The crescendo is my favorite part of a musical piece.
It’s like gathering electricity, the kind that builds and builds until it buzzes through your entire body. Until everywhere, from your fingers to your toes is on fire. Different from a climax, it isn’t the peak. It’s not the part that will rip the audience’s breath from their throats or cause a tear to fall from their eye.
It’s the build-up.
And it’s special because only the musician knows it’s coming. A secret trapped in her hands, in her mind, in her piano. A shifting in the air that makes the audience nervous. Makes their throats bob and their eyes dart from side to side.
A rubber band pulling back, back, back.
No one is sure when it will snap.
No one can do anything about it.
In that moment, in the crescendo, the people who are listening… they’re under my control.
I feel that electricity when Dutch storms down the bleachers, his amber eyes hot enough to burn me to a crisp.
His boots hit the metal stands in loud thuds. Thump. Thump. Rhythmic percussions. Students jump out of his way, knowing he won’t stop. Knowing they’ll get crushed like cockroaches if they’re stupid enough to remain in place.
I watch the wave that flows and ebbs around Dutch’s descent. The air around him is charged. Musical notes pluck through my mind. The shrieking melody of an electric guitar to match the frantic pace of his footsteps. His boots land on the gym floor and he barrels at me like a bull seeing red.
For a moment, my breath clogs in my throat.
The Prince of Redwood Prep.
Dangerous.
Beastly.
Violent.
There’s a weight to Dutch that goes far beyond the wide chest and shoulders straining against his preppy vest, an intensity that has nothing to do with the slightly unhinged glint in his eyes or the hardness in the planes of his face.
Can I really do this? Can I go toe-to-toe with a ruthless king like him?
Brushing the thought away quickly, I square my shoulders. There is no other choice. He didn’t give me another choice.
“Do you need something, Dutch?” I ask coldly.
His eyes drill into mine with the precision of a laser. His voice sounds like it’s scraping against shards of broken glass when he hisses, “Who the hell are you?”
My heart wobbles, but I beat it back into submission. Nights ago, after dropping my defenses—and almost dropping my panties—I found out swiftly that Dutch Cross would stop at nothing to destroy me. He made the call to get me kicked out of Redwood. He didn’t give a damn about what that would do to me, to my future or to my family.
He cares about only one thing: himself.
Now that I’ve managed to scramble out of the hole he tried to bury me in, I won’t forget who put me there.
I step close to him and tip my chin up to meet his stormy gaze. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare.
So much anger. It’s a flood running through his lithe, gorgeous body. I can practically see it charging in his veins and sparking from his glowing hazel eyes. Chiseled jaw muscles clench and unclench as he struggles to make sense of who I am and how he should respond to me.
“Dutch?” A voice rings through the school gym. It’s deep and husky, the kind of voice that can capture a stadium full of men and women and make them believe in love.
I turn and lock eyes with Jarod Cross.
The respectable black turtleneck and pressed trousers can’t snuff out the ‘rockstar’ ingrained beneath his skin. With his thick chestnut hair, slightly wavy as if he couldn’t care less about hair products, the thick sideburns, the heavy silver necklace and the tattoos creeping out of his throat and on the back of his hands, he screams musical chaos.
I’ve never been an active fan of Jarod Cross, but there’s not a person on this planet who hasn’t heard his music. From triple platinum albums to the soundtracks behind the most iconic action movie scenes to simply featuring on another band’s track, he’s everywhere.
Dutch rips his gaze away from me and focuses on his dad. The two share a long, charged staredown. Beneath their unblinking gazes is a dangerous hint of animosity.
The truth shakes loose before my eyes. Jarod Cross didn’t jump to my rescue to help out Mr. Mulliez or to log a point in his book of good deeds. There’s more to his appearance at Redwood Prep.
“You want to explain why you’re making a scene?” Jarod Cross snarls beneath his breath.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Dutch snaps back.
The pressure in the air mounts like a plane taking off on a runway.
What’s going on between Dutch and his dad?
The gym doors burst open before I can dig into it. Both Jarod Cross and Dutch glance around. Apprehension flickers through Jarod’s eyes when he sees the police. He takes a step back.
But the cops aren’t looking at him. Their eyes swerve through the gym, intently searching for their target.
Whispers and gasps rise from the student body. In all their elite, privileged lives, they’ve never brushed against a moment like this.
I hear the crescendo in my head.
Relentless momentum.
Crashing dominos.
Phones are out now, some already suspecting that, whatever’s going down, it’s worthy of being recorded.
“What in the heavens?” Principal Harris exclaims from his perch next to the podium. Sweat leaks out of his bald head and pours down the side of his face. “Why are there police officers?”
Everyone in the bleachers leans forward, anticipating a show.
But it’s not the kind they’re expecting.
The officers march straight to the cheerleaders who are clumped together on a bench. Pretty, toned, and privileged, they wear their careless abandon like they do their sparkly outfits with the pleated skirts and plastic pompoms.
I watch the dancers’ shocked reactions when the cops get closer. Each of their faces devolve into masks of discomfort. Their eyes dart to one another. Teeth tugging into bottom lips. Hands tightening around their pompoms.
The buzz in my veins gets worse. Was I always this greedy for revenge? Have I always been a destructive person or did Redwood Prep turn me into this monster?
I feel Dutch’s gaze boring into my head. Diverting my attention from the cops to the furious god of Redwood Prep, I arch a brow in challenge.
He steps toward me. His chest brushes my arm and sends an unwanted spark of awareness thrumming through my body.
Voice low and head tucked close to my ear, Dutch growls, “What. Did. You. Do?”
“Me?” I whisper innocently.
He grabs my arm. His fingers are almost painful when they clamp around my wrist. “Cadence.”
A shriek ricochets around the gym, temporarily averting Dutch’s venomous gaze. We both look to the front where the cops have pointed out Christa.
“Get your hands off me!” the blonde screams.
Principal Harris throws helpless eyes at Jarod Cross as if invoking some kind of supernatural creature to do his bidding. The rockstar remains rooted in place. His fingers are relaxed. One corner of his lips arches up in amusement.
The police succeed in getting Christa to her feet. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, but I know why they’re here.
And I know why Christa’s face turns pale.
Her blue eyes shoot over the gym and skewer me. Pink lips curl up in an animalistic sneer.
I should be scared, but I’m not.
The crescendo is building.
A D D# E
Pulling. Pulling. Pulling.
No release in sight.
The police escort Christa out of the gym. Gasps ripple through the crowd. Phone lights flash and blink.
Principal Harris produces a handkerchief, sops up the sweat on his face, and motions to the disappearing police. “I should see what’s going on.”
In the chaos of students shooting to their feet and teachers fighting to keep order, Dutch yanks me right up against him. His breath hits my neck like fingers grasping at my throat and every muscle in my body pulls taut.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re plotting, but I will end it.” Eyes narrowing to slits, he hisses, “I will end you.”
His threat ricochets through my body.
Before I can say anything, one of the officers returns to the gym.
The students go quiet again.
Jarod Cross stiffens.
Dutch is the only one who doesn’t seem to know or care that he’s practically manhandling me in front of law enforcement.
“Cadence Cooper?” the cop drawls.
I turn, my hand still held hostage in Dutch’s giant paws.
“You need to come with me.”
“Sure.” I wrench my hand back and spear Dutch with a dark look.
He returns the glower with an even icier one. Pale fingers clench into fists. His amber eyes convey only one thing—this isn’t over.
I feel the weight of his promise and I fear the damage he’ll do to me. Not because Dutch is big and intimidating. Not because he and his brothers rule Redwood Prep with an iron fist. Not even because he has no respect for his father, authority in general or the law.
But because I don’t trust the way my body will react to him. Even if I hate him with my every breath, there’s a twisted, dark piece of me that beats to life when I’m near him.
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m being taken away.
I follow the cop into the empty hallway. “Why did you need to see me? Wasn’t the video enough?”
Last week, I made a deal with Jinx to get evidence of Christa shoving me into the pool. Christa was stupid enough to have her friends film her that day.
In exchange for the footage, I had to leak one of my biggest secrets to Jinx. A part of me thinks I might have jumped straight out of the frying pan and into the fire. But if making a deal with the devil keeps me alive long enough to protect myself and my future, I’ll do anything.
We turn the bend.
The officer motions me forward.
“We need to get your official statement in order to charge Miss Miller with aggravated assault.” He hands me a filled-out report.
“The hell is going on here!” A man in a suit storms into view. “I’m Reginald Miller, Christa’s dad and chairman of the board at Redwood Prep. Why is my daughter being questioned? Do you have any idea the hell my lawyers will rain—”
“We have evidence of your daughter instigating a near-fatal drowning. This is a very serious matter, Mr. Miller.”
“My daughter would never—”
The cop lifts his phone and plays the video.
Giggling pours from the speakers, then someone whispers sh. On screen, Christa is tiptoeing toward me. Her hands are out-stretched. Then they’re slamming against my back.
I watch my body lurch into the inky blue water and my throat gets tight as if I’m reliving the horror of that moment all over again.
My enemies are ruthless.
Which is why I have to be even more so.
Miller’s face turns whiter than my sheet music. His eyes dart to me and back to the video.
“We also have a statement from the nurse detailing Miss Cooper’s injuries, as well as a corroborating medical report from the hospital. This is not an unfounded accusation. It is our responsibility to look into this case carefully and methodically. We ask for your cooperation.”
Miller’s mouth opens and closes. He looks at me again but, this time, there’s a hint of desperation. Gone is the man who swaggered into Redwood Prep demanding that heads roll.
Now he’s ready to bow.
I rise unsteadily from the desk. “Before I sign, I need to use the bathroom.”
The officer steps away to let me pass. When I’m in front of Miller, I stop to whisper, “Meet me in the hallway out front.”
His stiffening shoulders are the only indication that he heard me.
I wash my hands in the bathroom, take a few deep breaths and then meet Miller in the shadows.
His blue eyes—so much like Christa’s—are pleading. “I’m hoping you didn’t ask to meet privately because you have something over my daughter that would make this worse.”
“Relax.” I straighten my shoulders and hope my voice doesn’t tremble the way my knees are. “I want to make things better. Not worse.”
His eyes take on a skeptical sheen. “You set this up.”
“Oh no. I didn’t force your daughter to try and murder me, Mr. Miller. That would be foolish of me.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“This case can easily become an attempted homicidal drowning. Since Christa’s eighteen, she’d be tried in a criminal court. At worst, she’ll do a few years behind bars. At best, her chances of going to a fancy Ivy League goes poof.” I gesture with my hands.
His tongue darts out to swipe his bottom lip. His eyebrows wrinkle. “I’m willing to do anything. Just,” he waves his arms frantically, “make this go away.”
A D D# E
The swell before a lashing tsunami. A wave that’s rising and frothing at the mouth.
I feel the electricity in my bones.
“Anything?” I whisper.
“Yes. Just tell me what you want.”
“I want Dutch Cross’s head on a platter.”
His lips curl down. Annoyance skitters through his eyes. “Is that what all the fuss is about?” He scowls. “You’re threatening my daughter’s future for petty high school revenge?”
I take out my phone, spin it between my fingers and say casually, “I wonder what fraud charges would look like on top of attempted murder charges?”
His eyes bug.
“Christa, Dutch and his brothers changed my grades to get me kicked out of Redwood Prep and you, dear Chairman of the Board, you were their accomplice.” My stare hardens. “Does this still sound like petty high school revenge to you?”
Miller tugs at his collar. His Adam’s apple bounces up and down. “I can’t touch Dutch.”
“Why the hell not?” I hiss. Is that monster really a god? Not even the head of the board at Redwood Prep wants to take him down.
“Why do you think you could just come waltzing back to school after being kicked out?” Miller spits.
My eyelashes flutter. “Jarod Cross.”
“Even I don’t have the kind of power to take Cross on yet.”
“Hm.” I tap my fingers on the cell phone. “Then I guess I’ll have to send this video of Christa to the local news. And who knows how widely it’ll spread? People love to see the mighty falling off their pedestals. They’ll make this bigger and bigger until your daughter won’t be able to lift her head in public again.”
“Wait. Wait.” He holds out a hand and stares pleadingly. “I can’t touch the Cross boys, but I can do something else. Anything else. Name it.”
My heart beating fast, I contemplate the offer. “Fine. Put my grades back to where they were before.”
“W-what?”
“I’ll send you a snapshot of all my test papers. You can consult with my teachers to verify. I want it done in a day—”
“A day?”
“—And if, in the next twenty-four hours, my grades aren’t returned to what they were,” I step close to him and smile tauntingly, “the police aren’t the only ones I’ll be visiting. You can look forward to seeing your daughter’s mug shot everywhere.”
He trembles. “I really don’t know if I can make it happen in a day.”
“Well,” I smooth out his collar, “we’ll see how much time your daughter has then.”
Miller gulps.
I take a step away and then I stop. Turn around. Stare coolly at him. “Oh, and Miller, from now on, keep your daughter in check. If she comes at me again, I won’t let her off easy.”
He nods desperately.
I glide past him, my head held high. The moment I turn the bend, I crash against the lockers and struggle to catch my breath.
I feel like I’m on a slippery slope with rabid sharks beneath me. But what other choice do I have? Now that Dutch didn’t get his way and Christa’s been publicly humiliated, they’ll both be on the war path. I’ll need to become something new, something stronger, if I’m going to survive in Redwood.
My fingers dig into the locker.
I close my eyes and count backwards from ten.
My throat is closing up.
It hurts to breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
When I no longer feel like throwing up, I straighten and find an empty classroom to hide out from the police. I have a feeling that Miller won’t waste any time holding up his end of the deal.
And when that happens, it’ll be my turn to make all this go away.
Jinx: Hell hath no fury like a mermaid without her legs.
Turns out, New Girl and water aren’t the best of friends.
Not surprisingly, New Girl and Pompoms aren’t chummy either.
So why did our resident Cinderella tell the cops her little make-out session with Redwood’s chlorine-soaked pool water was a ‘little misunderstanding between friends’?
And you thought rock legend Jarod Cross’s surprise visit to Redwood would be the talk of the decade? Turns out, all it took was a little shakedown from the boys in blue to usurp the strongest star in the Redwood sky.
Speaking of Redwood stars, our resident Prince Charming is yet to make a move now that his father and his rebellious Cinderella are in the spotlight. I wonder… why is he hesitating? Is it true love or is our king losing his golden touch?
Until the next post, keep your enemies close and your secrets even closer.
– Jinx
