Page 90 of The Bleak Beginning

“No dramatic exit this time? No slamming of doors?” I comment. “I'm almost disappointed.”

“I thought I'd stick around. Give you a chance to catch up.”

“Catch up? With what? Everyone's already gone, so either you've found a new appreciation for doorways or you're avoiding admitting defeat.”

There's a subtle shift in Bishop's expression, his mouth twitching as he pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Actually, I'm just being polite. Since you seemed so eager toleave me provocative notes in your mailbox, I figured I'd return the favor. Consider it my form of foreplay.”

Provocative? That was one way to put it. Another word could be pornographic My intention was to make Bishop uncomfortable, but it seems to have the opposite effect. His pupils dilate, now matching the darkness of night.

“How do you know I left those for you specifically?” I challenge, my tone unwavering. “I could have a secret admirer you know nothing about, sending me their love notes.”

Bishop's body language betrays a hint of jealousy before he regains control. “Don't be absurd, Prescott. No one could ever love you.”

His words hit a nerve, even though I know they shouldn't, especially coming from him. But deep down, I know they're true. After all, even my own mother couldn't love me…

I cross my arms over my chest, “I wasn’t the one sneaking around and going through mail like some... criminal mastermind.”

He smirks, and it’s devilish. “Ah, but you’re the one who thought a mailbox was the perfect place to communicate. I’m just playing along.”

“Get out of my room,” I demand, and that curve of his lip only grows more sinister. Surprisingly, he obeys, leaving the note on a nearby table.

I stare at it for what feels like forever after he leaves, trying to calm my racing heart. Foreplay? Bishop really thought this twisted back-and-forth between us was foreplay?

Eventually, my thoughts settle enough that the curiosity overrides my anger and desire to take a match to the paper. I snatch it off the table and unfold it, recognizing immediately that it's a page from my own botany notebook. The same one he claimed he didn't have. The jagged torn edge and the familiar handwriting only further confirming my theory.

My skin goes cold with fresh rage. Bishop Ashbourne is a fucking asshole.

Chapter 18

Bishop

Prescott stands inside the black-and-white striped tent, arguing with someone whose hair is red enough to guide lost ships back to land.

I catch a snippet of her saying something about a key being useless and defective before she disappears behind a cloud of white smoke. Her curses and coughing echo through the space as she exits in a hasty rush moments later.

“Stupid smoke, stupid club,” she grumbles before stomping back in the direction of campus.

I step inside, making myself welcome in the now-empty space. The acrid scent of smoke lingers, stinging my nostrils as I venture farther into the tent. Dim lights flicker overhead, casting eerie shadows on the striped walls.

“Jeez! I wouldn’t be surprised if we passed the boundary line with how far out this place is,” I hear Sly grumble as he and the rest of the Legacies make their way inside.

“You know the entire campus is fenced off like a goddamn compound.” Sutton reminds her brother.

Sly retorts, “I know. It’s called sarcasm, dear sister. My mistake, I forgot you don’t speak fluent irony.”

“No, yours just needs subtitles because I sure as hell can’t make sense of what you just spit out,” she quips back just as quickly.

“Well maybe if you were wittier, you could have pulled off some lines with believable finesse the other night,” Sly retorts, faking a sniffle and mimicking Sutton’s awkward performance from Prescott’s dorm with exaggerated flair.

It's a spot-on impression that only seems to anger his sibling more.

Sutton scowls. “Please, I didn't see you coming up with any brilliant ideas when Maxwell took her side, Mr. ‘I Could’ve Done Better.’”

“I could've done it better in my sleep, with one eye closed and still had time to be more convincing than you.”

“Really?” Sutton challenges, “How about I put you in a coma first and then we’ll see how well you can do after taking a dirt nap from the other side of my fist?”

I choose to distance myself from their tired bickering, focusing instead on the strange objects scattered around the tent. Antique mirrors line one wall, their surfaces clouded and warped. In the far corner, a circular table covered in a silky cloth holds useless trinkets and forgotten knick-knacks, just like the other objects inthat part of the room. Everywhere I look, there are abandoned things strewn about, neglected by their owner.

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