Page 13 of The Bargain

Yes, I want to scream. And⁠—

How is it so different to letting Julian slash your face for money?

But that’s the truth he’s trying to run in my face, isn’t that it?

I’m no better than Julian. I never was.

“I can pay you more, if that’s what you want.”

“Nah,” he says. “That’s not what I want.”

And with a single snap of his thumb, he flicks the wad of cash upwards, sending an explosion of money up into the room.

The notes flutter through the air, brushing against the sloped ceiling, falling in slow spirals. They land on old textbooks, on a battered shoebox poking out from under the bed, against the radiator rattling with too much heat. I feel it closing in on me: the stale warmth, the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave, the suffocating smallness of his room.

This is where he lives. This is where I’ve come to kneel.

“Keep your cash, love,” he says. He sits back into his chair with a grin, money still falling all around us, fluttering forlornly to the floor. “I got something else in mind.”

And I know by the darkness of his gaze, by the triumphant twist of his full mouth, that he’s going to ask for a far heavier price than any monetary sum.

“What is it?”

“Take your money back,” he says. “Then I’ll tell you.”

“Keep it,” I bite out.

“Don’t need it.”

And I realise it’s not about the money. I see it in the way his eyes gleam, in the crooked curving of his lips, in the way he slumps back into his seat, relaxed and expectant all at once.

“Get on your knees, love, and take your money back.”

I swallow, dread and humiliation a sickening potion in my belly. I look from him, from his bare torso and dark curls and long, open legs, down to the floor of his bedroom where my money lies scattered, useless and insulting to us both.

“Is that your prize?” I ask him.

He laughs. “Not even close.”

5

Dirty Hands

Elias

Julian’s knife game left me with a scar that might never fade, but it also opened up a whole new avenue of opportunities.

In one night, I went from being Elias Lennox, the eyesore nobody, to “Noxie”, the boy who’d do just about anything for a prize. The guy who crashed Caspian Berthold’s vintage Mercedes when he no longer wanted it. The guy who helped the Avigneux heiress secure a proposal from her on-again-off-again boyfriend by sleeping with her and letting himself get caught and beaten up. The ghostwriter behind dozens of personal statements, essays, and debate preps that got richer, older students into Oxbridge and Ivy Leagues.

But no matter how hard I work, there’s one thing I can’t manage to do.

Break into the upper echelons of Spearcrest. Gain access, finally, to the Blood Brotherhood. Become untouchable.

Because it doesn’t matter how useful I am to those rich kids—to them, I am and will always be an outsider. You can give an outsider a reward or a payment, but you never give him a seat at your table.

And whether or not I like it, I need a seat at their table.

I’ve only got one year left in Spearcrest, and my adoptive father, Mr Pearson, is running in the upcoming election this year. Whether or not he’s victorious, my usefulness to him will soon dwindle, and I don’t imagine his generosity will linger in its wake.