Two Months Later
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mr. Fifth-Divorce asks.
“I’d do it again.”
As a matter of fact, it’s been scientifically proven I’ll do it again. Kleptomania is quite literally written in red ink on my file, and the school shrink circled ten out of ten on the “likelihood to reoffend” scale.
Anger management is also in red, but in my defense, I acted appropriately and reasonably to the situation. I’d steal my phys ed teacher’s diary again, the same way I’d destroy Kohen’s house again.
“You can only get better if you want to be better.” The headmaster of Seraphic Hills Reformatory Academy for the troubled rich brats has been in denial since the day I got here. “If you don’t take your well-being into your own hands, then your grandfather and I will be forced to make decisions concerning your future—and for Christ’s sake, stop picking on Sarah.”
I roll my eyes and slump down my chair. Wrinkles over there has been singing the same tune for the past two months. I’m bored of hearing the same thing every time I get dragged into his office by the stun gun–wielding security guards. And, unfortunately, there’s no way to slip one of those bad boys out without someone noticing and throwing me back in here with the man who wears cheap cologne.
“Speaking of my grandfather, how’s his gout? Is it any closer to killing him?” I ask hopefully.
His white beard twitches as he slaps the table, then puts a hand over his beer belly like nothing happened. It’s a wonder how these pretentious parents trust McGill with their beloved brats. The guy is 30 percent mustache, 5 percent people skills, and 65 percent incompetence.
“Your grandfather is one of the finest men I know. You should show some gratitude to him for reaching out to me, rather than sending you to juvie.”
I stick my bottom lip out. “Awww, then how would he and I have our weekly grandfather-granddaughter bonding session?”
In the past two months, I’ve seen my grandfather for a total of twenty-three minutes. He walked into the holding cell, told me what a disappointment I was, then tried getting me to beg him not to send me to juvie. Joke’s on him; I’m not stupid enough to not realize that landing my ass behind bars wouldn’t look so good on Jonathan Whitlock Sr.’s portfolio when he’s bankrolling an election campaign.
When I asked him where my mother was, he gave a stern, “Taken care of.” When I questioned my father’s continued existence on this earth, he looked at me blankly and asked, “Who?” Then he turned around and threw over his shoulder, “There won’t be a next time, Marie.” I bristled at his use of my hated middle name. Unsurprisingly, my prim and proper grandpa isn’t impressed by my junkie mother naming me Blaze.
He ended the entire interaction with, “If you don’t clean your act up, this is the last time you will see me.” Which was funny because by that point, I hadn’t seen him in a year and a half.
Headmaster McGill leans forward in his seat. “Do you know what juvie does to girls like you?”
“The same thing the history teacher does to the boys here?”
His eyes flash and his entire body twitches like he wants to slap the shit out of me. In a show of superior self-restraint, he surprises me by saying nothing, just taps a single finger on the armrest of his big, fuck-off wingback chair. Flattening a hand over his fake designer tie, he gives me a smug look that wipes the grin off my face.
This can’t be good.
McGill hums, and I butt in as soon as he opens his mouth. “Oh, another question. Did the third Mrs. McGill finally take the kids, or are you still fighting to have a 20/80 custody arrangement?”
And I wonder why he hates me.
I’m not the first student to get under his skin, but I’m probably one of the select few students he can let loose around because no one will care about what happens to me.
Oh, I also may have punched him during my first week here.
And threw a chair at the douchebag security guard, Boris.
And got caught with rat bait before I got the chance to put it in the star quarterback’s food after he asked me whether the curtains match the drapes.
Needless to say, McGill hates my guts. Knowing good ol’ Whitlock Sr. probably has Mustache over here by the proverbial balls, and that’s why McGill hasn’t gone to a judge to throw my ass in prison. All I know is this asshole got the green light from the big man to treat me like shit.
Headmaster Bad Cologne cocks his head to the side like he has a secret he knows would well and truly ruin my already bad year. The heavy chair scrapes along the rug as he rises to his feet. “Come.”
“I’m good.” He doesn’t usually escort me to solitary. Normally, he’d push a button, and security would come drag me to my time-out room, either while I’m kicking and fighting or half comatose from a syringe or taser—I’m not sure if either of those are legal to use on students.
I bite down a hiss as he yanks my head back with a fist around my ponytail. “I will repeat myself one more time, and one time only. Come, or I will report that you attacked me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” I say through gritted teeth.
The first and only time I attacked him, he let Boris, the sexually repressed security guard, do to me tenfold what I did to him. I’m pretty sure he broke my rib when he yanked me down by my tit, kicked his boot into my side twice, then threw me into solitary without food for forty-eight hours.
Of course, Whitlock Sr. knew and consented to the punishment. I overheard the two old men talking about it over the phone, and my dear, loving grandfather suggested they should take more extreme measures next time.
McGill releases my hair and claps his hands together, pleased with himself, nodding toward the door expectantly. I glare his way as I push myself onto my feet, grab my backpack, kick the chair away for good measure, and hold his stare until my fingers wrap around the brass door handle.
I don’t break eye contact until I push the handle down. The last thing I see on his face is an excited grin that shows off his bleach-white smoker’s teeth.
My foot crosses the threshold into the foyer, and every fiber of my body stiffens when I hear the voice that’s been haunting my dreams ever since I was young.
“Long time no see, Klepto.”
My eyes catch on hypnotic hazel. I falter for only a second, trying to rationalize the sight before me, and then each atom that makes up my being explodes.
“You motherfucker. I’m going to fucking—” I lunge for Kohen, ready to throttle him, but two security guards catch me before I can. “Let me the fuck go!” I kick behind me and thrash in their bruising grip. “You’re a fucking dead man for what you did!”
One corner of his lips lifts in a victorious smirk. “Didn’t think you could look any worse for wear, Blaze.”
I grunt when Boris elbows me in my side and tightens his grip around my arm. Kohen’s stare drops to my aching ribs, and I start yelling before he gets the chance to slap a shit-eating grin on his face. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming in here, you goddamn fucking pyro. I’m gonna do the same thing to your skull until your dad can’t even recognize you!”
“One. Settle down, Marie.”
I swing my lethal stare to the piece of shit headmaster who brought me to this walking horror show. “You,” I growl. “You call me screwed up for my habits when all those wives and beer bottles you’re going through are making you even dumber.” I laugh humorlessly. “If you want a campus murder, I’ll give you a murder.”
Kohen huffs behind me, and I flip the dickhead off without looking at him.
I can tell McGill is biting back a smile. It makes me want to sucker punch his ugly mug. Especially when he shrugs so innocently. He starts talking in that self-righteous tone teachers always use that screams I’m better than you.
“The first step to healing is facing your demons. Then you shake their hand and call them old friends—”
“I’m going to shiv my fucking demon in his sleep and call him a cunt if he comes within ten feet of me.” I throw my arm back, trying to catch one of the guards in the face, or loosen one of their holds enough to get at least one hit at Kohen’s face.
“Two—and trust me, Miss Whitlock, you do not want me to get to three.” McGill’s tone holds patience, which I know he doesn’t have.
My eyes widen wildly, and I give him a smile that’s all teeth. “Oh, I’d love to see what happens at three.”
He raises a brow, unamused. “I suggest you appreciate your limited freedom while you have it. Prison is far less accommodating for your habits.”
“Why?” I tip my head to the side and jerk in the guards’ hold, only to still when a taser presses into my side. I scoff and pout, fluttering my eyelashes. “Will a decrepit old man drag me into his room and punish me for my misbehavior?”
A tendon in McGill’s throat flexes, and I watch as he curls his fingers into a fist and folds them behind his back. Finally, a proper reaction. “There are worse fates than what could happen in that room, Miss Whitlock.”
My lips peel back with a scowl, and I stomp onto Boris’s foot and spit in his face. He whips me backward and shoves the taser painfully deep into my spine. “I’d rather be put in solitary than be in the same room with that cunt.”
McGill stands straighter. “Three strikes, Marie.”
I lift my feet off the ground so the two security guards hold all my weight. “You can take your strikes and shove them up your—”
“Careful, Blaze. He might be into that.” Kohen finally speaks up.
I jump, trying to throw the guards off-balance. “Shut the—”
“You are to be Mr. Osman’s buddy until he settles in.”
Why the fuck is he in here? I roll my eyes and point to the firebug who torched everything I’ve ever called mine. “The only thing I’m going to be—”
“Do you remember the option I gave you in my office?” McGill says with eerie calm.
I slam my mouth shut. “You can remind the class,” I say, raising my eyebrows in the arsonist’s direction.
Cooperate, or the guards will have their time with me.
“Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for being weak.” McGill steps toward me, and I draw my shoulders back in response. I refuse to ever look weak in front of a man who hangs around children but can’t keep a woman. “Or perhaps you’ve simply mistaken my complacency for kindness, Miss Whitlock. I can assure you that my patience has run extremely thin, and it is in your best interest to ensure you do not see the bottom of it.”
“Or what?” A beating is only a scary threat if I haven’t had one before. What does he think my father does when he returns with beer instead of gear?
McGill looks me dead in the eyes. “I may decide to take up Dr. Van der Merwe for alternative forms of treatment.”
I narrow my eyes. “Drugs? I can’t wait.”
“Give Mr. Osman a tour of campus, Marie.” His tone indicates finality. Mine sounds a lot closer to brutality.
“He burned my house down!”
Headmaster Cheap Suit sighs. “Your delusions are getting to you.” Here we go. “How many times do we have to tell you that you started it while you were high on whatever drug you could get your hands on, and you don’t remember what you did.”
“I have an alibi!” I screech.
I am not insane. I know what happened that night, and it sure as hell wasn’t me who started the fire.
“We all saw the pictures, Miss Whitlock. They were very telling.” His condescending tone grates my spine. Not only does everyone think I’m a drug addict, but they’ve also labeled me as a “slut” as well. “That boy doesn’t have any memory of you coming into his bed.”
My cheeks heat. I don’t want Kohen to hear about any of this. He has enough ammunition he can use against me. He doesn’t need more. Everyone at St. Augustine probably thinks I started the fire as well. Hell, my own mother probably does too. I wonder how long it took her to realize that her hovel burned down and food wouldn’t come without effort anymore.
This conversation won’t get me anywhere except in solitary or paying the fines for a false report. Either I deal with this shit head-on or go into a negative balance with my dignity.
At the end of the day, no one is going to believe my version of the story. The worst crime the son of the legendary Yusuf Osman has ever committed—well, as far as they know—are a couple speeding tickets, and jaywalking. God forbid anyone thinks that the kid who stick-and-poked a flame on his middle finger and a match on his inside wrist would ever do anything like commit arson.
Also, why would they trust the junkie? The blood tests they took when they arrested me came back off the charts for basically every drug known to man. On the other hand, the full-time bad boy and part-time goody-two-shoes that’s the youngest member of the Osman family just flashed some cash, and the pearly gates were open for him once more.
Ask not what you can do for the system, but what the system can do for you. “If I become his buddy, I won’t be locked up after dinner,” I barter. I don’t spare the fucker a glance. He isn’t worthy of proper acknowledgment anymore.
“Fine.” McGill signals for the security goons to release me, and I have to fight the urge to rub the pain away from their firm grip. “But a single misstep and all your privileges are revoked.”
I give myself two days before they lock me up straight after class, only to be released for class or piss breaks. “Fine.”
I roll my shoulders back, take my backpack off the ground, throw it over my shoulder, and walk out without checking to see if Kohen is following. “Look at me, touch me, or so much as breathe in my direction, and I will throat punch you.”
“I’m counting on it.”
My insides twist as if they’re hosting a parasite tuned only to his voice. I wish he were ugly or short or had a terrible voice that grates on my nerves. But he’s the epitome of my ideal type—save for being an asshole who, oh, I don’t know, burned down my house—and he ticks every box on my list.
He doesn’t talk for once as I show him around campus. A couple times, the side of my face burns from the weight of his stare, but not once have I let myself turn to check.
Suppose I keep staring at his face and imagine what he’s packing underneath the green uniform blazer, white shirt, black tie, and pants. In that case, I might forget about his numerous sins—unlikely, but he’s never been this quiet or followed any of my requests before, so I’m worried this is all a trick. Or who knows? Maybe he’s all melancholy from being trapped here too.
The people in here suck, but I’d be a damn liar if I said this place looks as depressing as it feels, given how eerily stunning it actually is. A gothic, mid-century church is on the outskirts of the grounds, right by the cemetery. The rest of the school buildings sit somewhere between 1600s convent and modern contemporary—depending on which part of the school you end up.
The modern part was joined to the gothic a couple years back, and now the entire Science and Social Science Departments are in there.
There’s a state-of-the-art gym at the back of the campus—but no pool. Wouldn’t want to have any drownings. Apparently, death by lake isn’t a concern though. There’s also a running track, tennis court, and football field, and they’re currently building an ice hockey rink. I’m not sure how the hell they have the budget for any of it, but I definitely won’t be enjoying the perks of anything but the back of the church.
My new friend, Charlie, told me that back in the day they used to run this place like an asylum, doing all sorts of dodgy treatments. I guess it’s not that much different nowadays since we have mandatory sessions with the shrink, along with getting medication shoved down our throats, if ordered.
I give the lake in the middle of campus a wide berth, hoping that the jackass doesn’t notice I’ve intentionally avoided the little bridge even though it would make our walk faster. I don’t know how anyone enjoys swimming or Jacuzzis. The thought of being submerged underwater with no certainty of when the next whiff of oxygen will come is unappealing, to say the least.
In hindsight, maybe if I learned to swim, I’d jump off a wharf thinking I could take Poseidon on.
The water aspect of the lake makes me more uneasy than the prospect that there are a bunch of dead, evil nuns rotting at the bottom and that the Sacred Lady of the Lake will come out to drag naughty students into her depths.
Me and the Lady can throw hands out on land if she intends to kill me. What happens after is none of my concern.
The door slams shut behind me as we enter the corridors. My eyes cut to Kohen, imagining storm clouds following him to every beach he visits. I’m itching to know what he’s in for. To find out what kind of strings his dad pulled to get him in here instead of prison when he should have graduated already. I was lucky since I “celebrated” my eighteenth birthday in this shithole last month, so I just missed the cutoff to be tried as an adult. So what’s his deal?
I glance at the camera above his head as if I can see if someone will come running if I try to murder him. But none of the cameras are recording because that’s a premium parents pay extra for—the less damning evidence against their spawns, the better. Honestly, I don’t even know if it’s working.
“Where’s the girls’ dormitory?” Kohen ruins the peaceful silence, filled only by our footsteps on the marble floor.
“Wherever the boys aren’t.”
I bare my teeth at him when he pushes me against a hidden crook right next to the janitor’s closet. He encroaches on my space, towering over me as his hot breath brushes against my skin. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes are prettier than I remember. Deep brown rings merge into moss green before a burst of gold. I can’t believe I imagined the pyromaniac’s eyes when I was with Duke. I wish I found his appearance abhorrent so my brain wouldn’t think of stupid things like what his lips might feel like.
All the expressions he lacked before are loud and clear now, from the downward curl of his lips to the tight lines around his eyes. “Answer the question, or I’ll tell Principal Beer Gut that you didn’t show me around.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Tell him.”
He tips his head to the side and says condescendingly, “Oh yeah? Should I also tell him about the fountain pen you took from his office, Thief?”
“I didn’t—”
He holds up the pen.
Fucker.
My gaze darkens on him, and I’m trying not to think about how close he is. Or how this is the first time I’ve smelled patchouli and mint since I nuked his room. Or the fact that his hand is right beside my head, leaning on the wall behind me.
“Why do you want to know? Planning on coming over to watch 10 Things I Hate About You and touch toes underneath the blanket?”
He sneers at me. “I don’t want hand, foot, and mouth disease.”
My jaw drops in disbelief. “You’re saying you look like that naturally? How about we go on that walk back to Principal Fifth-Divorce, and we can see about giving you shingles instead.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “I’d probably catch chlamydia just by standing next to you.”
Temper grows its own valve inside my heart, releasing a rush of scorching red that has me curling my fists to bring them down on him. I am not my mother. “Wow. Big words for such a little brain. It’s truly a wonder why they held you back a year.”
His hand grasps my throat, and he presses his thumb against my pulse point. The touch is oddly… gentle, with threatening undertones.
“You shut the fuck up.” The words come out beneath his breath; I’m taken aback by his lack of aggression. He’s never been the simmering type of angry—or the boiling type.
“Or what?” I get in his face, so close that he can feel the warmth of my breath just as surely as I can sense his. If his proximity is going to get on my nerves, then I’m damn well playing the same game. “You’ll torch my house again?”
Kohen scoffs.
“What?” I snap. He’s been here all of two minutes, and I already want to kill him. It truly is a talent.
A pinch forms between his brows, and he looks down his nose like he’s better than me. “Here I was, thinking you’d be less of a bitch after spending some time in here.” The betterment and entitlement seeping through his tone remind me that he is his father’s son. Charming looks, sweet in his smile, and lethal in his words.
“Here I was, thinking you’d be in prison. Guess we’re both disappointed.”
I gasp when he shifts his leg and it brushes against mine—and the parasites in my stomach are at it again. My body is fucking ridiculous. I need a new one. The disconnect between my brain’s hatred for him and the barest touch sending sparks up my spine is going to send me to a ward with all the conflict going on.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “All the drills they make us do in the morning means I can pack a punch. Happy to demonstrate.”
His next exhale flutters through my hair, and he looks at the movement. There’s something about how he watches it that has the fifth, angry valve in my heart relaxing its beat. Then his eyes harden, and I’m back to imagining all the ways I could put him in a grave.
“Doubtful. The only thing you do is run as fast as you run your mouth.” His gaze briefly drops to my lips before his own twists into an even deeper scowl.
“Don’t pay attention to my mouth, Pyro. It’s gross.”
“You wish I were paying attention to your mouth, Klepto.” He sneers.
I’m sick of this. I shove Kohen in the chest, but he doesn’t move an inch. I breathe in the hatred-tinged air until it fills my lungs. I haven’t felt this alive in weeks, and it kills me that Kohen is the reason for it. “Why the fuck are you here, you absolute maniac?”
I hate that when his lips turn into a mischievous smile, my lungs forget how to work. “Haven’t you heard?”
I square my shoulders. “Don’t flatter yourself. No one willingly talks about you, Kohen. Only about your brother.”
The muscles in his jaw tick. “I’m as crazy as you say.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend that you listen to anything I say.” My words are a lie, and I know it. I’m sure he takes what I say home to dissect it and throw it back in my face. “Did you finally get caught lighting children on fire?”
He doesn’t react to either of my comments. “No. I sent someone into a coma.”
“Why?” I push off the wall and close the distance so our chests touch. I feel him stiffen as I look him straight in the eye. “They called you stupid, Osman?”
“He touched something that didn’t belong to him.” A dark look settles on his face, as if he’s seconds away from killing someone. There’s no hesitation when he says it, just steel resolve and the promise that, given the opportunity, he’d do it again.
Still, he’s an asshole. Nothing he can do will change the fact that the damage is already done, and there are no broken pieces for me to pick up.
“Boys and their toys.” I slip out from under him and point to one of the many doors down the hall. “Your class is there. Stay the fuck away from me, Kohen.”
The last thing I hear before I hide in the closest bathroom is the deep tenor of his voice, echoing down the hallway. “You wish, Thief.”
