Page 1 of The Tenth Circle
PROLOGUE
HENDRIX
August Orientation
How the hell did I get here?
In a world reeking of self-righteous privilege?
Which deity of the universe did I piss off enough to put us in the one out of three-hundred million?
For years I’ve been laying low in a three bedroom Manhattan apartment with my mother and Aunt—having nobody to answer to but them and my intrusive thoughts.
Why, out of all the nineteen million people residing in New York State, does MY MOTHER have to be the one who wins the mega-millions?
I know most would be side-eying me right now.
Even contemplating my sanity.
Hendrix, who would actually hate becoming a multi-millionaire? Moving into a fancy condo and the top one percent? Joining a new school for the “elite” where you can walk around in the same shoes you’ve been gawking at through the windows of Madison Avenue?
Have you never watched Sex and the City?
Yeah, I have, and I will never be a Carrie Fucking Bradshaw. Not with my baggage and forty plus inch hips.
Alas, the universe, despite my stomping and whining, has decided it’s time for Hendrix Montgomery to take a walk on the wealthy side.
A girl whose most wild adventures involve riding the train at night between Times Square and Broadway.
If somebody told me I would end up in a school where the only struggle for girls was deciding between Yves Saint Laurent and Moncler, I’d choke on a Pepsi from laughter.
Don’t even get me started on the guys.
Riverside Preparatory School is on the opposite side of the world,ahem, I mean island, and for good reason. The number one being having an actual hand in the city budget.
And, because I’m me and don’t go down unless I do it petty, I decided for my ego’s sake I’ll dress in my grungiest outfit for this stupid orientation day Mom insists I go to.
Whatever happened to Cliff’s notes?
“Let’s go. We’re gonna be late, Hen!” Mom shouts from the front of our place, already dressed to the nines in Chanel.
“Coming…” I try my best not to grumble as I reach for my bag, making sure to toss an extra pack of cigarettes inside before hiking it over my shoulder.
I hear her whine the second my feet hit the hallway.
“Really? Shredded jeans?” Mom’s crossed arms fall in defeat at her sides. “Guess I should be happy you at least decided not to wear a cigarette behind your ear.”
With a wide sarcastic smile I reach into the tote and pull out my fresh Newports, tapping my palm against the bottom.
Mom shakes her head. “You’re really such a brat, you know that?”
“I would’ve gone with bitch, but that works too.”
With a small chuckle Mom turns, ambling toward the front door where the rest of her Chanel is waiting for her on the dining table.
Begrudgingly, I follow, but not before I mouth off, “That bag costs a monthly mortgage, you know.”
Mom counters with a middle finger over her shoulder.
