Trouble at Brayshaw High (Brayshaw High 2)

“You expect us to let that little bitch run in our halls?” Royce questions. “Run on our fucking court?”

“Yes,” our dad’s answer is instant, but he pauses a moment before adding, “Make no mistake, Collins Graven has changed the game. I’m afraid it’s not about you anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Royce asks, his eyes hitting mine.

Captain’s features grow dark and he slowly looks between the two of us. “Raven.”

Why would he go after her other than to get to us?

“Boys,” our dad stresses. “Do not lose her to them.”

“She’s not exactly easy to control,” Captain barks.

“And she just played us, could have been this entire time. We can’t trust her,” Royce spits. “She’s a liability at this point.”

There’s a deep sigh through the phone and then, “Do what you must, sons. Hold tight. Everything is in the works.”

The line goes dead.

“The fuck does that mean?” Royce hits the seat and drops back against his own.

“I don’t know.” Captain puts the SUV in drive and we’re back on the road in seconds. “Guess we’ll find out.”

I turn to look out the window.

If she thinks she can fuck us over, she’s got another thing coming. They both do.

She wants to fuck with my head? It’s worked.

She wants to prove a point? She’s done it.

She thinks I’ll back down? She’s fucking wrong.

My jaw clenches, a heated poison burning in my veins at the thought of her with him.

Don’t lose her to them, he said.

I’ll lose her to no one.

Raven Carver is mine whether she wants to be now or not. Period.

She wants to pretend she doesn’t see me the same, I’ll force her fucking hand, in time. Problem is, I’m far from patient.

Go on, play your games, baby. I’ve got more moves than you can handle.“Don’t look so glum, Rae.”

“Fuck you, Collins.”

“Begging again? So soon?” He stuffs his phone in his pocket. “It’s only been two days since you fucked up their world on their own turf, sweetness.”

“You’re a fucking fool.”

“But I’m your fool, right?” He laughs and drops down across from me. “Great job, by the way, not sure I told you that yet. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t so sure you’d follow through.”

“I said I would.”

“People say a lot of things, but you know that.” He grins and I want to slap it off his face. “You see how quick they gave up on you? Bet you didn’t expect that. You probably thought they’d tear you right back, right away, yet here you sit, wearing the same shit you did two days ago and still ... no Brayshaw to the rescue. Not even one out of three.”

I clench my teeth as discreetly as possible.

I don’t know what I expected, but I won’t show this chump my regret or the pathetic ache his words cause. Not that he’d read it right, he’s too blinded by his need to win a war he’s nowhere near equipped for. I’m almost curious if he wants it or if it’s simply because he craves notoriety.

Or maybe it’s acceptance?

Makes me wonder what he saw and heard as a kid.

I break our stare off and glance around the room.

This is a big ass house both empty and cold, more of a showroom of sorts. No color or real sign of living other than the ring around the coaster on the coffee table. Stone colored statues and ugly ass art fills the place.

Maids likely come in each day and out each night, cleaning up after the parties he throws almost on the daily – his need to have people close – and leaving him food to reheat in the fridge.

Maddoc had said, other than Collins, it was only his mother and grandfather, the last Gravens standing outside their men around town, but there’s no sign of them anywhere.

“Your dad really dead?”

His glass tumbler freezes at his lips – yeah, he’s that guy, does the whole ritzy shit, bourbon on the rocks like a typical rich boy trying to play like his pops. Sipping on it like a bitch.

He can’t shoot a shot like mine do.

Another twinge hits in my chest at the thought, but I shift my body to hide it.

Collins sets his glass beside him, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, eyeing me.

He’s far from a bad looking guy, I’ve admitted this before. He’s found attractive to even the pickiest of females, I’m sure, with the typical preppy boy look – too perfect hair and textbook teeth. His face is clean and sharp, never a sign of yesterday’s shave or shadow even. No small cuts or scars to be found – bet he uses wrinkle cream already, too. Of course, he’s also fit like a basketball player, trim frame and decent height, sculpted to ego feeding perfection.

“I assume you know the story of how Rolland and his boys became Brayshaw, how their families were brought in before they were born?”