“You don’t call the cops on Kings,” Richelle snorts.
“Why not?”
“You really have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?” She huffs out a breath, shaking her head patronizingly. “Let me spell it out for you, new girl. The Kingsownthis place. They own the faculty, the administration, the security, and even the small-town cops in Norfolk who would answer your call. You’re in Kings territory now, babe, and what they say,goes. There’s no fighting against it or changing it, so the best thing you can do is keep your head down, do what they say, and hope they eventually get bored with you and move onto someone else to torture.”
I just stare at her with my mouth agape, still angry with her but also in awe of the gravity behind what she’s saying. Then my mind latches onto a thought that ran through my head after Ford played me the video– that they’ve probably done this toother girls before me. Richelle could be another victim of their blackmail.
“Do they… have something on you?” I ask cautiously, arching a brow.
“It doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, looking away with a quick shake of her head. “Just try to avoid them as much as you can, alright? That’s the best advice I can give you.”
Her reaction is confirmation enough that my suspicions are correct, and I get a sinking feeling deep in my gut. “Too late for that,” I mutter. “They changed my classes around so I can never get away from them.”
“So it’s true, then,” she muses, frowning. “Damn. Well, if you can’t hack it, then pack your bags and call your parents, girl, because nobody here can help you.”
I tried to call.
I want to scream that out loud, to curse my mother for abandoning me here, my stepfather for raising a monster, both of them for not answering their phones… but I stay silent. With a feeling of dread settling over me, I turn back to my desk and tear open the paper bag from the Bistro.
“I’ll figure something out,” I mutter, pulling out the container of lasagna and a plastic fork. There’s also garlic bread and a delicious looking brownie inside. I arrange everything on my desk, sinking into my chair to chow down.
“Another word of advice?” Richelle pipes up right as I’m picking up my fork.
I glance back at her over my shoulder.
“Don’t try to appeal to their sense of decency, because they have none,” she says somberly. “Wes is probably the least scary of the bunch, so if you’ve gotta pick one to stick close to, I’d go with him.”
“Wes is the one who got me into this mess,” I rasp, my throat tightening as memories of the party at the boathouse flashthrough my mind like a film reel. “He’s definitely not gonna save me. Ford, maybe…”
“Excuse me, Christian Ford?” Richelle interjects, shaking her head with a grimace. “You do realize that Ford is an actual psychopath, right? I mean, Raf’s mean streak stems from his anger over his mom dying, and Wes can almost pass for normal, but Ford… he’ll slit your throat with a smile.”
I flinch at her warning, a shiver racing down my spine. I never realized Ford wasn’t his first name, though it fits that he goes by his surname.Christiansounds like an angel from above, not one of the devil’s henchmen.
“Noted,” I mumble, turning back to my dinner and digging in, wanting to just eat my food and zone out studying for a while.
The truth of the matter is, I can’t trust any of these guys. I just have to keep my head down and my guard up, and hope that like Richelle said, they’ll eventually get bored and move on.
But even I know hope is for fools.
CHAPTER 17
WES
Typically,I dread going to Statistics class on Tuesday morning. Math has never been my strong suit, which means I study for this class more than all my others combined andstillstruggle to keep my grade up. Professor Astor is a nerd that’s clearly chasing a vendetta against his former bullies, because he singles me out more often than any of my other classmates when he asks questions, and I fucking hate being put on the spot and made to feel stupid when I can’t figure something out. Basically, Stats class is the bane of my existence, which makes Tuesday mornings hell in my world.
I always double up on my caffeine intake before heading into this class, so I’m clutching two paper coffee cups in my hands as I make my way across campus to Stoker Hall– the math building that was funded by Travis Stoker’s great great grandfather– to endure two hours of torture at the hands of Professor Astor.
“Hey, Wes,” a leggy brunette purrs as she sidles up alongside me, falling into step on my left as I walk the main path through campus. “Great party this weekend.”
“Yeah, it was alright,” I reply coolly, glancing over at her. She’s hot, and something about her looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“I was hoping you’d take me up to the loft again.”
Ah,sothat’swhere I recognize her from– the end of semester party at the boathouse last spring. She let Ford and I fuck her from both ends.
“Maybe next time,” I say with a wink.
Her smile widens, cheeks flushing pink. “Yeah, for sure. When’s the next party?”
