Page 1 of The Penalty

Chapter 1

Runaway Train

Cece

Waking up in jailwas not how I planned to end my junior year at Cornell. But here I am with a demolition crew jackhammering my skull from the inside. The hot tingle at the back of my throat warns me I’m about to make a bad situation worse by hurling on the cold, concrete floor.

I roll over to at least avoiding puking on myself. Although, judging from the crustiness of my hair, I may have already achieved this at least once. My body hits the unforgiving floor with a painful thump that’s going to leave bruises. My hand is shaky when I reach up to brush away the tangled mess of my hair, swallowing hard to keep the remaining contents of my stomach down.

What the fuck happened last night? My memories have that hazy, faraway quality of a drunken night. The last thing I remember is being surrounded by people. My house full of allmy friends, and acquaintances. Not to mention the hundred or so strangers who were more than happy to take advantage of everything proximity to the Whitaker heir offers. The party was thumping as we celebrated the end of another school year.

After that? I search my memory like a CSI agent, trying to find any strand of evidence to help me solve the problem of how I ended up here. Darkness, darkness, and then a single patch of gray.

My best friend, Pen, has her talons in my arm as she drags me out my front door. Bella is with us, and I can hear the shadow of Trent’s pretentious laugh. Wait? Why exactly was he with us? Our on-again, off-again relationship is definitely in a permanent off position. Who knows with him, though. He was probably trying to creep his way into Bella’s pants. She’s the only one of my friends he hasn’t slept with at some point or another. Our little inner circle tends toward the incestuous.

But that’s all I’ve got. No matter how hard I try, there’s nothing after that but a dark void. What is wrong with me? I learned my lesson the last time I got blackout drunk. Callie’s New Year’s Eve party, the year I turned eighteen. Or at least I thought I had, but apparently not. A few years later, I’m right back where I started.

Why did I let myself get to that point? Maybe it was the message from my mother that they wouldn’t be able to make it to my art show. Maybe it was catching Trent getting a blow job from my econ tutor in the library. At ten thirty in the morning. Who does that? It might be easier to deal with if I passed economics, but nope. One more thing to add to theCece Whitaker list of fuck ups. My father is going to disown me when he finds out.

Fuck. This isn’t me. Why have I let this year fly off the rails like a bullet train with a missing section of track?

I groan, then whimper when my head smacks into the concrete wall. Well, that’s it. My life is over. My father is going to kill me, or maybe he’ll lock me up in my room for the rest of my life, like Rapunzel. Not sure which is the worse option.

“Cecelia Whitaker. Come with me.”

The sound of keys jingling and the groaning clank of a barred door sliding open forces me to peel open my crusty eyelids. It’s as if it’s reluctant to let anyone out. I’ve gotten myself into some shitty situations, but this is a first, and hopefully a last.

A gray-uniformed guard looks down at me, disgust pinching his mouth into a thin line as he roughly grabs my arm, but I hold the yelp inside. Never let them see when they hurt you. I know exactly what he’s thinking. Spoiled princess thinks she can do whatever she wants. And maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time I take a look at myself and try to do better.

The churning in my stomach kicks up a notch at the man here to bail me out. “Holmes?” My father didn’t take the time to come for me himself. It’s no surprise a five-and-a-half-hour drive would be too much of an inconvenience for his only daughter. But I think I’d prefer the judgment on his face to the sympathy on the face of my family’s long-time driver.

“Miss Whitaker.” He dips his silver head in a respectful nod I one hundred percent do not deserve.

I’m shuffled over to a desk to sign some papers, before accepting the large yellow envelope the officer hands me. He looks almost as tired as I am, with deep grooves etched beside faded blue eyes. My cell phone in its glittery silver wallet case slides out, along with a few items of jewelry. They’re comically out of place under the fluorescent lights of the grim place. I blink, but the stabbing pain at the back of my eyeballs doesn’t dissipate.

Each step to the car feels like I’m fighting through quicksand, and if I thought the artificial light inside was bad, I was mistaken. The sun is out in full force, and my stomach revolts against the increased throbbing in my head.

I bend over next to the shiny black sedan, retching the bile that is all that’s left in me.

Holmes pats my back, handing me a bottle of water.

“You’re being too nice to me, Holmes.” My voice is a croaky rasp.

“Someone has to be,” he says, swinging my door open and helping me inside.

Instinctively, I fling up an arm to shield my face from the familiar click of a camera. Fuck. That’s all I need. To be exposed once again as an object of derision. If my twin brother Beau is the golden boy of the Whitaker family, I guess I’m the tarnished brass penny.

I curl up against the buttery soft leather seat and shut my eyes, taking small sips from the water bottle. It’s clutched in my hand as if it can save me from the wrath I’m awaiting athome. The chilled water flows down my parched throat like a glacial waterfall, soothing the ache.

“Miss Whitaker. We’re home.” Holmes’s gentle call drags me back to reality, and I blink groggily awake.

As we pull up to the tall iron gates at the end of the long driveway, I’m regretting consuming multiple bottles of water as a tsunami crashes around my guts.

It’s all fun and games until you pull up to the family estate. At least it’s a long ass driveway. I drag my fingers through the snarled mess of my white-blonde hair and smooth a hand down the glittery skirt that matches my phone case. My phone flicks on when I snatch it up, studying the screen. Notifications are popping up at an alarming rate. Nope. Not even going to look. I do not have the energy to deal with that right now.

I’m out the door before Holmes comes around to open it for me. He’ll be disappointed, but I think I need to get this over with as soon as possible. Face my punishment and move on. The rhythm of my heels clacking on the cobblestoned walk matches the thump of my heartbeat echoing in my head.

The heavy wood door gives under my trembly push and I’m here. Home bitter home. Goody. All traces of sleep are chased away by the anxious dread chilling my body.

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