Brutal Prince: A Dark Bully High School Romance

by Fox, Logan

  All the drinking, I guess. That, and I barely see him eat anymore.

  “Let’s get a drink,” he mouths, cocking his head back the way I just came in. I slip my phone out, checking the screen to make sure I haven’t received any notifications. Jeremiah has my number, so he’s bound to call or text when Indi shows up.

  “She not here yet?” Marcus says, raising his voice above the music as we head into one of the hallways leading to the smaller kitchen where Dylan keeps his alcohol.

  “Not yet.” I grin at him. “But she’ll come.”

  Marcus doesn’t look convinced, but I ignore him.

  She will be my date tonight. Even if I have to go to her house, throw her over my shoulder, and bring her back here myself.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Indi

  I slide the last tray of shortbread into the oven. Marigold is snoring quietly, head in her arms on the countertop. I set the oven timer, push a strand of hair from my face, and bite back a sigh of relief.

  Quarter to midnight.

  Hey, it’s not a party if it’s over before midnight, right? If anything, I’ll just be fashionably late.

  Wearing what, exactly? My school clothes? A pair of baggy jeans and my hoody?

  I creep down the hall and consider the stairs for a moment before grabbing the rail. Then my eyes track down the hallway again.

  The brief thought that my mother may have left behind something suitable for the party tonight has been pestering me since I tried that locked door hours ago.

  Locked, Indi.

  But every locked door has a key, right? I just need to find it…

  I creep up the stairs and hurry down the hall to Marigold’s room. The door creaks a little as I push it open, then I’m inside.

  Yup, just as I thought — it’s as lifeless and dull as the rest of the house. It seems like the only room in this place that ever had any spirit was my mother’s — and that’s been a tomb longer than she’s been dead.

  I scout around for a few minutes, but I come up empty. Marigold doesn’t have a drawer of trinkets, or a jewelry box, or any reasonable, logical place to hide a key.

  Which means it’s probably on her person.

  I let out a sigh, and start opening her closets. But after tugging out the fifth shapeless, beige dress, I give up.

  On her person…

  I stand at the entrance to the kitchen, pushing my bottom lip against my teeth with a thumb so I can nibble it real good.

  Worst case scenario? Marigold wakes up and thinks I was about to molest her. Honestly, she probably considers me a no-good deviant to some extent already.

  But what if she doesn’t wake up?

  I go up to her and slide my hand in the pocket of her housecoat, but there’s nothing in there except some lint and a damp tissue. I grimace and move to the other pocket.

  My searching fingertips are met with the cold, jagged edge of a key.

  Yes!

  As I draw the key from her pocket, it catches on something and tugs at her coat.

  Marigold wakes with a snort.

  I drop to my knees behind her chair, not daring to breathe.

  “Indi?”

  The chair scrapes back, and I’m barely nimble enough to scamper back before it can slam into my face.

  Marigold walks around the kitchen island, and I wait until she’s standing in front of the oven before dashing out of the kitchen. I stand beside the hallway phone for a second to catch my breath, and then wait till the count of ten before easing up the stairs. They all squeak, of course, but I’m hoping the sound won’t carry far enough for Marigold to hear. Especially since she’s started mumbling about shortbread and the oven door and I don’t know what other nonsense.

  I slip into my room, close the door, and take a deep breath.

  That’s when I see my phone’s light flickering. I hurry over and unlock it.

  Addy.

  She tried calling, and sent two messages while I was in the kitchen helping Marigold.

  I listen to her voice mail first.

  “Hey, where are you?” Her words are almost illegible over the bass thump-thump-thumping in the background. “Call me!”

  The first message came in a few minutes after her voice mail, and reads:

  Where are you?

  The second, about thirty minutes later.

  ?

  Shit. Well, I’m kinda glad she decided to turn on her phone again, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. When I try and phone her… her phone’s off again.

  I hesitate for a second, and then send a message back to whoever sent me the image for the invitation to Dylan’s party.

  I’m running late - Indi.

  I send it before I can second guess myself and squeeze my hand around the key buried in my palm.

  That’s when the stairs start creaking. My eyes go wide.

  Marigold’s coming to check on me.

  I rush over to my bed and jump under the covers. I manage to tug them up to my neck just as my bedroom door opens.

  “Indi?” Marigold whispers. “You still awake?”

  I remain motionless, and force my chest to rise and fall like a sleeping person’s would.

  Marigold stays at the doorway for a few seconds before she closes the door and leaves. From the sound of her footsteps, she’s headed for her room.

  Holy hell, that was close.

  I sit up, and jerk in surprise when my phone starts ringing.

  Addy.

  “Hey,” I whisper, hunkering down beside my bed as if Marigold’s suddenly developed super-human hearing.

  “Indi?” Addison yells in my ear. “Can you hear me?”

  I cringe, and hurriedly end the call. I’m still busy typing out a message when Addy tries to call again, but I end her call without pausing.

  Can’t talk. Just text.

  I send the message and wait, my lip getting another round of nibbles as time stretches out like taffy.

  Addy: You still coming?

  Indi: Have to sneak out. No dress, no makeup, no shoes.

  Addy: What size?

  But I already know Addy’s twice my size, bust wise, height wise — practically everything wise. I send her my measurements anyway — for all I know, she has a baby sister that likes glitzy ball gowns.

  Addy: Makeup, yes. Shoes, yes. Dress - no.

  Indi: Can you pick me up?

  Addy: Send me your deets.

  I text her my address, and devour more of my inner lip while I wait for her to reply. I twitch at a distant door closing, but it has to be Marigold’s en-suite bathroom or something.

  Here’s hoping, anyway.

  Addy: see you in 15.

  Shit. That’s not a lot of time to get ready. I shove to my feet and grab my backpack from the dresser. It has everything I own inside, so there’s no way I’m leaving it behind. Especially since I have this sneaking suspicion that Marigold might be throwing me out of the house tomorrow when she realizes I snuck out in the middle of the night.

  * * *

  My mother’s bedroom door opens and I step inside the dark room. The white walls glow everywhere except where the dark shapes of her artwork cover them.

  Should I dare to turn on her light?

  God, no. If Marigold happens to come downstairs, the light will be a veritable beacon and I don’t want to know what happens when Marigold realizes I’m disobeying her. I really, really don’t.

  My heart pounds in my throat as I open first one closet door and then another. Books, art supplies, rotting cardboard boxes.

  This place feels like a museum, but the inside of the closets look more like a rubbish dump. It’s as if Marigold took everything that wasn’t nailed down in Mom’s room and threw it in the closets.

  Have these doors ever been opened?

  The second to last door has what I want. As it swings open, something deep inside shimmers, despite the lack of light inside this mausoleum.

  I reach in and grab a handful of slinky fabric.


  Too many precious minutes have already ticked away inside my head, so I grab the fabric and tug it off its hanger. A moment later it’s in my backpack and I’m easing my way out of my grandmother’s house.

  I spend a second at the backdoor, my hand clasped on the handle, listening.

  That’s when I see the shoes behind the shrub.

  I stare at them for long seconds, minutes even, my brain scrambling to make sense of such an incongruous object. What the fuck is a men’s sized pair of sneakers doing tucked behind Marigold’s shrubs? My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I abandon idle speculation in favor of creeping around the side of the house.

  I doubt Marigold’s the type of woman to stare dreamily out of her window at night, but I keep to the shadows as much as I can, anyway, only breaking into a run when I’m obscured by some of the pine trees lining the long drive down to her gates.

  Addy left her headlamps on. They illuminate me when I’m a few yards away from the gate. When I press the key fob, I’m entirely convinced that the gates won’t open, that Marigold realized I’ve snuck out, and somehow locked them from inside her house.

  But they do open for me.

  Addy’s passenger door unlocks with a quiet snick when I get close. I fall into her seat with a sigh, my backpack bundled against my stomach.

  I glance over at her with a smile, and then do a double-take.

  “Holy crap, you look fucking stunning,” I blurt out.

  Addison gives me a faint smile. “Thanks, lesbo.” Then she’s reversing, her attention on the rearview mirror.

  I feel dirty and ruffled and all kinds of unsophisticated sitting beside her in this cute little sports car while she smells of strawberries and cream and I reek of snickerdoodles and despair.

  Addy’s dashboard clock mocks me with its massive digits.

  “It’s midnight,” I say quietly. “Should we even—”

  “What does your hair do when it’s wet?” Addy cuts in.

  I stare at her a moment. “Uh…?”

  “Does it curl, frizz, what?”

  “It curls. Like…a lot.”

  “Good, because there won’t be time to straighten it.”

  “I don’t think there’s any time for—”

  “Shut up so I can drive.”

  I sink back in my seat, grinning like an idiot.

  I’m going to a party. It almost feels like it’s too soon, but fuck it…

  I’m going to a party, and I’ll be fucked if I don’t try and enjoy it even a little.

  * * *

  The inside of Addy’s house is as neat and contemporary as the exterior. Since I wouldn’t dare tell her that I was sucking face with Briar in her backyard, I do my best to ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ most convincingly when we pull up outside her duplex.

  “Come on,” Addy says, hopping out of her car. “Lots to do, not nearly enough time to do it in.”

  I follow her inside, but I stall in the living room.

  There are boxes everywhere. The furniture’s been wrapped in plastic. The walls have faint outlines where framed photos or portraits used to hang, the bare nails jutting out like a child’s desiccated fingers.

  “Addy?”

  But she waves at me and trots up a pair of carpeted stairs without answering.

  The house feels empty — where are her parents? But as soon as I step inside her room, the question doesn’t seem that important anymore. Most of the room is taken up by a bare mattress, the rest by furniture that looks ready to be loaded into the back of a loading van.

  She’s busy packing out her makeup right over the sheet of plastic covering her dressing table, almost as if she doesn’t see it.

  “Addy.”

  She points to a door leading off her bedroom. “Shower, shave, shampoo. Then get your ass back here. I’m giving you five minutes.”

  My head’s the human equivalent of a hard drive that’s in serious need of defragging. And since I can’t argue, I obey.

  When I emerge from Addy’s shower, squeaky clean and smelling like strawberries, she gives me a once over like she can see right through the towel wrapped around my body, and sniffs.

  “I don’t know if this is gonna work,” she says, holding up the dress I shoved into my backpack earlier. “It’s…like…really old fashioned.”

  I couldn’t give a fuck if it’s more suitable to Neanderthal man — the instant my eyes land on the shimmering silver dress, I’m incapable of looking at anything else.

  “It’s fucking beautiful,” I murmur, walking closer like I’m in some kind of trance.

  “Whatev,” Addy mutters, and tosses the dress at me. “Don’t you even try wearing underwear with that. It’ll show.” Then she struts over to me with a joint in one hand, and a mascara wand in the other. “Now sit, and let me work my magic.”

  I hold up a finger, but I don’t waste any time grabbing the joint. She lights it for me, her green eyes twinkling as I hit it hard.

  “Don’t make me look like a whore,” I say, wiggling my finger in her face. I extend another finger. “And don’t tell me what I can and can’t wear with this dress.”

  Addy cocks her head, but doesn’t argue. I sink onto her dressing table’s stool and tip my head back so she can apply makeup on my face. Meanwhile, I’m puffing away at her joint and hoping like fuck Marigold went straight to bed without checking my room again.

  * * *

  I’ll be the first to admit, I’m probably a bit too sparkly, even for a black-tie event. But fuck it, I haven’t felt this pretty in years, and I used to make a point of dressing up whenever I went out back in the day. Mom’s cocktail dress drapes me like spun platinum. It hugs my body in all the right places, emphasizing tits and ass as if it was designed by the only heterosexual designer in high fashion.

  Maybe it’s the makeup. Addy’s got a real fine touch — my eyes are big and green but not whorish at all. My lips dark, and full, but nothing resembling those of a prostitute’s. My cheekbones glimmer, and this is the first time ever that I’ve noticed my décolletage.

  Addy’s shoes seal the deal. Black, understated, two inches high. I manage to walk in them, but only just.

  But it’s worth all the moments between steps when I’m not sure if I’ll ever find the ground again. Because, fuck it, shit looks fantastic two inches up from my usual eye level.

  “So you’re moving?” I ask, twisting in front of Addy’s mirror. I’m perversely fixated on how good this dress makes me look. And also slightly distressed how much I look like my mother, but I’m doing my good darn best to ignore that.

  Maybe it’s the hair. I don’t know what the hell Addy has in her shampoo, but my hair has a life of its own. It tumbles down my back in a raven cascade of bouncy curls I’ve never seen before.

  “Yeah,” Addy says quietly. She’s behind me, toying with my hair as she sticks a few glittering pins in it and hoists it up into a messy bun. “There’s been some shit at my parent’s company. We’re moving south for a while until it blows over.”

  “Shit, Addy, that sucks.”

  She shrugs at me in the mirror and bends down until our heads are level. “Doesn’t matter. You know what does matter?” She grips my shoulders and grins at my reflection.

  I nod. “Getting even.”

  “Getting even,” she repeats softly. She steps back and claps her hand. “You’re ready.”

  I stand and take one last twirl in front of the mirror.

  Fuck, I didn’t think it would be possible, but I look amazing.

  I hold up a hand. “Shit, hang on. I almost forgot something.” I rummage around in my backpack until I find my mother’s necklace.

  “What’s…?” But Addy’s voice trails away as she comes to my side. “Fuck, Indi, that’s...”

  “It was my mother’s.” I hold it up and try to clasp it at the back of my neck, but Addy bats away my hands.

  She secures the clasp and stares at my reflection with wide eyes. “You look gorgeous,” she murmurs.

>   I drop my gaze and grab hold of the sapphire around my neck. The light catches on Briar’s bracelet, and I stare at them with wide eyes.

  It’s as if they were made for each other.

  “Let’s get going,” Addy says, snapping me out of the thought. “Else everyone’s gonna be too trashed to notice when we arrive.”

  * * *

  Briar

  After the fifth pool game, I’m ready to leave. It’s fucking obvious Indi isn’t coming, so there’s no point in me hanging around here. Not unless my only motive tonight is getting fucked up.

  I head for the main kitchen in search of water and a clear head, and find Marcus cutting up lines of coke on Dylan’s granite countertop. A few girls stand nearby, waiting patiently for their turn with the rolled-up dollar bill he’s holding. I grab a water and chug down half of it before he realizes I’m nearby.

  “Better get some before it’s all gone,” he says, swiping the back of his hand over his nose as he sniffs.

  I shake my head. “Not in the mood for that shit tonight.”

  “Sure?” Marcus straightens, and one of the girls waiting for her turn at the lines of coke steps up. He grabs her around the waist, spins her around, and starts nuzzling her neck.

  I roll my eyes, and I’m about to leave when he calls out, “Dude, she’s not coming. No reason you shouldn’t enjoy yourself.”

  I wave at him, shaking my head as I make my way to the front door. Fuck this — I’ve got a shit-ton of studying to do anyway. If I get a good night’s sleep, then I can crack open my textbooks nice and early tomorrow, and get done by latest Sunday afternoon.

  I’m trotting downstairs to the main floor when something catches my eye.

  A glimmer of silver.

  No, platinum.

  A slight, yet curvy figure. A mess of dark hair.

  Indi.

  I stop walking, my hand gripping the railing tight as my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. She has her back to me, and from the expressive hand gestures she’s flailing around, she looks mightily pissed off at the doorman.