I was in one of those moods when I sat in the library for my usual study session with Ash.
He’d blown off our other session for that week, so I had no real expectations for him showing up today. If anything, I hoped he wouldn’t show up. I didn’t want him questioning the tremor in my fingers as I answered the math equations in my workbook.
I get fifteen minutes of peace before Blaise arrives. He looks around the library as if he is looking for someone else to help him, and then sighs and sits down in the seat Ash usually uses. I don’t look up or acknowledge him as he empties his bag and gets settled in his seat. Once he’s set up, he clears his throat to get my attention. I look up and focus my eyes at the tip of his nose instead of staring into those gorgeous green eyes. He shifts in his seat, and I think about feeling sorry for him. Then I remember his cold words when he’d publicly humiliated me on the worst day of my time at Hannaford so far—I don’t fuck fans—and I give him the tiniest glare instead. God, I am pathetic.
“I’m going to fail math if you can’t perform a miracle on me.”
I take the paper he slides across to me and see the mess he’s made of his own workbook. It’s bad. It’s not completely hopeless, but he’s definitely going to fail if he hands this in. I start to mark it and jot down observations in silence, trying to ignore the slight tremble of my fingers. I can help this arrogant, gorgeous, talented, swoon-worthy asshole without having to look or speak to him. I am just that good.
He squirms in his seat.
“Look, if you don’t want to help me, then I can find someone else.”
I snort at him derisively without stopping my methodical work. “Harley is on par with me in math. Why don’t you ask him to help you? Then you wouldn’t have to ever look at me. I could continue to stay as far away from you as possible, and you could forget I even go here.”
He clears his throat again and looks around the room. His tie is off, and his shirt is unbuttoned enough that I can see his tattoos peeking out. I try my best not to think about them and finish marking the page, sliding it back across the table to him. When I pick up my own work again, he finally answers me.
“Harley is really impatient. He used to try and help me, but we would end up at each other's throats. He doesn’t understand how I don’t get it. It’s all so easy to him that he’s removed from the work the rest of us have to do to understand.”
It’s an honest statement. Something revealing and raw. I nod at him, and then I sigh, looking up to walk him through the work verbally until I’m sure he’s got a decent understanding of the formulas. He’s obviously smart, but it takes a few tries to find the right explanations to help him get a good grasp on the sums. It’s pleasant, much nicer than the antagonistic banter with Ash, and I find myself enjoying him being there. We get the workbook in a solid A condition, and I even help him develop a great page of notes for the upcoming tests.
“So, how did you first hear Vanth?” he asks as I do a last read-through.
The question throws me, and I just barely manage to keep hold of my pen. I glance up to see his eyes fucking twinkling at me, and I choke on my tongue.
“I heard your early covers and I bought the albums.” I don’t mention what I had to do to get the money to buy them. I don’t know how well he’d take me gambling with my body in the fighting scenes of Mounts Bay middle school.
He groans and rubs a hand over his face.
“How did you find the covers? They’re terrible! You must be a very dedicated fan to go looking for them.”
I know logically that he’s joking around with me, but he hits a nerve. The same nerve he’d struck uttering those words to me in Health Ed. My face flames, and I slowly put my pen down with a glare at him. His face drops, the smile sliding right off his features.
“I didn’t go looking for them. I’m not a fucking stalker. I meant that I heard them when you released them. I’d been listening to your shit from the beginning, and I followed your career from there to Vanth. But don’t worry about going to school with a fan, I’m certainly not one now. I’ve fucking burned the shirt and deleted your shit from my phone. I have no interest in listening to music from a stuck-up, spoiled, rich brat. I’ll listen to music from people who are real and write lyrics from the heart.”
I’ve managed to strike a nerve with him too. I know all about his insecurities, how he didn’t want to use his parents’ money to prop up the band in their early years or use their connection to get a record deal. I know exactly what to say to piss him off, and that’s what I’ve done.
He leveled me with a look so dark, my mind flashes to Ash sitting across from me. I take in every inch of his fire and give him back my own. I may never be able to speak to him again, but at least I’ve told him exactly what I think of him, exactly what his dismissal of me did to me.
Now Avery might actually kill me. But fuck him, and fuck her.
* * *
Two things cross my mind when I get back to my room after dinner the next night: Avery Beaumont works fast; and where the hell could I get some locks that would keep the bitch out of my room?
I thought the urine was the worst thing they could throw around my room, and I guess it was a stinking biohazard. However, piss could be washed out. You could splash enough bleach around to disinfect and clean the damage done to the room.
You can’t wash out pure, industrial-strength black paint.
When I open the door and switch on my light, the blackness eats it up so much, for a second I think the light has blown. There isn’t a single inch of the room or contents that isn’t now black. My clothes and shoes, my books, my fucking pillow. I take a step forward and I feel the tackiness of the floor. The paint isn’t even dry yet. They must have barely finished before I got here. I can hear the tittering of their laughter, a sound that will probably haunt me for life once I’ve left this damned place behind, but I don’t look back to see who it is. I know that no matter who held the tin and brushes, Avery is behind this. I’m grateful that I’ve made copies of all my classwork, so at least I don’t lose that work, but I now have nothing. I’ll have to spend some of my stash of funds to replace my uniforms and my clothing. I’ve lost every damn thing I own. Well, not everything. My safe hidden under the floorboards is fine.
I have no choice but to call the administration office and report the damage thanks to the black walls and floor.
While I wait for help to arrive, I pick through my destroyed belongings and start a mental list of what I’m going to have to replace, the bare minimum I’ll need to survive. It’s frustrating that Avery knows exactly where to hit to cause the most damage to my life. While Joey uses big, sweeping acts to attempt to break me, Avery knows the small pressure points that chip away at me. The bet and the guys chasing me for sex is annoying, but manageable. Even Joey trying to fuck me against my will was something I could deal with; a knife to the dick is pretty persuasive. The 911 call was closer to the mark, but he underestimated my mental walls.
The exhaustion of cleaning out my room constantly, of checking for cameras, of showering as quickly as I can, of replacing everything I own—that was all much more likely to get me to quit this school, and honestly, if my only other option wasn’t returning to the Jackal, I might’ve walked away by now. But I know the second I go back to him, I will never get out. I’ll be stuck as his second in command in his gang, and probably even his girlfriend. I’ll be his to own and control. I can’t ever belong to him again.
Avery’s face is the perfect picture of innocence when Mr. Trevelen arrives. I don’t have any evidence to say it was her, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind that she’s responsible. I’m escorted down to the sick bay in the nurse's office to sleep for the night, and Mr. Trevelen informs me I’ll be reimbursed for the items lost. I don’t kick up a fuss, there’s no point, and when I lay my head down, I sleep like the dead.
