Harley glances down at me and gestures to one of the pews, right at the front where I’ll get the perfect view of what’s about to go down. When I’m comfortable, he dumps his bag next to me and then surveys the room. There’s about fifteen guys all standing around, and the air is thick with their eager bloodlust. None of them spare me a glance as they watch Harley with greedy eyes.
“Anyone touches her or asks her for sex from here on out will get the same as Hillsong. You can film it and spread it around, for all I fucking care, but that’s how it’s going to be. We clear?”
There’s nods, grunting, and a few phones make an appearance. Spencer laughs and puts his hands on his hips like he’s preening under Harley’s judgment. It’s gross.
“And what about your cousin? Joey is the whole reason this started, are you going to beat him up? I’m not afraid of you, Arbour. You think getting a face tat makes you so fucking tough? You’re just a pussy with a deadbeat dad and a fucked-up mom who’s riding on your cousins’ coattails.”
Harley leans down to drop his blazer on his bag and I see the flames burning in his eyes. Spencer is a dead man.
“I can organize a cleanup crew if you want to kill him,” I whisper, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Harley smirks at me and straightens.
“We can talk about how you have access to one of those later, Mounty.”
He turns and steps into the proverbial ring.
* * *
Idon’t know who calls the ambulance, but I do enjoy watching them wheel Spencer Hillsong away. Harley grabs his shit and leaves the chapel without looking at me, so I guess his charitable mood has up and left him. His hands are a mess and there’s blood all over him. Any teacher who comes across him would have to be on Avery’s books to not call the cops. It’s a good thing they all are.
I manage to convince the kitchen staff I’m an overworked, flailing mess, and they scrape together a tub of roast pork and sides smothered in gravy for me to take to my room to eat. I don’t know why I didn’t think of trying it before, and I’m thrilled when I sit on my bed and dig in. I mess around on my phone and try to tell myself I’m googling Vanth Falling news to keep tabs on my bully, and because I’m bored.
I didn’t burn the shirt.
I did stuff it in the bottom of my bag to try and forget about it, but old habits, and devotion die hard, so I’m back to wearing it, and a tiny pair of sparkly booty shorts, when there’s a knock at my door.
I panic.
It’s embarrassing as fuck to think about any girl in this place seeing me wearing it after my tantrum at Blaise over it, so I scramble to find something else to throw on over it quickly.
“Mounty, for fuck’s sake, I can hear you rummaging around there. Open the door.”
It’s Harley. Ohgod, I cannot open this door wearing the shirt. I will lose any credibility I’ve managed to gain with Blaise if he tells him. “I’m- ah- naked. Give me a second.”
I find one of the new sweaters I bought from the thrift store in Haven—it’s clearly a man’s sweater, and it’s three times the size of me—and I throw it over my head.
When I’m sure he won’t be able to see the Vanth shirt, I throw open the door to his deep frown. He eyes trail down my body, and when they reach my bare legs, he starts to look around my room, his scowl deepening.
“Can I help you?” I say, breathless. He curses at me under his breath and pushes past me into my room. Rude.
“Please come in,” I say sweetly and shut the door behind him before I can think better of it. He may still have it out for me academically, but I’m not afraid of being around him. I snort at myself. I’ve just watched him pummel another student to the point the kid had to be intubated before he was scraped off the chapel floor by the EMT’s, and yet that had proved to me that I had nothing to be afraid of. Funny old world.
“Is there a guy in here?” he says as he peers into my closet. My jaw drops.
“What—why would there be a guy in here?”
“You said you were naked. It’s five o clock, you haven’t just showered, and you’re wearing someone else's clothes. Who did you let win the bet?” He’s damn near hissing at me. I look down at myself, sigh, and then rub at my face.
“I lied. I wasn’t naked, I’m wearing a shirt and shorts under this. I just—it doesn’t matter. This is my sweater. I’m not a wannabe model like the other girls here, and I like being comfortable. No guy. Not interested in seeing any guys here at Hannaford naked, thanks.”
Blatant lie. I’d be interested in him. Or either of his friends, really. I try not to think about the time I saw him come all over Annabelle’s face in the woods, but then it’s all I’m thinking of and my face heats up. Harley squints at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying. I roll my eyes at him.
“This place is a literal closet. Check under my bed and see for yourself that there’s no one here.” He actually bends down and does check. My blood heats, and not with desire. “What exactly gives you the right to police who I fuck, anyway?”
He smirks at me and shows me his knuckles. They’re a mess; he hasn’t cleaned them at all. From the look of him he’s just thrown different clothes on, no shower. I should feel grossed out by that, but I lick my lips at the thought of the sweat that’s still on him. He still smells fantastic—totally unfair, because I know for a fact that I smell putrid after that much exercise. I duck under my bed, pull out my first-aid kit, and grab out some antiseptic wipes. He drops onto my bed like he owns the place, and I start to clean up his wounds.
“I’ve just cleared your social calendar for you, I wouldn’t want that to be for nothing.”
I chuckle as I carefully wipe away the blood that’s already dried, and he doesn’t flinch. His knuckles are covered in raised white scars, crisscrossing and gouging into his skin. It looks more extreme than what a prep school fight club would warrant. I make yet another mental note to look into him and his past. He clears his throat to get my attention.
