Page 41 of Revenge

I rested my head in my hands and took several deep, calming breaths. I was in over my head, and now it was time to swim.

* * *

Monday morning at breakfast was abuzz with tales from the party. I sat between Edward and Blake, stealing glances at Blake and not quite believing how hot he had been that night. His black hair hung loose over his face, as though he hadn’t had time to style it this morning. It framed his dark eyes and high-cheekbones perfectly. The top button of his shirt hadn’t been fastened, and the knot of his tie hung half an inch below his collar. For Mercia Academy, he looked seductively disheveled.

“I missed you yesterday,” he murmured. “And at the party.”

“The absinthe went to my head, and I sat on the balcony with Edward. Did you have a good time?”

“Wonderful,” he purred.

I would have asked what he did when he had finished sucking off Henry, but I’d seen footage of the three of them leaving the room together and joining the rest of the party. Jackie would email or text if they did something other than hold court.

Coates, the rugby player who had complained about International House, sauntered up to the table. “Great party,” he said to Henry. “Thanks for snagging me an invite.”

Henry grinned. “Did you get lucky?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He strolled out of the dining room with his hands in his pockets and nodded to Charlotte as she swept in with her nose in the air.

“Hobson.” She placed her hands on her waist and thrust out her right hip. Wendy and Patricia flanked her and struck a similar pose but with far less attitude.

I picked up a jug of orange juice, which made her flinch, then made a show of pouring it into my glass. When I finished, I took a long sip and glanced up. “Sorry, Underwood, did you say something?”

“Nice party. I’ll have to tell your fiancé that you disappeared with three boys.”

“Do you want his email address or will you post it on his Facebook page?”

The smug twist of her face melted into slack disappointment. “You’re a bitch.”

“And by your own admission, you’re a gatecrasher, but you don’t see me complaining.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a washed up blobfish, and she glanced from Henry to Blake, as though they might say something in her defense. I raised my brows and gave her a little smirk. When nobody spoke, she stormed off toward a table at the other end of the dining hall. I made a mental note to ask Jackie if Charlotte had done anything interesting during the party.

A few sycophants approached the head table, thanking the triumvirate for a good time. I bit hard into my toast. Never mind that I’d gotten the invitations because my fake fiancé had been playing at the venue. This kind of behavior was typical of the people in Elder House, though, as these were the people who had relished humiliating me in that gauntlet. I looked forward to reading about them in the Saturday Correspondent.

* * *

After classes, I walked along the path bordered by bare magnolia trees. The pale winter sun shone down from a cloudless sky, softening the frost underfoot. In the distance, I spotted Nadia, the girl from International House who had needed phone cards. Her shoulders were drooped, and her bouffant had disappeared, replaced by limp, black hair that hung over the sides of her face like drapes. Obviously, life at Mercia Academy, or whatever the headmaster had called his scam, wasn’t working out for her.

“Nadia!” I stood on my tiptoes and waved.

She stopped and gave me a half-hearted wave back.

I jogged over the frosty ground, careful not to slip. When I reached her, I asked, “Do you like hot chocolate? I’m going to the tuck shop to get some.”

“I need more international phone cards.” She raised her shoulders around her ears and walked alongside me. A couple of men in thick, sheepskin jackets stood outside the double doors of International House, smoking roll-up cigarettes. From their thick, five o’clock shadows, they were university age or older, and certainly not teachers.

“Didn’t the cards you bought last long enough?” I asked. Lame question, but it might prompt her into explaining why she appeared so homesick.

“I worry for my fiancé,” she said in a small voice. “The police in my city hate him and say he sells drugs.”

“Oh no!” I turned to her. “Why aren’t you with him to help him fight them?”

Her face crumpled, and I gave her a pat on the shoulder, ignoring the guilt churning in my stomach. Nadia wanted to get her problems off her chest, and whatever she said, I wouldn’t repeat the details to anyone. I just needed enough information to work out how the headmaster was marketing the school overseas. We stepped into the tuck shop, which was modeled like the village tea shop with its wooden tables and chairs. Then I told her to wait for me, and I ordered two cups of steaming, hot cocoa.

Nadia stared into her cup. “His family sent me here, so the police would not hurt me.”

I placed the cup to my lips. It was more likely that her fiancé’s family sent her to Mercia Academy for her to avoid being forced to give evidence. “How long will you be here?”