by Jacie Lennon
He glances up at her. She is fidgeting now. I’m not sure if it’s due to Principal Meriwether’s gaze on her or the fact that he’s most likely going to comment on what got her expelled in the first place.
Maybe I should be fidgeting on that front.
“Now, I received a call from your father, Mr. Montgomery. I assume that was orchestrated by you?” He pins his stare on me, and I sense Peyton’s eyes slide over.
“Yes, I called him.”
Meriwether shuffles papers around before lightly banging them on his desk to get them all uniform.
“Well, there is the matter of the nature of your expulsion, Miss Rossman. It was violent and not at all what we encourage between students here. Frankly, it’s a little disturbing.”
I almost snort at the way he says violent. If only he knew how his students acted behind his back. Then, his attention is on me, and my blood turns to ice. I know what he’s about to say before it’s even out of his mouth, and I’m desperately trying to decide how to finagle my way out of this one. It’s make-or-break time, and I have this sinking sensation that I’m about to break.
“Your father indicated that you had some information about what occurred that you are interested in sharing with the board.”
I swallow and pause for a moment. I don’t look at Peyton, not sure what I’ll see on her face.
“Yeah, I was under the impression that I could tell the board?” I flex my fingers, waiting.
“Whatever you need to say, you can say while I’m sitting here,” Peyton says, the first words she’s spoken the entire time.
Fuck.
“It’s not that important,” I mumble, and this time, I hear her entire body shift.
“Spit it out, Montgomery,” she hisses, and I know I’m screwed now.
I’ve never cared before. I’ve never lost any sleep at night over how I treated other people. I have used the power of never being told no by anyone because of my last name. I’m not saying it’s right, and I could have been different—and believe me, right now, I wish I had been.
I stretch my neck side to side and pop it, stalling, but I know I can’t delay the inevitable much longer.
“So, first, I want to preface this story by saying that I was young and dumb. Peyton didn’t start the fight. I made sure everyone believed that. I, uh …” I can feel her searing gaze raking over me, and she’s not happy. “I knew that some of our classmates didn’t like Peyton—”
“Are you kidding? None of you liked me. You were all too busy riding your high horses with your noses so far in the air that I’m surprised you didn’t drown when it rained.”
“Miss Rossman,” Meriwether says, silencing her. “Continue, Mr. Montgomery.”
“I didn’t care either way, but speaking as a very young and dumb guy—”
“You’ve already said that,” Peyton scoffs.
“Miss Rossman, I won’t warn you again,” Meriwether chastises, and she crosses her arms, continuing to glare at me.
“Anyway, a few of us guys had a bet on who would win in a catfight between Peyton and Kelsey. My money was definitely on you,” I say, turning toward her and then continuing when she doesn’t move her face. “But it was taking forever. Turns out, a lot of times, girls like to fight with words and not come to blows. But I needed it to happen for the bet, so I might have instigated it. I paid a girl to swipe Peyton’s school ID. Then, I took Kelsey and her friends’ clothes and put bleach in their shampoo in the locker room, strategically leaving the ID behind. They thought it was Peyton who had done it, so when they were fighting in the commons that day, it was my fault.”
“What. The. Fuck, Montgomery? Are you serious right now?” Peyton is livid.
I want to go back in time and throttle myself for telling my dad that I had something to do with it. I’m not sure that I can come back from this with her.
“Thank you for coming forward with the truth even if it is two and a half years after the fact,” Principal Meriwether says dryly. “I will take what you have told me into consideration and request the transcripts from Loredo High, where you have been attending, Miss Rossman. As long as there aren’t large discrepancies in grades, the board will probably rule in your favor. Now, that being said, we will have to figure out rooming and uniforms this late into the school semester. Give me a few days to work everything out, and we will give you an answer.” His word is final, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It looks like the answer will most likely be yes, and that was my goal.
“Perfect. Thank you, Principal Meriwether,” Peyton says before grabbing my arm and digging her nails in as she stands and drags me along with her.
18
Peyton
I pull Brock behind me until we are outside the principal’s office in the hallway. A few teachers look our way, but I paste a smile on, and eventually, they go back to whatever they were doing.
“Let’s not do this here,” Brock says after seeing the calm before the storm on my face, and I laugh.
I feel the rising panic in my chest threatening to spill over. All of what I thought about Brock came to a crashing halt in that room—young and dumb or not.
“Oh, let’s absolutely do this here. Do you know what you cost me when you did that? Did you even stop to consider the implications of your actions? Were you trying to get me expelled?” The questions are flowing out of me, and I can’t stop talking. “I spent two and a half years at a subpar school for an education I desperately needed to be above par. I spent two and a half more years with my dad, who doesn’t give a shit about me. I spent time working as a waitress to make ends meet, to keep my power on at the house, to have food to eat when I wasn’t at school. I spent two and a half fucking years of my life with that asshole Drake Portley, and what do I have to show for it now?”
I stand there, my chest heaving as I catch my breath, and Brock stares at me.
“It was just a bet,” he says lamely, not meeting my eyes, and I want to rake my fingernails down his perfect face. I hate it so much right now.
“My life is not a bet, Brock. It’s not a game for you and your bored friends to play. You cost me a lot, and now, you will spend your time making that up to me—in any way possible.”
“You told me you didn’t want me as a protector or to interfere with your life here.”
Are boys that obtuse? Did he just say that to me?
“You’ve already interfered, Brock. And now, it’s brought us to this moment. I’m pissed—no, I’m beyond furious with you right now. I’m going to need some time to recover. But first, you are going to call and get me a doctor’s appointment at that fancy clinic you pay for, and I’m going to make sure my child is okay after the week I’ve had.”
Brock looks around and then runs his hand through his hair. “Shit. Yeah. I should have thought of that.”
“There’s a lot you should have thought about.”
He has a lot of time to make up for. And I can’t guarantee that it will fully pay me back for what I went through after being expelled from Almadale Prep. It was my ticket out of the life I’d grown up in. To graduate from such a prestigious high school with the connections I would have had, it would have given me a leg up in this harsh world. Looks like I might have that chance again, and I won’t squander it. Especially for my child’s sake.
An hour later, I’m driving Brock’s Maserati Levante to the clinic by myself after telling him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t coming with me. The car is a dream to drive; it’s smooth, and it somehow still has a new-car smell even though it’s last year’s model. I might have looked in the glove box for the information on it.
I run my fingers across the leather steering wheel and then the console between the seats. It’s beautiful. I turn the XM radio up, the beat coming out of the stereo in full force, and I roll the driver’s-side window down, relishing in the air flowing in, hitting my cheeks and finally cooling me off.
I follow the directions he plugged into the built-in GPS screen, and when
I pull up in the clinic parking lot, I lower my forehead to the wheel and take a few deep breaths.
This isn’t where I saw my life heading, but I’m honestly a little relieved to be here. If this child is part of my destiny, I want what’s best for it, and this clinic—with its fancy shrubbery that frames it and its fancy doctors and nurses who work inside—is what’s best.
I cringe a little as I look down at my borrowed sweatpants and T-shirt. I don’t look the part of the people who go here, but I can’t help that right now. Climbing out, I head inside to sign in and wait for my name to be called.
“Well, Peyton, the ultrasound looks clear and like your baby is right on target for growth. Heartrate looks good, and your blood tests came back normal. Everything seems to be going wonderful with your pregnancy so far.”
Dr. Welsch smiles at me, and I return her smile. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath while she was talking until it came out in a long gust.
“We were able to tell gender in the ultrasound today, if you want to know.”
Do I want to?
“Okay, thanks. Let me think about that.” I clasp my hands together in an effort to control my fidgeting. “Um, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she says, putting her folder down and giving me all of her attention.
“If I wanted to, how would I get a paternity test done?”
To her credit, she doesn’t flinch or look at me any different.
“You can get a paternity test right now if you want. It’s noninvasive. I would take a sample of blood, and then I would need a cheek swab from the potential father or fathers. You also have the option of waiting until after the child is born, if you prefer that.”
“I see. I’m still not sure what I want to do. I wanted to know what my options were.”
Scaredy-cat.
I know this sinking feeling in my stomach is due to the information the doctor gave me. I didn’t want to find out that I could know who the father was right now. Even though Brock is a grade-A douche bag in my mind after what I found out, him being the father is a far superior idea to me than Drake being the one who got me pregnant.
“That’s fine, Peyton. You don’t have to make a decision right now. Are there any other questions you have?”
“Actually, I think I do want to get the test done,” I say and watch as she gathers her stuff up and smiles at me.
“I’ll get that blood test set up,” she says.
“Also”—I throw out a hand and decide to go for it—“could you write the gender in an envelope for me?”
Her smile grows wider.
“Sure thing,” she says. “Head to the lab down the hall on the right; it has a sign over it. She will take your blood and give you some swabs to take home, so you can grab that sample from the potential father. Take this to the front desk, and they will schedule your next appointment.” She hands me a piece of paper.
“Okay. Thanks,” I say and wait until she leaves the room to stand up from the exam table and readjust my sweats.
This is getting more real, invading my thoughts more, stressing me out more.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about uniforms for Almadale. Surely, it won’t matter. Once they find out I’m pregnant, who knows what will happen? I’d like to think the Montgomery sway over the board will work in my favor, but favors always run out at some point.
I’m going to be showing soon, probably in the next month, if my Google searches are any indication. I sigh and rub my hand over my lower stomach, which already feels tighter and foreign to my touch. I’m a statistic, a teenage pregnancy. But what those studies don’t convey are the emotions that assault you when that happens. The fears, the uncertainties. I might be a statistic, but I’m also a person, and I will do what’s best for my child.
As I open the door to the hallway, a smiling nurse is standing there, an envelope held out.
“Here you are, Miss Rossman.”
“Thanks,” I murmur as I take the envelope.
With a soothing smile on her face, she directs me to the lab, and I make my way down the hall.
This is weird to me, all these happy, smiling people treating me as if I belong. I’m a fish out of water, but I’m going to take every advantage I can get.
I’d like to think that I’m merely doing this out of concern for my child, but deep down, I know that this is partly self-serving. In the back of my mind though is a little warning bell going off, reminding me not to get attached to this place and these people.
All good things have to come to an end eventually.
19
Brock
Instead of going to class when Peyton left to go to the doctor, I swiped Bodhi’s keys from his table and got the hell out of there. I’ve been feeling suffocated, and I need to clear my mind, so I’m going ninety-five down a back road, away from Almadale and Loredo. Leaving them in the dust.
How did it come to this? I was on top. I guess, technically, I’m still on top, but I don’t feel like it.
I’m slowly drowning in a situation of my own making. Maybe it’s a good thing that I admitted to what I had done to get her expelled. It put some much-needed space between us, helping us both to think about what we are doing and where our lives are going.
I’d like to say that Peyton isn’t using me, but the plain fact is, she has only benefited from this whole scenario. And she hasn’t talked much about finding out who the father is, keeping us in limbo.
Maybe she knows that it’s Drake, and if he finds out, the game is over.
The thought makes me angry, and I bang the steering wheel. Bodhi’s weird-ass techno songs blast from the speakers, making me feel even wilder. I lean my head back, yelling, and I know I look fucking insane, but I can’t help it. I feel crazy inside. I feel out of control—something that is a foreign sensation for me. I’ve always been in control, ever since I was young.
After my mom left, I promised myself and Bodhi that I would always have a say in what was going on in my life. Once the one person who is supposed to love you unconditionally leaves you, especially the way our mother left us, it does something inside you. It fractured a part of my and Bodhi’s souls.
I became controlling, and he became unhinged, always taking chances and generally making me work overtime to keep him in line. I became serious, and he became fun, all due to her.
That’s one reason I haven’t let a girl in. In my mind, females can fuck you up from the inside out. Like Linda did to Dad recently. They are always working an angle, and I’m not sure that Peyton isn’t doing exactly that to me.
Fuck.
I look up to see where I’ve ended up, driving down the long road to my house—the Montgomery mansion, as people refer to it. I guess my subconscious knew that I needed to talk to Dad.
I hit the button on my car visor as I stop at the gate, watching the wrought iron M roll to the side as it opens. Speeding up the driveway, I swing around the fountain before driving toward the detached garage, pressing another visor button to open the door.
Before I can turn the vehicle off, the music is interrupted by an incoming call. I roll my eyes when I see who it is. As soon as I answer, Bodhi’s irate voice blares through the speakers that I forgot to turn down.
“Dude, what the fuck? You took my car?”
“Shit,” I say with a grimace, scrambling for the volume knob.
“What do you mean, shit? Like you didn’t know that I would be pissed,” he says.
“Why are you pissed? What did you have to do today?” I ask, sarcasm evident in my tone.
“Nothing, but I wanted the option to do something,” he says petulantly.
I can envision the look on his face right now—narrowed eyes and lower lip stuck out to elicit sympathy. He won’t get any from me though.
“Tell your dealer you’ll have to meet him another time … or never.”
“I don’t have a dealer.”
“You don’t have to fuckin’ lie to me,” I say, roll
ing my eyes even though I know he can’t see them.
“Whatever. Don’t hurt my baby,” he says before the line clicks off, silence greeting me.
Great. Just great. He’s spiraling, and I guess I need to add that to my list of things to take care of.
I turn the car off and get out, making my way inside. Doran, our butler, stands right inside the doorway. The guy has supernatural hearing, and I’m sure he knew I’d arrived as soon as the gate opened.
“Hey, Doran,” I say, throwing him the keys before he hangs them on a hook next to the door.
“Mr. Montgomery,” he says. He insists on being formal, like we are in the 1800s or some shit.
“Dad in?” I pause to wait for his reply.
“In his mahogany study, sir,” Doran says.
I stride off to Dad’s study, which is different than his office. Fuck if I know why.
I tap on the open doorframe as I stick my head in, watching Dad smile and motion me in. He’s sitting in one of his large wing-backed chairs positioned off to the side of the room, studying some papers.
“Brock, what brings you home today?” He glances at his wristwatch. “During school hours?”
I throw myself into the seat beside him, reaching for the decanter of scotch he has on the small table between us. He gets to it first, grabbing it before my fingers can land on the cut-glass bottle, and with a smirk, he sets it beside him on the floor.
I scowl, but he only adjusts his glasses and looks down at the papers he was writing on in his lap before I entered. I needed that liquid courage.
“Well?” Dad glances over at me again.
“How are things going for the summer internships? Did you find a place for Corbin?” I ask, stalling so I don’t have to talk about my news just yet.
