Page 2 of Riot Rules
Mara purrs her approval. “Goddamn, what I wouldn’t give for a shot at that.”
I shield my eyes with my free hand, watching the figures roughhouse as they approach the huge fountain at the foot of the drive. During winter, the groundsmen seal off the water to prevent the pipes from freezing. Now that the days are getting longer and there’s no frost on the ground, they’ve recently turned the fountain back on again. Its jets arc up ten feet into the air, peppering the brisk fall morning with a fine mist that throws rainbows in every which direction.
“Which one?” I ask.
Mara snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “Wren. I’d give my right arm for half an hour on the backseat of a car with him.”
The Dark Lord.
The Sun God.
The Anarchist.
The Sun God reaches the fountain first. Dashiell Lovett, Fourth Lord of the Lovett Estate in Surrey, England, hollers at the top of his lungs, startling a flock of starlings from one of the naked trees down by the lake. The tiny birds take flight, pinwheeling across the stark, cloudless sky. The Dark Lord and The Anarchist shove and jostle their friend, The Dark Lord wearing a broad, shit-eating grin on his face. The Anarchist’s expression is savage as he attempts to get Dashiell into a headlock, his corded arms full of tattoos.
“Have you ever seen Pax smile?” Mara asks.
I shake my head.
“Ihave. It was terrifying.”
I can’t even imagine it. I try, and an uncomfortable shiver runs the length of my back, goosebumps sprouting across the backs of my arms. The third boy in the group, The Dark Lord, halts his attack on Dashiell, suddenly noticing us standing at the foot of the school’s steps, watching them. The three boys turn and look at us, then, and my first instinct is to hurl myself sideways into the bank of rose bushes to avoid their gaze. I amsucha chickenshit. It takes sublime effort, but I stand my ground.
“Wren Jacobi.” Mara sighs his name like the guy single-handedly cured cancer. She holds the lip of her coffee cup to her mouth, smirking deviously. “I bet he fucks like a demon.”
There are plenty of girls down in Mountain Lakes who would be able to confirm or deny that suspicion. Rumor has it that Wren has no qualms with screwing women who are much older than him, or married, or inappropriate for a whole slew of other reasons.
“Which one would you do?” Mara asks. “Y’know. If you had your pick?”
Ask any female member of the Wolf Hall student body this question. If they tell you they couldn’t care less, then they’re a dirty, dirty liar. I’ve had so much practice at lying now, though, that when I do it, it sounds like the honest to god’s truth. “Jacobi. Definitely Jacobi.”
Mara nods, swallowing down this falsehood like it was the only natural answer. She picked Wren. Most people would. Not me, though. Every Saturday for the past year, I’ve crept out of bed and tiptoed down to the orchestra room in the small hours of the morning to listen to the Sun God play. No one talks about his talent. I don’t think anyone knows he even plays. At first, watching him sit at the piano in the dark, his long fingers flying expertly up and down the keys, was something I did because of the music. The pieces he chose were so somber and sad that they made my soul ache. At some point, that changed; I realized I was sneaking down there because watchinghimmade my soul ache, too.
So, yes. I’d choose the Sun God any day of the week. Not that I could ever have him, of course. Aside from Dashiell being rich, arrogant as hell and at least eighty percent evil…I am not the kind of girl who gets to have things.
See, coffee trips are one thing. But there are rules that can be bent, and rules that can be broken. Andthenthere are the rules that can’t be tampered with under any circumstances. Inflexible rules that have zero give in them whatsoever. I’m used to following those rules to the letter…and I’ve gotten very used to wanting things I cannot have.
1
DASH
“Oh my god,I’m gonna fuckingdie!”
Wren hands me a red and white checkered tea towel and shoves my hand down on top of my junk, laughing softly down his nose. “Jesus wept, Lovett, don’t be so melodramatic. You’re not gonna die.”
“Thatisa lot of blood.” From the front of the car, Pax, in his skintight wife-beater and gold aviators, looks like he’s heading to the airport to catch a flight to Mexico. He rubs a hand lazily over his closely shaved head, then reaches up and angles the rearview mirror, presumably so he can get a better look at me sprawled across the backseat of his 1970s Charger with my pants around my ankles and blood splattered all over my thighs. “Alotof blood,” he repeats. “That much blood should not come out of a man’s dick.”
“Stop staring at it and put your foot down,” I snarl. “My grandmother can drive faster than this and she’s dead.”
“Lady Margaret Elspeth Decatur Lovett? Drive? Don’t be stupid,” Wren chuckles from the front passenger seat. “That witch didn’t know how to operate a can opener. She couldn’tdrive.”
It’s unsettling that Wren knows so much about my relatives. He’s a researcher. A snooper. His nose is always firmly inserted into business that has absolutely nothing to do with him. He can’t be stopped, dissuaded, cajoled or bribed from participating in this little hobby of his. It’s a part of him, firmly affixed, just like his wavy, dark hair, or his unsettling green eyes. His need to know things often comes in handy and works in our favor. Other times, it’s just fucking annoying.
Pax smirks, fiddling with the radio dial, trawling through static. “What were you even doing to it, anyway? I know you’re into some kinky shit, man, but there are limits. If you have to hurt yourself in order to get off, maybe just…go a little easier next time?”
“I wasn’t trying to get off!” I press the tea towel down, applying pressure against my cock, and a burning, stinging sensation travels all the way up the shaft, down both of my legs, into the soles of my feet, where it does a one-eighty back up my body to my brain, making my eyes water. Holy sweet Mary and fucking Joseph, that hurts. “I was—just trying to—”Oh. Oh, god. This is bad,“—washmyself.”
“Wash yourself? Did you use barbed wire instead of a cloth? ’Cause that shit’s messed up.”
