Page 32 of Riot House
“Stop the car, or I’ll do more than kick a headrest,” I purr, in a flat, calm, perfectly amicable voice.
“Jesus Christ,” Dash groans. “Let him out before he blows like fucking Etna. There’s no need to get so grouchy, y’know,” he tells me, spinning around in his chair. “You like something about this girl. For some weird reason, you’ve decided she’s the Morticia to your Gomez. There’s no need to let your temporary insanity cause contention between the three of us, though, is there.”
The Charger’s tires kick up hunks of gravel as Pax purposefully slams on the breaks. I open up the door and climb out into the cold.
Dashiell offers me a winning smile. “Take a minute to think about what really matters on your pilgrimage to school, won’t you, fella? See you in three whole minutes.”
The Charger jumps its brakes, surging down the driveway towards the academy’s imposing building, and a thick cloud of exhaust fumes envelopes me for a second, obscuring the dismal view up ahead.
I wish it would fucking rain again.
I wish the day, along with Dashiell’s father’s vexing charity dinner, was already over.
I wish my smug fucking friends weren’t right.
My attention’s inexplicably snagged on Elodie, and her appeal seems to grow on a daily goddamn basis. Under any other circumstances, Iwouldhave charmed the back teeth off of the girl and screwed the living shit out of her already, but this isn’t about sex. It isn’tnotabout sex, I s’pose. But it’s more about the quiet confidence the girl puts out. It’s about her upbringing, and the things she’s experienced, and the way she sees the world. I want to know what’s going on inside her head.
I want what any guy in my position would want:her complete and unconditional surrender.
Pax and Dashiell wait for me on the worn marble steps that lead up to the entrance of the academy. They’re of a height, and their builds are pretty similar, too. That’s where their similarities come to a grinding halt. Without me, the two men standing side by side in front of those lacquered black doors would probably despise each other with a burning intensity usually reserved for members of opposing religions.
“That little time-out fix your salty mood, princess?” Pax asks. His eyes are still full of fury over the headrest incident. He won’t forgive me until I apologize, and even then he might not absolve me of my heinous crime; that car is his pride and joy.
I couldn’t give a fuck. Today, I’m surrendering myself to my saturnine funk. It can fucking have me. Pax is gonna have to wait ‘til tomorrow if he wants any sign of remorse out of me.
Fridays are weird at Wolf Hall. None of our classes align, the three of us separated and banished to different wings of the school in a way that definitely seems planned. Harcourt made sure none of us Riot House boys were close enough to scheme up any disruptive plans for the weekend around any of the other students, which is usually annoying. I’m glad that I won’t have to see either of them again until the end of the day, though.
I just need…
I don’t knowwhatthe fuck I need….
“I’ll be ready to leave at six,” I say, slapping a hand on either of the boys’ shoulders as I pass them. “See you back at the house.”
I yank open the heavy doors and walk inside the school, leaving them behind. Pax can’t let me go without having the final word, though. “You’re acting like she’s the pot of gold, waiting for you at the end of the rainbow, man. But you’re embarrassing yourself, Jacobi.She’s just a girl.She’s just a fucking girl!”
In The Dark…
I stop drinking.
He shoves the thin straw through the hole, goading me, trying to coax me into taking a sip, but I’ve made up my mind.
“Stubborn, stupid little bitch. Drink, damn it. DRINK THE FUCKING WATER!”
The human body can survive for weeks without food so long as it has water.
But if I don’t drink…
…then maybe it won’t take as long to fade away.
12
ELODIE
Being resurrectedfrom the dead has its benefits.
Most important of which: my friends have started messaging me again.
I jog down the stairs, head buried in my phone, trying to read Ayala’s most recent text without getting busted by a member of staff. I’m smirking, cheeks aching, totally entranced by the look of abject sorrow on Peter Horovitz’s face—the guy even wore asuitto my memorial at Mary Magdalene’s—which is why I don’t see the dark black smudge fast approaching down the hall on my left.
