Cruel Elite: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Princes of Ravenlake Academy Book 3)

by Nicole Fox

  But now, Miss Screwdriver-Before-Ten-In-the-Morning doesn’t really have a leg to stand on.

  She lowers her chin and pinches her brows together. “But if something was wrong, you’d talk to me about it?”

  “Probably not,” I answer. “But like I said, nothing is wrong.”

  Before she can try to psychoanalyze me with her alcohol-soaked morning brain, I give her a brusque wave and shuffle down the hallway to my room.

  A minute ago, a quick jerk off to a set of porn star tits would have solved all of my problems.

  Now, the thought is depressing.

  I hesitate at the stair landing, debating heading up the stairs to my room.

  Before I can overthink it too much, I take the other option and head downstairs.

  The basement used to be where I hung out the most.

  But I haven’t spent much time down here the last couple years. I moved all of my gaming gear up to my room and placed storage boxes of old clothes, CDs, and baseball cards where the TV used to sit.

  Part of it is because I got a car.

  As soon as all us Golden Boys were mobile, we didn’t want to sneak weed in our parents’ basements or try to get to second base with a girl while people walked across the floor upstairs. We moved to backseats and abandoned boat docks and dark park benches.

  Now, Finn’s house is the spot. His dad is dead, and he’s in NYC with Lily, so he gave Caleb the key to keep watch over the place.

  My basement full of childhood memorabilia and a lumpy pull-out couch doesn’t exactly compete with a full mansion for us to do whatever the fuck we want in.

  I walk past the boxes, the now-empty safe, and the dusty couch to a door on the back wall.

  No one but me ever went into this little room.

  It was more private. Off-limits to everyone else. A place I could guarantee no one would bother me.

  When I flip on the light, the bulb flickers to full brightness. My body shifts into autopilot.

  Without thinking, my left hand reaches out to grab the guitar hanging from a hook on the wall.

  I throw the strap around my neck.

  Tuning it feels like second nature. My ear remembers what my mind has forgotten.

  My fingers stumble over the notes at first, but the movements come back to me faster than I would have guessed after so long.

  “Music is an instinct,” Dad had said years ago when he was first teaching me to play. “If you have it, you can feel it in your bones. Like a part of you.”

  I never knew what he meant until I learned to play more than a few nursery rhymes and “Smoke on the Water.”

  As soon as I could read music and play the songs I liked, the music that meant something to me, I was drawn to my guitar. It felt like a missing limb, like a part of my body I’d lost at birth, but found years later.

  I couldn’t imagine my life without it.

  Back then, I didn’t have much of an imagination. I never could have guessed how many things I’d have to live my life without one day.

  10

  Penny

  I’m in the woods again, the trees pressing in all around me.

  As I walk, branches become lower and closer until they are scraping at my skin with every step.

  Then, I feel something wrap around my upper arm. I move to brush it away.

  Except, it isn’t a branch.

  It’s a hand.

  I follow the hand up a toned, tanned arm to his face.

  Noah’s.

  God, he’s beautiful.

  He always has been, ever since we were little. His mouth is wide but gorgeous, matching the proportions of his dark eyes and heavy brows.

  Even in the dark, I can see the flush of red on his cheeks that appears anytime he is too cold or too hot or worked up.

  Everything else about Noah is a mystery, so God had to give him one weakness.

  Suddenly, I remember we aren’t friends anymore. I haven’t spoken to him in years, and he shouldn’t be here.

  Before I can scream or react, Noah claps a hand over my mouth and pushes me against a tree. His hand slides between my legs, cupping my heat.

  I try to squirm away from him, but it only makes the sensations stronger.

  I shouldn’t want this.

  So, why does it feel so good?

  “Because you’re sick,” Noah hisses, his breath warm against my ear.

  No. No, I’m not.

  Noah used to be my friend. My best friend. No matter what has happened between us, some deep part of me still cares for him.

  That doesn’t make me sick.

  It makes me human.

  His knee slides between my legs, holding most of my weight, while his hands unbutton my jeans and slide my zipper down slowly. Painfully slowly.

  “Caring for me makes you a fool,” Noah says as he slides his hand into my panties, his finger circling over me. “It makes you weak. Though, that’s not a surprise. You’ve always been weak.”

  His voice is starting to change. The words morphing into something different, but equally familiar.

  I grab his wrist and try to pull him away, but he slips a finger inside of me, and I moan, releasing the tension in my legs and letting myself fall further onto him.

  “I’m not weak...” I protest.

  Noah leans in and licks my ear. “You’re pathetic. You can’t do anything right.”

  His voice is high-pitched now, almost feminine. Something is wrong with him, but I’m so lost in a haze of carnal lust that I can’t see straight.

  “You screw everything up. Without me, you’d be nothing. Nobody.”

  “Stop it.” My breath is ragged as his hand slides inside of me.

  “No, Penelope.” At the sound of my name, my entire body goes stiff.

  I know that voice. I’ve heard it my entire life.

  Noah pulls his fingers out of me and steps away, and I stare at him.

  It’s him. It’s Noah.

  But his voice… his voice belongs to…

  “Penelope!”

  My mom’s voice echoes down the hall, shriller than any alarm ever could be. “Wake up right now or we’ll be late to yoga!”

  I blink my eyes open blearily.

  I gasp and pull my finger out of my panties. My entire body heats with embarrassment, and I sit bolt upright in bed and check my door, calming myself with the fact my mom hadn’t come in and seen me touching myself in my sleep.

  It’s weird, but I can’t decide whether I’m more disturbed at the thought of my own fingers doing it or Noah Boone’s.

  One interaction in the woods after two years of radio silence and suddenly he is starring in my slightly traumatic sex dreams? Not cool.

  “Penelope, NOW!” Mom screams.

  “Coming!” I shout before I realize the irony.

  I can still feel the heat between my legs, the ball of tension low in my belly that even yoga won’t be able to cure.

  Mom is yelling for me to get going now, but she doesn’t expect me to go to yoga with bedhead and a fresh face.

  No, it’s an event. As always. A public event where I’m expected to make my best impression.

  I check the clock. The first class at the studio doesn’t start for another ninety minutes.

  For any normal person, that would be plenty of time to take care of the itch.

  But my mom is not a normal person. So, I start in on my daily ritual.

  I shave in the shower, tweeze my eyebrows in the bathroom mirror, blow dry and curl my hair only to pull it back into a high pony, and do my makeup.

  I can’t look like I’ve done my makeup, though. That would be ridiculous.

  Nobody wears makeup to work out, Penelope.

  So it needs to look natural.

  Concealer hides the dark circles under my eyes and the small blemishes on my jawline and near my nose. A sheer powder gives me an airbrushed look. Pale pink blush adds a little color.

  It’s more understated than I would ever dare wear to school, but for
the yoga studio, it’s just right.

  Hopefully, it passes Momma’s inspection.

  By the time I shove myself into my purple leggings and matching sports bra and grab my coat, Momma is tapping her foot at the base of the stairs, purse slung over her shoulder.

  “About time,” she snaps, turning on her heel and marching out to the car.

  I’m ten minutes early. Early enough we have time to stop and get lattes in the drive-thru, but she never apologizes. I’d fall over dead with surprise if she did.

  At the studio, I do “the circuit.”

  As if I’m the princess at a royal ball, Momma expects me to move around the room before the start of class and talk to everyone.

  I do as I’m told. Even though I want to scream, tear my hair out, have a meltdown in the middle of the empty room.

  I smile and inquire about their kids or, in the case of some of my classmates, the upcoming semester. I work the room like a career politician, even though there is no election.

  Just like my mother taught me.

  “Oh, to be young,” Maryann Thomas says, admiring me with a twinkle in her eye.

  She is an older woman with children closer to Momma’s age, though yoga has kept her remarkably trim and toned. She has been a member of the class since my mom and I joined.

  And she’s the only person in Ravenlake who can compete with my mother in the Obnoxiously Vain Olympics.

  “I remember when my skin was tight and my chest was perky, and I could wear a sports bra around town without worrying someone would call the authorities.”

  “I’m sure no one would call the police,” I say with a bright chuckle, eying the rest of the room to see if I can make a quick escape.

  I know Maryann is just trying to relive what she believes are her glory days, but I wish she could do it without talking about how attractive she finds me.

  It’s a bit creepy.

  She steps closer and lays a hand on my shoulder. “They would, believe me! Not everyone is like your mother, bouncing back to that gorgeous body of hers so soon after your baby sister was born! No one wants to see a wrinkled old woman like me half-dressed. But a pretty young thing like you? People would pay for it!”

  I’ve only been talking to Maryann for a few minutes—my tolerance is usually much higher—but I’m already losing patience.

  Maybe it’s because Noah (real and dream version) has stolen all of my patience today.

  Maybe it’s because I’m running on shitty sleep and half a latte. Skipping breakfast is a recipe for disaster.

  Either way, I’m low on patience and high on angst, so I can’t stop myself before I respond.

  “Do you really think so? I’ve been considering exotic dance work, but I’ve been nervous about taking the plunge. But you and I both know I won’t look like this forever. Might as well make a few bucks on it while I can.”

  To say Maryann is horrified would be an understatement.

  Her eyes go wide, her mouth gapes, and small bursts of air are coming out of her nose.

  She truly can’t tell whether I’m joking or not, and I don’t blame her. It wasn’t a very good joke.

  Technically, it was more of a sarcastic “fuck off, you witch.”

  Based on the way she is slowly backing away from me, I think I made the message nice and clear.

  And for one shining moment, it feels good. I feel proud.

  I said what I wanted. Not what Momma wanted me to say, or what my friends expected me to say, or any of the shit that normally clamps down on my actions like a steel vise.

  I said it for me. For Penny.

  It feels good… right up until I glance over and see Momma staring at me. She looks fucking livid.

  She heard what I said, and she isn’t pleased.

  11

  Penny

  Sami claps her hands and announces the start of the session before my mom can say anything to me.

  By the child’s pose at the end of class, I’m almost relaxed enough to forget I’ll have to answer to my mom later.

  Almost.

  Yoga is yet another thing my mother forced me into when she thought I was beginning to gain weight.

  I told her it was just my boobs growing, but she disagreed.

  In the end, though, it worked in my favor. I actually love yoga.

  I’d never let on, of course. Having attachments to things make you weak, according to Momma.

  If she knew for even a second I enjoyed yoga, she’d take it away from me. She’d find a new, worse way to punish my body for its curves and imperfections.

  So I have to hide it.

  There’s something so calming about using my body for what it was meant for—strength, movement, and balances—rather than as a tool.

  My mom believes my body is for public consumption.

  It’s a status symbol, separating me from those less conventionally attractive.

  An ornament for a rich boy’s arm.

  One day, this body will make you wealthy.

  Unlike Maryann, my mom didn’t have exotic dancing on the brain. She wants me to stay fit and on top so I can marry rich and live the same life she lives—as if her constant struggle to stay atop the social heap is something to aspire to.

  I don’t know what I want my life to look like.

  But whatever it is, it won’t look anything like hers.

  Everyone claps after the meditative music clicks off and begins rolling up their mats. Maryann is far across the room from me.

  Unsurprisingly, she leaves without sticking around to chat more.

  My mother, however, is somehow at my shoulder instantly, her mat tucked under her arm.

  “Let’s go,” she says, gritting the words out between thin lips.

  As soon as I stand up, she leans in close and pinches me in the side hard enough I let out a small whimper. “Ow!”

  “Shut up. That’s what you get for making your mother look like a fool.”

  In the next instant, she lets me go and waves to the other yogis gathered in a circle near the door, a megawatt smile plastered across her face.

  The lecture is the same as always.

  I’m a reflection of my mother.

  My behavior is a reflection of my mother.

  My appearance is a reflection of my mother.

  Everything I do is directly connected to my mother.

  Therefore, she has to be in full control of my life.

  Or so the story goes.

  “Do you think we live the life we do because I walked around like a slob, making rude comments to people, and being friends with losers?” she asks, not actually expecting me to respond. “No, I worked for it. Every day. I should be relaxing now. I should be able to sit back and enjoy what I built. But instead, I have to kill myself to make sure you don’t ruin everything.”

  How Maryann’s opinion of me plays into my mother’s master plans, I don’t know.

  What I do know is that my tiny slip up is going to be held up for at least a week as an example of why I’m the biggest disappointment a parent could ever hope to have.

  Momma is still raving about my attitude and lack of appreciation for everything she has done for me.

  Until the moment we walk through the front door.

  “Ooh, that smells good!” she sing-songs, bouncing into the kitchen where Delanie is sitting in a high chair next to the island, flinging milk and cereal across the floor with her spoon.

  My stepdad is at the stove top making scrambled eggs.

  Stepdad Steve. It sounds like a joke when I call him that, to my friends or whatever. As in, Stepdad Steve was being a total fucking buzzkill last night or Stepdad Steve gave me his credit card to go shopping at the mall. Like this is all fun and games.

  But it’s not. Nothing about it is fun. Nothing about him is funny.

  I shiver.

  The title will never be natural. Just like the change of scent in the house, it will never quite fit in the way I want.

  His eggs, however,
are more than welcome to be part of the family.

  I’m starving.

  I toss my yoga mat in the coat closet and kick off my shoes.

  I hear Momma’s lips smacking in a sloppy kiss as I pad into the kitchen.

  I open the fridge to block the sight and take a long drink from a glass bottle of water.

  “Shut the fridge, Penny. Are you trying to cool down the whole house?”

  She’s using her pleasant, ‘other people are around’ voice.

  But I can hear the tension underneath it.

  Why do you have to ruin every single moment of my life?, it says. Why can’t you just disappear?

  If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d do just that. Head straight up to my room and stay there until school starts on Monday.

  Unfortunately, my body requires sustenance.

  “Sorry.”

  I spin around and reach for a plate sitting in a stack on the island.

  Before I can even touch it, though, my mom clears her throat. I look up and see her green eyes narrowed to slits. She reminds me of a snake eyeing with a mouse before she swallows the poor creature whole.

  “I don’t think you need to eat anything, do you, honey?” she coos, her lower lip pouted out innocently. “You ate that whole breakfast sandwich from the coffee shop.”

  Vile bitch.

  My stomach growls in protest. But there’s nothing to say.

  Stepdad Steve is never around during the worst of mom’s behavior. He isn’t an ally of mine, anyway. He made that clear when he showed up despite my many protestations and ruined my life.

  And Delanie is two, which makes her an adorable, but ultimately useless, ally.

  Even if I call my mom out as a liar, it won’t change anything.

  Not in a meaningful way, at least.

  Sure, maybe I’ll get to eat some scrambled eggs and toast right now. But as soon as my mom and I are alone again, she’ll dream up an even worse punishment for making her look ridiculous in front of my stepdad.

  She’ll be ten times angrier than she was with Maryann. Because Maryann doesn’t pay her bills.

  Maryann doesn’t ensure she gets her quarterly botox and her hair dyed and her body waxed smooth and hairless.