Black Promises (Blackwoods College)

I didn’t want nice things, not tonight.

I waited for ten minutes before I began to wonder if Jarrod would actually show.

It had taken me months to work up the courage to approach him. Months and months of dreaming, imagining, planning, after years and years of working and saving and scrimping to gather every dime, every dollar I could with the thought that one day I’d get my revenge if the world wouldn’t help get it for me.

I’d gotten my first babysitting job at thirteen. Back then, I’d come home smelling like a poopy diaper, tired and itching with boredom, and I’d shove the meager cash I’d been handed into the back of my closet in a shoebox. I’d close my eyes and picture Dr. Silver as he smiled and touched my body and whispered that everything would be okay if I let him manipulate me the way he needed. It had felt wrong, sick and wrong, and that disgust had never left, not after all these years.

If anything, it had festered.

After I’d told my parents and they’d refused to believe me, the memory of Dr. Silver touching my prepubescent body was like an infection. It crawled under my skin and each night I dreamed about him taking advantage of me, touching me in ways he never should’ve. When my brother admitted that it had happened to him too, I’d lost my freaking mind, and ever since that moment, my life had been devoted to punishing that bastard doctor.

If nobody believed me, I’d do it myself.

When I’d first met Jarrod, I’d thought he was a total piece of garbage. He was loud, angry, and mean, and treated Robyn like trash—even though she was constantly making excuses for him and trying to help him with schoolwork. He never would’ve passed high school if it hadn’t been for her letting him copy homework. And yet we had all somehow landed at Blackwoods—Jarrod because of football and because of his connection to Robyn’s parents.

I hadn’t thought he’d be a good candidate for this little plan until about a year earlier when he’d started getting in fights.

The darkness was split by a sudden bright light. I covered my eyes as an engine roared and something came screaming toward me. I stumbled backward, throwing my hands up protectively, but the bike slipped past as Jarrod slammed on the brake, pulling it to a skidding stop.

He sat astride a humming dirt bike. His hair shone in the meager light, and his eyes burned with a shocking passion. I hadn’t expected him to show up—but there he was, staring at me like a shark.

A fresh cut oozed blood over his right eye, and his lips were puffy and swollen.

“You got in a fight,” I said, taking a step toward him.

“Get on the bike.”

I hesitated. That thing looked like a death trap.

“No, thanks. We can talk here.”

“Get on or I’m done with this.”

I looked over my shoulder. There was nobody here to help if things went wrong.

Jarrod wasn’t safe. I knew all the rumors, and I’d witnessed his vicious rage up close. He could lose himself in seconds and turn into a violent psychopath, using his chiseled, muscular body as a weapon, soaking up damage with a gleeful smile as he punished anyone nearby. He was a nightmare.

He was exactly what I needed.

I got on. He smelled like lavender and motor oil as I clung to him. He adjusted my hands, pressing my palms against his cut stomach.

“Hold on tight,” he said, revved the engine, then took off.

I wanted to scream, but it would’ve been pointless.

Wind whipped my hair. He sped into the dark woods, moving down a path at a reckless pace. I had no clue how he saw where we were going. Maybe he knew it by feel or by smell or by some other sense I hadn’t discovered yet. Jarrod was nearly inhuman in my eyes.

I clung to him like my life depended on it and found myself floating along behind his massive body, face buried in his strong back, feeling the growl of power between my legs and marveling at the way he handled the bike through the winding forest paths.

We broke out of the tree line and rode down a short slope. A chain-link fence loomed ahead with wicked barbed wire coiled along the top. He came to a halt and killed the engine.

“You can let go now.”

I released him and quickly got off. He followed and leaned the bike on a stand. He wiped his hands on his jeans, glanced at me, used his sleeve to dab at the blood on his face, then walked toward the fence.

I followed. “Where are we going?”

“In here.” He reached a point in the fence where the links had been cut. They were cleverly hidden along the line of a metal post, almost impossible to notice unless you knew where to look. He peeled it open and held it. “Ladies first.”