Page 21 of Riot Rules
I’m hoping that Dash will skirt around the chapel site and keep on walking, down to the man-made lake at the border of the forest, but he doesn’t. He walks straight through the footprint of the chapel, taking large strides to clear the jagged walls, and doesn’t stop until he reaches the graveyard.
How many people have to be buried in one place before a place can officially be called a graveyard? Not something I’ve ever really wondered before. There are only eight headstones in Wolf Hall’s cemetery, which doesn’t seem like a lot at first. Not until you consider that this place has always been aschool, and surely it’s not normal for people to die at a school and remain buried there.
Dashiell stops in front of one of the headstones and looks down at it. He’s chosen the most elaborate headstone, all carved scrollwork and flowers. The weather’s eaten at the marble; what was once white is now a dingy shade of yellow, with a hint of lichen green in the cracks and crevices of its worn-smooth surface.
I haven’t decided how I’m going to broach the question of the party. I don’t even know how I’m going to break the silence and let him know I’m behind him, but—
“Nineteen twenty-three. Wild, huh?” Dash says out loud.
I freeze. Umm… Is he talking to me?
“She was seventeen. Our age. Eliza Monroe Bishop-Quarterstaff.” He whistles. “Fuck me. And I thoughtIhad a pretentious name.”
So, heknowsI’m behind him; his voice is too loud for him to be talking to himself. I’m annoyed that he’s one-upped me, but also relieved that I don’t need to interrupt him. The ground’s still muddy from the downpour we had last week; I dump my bag onto the grass and use it as an improvised seat. “What did she die of?” I ask.
Dashiell still hasn’t turned around to face me. “Boredom, probably. No cell phones. No laptops. Imagine being stuck here without WIFI.”
When the hell is he going to turn around? He looks down at something in his hands, his head inclined to the side like he’s listening behind him. I can’t stop staring at the back of his neck—at his tensed shoulders and the closely shaved hair at the base of his skull.
“Is there something specific I can help you with, Miss Mendoza? Or were you suddenly gripped by the paralyzing need to know the names of the dead folk buried in our backyard?”
Fucker. Does hehaveto be so obtuse? “I came to find out what happened at that party. Half the school’s talking about it.”
“Well…” He clears his throat and raises whatever he’s holding in his hands to his mouth. Sunlight bounces off the scuffed surface of a silver hipflask as he drinks from it. Grrrreat. It’s eleven in the morning and he’s drinking. At long last, he turns around, and his cheeks are flushed. His eyes are wild and furious, his expression harrowed, and it’s all I can do to stand my ground in the face of such sudden emotion. “Theycan all go fuck themselves,” he continues. His tone implies that Ican do the same.
Clouds swell on the horizon over the treetops, weighty, angry, the color of steel, promising rain. A weak gust of wind sighs across the little glen behind the chapel, ruffling Dash’s hair. It blows the long strands into his eyes, obscuring them from view, but I can still feel the pressure of his sharp gaze on me. I’d feel a look likethatin the dark and still have the common sense to be afraid. And let’s be real. I am afraid of this boy. He has the power to do such terrible damage. I already know hewill. So why the hell, then, do I ask, “What’s wrong with you? What happened?”
His mouth adopts a petulant twist. Brushing his hair out of his face, he slides his hip flask back into his pocket and then very slowly goes to work, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. “We chatted outside a party for ten minutes, Carina. I’m not required to share every intimate detail of my life with you. My thoughts are not now public domain.”
The thing about Dash is that he’s very intelligent. Scarily so. He can take a look at a person, open his mouth, and have them feeling like shit in under ten seconds. Well, fuck him. I will not be cowed by him. I make sure to meet his gaze and hold it. “We did more than that.”
He frowns. “I’m sorry?”
“Talk for ten minutes outside a party. Youkissedme.”
A smile on his face can be the most beautiful thing, but it can also be the cruelest. He takes a step forward, laughing quietly, as if at some private joke that I’m not privy to. “That’s what this is about? The fact that I shoved my tongue down your throat? Man. You fall easy, huh?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I haven’tfallen—”
He drops into a crouch in front of me. It was one thing, being so close to him on the hood of that car on Friday night, but it was dark, and I’d had three or four drinks. My vision wasn’t the best. In the daylight, Dashiell Lovett is a sight to behold. Pax has always been Riot House’s resident model, but with a jawline like his, it’s a miracle that Dash doesn’t model for some London fashion house, too. His mouth is full and pouty in a sullen way. His eyes are fierce and sharp as a razor’s edge, a beautiful hazel, blue one second, then brown, then green as he tilts his head. He stares at me with such seriousness that I have to fight not to look away.
“Let me tell you how this is going to pan out,” he says slowly. “If you aren’t careful, I’ll decide that I like you. An’ you know what that is, love?” He licks his lips, quickly wetting them. “That is a very, verybadday for you. I am not the kind of boy you want liking you, Carrie. I’m the kind of boy you want to never think of you again. See, when I like something, I want to make it mine. I want all of it. I need to know that I hold it in the palm of my hand, and it will never try to escape.” He holds his hand up, showing me his palm, in the very center of which is a ladybug. Quick as lightning, he makes a fist, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “I’ll wrap my fingers around it and—” He clenches his hand, tightening his fist.
“Asshole!Let it go!” I grab his hand and try to prize his fingers open, but he shakes his head, squeezing harder until his knuckles turn white.
“Ibreakthe things I like, love. Trust me. You don’t want me to likeyou.” His eyes are unfeeling. Cold. Hard. And in this moment, I believe him—craving any kind of attention from him would be very foolish indeed. I release his hand, rocking back a little so I can put some space between us.
“Did you fuck that guy’s mom at the party?” I ask flatly.
He narrows his eyes. “No. Did you?”
“I’m being serious, Dash.”
“So am I.” He’s infuriatingly deadpan. “If I’m being asked personal, preposterous questions, it’s only fair that I get to ask them in return.”
“Except it’s not preposterous for me to ask you that, is it? Because Pax and Wren did fuck—”
He straightens to his full height, brushing his hands off against his pants. “I’m not responsible for whattheychoose to do withtheirdicks.” He turns away. “You’ve asked your question, Carina. Has my answer satisfied your curiosity?”
