Fallen Heir

by Erin Watt

  Hartley purses her lips. I can see a hundred angry retorts flying through her head, but she’s a smart girl—she’s already figured out that arguing with me is absolutely pointless. I only get a kick out of it.

  So she turns around and continues to pile food onto her tray.

  I amble after her, doing the same. Astor Park’s cafeteria choices are serious shit, and totally unnecessary. A celebrity chef is hired each semester to create a menu full of poached fish and tarragon chicken to a bunch of teenagers who would rather have burgers and fries. The cafeteria is as overdone as everything else in this joint.

  “You want to sit together in photography?” I ask her. “I heard we’re pairing up this afternoon and taking pictures of our seatmates.” I lean closer and murmur in her ear, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  Hartley plants a hand on my arm and gives me a small shove. “We’re not showing each other anything. And you’re not even in that class! Stop coming to my classes!”

  I smile broadly at her. “And deprive you of my awesomeness? Never.”

  She blinks. Then blinks again. Then she stares deep into my eyes. “Easton. Do you have a…problem? Like…upstairs?” She taps the side of her head.

  I burst out laughing. “‘Course not.”

  “Okay. So then you’re just so full of yourself that you don’t listen to a word anyone else says. Got it.”

  “I listen,” I object.

  “Uh-huh. I bet you do.”

  “I do!” My solemn expression lasts for about a second before a grin breaks loose. “Like, when chicks say ‘Please, Easton, more!’ and ‘Omigod, Easton, you’re the best!’ I’m listening one hundred percent.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know, right? Wow.”

  “I don’t think we’re wowing about the same thing.” She sighs heavily, then shuffles forward and grabs a serving spoon.

  As she heaps a mountain of roasted potatoes onto her plate, I glance at her tray and realize she’s taken an insane amount of food. Sure, maybe she has a big appetite in general, but she’s so tiny that I can’t see where she’s putting away all this food. She either exercises like crazy, or…she’s a binge-and-purge type of girl.

  That would be a damn shame. I hate it when girls are afraid of their own curves. Curves make the world go ’round. Hell, the world is round because it has curves. Curves rock. Curves—

  I blink myself out of my thoughts. I go on tangents sometimes, not just out loud but in my head. These are the times when I want to smoke a joint or pound some booze, calm down the frenetic thoughts that race through my mind.

  I’ve always been a bundle of energy, though, and it was even worse when I was a kid. I was on a perpetual sugar high even when I hadn’t had any sugar, bouncing around and around and around until I finally crashed, much to my parents’ relief.

  “You want to do something tonight?” I ask Hartley.

  She stops in her tracks.

  I nearly slam into her, darting backward just in time. “Is that a yes?”

  Her tone is matter-of-fact. “Look. Royal. I don’t know how much clearer I can make myself. I’m not interested in you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Of course you don’t. You can’t possibly understand why someone might not want to be around you.”

  I feign a hurt look. “Why don’t you want to be around me? I’m fun.”

  “Yeah, you are,” she agrees. “You’re fun, Easton. So fun that you get beat up by a bunch of thugs on Salem Street. So fun that even when you’re about to black out, you still think it’s a good idea to get on your motorcycle and drive home—”

  Shame pricks my chest.

  “—So fun that you crash at some random girl’s apartment with a wad of cash in your pocket. I could have robbed you blind if I wanted to.” She shrugs. “I don’t have time for that kind of stuff. It’s too much of a burden.”

  A burden?

  “I didn’t ask to stay over,” I remind her, a bit stiffly. “And I left you cash for your trouble.” I lift a brow. “Which you didn’t even say ‘thank you’ for.”

  “I was out of the house before you—how could I know you left me money? And even if I did know about it, why would I ever thank you? I slept on the floor while Prince Royal got my bed. I deserve to be compensated for that. I woke up with a cockroach crawling up my arm, you know.”

  I shiver in horror. I hate bugs. Especially cockroaches. They’re the worst. And once again, I’m torn between annoyance and guilt. Because while I didn’t ask for her help, she did help me. And she did give up her bed—well, her sofa—so my sorry, beaten-up ass would have somewhere to sleep.

  “Thank you for giving me a place to stay,” I say sheepishly.

  Someone nudges us, so we shuffle forward again, moving toward the dessert bar. I’m not surprised when Hartley takes not one but two pieces of cheesecake.

  I feel a pang of concern. I really hope she doesn’t have an eating disorder. It’s bad enough that Ella’s lost her appetite since Reed left. I don’t want to spend the whole school year monitoring the diets of the women in my life.

  “You’re welcome,” Hartley tells me. “But just so you know? You only get one favor from me. That was it.”

  Before I can inform her that I’m very much looking forward to returning the favor, Felicity Worthington interrupts us.

  “Hi, Easton.”

  A few feet away stand a couple of her friends: the one who has a headband permanently attached to her head, and her blonde companion in four-inch heels. The two girls whisper to each other behind their hands as Felicity stands there eyeing me like a predator.

  “What’s up, Felicity?” I ask lightly.

  “Bonfire at my place next week,” she answers sweetly. “I wanted to personally extend the invitation.”

  I swallow a laugh. The Worthingtons live a few houses down the shore from my house, so I’ve been to a ton of their parties, always hosted by Felicity’s older brother, Brent. But the last one I went to ended up with Daniel Delacorte stripped naked and trussed like a pig at a luau, courtesy of Ella, Val, and Savannah Montgomery. They were punishing the asshat for drugging Ella at a different party. And then, after Daniel got free, he ran down the beach and into Reed’s fist.

  Needless to say, the Royals haven’t been invited back since. But Brent graduated last year, so I guess Felicity’s in charge now.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say noncommittally. “It all depends on whether my girl wants to go.” I wink and turn toward Hartley, only to find her gone.

  Dammit. She’s walking across the polished floor toward the French doors that lead to the outdoor eating area. As I watch, Hartley makes a beeline for one of the farthest tables on the patio and sits with her back to the dining hall doors. Of course. Eating alone, like the antisocial princess she is.

  “What girl?” Felicity narrows her eyes. “Do you mean Claire? Because she was telling Melissa the other day that you guys are back together—”

  “We’re not back together,” I interject. Fuckin’ Claire.

  “Oh. Okay. Good.” Felicity looks more than a little relieved. “Anyway, about the party, you don’t have to text that you’re coming or anything. Just show up. You’re always welcome at my place.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say again.

  She reaches out and curls her fingers around my upper arm, lightly caressing my biceps over my shirt. “No maybes. Please come. I’d love to spend some quality time with you.”

  As she flounces off to rejoin her giggling friends, I have to wonder if there’s even a bonfire. Maybe it’s just a scheme to get me over there so she can have her way with me.

  But Felicity’s party is what Val and Ella are talking about when I walk up to our usual table. I knock fists with several of my teammates before sinking down in the chair next to Ella.

  “I already told you, I don’t want to go,” she’s saying to Val. “Felicity’s fake sweetness gives me a toothache.”

  Val laces
her fingers together. “Me too, but you’ve got no choice. You have to make an appearance, especially now that we know what they’re up to.”

  “What who is up to?” I ask with a frown.

  Val glances over at me. “The nobles are planning a revolt against the crown.”

  My frown deepens. “What do you mean?”

  Ella notices my worried expression and reaches over to squeeze my arm. “Ignore her. She’s being melodramatic.”

  “I am not,” Val maintains. “Easton, back me up here.”

  “I would, babe, but I still don’t know what we’re talking about.” I stick my fork into my beef empanadas and take a huge bite.

  Connor Babbage, who plays cornerback for the Riders, pipes up from my other side. “That chick you were just talking to—Felicity? She wants Ella’s head.”

  “Does she?” I turn to grin at my stepsister. “You gonna beat her up after school, little sis?”

  “Hardly,” Ella says in a dry voice. “But, according to Val, that’s what Felicity wants to do to me.”

  I shrug carelessly. “Don’t worry. You can take ’er.”

  “Catfight after school?” Babbage says hopefully.

  “Keep it in your pants, Con.” Val waves a hand at him before refocusing on Ella and me. “This isn’t a joke, Easton. I sit behind Felicity and her bitch coven in art history and all they do is whisper about how Felicity is going to put Ella in her rightful place.”

  “How’s she going to do that?” I ask.

  “She’s not going to do anything to me,” Ella insists.

  Val shakes her head. “Babe, these girls don’t like that you’re the Royal in charge. It’d be different if it was Easton.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m way too lazy for that.”

  Val goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “But you’re the interloper. The one who got Reed. The one who tamed Jordan. The one who reunited Gideon and Savannah.”

  “I had zero to do with Gid and Sav,” Ella protests.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s all perception. They don’t like being upstaged by you,” Babbage chirps before wandering off to return his empty tray at the counter.

  I slouch lower in my chair. Fucking Reed. No. This is all Gideon’s fault. If he hadn’t started ordering people around in his senior year, the Royals wouldn’t have to do anything for Astor. We could pretend to be as blind and as oblivious as the majority of these students. Instead, because of Gideon’s stupid interference, the entire school thinks we’re all wired like him—ready to lead.

  I want to fly, drink, fight, bang hot women. Probably in that order. “Why are we wasting our time talking about stupid people? Can’t we just enjoy our senior year?”

  Val kicks me under the table. “No, you can’t. You and Ella should do something. Make the kids afraid of you. It’s better to be feared than loved. Yadda yadda yadda.”

  “You want us to tape someone up to the outside of the school?” I say, referencing something that Jordan Carrington, Queen Bitch, did last year.

  “No. Just throw your weight around. That’s why I think Ella needs to go to Felicity’s party. You too, Easton. You guys should start rounding up your allies now.”

  “We’re not NATO, Val. We don’t have to get allies and enemies.”

  She sighs. “God, I’d expect Ella to be naïve, but I thought better of you, Easton.”

  Whatever. I have no desire to get involved with the social politics of this stupid school. I’ll back Ella up if she needs me, but from the sound of it, she doesn’t want to deal with this crap, either. Can’t say I blame her.

  As I take another bite of my empanadas, my gaze drifts to the huge patio doors. Hartley’s still sitting outside. I can’t see her tray, but I doubt she’s even made a dent in her mountain of food.

  “What are you looking at?” Ella’s curious gaze follows mine. Then she laughs. “Has she agreed to go out with you yet?”

  “Of course,” I lie, but both girls see right through me—they smirk, and I cave. “Fine, she hasn’t. But whatevs. It’ll happen. It’s just a matter of time.” I focus on the back of Hartley’s head, noting the way her jet-black hair looks nearly blue in the sunlight. “Besides, I’m not in chase mode. I’m trying to figure her out.”

  Ella frowns. “What’s there to figure out?”

  “I don’t know.” I chew my lip in frustration. “She goes to Astor, right?”

  Val mock gasps. “She does?”

  “Quiet, woman.” I swipe Ella’s water bottle and take a long swig. “So she goes to Astor, and I know for a fact her family’s got money. I’ve seen their house.”

  “I’m not following,” Ella says.

  “So if she’s got money, then why does she live in a shoebox on Salem Street?” I furrow my brow as I think of Hartley’s suffocating, crappy apartment. She doesn’t even own a bed, for chrissake.

  Ella and Val look startled. “You were at her apartment?” they say in unison.

  “When?” Ella demands.

  I wave a dismissive hand. “That doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is, she lives in a rathole while her family lives in a mansion. It’s weird. And when we were in line before, she got like three lunches’ worth of food. You’d think she hasn’t eaten in days.”

  Beside me, Ella starts chewing on her lower lip, too. “Do you think she’s in trouble?”

  I hand over the water bottle. “Maybe? But you guys think it’s weird shit, too, right?”

  Val nods slowly. “Yeah. Kind of.”

  Ella’s expression conveys worry. “It’s definitely weird.”

  The three of us turn our heads in Hartley’s direction again, but sometime during our discussion, she got up and left. Her table is empty and her tray is gone.

  Chapter 9

  I don’t see Hartley for the rest of the day.

  She’s not in photography, so I’m stuck there alone—and I’m not even enrolled in the damn class.

  She’s not in Music Theory, leaving me to sit beside Larry, who chirps to me about how I’m in lurrrrrrve. And when he’s not talking about love, he’s talking about those stupid Jordans. Fuckin’ Larry. Also, who the hell takes music theory? What kind of class is this, anyway? There are physics to sounds? I zone out after a math equation for the relationship between wavelength, frequency, and speed is thrown up on the whiteboard.

  And she’s not in Calc, a class she was so desperate to get into that she personally begged the teacher for a transfer.

  Not gonna lie—I’m worried.

  After I’m done with my strength and conditioning session with the Astor Park trainer, I decide to text her and hope that she doesn’t ask how I got her number.

  Skipping out on classes is my thing. Where ru? - E

  No reply.

  At home, I quickly eat and do my homework before heading out. Thankfully no one is around, so I don’t have to answer any stupid questions. Mostly because I don’t have good answers.

  I don’t know why I’m driving to Hartley’s place with a burrito in my passenger seat. I don’t know why it bugs me that she doesn’t text me back. I don’t know why I’m so fucking curious about her.

  I park a block down so she can’t see my truck and then gingerly jog up the exterior side stairs to her door. The wooden steps are so dilapidated, I’m scared they’re going to peel away from the side of the two-story house at any given moment.

  “Delivery,” I call after knocking sharply.

  Nothing.

  I call her phone and press an ear to the door. There’s no ringing inside. I bang a few more times.

  Footsteps below me catch my attention, but when I look down to the ground, I see only a squat, bald guy waving a spatula in the air.

  “She’s not home, you dumbshit.”

  I trot down the stairs. “Where is she?”

  “Probably working.” The man narrows his eyes at me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend from school. She forgot a homework assignment.”

  “Hmm
ph,” he grunts. “Well, she’s not home, so you should git, too.”

  “I don’t want her to get a bad grade. Do you mind if I wait?”

  He grunts again. “So long as you keep it down, don’t care what you do.”

  “Yessir.”

  He grumbles under his breath about fool kids and their fool tasks before disappearing into the side door of what must be a first-floor apartment. This small house with its wood siding and peeling paint doesn’t look like it’d last through the next hurricane season. Again, I’m struck by the incongruence of an Astor Park kid living in this neighborhood, in this type of house.

  I settle on the bottom step with the food bag at my side and then I wait. And wait. And wait.

  Hours pass. My phone battery gets dangerously low from all the candy I’m crushing. The sun goes down and the crickets start singing. I doze off, waking when the warm autumn air turns chilly. My phone says it’s past midnight.

  I tuck my arms close to my side and text her again.

  Your food’s cold.

  “What food?”

  I nearly drop my phone in surprise. “Where the hell did you come from?” I ask Hartley.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  She stalks forward, and I get a whiff of…grease? She’s wearing some type of uniform: black pants, a white short-sleeved shirt that’s wrinkled and wilted, and sturdy black shoes.

  “Working?” I guess.

  “What? You don’t think this is a fabulous club outfit?” She waves a hand down her side.

  “It’s the most fabulous.” I grab her dinner and gesture for her to go up the stairs. “You look dead tired, though. Whatever amazing stuff you did this afternoon and evening must’ve worn you out.”

  “Yup.” Sighing, she places a foot on the first step and then looks up the stairs as if the climb is insurmountable.

  Good thing I’m here.

  I lift her into my arms.

  “I can walk,” she says, but the protest is feeble and she’s already looping her arms around my neck to hold on.

  “Uh-huh.” The girl hardly weighs a thing. I take the stairs slow, though. It’s the first time she’s let me touch her and I like it. Way too much.