Brutal Prince: A Dark Bully High School Romance

by Fox, Logan

  I stop outside Marigold’s house to hack up all the spit that’s gone thick in my mouth. I stay bent over for a few panting breaths, and then straighten and haul icy air into my lungs.

  Run, Angel.

  And boy, did I obey.

  On the plus side, I not only survived being murdered, but also the run back here. That must be some kind of miracle, right?

  I push back my shoulders and stride toward the house. I have to give myself a mental shove before I can get myself to open the door.

  Who’d have thought I’d be more reluctant to go inside this house than wait out here, in the dark, where a monster roams?

  Marigold is nowhere to be seen when I let myself back inside her house. In fact, the house is so dark and quiet, I think she may have gone to bed already.

  Crap, what time is it?

  My legs quiver like jelly as I sneak upstairs, taking those unfamiliar steps one at a time because I have no idea which of them creak.

  Turns out, all of them do. I give up on sneaking three-quarters of the way up, turn into the hall, and yell out when my gran materializes in front of me like the Mayflower looming from a fog bank.

  “Holy crap, you scared me,” I say, laying a hand over my thumping heart.

  Marigold stares at me, nonplussed. “You do know you start school tomorrow?”

  My throat tightens a little. “Of course.”

  “You should be in bed, not roaming around in the woods.”

  “But I wasn’t—”

  Marigold’s hand lashes out. I instinctively close my eyes, expecting a slap. But all she does is tug gently on my hair. I open one eye, and then the other. Then my shoulders drop.

  She’s holding a pine needle between her fingers. “While you live under my roof, you will do as I say, young lady.” Her eyes bore into me, merciless.

  My stomach twists. “I’m sorry, Gran—”

  “Marigold,” she snaps. “Now get to your room. We’ll talk about your lack of respect in the morning.”

  She strides down the hallway, bristling.

  Uh, gran, I was assaulted and damn near murdered in the woods? No? Not interested?

  I slink into my room and press the door closed behind me. Eyes shut, I lean my forehead against the smooth wood. For a moment, hot tears press against my lids, but I will them back as I head for my bed.

  All of this shit, I brought it on myself. I deserve nothing less. I should just have let that guy do whatever the fuck he wanted with me out there in the woods.

  If I’d been at home last Saturday and not out partying, then Mom would still be alive. Or we’d both be dead. Either way, my life would have been so much better than the pig-shit swamp I’m wading through right now.

  My backpack is beside the dresser, my two sets of just as ill-fitting clothes as the ones I’m wearing neatly stacked on top.

  So I guess I don’t have any privacy anymore, either? I have a feeling tomorrow’s talk is going to involve a set of rules as long as my arm. And a nearly exhaustive list of the penalties I’ll face for breaking any of them.

  I head to my backpack, and spend a few seconds rummaging around inside. I’m far from the naive, idealistic innocent I was. My eyes have been opened these past few days. Opening up a hidden pocket inside my backpack for what I consider valuable seemed as good an idea at the time as buying that switchblade.

  I’ve lost my knife, but thank God I haven’t lost the flat, velvet-lined box I hid inside my bag.

  After a quick glance over my shoulder, I hurry to my door to turn the lock.

  Obviously, it doesn’t have one.

  So I grab the chair from the dresser and ram it under the handle. Not a sure-fire way to keep someone out if any of the hundred horror movies I’ve watched are anything to go by, but at least I’ll have enough time to stash away my secrets before Marigold can come inside.

  I perch on the foot of the bed and rub my thumb over the soft velvet case in my hands. It’s a champagne gold color, and almost too heavy in my palms.

  Bringing it up to my nose, I inhale deep.

  Before long, it won’t smell like her perfume anymore. But for now it still does, and I can’t get enough of it.

  Tears prick my eyes as the comforting smell of vanilla and sandalwood fills my nose. I lever open the lid and stare down at my Mom’s favorite necklace. The heart-shaped sapphire seems to shift and dance as light falls on it. Through it.

  I adjust the delicate chain so it hangs just right, a sad smile tugging at my lips. Then I snap the case closed and squeeze shut my eyes, refusing to let a single tear slip out.

  It takes a great effort of will to stand and put the case back into my secret hiding place, but I make myself do it.

  I was wearing this the night Mom died. I’d stolen it from her cupboard because I wanted to impress my friends.

  Now it’s all I have left of her. A constant reminder of her beauty. A never-ending testament to my betrayal.

  You know what? Karma’s a fucking bitch.

  * * *

  Briar

  I’m driving too fast, but I can’t make myself slow down. Fuck it, I don’t want to slow down. Baker’s house is five minutes from mine. Three if I floor it.

  I slam down on my Mustang’s brakes a few yards before I reach Marcus’s gates. The Baker mansion is on a decent spit of land — several acres in each direction, their backyard disappearing into the tangled mess that goes up the side of the mountain. That’s how we met, back in the day. We ran into each other in the woods, and been mates ever since.

  Jumping out of my car, I leg it the rest of the way to Marcus’s gates. I don’t bother with the intercom — I assume his dad’s home, and I definitely don’t want to land myself on that guy’s radar.

  Instead, I climb the fence, and haul myself over using the thick branch of an oak tree. His dad’s got cameras all over this place. After that stint of violent robberies last year, everyone in Lavish does, even after police charged a suspect. But Marcus knows where they are.

  Which means I know where they are.

  I make it to the side of their French Colonial a minute later, and climb up the trellises with ease. I’ve been doing this for years, so most of it’s muscle memory. My actual muscles help, of course. Football’s great for building bulk…and getting a practically absent father to pay attention once in a while when I make the Lavish Times cover story every now and then.

  Marcus’s bedroom window is open. I slip inside, whipping away the lace curtain that drapes my face, and stop to give my eyes time to adjust to the dark.

  “Where you at?” My voice is deep and low. If his father’s still around, the last thing I want is to let him know I’ve broken in again. If it wasn’t for the fact that our fathers were friends, he’d have given me a beating too.

  Still have to figure out why the fuck my father thinks Mr. Brandon Baker is the kind of person he wants to spend his time with. Honestly, I think he just feels sorry for the guy. Fuck knows it’s got nothing to do with Baker’s personality; Marcus’s father has a mean streak the size of the Mississippi River. I think they may have been friends when they were younger, but Dad’s never really spoken to me about it.

  Especially after mom’s accident.

  “Over here.”

  My heart sinks at the sound of Marcus’s thick, rough voice. I hurry over to the bed, perching on the edge and reaching for the shape I can now make out.

  When I touch his shoulder, he flinches away from my touch.

  “Old man still here?” I whisper.

  “No. Got picked up a few minutes ago.”

  I let out a long breath and work my shoulders while I wait for Marcus to gather himself.

  Sometimes it takes minutes. Sometimes days. It all depends on how empty the whiskey bottle was before Marcus’s father came to find him.

  “You said you’d get out the next time he was here.”

  I know I shouldn’t be blaming Marcus for any of this, but if he could have avoided another—


  “I was asleep,” Marcus croaks. “Smoked too much, knocked me out.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, and rake my fingers through my hair. “Is it bad? Do you need ice or something?”

  “I need a fucking drink.” Marcus shifts, pauses, pushes up into a sit. His head is low, chin to his chest, as if it’s too heavy to keep up. “Bring me a bottle.”

  “Marcus—”

  “Please.” This time, he pushes the words through his teeth.

  “All right, man. All right.” I stand and leave his room, closing the door partway behind me. I move quickly, but I’m not fast enough. I hear Marcus let out a tortured sob, and my jaw clenches so tight, the scratch on my cheek starts to throb. I finger it gently as I make for the stairs, grimacing at myself.

  Can’t believe that little stray cut me.

  I jog downstairs and head into the mansion’s large den. This room always reeks of cigarettes and whiskey, but it’s a stench I’ve gotten used to over the years.

  There’s a laptop on the desk, but it’s closed. An empty crystal tumbler, an ashtray with a few cigarette butts inside. Evidence of Marcus’s father being home.

  But for how long?

  Just like my dad, Marcus’s father is away from home more often than not. You’d think he’d be happy to see his son, but all he does when he’s in Lavish is drink, beat up Marcus, and then go out on ‘business meetings’ until the small hours of the morning.

  There’s a wet bar against one wall. I grab the bottle of vodka from it, not bothering with glasses.

  I linger for a few seconds, mentally preparing myself to go upstairs, and giving Marcus enough time to pull himself together.

  When I get back to him, he’s standing by the window, staring out at his garden as he leans against the wall. I hand him the vodka and he takes it silently by the neck.

  His Adam’s apple slides up and down as he gulps vodka straight from the bottle. I can’t see a single bruise on him, but that’s one of his father’s specialties — he never leaves a mark that his kid can’t cover with his school clothes.

  “Break anything this time?” I ask.

  Marcus shakes his head. “Got a call. Had to leave.” Then he glances at me, his dark eyes black in the low light. “Roof?”

  I nod, and trail him out of his room. He walks with stiff legs and a straight back, as if his ribs are sore.

  He should fight back next time.

  He should tell the police, social services, something.

  But we’ve been through all of this, time and time again. It’s a never-ending cycle. Come morning, Marcus is always under the impression he somehow deserved the beating.

  A low grade on a paper.

  Fumbling a pass at the game.

  Not hitting it off with the cheerleader he’s been chasing.

  It never matters what I tell him, so I’ve stopped trying.

  But I’ll never stop being here for him.

  We’ve got each other’s backs, Marcus and I. Have since we were kids. Every time he got into a scrape, I’d help him out. Just like he’d do for me, no matter how bad the shit was I got myself in.

  I owe Marcus Baker my freedom, if not my fucking life.

  He saved me, and I’ll never stop trying to repay the favor.

  * * *

  It takes half the bottle of vodka before either of us speak again. We’re sitting on the mansion’s roof terrace, staring up at the stars that peek through a thin layer of cloud. Marcus brought his vape with, and he’s been tugging at it between gulps from the bottle. Thankfully, the weed in his vape slowed down the drinking. Marcus can handle a lot of booze, weed, and drugs — as can I — but with finals coming up, we both need clear heads on us. I know Dad would be beyond disappointed if I didn’t make my grades.

  Marcus’s father?

  He’d likely put his son in the fucking hospital.

  “Can I stay at your place tomorrow?” Marcus asks quietly. He shifts in his chair, wincing briefly before smoothing his face.

  I lift my fingers from my knee where I’ve been toying with a fold in my jeans. “Sure, man. But what about tonight? Is he—”

  “Doubt he’ll be back so soon. I’ll leave in the morning. Gives me time to pack a bag and shit.” Marcus’s voice fades away, his voice going thick. “Listen, Briar, thanks—”

  I wave at him, and he cuts off. “You know what set him off?” It’s none of my fucking business, but if I know Marcus, he’ll be blaming himself for everything come morning.

  I see him shrug from the corner of my eye. “He gave me a job to do, and I fucked it up.”

  “What, you didn’t get the trash out in time?”

  Marcus tips the vodka bottle to his lips in response. Fuck it, I shouldn’t be prying anyway.

  “You know what we need?” I sit forward, lacing my fingers together and letting them dangle between my legs. “Something to take our minds off this shit.”

  “Like what?” he asks, but with zero enthusiasm. Can’t say I blame him — Lavish isn’t renowned for its distractions.

  I sit back again, stumped. “Dunno. But I’ll come up with something.”

  Marcus nods a few times as he hands me the bottle. I take a small sip and hand it back.

  One of us has to stay sober. It’s a silent deal we’ve made ever since my birthday party ten months ago.

  “Wanna know something fucked up?” I ask quietly, tipping my head back to stare up at the stars.

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t feel weird coming back here.”

  Marcus rolls his head to the side, and I do the same. He looks confused for a moment, and then barks out a laugh and looks back up at the stars. “’Cos of that shit with Jess?”

  At the sound of her name, my chest constricts. He makes it sound so fucking nonconsequential.

  That shit with Jess.

  “Figures,” he says, and then takes another sip of vodka. “You blacked out. Not like you actually remember anything, right?”

  He rolls his head to glance at me, and I nod, my mouth tightening. “Right,” I murmur, and gesture for the bottle.

  For a while, I thought it was a mercy, me blacking out that night. But once the rumors began, I realized it was a very special kind of torture.

  Ignorance is the furthest thing from bliss, especially if your entire life is on the line for something you can’t even remember doing.

  Chapter Four

  Indi

  I wake up with stiff muscles, looking like I was involved in some kind of zombie apocalypse.

  Luckily, I won.

  The shower stings my scratches and makes my bruises ache, but I ignore everything as I attempt to transform myself from a beast into a beauty.

  When I’m done drying off, I feel a ton better than I did crawling into bed last night, but I still look like shit. Sleepless nights and a non-existent appetite does that to you.

  I run my fingers through my dark, shoulder-length hair to muss it up, and then leave it to dry.

  But before I leave the bathroom, my eyes stick for a long moment on the bruises on either side of my hips.

  Slowly, I fold my fingers over those marks.

  Holy crap. Briar — if that’s even his real name — has got big motherfucking hands.

  I smell bacon and toast and coffee, and for a moment I’m whisked back to the past. Mom always made us breakfast on weekends. I’d wake up and smell this same delectable miasma of drool-worthy food and know it was gonna be a good day.

  My heart aches with the memory, and I bite the inside of my lip when I imagine her spinning around wearing an apron, a spatula in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

  Morning, Angel! Thought you’d never wake up.

  I swallow hard at the knot in my throat. My swollen heart constricts painfully when I step into the dining room and see a single chafing dish set in the middle of the massive teak table. My grandmother is at the head, and my place is all the way on the other side of the long table again.

  “Morning,” I sa
y, giving her a little wave.

  Last night, I decided I was going to give this whole situation a good ole’ college try. I mean, heck, my grandma doesn’t deserve this any more than I do, right? Why the hell Mom made her my guardian is something I can’t comprehend…but, then again, she never had anyone else after Dad died.

  It’s always just been Summer and Indi, the Virgo Troublemakers.

  I take a careful seat, and stare at the dish. It’s almost three feet away from me. For the first time in a week, I’m ravenous. Maybe it was my mad dash through the woods last night, or my brush with death, but I’m suddenly noticing a massive void in my stomach that needs urgent filling.

  I open my mouth to ask if I can help myself to some food, but Marigold beats me to it.

  “You’ve got another thing coming if you think I’ll let you run around like a wild thing,” Marigold states. She steeples her fingers in front of her, for all the world like a female version of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. “You will obey my rules, or you will face the consequences.”

  “Yes, gra—Marigold.”

  “Rule number one.” Marigold holds up a finger. “You will maintain a B-average in all your classes while you’re living with me.”

  I give her a thumbs-up. Academics was never an issue for me. Both my parents were smart, and I’m like them squared, so…

  I point at the silver chafing dish. “Can I?” I stand, and drag my plate over the table. “You know, while you lay down the law.”

  Marigold’s mouth tightens. “Rule two. You will be at school on time every morning. You will be home by latest five in the afternoon, unless you have extra-curricular activities.”

  “That all one rule, or are we doing like rule two point one, two point two…?”

  When I lift the dish’s lid, heavenly steam hits me in the face. I begin heaping greasy things onto my plate, listening to Marigold’s droning with half an ear.

  “Rule three. Your homework will always be completed in time. I don’t own a television, so there will be no excuse.”

  I’m gonna make me a sandwich of epic proportions. Two slices of toast — nay, three! — and as many layers of fried egg, bacon, and onion as I can pile on top without it collapsing under its own weight.