Soulless: A High School Bully Romance (The Privileged of Pembroke High Book 2)

by Ivy Fox

  But it’s all a lie.

  Whatever doesn’t kill you, destroys you anyway.

  The well-known drivel I quoted before is just what broken people say to themselves to try and make it hurt less. The proof is in this mirror. I look exactly the same, except for my eyes—they’re empty, just like me.

  I hadn’t noticed them before because I didn’t want to look in a mirror ever again. But I’m taking stock of them now. My soulless eyes are too transparent and loud to ignore. And if I can see them for what they portray, so can everybody else.

  Does it matter?

  No, I guess not.

  I wash my face and gain the courage to go back into a place I don’t want to be in. To go back to the classroom and act like a normal senior, when I am anything but. The strength that had eluded me before seems to have returned, just so I can put on a new mask and deal with the aftermath of my actions.

  I leave the bathroom in the direction of my classroom, but before I turn the corner, a loud banging noise catches my attention. I stay hidden behind the wall, craning my neck to see what’s going on.

  To my surprise, the culprit behind the commotion is the boy that has me all twisted up in knots.

  But he’s not the only one.

  Saint is with him, too.

  His forearm is pressed against Asher’s neck, pinning him up against a locker. They are too deep in their argument to sense I’m just a few feet away, witnessing their private altercation. Without drawing attention to myself, I walk quietly to the nearest pillar to stay hidden from them, while gaining a better vantage point to eavesdrop.

  “Do us all a favor and don’t show up tomorrow,” Saint commands, his disdain apparent.

  “Why? You feel intimidated I’ll take your limelight? I thought you were supposed to be some sort of big, bad wolf. Isn’t that what you’re going for with all the tats, piercings, and broody looks?”

  Pot, meet kettle.

  That’s rich. Asher might not have the bling, but his body is just as decorated in ink as Saint’s. And if there were a class in this school on how to exude the pimped, bad-boy persona, then Ash would probably be its professor.

  “I mean it, Grayson. I know you like playing everyone for a fool, but you won’t do that to me. Don’t fucking come.”

  “Fuck off. I do what I want, when I want,” Ash retorts with a deviant smile. Saint lifts his arm higher, pressing it deeper into Ash’s neck, but he doesn’t seem one bit intimidated. Actually, he looks like he’s having the time of his life as if enjoying the whole thing.

  “This isn’t a request. If you show up high to the meet tomorrow, you won’t be seeing water. My fist in your face will be all you see.”

  “Again, fuck off.”

  Saint’s nose begins to flare, and he leans into Ash’s face, showing him he’s not taking no for an answer.

  “What’s your deal, Grayson? Daddy money-bags got shitfaced and keeled over, and now you’re thinking of doing an encore, is that it?”

  Ash just smiles wider, lifting his hands from his side and flipping Saint off with both of them. That’s when I realize Ash hasn’t made one move to push Saint away from him. Why? These last four days, I’ve come to realize that Saint isn’t as bad as I first thought him to be. Sure, he and Elle don’t get along, but they try to act civil with each other for Chad’s benefit. But regardless of that, Saint is still a pretty scary guy. Why isn’t Ash at least trying to gain some distance from him?

  “Everyone is going to be there, asshole. Everyone. So if you’re going to show your face just to let people down, don’t bother.”

  Asher lets out a long malicious chuckle, and mocks, “What I do, or don’t do, is none of your business. Go back to your boyfriend and leave me the fuck alone. Oh, wait, you can’t. You’re here, while he’s in class, probably holding hands with my baby sister.”

  Saint finally releases him, but not before using his left hook to pummel Ash’s face.

  I gasp, horrified, watching Ash fall to the floor, but he doesn’t seem to be as concerned. Instead, he swipes his hand under his bloody lower lip, with a smile so wide it would put the Joker to shame.

  “Is that all you got?” he goads, getting himself up and leaning into Saint, offering his other cheek. “Go for it. I know you’re dying to.”

  But Saint doesn’t take the bait.

  “You know what? I don’t give a shit what you do. Drown for all I care,” he declares acidly, knocking his shoulder into Ash’s and heading away down the corridor.

  Ash lets out another vicious laugh, bowing his head as he cleans the blood off his hands onto his Pembroke khakis. The blood splotches on his clothes will be easier to get rid of, than the dark stain his soul has been damaged with.

  Having had enough of hiding in the shadows, I come out from behind the pillar and stand frozen in place until he notices my presence. His head lifts a tad, and the maniacal grin that was plastered on his face disappears. Instead, his lips thin to a frown and his hazel eyes turn into rivers of sadness. He doesn’t say anything to me—just stands there in all his sorrowful beauty.

  My mouth runs dry, and my heart jumps to my throat, craving for him to say something. He hasn’t uttered a word to me in almost five days, and I hate that his cocky voice is something I still treasure. His lips start to open and his eyes begin to plea, and just as I’m about to run to him—finally understanding the pain he’s in—the bell rings.

  With the loud noise, students barge into our silent discussion, crowding the space between us. I take my eyes off of him for just a second, when I think I hear Elle calling my name, and when I turn back, he’s gone—evaporated into thin air.

  Just like me, I think Ash yearns to stay a ghost.

  Ghosts can’t feel pain, after all.

  The rest of my day is as melancholic as the moment we shared. It’s only at night, in my bed, that I let my mind wander, recalling Ash’s beautiful, tormented eyes. This is the image which sways me into sleep, only for the spell to be broken by my bedroom door creaking open.

  I close my eyes again, knowing who my nighttime visitor is. Ever since the night I let him in my bed, Ollie has come to me under the veil of darkness. Sometimes he coaxes words out of me, other times he just lies beside me in silence, making sure I’m safe. Safe to let my dreams take me under.

  If only he knew how they are just as vile as the life I’m living.

  After the small encounter with Ash, I don’t think tonight should be filled with words. All we share is tragic silence. I’d rather hold on to that. It feels more truthful to me than Ollie’s optimistic promises. But while his twin is always a glass-half-empty, Ollie is a glass-half-full type of guy. I always admired him for it. Maybe it was one of the reasons I fell for him in the first place. But right now, all his attempts to soothe and console me don’t have the effect I thought they would.

  I don’t want his pity. I don’t want his lukewarm friendship. All I want is to go back in time and be the girl who believed his pretty lies.

  The bed dips behind me, and I try to even my breathing, so Ollie believes I’m already sound asleep. I feel him scoot closer, pressing his front to my back and wrapping his arm around my waist, and I try to resist stiffening in his embrace.

  “Snow, are you awake?” he whispers, releasing me from his hold.

  I don’t answer.

  A long minute passes, with me lying on my side of the bed and Ollie quietly lying on his. This time he makes no attempts to hold me, probably worried he’ll wake me. He’s always been the considerate one in our trio. But I do feel his fingers sweep through my hair, tracing each strand with care. Always lovingly, adoringly, and worshipping. Just as he used to do.

  I try to keep my beating heart in check when I feel him place a tender kiss to the back of my head.

  “I’m here. I’ll never leave you again.”

  Another lie.

  When his father wakes up, there’s no way he’ll be permitted to stay.
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  Chapter 10

  Roman

  One month.

  One grueling, soul-sucking month.

  That’s how long we’ve been stuck in this infernal limbo.

  I was sure that after Dr. Nasir took our father out of his induced coma, he would either wake up or finally die as he was meant to do that fateful night. Instead, he surprised us all by remaining comatose to the world and avoiding, once again, his punitive fate. Thirty days later and the fucker still hasn’t shown any signs of waking up. He just continues to lie in his hospital bed, like a damned vegetable. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the bastard heard my whispered threat and is making me suffer—biding his time until I go insane.

  And I am.

  Each morning I wake up, anxious to see if there is a missed call or a voicemail from the hospital telling me that he’s dead, only to be disappointed by the fact that he still remains very much alive, continuing to be the bane of my existence. It’s a strain on my sanity. Not even now, when his end is near, does the asshole give me any peace.

  I’ve grown tired of having people come up to me each day, telling me how they have the honorable Judge Grayson in their prayers, wishing for his speedy recovery. They don’t know that his death is the only end result I crave—the only outcome that will benefit my family and give us all our freedom.

  A part of me prefers he would just wake the hell up, so I could have the satisfaction of stealing his fucking stellar reputation and everything else he holds dear right out from underneath him. But I know it will be harder to stay in control if I take that path.

  I can’t go to the police and tell them what he did because, regrettably, the public, and possibly the police, may not believe Holland West to be a credible victim. I’d have to count on my father’s vanity and his belief that, in my search for vengeance, I’d resort to any means necessary—even destroying an innocent girl’s life to get it.

  I’ll be gambling all my chips on the impending threat of having his reputable character drudged through the mud of an investigation and guilty speculations to make him back down. Either by telling the truth or by bluffing my way out of this, we would all be rid of him once and for all. I’d rob him of the possibility of ever becoming Chief Justice, and destroy his ambitious dreams. I’d make him leave this house and never set foot in it again, no longer able to take the sick pleasure of tormenting me or my brothers and sister ever again. He’d be left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the bitch he married on his arm.

  He’d be gone—erased from our lives so we could start over and finally live.

  Although, I doubt I’ll even know how to do that anymore. I’m not sure how I would even go about living a life where revenge wasn’t my only goal. Throughout all these years, all I’ve ever hungered for was his demise. Nothing else could fill the gaping hole he had created. It’s as if every day since my mother’s passing my life has been put on hold, waiting for that one moment I’d be given permission to restart it.

  Unfortunately, I’m not the only one in this house who has been living in this messed-up purgatory.

  Holland and the twins are having a hard time dealing with this shit, too—especially Asher. I don’t know what I can do to lessen his burden and melancholy. He doesn’t talk to anyone anymore, not even to Ollie. And when he does, it’s with rancor and spitefulness tainting each word.

  He’s angry at the world, but worst of all, he’s angry at himself. As I watch his misery and rebellion increase, I’m smacked in the face with a painful revelation. It’s as if I’m looking in a mirror for the first time in all these years. The rage bubbling inside him, the need to break stuff and be broken too, resonates so deeply inside me that I become overwhelmed by shame and guilt for what I allowed my siblings to suffer through.

  Ash is just now finding his darkness while I lived and breathed through mine for longer than I care to admit. Only now that I see my heartache in Ash’s eyes, do I realize how consumed with grief I was. I never let go of it and grabbed onto every moment that brought me suffering, as if it was something precious I needed to keep and protect. Cherishing it like it was some long lost treasure that only I was strong enough to hold.

  But all of that was bullshit. I wasn’t strong. I was just a boy who loved his mother with all his heart, but that wasn’t enough to save her. I couldn’t keep her safe from the villainous man she was married to and, to my bitter remorse, I couldn’t stop the devil who gave me life from ending hers.

  My father might think screwing Addison was what broke me, but he’d be wrong. Addison was just another shattered piece he tainted with his hands. It was my mother’s spilled blood on a Manhattan sidewalk that made me vow to take him down. I could never prove he was behind her death, but my whole being is sure of it. Just as I’m sure that Ash would give his life to end our father’s. But while I’ve reconciled with being a lost cause, Asher has not. I won’t let him dirty his hands or his soul any more than they already are. I’ll end our father, one way or another. His fate will be in my curled-up fists, and I will crush it with brute force, giving my brother the peace of mind he deserves.

  I wish I could reassure Ash that I have this handled. That I won’t let the fucker who tried to ruin his girl go one day unpunished. But right now, it would be a fool’s errand. I can’t get through to him—no one can. He’s blocking everyone out, me above all. I understand why, and I can’t say that I blame him for it. I know all too well how it feels to witness the evidence of a woman you love, defiled while you were helpless to stop it. But I will give him the revenge he seeks without having to go to the depths of hell to get it. I’ll do that for him. I’ll do that for our mother.

  And I’ll also do that for someone else—Holland.

  For Snow.

  Snow.

  Her name keeps repeating on a loop inside my head, like a bad song that won’t leave me alone until I find myself humming its tune. But I guess it was inevitable. The moment I saw her on her knees, shattering apart like a fine, delicate crystal, I vowed to put all her pieces back together again. Unlike my mother, Holland is still alive.

  I was just a boy when my mother needed someone to guide her, help her out of her prison. I was unequipped, unprepared, and too young to be who she needed me to be. And because of my helplessness, I lost her. But that scared boy is gone now, and in his place is a man who will resort to just about anything to save this one girl from a similar fate.

  Zealously, I’ve kept to Snow’s side as much as I can without raising suspicion, waiting fretfully for the day she would let her crippled mind win and need someone there to hold her hand through the darkness. I’ve lived in it long enough to know what it will put her through.

  I’m familiar with the games the mind plays. They consume and smother you, reliving your nightmare over and over again, not giving you enough time to breathe, let alone break free from its madness. I know each ploy a wrecked imagination can conjure, so for the past month, I’ve watched her—waiting for her to crumble and wave the white flag in defeat, letting the demons of her torn-up soul take over.

  But while I may have mastered the art of being ruthless and relentless against such an adversary, Holland West is the true force of nature—shrugging off the long, ghoulish fingers of despair like lint off a well-worn coat. She goes about her days like nothing ever touched her and smiles widely at whatever dares to try. She pretends to be immune to it all. So efficiently that you’d never guess she had been tarnished by so many atrocities.

  Illness.

  Heartbreak.

  Abuse.

  Her mask is so well-maintained that I almost catch myself believing the nightmare I walked into was a figment of my own, corrupt imagination. However, any time the young girl sits across the dinner table from her mother, I’m quickly reminded that Holland has always needed a stealthy shield to keep her protected. Her walls have been built so high up that her mother’s claws can never scratch its surface. She’s been schooled to keep her hea
d up, maintaining the illusion that she’s unaffected by her mother’s cruel statements, even though each one digs a hole in her heart just a little bit wider, a little bit deeper. She has grown up making everyone clueless to her agony and perfected it to a fault.

  Always the perfect little liar.

  Only the twins and I are privy to the truth she hides. While Ash runs from its hideousness, trapped in his own misery, Ollie faces it head-on, doing everything he can think of to help her overcome it, even if that means being her shoulder to cry on. However, I doubt very much that she’ll ever allow herself to use it.

  No, like the war veteran she is, she knows how to keep everyone outside her guarded castle when she feels the most vulnerable. And unfortunately for Ollie, she’s not the forgiving kind, either. Ollie might be trying to prove he’s still worthy of being her champion, but what he fails to see is that she doesn’t need one. The girl has taken more beat-downs than most and has always risen on her own accord.

  It took my father’s attempt to destroy her for me to understand how indestructible she is. She’s braver and more spirited than I gave her credit for. Without her realizing, she’s given me the perfect example of never judging a book by its cover. I assumed she was a money-hungry con artist like her mother, using her looks and charm to slither her way to power and prestige through our family, but it couldn’t have been farther from the truth. If that had been the case, then she would have welcomed my father’s advances, just like all the predecessors that came before her. Power doesn’t seduce her, fame doesn’t intrigue her, and money holds no purpose or joy for her.

  And how do I know this?

  Because my eyes can’t help but find her in every room. My ears perk up when I hear her voice, and everything about her composure shows me who the real Holland West is. However, she still remains a mystery to me, since in my world, girls like her don’t grow on trees.