Page 2 of The Ruthless Note

I turn and lock eyes with Jarod Cross.

The respectable black turtleneck and pressed trousers can’t snuff out the ‘rockstar’ ingrained beneath his skin. With his thick chestnut hair, slightly wavy as if he couldn’t care less about hair products, the thick sideburns, the heavy silver necklace and the tattoos creeping out of his throat and on the back of his hands, he screams musical chaos.

I’ve never been an active fan of Jarod Cross, but there’s not a person on thisplanetwho hasn’t heard his music. From triple platinum albums to the soundtracks behind the most iconic action movie scenes to simply featuring on another band’s track, he’severywhere.

Dutch rips his gaze away from me and focuses on his dad. The two share a long, charged staredown. Beneath their unblinking gazes is a dangerous hint of animosity.

The truth shakes loose before my eyes. Jarod Cross didn’t jump to my rescue to help out Mr. Mulliez or to log a point in his book of good deeds. There’s more to his appearance at Redwood Prep.

“You want to explain why you’re making a scene?” Jarod Cross snarls beneath his breath.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Dutch snaps back.

The pressure in the air mounts like a plane taking off on a runway.

What’s going on between Dutch and his dad?

The gym doors burst open before I can dig into it. Both Jarod Cross and Dutch glance around. Apprehension flickers through Jarod’s eyes when he sees the police. He takes a step back.

But the cops aren’t looking at him. Their eyes swerve through the gym, intently searching for their target.

Whispers and gasps rise from the student body. In all their elite, privileged lives, they’ve never brushed against a moment like this.

I hear the crescendo in my head.

Relentless momentum.

Crashing dominos.

Phones are out now, some already suspecting that, whatever’s going down, it’s worthy of being recorded.

“What in the heavens?” Principal Harris exclaims from his perch next to the podium. Sweat leaks out of his bald head and pours down the side of his face. “Why are there police officers?”

Everyone in the bleachers leans forward, anticipating a show.

But it’s not the kind they’re expecting.

The officers march straight to the cheerleaders who are clumped together on a bench. Pretty, toned, and privileged, they wear their careless abandon like they do their sparkly outfits with the pleated skirts and plastic pompoms.

I watch the dancers’ shocked reactions when the cops get closer. Each of their faces devolve into masks of discomfort. Their eyes dart to one another. Teeth tugging into bottom lips. Hands tightening around their pompoms.

The buzz in my veins gets worse. Was I always this greedy for revenge? Have I always been a destructive person or did Redwood Prep turn me into this monster?

I feel Dutch’s gaze boring into my head. Diverting my attention from the cops to the furious god of Redwood Prep, I arch a brow in challenge.

He steps toward me. His chest brushes my arm and sends an unwanted spark of awareness thrumming through my body.

Voice low and head tucked close to my ear, Dutch growls, “What. Did. You. Do?”

“Me?” I whisper innocently.

He grabs my arm. His fingers are almost painful when they clamp around my wrist. “Cadence.”

A shriek ricochets around the gym, temporarily averting Dutch’s venomous gaze. We both look to the front where the cops have pointed out Christa.

“Get your handsoffme!” the blonde screams.

Principal Harris throws helpless eyes at Jarod Cross as if invoking some kind of supernatural creature to do his bidding. The rockstar remains rooted in place. His fingers are relaxed. One corner of his lips arches up in amusement.

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