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PROLOGUE
I should look away. I should walk away. I don’t, because I can’t. My feet are firmly planted on the polished floor; they might as well be encased in concrete. The writhing bodies have me entranced, their song and sinful dance, enraptured.
I’m not shocked. Shock would imply a degree of surprise. There’s nothing surprising in finding the four of them in the locker room—the girls’, too—with a girl. They’re fucking. There’s no other word for it. They aren’t making love, they certainly aren’t sleeping with her. They’re fucking her. Hard. I can’t even see her face, just her long, dark locks. There are hundreds of dark-haired girls in Cross and Roses. I couldn’t begin to guess which one these boys have chosen for their depravity. Every girl wants at least one of them, if not the four of them together. She could have been me, for all intent and purpose. Not that I’d ever even dreamt of any of them fucking me. I don’t exist. Not to them—not to most people in this joke of a school.
Get out of here, I tell myself, all the while leaning forward to get a better view of Jason’s face.
The latest survey on SnapApp showed that the girls (and boys—though many wouldn’t admit to voting) of Cross think that Maverick is the prettiest of the four. I can see it. Both of his parents are mixed race; he took away the best of all ethnicities. His caramel skin and long dark lashes clash with his emerald green eyes. I can’t see him from this angle. Just his cock. The girl’s seated on his lap, bouncing up and down while Rowan fucks her from behind, his perfect ass diving into her with abandon.
Cain came in second on the survey; Jason was last. Maybe because he doesn’t smile. Maybe because he’s known to be merciless to friends and foes alike. I’ll never understand my peers. All four of them may be golden Greek gods among mere mortals, but my eyes have always gravitated to Jason. He’s fascinating. And he’s never been more fascinating than right now. While Cain plunges in and out of the girl’s mouth, Jason watches. Fully clothed, he stares at the girl, a hand running down the length of her dark hair. I see his mouth move, but over the moans and grunts and sweet curses, I can’t hear his whispers. They’re all for her. Their secret.
I’ve never been so hot, and cold, and terrified. What if they see me?
What if they don’t?
CHAPTER ONE
I should have worn sneakers. God knows I love my painted Docs, but they aren’t much help on a three-mile trek.
Fuck. I can’t afford to be late, not today.
I had a deal with my parents: whatever I save for my car fund, they’d match it to help me pay for my ride. I bought my dream car—a racing green Mini with a checkered rooftop—just two weeks ago, and it's already broken down twice. The second time was at five this morning. After desperately attempting to breathe life into it again, I had to face the music and ask Dad to drive me up to school. Except he was already at the restaurant, supervising a supply run. He came as soon as he could, but I’m still behind schedule.
It would help if parents could directly drive up to the school building, but that wasn’t allowed without prior written authorization, as well as an ironclad reason. Cross and Roses took the privacy of its students fucking seriously.
I love the campus, most days. It’s vast enough to walk around and forget where I am when I need an escape. The gates open to a paved road leading right up to the common dorms, a four-story building that looks more like a manor house than a place meant for teenage students. A courtyard separates the dorms from the administrative building where I still need to drop by to pick up my new assigned room number and schedule.
Past the administrative building that doubles as a residence for the staff, the campus boasts a lake, near which the legacies’ dorm was built. The lake house makes the common dorm-slash-manor look like a hovel. It’s a wood and glass contemporary home built less than ten years ago, by a world-renowned architect who used to attend Cross. He got the multimillion-dollar contract just like that. Nepotism, anyone?
The lake house—we call it Glass—belongs to the legacies. No one can go anywhere near it without their permission, so I've never caught a glimpse from up close.
The school keeps horses near the grove. The stables overlook a field where our cross country team likes to run. It looks nothing like a school. Our actual lessons happen one mile from the stables, in a U-shaped building modeled after the Louvre. I doubt the French palace is as gaudy as Cross, with our burgundy curtains, velvet-lined high back chairs, and ceilings painted with naked baby angels. Not that I’d know—unlike most of the student body, I’ve never been to France.
At least no one has dropped a pyramid in the middle of the courtyard. Yet.
Dad had to drop me off at the gates, so I walked all the way up to the school building. At the top of each hour, buses run between the dorm and the school, but I was far too late to catch one.
I scan my student card and rush into the amphitheater where assemblies are held each week. Relief crashes into my chest when I see it hasn’t started yet. Being late to any assembly was worth a detention and a demerit—enough demerits could lead to a suspension. I can’t afford any of that nonsense on my transcript. I hurry to claim the first open seat I spy, toward the back.
Moments after I take my seat, our severe headmaster, Mr. Bone, marches to the platform, and the crowd silences without him having to say a single word. He launches into the usual boring lecture, addressing each class with gravitas that doesn’t quite hit after the first time. The freshmen are warned that their decisions will determine their entire future, and they look downright terrified at the prospect—like I had been two years ago. To us, he drones on about our final year being the most important one. “You need to focus on looking good for your college applications.”
Seriously? Who would’ve thought that? I roll my eyes. I’m tired of older people assuming that because we’re young, we must be completely dumb.
Between waiting tables, I had summer classes at Tisch, and more than ever, I want to get in. With hard work, determination, and a lack of distractions, I should be able to. I may not be the best in math and science, but I’ll work as hard as I can to show them I’m worth taking a chance on. The light at the end of the tunnel makes the pain worth it. I’ll go to Tisch, learn multiple mediums, make connections in the art world, and hopefully someday sell a painting or two.
I’m not deluded. I realize that I’m likely to become a high school art teacher to pay the bills—or college, if I’m lucky. But I would do my damnedest to ingest art every day. I don’t want to end up working behind a desk at a nine-to-five job like my father did before he started the restaurant. He hated it, and I’d hate it more. His first love is cooking. Mine is creating.
There's some laughter and a few whispers behind me, and I glance over my shoulder.
It’s them.
Of course it is.
Heat rushes up my neck and to my cheeks like it has every time I thought about them this summer.
I didn’t constantly waste my time daydreaming about boys who had no idea who I was of course, but memories of that day at the end of last year have popped by inadvertently now and then. Especially at night.
Summer has been good to them. They’ve always been athletic, as they play football, but they’ve filled out, looking like men more than boys these days. Just as delicious, a little more dangerous.
