Riot Rules

by Callie Hart

  I pull back the axe, swing it over my shoulder and bring it crashing down on the desk again. And again. And again. I swing the axe until my arms are killing me, boneless as noodles, and I can’t lift the thing over my head anymore.

  Damn. The desk is in pieces. It looks like the freaking thing spontaneously exploded. “Dude,” Pax says. “That was fucking awesome.”

  It really was. Normally, I only feel this alive when I have an illegal substance chasing through my veins.

  “Did you imagine that was his face?” Pax asks.

  “Something like that.” Who am I kidding? It was exactly like that. The prick tried to humiliate me in front of the class. He talked to me like I was a little bitch. Ever since my father packed me off to Wolf Hall, Fitz has mocked me because of my title. And he is playing a dangerous fucking game with my friend. If I had a looser grip on my sanity, the desk would have been the motherfucker’s face.

  Pax takes the axe out of my hands, grinning like the black-hearted fiend that he is. “My turn.”

  “That was crazy loud.”

  “Don’t worry,” he assures me. “This won’t take long.”

  The white board gets it first. Pax destroys it with four powerful swings of the axe. The desk where Damiana sits goes next. A sofa. A shelf. Books cascade to the floor, loose sheets of paper fluttering free from their bindings. The chaos, and the destruction, and the madness…this is what I was fucking built for. I’ve been repressed by my mother, repressed by my father, repressed by the weight of the responsibility sitting on my shoulders. Repressed by this school. Repressed by Fitz. But this…this is who I truly am.

  Pax and I have this one thing in common.

  We were born to break things.

  Beneath the stays of an impossibly strict childhood, I’ve always been a one-man wrecking crew. I’ve just never been able to wreck—

  Pax freezes, the axe held high over his head. He looks back at me, eyes shining like pools of mercury from the depths of his hood. “What the fuck was that?” he hisses.

  “What the fuck was what?”

  A loud slam echoes out in the corridor, followed by the sound of boots hitting the polished marble floor. “That!” My roommate brings the axe crashing down one last time, and the blade embeds itself in the ruins of Fitz’s desk. We leave it there, the handle sticking up in the air like a middle fucking finger, and we bolt out of the den.

  A pillar of light knifes through the darkness, back the way we came. Hugh Paulson’s voice bounces off the walls. “You little fuckers! Stop right there!”

  “Split up!” Pax shoves me toward the western wing of the building. He takes the east. Neither of us hang around to debate whether this is a good idea. Hugh’s in his fifties and he sleeps a lot, but he’s in pretty good shape. Hesitation isn’t an option. We pause a second too long and one of us is getting caught.

  My heart has never beat this fast before.

  Behind me, Pax whoops at the top of his lungs as he bolts toward the dining hall. The unbelievable expletives that he’s yelling fade as I hit the stairs to the left and I take them four at a time, flying up to the second floor.

  “Stop! Motherfucker!” Hugh roars. “Wait ’til I get my hands on you, ya little—” I can’t tell if he’s coming after me or Pax, but I don’t hang around to find out. I’m running. I’m running so fast, my feet, and my heart, and my brain have no hope of keeping up with me. I move on instinct. It’s instinct alone that has me screeching to a halt, reaching for a door handle, turning it, and tumbling into the room beyond.

  Darkness.

  But only for a second.

  A light goes on, and then Carrie Mendoza is in front of me, her expression a mixture of shock, fear, and fury. There’s a brick in her hand.

  Pain lights up the inside of my skull. Oh…oh my fucking god. Ow! She threw it at me. Fucking launched a brick at my head and hit me with it.

  “What the FUCK are you doing, Dash!”

  It wasn’t a brick. It was a…book?

  It’s there at my feet—The Count of Motherfucking Monte Cristo.

  “DASH!” She launches herself at me, pushing me back against the door, and I don’t have time to figure out what the hell she’s trying to do. Labored footsteps pound along the hallway—the footsteps of a winded fifty-three-year-old Patriots supporter from New Jersey. They’re heading this way. I grab Carrie, wrapping my arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, clamping my hand over her mouth.

  She’s flush against me, her back to my chest, and she’s squirming like a…well, a girl who’s being restrained by a guy wearing a hoody, who’s just bust his way into her bedroom in the middle of the night. Fuck. “Shhhhhhit! I’m sorry, okay. Carrie, it’s okay. It’s me. Shhh. It’s Dash,”

  “I know who…you…are!” she growls. “Get…out of my…fucking…room!”

  I tighten my grip, pressing my forehead against her temple. “For the love of God, quit fighting me and shut the hell up. Hugh’s out there. If he finds me, I’m officially fucked.”

  She stills.

  Thank the stars, she fucking stills.

  Hugh’s grunting and groaning can be heard perfectly clearly through Carrie’s bedroom door. He lumbers down the corridor, pausing every couple of steps…and he comes to a stop outside the room. Motherfucker!

  There’s a soft tap at the door. “Carina?”

  She bites my thumb. I yank my hand back, cutting off a yelp, and she uses the opportunity to slip out of my grasp. Whipping around, she glares at me viciously. My entire fucking life at Wolf Hall is in her hands right now. If she says one word, I’m on the next plane back to England and I’m simultaneously being cut off by my father. I’m not a fan of pleading, but I do it, silently, with a desperation I didn’t realize I’d feel in this position. I didn’t even know that I’d care…

  Her scowl deepens. “Hello?”

  Goddamnit, I am so fucked!

  “Ms. Mendoza, can you open the door, please?”

  I shake my head.

  Carrie looks like she’s about to bring my entire world crashing down on my head…but then she sighs. “Get under the bed, and do not make a single sound.”

  There’s nothing dignified about crawling under a bed. Nothing. I’d rather scoot underneath Carina’s narrow single bed than be dragged out of here by Hugh, however, so I lie flat on my belly and pull myself under.

  She opens the door, yawning dramatically. “Oh…Mr. Paulson? Is…what time is it? Is everything okay?”

  Well, fuck me dead if she doesn’t sound like she just woke up. Little Carina should be hitting Broadway with Mercy this year, if this performance is anything to go by.

  “It’s nearly four-thirty,” Hugh grunts out. “Why are you up?

  “I—I wasn’t.” Her voice is thick with sleep. “I was out cold. The knocking woke me up.”

  “Your light was on, kid. You telling the truth?”

  “Uh, yes, I’m telling the truth.” Less tired now. More offended. “I fell asleep while I was reading. I’m sorry for leaving it on, but I think the amount my uncle pays in tuition fees here would afford me a little light to read by, don’t you?”

  “Hmm.” He isn’t convinced. “You mind if I take a look in your room?”

  “I’m on the board of the Modesty and Manners for Young Christian Women Organization. I can’t have a man in my room after dark. Alone. It could be construed as some sort of…sexual advance. My morals could be brought into question. And you could get fired.” She’s laying it on so thick now. Maybe too thick. Hugh shifts uncomfortably; I see the toes of his black boots recede back into the hallway.

  “Well…ahh, wouldn’t want that. No, no. I s’pose he flew up the next flight of stairs before I could catch sight of him. Get on back to bed with you now. You’ll catch your death of cold. And turn your light out when you’re done reading, okay? The Principal doesn’t like to waste power, no matter how much money you guys pay to be here.”

  Carina sniffs peevishly. “Don’t worry. I
will.”

  The door closes, and Carrie turns out the lamp on her bedside table. I lay very still, holding my breath until I hear Hugh’s heavy footsteps trail off down the hallway. Next thing I know, Carrie’s on her knees and she’s glaring at me under the bed.

  “Out. Now. You have some serious explaining to do.”

  18

  CARRIE

  “I came to get my AirPod.”

  He stands by the window, wearing an aloof expression that makes me want to freaking scream. How can he look so damn bored after that? I thought I was going to have a heart attack. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “My AirPod,” he repeats. “You took the right one out of my ear in the library. I told you. You need both the left and the right for them to work.”

  Seething. Yeah, I’d say that was a pretty good way to describe how I’m feeling at this particular moment in time. I…could…fucking…kill…him. Mechanically, I cross the room, all eleven feet of space, and I grab my backpack from where it’s hanging on the hook behind the door. I fish his stupid AirPod out of the little zipper pocket on the front, slap it into his open palm, and then gesture to the door. “Alright, then. You got what you came for. Go.”

  If he smirks, I swear to god, I am going to lose my fucking mind.

  Lucky for him, his lips remain static, pressed into a flat line. “Aaaand…that’s just it? You give me back the headphone. I leave. The end?”

  “Yes, the absolute final end, Dashiell. I’ve had enough. Next time you’re running through the halls of this school in the middle of the night, being chased by security, make sure to forget which door belongs to me. I am sick of this shit. I’m not even kidding. You should just go.”

  He cracks his knuckles, eyes skipping over my features like he’s trying to read something on me. He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Fair enough.”

  He heads for the door, but just as he’s about to turn the handle, there’s a loud crash from upstairs, quickly followed by three more loud bangs and…a horn?

  “What the fuck?” He turns back at me. “I need to stay. Just half an hour, until he fucks off back downstairs.”

  “Dash—”

  “I mean it. I go out there now and I’m not gonna make it five feet before he catches me. I’ll be shipped off back to Surrey before tomorrow night, and it’s April, Carrie. Have you been to the U.K. in April? It’s cold, wet and miserable. Are you really that cruel?”

  The audacity of this guy. I swear, he has no fucking clue. “I’m not the cruel one. That title’s reserved specifically for you, asshole.”

  He rocks on his heels, arching one of his dirty blond eyebrows. “I keep telling you. If I’ve been rude, it’s been for your own good. If you’re butthurt because you feel like I’ve rejected you, then you should know that I did that for your own good.”

  “Oh, stop. I’m sick of hearing it. Your excuses get weaker and weaker by the day. I’m not some simpering little girl who’ll shatter into a million pieces the moment you decide you don’t want to spend time with her anymore. You have no idea what I’ve gone through or dealt with in this life. If you really, truly think that you’re going to be the thing that breaks me after I’ve survived everything else that’s already been thrown at me, then I actually feel bad for you.”

  Dash lets go of the doorknob. “Really?”

  I cross my arms in front of my chest, setting my jaw. Defiance rolls off me, bolstering my confidence. “Yes.”

  “You think you’re stronger than me, Mendoza?”

  “Yes.”

  “You reckon you’re strong enough to handle whatever I can throw at you?”

  “Absolutely.” Am I fucking crazy? I should not be making claims like that. I’m strong because I’ve had to be. This isn’t the same thing. I don’t have to do any of this. I could walk away. He’s told me in no uncertain terms that I should, and what have I done? I’ve called him arrogant for it and done the exact opposite. I’ve run toward him at every turn. It’s the most masochistic, moronic behavior I’ve ever displayed in my life.

  “So you want me to be cruel, then?” he says. The timbre of his voice has taken on a whole new quality. Deep and rough, the rasp a physical caress, stroking down my back, brushing between my thighs, pressing a part of me there that makes my body hum. My thin nightshirt isn’t providing much in the way of heat, but it isn’t the chill on the air that’s making me shiver anymore. It’s the fierce look in his eyes, and the way the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.

  “I’m saying you can do whatever you want, Dash.” Lord, why is my voice wobbling so hard? “You can do anything you want. It won’t have any bearing on my life. None at all.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Yes.” Lies, lies, and more lies. Would I even know the truth anymore? If it leapt up and slapped me in the face, would I even recognize it?

  Dash glares at me. His brows pinch together into a knot, the lines getting deeper, deeper, deeper…and then his forehead abruptly smooths out. No lines. No frown. Nothing. “Fine then. Have it your way. Come here,” he growls.

  I laugh nervously. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come…here.”

  His eyes are blazing. His jaw’s already strong and square and masculine as all hell; when he clenches and the muscles flex there, it does something to me that I am really not proud of. It literally—yes, literally—makes me go weak at the knees. I wish I was better than this. I gave him so much shit before when I thought he was a drug addict, but it turns out that I’m the one with the problem. I know he’s poison. He’s so bad for me, in every way imaginable. He’s already warned me that he’ll ruin my life and any chance I have of being happy in the future, but I cannot stop myself.

  As I child, I touched the iron and it burned. I never touched the iron again. I played with knives and cut myself. I stayed well away from the sharp steel from that moment on. I’ve already been hurt by Dashiell outside the Edmondson party and it stung like hell. So why is it that I can’t implement the lessons here that I learned so easily as a child?

  It isn’t as simple this time. Dash is a disease; I’m infected by him. The only way to recover is to take the antidote. Put some space between us. But I don’t want the antidote. I want the fucking pain, and I can’t convince myself otherwise.

  Dash’s mouth lifts on one side. He looks like he’s bordering on disappointed. Slowly, with infinite care, he holds his left index finger to his mouth and bites down on the tip of the black leather glove he’s wearing, pulling it off his hand. The right one follows. “Carina. Come…here.”

  Ever tried to stop yourself from falling? You put your hands out, try to grab onto something, sure, but once you’ve already tripped and your center of gravity shifts, there’s not much you can do to prevent the fall until you hit the ground. You brace for the impact, and you hope for the best.

  That’s what I do as I slowly cross my tiny bedroom and stop in front of him: I brace for the impact. I hope for the best.

  Breathing used to be so easy, something I didn’t even think about, but a huge chunk of my brain is focused on remembering how to draw oxygen in and out of my lungs. He’s so damn close. I’m dwarfed by him. He’s a foot taller than me and easily twice as broad. The cool, fresh smell of the ocean, and of mint and cut grass storms the back of my nose. He smells like something else, too. I can’t for the life of me put my finger on it. The unique scent underpins all of the other accents, marrying them together in an addicting way. I feel like I’m on the brink of a major sugar crash, trembling from my head to my feet.

  Dashiell gazes at my mouth, breathing softly down his nose. I haven’t noticed him raising his hand, so when he brings his fingers to my mouth, I jump. “Easy,” he murmurs. “If you’re not careful, I might think you’re nervous.” This thought seems to entertain him. “Do I, Carrie? Do I make your pulse race faster?”

  “My pulse is just fine, thanks.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Mm-hm.” The sound comes o
ut in a strained squeak that isn’t fooling anybody.

  Dash plays along. “Okay. So, if I were to—” He removes his fingers from my mouth, trailing them along the line of my jaw, down the column of my throat.

  I react, grabbing him by the wrist, stopping him before he can reach a point where he might discover just what a shame-faced, wretched little liar I really am. He chuckles under his breath, undeterred. Instead of taking his hand back, he dips down, torturously slow, and nuzzles his face into my neck instead. It’s his mouth that finds my pulse. The tip of his tongue, licking at the sensitive skin right above my carotid, sends my already surging heartbeat into overdrive. Dashiell hums as he presses his lips to my skin.

  “Carrie.” His breath is hot against my skin; the sensation of it fanning over my neck and my collar bone make my eyes roll back into my head. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “Keep the lie if it makes you feel better. I won’t tell.” He pulls back, and his eyes are so fierce that my bedroom fades away. The frigid night on the other side of the window is gone. The corridor on the side of my door, and the ten other girls all sleeping in their rooms no longer exist. There is only Dash, trapping me with a look so raw that I’m spellbound by him.

  “How about this?” He winds a strand of my hair around his finger. “From here on out, we make a deal?”

  “What kind of deal?” It’s a miracle that my voice doesn’t crack.

  “From here on out, you give me what I want, Mendoza.”

  “That sounds like…a very one-sided deal.” Breathe, damnit. Breathe.

  Dash actually smiles. “Well. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said in the library, y’know. And…”