Then his lips are not hovering anymore—they’re kissing—not slowly either. He doesn’t ask for permission. He is not tentative or unsure. His tongue invades my mouth in an instant, and it catches me off-guard. As I suck in some air, he takes the opportunity to deepen our kiss. I place both hands on his cheeks to ease him away, and he throws my hands off.
Possessive. Hungry. Angry.
“You taste like heaven, little sister,” he hisses into my mouth. Nothing about this feels right. People know us as brother and sister. The fact that we’re not blood-related is only somewhat consoling. Hell, even the kiss doesn’t feel right. Like we’re doing it all wrong. I feel him squeezing my ass harder, digging his dirty fingernails into my flesh, and wince.
“I’ve been waiting so long for this.” His words not only pierce—they penetrate me—along with his fingers that are now dragging themselves slowly, roughly toward my sex. I breathe out harshly.
“Ryan,” I drop my forehead to his, “
you’re hurting me.”
“I know.” His tongue continues attacking my mouth, his hands even more aggressive on me than before.
Panic. It trickles into me slowly. I know Ryan. Know him well. He is not a bad guy—definitely not a good guy, but not a rapist either—and he knows damn well my dad would kill him if he ever seriously wronged me.
“You’re starting school tomorrow,” he says, licking his way down to my chin and neck. I let him, and even though I don’t want this, I can’t help my body’s reaction to his touch. It’s humming, singing, asking for more. And why not give in to feeling good with someone I know and trust with my life? Still, something holds me back.
“How you gonna get all the way to Henderson every day?”
“Take the bus,” I answer flatly. I’m not giving up on this opportunity. My dad somehow came up with my tuition to one of the best high schools in Nevada. Private. Top-notch. Said he’s been saving for years, and only just now—my senior year—saved enough to send me. Not that I’m complaining. I think Dad secretly feels guilty about being gone so often. That, and he’s heard what the kids at school say about me. That I’m a whore. A brother fucker.
After my best friend, Ella, moved away, they got worse. I was a lone ranger. An easy target. The boys were all afraid to interact with me—pussies—but the girls? Girls are vicious and sneaky. Like the boys, they’re also afraid of Ryan, but they did shit on the down low. Stashing shit—literal shit—in my locker. Stealing my clothes when I was in the shower after P.E. Stuff that couldn’t be directly traced back to them, even though we all knew who did it. And while I honestly never really cared what other people thought of me, I was being offered a golden ticket out of this shithole town, and I’m not giving it up. Especially not for something as miniscule as transportation.
“The buses don’t run that early, baby girl.” Ryan laughs, and why did I think he was that attractive in the first place? His smile is too big, his teeth too pointy, like a wolf’s, and the scent of his sweat is too sour.
“Nice try. I checked, Ryan. They’re twenty-four hours.”
“You can walk, my ass.” He pulls his head back, laughing. “You’re not taking the bus alone. I’m giving you a ride back and forth, got it?”
I hate depending on anyone for anything. I may not have a car, but I’ve worked since the day I turned fourteen. My dad signed a waiver, much to Ryan’s dismay, and I got a job at the Dairy Queen around the corner—where I reluctantly quit once I found out I wouldn’t have time to work when school started. When I need to be somewhere, I walk or ride my bike. Like I said, I despise being dependent on anyone, but if there’s one thing I hate more, it’s mornings. Specifically, early mornings. And to get to school on time, I’d have to wake up at an ungodly hour.
I want to say no.
I should say no.
But as his rock-hard erection grinds into me violently, I say something else entirely.
“Fine.”
Most kids hate school uniforms. I’ve never been like most kids.
Besides the fact that I won’t have to put any effort into my daily outfit, it’s actually kind of hot—in a naughty, low-budget porn sort of way. Plaid navy blue skirt that ends just above the knees, pressed, white-buttoned shirt with an ironed collar, matching blue blazer, and black knee-high socks. I’m missing the Oxfords that are supposed to be on my feet, but Ryan already shelled out over two hundred dollars for this uniform, and I couldn’t ask him to spring for shoes, too. He’d want something in return even if he did have the money, and my dad won’t be home for another week at least. So I’m rocking my beat-up, trusty Chuck T’s. All I need is fucking piggy tails and an anal bead necklace to make it onto one of those cards littering the strip.
I walk up the most intimidating set of stairs I’ve ever seen in my life, while unbraiding my hair and letting it hang freely down my back. Ryan miraculously got his bike fixed in time to bring me to school this morning, and riding on the back of a motorcycle means a fuck load of tangles.
I yank my earbuds out of my ears and pause the Halsey song on my phone as I make my way through the air-conditioned halls of West Point. Everything about West Point is different than Riverdale. Riverdale was full of graffitied tables, old, crappy vending machines, and borderline dilapidated buildings. But, the biggest difference is that West Point is all indoors. At Riverdale, and most schools in Nevada, each class was in a separate building. Forget about even trying to find a lunch table inside—everyone tries to escape the oven that is Las Vegas by eating in the cafeteria. I’d only been lucky enough once. At least I won’t have that problem here.
I ignore the curious and catty eyes and focus on the slip of yellow paper with my locker number and combination in my hand. 88A. I’m completely out of my element, and I feel naked. Exposed. Like they can all see right through me, like they know that I don’t belong here. I force myself to keep my head high. West Point is the complete opposite of Riverdale, but high school is high school, and these vultures can smell weakness a mile away.
I locate 88A, and of course, it’s the top locker. I flip my long, brown hair off my shoulder and stand on my tippy toes to work the lock. I half expect them to be electronic based on everything else in this high-tech school. Finally, it pops open and I check my schedule to see which books I can stuff inside for now, because my backpack is heavy as hell. I cram my old school checkered Vans backpack inside, only taking my textbook for my second class, Speech and Debate, my binder, and a pencil.
Homeroom is basically an hour of taking attendance, daily announcements, and social hour, from what I gather. I hang back, observing the different cliques, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I seem to go unnoticed.
My second hour classroom is empty when I arrive, and I have my pick of any seat in the house. I pause in the doorway, taking in the shiny, new desks free of crude carvings, and I bet they don’t even have gum stuck underneath. Somehow, this feels like Crossing the Rubicon. There’s no going back now. And I can either hide out in the back or take a seat up front and take what I came here for by the balls. Own this fucking preppy school, Remi, a voice in me commands. A smirk tugs at my lips as I take a seat front and center, directly in front of the teacher’s desk. And I hope he or she isn’t a spitter.
Students start pouring in, and I busy myself with studying my schedule. AP English Language and Composition, AP Statistics, French, and, of course, Introduction to Speech and Debate. I’m in way over my head, but the dread doesn’t come close to the excitement that rolls through me. I hear everyone settle in their seats around me—my hair falling like a curtain shielding me from their view—but I can still feel their stares and hear their whispers.
All of a sudden, the chatter stops and a deep, imposing voice assaults my ears. Goose bumps prick my arms, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from, because I’ve never responded to a voice like this in my entire life.