Boys of Brayshaw High (Brayshaw High 1)

The other two pop their heads back in, deep frowns on their faces as they look between the two of us, Maddoc stepping in and disappearing down the stairs a moment later.

That only makes us laugh harder.

Royce scoffs and then steps back out when his phone rings.

Captain looks to me with a grin. “Shit’s about to get real interesting.”

“Only one more day, Cap, then it’s all back to normal.”

“Normal?”

“Well, back to your kind of normal. I’m still waiting for the tin man to show up.”

“Why, so you can give him a heart?” he jokes.

“Nah.” Leaving Royce’s suit of choice on the couch, I hold on to the other as I stand. “I’m more one to disappoint, living proof some of us really were built without the love tick.”

“Love tick?”

“Yup. Something beats in there, but it’s incapable of giving, unworthy of receiving. Just a little off.”

“That’s some morbid shit, Raven.”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “But still true.”

I leave him upstairs and head for my room, but when I find Maddoc lying across my comforter, I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe.

“Don’t stand there and stare, Raven.” He doesn’t bother opening his eyes to confirm. “Get over here. Sleep.”

“I just had two cups of coffee.”

“So.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. I glance behind me when the other two shuffle back this way, each disappearing into their rooms, neither caring to know what I’m standing here for. Two loud bangs sound, their headboards hitting the wall, indicating they’ve dropped onto the beds.

I look back to Maddoc finding him now studying me.

“We’re hungover as fuck, it’s a three-day weekend, and we have no plans ‘til tonight.” He stares. “Come back to bed.”

I take a deep breath and figure ‘fuck it.’ I shut and lock the door and drop onto the bed.

He doesn’t scoot closer like he did last night – if he even remembers doing so. This time he simply closes his eyes and falls fast asleep.

I lay there wishing away the confusion he’s planted inside me.“Raven, let’s go.”

With a groan, I move back into my bathroom and stand on the toilet to look myself over.

The suit fits perfectly. Too perfectly.

It’s tight on my ass and forms to my every curve, showing off the curl of my hips in the openings. I’m a little too skinny for my liking, but I never have been able to hold any weight. All the walking around and mere lack of food didn’t help either.

Either way, not much is left to the imagination in this thing.

I turn to look over the back again and slip, falling against the wall.

I laugh, finding my footing as a loud bang hits the door.

“The fuck was that?” Royce shouts. “You good in there?”

“Yeah.” I chuckle then frown at the mirror. I left my hair down, hoping to cover myself some – and keep me warm since it’s fucking cold out – but now that I’m looking again, it almost makes me look more ... like her. Desperate. Willing.

I move to the bed and drop down, facing the ceiling.

It’s not the suit or the way it looks or how much it shows. It’s how every day when I look in the mirror, my mother stares back, mocking me with her nasty smirk. She’s like the dirty devil glued to my shoulder, constantly hissing in my ear reminding me who we are and what we’ll never be.

Some kids get pep talks of honesty and integrity, I get a prime hooker’s playbook on how to seduce a married man for blackmail money.

And while I imagine a lot of daughters are told how much their beauty matches their mother’s, I’m reminded how I’ll never measure up to mine.

I can admit she’s the far prettier version of me on any day. She’s got the sleek hair and big blue eyes, heavy makeup and heavier tits. For a woman who has used drugs for as long as I can remember, she somehow keeps herself up.

I told her once that she’d look like a troll eventually and she simply laughed and disagreed. She claims cocaine is nicer on the appearance than other drugs, which is why she ‘chose’ that over meth. Idiot. She calls it the soccer mom drug, swearing half the women in the suburbs – the wives of her clients – are all on a line or two a day.

When I asked why, if that were true, she couldn’t function the way they did, she gave me a black eye.

I had laughed and left for school.

I already knew the answer, I just wanted to piss her off.

A single line or two would never be enough for Ravina Carver. She needs an eight ball to keep her satisfied, and even then ... enough is never enough.

Sometimes though, say after a four-day binge with no sleep, she looks the part of the scavenger she is.