Twig of Thorn (The Blackthorn Cycle Book 1)
Page 14
The Buffalo’s door squealed on its old iron hinges and the cow bell hanging from its handle clattered. Roxy looked up from wiping down the counters and smiled. “Scarlett!”
She’d only been in town for a couple of weeks, but already Roxy had made two good friends – something that she’d failed to do in an entire lifetime in insular, hoity-toity Hanover. Brooke, her fellow barista, was as warm and generous as a sister, and Roxy liked her from their first day on the job together. The little house Brooke rented with Scarlett still had one room available, and since Roxy had no lodgings save for her Jeep, a pup tent, and a sleeping bag, she gratefully accepted their invitation to rent the empty room.
Scarlett wasn’t quite as warm as Brooke. She had a greater penchant for gossip and was constantly on the prowl for a good time – but she was friendly and never ate anybody else’s food, never used anybody else’s razor to shave her legs, and cleaned up after herself in the kitchen. As a roommate, Scarlett earned no complaints from Roxy.
Scarlett waved languidly and came to the order bar with her typical, casual grace. Roxy felt a flash of resentment rise in her chest and pushed it ruthlessly back down again. Scarlett was a friend, for goodness’ sake, and Roxy wasn’t going to let herself be jealous. Sure, Scarlett was blessed with everything Roxy lacked. She had a magazine-perfect, model-thin figure where Roxy was soft and plump, and Scarlett’s dark eyes, black hair, and pale skin gave her an air of alluring mystery, while Roxy’s copper-red ponytail and freckles made her look rustic and comforting at best, like somebody’s middle-aged aunt who bakes all the time and owns a few too many cats. But Roxy refused to allow herself the indulgence of jealousy. She’d just gotten her start here in Jackson Hole, and Scarlett had been quick and eager to welcome her, even if she wasn’t as close as Brooke. Scarlett had certainly been kinder to her than anybody in Hanover had ever been. Envy would only ruin all the good things about this place before Roxy even had a chance to enjoy them.
And it wasn’t Scarlett’s fault that she’d been born gorgeous.
“What’ll it be?” she said to Scarlett.
“The yoozh.”
“Unsweetened green iced tea, coming up.”
Brooke rolled her eyes, laughing. “You are so boring, Scarlett. You might as well just drink water.”
“Green tea is full of antioxidants, ladies. And you know what that means, right?”
Roxy and Brooke shared a confused look.
“Immortality.” Scarlett lifted the lid of a big glass jar and helped herself to the biscotti stacked within. “As for my alleged boringness, I’ll have you know I’m going to a party tonight, so there. And you are both coming with me.”
“A party?” Roxy handed over the iced tea and swiped Scarlett’s Visa.
“Yeah, you know. Music… booze… guys.”
A sudden cold wave of dread swelled in Roxy’s stomach. She laughed, hoping she sounded cool and dismissive, and hoping neither of her friends would see the panic she was certain must be flashing in her eyes. She reached up to tangle her fingers in the chain of the gold necklace she always wore. “Who the hell parties in Jackson Hole?”
With its outdoorsy, next-to-nature vibe and scenery so big it was almost intrusive, Jackson was a world apart from the city of wealth and privilege she had fled. True, Jackson Hole was a big skiing destination and attracted its share of the vacationing rich-and-famous during the winter, but now, at the end of summer, it was filled with down-to-earth folk: the crunchy types who lived here year-round for the sake of all the natural beauty, and families on summer vacation, soaking up the wonders of Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. It seemed impossible that anybody in Jackson Hole would party… and that was exactly the way Roxy wanted it. The very word party made her nervous – brought back memories of uncounted humiliations up and down Hanover’s Greek Row at the hands of drunken frat boys.
“Who parties in Jackson?” Scarlett repeated. Her dark brows arched in a look of total incredulity. “The college boys, of course.”
Roxy stared blankly until Brooke put an arm around her shoulder.
“Rox doesn’t know yet,” she reminded Scarlett. “It’s not surprising – you know how those Blackmeade boys keep to themselves.”
“Wait, wait,” said Roxy, holding up her hands in a gesture of desperation. “You mean there’s a college in Jackson?”
“Blackmeade University,” Brooke said. “It’s a private, men’s-only school. Very select, from what I understand, and it’s set up in the foothills a few miles from town, so nobody thinks about it much. The students stay on their campus, for the most part.”
“I had no idea. I haven’t heard a thing about it, the whole time I’ve been here.”
Scarlett shrugged. “That’s not surprising. Brooke wasn’t kidding when she said they keep to themselves.”
“But why? What’s the point of sticking to your campus for four years?”
“I don’t know. Brooke and I figured they must have some kind of strict behavioral code, some sort of Big Rule about how they conduct themselves off-campus. You’ll see them from time to time around the town; it’s not like they never leave. But a Blackmeade guy hanging around Jackson is a rare sight indeed.”
“Rare but welcome,” Brooke added.
Roxy couldn’t imagine any of the guys at Dartmouth staying contentedly on the campus. The streets of Hanover often teemed with frat boys who roved about in packs as restless and shifty-eyed as wolves. The restaurants and parks of the city sometimes filled with their howls of laughter – and their mocking comments – so that she hadn’t felt comfortable in her own home town for years.
When she’d graduated from high school, Roxy hadn’t even bothered to apply for colleges. She knew her mom had wanted her to go, and guilt still gnawed at her, two years after her mother’s death, that she hadn’t so much as peeked at a college application in all that time. But the truth was, Roxy had dealt with more than her fair share of university guys. Hanover was crawling with them, their slinking masculine forms always turning toward her to stare, their eyes squinting at her in judgment, their mouths grinning at the joke that was her body. A fat girl might as well be chum in the water to college-age boys. She’d already had all she could stomach of the name-calling, the dehumanizing comments, the hurtful remarks about her size when they thought she couldn’t hear – or when they were sure she could hear. She’d had enough of being the butt of fraternity jokes, the woman they dared one another to ask out, to kiss, to sleep with, so they could laugh about it afterward.
Why would she take out a student loan to subject herself to four more years of that misery and pain? She might as well buy a solid-gold baseball bat and beat herself over the head with it on a daily basis. Money spent wisely, either way, and about the same long-term effects on her sanity.
Roxy thought she’d finally escaped the frat-boy mentality when she’d landed in Jackson Hole. To learn that the quiet town was hiding not just a college, but an all-male college, filled her with a dark, sinking sensation of crushing defeat.
And Brooke had even called the school ‘very select.’ Great. More of the same Richie-Rich assholes who made Hanover so charming.
“Why do you look so bummed, Roxy?” Scarlett asked. “This is going to be a great party, I promise.”
“I… I don’t really do parties.”
“You want to do this party,” Brooke said under her breath as a customer approached, deposited a used mug on the counter, and then headed for the Buffalo’s door. “The Blackmeade guys are hot.”
“Scorchingly hot,” Scarlett agreed. “It’s like they’ve been injection-molded from industrial sex templates.”
In spite of her misgivings, Roxy couldn’t help but snicker at the image. “Seriously, though – I’m just not much of a partier. I’m no fun to be around; you guys don’t want to drag me out there just to watch me mope in a corner.”
Scarlett sucked down the last of her iced tea. Her straw made a bubbling slurp among the ice cubes as
she bounced her eyebrows suggestively in Roxy’s direction. “I think we do want to drag you there, and believe me, once you get your first sight of the Blackmeade boys, you’ll thank us both.”
Brooke’s smile was only slightly more convincing. “I’ll make sure you have a good time,” she promised. “Trust me.”
Roxy did trust Brooke, whole-heartedly.
It was the college guys she knew she couldn’t trust.
About the Author
L. M. Hawke writes urban and paranormal fantasy in her very old, possibly haunted, office space in the tiny island town of Friday Harbor, Washington. When she’s not writing, she enjoys having crazy adventures with her very funny husband, Paul, and forcing her two cats to accept hugs and kisses. She also writes literary and historical fiction as Libbie Hawker.
For more information, including more books, please visit LMHawke.com.
Twig of Thorn
and The Blackthorn Cycle
Copyright 2016 – L. M. Hawke
All rights reserved.
First Ebook Edition
Cover design by Heather Senter
Created with Vellum