Page 14 of The Good Girl

Tristan

“Tris, baby,” Blythe says lazily with her hand resting on my thigh. “Let’s go down to the fields and smoke with Clayton and the others.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I ignore the broadcaster's voice as it fills the common room, talking about yet another missing woman. I refused to think about it, refused to speculate – after all, it wouldn’t change a thing, even if I recognized the woman on the screen.

I see the others approach Lena, seemingly missing the ‘back the fuck off’ signals she’s emitting as she tries to focus on her notes. I know she won’t send them away, because even though she tries to act like an independent, strong woman, she’s still that child afraid of our rejection. She wants to be our friend, she wants to hang out, but Randolph has it drilled into her that relationships, unless beneficial to him, are a waste of time.

We don’t tend to hang out together at the Academy because we still need to be able to make connections, to network, even though we’re not even twenty-one yet. I know for a fact that while we like having friends outside the little cult our parents are ingrained in, we enjoy each other’s company more. It’s easy, there’s no hiding, and we don’t have to watch ourselves for slipups. It also allows us to flex a little more, using the power we have, the resources at our fingertips effortlessly without having to explain it away or face judgement for being ‘rich kids’. If they only knew.

“C’mon. Clay says he’s got some good stuff and neither of us want to go to Business Management after lunch.” I roll my eyes, of course Clay had ‘good stuff’, his father was a member of The Council. Duncan Windsor was in the import business, and I don’t mean cars, or furniture, more like produce.

I trace my fingers lightly over her hand, she’s right. I don’t want to go to class after lunch, but right now, I have a perfect view of Lena as she tries to resist the pull of the others. I don’t know what they’re discussing, but the way she glances at the screen and a few moments later I feel eyes on me, I can only guess. But like I said, waste of time for something I cannot change.

“Just let me stay here a few minutes,” I murmur, still stroking her soft skin. Wishing she was someone else. I didn’t mean to keep Blythe hanging on, but she was like a barnacle I couldn’t break free of despite the fact we were no longer having sex. Part of it was because our lifestyles lined up, we liked the same music, weed and fucking all while relishing the challenge of disappointing our parents. However, I also knew that her father allowed our ‘friendship’ because it meant she had the potential to benefit his little bookstore. Everyone wanted their foot in the door, and Blythe assumed that getting with me would set her up for life in ways that her family couldn’t. She was easy to be around, it’s why I’d kept her around, but it wasn’t enough anymore. She was still pushing me, wanting our relationship to return to what it was before, when all I wanted was her friendship.

“I was thinking we could go down to the lake this weekend, Clay is having a party at his father’s lodge. What do you think?” Blythe’s words don’t sink in, barely reaching me, and I nod my head, making humming sounds of agreement in the hopes it would quieten her.

Tilting my head back so I can examine the ceiling, I try to ignore the pull to stare at Lena. I wanted to get under her skin like she was under mine, to bury myself so deeply in her that she wouldn’t be able to ever strut past me again with that pretty sneer on her face. I couldn’t do that while Blythe was wrapping her tentacles around me, refusing to let go, but that didn’t mean it was easy. Blythe was the only one I’d let get close to me, she was a source of comfort when I was alone. That’s why I hadn’t cut her off completely.

A barked laugh draws me out of my thoughts, and I see Attie and Atlas messing around as she teases him. No doubt it was about the missing Hunter, who was usually Atlas’ shadow, despite how much he denied it. The push and pull between the two of them had me curious, but not curious enough to ask about it. Atlas was a Reaver, someone The Society used to dispose of those who stepped out of line. His family, the Hawthorne line, had always been responsible for regulating the other members. His father in particular was terrifying. The things I’d heard about Rowan Hawthorne could make hair curl and toes clench, but that was the power of whispers. Having known the man since I was a baby, I didn’t doubt a single rumor, despite how loving he could be to his family.

When we had been about ten or so, Atlas and I had looked up the word ‘reaver’. It meant something to do with depriving someone of something or to seize forcibly, and I couldn’t have picked a more perfect name if I tried. Atlas would one day collect lives as payment, punishment or trade. He would enforce our rules, and the blood he shed would keep us safe, it was just a bonus that the bastard enjoyed it. The power that came with his position was something he’d been raised to love.

Elena frowns, running a hand through her thick gold hair as she looks between Tabitha and Atlas, and I know she’s about to jump in with her mediating bullshit. Typical Libra people pleaser, I snort, always trying to find the balance in life. For a moment, it’s like we’ve flashed forward fifteen years, to a life where I can imagine her negotiating between stuffed suits in a political arena. It would suit her well, if she could stop being such a doormat.

With a huff, I push myself off the floor, ignoring Blythe’s protests as she struggles to get to her feet amongst the nest of cushions we’d been lazing around on. Slowly, I make my way over to where they’re all lounging around, as if we own this school…which technically we do.

“Leave it alone, Tabitha, he clearly doesn’t want to discuss it.”There it is, I think to myself as her clear but firm words reach my ears.

“El, ever the diplomat.” Tabitha’s voice is laced with a hint of irritation but she stops, as the youngest of our group she understands the hierarchy. She knows that one day Lena will be running the show, even if Elena herself doesn’t.

I move next to Atlas, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he flashes me a grin. “Nah, she’s not a diplomat. She’s just avoiding having to make choices and pick sides.”

I know my words will antagonize her, hell, my breathing just makes her angry these days, but I’ll take anger and annoyance over cold indifference. The last couple of years she’d avoided me as much as she could, I wasn’t going to allow her to do that any longer.

Elena rolls her eyes, crosses her arms and glares at me with so much hatred it makes me chuckle. “Not everything requires choosing sides. We aren’t six.”

“But if you had to choose, you’d pick me, right, El?” Tabitha questions, the corner of her mouth twitching with amusement. She enjoyed watching Lena and I at each other’s throats, it meant she could forget about her own arranged engagement with a rich playboy from Newton.

With a smirk, I take a seat next to Attie and lean forward on my thighs, my eyes never leaving hers. “Yeah, Els, if you had to choose your favorite, who would it be?”

Snorting, she sits back as if we’re magnets and my proximity is repulsing her. “It wouldn’t be you, now would it?”

There’s a fire in her green eyes, and I try to commit it to memory, so I can savor it later. The olive and emerald flecks give her glare a depth I want to get lost in, little streaks of gold challenging me to capture the image on canvas. I would dream of green tonight.

Inhaling sharply next to me, Attie chuckles, “Ohhhh burn!”

Flicking my tongue out over my bottom lip, I notice the way her eyes track the movement. “They say hate is pretty close to love.”

There’s silence as she processes my words, the others watch us carefully, and we’re beginning to draw attention from others in the common room too. We weren’t friends, we didn’t normally talk and yet here we were, locked in some sort of staring contest. I can feel Blythe’s eyes burning into me from somewhere in my periphery, and I know she’s desperate to move closer but she won’t until she can judge the situation.

Elena’s perfectly arched brow raises. “So you’re saying this burning hatred I have for you is actually love?”

Her shutters are in place, her face calm and collected as she looks at me like she’s swallowed something bitter.

“It’s passion.” I smirk. Leaning forward, so that she’s mimicking my position, I get a glimpse of creamy flesh. She’d undone the top two buttons of her blouse earlier, when she’d taken her tie off to read her notes. I doubt she even knows that she’s inviting me to think about the dip of her collarbone, imaging the noise she’d make as I run my tongue over it.

The corner of her mouth lifts, and for a moment she’s the image of her mother. Cruel, cold and utterly beautiful. “Tristan, I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. I would dance, naked, around the flames to your dying moans.”

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