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

by L V Chase

  "Over here's the game room." I push the door open and point inside to the room. "Pool, of course. But we also have ping pong, a couple arcade machines, darts, karaoke."

  Cin raises an eyebrow. "Karaoke? I didn't picture you doing karaoke."

  I shrug. "No, but we have it." I continue down the hallway and point to my right. "Bowling lanes are that way." I gesture to the opposite side. "And the movie room."

  I push the doors open as I walk by. Cin peeks inside the first and second, but then continues quickly by, only glancing briefly at the remaining rooms. She's frowning again.

  "Something wrong?" I ask. "I mean, not about before, but about now?"

  Cin sighs. "It's just...your freaking basement has more stuff than the shitty little plaza near my old home."

  Maybe the tour was a bad idea. I don't want her dwelling on the past. "Let's go back upstairs. You want something to drink?"

  Cin trails behind me when I head towards the stairs, so I slow, waiting for her to catch up. She looks like she wants to say something.

  "What is it?" I ask. "You can say it. You think I'm a spoiled asshole with everything I have, right?"

  "No!" Cin touches my shoulder. "Of course not. Well, maybe you are, but that's not..."

  And then I get it. It's not always easy for me to understand how Cin thinks. We've grown up in such different worlds. But I know the one thing that Cin hates, not about me or anyone else, but about herself. She hates the idea that she could become a gold digger.

  "You're not like the other girls," I say.

  Cin looks up at me, confused. I don't want to say it directly, but there's no other way to tell her.

  "You're not a gold digger, Cin. You're not. Don't think that."

  I know that's what's bothering her, because her face crumples up. I pull her tightly to me as she buries her face against my chest.

  "Are you sure?" she whispers. "I don't want to be, but what if I am?"

  "You're not. Cin, come on. You're the type that wants to punch rich assholes, not kiss up to them. Remember your first day at school? Ollie's tour?"

  I'm not sure why Cin's so insecure about who she is. Anyone who's not an idiot can tell that she's not after people for their money. Hell, that's part of the reason why her dumbass mother treats her like shit.

  Cin's lips are still pressed together into a slight frown when she pulls away, but there's a glint in her eye. "Yeah, but when was the last time I punched someone?"

  Before I can reply, I hear the sound of the front door opening upstairs, followed by footsteps. I hold up my hand to Cin. I hadn't expected anyone else to be home.

  "Someone's here." I nod towards the stairs. "Let's head back up."

  I have an unpleasant foreboding as I walk up the stairs ahead of Cin. When I make it back to the first floor, I grimace at the sight of Dad standing in the hallway watching us emerge from the basement.

  "I didn't expect you'd be here," I say to Dad.

  He grunts. "Same." He looks past me. "You're not alone."

  He makes it clear from his tone that he doesn't approve. His jaw clenches slightly as Cin comes to my side.

  Cin whispers to me. "Maybe I should go."

  "We need to talk," Dad says. "In my office. Now."

  "I'm busy." I turn to Cin. "You can stay as long as you want. Overnight?"

  "Grayson!" Dad practically growls. "Haven't you learned anything, after all the problems you've caused? You're still here bringing home this—" Dad waves his hand in Cin's direction "—this thing?"

  "She's not a thing." I pound my fist against the wall and instantly regret it when Cin jumps in alarm. "She's a person, and a hell of a lot better one than anyone else in this house. So, she can fucking stay if she wants."

  Dad stomps towards me, glowering. "Oh, you pussy-whipped little shit—"

  "Shut up!" Cin yells as she pushes in front of me, surprising both Dad and me. He stops in his tracks.

  "You're blaming Grayson?" Cin shouts "Really? I mean, yeah, he's not a saint, but you're the creep behind, I don't know, a literal fucking sex ring. The whole reason for all the shit with Diana and the other girls was you. You. You wanted Grayson to run your fucked-up sex ring. That's all you."

  For once, Dad's seems flustered, his face indicating disbelief. "Sex ring, what? No, nothing of the sort, young lady. It was a dating service. Like all those online dating services—"

  "Bullshit." Cin cuts him off. "Complete fucking bullshit, and you know that."

  "You wouldn't understand anyways." Dad scowls. "Why am I wasting my time talking to an utterly insignificant thing like you. Grayson—"

  "Don't talk to her like that." I pull Cin backward so that she's behind me. "And she's right. She would know. I told her everything. What I did. About how you gave me the project. She knows it all."

  "Are you out of your fucking mind?" Dad screams. "She is a worthless, stupid slut! You don't talk to stupid sluts like her. You command them. Order them. That's it."

  I want to slam him into the wall. I've taken two steps forward without even realizing it until Cin touches me at the side. I stop and glance back at her.

  "That's it," Dad says. "Both of you. Get out. Get out of here."

  I take Cin's hand. "This is fucking stupid. Let's go." I lead her back towards the front entrance.

  "Don't come back," Dad calls after me. "Not until you stop being a pussy. Not until you stop being her little bitch."

  Cin clasps my hand tightly as we leave the house.

  21

  Cin

  Grayson’s arm is pressed against mine. Whenever I imagined Grayson in my dormitory bed, the fantasies flourished into warm kisses, frantic hands, and grinding bodies. But lying beside him while he’s fast asleep is more intimate than my fantasies. Happiness floods inside me, sparkling pools of dopamine.

  That could just be the high after confronting Lawrence though. Goddamn, it feels good to finally tell someone exactly how I feel.

  My phone vibrates on my nightstand. I quickly stretch over Grayson, grabbing it. It’s a local number.

  “Hello?” I answer. I gaze at Grayson’s chest, waiting for it to rise and fall. It’s still steady, unperturbed by being awoken.

  “Baby girl, it’s me,” my mother croons. “I’m so happy you’re awake. I need you to call up the Voss boy. I got into some trouble. I need him to bail me out again. Just once more.”

  “What?” I mumble, her words rushing through me like water. “How did you get pulled over? I called you a cab.”

  “I didn’t want to go back and get my car in the morning,” she says. “It was just a quick drive. But I also passed by this bar I wanted to check out. I was getting back to your, uh, school because I didn’t want to drive too far, and this asshole cop pulled me over. It was so stupid. He claims I crossed the line, but I didn’t, and it was a dotted line anyway. They’re not going to let me talk much longer. I just need you to get the Voss boy to help me. Please, please, please, baby girl. Help your mother out.”

  I look over at Grayson. His face is smooth, uncomplicated by how fucked up our lives are. Peace of mind is a rare miracle, and I’m not in the business of stealing miracles.

  “No,” I say.

  “What? What do you mean no?” she asks. “It’s not that hard. He’s already done it. If he needs a day or two, that isn’t great, but it’s better than throwing in the towel right away. I didn’t raise a quitter.”

  “I’m telling you no because I mean no. I don’t want to help you, and I don’t want Grayson to help you. I’m done with this whole charade. You need to help yourself first before anyone else can help you. You—"

  “You’re an ungrateful bitch,” she snarls. “So, what, you think I deserve to die in prison? You think I’m a piece of trash that deserves to be abandoned?”

  “That’s not what I said and you know it,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “Don’t try to paint me as the villain because you can’t handle the responsibility of your own problems. You need to face
the consequences for your actions.”

  “All I know is that I wasted my time raising you,” she says. “I should have left you at the church steps like your father wanted.”

  A harsh clacking sound—likely my mother trying to hang up the police phone while drunk—is cut off as the call ends. I look down at my phone screen, the bright glow of it making it hard to see, but it’s not hard to recognize that the phone has returned to the home screen.

  Most times like this, guilt would wash over me. My mother is the woman who raised me when her life could have been much better without tugging along a snotty toddler. I should be grateful and dedicate my life to making up for ruining hers. I should buy her a gift and pay some of her bills for being an ungrateful daughter.

  But guilt’s not working on me in this early hour. I turn to Grayson, preparing to stretch over him again to put my phone back. His eyes are peering at me.

  “What happened?” he murmurs, sleep giving his voice a deeper, more gravelly tone.

  “My mother wanted help bailing her out of another DUI,” I say.

  “Do you want me to call someone?”

  “No,” I say.

  He opens his eyes wider, his hand reaching towards me. It rests on my upper arm, the heat of it surprising me.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “Absolutely.”

  He wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer to him. His hands lock over the small of my back. I feel his breathing slow back into a sleeping rhythm before sleep pulls me under too.

  As my morning alarm vibrates under my back, Grayson is kissing the inside of my thigh. I’m grinning down at him, my fingers playing with his dark hair. If every morning had started like this, I’d be significantly happier at Roman Academy.

  His lips brush against my skin and it’s enlightenment. I understand myself and the world around me better than I ever have.

  He slides his hand under me, grabbing the phone. He turns off the alarm, pulling himself up to kiss me on the cheek.

  It’s a small thing, but it makes us feel like a real couple. The relationship between us has always felt chaotic and running on pure adrenaline, but this morning, it feels genuine. It feels good.

  “I need to do my morning run,” he says, his hand gliding down my neck.

  I smile up at him. “After all that you’re running away?”

  “It’s a proven tactic.” He sets my phone on my clavicle. “If I get you hot and bothered, you’ll keep coming back.”

  “Ah, yes. The asshole tactic.” I run my hand along his jaw, his stubble prickling against my hand.

  He kisses my palm and rolls off the bed. I watch him grab his clothes, getting them on quickly. He looks good naked. Pretty decent dressed, too.

  He returns to me, giving me a quick kiss as his hand tickles behind my ear.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he says. His knuckles brush against my inner thigh. “I know you’ll be waiting.”

  “Fuck you,” I say, but I’m smiling.

  “That’s what I’m planning.”

  His smirk tempts me long after he’s slipped out of my room.

  I’m overwhelmed by goodness. It’s like opening drapes and the morning light cascading in. But even with that light, that warmth, and all the other good shit that comes from a massive, blazing star in the sky, I feel compelled to draw the drapes closed again. Maybe something is hiding behind the curtains, finally able to clamber out. Maybe the sunlight will sink under my skin and dose me with cancer. I can never simply be happy. It’s a self-pitying habit passed down from my mother.

  My mother. She must be waking up in jail now, her back aching from the stiff bed, and another inmate staring down at her, threatening her for breathing too loud. The guilt should be enough to make me sick.

  But I feel healthier than ever.

  I take my time getting ready. I imagine Grayson on his running route as I gather my clothes and trudge to my bathroom. I recall the way his sweat highlights the hills and valleys of his muscles as the hot water pummels down on me. I contemplate the endurance of his quickened heart rate. I contemplate my own heart rate.

  I dry my skin, ignoring the needy pulse Grayson grew inside me. I tie my hair up into a bun. The blonde tips are nearly gone. It’s one more reminder of my mother that’s fading into flickers of misery.

  I step out of my room, locking the door.

  The Viking Breakfast Sandwich sounds perfect this morning. The savory, succulent sliced rib-eye. The tingling heat of the jalapeño cheddar. The buttery, richness of sautéed onions.

  “Cinnamon.”

  The voice slices through my reverie as I turn towards the door. I whip my head around, looking into the common area. Brady sits, his back stiff, in one of the armchairs. My hands reach down, pressing down on my shirt where my scars protrude. The man who wanted Diana and pushed her over the edge, is sitting in my locked dormitory building, calling my name and looking straight at me.

  “How are you?” he asks. “I heard about the art competition. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “It’s not,” he says. “I’m sure you had expectations about winning that scholarship and the exposure it would gift you with. It must be devastating to find out that you’re not who you thought you could be.”

  “Mr. Brady.” I walk over to him, keeping my arms pulled tight against my chest. “I respect your position of power and all that, but I don’t want whatever you’re offering. I’m going to graduate. I’m going to do just fine.”

  “I could make arrangements to guarantee that you would be more than just fine,” he says. “From your change in behavior, I assume Grayson told you some things about me. I assure you that most of it is exaggerated. He resents me. He knows I’m one of the few people who could ruin his family’s legacy, influence, and financial success. There’s nothing powerful men hate more than knowing their money and influence can’t ensure everything.”

  “Even if Grayson hadn’t told me anything, I wouldn’t want anything from you,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “My offer is for you to live a year of luxury and a hundred thousand dollars afterwards.”

  “After what?”

  “A year of subordination.”

  I stare at him. I’d expected him to sugarcoat it—be my live-in girlfriend, be available to me, be my housekeeper with a few bonus responsibilities. He doesn’t look away from me. He’s unashamed of his request. He’s either too involved in Lawrence Voss’s bullshit to see how fucked-up it is, or he’s too powerful to believe I’d tell anyone about this conversation and have anyone believe me.

  Concerning that conviction, he’s right.

  “A year of luxury and a hundred grand is a lot of cash,” I say. “I didn’t realize Assistant DAs made that much money.”

  He shrugs, leaning back into the chair. “The criminals I deal with tend to have impressive wallets. If you make their lives easier, they’re grateful.”

  His relaxed body language tells me that he believes he’s hooked me. In these types of situations, I’d usually relish in tearing a wealthy asshole down and showing him that his power doesn’t extend to me. But it does. Even more than money, Brady has a hand that extends far into the justice system. If he got a detective to stop interrogating me, he could certainly send them to interrogate and tear apart the life of anyone I care about. I don’t know enough about Grayson’s case to know if Brady could still mess up his life. And my mother is currently in jail.

  “It’s an interesting idea,” I say, pressing my fingers harder against my scars.

  He focuses on my movements. He stands up slowly. I force myself to stay still as he approaches me. He points to my shirt.

  “Could I see your stitches? I thought about becoming a surgeon before I went into law.”

  I reluctantly roll up my shirt. The scars almost appear marbleized except for the faint red line in the center. He touches them, his cold hands sending a tremor through me. I take a step back. He grabs my hip,
his left hand stroking the scar.

  “It’s not easy to stab someone,” he says. “Diana must have been flooded with adrenaline to get through the skin and muscle that many times.”

  “I guess,” I say. “I don’t know. I was busy being stabbed.”

  He releases my hip, taking a step back. The pressure of his fingertips slowly fades.

  “Just consider it, Cinnamon,” he says, straightening his tie. “It could change your future. It could be the difference between a successful life and following in your mother’s footsteps.”

  “Don’t talk shit about my mother,” I warn.

  He shrugs. “I’m just being blunt. I thought you’d appreciate someone who didn’t disguise their true intentions. But I could have been wrong about you. Nothing damages an accurate perception more than a beautiful woman.”

  He touches my shoulder as he leaves. I yank my shirt back down, but my hand keeps pressing down on the scars. Pretentious asshole.

  It’s not easy to stab someone.

  If I’d read a transcript of our conversation, it would read like he was reflecting on his investigations involving stabbings. He must have interrogated people who had committed stabbings. They must have mentioned how difficult it was.

  But listening to him and the way he said it was visceral. There was a hint of excitement in his tone. Like he’d stabbed someone.

  Like Diana.

  22

  Grayson

  It's fairly quiet during breakfast time at the dining hall. Most don't bother coming here. There's only the light sound of forks clinking on plates and chairs squeaking on the ground. A couple of hushed conversations.

  I'm finishing my own plate of scrambled eggs, sitting by myself. A few of the regular crew enter the dining hall with their own plates of eggs and sausages, but they pretend they don't see me.

  The stupid fuckers are dumb sheep, nothing more. More and more have been acting like that after Damian published those bullshit testimonies by the girls. It's extra stupid because I know that none of them care about what happens to the scholarship girls. They're phonies, all of them.