Page 2 of Ruin Me
Jones’ face appears terrified as he stammers, “I’ll find it. Okay, tomorrow. I swear.”
“Tomorrow, then.” The leader of this gang says, and the other two let Jones go.
Quentin cracks his knuckles, which sends a skitter of eww over my skin, and I creep backwards in case they want to make me their next target.
“Should’ve known the cheap rent would come with asshole neighbours,” I mutter as I somehow slide back through the window from my crouched position but ending up going headfirst with my ass sticking up in the air while I scramble forward.
From my position on my knees, I reach up to thewindow and pull the sash down, locking me away from the violence.
“Not a great start, Vogue. Avoid, avoid, avoid.”
Shaking my head as I get to my feet and brush my jeans off, I strip off quickly and get my pjs on, ready to settle down in preparation for my big day tomorrow.
2
VOGUE
When I steponto Crestmont’s campus, the sun is already high in the sky. Students swarm around me, their laughter and chatter a living, breathing mass of ambition and privilege. And then there’s me: a mass of nerves and funded education. Awesome.
My grip tightens on the strap of my bag, knuckles whitening.
Here goes nothing.
I weave through the crowd, my eyes taking in the grand buildings that tower around in old-world grandeur, ivy-clad walls, and spires galore. It’s a stunning spectacle and a world away from the 1970s blocks of Westfield University, where I did my Bachelor’s degree. Cool shade offers a brief respite from the warm sun as I pass under stone archways, but it’s the heat of opportunity that really makes my skin tingle.
“Watch it!” A guy with a skateboard nearly crashes into me, but I sidestep just in time. My heart doesn’t even skip a beat. Growing up where I did,you learn to move quickly or get hit—by life, by chance, by skateboards.
“Sorry,” he calls over his shoulder, with a set of manners I wasn’t expecting after his rude initial outburst. I don’t bother replying. I’ve got bigger things to focus on.
Like right now.
This lecture hall is enormous, swallowing students like we’re nothing more than a morning snack. I slip inside, letting the cool air wrap around me for a second before scanning for a seat.
Back row, near an exit. Perfect. Nice and elusive. I make a beeline for it, darting past a group of older students who have come back to University for their post-grad. Most of us are in the region of twenty-three, twenty-four, fresh from under-grad and raring to go. Dropping into the chair like its home base, I pull out my notebook, and pen. I’m old school and proud of it.
I lean back, taking a moment to soak it all in. The hum of conversation fades as I zone in on the task ahead.
Learn everything. Miss nothing.
Easy.
A hush blankets the room as the professor strides in, the thud of his shoes against the floor echoing. He’s all sharp angles and sharper eyes that sweep over us like we’re equations he’s already solved. Professor Harrow. I’ve heard whispers about him—how his exams leave the smartest kids crying, how he doesn’t sugar coat the bitter pill of truth.
It’s a challenge I’m more than up for, and I intend to show Hardass Harrow that I’m not afraid of him.
“Welcome to Advanced Business Strategy,” he announces, voice clear and carrying without even trying. His gaze pins me for a second, and I sit up straighter, scribbling notes before he even starts teaching. I’m here to learn, not to make friends, but making a good impression on him is top of my list.
As the lecture progresses, I jot down everything. Harrow’s words are gold, each sentence another step toward where I want to be. Top of the class. Top of the game. The life my mum worked her fingers to the bone for, starts with acing this.
When the lecture ends, there’s a sense of relief that buzzes through the air. Students stretch, chat, laugh. I have a momentary pang that I’m not part of it, but push it aside. I pack my things slowly, watching them from the corner of my eye.
Suddenly, a girl approaches me with a friendly smile, her hair a riot of blonde curls. “I’m Jess.”
“Vogue,” I reply.
“As in the mag?”
“Sadly, no. More like my mum was a crazed Madonna fan. Strike a pose, and all that.”
