Defiant Princess (Boys of Oak Park Prep 2)

Moving slowly and quietly, I tugged my phone out of my back pocket and pulled up the photo app, switching to video and hitting record. There wasn’t much to see—I could barely make out the two pairs of feet standing at the far end of the living room—but it didn’t matter. The recording would pick up the audio, and maybe Cole or his dad would say something worth hearing.

“It was nothing,” Cole responded, his voice still hollow. “The dean didn’t do anything to us. He just had to keep up appearances.”

The older man scoffed. “That’s what I’m asking you to do, and I don’t know why it’s so goddamn difficult, Cole. To keep up appearances. Your grades have been slipping, and that fucking haircut—”

“I’m growing it out.”

There was a loud, heavy crack, and I jerked so hard I almost dropped my phone.

I knew that sound. I knew it down to the very bottom of my soul. I recognized how it came out of nowhere, following a seemingly mundane statement, and I recognized the silence that followed.

Cole’s dad had hit him.

My heart beat slammed in my chest, beating against the floor on one side and the couch on the other, and I bit my lip to keep my breathing quiet.

“That’s not the fucking point, Cole, and you know it.” His dad’s voice was cool and calm, tinged by a note of disappointment, like he hated that Cole was making him do this. “You look like white trash. I don’t understand why the hell you did this. Didn’t you get over your rebellious streak a long time ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then knock off this bullshit. I swear to God, every time you come home, Penny’s out of control for a week after. You trying to pass your rebelliousness on to her? Is that it?”

“No. Sir.” A flicker of emotion came into Cole’s voice, and his feet shuffled in agitation. “Of course not. She’s just a kid, she doesn’t—”

Another crack sounded, and even though I’d been braced for it this time, I winced anyway.

“Exactly. She’s a child, and she’s mentally disabled. So stop filling her head with bullshit.”

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“Don’t—” Cole broke off, and when he spoke again, his voice was completely devoid of feeling. “You’re right. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry, son. I need you to be better.” The older man heaved a sigh, then let out a low grunt. “If I have to come back here to set you straight again, I won’t be happy.”

“You won’t. I’ll… bring my grades back up.”

“Good.”

“Anything else, sir?’

The feet on the right had started to walk away, but they paused briefly, as if Cole’s dad was evaluating whether or not his son was sassing him. The edge was back in his voice when he said, “No. That’s all.”

The polished black shoes headed for the door again, and even though I craned my neck, I lost sight of them quickly. The door opened and closed with a click, and I held my breath, wondering if both of them had left.

A second later, I heard a small sound near the entryway.

Cole was still in the apartment.

My lungs were burning from the effort of keeping my breaths silent and even, and I felt like I was being slowly crushed to death by the weight of the couch. I’d never thought I was claustrophobic, but I had to fight back the panic that kept rising up my throat.

Footsteps crossed slowly back to the living room, and when Cole sank onto the couch, I almost let out a yelp. Luckily, the furniture was good quality and sturdy, so his added weight didn’t make the frame press any harder on me than it already was.

The video on my phone was still recording, capturing an expanse of floor and part of Cole’s leg. He was right above me, his feet so close I could’ve reached out and touched them, and I heard him drag in several rough, uneven breaths.

I knew that sound too.

Against my will, pity and understanding rose up in my chest, making the already compressed cavity feel even tighter. I could guess exactly what Cole was feeling right now, and a stupid part of me wanted to comfort him, even though I should feel nothing but hate for him. Even though maybe I should be rejoicing in his pain.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and in that single utterance, I heard more emotion than he usually let slip in a dozen words.