Angry God (All Saints High 3)

I didn’t want to cause harm.

I wanted full destruction.

And locking Harry’s ass in jail simply wasn’t enough.

Once Dominic was inside, I used my gloved hands to place his palms on the shelves of the walk-in closet, widening his stance by kicking his feet apart.

“Get naked,” I said gruffly.

“Why…how…”

Rather than answer his half-finished questions, I shoved his sweatpants down myself. He kicked them off obediently, along with the slides, getting the point and taking off his hoodie and shirt.

He turned around to look at me, and that’s when I noticed he was hard. His damn cock was pressed against a drawer, purple and engorged. Yeah. He really was Harry’s boyfriend. They were both sick.

Once Dominic was stark-ass naked, I took a graffiti chalk can and sprayed his back. He shivered as the cold liquid splashed over his skin, biting into one of Harry’s sweaters to keep quiet, but his damn cock was still pressed into the mirrored drawer, and it was still rod-straight.

When I was done with the black paint, I tossed the can aside, took the kid’s phone out, and shoved it in his face, standing behind his back.

“Unlock.”

He stared into it, using face recognition. I took a picture of the guy’s back, sent it to Fairhurst through Dominic’s phone, and tucked said phone into my pocket.

Showtime, motherfucker, and you got a front-row seat.

I entertained the idea of letting Len know I was going out of town, before remembering there wasn’t a point, because she didn’t want to hear from me.

She hadn’t left room for interpretation—our hookups were over.

She couldn’t have been clearer if she’d tattooed her forehead with Property of Pope (whom I was still going to kill, because fuck him).

Just as well. If she was dumb enough to say I never gave her a birthday present, I really had no goddamn interest in tapping her ass, anyway.

And still.

And still.

I was going to send another motherfucking basket to her room this morning, as I had every single day since Arabella sucked me off on the last day of school. At first, I’d sent chocolate, because I didn’t want it to be too obvious, but I figured she’d know where they came from on her birthday when I sent brownies. They were handmade and in different shapes, for her entertainment. Clouds, unicorns, stars, animals, letters. Anything but a heart—that was my careful instruction to the chocolatier. Each was individually wrapped in fantasy-book wrappers: Lord of the Rings, A Song of Ice and Fire, Harry Potter, Northern Lights.

Cost a little extra to pull off, but half-assing shit wasn’t in my nature.

It wasn’t about wanting to fuck her, or trying to make her feel better, God forbid. I didn’t even leave a note. I just knew she liked sweet things since that day behind the fountain, and I pitied her ass because she was an orphan and friendless and fucked up.

That’s all it was. Pity.

I called the chocolaterie, and the lady there recognized me by my accent and the fact that I’d used them for a few weeks now. Also, I was probably the only bastard who called before their opening hours, when they’d just started their day baking.

“Another one? You’re persistent, lad.” She giggled.

I rolled my eyes, watching the English countryside zip by on the first train into Hertfordshire. It was a quarter to six. Even the birds were still asleep.

“Maybe you should personalize it this time? She obviously needs a bit of thawing. You’ve been sending them for quite a long time now.”

A note was a bad idea. She’d think I cared, and fuck, did I not give a damn about her. It was cruel to pretend otherwise. Especially now, when we were done.

“Blank note is fine,” I clipped.

“Righto,” she sing-songed. So fucking cheerful in the morning. “Would that be all?”

“Yes.”

“Loads of noise in the background. Are you traveling anywhere special?” She tried to lighten the mood.

Could I deduct the tip for the time she wasted trying to mingle with me? Because pretending to give a damn seemed way above her pay grade.

“Hertfordshire,” I said. “St. Albans.”

“You must visit London, if you haven’t. It’s quite close.”

“Great idea.”

I’ve been to London more times than you’ve taken shits, lady.

I killed the call, leaned back in my seat, and tapped my knee. Harry Fairhurst did exactly what I thought he’d do once I sent him a picture of his lover buck naked, with graffiti over his back and ass that read HARRY FAIRHURST IS A CHILD MOLESTER.

He grabbed his keys and dashed back to Carlisle Prep, where Dominic was still locked in his closet, because—c’mon, give me brownie points for the irony—his gay lover was locked in a closet.

In his bid to save his ass (and maybe Dominic’s, though I wasn’t holding my breath), he’d forgotten his laptop at his house. I knew because I’d planted a little tracer on that bitch when I sneaked into his office one day and could see its location at any given moment.