Wicked Idol: A Hellfire Club Novel

by Becker Gray

  We always touched strategically at school. Holding hands, sitting in laps, even chaste brushes of lips when it was warranted. But I’d never kissed her like this. It was always just quick pecks before, but this—this was a real kiss. This was the kind of kiss I’d given Iris.

  My lips molded over Clara’s lips, the pressure possessive and claiming. Heat seared over the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades, stinging and hot, like I was being watched. Like I was being judged.

  It was shame, maybe. Or guilt.

  The cost of doing business with my mother.

  I eased back, and Clara blinked. Slightly dazed, she lifted a brow but then her gaze skittered over to my mother and back to me, and she understood. She gave me a slight nod. And then ran a finger delicately under her bottom lip as if to fix her lipstick. That prickly heat feeling didn’t stop. It was all too familiar.

  Why was that?

  And then I knew. My gaze searched the crowd. And I found her.

  Iris.

  Under the tree watching me.

  I’d chosen my mom. My family. Over the girl I’d fallen for.

  And now she knew.

  17

  Iris

  In the week since New York, in the stolen moments in the library and in his dormitory bedroom—and yes, the darkroom again—I hadn’t dared hope. I wouldn’t let myself.

  It was much too ridiculous to fall in love with Keaton. It was even more ridiculous still to expect him to fall in love with me.

  How many girls must he have screwed here at Pembroke? How many girls were still lining up to be screwed by him, by this ridiculously handsome idol of the school? I’d be a fool to take the moments we had together—urgent, sweet moments when he murmured the most wonderful filth in my ear—and turn them into some kind of romance.

  But I was a fool.

  Because between that first night in New York and now, I’d somehow done the unthinkably dumb thing, and I’d fallen in love with him.

  And no amount of guarding my heart—no amount of reminding myself that we’re the real fucking deal was just boy-speak for liking me and my body, and not some kind of code for love—could smother the daydreams and the fantasies. Him and me, hands laced as we walked through Paris. Him and me years from now, with rings and tuxes and a white dress—

  No, I couldn’t hope. And every time hope dared to sprout, like a tender green shoot of spring, I crushed it and buried it. And I’d keep crushing it and burying it until the end of time. I could do that. I was a smart girl. I had no interest in going to Paris with a broken heart.

  But then—this morning on the phone—

  I love you.

  His words sank into my skin like hooks, they burned themselves onto the curves of my heart.

  He loved me.

  And for two glorious hours, I walked on air.

  The Giant Oak was set on a small rise near the edge of the forest, and it was an excellent spot for making out due to its size and the deep hollow between two of its big roots. It was easy to nestle in there on the forest-facing side of the tree and out of sight of the school and kiss until the cold drove you back indoors.

  It was also an excellent spot for surveying the grounds—the gentle rise that hosted the oak gave an excellent vantage over the lawn, quad, and buildings—and I sat there with my back against the trunk, watching parents and students mill around the buildings as small, stunned smiles chased themselves across my face.

  He said he loved me.

  I’d come to the oak because if I couldn’t be with Keaton, then I needed to be somewhere that reminded me of him, as if running my fingers through the cool grass where we were supposed to be kissing right now would make up for the fact that we weren’t touching at all, that he was currently with Clara instead of me.

  I was jealous of that, of course, jealous of any time she got to spend with him, jealous that it was her that got to be part of the family—but the jealousy was soothed by the memory of his words.

  I love you.

  He loved me.

  As if summoned by my thoughts alone, Keaton appeared, unfolding from a gleaming Bentley like the muscular king he was and then was joined by a slender blonde woman with a regal bearing that screamed generational wealth. Whatever she was saying to Keaton as they walked was upsetting, I surmised, because the set of Keaton’s shoulders slumped and he was nodding his head at the ground, as if he was looking into his own grave.

  As if he was remembering something painfully and indelibly sad.

  I leaned forward as they talked, wishing I could be down there with Keaton, touching the place behind his ear like he liked me to do. I hated that his mother was making him feel this way; I hated that parents had this power over us. That they could take good days and turn them wretched just with a few words.

  The minute Keaton was free, I would go to him and I would kiss him until he smiled again. I would kiss him until he murmured those sweet words to me, and I finally got to murmur them back.

  I love you.

  Together, Keaton and his mother arrived at the shallow stone stairs that led up to the cluster of brick and stone buildings making up the Pembroke campus. My stomach tightened when I realized people were waiting for them on the steps—Clara Blair and two adults who were presumably her parents.

  What happened next felt like it happened in slow motion. Like time had frozen and each millisecond stretched to the length of a year.

  Keaton’s arms went around Clara in an affectionate embrace.

  And after a beat, maybe two, he tilted his face down towards hers.

  My fingers were numb. My lips were numb. Even my heart beat numbly.

  No, I thought to myself. No.

  His hand cupped the back of her head, her brunette hair spilling out below his grip in glossy waves, and then he brought his lips down to hers. It wasn’t a pretend kiss. It wasn’t a kiss meant to placate a parental audience. It was a kiss like he meant it. A kiss like he wanted her. A kiss that said we’re the real fucking deal.

  And it wasn’t meant for me.

  It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but when Keaton finally broke away from Clara, I felt like I’d aged a year. Five years. I felt like I’d been standing there watching him kiss Clara for as long as the Giant Oak had been sitting there on its little hill.

  And when Keaton’s eyes—somehow, impossibly—lifted and found mine, I felt more than old.

  I felt broken.

  I turned and fled, my feet pounding over the grass as I ran all the way back to the headmaster’s residence, and not once did I look back—not because I was afraid he’d be chasing me.

  But because I knew he wasn’t.

  He’d lied.

  That was the first real thought that pushed its way forward after god only knew how many minutes I spent sobbing into my bed.

  He’d lied about everything. About him and Clara being pretend, about them not kissing, about all of it, and I’d been stupid enough to believe him. So desperate to hear what I wanted to hear that I refused to look the truth solidly in the eye and see what any idiot could have seen.

  Keaton Constantine was using me. He was doing what guys like him had always done—he’d come, he’d fucked, he’d conquered, using any means necessary, and it was so obvious in retrospect, that I wanted to bang my head against the wall. How many times had I thought the king of the school couldn’t possibly want the new girl? How many times had I marveled that this arrogant Adonis desired me of all people?

  How many times since this morning alone had I giggled in wonder to myself that this muscle-carved idol might love me?

  Why hadn’t I listened to my gut?

  Why hadn’t I known that he would do what all idols invariably did, and fall?

  He’d never loved me. He’d loved fucking me maybe, but that was the extent of it, and if I’d ever believed otherwise, well, I only had myself to blame.

  I rolled over to my side, still crying. Tears soaked the duvet beneath my face, and my stomac
h was starting to hurt from all the heaving sobs. When would I stop crying? When would I stop seeing Keaton’s hand in her hair, his mouth firm and dominating over hers?

  In my jeans pocket, my phone buzzed against my bottom. Sniffling, I pulled it out to see Keaton’s name on the screen.

  No.

  No.

  I declined the call, and then put my phone on my end table.

  It immediately buzzed again. And again. Followed by short buzzes—text messages. Text messages that I absolutely refused to read. I couldn’t stand to listen to any more lies, any more excuses. He would tell me it meant nothing, that it was all for show, but I knew what I saw. I knew what a passionate kiss from him looked like.

  And maybe I had been stupid. Maybe I had been the world’s biggest idiot.

  But I would break my own fingers before I let Keaton sweet-talk me back into stupidity again.

  I turned off my phone.

  In the silence that followed, my tears returned in full force. I stared across the room at the sweater dress flung over my desk chair—the same one I’d dry-fucked Keaton while wearing—and I stared at my camera, which had had Keaton’s strong fingers curled around it in New York.

  I flopped to my back so I didn’t have to see all the reminders of him. And suddenly, I felt so lonely, so utterly and miserably bereft that I couldn’t stand it any longer.

  I couldn’t just cry in my bed all day, reliving that horrible kiss with its horrible implications; I needed to leave, I needed to do something, see somebody—

  It hit me nearly as hard as seeing the kiss had.

  I needed to see my friends.

  I needed to cry in Sera’s bed while she and Aurora promised to hold him down while Sloane skinned him alive. I needed ice cream and trashy TV and a fresh, dry pillow to wet with my tears.

  Without wasting a single second, I threw my laptop and phone into my bag—so that if my dad stopped by my room, he’d assume I went somewhere to study—and I made my way to the girls’ dorms, sniffling the entire way.

  18

  Iris

  Salty tears tracked down my face. No matter how hard I wished, they wouldn’t stop. The well of emotion had come rolling through me, crashing through me like someone who’d stood a little too close to shore, and unfortunately as I tried to stand back up, another wave came to knock me down and choked me, sending salt water up my nose.

  Serafina rubbed my back. “Jesus, Iris, I’m so sorry. He is such a dick cunt.”

  “What the fuck is a dick cunt?” Aurora asked, brows furrowed.

  Sera shrugged. “I don’t know. It sounds bad though.”

  Sloane pursed her lips. “I know a thing called a Colombian necktie; you want me to do it to him?”

  I lifted my gaze to hers. “What the hell is a Colombian necktie?”

  She shrugged. “Well, first I’d slit his throat, right? And then, you pull his tongue out through it. Sounds fitting for a lying cheat bag.”

  I could only blink at Sloane. “What in the world?”

  Aurora shook her head. “No, no, no, no. That’s too on the nose. We have to make him pay slowly, over a period of time. Make him rue the day. We need to make every single thing about his existence hurt. Make it excruciating.”

  I stared at her. Her unusual golden eyes flickered with glee and merriment.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re crazy, do you know that? Actually, you know what?” I pointed at both her and Sloane. “Both of you are batshit. We’re not necktying anyone. And I’m not here for the revenge, but what I will tell you is I’m going to stop fucking crying. My mistake was in thinking that I wasn’t the cool girl, that I was the lucky one. But no—he was the lucky one.”

  Sera gave me a brisk nod. “Hell yes. He is the lucky one in this scenario and he fucked up. You are not going to sit here and cry for him. You are a badass. You’re Iris Briggs. Your whole future is ahead of you. You’re going to be this huge photographer one day, and he’s going to beg to come to your exhibits. And all of us will be there, and we will laugh as he is turned away at the door.”

  I did like the sound of that. “Keep talking.”

  Sera and the others grinned. Aurora handed me a glass with a dubious-colored mixture inside it. “What’s this?”

  She grinned. “Well, I won’t say where I learned the skill—” her eyes slid over to Sloane “—but I happen to be a decent lock picker. I broke into Keaton’s room and stole his expensive bottle of rum. It’s a fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle, so you’re going to drink it.”

  My mouth hung open. Not that she’d broken into his room, or stolen his bottle of rum, but the fact that it cost fifteen hundred dollars, Jesus. “I don’t—I don’t really drink.”

  “Well, we will drink in your honor this very expensive rum, but also, you’re going to have one. He popped your cherry and fucked you over. You can’t just let it go without finishing his rum.”

  A flush crept up my neck, and Sera blinked at me.

  “Wow,” Aurora said, stunned. “I was just guessing, but really? You had sex with him?”

  “Iris, you didn’t!” Sera exclaimed before I could answer. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  I swallowed. “I did. But I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew I was being an idiot over him.”

  I was that clichéd girl who believed that the gorgeous, rich golden boy could have fallen in love with her, that we were more alike than we were different. That he understood me, and that he wanted my dreams for me as much as I did. But I had been duped. That wasn’t on Keaton. That was on me.

  Aurora gave me a sympathetic look. “You wouldn’t be the first one.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Sera rubbed my back. “Okay firstly, I’m never forgiving you for not telling me immediately. Secondly, who you sleep with is your business—well, also mine, but mostly yours. No one gets to judge you for who you take to bed. You are a modern-times girl. You can sleep with whomever you want, whenever you want. Hell, you can still give him a repeat revenge bone. That’s up to you. No one gets to judge you for that, least of all yourself. You slept with him because you are Iris Briggs and you wanted to. Don’t beat yourself up for it.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . it was my first time, and it was a textbook first time, you know?”

  Sloane coughed a laugh. “You mean awkward fumbling?”

  I shook my head. “No, it was that perfect kind of thing. He wasn’t at all awkward. He was gentle. But there was also something that said he couldn’t hold back. A feeling that told me I made him lose control. He hadn’t wanted to hurt me. And it had been amazing. You know, beautiful and perfect, and you get to have an orgasm for the first time kind of thing.”

  Aurora lifted a brow. “Really? The first time?”

  “Yeah.” I glanced around. “Is that normal?”

  Sera shrugged. “I don’t know what normal is, but look, take the experience for what it was. An experience. Even if it was with Keaton Constantine. It was positive, and that’s what you needed at the time. Now, is that going to preclude us from kicking his ass? Hell no. There are still months left of school, and we can make his life a living hell until then.”

  I shook my head. “As much fun as Colombian neckties and a slow steady plan of revenge sound, my best revenge is getting the fuck out of Dodge. I don’t need to be here. In fact . . .” I reached over to my bag and pulled out my laptop, pulling up the webpage I visited nightly like it was some kind of virtual shrine.

  Aurora leaned over and looked, a shot glass of amber rum balanced easily in her hand. “Your Sorbonne thing,” she said, understanding.

  “What Sorbonne thing?” Sera demanded.

  “She wants to go to this pre-degree program in Paris,” Aurora explained for me. “She’s got the credits to get her diploma now if she wants, so she could go.”

  “They provide housing and a student stipend too,” I said quietly. “Because my college fund is strictly for a degree-seeking program, it’s the only way I can go without asking for my father�
�s money. Which he’d never give me.”

  “So you want to leave here,” Sera said, sounding unimpressed.

  I looked up at her, suddenly feeling like I’d like that rum very much right now.

  “I can’t stay here. Not with him.”

  Sloane and Aurora seemed to agree with me. But Sera pressed her lips together. She did “disdainful mother” very well. “I don’t know, Iris. Look, I’m here for you. And I just think Keaton deserves to pay. He really does. But do I think you should run? No. I think he needs to face what he did. I think he owes you an apology. Now, either he does that voluntarily or we make him give you one, but something needs to happen.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I just want out. I want to be gone from here. Dad’s moved schools almost every two years, you know? And after Isabelle left, I think they needed a change—their entire lives had revolved around her and once she was gone, the place we were at didn’t feel like home anymore. So we came here for them, but no one consulted me on how I felt, what I needed. So this time, I’m going to do what I need to do for me. I want to go.”

  Sera winced. “That sucks. Just when you’re getting settled.”

  “Tell me about it. But you three can visit me in Paris anytime. You should come.”

  Sera bit her nail delicately. “Look, it’s not like you’re going to make any changes right now. You still have to, at least, see if you’re accepted. Not to mention telling your parents, convincing your father to let you graduate early, and booking your trip.”

  I did need to make some kind of plan. I couldn’t just up and get on the plane tomorrow. I had to wait, be patient. Who knew how much longer until I heard if I was accepted? “Okay, you have a point. I need a better plan than fuck this shit, I’m leaving.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Yes, you definitely need a plan.”