TWISTED (Tanglewood Elites #2)

by Ivy Rush

  “Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll be there.”

  “Tell her to hold on,” Raider hisses.

  “Um, can you hold on a moment?” I say, as Raider takes my phone and hits mute.

  “Tell her I’ll be there, too,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Tell her you feel more comfortable with me in your session.”

  “What? She’s not going to believe that Raider, she –”

  “Tell her.”

  He takes the phone off mute and thrusts it back at me. He’s watching me with that same intense stare, and I close my eyes, defeated. “Would it be possible for Raider to come to therapy with me?” I say into the phone. “I just, um…I would feel more comfortable if he was there.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “It’s not usually part of my process to do group therapy with students.”

  Raider’s hand takes my wrist, gripping tightly, sending a message. Get her to agree to it.

  “Oh, well, it’s not really group,” I say. “It’s just me and Raider. Not a group, just a couple. I mean, not a couple, just, you know, two students.” I force myself to clamp my mouth shut.

  “Cassidy, has Raider threatened you in some way? Is he forcing you to allow him into your therapy sessions?” the doctor says, her voice gentle.

  Raider’s grip on my wrist tightens.

  “No!” I say quickly. “No, in fact it’s the complete opposite. I would just feel more comfortable with him there, at least at first.”

  There’s another pause on the other side of the line, and I wonder what Raider is going to do if Dr. Markwoski says no.

  But a second later, she sighs. “Okay,” she says. “I suppose it’s okay for now.”

  “Thank you.” I hope she can’t hear the way my voice is trembling. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Raider drives me back to campus.

  On the way, we pass a couple of cops coming out of Yoyo’s, slipping notebooks back into their pockets, their gaits easy and loping. If they’re rushing off to the police station to issue a warrant for Raider’s arrest, or if they’re trying to find him, they definitely aren’t showing it.

  I gaze out the window despondently, disappointed that Raider was right when he declared he could get away with anything.

  He drops me off in front of my dorm, not looking at me, his gaze steady out the window and then drives away without saying goodbye.

  It’s cold and dark out, and I shiver, shoving my hands into my coat. I glance around me, at the barren trees and the dark sidewalks. The thought of going up to my room to my now-bare mattress is depressing, so I turn left and head for the dining hall, figuring I should eat something.

  The only thing I’ve had today is a couple of spoonfuls of frozen yogurt, which at the time tasted delicious, but now seems ridiculous given the cold weather and what happened while I was at the frozen yogurt shop.

  The dining hall isn’t that busy, since it’s that weird time between lunch and dinner, and I’m able to get a bowl of corn chowder and some crusty bread pretty quickly.

  I take my food and head for a table in the corner, a small two-seater that’s near an elaborate looking coffee station.

  I sit down and send quick text to Tyler, asking if he’s okay and apologizing for what Raider did to him. I know I’m not the one who did it, but it still feels like my fault somehow.

  I wait a few minutes to see if he texts back, but he doesn’t.

  I pull out my notebook and review the reading I have to do so far, and then decide to start making notes for the project I want to do for my semester-long project in Social Issues. The last thing I want to do is wait until the last minute to start, especially since it’s supposed to be a two-person project, and I can already tell that Raider is going to be useless.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve filled several pages with notes on the story I want to write and finished my soup –the food here is surprisingly delicious, much better than anything I would have gotten at home, and I marvel again at what a divide exists between the rich and the rest of us-- when I hear giggling.

  At first, it’s just on the periphery of my awareness, quiet and sort of far away sounding. But as I get pulled out of the notes I’m writing and into the real world, the giggling becomes crystal clear.

  I glance up.

  Sitting a couple of tables over is Amabel and her three camp friends. I can’t remember their names – they all look vaguely the same, with shiny blond hair and poreless skin that’s always naturally tan, even in the winter, probably from the trips they take to the Caribbean or Greece or wherever it is that rich people go.

  The Camp Friends are giggling, and Amabel is stealing glances at me, looking decidedly uncomfortable and wary.

  When they catch me looking at them, their laughter becomes louder.

  I resist the urge to get up and leave, instead deciding that whatever is going on with them is their problem. I reach into my bag and pull out a pair of ear buds, check once more to see if Tyler texted me back – he hasn’t – and then slip them into my ears, pulling up a playlist and turning the new Taylor Swift album up loud.

  It works for, like, half a minute.

  Then one of the blondes is tapping me on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me!” she says loudly.

  I pull my ear buds out and sigh. “Yes?”

  “Yeah, hi,” she says, glancing down at my now-empty bowl of soup in disgust, like she can’t believe anyone would have the audacity to actually eat something. Her own table is filled with green salad and protein bars, and I’m almost annoyed at how stereotypical and expected it is.

  “Hi,” she says. “I’m Marlow. We met at that party? At the athletic house? I’m friends with Amabel?”

  Everything she says sounds like a question.

  “Yes,” I say. “I remember.”

  “I was just wondering if you had any money I could borrow.” She lowers her eyes, looking slightly embarrassed.

  “Oh, um…” I trail off, slightly thrown by this new line of questioning. Is it possible she forgot her student ID and needs cash to buy food? But then I catch the sly look she throws over her shoulder and the additional muffled giggles from her cohorts. “Sorry,” I say firmly. “I don’t.”

  “Really?” She leans against my chair and twirls her finger around a strand of her hair, then frowns at a split end and yanks it from her head. “Because I really need some.”

  “Wow,” I say, “Impressive.”

  She looks at me sharply. “What?”

  “Just that you take your commitment to personal grooming so seriously that you would have the wherewithal to worry about your hair while you’re panhandling.”

  Her blue eyes darken, and for a moment, I almost think that the sarcasm is lost on her and she thinks I’m seriously complimenting her.

  “Anyways,” she says, recovering quickly. “I’m going to need a hundred dollars.”

  “Oh, me too,” I say, nodding sagely. “Should we go down to the gas station in town and buy some lottery tickets? Ohhh! Or we could shave our heads and sell our hair. You know, since you have so many split ends.”

  Her hand flies to her head, and she frowns, not expecting this kind of response. She obviously had some kind of whole thing planned out, the kind where she insulted me and zinged me and had all her comebacks in her head. And I’m ruining it with my smart mouth.

  So she does the next best thing and abandons her plan and just goes for it. “Raider’s paying a hundred bucks per photo of you,” she says, her tone mean. “Anything that can be used for his instagram account.”

  I swallow, not saying anything, frozen in place.

  “And I really need a new pair of Loubotons,” she says, her tone syrupy sweet. She tilts her leg out, showing off the shoes she’s wearing. “Don’t you think these ones are getting a little scuffed?”

  I force my eyes down to her shoes, which are shiny and perfect.

  As if on cue, one of the other blondes g
ets up from her seat at the table near me. She’s carrying a plate of spaghetti, dripping in red sauce and topped with two meatballs.

  “I’m not going to eat this,” she says. “So I thought maybe you’d –”

  She pretends to trip, and dumps the entire meal all over me. Searing hot sauce soaks through my shirt and onto my skin, and I jump up, pulling my shirt away to keep the sauce from burning me.

  But I feel like I’m on fire, so I unbutton the top two buttons. As I do, the three girls are snapping pictures of me as I gather up my things and rush out of the dining hall, their laughter ringing in my ears.

  I shower the sauce out of my hair and scrub my body, staying under the hot stream of water for forty-five minutes, not wanting to leave the safety of the shower stall.

  One of the perks of going to a school for rich kids is that the hot water never runs out, the bathrooms are sparkling clean, and there’s a copious amount of luxurious shampoos and body washes for the taking. It’s kind of like being at a hotel.

  When I finally wrap myself in my robe, which I’ve had since I was fourteen and is faded green and threadbare -- definitely not the kind of thing you’d find in a fancy hotel – and head back to my room, Amabel is sitting on her bed.

  She’s got her ear buds in, watching something on Tiktok, even though a bunch of textbooks are spread out in front of her.

  She glances up at me and then back down at her phone quickly and guiltily.

  I rummage through my suitcase, which is still on the floor, and pull out a pair of sleep pants and a tank.

  I’m about to go back to the bathroom to change when my gaze falls on mattress. Not only is it still bare, but now it’s been completely ripped to shreds. It looks as if someone took a knife or a pair of scissors to it and slashed it in long, angry rips. Springs have popped out of the lining, making it impossible to sleep on.

  I glance over again at Amabel, but she’s still looking at her phone.

  I don’t give her the satisfaction of flipping out.

  Instead, I gather up a bunch of clean towels from the bathroom, flip my mattress over, and then place them over the non-ruined side.

  Then I lay down on top of them and close my eyes.

  I’m still awake a few hours later when Amabel turns off the light and climbs back in bed.

  “It wasn’t me,” she says into the darkness. “I didn’t do that to your mattress.”

  “Whatever.” I believe her – I’m sure it was one of her stupid friends that did it. Amabel is either too nice or too much of a coward to do something like that, and I’m starting to think I know which one it is.

  “It’s Raider,” she says. “His family, you can’t go against them. All of our parents are –”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” I’m surprised at the venom in my voice.

  Amabel must be too, because she does what I say and shuts the fuck up.

  Three in the morning, and I’m sleeping fitfully, in a dreamlike state.

  There’s a knock on my door, soft at first, so soft that I’m not even sure it’s real and not part of some weird dream that I’m having.

  Then my phone buzzes on my nightstand.

  A text from Raider.

  Come to the door, Cass.

  I swallow, my stomach flipping. I lie in wait, wondering if I stay still enough, if I don’t make a sound, if he’ll just go away.

  But I know he won’t.

  I know he’ll stay out there until I do what he wants.

  So finally, I pad to the door.

  The light from the hallway blinds my eyes, and I blink as Raider comes into view. He towers over me, dressed in a pair of track pants. A long-sleeved navy t-shirt is spread over his muscular chest, those gleaming white sneakers on his feet. No coat again, even though it’s freezing out.

  “Hey,” he says, and grins at me.

  Chapter 4

  RAIDER

  “What are you doing here?” Cass asks, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind her so that Amabel won’t wake up.

  I shrug and lean back against the wall across the hallway, raking my eyes up her body. She’s wearing a pair of thin pajama pants and a tank top with no bra. Her full breasts strain against the material, those gumdrop nipples of hers outlined against the fabric.

  “I thought we could work on our project.”

  “Our project?” She shakes her head. “Are you insane? You think I’m really going to work on a project with you at three in the morning? Or at any time? After what you’ve been doing?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Her eyes are flashing, and her anger is somehow a turn on. Good, I think, hate me. It will be easier for you, and for me. “You offered to pay people a hundred dollars for pictures of me.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Well,” she says, looking at me expectantly. “Aren’t you even going to deny it?”

  “No. It’s true.” And it is. I made that instagram account to break her, to torment her, to make sure she knows her place. I need to keep her in line, like my dad says. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

  To that end, I move toward her, loving the way her eyes dart to the side, like she’s trying to figure out if she can get away from me, if she can escape. But there is no escape from me. And the sooner she realizes that, the better.

  Still, she’s the only girl who’s ever tried to get away from me. And I intend to catch her.

  So when she turns around and tries to go back into her room, I grab the doorknob and hold it closed.

  Her back is to my chest, and she shudders and breathes out. I tower over her, and her chest heaves.

  “Don’t ever cross your arms over your chest like that, Cass,” I say.

  So of course she crosses her arms over her chest.

  I grab them and pull them down, turn her around so that her back is against the door, hold her wrists tight so she can’t move. Her lips are red and slightly swollen, probably from when I kissed her earlier.

  “I need to be able to see those pretty tits at all times,” I say against her ear, breathing in her scent. “Now go and put a coat on, baby,” I say. “You’re coming with me.”

  Chapter 5

  CASSIDY

  “This is ridiculous,” I grumble as Raider leads me into the library. It’s the middle of the night, it’s pitch black and freezing outside, and yet here I am, going along with it.

  “Complaining isn’t nice, Cass,” he scolds me.

  I shut my mouth and follow him as he walks with purpose through the library, up the winding staircase to the top floor.

  Stacks and stacks of books fill the entire space, with an open area in the middle with rows gleaming computers and stations where you can plug in your laptop. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto the campus and to the forest beyond.

  The library is open twenty-four hours, but there’s no one here now.

  Raider leads me to a stack of books toward the back of the room, then points to a spot on the floor.

  “Sit,” he commands.

  “On the floor?”

  “Don’t be a snob, Cass.”

  I sigh and sit, watching as he scans the shelves. Finally, he pulls down a book and tosses it to me.

  “Catcher In The Rye,” I say, picking it up. “So?”

  “So I think we should write something like that.”

  “Oh, okay, yeah, sure, we’ll just write something like one of the greatest novels of all time,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Hot tip, Raider.”

  The side of Raider’s mouth twitches, and I almost – almost – get him to smile.

  “I mean write something like this,” he says. “Short timeline, mental health bent…about a guy on a journey of self-discovery. The stigma surrounding mental health struggles is one of the greatest issues facing our generation. We could work in the opioid epidemic.”

  “Why does the main character have to be a guy?” I counter, even as I grudgin
gly think it could be a good idea.

  “You really want me writing from a girl’s POV?” he asks.

  “Good point.”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a notebook, tosses it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “The beginning. I figure you could take it from there, and we could go back and forth.”

  “You started writing it already?”

  “Don’t get too excited, Cass.” He sits down next to me, his long legs stretched across the aisle in front of him. “It’s going to be a shit ton of work. And you need to do well here, remember?”

  “I thought you said I don’t need to do well here, I just need to keep my mouth shut?”

  “Are you going to read it or not?”

  I open the notebook and start to read. Raider’s eyes are on me the entire time. He’s started a story about a college kid, one who’s struggling to come to terms with what his family wants for him vs. what he wants for himself. The character is flawed, and jerky sometimes, and yet the voice pulls you right in and you immediately feel like you’re on his side.

  “When did you write this?” I ask.

  Raider shrugs. “Tonight,” he says, like churning out ten pages of well-written fiction is easy.

  “I think he needs a love interest,” I say. “Someone who’s torn between what she thinks is best for him and what’s going to make him happy. Because those things aren’t the same.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You do the next chapter.”

  “Okay. Then we can edit them together, make sure the voices match.”

  “Okay,” I say, starting to get excited. “And then maybe –“

  “We’ll worry about it later, Cass,” he says suddenly. His mood has changed now, from excitedly showing me the book to now being dark and broody again.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We’ll worry about it later.” My face burns at the thought that I was getting excited about something that has to do with Raider. He’s an asshole. And I need to remember that. No matter how good of a writer he is.