Page 89 of The Ruthless Note

Dutch plays a light, sultry melody on the guitar and my muscles pull taut.

I came to class late today, hoping to avoid him. If it wouldn’t put my scholarship in jeopardy, I’d drop all the classes that he attended too.

He’s taking over my life, making me cower. Making me sweat. I clawed my way into the darkness, trying to shore up all the power I had to stand toe-to-toe with him and yet he has me by the neck again.

Can you take the risk that he won’t get what he wants?

The answer to that shames me.

My sneakers skate against the ground as I take a step back.

Still not looking at me, Dutch rumbles, “If you run, I will come after you and I’ll make what I’m about to do next ten times worse.”

“What the hell do you want?” The words scrape my throat, like fingers of fire burning their way up my chest.

I hate Dutch for making me feel so trapped.

For making me feel so alive.

Because even if there’s disdain, just being in the same room with him charges up something that was lifeless inside me. Something that makes my plain, tiring existence feel new.

“Come here, Brahms.” He strums a complex chord, his blond hair catching the sunlight and making it glint like spun gold. Dutch just barely glances over at me, his amber eyes frosty. “Now.”

My mouth tightens. I hate being ordered around. Especially by him.

His lips curl up cruelly. The music he was playing stops in one short motion.

“You left something at the party.” He juts his chin down.

I glance at the bundle under Dutch’s boot and blanch.

It’s the jacket I wore at my last gig. Rolled up within the folds is my red wig.

The truth hits me right between the eyes.

He’s holding my secret ransom.

I glance up. Our eyes lock, my brown ones on his volatile honey-brown irises. He says nothing, but like a predator on the hunt, his stillness is a mirage. He only stalks when the prey is near, caught in his trap. Not a second before then.

The sun is high in the sky, golden rays blasting through the windows. But I still shiver.

Dutch’s eyes follow me as I squeeze between the desks and toss my backpack on the ground.

“Our next Unconventional Music Theory project is due.” He arches a brow at me. “We’re partners.”

“I’m switching.”

“To who?”

The warning expression on his face is like a punch to the gut, but I absorb the threat in it and keep my chin up.

There’s only one person in this school who would dare to stand up to Dutch and live.

“Sol.”

“Go ahead.” He leans back casually. “If you want everyone to know who you really are.” He moves my jacket around with his foot. “Be my guest.” The words roll off his tongue, poisonous and graceful as a snake.

“What do you want, Dutch?”

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