2 - The Wolves of Knightsbridge
Knightsbridge Academy looks picture-perfect to innocent bystanders.
Nestled in the heart of Dulwich, an affluent village on the south side of London.
Its gilded gates promise excellence to those who step foot on the premises.
That’s what the brochure says, anyway. They don’t open for any old Joe, though; only the elite and filthy-rich trust-fund kids get placements in this prestigious hole.
It looks perfect. With its ivy-covered frontage and preened gardens. But looks can be deceiving. Beyond the intricate architecture and polished glass lie secrets and skeletons buried deep within the walls. Veiled truths with the power to destroy reputations and credibility in the blink of an eye.
That’s just the teachers. Don’t get me started on the students.
Cruising through the grounds on my Harley, scorched rubber trails after me like a second shadow. Apparently, or so I’ve been told by the female species, it’s my signature scent.
The engine’s quiet hum fades as l roll into my parking space. And yes, I mean mine; similar to what you’d find at a fancy golf club. Except this one doesn’t say ‘pretentious dickhead,’ just my name: Logan Archer Cox.
The education system here differs from most. Honestly, I don’t know why they call it an ‘academy.’ It’s a private university, with a pompous ass title.
We’re ‘encouraged’ to take two major subjects, three for the real brainy bastards.
As if that’s not enough, we also must study advanced Maths and English and attend a physical fitness training session once a week.
I’ve tried arguing the point that I basically live at the gym, but they won’t have any of it.
Dad says I have to suck it up if I want to succeed.
Which, of course. I do.
I slide my helmet off and tug the key from the ignition. The rumble of Limp Bizkit’s ‘Break Stuff’ blares through the speakers of the midnight Lambo gliding into the neighbouring bay. My two best mates acknowledge me through the open window.
Clarke kills the engine, saluting me from behind the wheel with a smirk that could rival the devil. I shake my head, chuckling under my breath.
“You bumming it together now?” I snicker, dismounting the bike with practised ease.
Ezio leans over him and flips me the bird, his olive-green eyes sharp but playful.
“You jealous, Cox?” Clarke smirks, wiggling his thick Spanish eyebrows. “You know you’ve always got a special place in my heart.” He places his hand mockingly over his chest to back up the drivel spilling from his mouth.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “But you’d need to possess one for that to have any significance, buddy.”
He laughs, the kind of sound that oozes confidence, and stretches toward the ceiling, yawning.
As an insomniac, he’s frequently caught drifting off in lectures.
Or napping behind the library. Seriously, he’ll just curl up on the grass verge or climb the oak tree and slump among the branches like a lazy cheetah basking in the summer haze.
“Pass me the bag, Ez.” Clarke points to the space at his feet.
Ezio glances down at the footwell and back, eyebrows furrowing.
He reaches under his chair and plucks out a white carrier.
With a knowing smirk, he throws it in Clarke’s direction.
It lands with a plop into his lap, narrowly missing cracking him in the nuts, which earns him a scowl.
The flash of striking candy red blinds me long before he does the big reveal, dangling the heels on his index finger out the window.
“What are you planning?” I scoff. “Going to get all the girls to try 'em on? Some twisted Cinderella shit?”
We joke, but last night went catastrophically wrong.
Not because Fionn died. That bastard deserved everything he got and more.
In fact, a lot fucking more. More torture, more pain, more brutality.
We weren’t prepared for someone else to turn up, least of all a girl.
She was watching from the safety of the shadows.
Far too much of a pussycat to show her pretty face.
If our parents find out what we’ve done, they may well chop our balls off, too.
“No need.” A red blur distorts my vision as something bumps the tip of my nose. I blink, taken aback as the distinct scent of leather floods my nostrils.
“Err, what am I looking at?” I question dumbly.
Ez circles the car, pointing eagerly at the shoe as if it harbours its own explanation. My brows knit together.
“Oh Jesus, Logan,” Clarke snorts, clapping a palm to his head in frustration. “Run your fingers along there.”
I snatch the shoe from his open hand and brush my index finger over the smooth sole.
Only something snags my calloused skin, a tiny dink in the leather.
The average person would never notice it, but Clarke’s hawk-like diligence means nothing gets past him.
He’s got the meticulous eye of a finalist on bloody MasterChef.
Drawing the shoe closer to my face, I twist it this way and that, scrutinizing it in the changing light. And bugger me. These bad boys are custom-made.
CMR.
Initials, maybe?
My gaze snaps to the lads, all of us donning the same devious expression.
“I’m in the process of persuading any nearby venues to hand over their surveillance footage. And I’ll check the student records at the end of class.”
We nod in unison, as if we’ve rehearsed it.
That shit happens when you’ve been friends as long as we have.
Hell, half the time we finish each other’s sentences.
Sometimes we don’t need to start them. Just a glance, and we already know the deal.
Family dramas, one too many close calls, breakups, busted knuckles.
The usual crap. And the not so usual too.
You’ll often hear people say they’d take a bullet for the ones they love, but me?
I actually have.
We head inside, chatting a complete load of nonsense on the way.
Apparently Ezio ploughed the Ferrari into a wall trying to impress a girl (bet that worked a treat) which was why they car-shared this morning.
He then complained about Clarke’s shitty taste in music. Which is a fair point; it’s awful.
When we reach the main gate, Ez bids us farewell and strolls off with his arm slung around his should-be-his-girlfriend-but-he’s-too-pussy-to-ask friend.
Clarke and I head up the stairs to psychology.
I know, ironic, right? Enrolling in a class where the curriculum involves studying the human mind and behaviour.
Yet we’re two of the most mentally fucked-up individuals you’ll ever cross paths with.
We breeze into the classroom without a care, brushing past the lecturer on our way. Mr Morgan won’t dare say a word regarding our tardiness.
“Right, ladies and gents. We have a new student joining us from today,” he announces as we settle behind our desks. “I want you to make her feel welcome. She’s moved over all the way from Nice.”
Poor girl. You’d dread that sort of introduction on your first day in an unfamiliar place.
He may as well have stuck her on a pedestal at the front of the classroom.
Reminds me of those awkward show and tell days from primary school.
There’d always be that one rogue child that’d turn up with a live tarantula, or something equally hairy, to chase the girls around the halls. Oh, wait—that was me.
“Everyone say hello to Cordelia.”
A chorus of bored groans echoes to him, voices thick with indifference. But then she walks in and I freeze, mid-conversation with Clarke. Whatever we were discussing goes over my head. Gone. Poof.
She’s a pretty little thing. Petite, blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, fair, and my type for sure.
The girl’s wandering eyes land on me, and suddenly she looks like a tiny mouse staring into the eyes of the neighbourhood cat.
Interesting. I stare right back at her, standing there in her plaid Prada jacket and skirt, arms crossed over her chest, clutching a notepad to her bosom like a lifeline.
The skirt’s short by all standards, revealing the smooth skin of her shapely legs.
“Sit down, Miss Rousseau.”
Cordelia nods, her eyes darting to the empty desk between us.
Yes, sweetheart, that is the only spare seat available.
Her blonde hair swings with her hips as she glides in and out of the occupied desks.
We’re situated towards the rear of the room, and that’s a fair way to go with everyone’s gazes pinned on you like you’re the most fascinating thing since sliced bloody bread.
She casts a fleeting glance our way before sitting down to set her belongings on the table.
That pink notebook she’s been clinging to, a pencil case and a pen with a fluffy pink pom-pom on the end. What is she? Five?
Mr Morgan continues with the lecture. Something about cognitive biases and irrational decisions. But I’m not listening anymore. Besides, irrational decisions are my specialty.
My eyes flick to the front of her book, scanning over the letters written in neat black ink. I rest my finger on my bottom lip to hide the smirk that’s lingering beneath, propping myself up on an elbow.
“What sort of weird-ass name is Cordelia?” I say. “It sounds like a Victorian orphan or somethin.”
Clarke snickers at my unorthodox way of starting a conversation. It’s a curse, and a blessing rolled into one. I never have to stress about breaking the ice.
Her bright blue eyes drift idly to my book, laid out on the desk in front of me. She gives me this ‘I’m-just-humouring-you’ kind of look before saying.
“At least it doesn’t sound like a sleazy car dealer.” She leans in an inch closer, her little nose screwing up in distaste. “Smell like one too.”
Clarke snorts, an awful noise that has students shifting in their seats.
The bite in her voice catches me off guard. It’s an experience I’m unfamiliar with, not knowing how to respond. I’m the king of wit and sarcasm.
“Did you just sniff me, sweetheart?” My lips curl at the corners, and her cheeks flush with heat. Cute. “Actually, it’s Clive Christian,” I pretend to waft my scent her way, and she jerks her body away as if I’ve personally offended her.
She scrunches that adorable button nose up again. “Oui. Still obnoxious.”
“Alright, Miss Dior,” I reply, eyebrows disappearing into my hairline. I don’t fail to notice the slight twitch of her lip when I nail her own perfume. That’s one I’m well accustomed to. “Who pissed in your cereal this morning?”
Little Miss Sunshine blinks once, fluttering those voluminous lashes my way. “Probably the same arsehole who bottled your cologne. Eau de obnoxious pour homme.”
And because she’s French, her pronunciation is spot on.
Clarke unleashes another snort, unable to contain his laughter any longer. “I’m dead,” he cackles, wiping away fake tears with the sleeve of his Armani jacket.
“Alright,” I huff, folding my arms across my chest, “so my accent was a little off.”
“Your British tongue sounds like it’s choking on the alphabet,” she deadpans, her cerulean, blue eyes somehow flickering with fire and ice behind them.
“Stop,” Clarke wheezes, slapping the table with his fist. “I-I can’t breathe.”
“Good. Fewer pigs to deal with.”
This girl’s got one hell of a mouth on her.
I admire a girl with clout. She waggles an index finger, her neatly arched brows drawing together.
“If you’re friends,” she says, and I’m not sure what she’s implying by the air quotations she makes with her glossy red nails, “then why don’t you sit next to each other? ”
I drop the Parker I’d started writing with and slip her a wolffish smile. The one that gets girls dropping to their knees for me. I’d be up for making this sassy madam beg for me. I could even use her ponytail as reins whilst I fuck her.
“We enjoy vetting the new kids, i.e. you,” I mimic her air quotations from earlier. Then I seal it with a wink, for extra charm.
She blinks. Rolls her eyes. And flicks her shiny mane over her shoulder, in that order.
No woman has ever dismissed me. It’s kind of refreshing.
Crossing my arms behind my neck, I lean back in the chair, so it teeters on two legs.
Clarke meets my gaze, throwing me this shit-eating grin.
Because he knows and I know. I’m a little bit smitten with the new kid.
When the bell rings, Cordelia slips through the door faster than Houdini breaking out of a bloody straitjacket.
There’s no chance of catching that little roadrunner, so I march back to the parking lot, keys jangling between my fingers.
I shove my AirPods in my ears and Dexter Holland screams at me from beyond.
The Offspring, Want You Bad. Oh, the irony.
The zipper on my Brioni jacket glides up, and my leather gloves ward off the chill.
Straddling the seat, I kick it into gear, and the engine purrs like an old friend.
Just as I’m about to make a move, my pocket vibrates. I pull it from my pocket, eyeing up the notification from the WhatsApp group with the boys.
Triple Threat.
Still gets me every time.
Clarke: Scoured the database. No one with those initials checks out. Well, not unless Callum had a rod shoved up his arse and somehow ended up sounding like a Disney princess.
I snort. That guy fucking kills me. I send a laughing emoji, then type back.
Me: Stranger things have happened, mate. Has anyone checked his shoe size lately?
Ezio hits us with the classic eye-roll emoji.
Ezio: Damn. It would have been so much easier if it was someone inside Knightsbridge. Any joy from the footage?
Ezio always has possessed the most self-control. It takes a lot to piss him off.
Clarke: Unfortunately, no. We killed the bastard during a British monsoon.
Me: That’s gonna make things harder
Clarke: Harder. But not impossible.
He’s right. We’ve got contacts who owe a favour or two. I pocket the phone and head for home.
Clarkes like a dog with a bone when he gets stuck in.
We’ll find her.
Sooner rather than later.