Heartless: A High School Bully Romance (The Privileged of Pembroke High Book 1)

by Ivy Fox

  Snow: You’re incorrigible. LOL

  Me: Nope, just horny as hell.

  Snow: Like I said, incorrigible. You’re lucky you’re cute.

  Me: Not lucky, babe. Just honest. Miss you.

  Snow: Miss you too. XOXO

  Me: Don’t be late. I got a lot planned for tonight.

  Snow: You always say that, but we always end up making out on the beach the whole time.

  Me: And that’s exactly what I always have planned.

  Snow: INCORRIGIBLE!

  Me: Yeah, but you love it.

  Snow: I really do. See you tonight. <3

  “What the hell are you grinning about?” Ollie asks, interrupting my wicked thoughts, and cooling down the warm, mushy feeling her parting words left me with.

  “Nothing.” I smirk, putting the phone away in my pocket while stretching my legs out, placing my feet on the coffee table in the living room. I clasp my hands behind my head and throw my twin another impish smile just to get on his nerves.

  “Whatever,” he replies, slumping next to me on the couch, his brow pulled tightly together.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me,” he quips back, grabbing my abandoned controller from the table and resuming the game I had paused an hour ago when Snow first started texting me.

  My twin’s pout is fucking ridiculous, and I want to tease him about it, but I’m pretty sure I know why he’s in such a foul mood.

  “We’ll see her tonight.” I try to comfort him, but he just shrugs and mistakenly kills one of the good guys in the game.

  “Jesus, you suck,” I reprimand, taking the controller away from him and getting my character to the next level in one try.

  “Hey, dickwad, I was playing!” Ollie says, smacking my feet off the table.

  “No, you were losing. And on my account, no less. Don’t need those online gamers thinking I suck balls just because you’re on your period,” I rebuke.

  “Whatever,” he repeats again, slouching forward, his elbows on his knees.

  I pause the game and face my taciturn brother head-on.

  “Okay, spill it. What’s your problem? Is this because we couldn’t see Snow this afternoon?”

  “I don’t get it.” He shrugs. “She hates her mom. You know she does, even if she doesn’t come out and say it. So why does she feel she has to fall in line every time her mom wants her to?”

  “Jesus, Ollie. And I thought I was the selfish prick in this set. It’s her mom, asshole. No matter what type of relationship they have, that will never change,” I scold, unimpressed that Ollie is being such a man-child over having to spend a few extra hours without Snow.

  I mean, every time Snow goes MIA, Ollie is the one who is constantly feeding me this crap of how important family is. He’s always saying how we know better than anyone that we can’t help who our parents are. But they’re still blood, even if all we want to do is smother them with a pillow while they sleep. So why is he throwing a hissy fit now? He’s usually the level-headed one, whereas I’m the hothead who lets his impatience get the better of him.

  I scrutinize my twin—the scowl on his face, the dejected slump of his shoulders, the anxious tension running over every inch of him—and it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots of why he’s slowly going out of his mind.

  “Are you really this upset because Snow had to do her own thing this afternoon? Or is it because she hasn’t said anything about moving in with us yet?” The minute the words are out of my mouth, Ollie flinches, and I know that I’ve hit the nail on the head.

  “I thought as much. Maybe Snow wanting to spend some time with her mom before graduation next year is a good thing. In fact, it’s freaking fantastic. You should be happy she’s doing this, since it only helps our cause,” I explain adamantly.

  “How so?” he asks, confused with my train of thought.

  This is where Ollie and I differ. He might be the pragmatic one in our duo, but I’m the one who sees things from every angle and considers every potential outcome. While Ollie thinks in just black and white, maybe even a few shades of gray from time to time, my mind is a fucking rainbow of colors. I mean, it’s technicolor at its best, with added glitter and glow for flair.

  “Snow spending time with her mom will end up doing one of two things—either they end up mending fences, helping Snow to find closure in the process and preparing her to be ready for the next big step in her life; or, and this is where I’m putting my money on, her mom will continue to be a bitch to her, and Snow will want to put as much distance as she can between herself and her mother. Either way, this will help us get Snow’s cute ass to New York. Trust me, this will be a win-win for all of us. By the end of the summer, Snow won’t even remember Boston anymore,” I explain all this to Ollie, but my stubborn brother still seems unsure. Thankfully he’s no longer pouting like a toddler, just brooding like the entitled asshole he is.

  “You really think so? Maybe we should have told her the loft was a rental or something? I think we might have spooked her a bit. I mean buying a 3.5 million dollar loft just so our girlfriend could move in with us, might be too much of a commitment for her. Maybe we should have just focused on getting her to apply to Juilliard and talked about the living arrangements after she got accepted?”

  “You’re overanalyzing, Ollie. Just fucking chill. Here, take this. This one’s on me. You look like you need it more anyway,” I goad, handing him the joint I had carefully stashed on the crook of my ear.

  “I don’t need to get stoned, Ash. I need to get out of this limbo we created,” he rebukes, slumping back on his seat, eyes closed while pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb.

  “Suit yourself,” I reply back, lighting up some of Jamaica’s finest. The pungent aroma hits my brother’s nostrils, forcing him to give in.

  “Fuck it. Pass me a drag, then,” he concedes, so I hand it to him, but not before taking two long puffs for myself. “We’ve got the whole summer to sort this out. Thank God tomorrow is Friday. I love her days off,” Ollie says enthusiastically, making mushroom clouds in the air with the smoke of my burning weed.

  “Hmm, about that. Snow said she has a family thing tomorrow, too. But don’t worry, she thinks she’ll be ready to meet up with us after lunch or something,” I explain, and the missing scowl on my twin’s face returns with a vengeance.

  “You know what? I’m starting to hate her mom, too,” he replies scornfully.

  Snow’s mother is going to be in for quite a surprise when she meets my twin. If Snow thinks Ollie is the one who will make the better impression out of the two of us, she is dead wrong. When Ollie hates, he hates wholeheartedly. No one is immune to his wrath and scorn once he’s deemed them the enemy.

  Sucks to be her.

  “Is Ollie still bitching because you didn’t get to see your girl, today?” Rome interrupts as he enters the room with a beer in his hand. He takes a seat and gets comfortable, leaning back in the armchair with his legs open wide.

  “Rome, you mind? I don’t need to see your junk from where I’m sitting,” Ollie quips back.

  “Yep, definitely still pissed,” Rome teases with a deep laugh.

  “Funny,” Ollie adds, slanting his eyes at our older brother.

  “You know what isn’t funny? Not sharing your stash with your big brother. Hand it over,” Rome counters, leaning in to grab the joint out of Ollie’s hand. Once he has it in his grip, the asshole does the unthinkable and demolishes it in the ashtray in front of him.

  “What the fuck, Rome! That was grade-A weed you just wasted!” I shout out, irritated that my precious smoke got trashed when I only had two puffs.

  “Don’t even start with me, Asher. Elle will be home any minute now, and I don’t want the house smelling like Coachella when she arrives,” he replies dismissively, not one bit concerned with my aggravation.

  I’m about to open my mouth in
retaliation, when I hear the front door open, announcing our baby sister’s arrival. Rome keeps his familiar I-told-you-so glare tattooed on his face and only softens when our younger sibling comes waltzing in, with a glow that is all Elle.

  “Guess who wiped the court with Kimmy Sullivan’s pretentious ass today? This girl right here,” Elle gleefully shouts, both of her thumbs pointing to her proud self.

  Ollie and I chuckle when she begins to do her little victory dance, wielding the tennis racket as her prop, simulating the beat down her tennis nemesis got. What can I say? Cockiness runs in our blood, and Elle is a chip right off the old block.

  “Bet the preppy princess didn’t know what hit her,” Rome praises, standing up to give her a celebratory hug, but then pulls back, mockingly pinching the end of his nose. “You sure you beat her fair and square or did your funky smell impair her game?” He laughs, faking death by the BO.

  “Bite me, Rome. Don’t even get me started on funky smells. If you idiots want to light up and burn the few remaining good brain cells God afforded you, at least have the courtesy to crack open a window,” she sneers back, strutting off to her room, and hopefully a shower.

  We’re all still laughing away at our baby sister’s gall when the temperature in the room chills to arctic proportions—a common occurrence when Malcolm Grayson, our father, enters any room. We were laughing so hard that we missed the asshole’s unexpected arrival.

  “I see you’ve all been productive, as usual,” he quips sarcastically, looking right through the three of us. Ollie’s back stiffens next to me, and through my peripheral I watch Rome transform into the stone-cold, heartless bastard my father created. Like always, I’m the first one to open my big mouth and greet daddy dearest.

  “Oh geez, Dad, but we have been productive. We found a way to end hunger and poverty, made a treaty for world peace, and found the cure for cancer just this morning. Sorry you missed it. I’ll be sure to send you a memo,” I rebuke with the best polo-wearing, country-club-dipshit tone I can manage faking without puking my guts out. “But aren’t you lucky that you’re right on time for the jack-off portion of our day.” I wink, nonchalantly.

  “Always a pleasure to see my money is being well spent at Pembroke. Just goes to show that a fancy education can’t buy class. It’s money down the drain if you ask me; especially when your sons insist in continuing to be nothing but mediocre,” he retorts, the disdain clear in his voice.

  “Hey now, Pops, don’t beat yourself down so much. Remember it’s your mediocre sons that pay for your five-thousand-dollar whores. Let’s not forget that little nugget of truth—every time you get your dick sucked, we’re the ones footing the bill,” I goad, relishing in throwing that nasty fact in his arrogant face.

  But instead of my father’s freckled skin turning his usually hellish red after one of my taunts, he looks downright relaxed and unaffected by my attack.

  “Ah, son, I can always count on you to put your foot in your mouth. Trust me, Asher, you have a long way to go before putting your grimy hands on your inheritance. Perhaps more than you think,” he counters smugly, his confidence not sitting well with me at all.

  My back stiffens at his threat, and my tongue is ready to slander him into the ground. However, Ollie shifts in his seat to face me, sending a shut-the-fuck-up look with our father being none the wiser. With Ollie’s stoic expression on point, he turns around and glares at the narcissistic, vile man.

  “Is there anything you need to discuss? Or is this visit of yours merely to deliver your daily dose of fatherly enlightenment?” Ollie interjects, feigning indifference.

  When we come to the Hamptons, our father usually stays back in Manhattan and only takes a helicopter here over the weekends. Today is Thursday, hardly the beginning of the weekend, even if most of the Fourth of July parties—the ones he likes to attend to get his ego stroked—started earlier this week. My gaze fixes instantly on the two Louis Vuitton suitcases behind him—far too many for only a weekend getaway.

  “There are some matters I need to attend to here, yes. But do not worry. Your cooperation will not be needed. Not yet, anyway. So, feel free to continue wasting your days in idle, fruitless mayhem. I know how fond you both are of keeping to the gutter.”

  Again, I’m two seconds away from cursing the fucker, when this time it’s my older brother who takes center stage and prevents me from saying a word. I really wish they would just let me put the dick in his place. I’m not one for threats, no matter how powerful my douchebag of a father thinks himself to be.

  “Aren’t you the lucky ones,” Rome interjects, clearly not impressed he was left out from our father’s contemptuous remark.

  “Actually, Roman, I just came in to ask you not to plan anything for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll need you and Eleanor to accompany me to an important lunch.”

  “Forget it. I’m busy,” Rome replies, taking a swig of his beer.

  Rome isn’t twenty-one yet so, for all intents and purposes, a son drinking alcohol in front of his father is sure to test his resolve. But that would require the father to give a shit. Ours couldn’t care less.

  “Well, reschedule it. You’ll be at the Ivory at one. Bring your best fake smile, if you can’t master the real thing,” my father informs.

  “Why aren’t the twins going to said crucial event?” Rome jokes. I know he would rather we all go to whatever crapfest our father has in mind than just Elle and him.

  “Because I need to make a certain type of impression, and your brothers, as they so poignantly demonstrated in less than five minutes of my arrival, are too volatile. Your sister knows how to conduct herself and you, for all your faults, know your place, too. An hour of your time is all I ask.”

  “You mean order, don’t you?” Ollie interrupts, displeased for my sister and brother’s sake.

  “Does a general have to say it’s an order for it to be one? Not likely.” His slanted grin rises, and my stomach churns at his pleased expression.

  “Fine, but don’t make it a reoccurring ordeal. None of us came here to be your prop. We have enough of that back in New York,” Rome replies, his repulsion evident in having to do anything for the benefit of the illustrious Judge Grayson.

  “Ah, Roman, don’t be naive. I can use you for whatever purpose I want, whenever I want it. Or haven’t you been paying close attention? Best start soon, son. I know how you hate being surprised,” he adds smugly, before turning his back on us, as he always does when he’s been successful at ripping out and stomping over our hearts.

  “Well, there goes my summer,” Rome barks out, drinking the rest of his beer in one go and slamming the bottle on the table.

  Elle, Ollie, and I might have had a shitty deal in the dad department, but Rome got more than an asshole for a father.

  He got a man’s worst nightmare.

  Chapter 7

  Holland

  “Stop fidgeting,” my mother whispers through gritted teeth, walking in-step with me toward the entrance of the Ivory, which is one of the classiest restaurants the Hamptons provide to the rich and powerful elite flocking to this part of Long Island in the summer months.

  “I’m not fidgeting,” I deny softly, but I know that I am, in fact, jittering like a mad person.

  It’s not entirely my fault that I’m a nervous wreck. Aside from sporting a dress that costs more than most households earn in a month, the six-inch heels my mother insisted I wear will surely be the cause of my impending broken neck this afternoon.

  Funny thing is, if I do die today, no one will even recognize my corpse. Not with the elaborate makeup and get up I’m wearing. I look like a seventeen-year-old going on thirty. Is this really how girls my age dress in Manhattan? Or is this just another humiliation my twisted mother is getting some sort of sick satisfaction from?

  I really can’t tell.

  Since yesterday she has gone to great lengths to ensure everything that was done to me was done correctly and to her sta
ndards. From the filing of my toenails to the definition of my eyebrows, not one area of my body was untouched by her glam squad—who had specific orders of what the end result must look like. I have been waxed, scrubbed, and polished to resemble whatever perfect image that, in her mind, is presentable enough for me to attend one measly lunch in her company. I have a nagging feeling that whatever this bash is, it can’t be just about meeting a so-called friend of hers.

  What is she up to?

  “Holland,” she warns again, and I take a deep breath, slowing my pace so it doesn’t look as if I’m a fish out of water. The truth of the matter is, I’m so far out from my element, it’s laughable. It’s not every day I come to a restaurant where the menus don’t even have prices listed beside the names of elaborate, dainty dishes. I’m doing the best I can, considering the circumstances. My mother, being the well-versed socialite, is used to these types of places.

  Me though? Not so much.

  Not that I’m complaining. I have never had the curiosity or the desire to frequent such venues. My parents never really had any interest in getting me used to their lifestyle, and I can’t say I ever made much of a fuss to be included, either. Fancy clothes, luxurious cars, and lavish restaurants have no appeal to me. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen the effects money can have on a person. Good people turn greedy in their wealth and will lie, cheat, and steal to keep their hold on it. Maybe not all fall prey to the perils great wealth provides, but that hasn’t been my experience. Not in the least.

  “We’re late,” my mother susurrates low enough for my ears alone, but the accusation in her tone that this is my fault is aggravatingly loud.

  “I thought you said lunch was at one? We still have ten minutes,” I reply evenly, hoping to placate her temper instead of provoking the beast underneath.

  Her nose flares and I see the bitter words lodged in her throat, ready to break me down into shards of glass. But she’s unable to spill them out when the door of the restaurant opens and a couple steps outside for a smoke. She casts me a warning glower before entering the fine establishment. My wet palms smooth my lavender dress, and I try desperately not to flinch when my mother touches my elbow, ushering me also.