Very Wicked Things

Prestigious and old, Briarcrest Academy was hailed as one of the most academically excellent schools in Texas. It also had an excellent dance and music department. It certainly had one of the biggest price tags, annual tuition costing around thirty-five thousand a year for non-boarders. Against a backdrop of stately oak trees and carefully maintained shrubbery, the austere grey stones ushered in the privileged to its hallowed halls. Calling me privileged was downright funny, yet here I am, finishing up my last year at BA. All because Sarah had wrangled me a scholarship, pulling strings with one of the dance teachers here.

BA reeked of money, sophistication and class. It reeked of things I didn’t have, like Hummers and Prada purses. The girls—and guys—dressed like it was Milan Fashion Week and the paparazzi were waiting right outside the school to take their pictures.

I pushed through the double doors, stopping in the tastefully decorated foyer to brush off the rain. It didn’t help. I probably looked like a drowned rat, but at least my backpack had kept my books and ballet clothes dry.

I continued down the long entry hallway to my locker, and it was a lot like walking the gauntlet. But I’d mastered the art of ignoring the eye-judging of the girls and the leers from the jerk-offs who thought I was easy. They’d recognized I wasn’t a clone of them on day one.

Fine with me. I liked being on the fringe. The less they knew about me and where I came from the better. And ballet kept me happy. I didn’t need people.

But I shouldn’t generalize because I had some friends here, namely Spider. With his stuffy English accent, you’d think we wouldn’t go together, but we’d met freshman year and had been friends ever since. He was filthy rich and I wasn’t, but we did share a love for cafeteria French fries and Minecraft. He boarded at BA, and sometimes if I was too exhausted to drive home after hours of dance or if he was scary drunk, I’d sneak into his dorm and crash or take care of him, whichever was needed.

One of the football jocks—Matt the Quarterdick I called him in my head—whistled at me as I passed. As if. The star quarterback at BA, he was the epitome of the handsome, frat boy type. He was also Emma Easton’s on again, off again boyfriend. Although they’d been off for a while this last time.

Whatever. I avoided him.

I’d already learned a painful lesson with a certain rich boy at BA.

When I’d first come to BA, like most girls, I’d entertained thoughts—briefly—of meeting a hot guy, kinda like a Taylor Lautner type with a warm smile and perfect abs. He’d see me breeze through the door, and he’d break his neck to rush to my side. He’d introduce me to his friends, even the female ones, who’d be just as welcoming. Maybe he’d try and smell my hair without me knowing or offer to sing to me even when he couldn’t carry a tune. He’d drive a fast car and own his own penthouse where he’d promptly invite me over for a candlelight dinner. He’d sprinkle roses out in a trail to his bedroom. Ha. Yeah, I’m no beauty and that scenario only happens in the movies.

Imitating my classmates, I lifted my nose a notch higher and increased my stride, anxious to distance myself from the crowd who hung around the front entrance.

My phone buzzed, so I stepped inside the library. Heather-Lynn rarely texted, so I immediately got curious.

She’d written, Sarah owes money to the wrong people. Just a head’s up.

What? That made no sense.

I’d only be gone for forty-five minutes.

With rapid-fire fingers, I texted back, What happened? Should I come home?

But that would be hard. I had a test in Calculus and then ballet.

No, I’ll explain later, she said. Try not to worry. Gotta go. Sarah needs me.

Baffled, I put the phone back in my purse. We weren’t rich, but neither were we hand-to-mouth either. Not with Sarah’s teaching income and the settlement from the oil-rig accident when her husband had been killed.

I headed to class. Sometimes Heather-Lynn could be dramatic, so I let it go, yet made a mental plan to call her at my first break.

My locker beckoned, but I stopped in my tracks.

Please. Not today. Not with my plastered hair and wet shoes that squeaked when I walked.

He was there, his big shoulders and well-toned biceps taking up most of the space and all of my air. Yes, brooding and sexy, Cuba Hudson was serious man-candy, the kind good girls knew to stay away from. But I hadn’t. Within the space of a few weeks last year, he’d wooed me, screwed me, and then tossed me in the trash.

My heart clenched, remembering how he’d lied to me, how he’d fooled me. Of course, I’d given in to him, and he’d broken me, shattering something fragile that could never be fixed.

Perhaps running or hiding would be good now. There was always the bathroom or the library where I could loiter for the next five minutes. But then I’d be late for class.

I stood there uncertainly. Perhaps it was time to face him head-on.

And truthfully, I wanted a reaction out of him. Anything except the whole ignoring thing he’d been doing since he dumped me.

I marched up to my locker and flung it open with a metallic bang, making him flinch.

Of course, I immediately smelled him, a woodsy, expensive scent that wafted around him, bringing back a time I didn’t want to remember. One whiff and a thousand memories assaulted me, of how he’d incinerated me. I held my breath for a few seconds until I decided that was straight-up stupid. I had to breathe because it would suck if I passed out at his feet.

Oh, wouldn’t that just be dandy.