Page 11 of Wicked Spite
The autumn wind tugs at my leather jacket as I dial my sister Reese’s number. My heart feels heavy, and I know hearing that she’s safe will help with that. She answers on the second ring.
“Hey, Reagan! What’s up?”
“Nothing much, just walking to class. How was your day?” I ask, genuinely curious about her life away at Wellington Academy. Getting my dad to agree to send her to boarding school a few years ago was one of the best ideas. The less time she’s in that house the better.
“Amazing! I made a new friend today, her name’s Lily. She’s from England and has the coolest accent,” Reese gushes, excitement ringing in her voice.
“Nice. You two planning any world domination schemes?” I tease, a smirk playing on my lips.
“Maybe,” she giggles. “But first, we’re going to sneak into the kitchen and make some midnight snacks.”
“Ah, you really are my mini me. Just don’t get caught.” I chuckle.
“Never,” she scoffs playfully. “Miss you, though.”
“Miss you too, kiddo. Keep kicking ass, alright?” I say, my voice cracking slightly.
“Always,” she replies before we hang up, leaving me with a bittersweet feeling.
As I continue walking across campus, I pass by the alley where I saw that frat guy get murdered. Even in broad daylight, it feels eerie. I never heard anything about it, and I certainly never told anyone what I saw. Why those guys wanted him dead is not my business. I’ve kicked him out of the bar myself for slipping shit into a girl’s drink, so in my very humble opinion, the world hasn’t lost anything. I notice the brick under my foot is stained brown, because this alley is never fucking cleaned.
I can’t help but wonder about the identity of those who killed him. Despite their vicious act, I still believe he deserved what he got. The cruelty he inflicted on others shouldn’t go unpunished. The world doesn’t care about us, so why the fuck should we care about people like him? But who had the guts to carry it out?
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder, suddenly wary, but there’s no one there. Just my imagination playing tricks on me. I shake off the unease and continue on to class.
This is my least favorite class for several reasons. It’s early and my stepsister, Ashley, is in the same class, the two banes of my existence.
I enter the classroom and squint my eyes because the fucking sterile fluorescent lights are scratching at my corneas. The desks are arranged in perfect rows, as if they are soldiers awaiting orders, and I can’t help but feel like a prisoner in this hellhole. I’m only going to this stupid school because I knowbartending isn’t going to be enough to support my sister and myself so I can get us both out of our father’s clutches.
Ashley sits at her usual spot near the front of the class, her dyed blonde hair practically glowing clown orange under the harsh illumination as she purses her lips at me. I’ve offended her by my presence, I presume. I need sunglasses if I’m going to get through the next fifty-five minutes of this hellish nightmare without anyone seeing my eyeballs rolled up into my skull. My stepsister’s designer clothes cling to her body, revealing more than they conceal, and her makeup is applied with the precision of a surgeon. That’s one thing I’ll give the dirty bitch. She has a strong grasp on the color wheel unless it comes to her hair.
“Did a rabid squirrel brush your hair this morning, Reagan?” Ashley snips out, and I swear I visualize picking up her desk with her still in it and tossing it out the window.
But I can’t maim daddy’s hardest little worker bee, now, can I?
“Ugh,” I mutter under my breath as I take my seat, bracing myself for yet another encounter with her prissy, mean-spirited behavior. Sure enough, Ashley doesn’t disappoint. Before the professor has even arrived, she’s already gossiping loudly about one of our classmates, snickering while passing judgment on their last season heels. I look down at my combat boots and wonder how much they’d stain if I stomped on her slender neck.
“Reagan,” Ashley drawls, her voice dripping with insincerity. “Daddy’s been trying to get ahold of you, just so you know.” She smirks, clearly reveling in the fact that she gets to be the bearer of bad news.
No shit. Daddy also tried to choke the life out of me, but you don’t see me announcing that shit for show and tell.
I roll my eyes, responding sarcastically, “I know, Ash, you don’t have to play messenger.” I despise how she always makes it a point to remind me thatmyfather—the same man who’s been cold, cruel, and sometimes outright violent toward me—favors her.
Ashley huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and pushes her cleavage that Daddy Dearest paid for, up for the horn dogs in the class to take in. “Well, maybe if you answered his calls, I wouldn’t have to give you a play-by-play of what’s going on.” She leans in closer, lowering her voice as if she’s sharing a secret. “You know, all these extravagant gifts he keeps showering me with? They’re my retirement plan. It’s nice being taken care of.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s real cozy,” I retort, my disdain barely concealed.
“Too bad you’ll never get to experience it,” she sneers. “You’re just too much of a pious bitch to know what’s good for you. Have fun struggling through life, Reagan.”
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to let my anger take over. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose control. Instead, I focus on taking deep breaths and reminding myself that I’m strong enough to face whatever challenges come my way—with or without my father’s help.
I can’t stand another second in this classroom with Ashley; her smug expression is like a slap to the face that I didn’t ask for. Her words echo in my head—pious bitch—and I know I have to get out of here before I lose my temper.
I quickly gather my things and make my way toward the door. The last thing I need is to cause a scene in front of everyone.
As I step out into the hallway, the cool air washes over me like a balm, calming my frayed nerves. The campus sprawlsout in front of me, a maze of buildings and pathways that offer endless possibilities for distraction. Still, I find myself restless and uncertain about how to kill time until my next class. I should have stayed, but I’ll just sweet talk one of the girls in class to give me her notes.
Maybe I should hit the gym and pretend the punching bag is my stepsister’s face. I muse, considering the idea. But the thought of being cooped up inside, surrounded by sweaty, grunting strangers, doesn’t seem all that appealing right now.
