“Dammit,” I mutter, slamming my hands down on the keys. The sound that comes from the piano vibrates in my chest. Thankfully, the room is soundproofed and I’m alone. No one else can hear that I’ve fucked up for the third time in a row. I know the song by heart, every keystroke, every note, but I keep losing focus in the middle.
I take a deep breath and position my fingers, preparing myself for another run through. Annoyingly, my concentration is instantly destroyed by the buzz of my phone. It’s the GPS, followed by a text notification.
Story arrived at Meyers Hall.
Story left Meyers Hall.
Story: Checking in.
Story arrived at the Union.
Story, Story, Story.
Growling, I toss the phone aside. “Christ on a goddamn cracker, you two.”
I’m not like the other guys. I don’t have to control every moment of our Lady’s life. Unlike Tristian, who will blow a fucking gasket if she’s a minute late, or Killian, who’ll freak out if she so much as looks at another guy. Story is a grown ass woman. I’m not here to babysit her. For me, she’s more like a box of wonders. Open her up and see all the surprises inside. She may be crying on the outside, but she’s hot and fiery beneath the surface. She’s like one of those songs that starts off easy and simple, then as each instrument joins in and the notes all join together, you realize you’re dealing with something much more complex. Something deeper.
That’s Story Austin. At least, to me.
Something definitely went down between her and Killian last night, although no one is talking about it. I saw the guarded look in her eye this morning, the slight limp in her walk. Killian was in far too good a mood. Only one thing makes him happy: inflicting pain.
And something went down between her and Tristian last night, too. According to our shared spreadsheet, that fucker is up thirty five points after last night.
Thirty-fucking-five!
It took me my entire morning to figure out how he could have gained so many points in a single night. It wasn’t until their little make-out session in the dining room that it hit me. She had to have wanted it.
No.
She had to have asked for it.
And what a smug little fuck he’s been about it, too. Throwing her winks, leading her around with his hand on her back like she’s his goddamn girlfriend or something. Of course she’d buckle for Tristian first. The guy’s all flash, not to mention as smooth a talker as they come. Fucking kills me, but I’ve got to hand it to him. Aside from that little speed bump in high school with Genevieve, Tristian’s got massive game.
What the others do isn’t my concern, though. I need to focus on my positioning in the game—my own points. But I also need to pass this make-up exam on Monday. I’d managed to finagle a bit of a do-over on the oral I flunked, but now I have to figure out how to make it by. I’ve put some calls in, so now I’m sitting here trying to get lost in the music, ignoring the problem. The truth is that the game is distraction enough. I want to win. I want to prove once and for all that flash and smooth-talking isn’t all that. It’s temporary. Flimsy.
I take one last look at the GPS, watching the little dot as it bobs across campus, before putting it aside.
Taking a deep breath, I prepare to start again, flexing my fingers and then posing them over the keys. When I’m ready, I dive in with enthusiasm, hitting every note and gaining momentum as the crescendo builds throughout the song. Here, I’m perfect. Flawless. Superior. There’s no second-guessing, no thinking, just feeling the music, doing what I’m good at. It’s no wonder I’d rather be doing this than facing the inevitability of another failed grade, on another dumb fucking exam, in another goddamn class that’s all about reading.
I’m lost in the rhythm, the complexities of the music, when movement at the back of the room catches my attention. I see her slim figure and dark hair. My fingers stumble, two keys missed. I stop abruptly, slamming down my fingers, shouting, “Fuck!”
She freezes in the doorway, her hand reaching out like she’s about to make a run for it.
“Don’t you dare touch that fucking door.” I raise my eyebrow. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“What the hell are you doing here? Why are you interrupting me?”
“I was just—” She fidgets with the cup in her hand, looking like the same scared little mouse. “I brought you some coffee? I noticed that you sometimes get one after classes, so…” She shuffles down the aisles toward me, pausing for a long moment before slowly, carefully placing the cup atop the piano.
I stare at her. “Do you usually put hot beverages on instruments that cost six fucking figures?”
Her eyes widen and she darts for the cup, snatching it away. “Sorry.” She cradles it close to her chest, casting the piano dubious glances. “I was just wondering…”
Quickly losing my patience, I snap, “Spit it out.”
She flinches, but recovers quickly. “How did your meeting go? The professor? That was about the exam, wasn’t it? Because I was thinking, if you need it—I’m not saying you do—but if you did, I could still…you know. Help.”
Before I can answer—not that I’m planning to—the door opens again. Jesus Christ, can’t a guy just get some goddamn practice time?
“The room’s taken!” I say, glaring around Story’s shoulder. My glare turns harder when I realize who it is. Great. I stand, rigidly eying the group coming down the aisle. “Do you mind? Some of us are here because we actually have talent.”
Perez co-conducts and plays first chair in the jazz band—fucking badly, I might add—and is also the head of a serpent otherwise known as Kappa Nu Theta. The Counts. The Lords’ oldest rival. “Not a very gracious way to treat someone who’s here to do you a favor.” I don’t like the way his eyes move to Story, descending to her tits, her legs. “Look at this, boys. The Lady’s looking better since the last time we saw her. She’s almost cute now. Still very little sex appeal, though.”
I step in front of her. “Beats jerking off into whatever sad cum dumpster you’ve recruited this year.” Already tired of this game, I add, “And you can’t do me a favor, because you don’t have anything I want.”
Their Countess glares hotly at me, and despite the insult, I have to admit she’s pretty stacked. Dark brown skin. Striking eyes. Legs for days. “This sad cum dumpster begs to differ.”
Another Count—Lars, pre-law—hushes her. “Rules, baby.”
She sullenly steps back and Perez starts, “In case you haven’t noticed, Countess Sutton is in quite the position. TA for Professor Lockwood? Ring any bells?” At my blank stare, he laughs. “Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.”
Motherfucker.
Lars jumps in, “You’re flunking.”
Another Count adds, “And you’re panicking.”
Lars pulls a faux-sympathetic face. “Those feelers you were putting out earlier? They weren’t very subtle. You’re the only person in his class in danger of failing, which is actually pretty funny, if you think about it.”
The other guy laughs. “Lockwood’s class is a classic coast. You’d basically have to put effort into failing.”
Of course Lockwood’s class is meant for coasting. There’s a fucking reason I paid the Dean to get me into it. If these assholes know I’m failing—if they know I’m looking for ways to pass—then they probably suspect all my past exams are fraudulent, too. I’m good at what I do. I’ve covered my tracks. I pay well. But if someone starts sniffing too far beneath the surface, it won’t take much to see the truth.
I’m massively, unbelievably, infuriatingly fucked.
“Yeah, exactly.” Perez says, reading my expression. “It’s this whole thing where you get kicked out of Forsyth, which is fun, in theory. But that’s not how we want to win.” Perez runs a hand down the back of her curly hair, doing his best impression of a cartoon villain petting his cat. “So our Countess might be able to help you with your little problem. You know, pull some strings.”
I smirk, hiding the panic inside. “And what’s attached to them?”
“Not what,” Lars says. “But who.”
I hear Story’s sharp intake of breath, but before she can speak, I answer, “She’s ours.”
Perez snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. We’re not the Barons. We don’t want LDZ’s sloppy seconds.”
“The maid,” Lars says, eyes rolling. “We want the old battleaxe.”
My eyebrows climb my forehead. “You want Ms. Crane?” Now, it’s my turn to laugh, and that’s exactly what I do. Loudly. When I manage to get my amusement under control, I shrug. “Let me think about it.”
“What?! You can’t do that!”
I turn to Story, glaring daggers with my eyes. “Keep your goddamn mouth shut.”
All she does is lower her voice to a whisper, those big eyes of hers shining back at me. “You’d rather hand Ms. Crane over to these—” she gives them a look, face squishing up into an incensed grimace, “—these jerks, than just accept some help from me? You really hate me that much?”
I answer easily. “Yes.”
Her face falls. “I thought yesterday…you said she was a part of you. That she was family. You defended her. You protected her!”
God, that fucking look in her eyes, so full of horror and sadness, like someone just stabbed a puppy in front of her or something. What Story doesn’t understand is that the Counts wouldn’t last a week with Ms. Crane. She’d string all of them up by their balls and be back at our place before we had a chance to miss her scathing insults. Not that we’d ever give Ms. Crane away. That old bat is more valuable than anything in this entire fucking town. And, much like Sweet Cherry, she’s ours.
But goddamn, let a guy bluff for a minute.
Rolling my eyes, I turn back to Perez. “Sorry, Cunts. Looks like the Lady’s attached to her. Can’t imagine why.”
His eyes narrow. “You realize what you’re turning down, right? This is a limited time offer.”
I pick up my bag, closing the lid of the piano. “Like I said before. You don’t have anything I want.”
Lars shakes his head, sizing me up. “Bad move, Rathbone. If the Countess can pass you, she can fail you, too.”
“She won’t need to,” Perez argues, looking pissy. “Someone as dumb as you? You’ll fail all on your own, won’t you, Rathbone? Either that, or get sloppy trying to cheat. Better believe, we’ll be there when you do. I wonder who gets your maid when you’ve all been kicked out? I wonder,” he says, looking at Story, “who gets your Lady.”
I don’t even hear much beyond the second sentence. My vision goes red, narrowing in on Perez’s face. I drop my bag, clenching my fists as I stalk forward. “What did you just fucking call me?”
He almost looks surprised at the shove, even though he recovers instantly, bumping his chest into mine, mouth stretched into an aggressive smirk. “I called you dumb, Rathbone. Too dumb to know what that means? Let me find some synonyms for you. Stupid. Simple. Idiot.”
I’ve given them too much. Rationally, I understand that. But all I can hear is my third grade teacher, standing over my shoulder, saying that I’m too stupid to read. Too dumb to understand words. That I’ll end up nothing—no one—because the letters just wouldn’t arrange themselves into something understandable for me. I can still hear him. Dumb. Stupid. Idiot.
The punch I throw never lands.
Instead, I’ve got a Count holding me back, while another wrestles Perez from me. “Come on, fellas,” Lars grunts, pushing us apart. “None of us can afford to do this here. Eye in the sky, remember?” He nods to the camera in the corner, finally getting Perez loose.
I wrench myself away from them, stepping back into Story, whose eyes are wide and alarmed, one armed extended like she’s going to reach for me. She snatches it back at the look in my eyes.
Perez gives a seething laugh, straightening his shirt. “You know how you can tell a Lord from the rest of us?” he asks the Countess. “It’s the ineffectual tantrums. Always a dead giveaway.”
They leave first, filing out of the practice room, looking far less disappointed than I’d particularly fucking like.
“Son of a bitch,” I growl, yanking my bag from the floor. Already halfway across the room before I notice Story hasn’t moved a muscle, I snap, “Well? Did your legs stop working?”
She spasms into motion, scampering toward me. It isn’t until we’re almost at the parking lot that she finally speaks. “We can handle this,” she says, sounding out of breath as she struggles to keep pace with me. “We can work on it every day. It won’t be so bad, if you just—”
I mostly ignore her as I search the lot, passing trucks and sensible sedans. “Whatever.”
“It’ll be fine!” she insists. “I actually used to tutor back in high school, before—well, before we moved here. You’ll let me do it, right? You’ll let me help you?”
Truck. Truck. SUV. Sedan. Distractedly, I answer, “Uh huh.”
I hear her footsteps falter before quickening. “Good! It’ll be better like this anyway. They can’t prove you cheated if you don’t cheat. And then you won’t have to send Ms. Crane away.”
Bingo.
Perez drives a sports car. It’s this absurd, flashy fucking red thing with chrome rims that only has the vaguest impression of a trunk. I reach into my pocket as Story babbles fucking on and on.
“Why would they want Ms. Crane, anyway? Not that I don’t like her. She’s…uh, maybe ‘nice’ isn’t the word. But she’s something. Kind? Well, useful. But as far as housekeeping goes, it seems like—” She suddenly squeals, “Oh my god!”
Perez’s tire makes a low hiss as I wiggle the knife back and forth, deepening the slash.
Story’s hiss is a lot louder. “What are you doing?!”
I give her an impassive look. “Eating dinner.”
“You’re—what?” Her expression is such a perfect mix of distress and confusion that it almost makes me crack a smile.
And then I remember that word.
Stupid.
I yank the knife from the tire and head to another one, punching the blade into the rubber. “I’m eating dinner, Sweet Cherry. At home. With you, and the others. There’s no one to say otherwise. Catch my drift?”
Her face screws up in anxiety. “You’re slashing those tires!”
Christ, this girl. “Yes, I’m slashing his tires. Why don’t you say that a little louder? I haven’t been kicked out of this fucking place just yet.”
She wrings her hands, eyes jumping around the lot. “That’s, like…illegal!”
I pull the blade from the tire, rounding the car to get another. “What, like you’ve never done anything illegal before?”
She goes to argue, but her mouth snaps shut at the look I give her. Yeah. Underage titty photo distribution isn’t exactly kosher, Miss Cherry. “What if you get caught?” she worries.
“How would I get caught,” I say, slashing the knife down, “when I’m at home, eating with you?”
She rolls her eyes heavenward, like she’s asking for the strength. “Oh my god, just hurry!”
I’m on my way to the fourth tire when I pause, that discussion from before finally sinking in through the fog of me wanting to bury my foot into Perez’s face. “You’re going to tutor me,” I realize.
Right. I agreed to that, for some reason.
She looks at me, and then at the last tire, eyes pinging tensely back and forth. “Come on, we should go!”
Instead, I mull it over, and it’s like pulling a tooth. God, how unbearable is that going to be? The Lady, teaching her Lord. Above me. Better than me. Telling me what to do, how to do it. The whole concept is perverse.
Or…
Maybe it’s the perfect opportunity.
The plan unraveling in my head is buoying enough that I even manage not to glare when I flip the knife around, offering it to her. “You do this one.”
She freezes, eyes bugging out. “No way!”
“I won’t let you get caught,” I say. “He insulted you, remember? Don’t you want to get back at him?”
She clutches her bag to her chest, looking scandalized. “I don’t even know him!”
Rolling my eyes, I try, “Fine, whatever. Then imagine its Killer’s car.” She looks at the tire, expression morphing into something tense and pensive. Ah. I’ve got you. “He did something to you last night, right? Imagine it’s his tire. Better yet, imagine it’s him. Come on, it’s cathartic.”
It also means she won’t squeal.
She looks back and forth between the tire and the blade, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know…”
“Do it, and we can leave,” I reason. “The longer we stand here, the better the chances are we get busted.”
She bites into her lip, practically vibrating, before finally grabbing the hilt of the knife. I’m expecting to have to coach her through it, but whatever Killian did last night must have been pretty brutal.
She lifts her fist in the air and brings it down in a hard, angry stab, embedding the blade into the tire. It gives a slow hiss that quickens when she pulls it out, only to drive it back in again, and oh…
Oh, fuck.
The look on her face is pure art. There’s this tendon in her neck that’s suddenly taut and twitching. Her face is red, but not in the way I’m used to. Not shy or embarrassed. This is something far more bitter. Stronger. She stabs the knife into the tire again and again, face set, eyes hard as she watches, almost like she’s fascinated.
Holy shit, Killer better watch his back.
Before she just completely shreds the goddamn thing, I grab her wrist, stopping the next slash. “Easy there. I think you killed it good and dead.”
She blinks, looking between me and the deflated tire, chest heaving. “Oh. Oops.” After a beat, “Can we run now?”
I give her a smirk, pocketing my knife and offering her my hand. “Ms. Crane would be proud.”
