Not This Price: A Dark Bully High School Romance (Roman Academy Rules Book 3)

by L V Chase

  I turn to Jay as the rustle of paper fills the room. “You should have said he was high. I’d love to see you draw someone high off their ass.”

  He shrugs. “It wouldn’t be difficult. Recreational drugs affect the nervous and muscular system”

  “Lockjaw,” I nod.

  He glances at me before shrugging. He hasn’t been answering my texts. He also hasn’t been in the art room during lunch or dinner lately. He’s either delved so deeply into his art that he isn’t coming up for air, or his competitive side is eclipsing his schedule. I don’t mind. He’d give up his sanity to win this award. Ignoring my texts is barely notable in comparison.

  I shortly considered just letting him win—he’s wanted it so much longer than I have—but the thought of giving up creates a crater in my chest. He can survive just fine without winning this. He has two wealthy parents with connections. I have nothing but my talent. If I ever got another miracle like this, I’d have to start going to church.

  The door snaps open as I start drawing the shape of the mannequin. I abruptly feel less blessed.

  My mother steps in, her hair chaotic around her face. While other people might have nightmares about stepping into class naked and finding out they have a test they haven’t studied for, my worst nightmare is my mother showing up. It can only lead to mockery or pity, and both are insulting.

  She’s even wearing the white dress with the plunging neckline. Sometimes she calls it her Marilyn Monroe dress. Sometimes she calls it her boob bankroll. Usually, the sight of it makes me shake my head. Now, my fingertips press against my forehead, my hand covering my eyes so I can’t see her and my classmates can’t see my red face.

  “My girl!” she crows, running forward to embrace me.

  Her hug is harsh, her arm squeezing against my throat. This is awkward. This is suffering. I have no idea what’s going on. My classmates snicker. Except for Jay, who exchanges a look of sympathy with me.

  “Mom, what are you doing here?” I mutter after she pulls away. The last thing I knew, she hated me for not hating Grayson on her behalf.

  “Your art teacher, Mr. Monson,” She dramatically gestures to Ollie like she wants him to bow for a standing ovation. “He called me and told me about your little art show! This is so exciting! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about it!”

  I glance over at Ollie. Uncertainty unravels across his face. I know he had good intentions, but I don’t trust my mother’s motives at all. But if I don’t act gracious, I’m not any better than my wealthy classmates who cry over getting a white Maserati over a red one.

  “I’m glad you’re here too, Mom,” I say, giving her another hug.

  I try to catch Jay’s eye again, but he’s started his sketch of his mannequin. She pulls away from me, promptly walking over to Ollie.

  “It’s so kind of you to reach out to me,” she says. Her hip juts out while her fingers skim over her cleavage. “Maybe I could thank you some time with a drink.”

  I don’t have it in me to tell her that he’s not going to be interested. This is her performance. I’m just a recurring character. Usually, it’s an easy enough role to play, but seeing her here now with the gravity of this competition leaves a bitter taste in the back of my throat. She wants to take the role of my mother now, but I’ve seen her performances far too often to take it seriously. It’s just like any other beautiful lie—coming in sweetly and leaving with blood in its teeth.

  I glance at Jay again. He’s drawing the mannequin as it falls and doesn’t do anything to prepare itself for the solid, hard consequences. What an idiot. What a goddamn fool.

  18

  Grayson

  It's almost ten at night. I've just pulled up into the parking lot after hanging out with the guys. I wave to the last of them, then lean against my car under the glare of the parking lights while I pull out my phone.

  I haven't heard from Cin in a while with a possibly deranged Brady on the loose, not to mention any idiots inspired by Damian's bullshit stories. I send her a quick text to check up on her. Maybe even to drop by.

  You in your room?

  I stare at my phone for a few seconds, not expecting a reply right away. But my phone buzzes almost instantly.

  Still working. In the arts building.

  This late? She should know better that to stay out by herself. I've warned her before. I frown. Or she could be with Jay. I'm not sure if that's much better. I start walking towards the art building.

  It takes me a few minutes to get there and make my way to the art room, but the lights are off and no one's around. Before I send another text to Cin, though, I remember one other place to check.

  I head to the dance studio, and sure enough, the small windows in the doors leading to the studio are lit brightly. I pull the door open quietly so that I don't surprise Cin if she's in the middle of working. I walk into the mirror-filled room and find Cin in black jeans and a white top working at her easel. Her back's to me. It's exactly the same setup like that last time I found her painting here.

  I wait to speak until she brings her brush away from the canvas. "Why here? I mean, we did have some good memories before, but..." A dozen reflections of myself smirks at her from all angles.

  Cin gives me an annoyed look. "Yeah, nothing like that. My mother's hanging out back in my dorm room. I told her I have cleaning duties all night as part of the scholarship." She shrugs. "And in the off chance that she somehow wanders here looking for me, I thought I'd hide up here."

  Her mother? Kat? I try to stop myself from scowling before Cin can see, but it's no use with all the reflections around me. "Why's she here?" I ask. "Is she causing any trouble?"

  We both know what happened the last time Kat tried to get involved with us. Fucking hell. Cin seems to have gotten over what happened, but I still can't bear the thought of that bitch Kat anywhere at school.

  "I know, I know," Cin says with a shake of her head. "Believe me. I don't trust her, either. She says she's here for my art show, but..." Cin's voice trails off.

  "But you know that's bullshit."

  "She's probably checking up on me. See if I…if you and I are a thing. You know what she's like." Cin looks down at her paintbrush as she speaks, avoiding my gaze.

  I laugh once, softly. Dearest mommy is checking up on her daughter, then. Making sure that she's got me locked down. And Cin--she would hate for anyone to think that she's a gold digger. She's the furthest thing from her mother.

  But does Cin have me locked down? Shit. Well, I sure as hell can't get away from her, no matter how hard I try.

  "What'd you tell her?" I ask.

  Cin shrugs. "Not much. That you're you. I'm me. And she shouldn't get her hopes up." Cin's eyes suddenly go wide with terror. "Oh shit. You don't think she's going to force something, if I tell her we're not working out? Oh god, but I didn't want to tell her anything about us. Not after what she did."

  I close the distance between us and place my hands on her shoulders. She's trembling.

  "It's fine, Cin. Relax." I reach into my pocket and pull out a small gray envelope. "Here. I got you something. Think of it as a good-luck charm."

  Cin looks up at me. I take the brush out of her hand and set it carefully on the easel's ledge. I hand her the envelope. She holds it blankly without making a move to open it, so I reach over and lift the flap out.

  "It's didn't cost much," I say. "Don't worry."

  Cin pulls out the small piece of paper. Her face lights up with a genuine smile when she realizes what it is. It's a fake tattoo, one of those things you put on like a sticker with water. The tattoo has that painting she liked. The one by Monet with the name that's too long for me.

  "Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond," Cin says brightly. Then, she grins. "You actually remembered. I didn't take you for the artsy type."

  I shrug. "I'm not. But it's the only one with lily ponds by Monet that showed up, thank God. I wasn't sure if it was the right one until you saw it."

 
Cin turns around and hugs me tightly, her head leaning against my chest. "It's perfect. A good-luck charm, like you said."

  She lifts her head to smile up at me. I can't help but smile slightly back at her.

  "So, where are you going to put the tattoo?" I ask.

  Cin laughs and tries to step away, but I hug her back so that she can't.

  "Not sure," she replies. "Why? You have any ideas?"

  "I should get to pick, since I got it for you."

  Cin slips out of my arms. "Oh really. And where do you think it should go?"

  I take her by the hand. "I'll show you. There's water in the bathroom—"

  "What?" Cin tries to pull away from me, but it's a half-hearted attempt.

  The two of us make our way to the girl's bathroom. The lights flicker on when we enter. Before Cin can do anything, I pick her up by the sides. She makes a surprised noise, but I set her down quickly next to a sink.

  "You just sit there," I say. "I'll take care of it."

  Cin smirks. "Where's it going? You going to surprise me?"

  "You'll see." I run my hand under the nearest faucet to check that the water's flowing, then take the tattoo sticker from Cin. There are instructions printed on one side of it. "First, we have to clean you up."

  "Let me see," Cin reaches for the tattoo, but I pull it out of her reach.

  "I’m taking care of it."

  I hold the tattoo above my head until Cin gives up trying to grab at it. Then, I tuck the tattoo into my back pocket while I reach for her jeans and begin unbuttoning them.

  Cin raises an eyebrow. "This is getting interesting."

  I finish unbuttoning, then unzipping her jeans. I pull the jeans down her hips, wrap one arm around her to lift her slightly off the counter, and continue peeling her jeans down with the other hand. Before the jeans completely come off, though, I change my mind and slip her black panties down over her butt in one smooth motion. Cin's breathes in sharply as I set her back onto the counter and tug her jeans and panties down to her ankles.

  "You okay? The counter cold?" I ask in as even a tone as I can manage. Cin's scent rushes to fill my breath. It takes everything I have not to push her thighs apart and begin devouring her.

  Cin doesn't reply. Her cheeks take on a pink tinge, but she doesn't move to cover herself, either. She bites her lips and watches me with large, green eyes.

  I step over to grab a thick bundle of paper towels. I soak one of them in water, then turn to Cin, placing one hand on her thigh. With the other, I begin washing the area just above her left groin.

  Cin follows my movements with her eyes, then leans backward with her two hands down against the counter. Her thigh quivers when a drop of stray water slides down the curve of her thigh.

  "Wash. Then, dry." I take a fresh paper towel and pat down the area. I take a second clean paper towel to wipe up any last drops of moisture

  "Wait!" Cin laughs as the crumpled paper towel brushes against her stomach. Her leg shakes. "That tickles!"

  "Hold still," I order, pushing down on her legs so she can't move. I take the tattoo sticker out of my back pocket and remove the foil backing one side. I press it against her lower abdomen, just above the crease of her groin, spreading it evenly.

  Cin's abs tense under my hands.

  "Stop that." I press my palm into the tattoo sticker harder to smooth out the area, and Cin sucks in a mouthful of air. " You'll ruin it if you can’t stay still."

  Cin makes a small noise but stays still as I apply more water against the back of the tattoo sticker.

  "We stay like this for a minute." I glance at Cin's face. Her eyes are closed, and she's biting down hard as she struggles to stay still. "Maybe two minutes for good measure."

  "Shit!" Cin mutters.

  I keep one hand over the wet tattoo sticker, but when I reposition my hand slightly to get into a more comfortable position, my pinkie barely grazes the swell of her clit. Cin's body jerks sharply, but I hold her down, pulling my other arm around her body to keep her in place. She turns her head towards me, and then we're kissing, her hungry mouth eager for more.

  "One more minute," I manage to say in between kisses.

  Cin growls in response as she presses her lips hard against mine. She can't wait another minute, and neither can I. My hand slips off the tattoo, sliding further down until my middle fingers is nestled lightly between her pussy's lips, my thumb resting on the hood of her clit. I rub my thumb in circles as I slide my middle finger slowly up and down her slick entrance.

  She reaches for my pants, but I stop her.

  "Sit still," I say as I push her arms back to her side. "Or I'll have to tie you up."

  Cin gasps in response as I plunge my finger halfway inside her while flicking her clit. I place both hands on her thighs, then kneels, bringing my mouth closer to her.

  "Fuck staying still," Cin says as she grabs my head by the hair and pulls me forward.

  I kiss her clit, sucking on it hard once before settling into a more rhythmic motion with my mouth. My tongue penetrates her, in and out quickly, then dances upward to caress her swollen nub back and forth before going back downward to part her lips.

  I savor Cin's sweet taste, inhale her intoxicating scent, feel her thighs quiver under my hands. I lose track of time just luxuriating in Cin as I focus on the small catches in her breath or the way her hands tighten in my hair to let me know that she's completely under my control.

  She suddenly thrusts her crotch into my face as she pulls on my hair, painfully. Her moans grow louder and louder, and her thighs clench inwards, crushing my head. I push back against her legs with my arms, forcing her wide open as I attack her clit, my tongue teasing her clit more lightly even as I go faster and faster.

  Cin cries out as she tries to press my head even harder into her. "Stop fucking with me!"

  I laugh and give her what she wants, my tongue swirling ruthlessly now around her as her juices mix with my saliva to cover her in a hot, wet coating. She makes a high-pitched keening sound that cuts off sharply as her body shakes. Then, her hands go slack, and Cin slumps backwards until her head hit the mirror behind her.

  I pull away from her, then check her tattoo. I pull off the paper backing in one motion. Cin shivers.

  I check my work. All of my work. Cin's still panting, both her face and pussy flushed darker. The tattoo, a blue, yellow, and whitish thing, sits just above the line of her groin.

  I give her a small smile. "All done."

  19

  Cin

  My mother drives in the same way that she drinks: reckless, single-handed, and with a souring mood.

  “Why is this art studio so hard to find?” she gripes. “At least Grant’s bar and Naughton’s Bar and Grill has huge, lit-up signs to tell you where they are.”

  “It has to be coming up,” I say, gripping onto the door handle, willing myself to not jump out onto the road. “There. Here. Just parallel park.”

  My mother grumbles to herself and nearly drives onto the sidewalk before managing to park without killing both of us. In front of us, Comstock Gallery’s massive windows reveal the glaringly bright lights and the people crowding inside one of the rooms, champagne glasses held gingerly in their hands. My mother’s eyes widen as she sees the glasses, and she yanks off her seatbelt.

  “You didn’t tell me it would be like a party,” she says. “Is it an open bar?”

  “I have no idea,” I say, but she’s already bolting out of the car.

  As I slam my door shut, she’s reaching for the studio’s door. Stepping up to it, I’m reminded of when Grayson surprised me with a visit here. All of the pretenses and walls we’d had around each other seemed to fall away. Either the time apart or the threat of his imprisonment sent us on a new path, and it was thrilling enough that it felt terrifying.

  When I walk inside, a man in a suit offers me champagne before second-guessing himself.

  “I’m eighteen,” I say, side-stepping around the glass. My mother appears by
my side, taking the glass from the man and handing him an empty one.

  “This champagne isn’t half-bad,” she says. “Usually champagne tastes like licking a battery.”

  She drains the glass and moves past me. Her focus is on alcohol right now. To be fair, alcohol is usually on her mind—the neuropsychology of an addict—but she’s latched onto the idea that art studios are a magical location where champagne is given out freely.

  I wander to the room with all of the people crowded in it. In the center, four easels sit proudly with four pieces of art reclining on them. Twenty-nine entries were submitted for the competition, but these four are exhibited with blatant favoritism. I’d be annoyed with the injustice of it all, but they are the best pieces.

  From right to left, the first one is Jay’s. It’s a detailed, realistic drawing of Downtown Manhattan. I would have assumed it was a photograph, but it shows Manhattan partially underwater with various aquatic animals making the city their home. Whales, sharks, a stingray, and an eel swim among the skyscrapers. An otter floats on its back above Manhattan Municipal Building, the gilded Civic Fame statue glinting above the water. A squid clambers through one of the skyscraper windows.

  It’s clever. The photorealism of the cityscape will earn him points for his talent. The beauty of it will entice the sentimental judges. And any of the judges searching for depth and meaning in our art pieces could create a thousand metaphors around it. I knew Jay was my biggest threat in this competition, but I still underestimated him. I saw his talent and assumed he’d solely rely on that. But he brought a level of savviness I was blind to.

  I grit my teeth but force myself to move on to the other art pieces. The second and third ones belong to Maya Rike and John Dunn. Maya’s depicts two ballerinas dancing. John’s is a pastel piece of the California fires. It inspires a decent amount of respect, but neither evokes any emotion in me.