more balls than half of the guys in this school, but they are still in a vise.
I don’t bother to stifle my laugh.
— Harlow —
Exhaustion nestles comfortable in my bones as my eyelids beg for relief. I sit at my desk, unpacking the truckload of books I’ve been carting around all day. Each one adds another inch or two to my already precarious pile. Tomorrow I really need to invest a few minutes into locating my locker.
Molly sits across from me on her bed, her legs wrapped underneath her like she’s a Buddhist monk. She has a book open on the bed beside her, a tablet in her hand, and a pen clenched between her teeth.
She looks like she is warm and cozy and…
I shake myself out of it. God, I am tired.
“How do you do it?” I ask with a yawn.
“Do what?” Molly asks, glancing over at me.
I wave my hand. “Get used to all this.”
Molly chuckles. “Not all of it is fancy.”
“I had a waiter serve me lunch today,” I say. “I walked into the wrong building and learned that the astronomy class is held in an actual observatory on campus.”
“To be fair, we have more than one astronomy class,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she is teasing me. “There’s the beginner and intermediate classes and a bunch of higher-level courses incorporating cosmology, astrobiology, and atmospheric chemistry.”
“You sound like a Voclain Academy pamphlet,” I say.
She shrugs, but she’s smiling. “Always been a nerd for the stars.”
Molly looks at my pill bottle, which I’ve dug out my book bag and laid on my desk. Her eyes go wide for a moment before she resumes studying her iPad. She’s too polite to ask, so I offer.
“They help me with panic attacks,” I say.
“Oh,” she looks down at her book, then her iPad, and back at her book again, “I wasn’t...you know...” She blushes, then she’s digging into her nightstand.
“I take iron pills!” She pulls out a small bottle to show me. “And Vitamin D.”
Her gaze returns to the bottle in front of me. “Do you have to take them every day?”
I nod. “And an extra one here or there when it gets to be too much.”
“What’s it like?” she breathes. It’s almost as if she wants to experience a panic attack, but I think it’s really because she wants to experience something, anything, outside these walls.
“It’s like...” I pause, massaging small circles on the top of my thigh, a tick I try not to show, “It’s like the world suddenly collapsing in on itself, only I’m in the center when it does, and the weight just keeps getting heavier and heavier. I can’t breathe. I can’t scream. I can’t do anything, except wait to be consumed.”
“Oh.” Her gaze falls to the floor like she feels guilty for asking. “I’m sorry you have to go through that.”
I shrug and repeat something William used to say. “Everybody goes through shit, and it all smells the same.”
Molly laughs, giggling as though I’ve just said something vulgar and naughty. I can’t help but join her. When she laughs, her joy is infectious. Why am I seemingly the only person who can see that light within her?
“Do you have friends around here?” I ask, snorting before I add, “Besides those douchebags we met this morning?”
Molly looks at me like she can’t believe I just said the word douchebags. I realize she has lived a very sheltered existence.
She smiles. “Not everyone around here is so bad. Raven, Jesse, Vixson, they are nice. I’ll introduce you to them tonight at the commencement dinner.”
I roll my eyes. Crap. I forgot about that.
“Do we really have to go?” I whine, eyeing the Old English encyclopedia on my desk. “I have a mountain of homework.”
“Man-da-tory.” She draws the word out, enunciating every syllable. “It’s ten demerits if you bail.”
I sigh, vaguely recalling something about demerits from the enormous student handbook. It was the size of freakin’ Harry Potter.
“How much is ten demerits?” I ask. “I mean really, in the grand scheme, it can’t be that bad.”
Molly’s eyes go wide, and I think for a moment, they might fall out of her face.
“Harlow, you can only have ten demerits for the entire year. That means one more and you’re...” She runs her hand across her throat.
“Crap,” I lament, turning in my chair to prop my feet up on my unmade bed before looking back over at her. “Any way to make demerits go away?”
“Exceptional attitude, academic excellence, or perseverance in the face of fear,” she says, raising a finger with each example.
I muse over my options.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warns, leaning in as though she’s telling me a secret. “It’s really, really hard to get a demerit removed. Ashton Avers saved a girl one time from drowning, and he only got one demerit removed from his record. One.”
I wince. This isn’t looking good for my stay-inside-and-hide plan.
“When do we need to leave?” I sigh, eyeing my robot-shaped desk clock. He marches in place and talks at you when his alarm goes off. It was a goofy gift from my dad, but I love the thing.
“A couple of hours,” Molly says before her gaze snaps up to me. “Don’t worry though. Like I said, the blue bloods never hit twice in the same day.”
“You keep saying that,” I mutter, unscrewing my pill bottle before I can think better of it. I pop a pill into my mouth like it’s a Tic Tac.
Dr. Murray would say to “control your disease, don’t let it control you.” But she’s not here, and it feels like it’s me and a bottle of anxiety meds against the entire Academy at the moment.
“Wait,” I say, eyeing her as my thumb stills on the cover of my copy of Beowulf, “aren’t you a blue blood too?”
I’m pretty sure from the bits and pieces I heard today that blue blood means old money, whereas my family would be considered arriviste a.k.a. newly rich.
Molly shrugs. “Not really. My family is wealthy enough to afford to send me here, but the blue bloods come from old money, like their families
came over on the Mayflower and founded America money.”
“So if I’m an arriviste,” I say as I pick up my water bottle—God, that will never roll of the tongue—“and they are the blue bloods, that makes you?”
She smirks at me over the top of her tablet. “Part of the sovereign state of don’t give a rat’s tooty-fruity.”
I chortle, nearly choking on my water until it shoots out my nose onto my desk, which sends Molly into shock before she giggles.
I shake my head as I clean up the mess.
Molly’s got a sassy side, and I wholeheartedly love it.
5
Ian
Her glare comes at me like a cannonball, landing so hard it knocks the air from my lungs in a whoosh. Her name, although beautiful, doesn’t really do her justice. She is lava about to erupt from a long-frozen mountain. She is a shower of falling stars on a cloudless summer day. She is a hurricane minutes before it runs ashore onto miles of pristine beach.
She is…everything.
The girl walks in with the Thing, but my eyes are only for her. She wears an ice-blue dress so light it appears nearly white at first glance. The gown is satin covered by chiffon and a million sparkly things. Straps of sheer lace dip over her chest into a sweetheart neckline that I want to go lower but it’s perfect for her. She looks like the first hoarfrost of winter come to life.
Beside me, Archie whistles, and his off-again—but she would very much prefer on-again—plaything glares at him. Ivy would be pretty if she didn’t always mope about like she was three seconds from coming before her partner screwed it up.
At my side, Aurora pouts. She really needs to lay off the fillers. I don’t find it cute. I find it gross. She looks like the red-headed version of surgically enhanced Barbie, only she’s not a natural redhead. I’ve seen her naked enough to know that, though I never give her what she wants. I never fuck her because I am certain if I ever did, she would try to suck my soul out through my dick.
Aurora’s dress is a tight, shimmery thing she told Blythe her father commissioned from Donatella Versace herself. She wears the platinum tennis bracelet I got her the summer before last. What can I say? It was a rough few months when my parents briefly split, and I lost my mind just enough to think she might actually have a soul. She nearly sealed the deal one night that summer when I was drunk off my ass, but Everett saved me.
Best. Friend. Ever.
I shrug Aurora’s talons off my shoulder and stand. The Thing makes a beeline for an empty table. Smart move.
The girl scans the room, turning to follow her…her friend, when her gaze lands on me. I meet her blue eyes, and it’s like a current crackles through the distance between us. I know it’s going to hurt, but I want to grab on and feel the jolt until it fries my veins.
I intersect her path, holding onto the connection like it’s my lifeline to shore. When the tops of my polished loafers kiss her heels, I stare down at her, my lips hinting at my smirk.
“You,” she breathes, the word a curse.
“Sit with me,” I say because I want her to agree. I don’t want to go down this path.
I reach out and tuck the single black lock of hair near her temple behind her ear. If it was on anyone else, I would think they dyed it, another Hollywood trend. But not her. Instead, I am positive she refuses to cover it up.
“Do I need to call 911?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
I’m thrown off kilter for a moment.
She bites her bottom lip, and it takes everything in me to not lean forward a few inches and pull it free with my teeth. She stares at me, at this face that has gotten me so many things I have desired over the years. She is not smiling like most of them do, but she’s not immune either. Her pupils have dilated since she first saw me and a faint flush creeps down her throat like vines stretching in the sun. She may not like it, but she wants me.
Welcome to the club, beautiful.
She shakes her head, pulling her cellphone out of her clutch. The cellphone doesn’t belong with the dress or the new money. It’s from her old life, covered in stickers and that sequin shit girls like to put on everything
“Okay,” she nods quickly. “I am going to call 911. You are obviously experiencing brain damage.”
I drop my hand from her hair to her phone, my fingertips brushing against the inside of her wrist.
“Maybe I hit my head when you fell from Heaven and landed on top of me?” I offer.
A flash of amusement sparks in her eyes, but then, as if she remembers what I said this morning, how I violated every inch of her space, it dissipates like smoke in the wind.
This isn’t working, and I need to get it through her skull before it’s too late. Tomorrow starts a new day, and rules are rules. I lean in so close she has to tilt her head up to look at me.
“I want to fuck you like you’re the last meal before my execution,” I breathe.
Her jaw falls. She is obviously not used to anyone talking to her like this, but I don’t miss the flash of desire that darkens her gaze or how the pulse point at the base of her neck jumps wildly. Her mouth opens and closes as she searches for a retort. Much to my delight, it doesn’t take long.
“Did you lose your filter when you hit your head? Because you need a parental advisory warning.”
“Jesus.” I crack a genuine smile for what feels like the first time in ages. I lift my hand to run over her bottom lip. I’m invading her space, but she doesn’t back away. “You’ve got a mouth like a firecracker.”
“Only socially acceptable on major holidays?”
I shake my head. “Pretty but fucking dangerous.”
She smiles, and I’m certain I am doing things to her insides no one’s ever done before.
“Sit with me,” I say again.
She levels her gaze at me. “Is Molly invited?”
I scoff. “No.”
What the hell? Can’t the girl see that she’s chosen the wrong side?
“Then, here’s to not seeing you around, NC-17.” She pretends to scratch her eyebrow but clearly gives me the finger.
Fuck. I smirk as she sashays over to the table at which the Thing sits. I like this girl.
— Harlow —
It’s a coin toss between whether my heart will give out before my stomach makes a debut. Ian smelled like cardamom, earthy and slightly sweet, just like he did this morning. The heat blazing low in my belly wants to find out if he tastes just as decadent.
Fire is dangerous though. I should know better. He would devour me, incinerate me to nothing with his flames.
He wears a black suit and a slate-colored shirt that matches his eyes. He looks like a Calvin Klein model or a Hollywood movie star, but most of all, he looks like a fallen angel, so beautiful you sin just by looking at him.
Molly gives me a sad smile from her table. Two boys and a girl have joined her, but they are careful to not sit next to her.
As I make my way to my friend, my mind drifts back to Ian freakin’ Beckett.
He walks to the other side of the room, his strides languid and long. I feel him staring at me, even though I don’t look at him as I take my seat.
My mother and my grandmother had insisted on packing a large garment bag full of formal wear. I had laughed and asked if every weekend was prom. Then my grandmother had said Voclain required it, and I stopped laughing. I am grateful for it now though because anything less would have immediately resulted in a demerit, judging by the cackling boy at the table to the left of us who busted out laughing the moment Headmistress DuMonte’s hand wrapped around his khakis-and-polo clad wrist.
You would think he’d worn pajamas or a swimsuit as much as the students tittered when she dragged him from the ballroom and commanded he go change. Khakis are apparently the rich person’s version of mucking it up.
I take my seat beside Molly, and across the hall, Ian stares at me. A gorgeous redhead whispers in his ear. She’s wearing a navy blue dress that hugs every curve with matching sapphires at
her ears and on her throat. They look good together, and I can’t help but wonder if we would look as beautiful. She smiles, her lips curling upward beautifully, but I can tell just by looking at her that under that pretty mask is an ugly thing.
A pretty girl stares across the table along with me. Two boys flank her sides, and her smile is kind. “Don’t let her face fool you. She’s so two-faced she sees double when she looks in the mirror.”
I laugh, and Molly even joins me as she pokes her salad with her fork.
“I’m Raven,” she says, greeting me with a little wave, which I return. Molly opens her mouth to say something, but the girl silences her with a finger. “I don’t want to hear it, Molly. We follow their stupid rules every other day. They can deal with it for one night.”
“But…” Molly begins.
Raven cuts her off. “But nothing. Aurora wants Daddy’s jet to go to Milan next weekend. It will buy us a night of peace.”
Molly resumes stabbing her salad.
“You’re sisters,” I breathe, and suddenly I see the resemblance, though Raven is much more of a natural beauty than Aurora, with soft brown locks instead of red, and skin that’s porcelain rather than coated in a spray-on tan.
Raven frowns but nods in agreement. “Twins actually. We were supposed to be triplets, but I think she purposefully ate the other one.”
I choke on my water.
“You’re Harlow,” she says.
I nod as she points to the guy next to her who looks like he walked out of an Abercrombie & Fitch photo shoot. He is tall and lithe with chestnut curls that brush his ears. “This is Vixson.” She points to a guy on the other side of her. This guy smiles, and it reminds me of a young Idris Elba. What is it with all the people at this school being drop-dead gorgeous? “That’s Jesse.”
Vixson nods to me in greeting before he steals a mandarin orange slice off Raven’s salad. Jesse raises his chin in hello before returning his attention to his phone under the table.
