Angry God (All Saints High 3)

We fell into our chairs. He had sandy blond hair, not unlike Fairhurst, but much friendlier features. His hair was buzzed close to the scalp, and he looked like California royalty, not some British douchebag who knew words no one knows the meaning of.

“Why am I here?” Jaime cut to the chase, taking a sip of his Americano.

“I need to break the piggy bank. Get access to my money,” I said flatly.

He nearly sprayed his coffee all over me. I remained seated, wide-legged, my fists shoved deep into the pockets of my pilot jacket.

“Are you high?” he wondered aloud. “This is not half a stick we’re talking about, son. It’s the whole goddamn trunk, and then some.”

“If you knew what I needed it for, you wouldn’t say that,” I said calmly, my eyes on him the entire time.

He stared at me, rigid with rage. “Try me.”

“First, you need to promise not to snitch to my parents.”

Uncle Jaime said nothing, like I knew he would. I took a contract I’d drafted all by myself from my backpack and slid it across the round, plastic table between us.

“Vaughn—”

“They can’t know.” I cut into his words, handing him pen. I fucking love contracts. Paper scared the shit out of rich people, much more than a gun. “Just read it, sign it, and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

A part of me was sure he was going to stand up, rip the contract to shreds, and throw it in my face. I released a breath when he actually signed it. Then he sat back and asked me what was up, and I told him about Harry blackmailing me about Mom.

I left out the other, really tiny part about killing him—semantics and shit.

“And this plan of yours, are we sure it’s going to work?” He frowned.

“I’m not unsure.” I smirked.

Uncle Jaime closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wasn’t happy. My trust fund wasn’t anything to laugh at. Eight figures. The kind of shit most people would never even fantasize about having. And I needed every single penny.

“Am I going to regret this?” He rubbed at his cheekbone, his index finger hovering over the screen of his phone. To make this sort of transaction, you had to drag your ass to your actual banker, but Jaime was that banker, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

I could feel the saliva pooling in my mouth.

Do it, old man. Release the fucking money.

“You’re going to thank me by the time it’s all over,” I said calmly, standing and pretending I wasn’t eager for him to just transfer the money into my account.

“I’ve done this dance before, son, and shit can go real bad real fast. Keep me posted?”

“Bet on it, Uncle Jaime,” I lied.

I walked away without saying goodbye.

I got back to Carlisle Castle by foot. There were no buses to and from the castle, and I preferred it that way. It meant most students bailed or fucked off during the weekends, because the place was secluded and dead. And that meant fewer assholes to stand in my way.

It was an uphill journey, and I spent it sending The Fixer a long-ass encrypted email about my progress in the Fairhurst matter. I’d avoided the painter like the plague, but wasn’t necessarily happy about it. I wanted to put shit in motion, but not before Mom was completely out of the woods. Taunting him now would raise a red flag. I needed to play it smart.

After hitting the send button, I looked up. I was on the edge of downtown Carlisle Village, about to cross the street to a road bracketed by a thick wood, which led to the bridge that would take me to Carlisle Prep.

There was a little chocolaterie at the end of that road. The display window and doorframe were colored the same shade of frog green, and there were Christmas lights and little bullshit smiling china dolls dressed like medieval whores scattered among the confiseries biscuits, a tower of brownies, and fruit pastilles.

I stopped, staring at the candy. I didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I knew someone who made her dentist very happy and very rich. Someone who’d appreciate a slice of that brownie very fucking much.

Someone whose pants I wanted to get into eventually.

I shook my head, glanced at the entry door, and crossed the street.

Don’t change for a pussy.

About the time I’d gotten used to seeing summer session students around, they left and the school year at Carlisle Prep started with a bang. I’d forgotten just how busy it got here—the hallways always teeming with people, chatter everywhere, shoulders brushing. And with the students, came the fall. The leaves turned yellow and orange, and then fell from the trees completely, leaving them naked and exposed.

Like the leaves, a part of me wanted to jump ship. But I clung on, even when I felt crispy and brittle and curling at the edges, just like them.