Something Wicked: An Enemies to Lovers Bully Romance (The Seymore Brothers Book 2)

by Savannah Rose

  “Can’t believe I never noticed that before,” Kennedy said. “How his hands are. But thinking about it, I never really see him do anything with his hands, you know? He just sort of stands around with his hands in his pockets, socializing. I figured it was just a super-casual affectation of wealth, like how what’s his face only ever wore a turtleneck and jeans.”

  The picture beside that one had a rich, expensive frame around it and was covered with a black cloth.

  I scanned past that to a picture of Julianne, a printed profile picture from Junior Prom, where she was posing with her hand on Thomas’ chest. Her hand, like all the others, was circled; and for the first time I noticed that her extra-long fingers weren’t an illusion born of acrylic nails, but were actually that long. They were also a little knobby, a little disproportionate, and very slightly webbed. You wouldn’t notice it at first glance, but when you stared… I indicated the picture with a nod.

  “I do know how I missed that,” Kennedy said. “It’s easy. I didn’t. I just didn’t say anything about it because I didn’t want her to feel more self-conscious than she already does.”

  I snorted. “Her? Self-conscious? Please.”

  She rolled her eyes up at me and pressed her lips together in a disapproving line. “Of course she’s self conscious. You think she would put so much thought, time, and energy into her looks if she wasn’t? But it’s more than that. It’s in the way she gestures and holds her pencil, and how she loves wearing gloves and extra-long sleeves.”

  “I thought she was just trying to be some kind of southern belle,” I said, my voice dripping with disdain.

  “Well, that too.” Kennedy took a breath and reached out to move the cloth which covered the final picture.

  My heart lurched. It was a photo of Sabrina and Eric, taken at her last ever school dance.

  “Cover that back up,” I hissed. The last thing I wanted was for Eric to come back in here and fall to pieces.

  “Look at her hands,” Kennedy said in a stunned murmur.

  I looked—I’m capable of learning sometimes—and froze.

  For a second I could swear my heart stopped. Sabrina’s long-fingered hands splayed across Eric’s chest exactly the same way that Julianne’s splayed across Thomas’…down to the extra-long pinkie.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I said, barely believing my own words.

  “Maybe not,” Kennedy said doubtfully. “But Eric sure thinks it does.” She gestured to the rest of the room.

  Two walls were entirely covered in photos of the Birds and Sabrina. A lot of the pictures had been blown up and cropped around the hands. Some of the hands had been traced in marker while others had been printed on tracing paper and were tacked onto the wall one on top of the other. It was like a shrine to funky hands.

  “Ectrodactyly.” Eric’s voice made me jump and I spun around to find him staring hauntedly at the pictures all over the walls.

  He held two cups of coffee but seemed to have forgotten about them as they were tipping and beginning to drip on the floor. I took them from him and set them on the coffee table. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Hereditary?” Kennedy asked gently.

  Eric gave a sort of half-nod and shrugged.

  His eyes looked too big and glassy, too bright over the dark purple smudges beneath.

  Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from the photos and turned it on me. I wanted to flinch away from his burning intensity, but I was frozen by it instead.

  “Rudy,” he said in a strange, faraway voice. “Do you think Natalie Bird would have murdered Sabrina if she knew?”

  “If she knew what, exactly?”

  “That Sabrina, the maid’s daughter,” he said, his voice quaking on her name, “was also her husband’s child.”

  To be continued…

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  VILE INTENTIONS

  “God I love hockey players, don’t you?” Jeanne gazes at the boisterous jumble of muscle-bound seniors as they shove past us. One of them elbows me, making me drop my binder. He doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge me, just keeps horsing around with his jock buddies.

  “Ugh. You can have them all.” I stand to pick up my things, tucking a strand of long brown hair behind my ear as I do so. Jeanne sighs as the boys thunder around a corner and out of sight, before finally rearranging her priorities and moving to help me.

  “Okay, so they’re a little rambunctious,” she admits as she twists her blonde hair out of her face. “But you at least have to admit that Maverick is dreamy.”

  “Oh yeah, super dreamy,” I grunt sarcastically, rolling my eyes. “The kind of dream that ends in night sweats, a therapy bill, and serious PTSD. Super-duper dreamy.” I slam the binder shut and stand, straightening my skirt.

  “He’s not that bad,” Jeanne says dismissively. “Besides, he’s hot enough to get away with it. And that accent! Ugh, he’s just so classy!”

  I can feel my eyes narrowing as my lips draw tightly into a pout. She’s unbelievable.

  “Super classy,” I huff, folding my arms across my chest and shaking my head to keep myself from shaking her. “Because dumping a trash bag of empty beer cans over somebody’s head is the epitome of class.”

  Jeanne laughs. “Oh come on Beth that was just a little prank! Don’t be so sensitive.”

  I press my lips tightly together. I don’t have many acquaintances at this school, so it’s best to keep the ones I do have, rather than completely alienate them with my sensitivity. If my poverty didn’t push them away, there’s no reason my mouth should.

  Still, I’d been late for work that day because I had to go home and shower. As far as I’m concerned, that means Maverick personally owes me $12. It might not be a lot to him, but it sure as hell is plenty to me.

  My parents and I live on such a tight budget that missing an hour of work pretty much means using the rough hand-pump shampoo in the school locker room for a month.

  I’d managed to get into this elite private high school on an academic scholarship—which would have been great if it hadn’t been public knowledge.

  “Oh! Did you see the picture he took for the yearbook? He has his shirt off in it. You can see his tattoo!” Jeanne is somehow still going on about Maverick, and I reluctantly tune in.

  “It goes all up his ribs, it’s a dragon with a coat of arms and knights and stuff.”

  “Wonder how much that cost.” I frown disparagingly as we turn the corner. When I stop short, Jeanne stops with me. A pack of cheerleading puck bunnies is standing in a line across the hallway, blocking our path.

  “More than your whole family could afford.” Sarah, the head cheerleader, smirks at me as she flips her raven hair over her shoulder. “What’s the matter, bookworm? Jealous that you’ll never get a chance to touch it?”

  “Come on,” Jeanne says nervously as she tugs on my arm. “Let’s just go around.”

  I hesitate. I hate caving in to these bitches, but I can’t exactly afford to get into a fight here. Not with a Juilliard scholarship on the line. So, I bite back bile and turn around to walk with Jeanne, only to come face to face with the boy himself.

  “I heard you were talking shit about me,” he says in his very British accent. “Shame, really. You should choose your enemies with a little more, hm—discretion.”

/>   “So sorry to offend you,” I manage to grit through my teeth in a tone that is very much not sorry. “Please move, your highness, I’m late for class.”

  “How many uniforms do you own, bookworm?” He takes a menacing step towards me. The hairs on the back of my neck instinctively start going up. He has an ominous, large feline-like stare somewhere behind his dark brown eyes, making me feel every bit like a trapped rodent.

  I hate it. But not as much as I hate him.

  Somewhere in my spine, I can feel the cheerleaders coming up behind me.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Enough. Excuse me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. Brandy?”

  “Brandy?” But he isn’t looking at me, he’s looking behind me. I tense up and whirl around just in time to get a face full of tomato soup. It’s cold and smells as if it has been sitting in a thermos long enough to grow its own ecosystem.

  I drop my binder again as I frantically wipe the slime off of my face, gagging as everyone around me laughs themselves into stitches at the poor broke girl covered in their classist shit. My white blouse is plastered to my breasts, exposing my cheap, basic bra.

  “Ew, what is that? Victoria’s secret shame?” The cheerleaders all laugh. I can’t see who said it—not that I care—because I’m still trying to keep the moldy goo out of my eyes.

  “That skirt looks freshly pressed,” Maverick says. “Be a shame if something were to, you know, happen to it,” he smirks.

  I brace myself for another dousing of someone else’s grody lunch, but that doesn’t happen. As I’m still trying to collect myself, the crowd around me begins to snicker with new-found enthusiasm.

  Ignoring them as well as I can, I scoop up my sopping binder, duck my head, and try desperately to walk away with what little pride I have left this morning. They’re blocking my way, preventing me from getting through. Jeanne is long gone by now—the fair-weather acquaintance that she is.

  I manage to worm my way through them and rush toward the entrance. As my desperate scurry intensifies, I can feel the back of my thighs warming up and my eyes starting to water. I won’t let them see me break. They don’t get that pleasure. Not today.

  As if conjured up by the demon behind me himself, another group of girls pops up before me, blocking my way. The giggles rise into guffawing laughter as I try to push past this set of minions.

  “Hey, bookworm,” Maverick calls after me with a stupid grin on his face.

  “You probably wanna stop, drop, and roll.”

  The acrid scent of burning polyester finally fights its way past the stench of moldy soup. I look over my shoulder in panic just as the flames reach my ass. Screaming, I drop the binder for the third time this morning and scrabble at the buttons on my skirt. I get it off in the nick of time and stomp like a drowning chicken to out the flames.

  As I stand there, shirt and hair sopping wet, moth-bitten underwear on full display, the bell rings. The savage monstrosities suddenly morph into perfect little angels and race away to class, blowing kisses at each other as they go.

  “Shit.”

  I pick up my tattered binder and the scarred remains of my skirt. Holding the binder in front and the skirt behind, I desperately try to wizard my way into an invisibility realm of some kind as I scurry through the halls back to my locker.

  I can feel my heart being wrung to ash as I hang my head and hurriedly shuffle down the hall. There are morons everywhere pointing.

  They’re laughing.

  They’re whispering.

  And no one is even attempting to help. Not that I’m crazy enough to expect them to- and why would they? I do not belong here with these cactus up the ass rich bitches and overdone snobs or their steroid pumped jocks and inflated egos.

  I don’t belong in this petri dish. I am the normal one here. They are the ones that are broken. Makes sense, they’re all assholes. I snicker at my sad joke and keep shuffling until finally the hall empties and I’m left alone to rectify my “situation”.

  “Fucking jocks,” I mutter to myself as I yank my backpack out of the locker.

  This is the second uniform they’ve ruined for me this year alone, and I really can’t afford to replace it. I’m pretty sure these assholes are being calculated in their attacks.

  Multiple dress code violations will lead to increasingly severe disciplinary actions, which will end up on my permanent record and ruin my chances of ever getting into Juilliard.

  Why it should bother them so much that I’m on a scholarship is beyond me, but I don’t try to pretend to understand what happens inside their messed up heads.

  The only change of clothes I have left is my work uniform.

  I pull the unflattering outfit from my backpack and make a face at it before running to the bathroom. It’s a warm enough day as it is. The last thing I need is to be running from class to class draped in heavy polyester.

  “It’s either that or my underwear, I guess,” I mutter to myself as I strip out of my blouse. It has dried to such an uncomfortable level of sticky that it’s clinging to my skin like a newborn as I try to peel it away.

  Cleaning up feels like a lost cause, but I do my best anyhow. I’m wiping and sopping with paper towels and tap water, but who am I really kidding? This damn soup has permeated my bra pads and is practically growing tentacles on my skin.

  Whatever.

  I take the bra off and toss it on top of the shirt and into the plastic bag. I consider going bra-less for a second. They can’t ruin what isn’t there, right? I mean it’s only the first period and I only have one clean bra left. Sure, somebody might notice, but I doubt it. I would rather be called out for being braless than walk around being smelly and sticky all day. Or worse, lose my last clean bra.

  The underwear situation isn’t much better. A huge black-ringed hole is burnt into the center, exposing most of my left butt cheek. I drag it off and unceremoniously toss it aside with the rest of today’s trash before grabbing the last clean emergency undie I have left.

  “Fucking morons,” I mumble, trying not to lose my balance and topple over into the bowl.

  I decide to take a chance and wear my bra with all my fingers crossed that this is the last time I’ll be wet for the rest of the day.

  Once I’m decent again, I go back to my locker and check on the contents of my binder. Nothing important has been destroyed, and by some divine intervention, my English essay has just a little pink around the edges. That’s nothing compared to the last time. At least they hadn’t thrown away this assignment.

  Jerks.

  Beer bottles, rancid soup, and a flaming ass. That’s definitely one way to start the day.

  It’s how I, a star student and teacher’s pet, end up walking into class a half an hour late and out of uniform. I don’t attempt to excuse or explain myself. What would be the point? Instead, I march up to Mr. Anderson, hand him my streaked and spotted essay, and take my usual seat.

  My butt barely hits the chair before they begin to snicker. I sit, trying to keep a straight face, but the snobs are all focusing on me.

  I rise again, slowly… and there it is. The familiar pull on the back of my pants. What is it that I’m smelling this time? A distinctive watermelon and vomit flavored mix.

  Gum. Of course. Why the hell not?

  I don’t bother looking up at anyone or saying anything, I just grab a pencil and started separating the fabric of my dickies from the glob of goo.

  “As I was saying.” Mr. Anderson clears his throat, tearing everyone’s attention away from me and my imposed difficulties.

  “The critical thinking exam returned abysmal results. Your grades will take the hit, but I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror if I sent you all out in the world ready and eager to believe everything you hear. So we’re going to review the unit we just completed until you’re all capable of telling truth from lies.”

  I’d gotten an A on that test and I’m infinitely grateful to Mr. Anderson for not telling on me. My classmates
don’t exactly need another reason to hate me, not that they have one now.

  Mr. Anderson releases the class five minutes early, but asks me to stay behind.

  “Told you they were fuckin’,” some guy says loudly enough for both me and Mr. Anderson to hear.

  I ignore it. So does he, but I can feel his blood boiling just as hot as mine.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” I say before he can say anything, “I ran into an umm, bit of an incident in the hallway.”

  “So I heard,” Anderson says grimly. He takes off his glasses and cleans them, then squints through them before putting them back on his face. “I would ask if it was true that they ruined your uniform, but seeing as this isn’t a school for baristas, I assume it is.”

  “Yes, sir,” I sigh.

  He nods. “Do you have any more?”

  “No, sir,” I mutter.

  He sighs and runs a hand through his ashy black hair, then pulls a pass out of his desk. He fills it out and hands it to me.

  “Here’s your excuse,” he nods, “You won’t get a dress code violation today, but you do need to go talk to the Dean after school. There are financial aid resources available for things like uniforms and school supplies.”

  “I know,” I whisper, feeling a twinge in my chest.

  I more than know. I have had to use them every year since my enrollment. “Thank you, I’ll do that.”

  Anderson is one of those people who always manages to look worried, but as he meets my gaze, that worry seems to transform and intensify.

  “Try not to let them get to you, Beth. You’re a very promising student. All of this nonsense will be behind you next year. You just have to hang in there.”

  I smile and thank him, then hurry to my next class as the bell rings.

  I want to believe him, but I can’t quite seem to bring myself to his level of faith. My parents have always done everything they could to give me the best education available. I’ve been gifted virtually from birth, and they have no intentions of letting those gifts go to waste.