Page 39 of Massacre Monday
So, heismad. Shame makes me pause, then I decide to just cut practice short. I hurry to grab my bag, but he runs over and grips my forearm. “Where are you going, Pippi? Trying to get even morespacefrom me?Rushingaway like you do?”
“Let go of my arm.” My eyes narrow on his dark blue ones, and he releases me with ease.
“See you in class, I guess.” He saunters toward the back of the room, shoulders stiff and up to his ears. As I grip the door handle, he says a final warning. “You know he kills people, right? Maybe you find that hot.”
My eyebrows stitch together with outrage at his audacity. Not even bothering to give him a response, I hurriedly exit and change in the locker room.
It’s early on Friday and I’m feeling utterly unmoored. By the time I make it to my now single bedroom, I know I can’t spend two days here alone. Without Gwen, these four walls are hollow, a constant reminder that something nefarious may have happened to her.
So I toss some things in my backpack and grab my phone.
Me
I’m coming home for the weekend.
Mom
Be careful! Text me if you have trouble.
On the ride, I attempt to analyze my messy soup of thoughts.
Ryan Cardell is a problem. Not only is hetakenand alreadyappointed, but it’s to my sorority president. No matter how much his body excites me, he’s off limits after this month. Him fucking with me is only making me more and more confused. And I feel like the other woman. He’s also not well…mentally.
And, according to Mitch, possibly a murderer.
The thing is, my family comes from a long line of organized crime. It’s notthatbig of a secret. I think I would know if Oz had hurt someone, but Adal likely has. Nico, too. My father,mostdefinitely. So if Ryan has murdered people, I hate to admit that most men in my life probably have.
I thought that’s what the brothers had todofor their fraternity initiations. We’ve all heard the rumors. But it’s also known thatBetaboys are different. The goodie two shoes of the crew. Or those who become scientists and doctors. Not mafia leaders and politicians.
Maybe it should bother me, but the possibility that Ryan Cardell is dangerous because he murdered people isn’t a factor. Only that he seems to have me in his sights. Like a predator.
How do I get him off my back? Should I tell my brothers and my father? If I did, I’d cause not only Ryan’s life to end, but possibly a tidal wave of problems for my family. Cardells and their ilk and Freidenbergs and ours going at it like the Capulets and Montagues. That’s not a war I’m ready to start. My stomach twists into a knot at the thought.
Ryan’s social media makes it seem like I’m into him. What if he shows people the video of me on my kneesbegginghim to put his cock in my mouth? What if Valencia tells everyone Ilethim finger-fuck me in a restaurant?
Instant cause of death: mortification.
I’d never be allowed out of my room. If my father saw it, I could kiss any semblance of a normal life goodbye. Locked in a chastity belt until my Culling, and possibly even after that.
It’s not like he doesn’t know what goes on in Greek life at Northview. Adal was inDelta. But I think he’s naïve enough to believe us girls are protected or never thought anyone would mess with Maximillian Freidenberg’s daughter.
Despite feeling uneasy about Ryan’s obsessiveness, he hasn’t threatened me. Oddly, I don’t feel unsafe with him. In fact, I think it’s the opposite.
By the timeI pull up to the gates of the Freidenberg estate, I decide to stay quiet about it unless I sense danger. I’m beyond familiar with weapons and can take care of myself. Except when Ryan’s not casting a lustful hex over me, making me agreeable to whatever he says.
If I’m supposed tobe hisfor the month, do I even get a choice?
When I walk in, Mom leans over the counter, talking with Mrs. Kroft, our cook. Mrs. Kroft hates everyone, except for me. As I stroll in through the swinging door, she gets a sparkle in her light gray eyes and pulls out a tray of my favorite almond cookies from the double oven, holding up a finger to her lips to let me know they’re my secret stash.
“You need breakfast. Don’t worry, no eggs. Only center-cut bacon. Just the way you like it,” Mrs. Kroft says, and I grab a handful, shoveling two pieces in my mouth.
“Hey, no problems getting here?” Mom asks as she gives me a side squeeze.
“Nah.” I steal a cookie from Mrs. Kroft’s tray as she continues plotting out the menu on the whiteboard in front of her.
Mom reaches over, brushing some of my hair over my back, and leans her elbows on the island. “You seem down.”
My mother is a beautiful woman, with her dark hair and light brown eyes. She still dances ballet in her studio downstairs and enjoys sparring with my dad at the gym, too. Most of my family deals with problemsphysicallyand not emotionally. So it’s difficult to tell her when something is bothering me, but I take a deep breath and try.
