Chapter 6 Scarlett
SCARLETT
My inbox is full of junk, and by junk, I mean emails from the hilarious flyer that Cross has pinned all over campus. Another ping and I mutter under my breath how much I hate him. I crumple yet another flyer on my way to the parking lot and throw it into the trash before spotting my car.
It’s dark, but thankfully, there are several streetlights lining the walkway.
My lucky architecture compass stays in my purse as a steady reminder that I have some sort of protection, but it does nothing to calm my already rising blood pressure from the substantial number of students who now have my email.
Doesn’t Cross understand that I’m a private person?
I quickly shut my door, relishing in the safety of my car, and lock it.
Of course Cross doesn’t understand that I don’t want people privy to my life. He doesn’t know me, and the little bit that he did learn was from a judgmental standpoint at our parents’ wedding where I was much different than I am now.
I was the life of the party, clanking glasses full of liquor with my dad and his mother, dancing most of the night away. Where I once smiled a lot and didn’t meet a stranger, now I’d rather be holed up in my bedroom with that new security system set so no one can touch me.
Shit, that’s right…
I consider calling my dad to tell him that Cross has the code and has yet to give it to me, but that’s something a bratty stepsister would do, and that’s not how I want to play this game with him. He’ll just throw it in my face that I went running to Daddy Dearest and call me a spoiled brat again.
After clicking on Cross’s name, I quickly type a message.
Short and to the point.
Me: What’s the security code?
My phone doesn’t buzz until I pull up to the curb of our house. There aren't any lights on–not even the porch light. Either Cross isn’t home, or he’s being his typical asshole self and wants me to fumble in the dark.
Cross: emailed it to you
I roll my eyes.
Me: You can’t even text in complete sentences? Probably shouldn’t have ditched your tutor.
With a pleased smile, I open my inbox. I check my spam folder when I see nothing but a few emails from professors with updated syllabuses.
My lips flatten immediately. There are even more emails in my spam from people on campus finding those flyers.
I flare my nostrils, exhale deeply, and delete them all.
Eventually, I find the email from Cross.
666#.
How fitting. The devil picked the devil’s number—something he probably did on purpose.
I hold my mace with a steady grip and race up the front steps, careful not to trip. I let myself into the house quickly, and the beeping of the security system immediately starts up.
It takes me a moment to locate the box on the wall. I jab the light switch and examine the panel. With shaky fingers, I enter the code.
It flashes red and reads error then goes back to beeping. Louder.
What the hell?
I reenter the code.
Nothing happens.
The beeping continues, followed by the word intruder in a robotic voice.
I angrily text Cross.
Me: You're an asshole. What is the CORRECT code?
Cross and I are about to go toe to toe if he keeps this up. I was willing to play nice. After accepting my future at SVU, my plan was to keep my head down and finish my degree. But now I’m stuck dealing with this.
When he doesn’t text back, I try it again.
The police are going to show up if Cross doesn’t text me back, and then I’ll go to prison for murdering him.
Bzzzz.
I frantically drop to my knees and grab my phone.
Cross’s name flashes, and I quickly answer it, only to pull it away from my ear right away. Loud noises echo in the background, and it sounds like he’s at some raging house party.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouts. “How hard is it to enter a fucking code, Scarlett?”
Angry heat covers me with his patronizing tone. “Hmm, I don’t know. How hard is it to give me the correct fucking code, Cross?”
“What are you talking about?” he snaps.
I repeat the code he gave me. “666 pound. That’s what I entered!”
The chatter in the background of the call lessens, and then I hear a door latch, shutting it out completely. “It’s 669 pound, stupid.”
“You typed it incorrectly!” I exclaim. “Maybe you shouldn’t skip out on those tutoring sessions.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t show up late,” he retorts.
I rush over to the panel and enter the correct numbers. The beeping stops, and the house falls blissfully silent.
I exhale loudly. “Okay, I got it.”
“Great. Can you fucking stay put? I’m busy and don’t have time to deal with your stupidity.”
“My stupidity?!” I shout. “And what are you so busy doing that–”
I jerk backward mid-sentence when the phone beeps.
He hung up on me.
A fiery line of annoyance zips down my spine as I stand in the middle of our dark house.
I bristle at the thought of it being our house.
Sighing, I throw my bag off to the side. The front door locked automatically behind me, but I check one more time before heading to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.
After drinking nearly all of it, I throw it into the trash and huff.
I knew Cross was an asshole from the moment I met him. But the more time I spend around him, which isn’t much, the more I realize just how big of an asshole he really is.
Can you fucking stay put? I’m busy and don’t have time to deal with your stupidity.
The fucking nerve.
I stomp my way down the hall and head toward the stairs. The annoyance I have for my stepbrother at the moment is at an all-time high. I stop in front of his bedroom door and smile deviously.
He wants to play games with me by giving out my email and insulting me every three seconds? Then I guess I’ll need to level up and show him that he can’t bully me into submission.
I push on his door and walk right inside his bedroom. I expected him to have a lock on his bedroom door to keep me out, just like I expected his room to be a mess.
It’s not.
It’s neat and tidy. Even the bed is made.
I don’t even think my bed is made.
I flip on the lamp on his desk and give it a onceover. His schedule and a pile of notebooks lay on it, with a few pencils scattered on top. I take a photo of his schedule because it’s always nice to know where your enemy is.
Then I start opening drawers.
Condoms.
Lube.
Loose change.
More pencils.
My fingers skim something in the back of the drawer, and I pull it out.
It’s an old, wooden cigar box. Sort of like the one my father has, but this one is so worn out that I can hardly make out the word Forseca engraved on the top.
I run my fingers along the grooves and give the box a little shake. Nothing rattles on the inside, and there isn’t a strong scent of cigars like I’d expect, so without hesitation, I flip the box open.
Whoa.
Benjamin Franklin’s face stares back at me, and my lips part.
I grip the wad of cash, and it’s much more than I thought.
This is a ton of money.
Where did Cross get this much money?
Did he rob my dad?
I roll my eyes. That’s unlikely. My father is too anal to let this much money disappear without noticing, and although Cross isn’t the nicest to me, it’s obvious that he cares for his mother.
He likely puts up with me and my dad because he knows his mom is happy.
He isn’t going to ruin their marriage by stealing from his new stepdad.
Right?
I freeze mid-thought.
A noise comes from the other side of the door, and I stare at it with panic surging to my fingertips. I drop the wad of cash, like it’s going to catch on fire, and watch it float to the floor like feathers.
Fuck me.
I drop to my knees to cover up the evidence, but it’s too late.
The door swings open, and my face pales. Cross, along with one of his friends, appears in the doorway.
I’m at a loss for words.
Not because Cross just caught me snooping through his room, but because he can hardly stand. His friend's arm is wrapped around Cross’s waist. His face is a mess of purple bruises and blood.
“Who are you?” his friend asks.
I pop up from my knees, and that’s when Cross finally notices me.
His expression switches from pained to lethal in a split second.
Shit.