Not My Prince: A Dark Bully High School Romance

by L V Chase

  “Are you okay?”

  I glance over at Jay. His hands are smudged with paint as he works on his pet project. It’s swirls of various colors, slowly colliding together to form a lion. My eyes get dizzy and lose their focus as I try to follow exactly how the splashes of color take on a defined form. For a second, I thought I’d look up to see Grayson, who wields his own brand of hypnotism. He constantly monopolizes my thoughts, buying up and exploiting my uncertainty, anxiety, and deprived desire.

  I should be crushing on Jay. He’s an ‘80s heartthrob, the long blond hair giving off a sense of wildness, but his careful behavior reveals a heart of gold. He’s someone who would nurture my creative endeavors instead of actively trying to destroy them. He’s stayed by my side despite the others treating me like I’m a felon.

  He’s even pretending like he didn’t hear Grayson’s story. That my mother’s batshit insane, and I’m the reason why. Jay’s a damn saint compared to the rest of them.

  I slide my phone out from under my lap and show him what I was mindlessly looking at.

  “I’m good. Check out this dress. The paint splotches on it are done professionally by Colette Ani Lewis. If my soul was worth anything close to $18,000, I’d sell it for this dress in a heartbeat.”

  His forehead furrows, clicking on my phone’s screen to enlarge the photo. “I didn’t picture you as a girl who’s into fashion.”

  I make a face. “You’ve seen how I dress. I’m not into fashion, but fashion is just another path to art. You just wear it. And this dress is—"

  Ollie snatches my phone out of my hand as he passes by. I raise my head, seeing everyone else in class staring at Jay and me. I ruffle my hair, giving Ollie an apologetic smile.

  “Did either of you hear what I was saying, or are we—oh, that’s a stunning dress.” He clicks on my phone’s screen to make the photo bigger. “Colette Ani Lewis makes such gorgeous, daring clothing. She has an eye for that fine line between an understated classic and a statement piece. In fact, three years ago, she was a judge for the competition I was just talking about. Cinnamon? Jay? Which of you beautiful souls would like to tell the class—aka the people who were listening—the rules of the Daniel Comstock Art Award?”

  I rest my head in the palm of my hand. “Let me guess. It doesn’t involve a round robin of beer pong by any chance?”

  “I hope not,” Jay says with a shrug. “We aren’t old enough to drink.”

  “True,” I say.

  Ollie shakes his head, turning away from us.

  “There’s only one winner,” Jay says. “The winner’s artwork goes on display at the Daniel Comstock Art Show. The principal award is a four-year $20,000 scholarship for various accredited colleges, but the press coverage the art show garners could easily be worth far more than that.”

  Ollie’s turns back to him. “I hadn’t mentioned the second half of that yet,” he says.

  “It’s why I agreed to come here,” Jay says, “because of this competition. Otherwise, I’d have gone to the school in Calgary. The asshole ratio is a little lower in Canada.”

  His face remains passive, but his hand is clenched around his palette knife. He’s placed all his bets—the last three years—on winning this award. Trying to take it from him would be traitorous, even presumptuous.

  But the money and the exposure could be my Holy Grail. From what I’ve witnessed, Jay would be my only true competition. While some of the other people here are talented, they can only replicate what they see. They don’t put any intimacy into their work.

  “It sounds like the shit talking has already begun,” Ollie says. “Before it gets too rated-R here, I’ll tack on the other rules. You can only turn in one art piece. I’d advise most of you to work on several different pieces for the first couple of weeks to find which one deserves your full passion and undivided attention. This competition isn’t part of the class, so you won’t be working on it during class. I’ll still expect you to show me your progress every two weeks. Your work will be evaluated on the first of November.”

  I pick up a pastel crayon. I draw a quick burst of lines, starting at one point and slowly spreading out. A weeping willow tree grows next to a lake on the edge of campus, it’s wispy branches and leaves always imparting a sense of wonder and loss when I pass by. It might not be the most revolutionary work of art, but I’m certain if I could capture that feeling I get around it—the sorrowful absence of something I’ve never had—I could have a chance against Jay.

  At least, I would if he broke four of his fingers on his dominant hand, lost one of his eyes, and forgot about the competition. Then, I’d have this in the bag.

  I look over at him. He’s pushed his pet project aside and started on a drawing. His hand is steady, creating a perfectly curved line. He continues drawing before sliding the drawing pad over to me.

  Good luck, young grasshopper.

  I smile at him. I use the pastel to jot down on his paper.

  Fuck luck. Give me Picasso’s muse.

  He shakes his head. It was worth a shot.

  AP Psychology is on the second floor of Culler Building. Psychology is one of those subjects I find equally fascinating and flaky. All these PhDs are claiming to understand what makes people tick. They’re saying that they understand the mess of disturbing thoughts and destructive cravings littering our minds. I could buy that an intelligent expert would be able to take apart someone straightforward like my mother, tracing the thread of disappointments and pain that led her to where she is. But what about the twisted, complicated ones? I don't believe that any expert could unravel the darkness that exists in certain men.

  When I walk into the classroom, Aurora is propped up on a desk, showing Eric her anklet by folding her jeans up to her knee. The sunlight through the window falls on her, making the classroom look like a photoshoot. She’s definitely gorgeous enough to pass as a model.

  As I move around her to get to one of the empty desks, I discover that her pose on the desk created a blindspot for me. And in that blindspot is her stepbrother in the next desk over.

  Fuck.

  Grayson leans back in his chair, studying me. His dark hair is as undisciplined as ever, begging to have a hand sweep through to straighten it, or maybe just to pull on it. Nurture it or tame it. When I meet his eyes, his mouth twitches in annoyance.

  Aurora follows his gaze, turning and noticing me.

  “Cinnamon!” She rolls her jeans back down to her ankle. She picks up her cup of coffee from her side and jumps down from the desk. She opens her arm, gesturing for me to hug her.

  My mother only resorted to hugs when she was about to piss me off. First, the hug. Then, telling me she set me up with some fifty-year old or spent our emergency money on make-up. Hugs are a Judas’ kiss to me—the affection before the betrayal. Enough tenderness to make the eventual knife in my back slide in further.

  But it would be rude to ignore Aurora, and she’s not my mother. I hug her, keeping it as brief as possible. As I pull away, I see Grayson sneering at the display.

  Good. I hope my friendship with his sister ruins his day.

  Aurora squeezes my arm with a huge smile on her face. “I can’t believe we’re both taking this class! I didn’t think you’d be an AP kid.”

  “I got a scholarship,” I remind her.

  Her hand swings up to her mouth. “Oh! I didn’t mean it like that. I just got the vibe that you were one of those kids who didn’t care about classes and stuff. You seem really smart but like one of those badass smart types. Artsy and rebellious, you know?”

  Grayson leans further back in his chair, letting it balance on the rear two legs. His head is tilted toward Aurora, but his eyes are on me.

  “Don't worry about it,” I say.

  Grayson’s finger grazes against his bottom lip. I keep my eyes on Aurora, but Grayson’s movements keep drawing my attention back to him.

  “Oh, thank God,” she says. “Sometimes my mouth just runs so much faster than my brain. My
father calls it the second sign of idiocy.”

  “He sounds like a great father,” I remark.

  Her smile falters for a moment, but it quickly picks back up. “Oh, he just lashes out sometimes about work. I don’t mind. I know he loves me.”

  Grayson lowers his chair back onto all four legs. When I look over at him, he smiles, but it feels more like he’s baring his teeth.

  Aurora turns to glance back at Grayson, then looks over at me again.

  “Did you two want to talk or something?” she asks, getting back onto her desk.

  “Oh, no,” Grayson drawls. “I’m enjoying your chatter about your idiocy. Please continue.”

  Aurora glances back at me, her body tenser than before.

  What happens if Grayson tells me to do something right now?

  He could tell me to hit Aurora.

  He could tell me to strip.

  He could tell me to sit on his lap and kiss him.

  Is it better to be a slave to a sociopath, or for people to find out that I’m the sociopath who abandoned and nearly killed her sick mother? I suddenly have the urge to vomit.

  “So, Cinnamon,” Grayson says, pronouncing each syllable of my name. “How did you sleep last night?”

  “Just fine, thank you,” I say.

  “You sure?” he asks. “It was a bit chilly last night.”

  “I was fine,” I repeat. “In fact, I slept like—”

  Aurora’s coffee cup slips out of her grasp as she jumps down from her desk. She squeezes it to keep it in her grasp, but the lid pops off and coffee sprays out as the cup launches forward. It spills all over the top of my pants, the hot liquid scalding my skin. I yank off my pants and run my hands over my thighs. They’re hot and bright pink.

  A bubble of laughter bursts out of one of the students. Several more students start laughing. I pull my backpack off, covering my lap.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” Aurora says.

  She reaches toward me, but her sudden movement causes more of her coffee to spill onto my shirt. I pull the wet section of the shirt away from my skin as my classmates laugh harder.

  The teacher, Mr. Lewis, walks in. Confusion clouds his face as he takes in the scene—one student half-naked with a brown stain on her shirt, Aurora with her hand over her mouth, and a classroom nearly dying of laughter. The confusion fades into anger.

  “I see nothing has changed in the last year,” he says. “Everyone, take a seat. You—”

  He points to me.

  “You are going to have to learn someday that attention from nudity isn’t going to do you any favors.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Maybe try accomplishing something instead of exposing yourself.”

  “It’s not her fault,” Grayson says, slowly rising to his feet. “Aurora's the klutz that spilled coffee on her. Cinnamon took off her pants to avoid getting burned. I happen to have extra clothes in my gym locker. I could take her there, see that she's properly dressed for class.”

  Mr. Lewis adjusts his tie, tapping his toe behind him as he gazes between Grayson, Aurora, and me.

  “Fine,” Mr. Lewis waves at Grayson and me. “You two go ahead. Miss Voss, please clean up the coffee.”

  “It’s a latte,” she says under her breath.

  Grayson catches my eye and nods towards the door before walking out. I follow him. I look down at my legs as I do. My thighs are the shade of cotton candy. As we walk down the hallway, I tug on my shirt, trying to cover myself as best as I can. Unfortunately, that's not very well.

  “Is there an underground tunnel from here to the fitness building?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “Anderson Hall was built nine years ago, long after the tunnels.”

  “You want me to walk through campus without pants on?”

  “Cinnamon, you know I could get you to do a lot worse than that.” He turns to look me up and down.

  My hands twitch, but I refrain from trying to cover myself more. His gaze slides away, and he faces forward again.

  “But when everybody sees you naked,” he says, “it’s going to be because I told you to walk through campus naked. It’s not going to be because of my stepsister. We're going to walk around the back. Some people might see a bit of your ass, but you can save your tears for later.”

  “They’ll certainly see an ass,” I mutter.

  Grayson chuckles. “I didn't take you for the shy type. If I knew you’d get so angry from being half-naked, I'd have arranged it myself.”

  “Eat a dick.”

  “Hmm.” He smirks over at me, but his fist flexes. “That’s not what I’m craving.”

  I pull my shirt down harder. “You sure? I heard that pigs will eat anything.”

  He leads me to a door towards the back of Culler Building. When I hesitate to step outside, he grabs my elbow, pulling me along with him. As he scans the parking lot, I’m certain he’s changed his mind and, to spite me, he’s going to parade me through the whole campus. But we start walking along the edge of the parking lot and a sickening sense of relief unfolds within me.

  If I’d only stuck around with my mother—both during her OD and instead of going to this school—I wouldn’t have been in this place. I aimed too high. This is a reminder that I never deserved to be here.

  We pass by seven students. The girls watch me, envy disfiguring their faces. The boys look prepared to shout something or make a pass at me, but when they see I’m with Grayson, they duck their head and keep walking.

  Anderson Hall is two stories high. Inside it, I can hear the echo of voices.

  “Let’s go,” Grayson says, moving his hand from my elbow to my upper arm.

  He guides me to the boys’ locker room. I don’t know exactly what I expected—maybe fancier lockers or a bigger room—but their locker room looks more like a spa. The black lockers have a white design spiraling across it, forming a Roman soldier, the Roman Academy mascot. We pass by the bathrooms, which has a hot tub and several separate shower stalls with frosted glass doors.

  What the fuck.

  He points to the bench—upholstered with leather, of course—in front of the lockers. “Sit down.”

  I reluctantly plop down as he walks away. I listen to the sound of water running. When he returns, he’s holding a wet washcloth. He crouches down in front of me. I jerk my leg away as he brings the washcloth towards my thigh.

  “Either you stop acting like a bitch, or you spend the next week in pain,” he says. “Your choice. I figured you’d be smart about it, but you’re welcome to prove me wrong.”

  I glare at him, but I move my legs back in front of me. He places the wet washcloth on my left thigh.

  Motherfucker.

  The cold and the pain from the contact sends a shock through my body, but the discomfort’s easy to ignore when Grayson’s the one causing it. His hand on my thigh, his close proximity, his woodsy fragrance, his steady gaze—it’s equally sinister and evocative. I focus on his ear to keep my face stoic, but his eyes keep drawing me back.

  “Feel better?” he asks, but his face is full of taunting.

  “There’s water dripping down my leg,” I say. “And you’re still here, so no, I’m feeling shitty.”

  He runs his hand up my calf, wiping away the droplet of water. He lifts up the washcloth.

  “Some of the color’s fading already,” he says, running his hand over my inner thigh.

  My leg twitches. He smirks.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  He moves the cloth over to my other leg. It’s not as cold this time, but my skin is more sensitive than before. He rests his hand on my left knee, and my inner thigh tenses. I force myself to stop tensing so that he doesn’t have the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. I bite down and hold my breath instead.

  “Maybe I change my mind,” he says. “I could let you run around half-naked.”

  “Oh, is that supposed to be a threat?” I ask, lifting my chin. My knees spread a few inches wider on their own before I know what I’m doing. �
�Pretty lame, really. I thought you could do better.”

  Oh god, what am I doing? I’m terrified, partly excited, at where this might go.

  He places both of his hands on my knees, putting pressure on them as he stands. He leans closer, our faces close enough for me to see the locker room lights reflecting in his eyes.

  “I don’t threaten,” he says. “I act. Now, move. My locker’s behind you.”

  I scoot to the side. He steps over the bench to reach his locker. As he unlocks it, I try to slow down my heart rate. I’m not one of those dumbass girls, desperate for the attention of any rich boy. I’ve got standards. I have self-respect.

  Jesus Christ, I’ve been here a day, and I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid.

  He throws the clothes down on the bench. He steps back over the bench, sitting down next to me. He places his hand over the washcloth. He squeezes, sending a lightning bolt of pain through my leg. I gasp.

  “You owe me twice now,” he says. “This shirt here’s got my name on it.”

  I see the black lettering. Voss.

  “We like to put our name on things we’re proud of, but with you, it’s different.” He chuckles. “I’m marking you, like I own you. Don’t forget.”

  “Forget that you’re a whole bag of dicks?” I ask, whipping the washcloth out from under his hand and dropping it in his lap.

  He removes his hand from my thigh to grab the washcloth. It still leaves a small wet spot like he’s pissed his pants. He frowns.

  “Or that you’re a pitiful little boy desperate for respect and power?” I ask. “Because daddy sure as hell isn’t going to give you any.”

  He grabs my inner thigh like he’s claiming it as his own. I grab his wrist before he can move his hand any higher, but it pins his hand against my skin. We stare at each other. His jaw is clenched, but his eyes search mine with an expression bordering between being fury and curiosity.

  “Trust me, I’ve got all the power I need right here.” He squeezes my thigh even tighter. “I don’t need anyone or anything to deal with you. Or anyone else.”

  He stands up and pats me on the head like puppy. When he walks out of the locker room, I wait several seconds to see if he’s going to return and force me into a worse position. When he doesn’t, I grab the clothes he left beside me. I dress as quickly as I can, repeatedly checking the entrance to make sure Grayson or anybody else doesn’t walk in while I’m partially naked.