Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Three weeks later
FRANCESCA
“Chess!” Aidan calls at the top of his lungs, hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone. “Over here.”
I wave and jog to meet him on the sidelines of the rugby pitch.
Wednesday afternoons are always game days at Westlake High School. Anyone with a team sports elective competes against other schools, either on home turf or away. With our rugby team undefeated so far this year, they’ve only had home games.
It’s just gone two o’clock and in approximately fifteen minutes, my friend will compete in his first outing since being confirmed in the Westlake First XV. Since I don’t take any PE subjects, I’m happy to spend my study period lending support from the sidelines.
“Look at you,” I exclaim, twisting his shoulders so he turns to show me the back of his brand-spanking-new team jersey. “Feels like there could be an All Black selector in your future.”
“Right,” he says, giving a self-deprecating eyeroll before flexing his biceps. “But those hours in the gym are paying off.”
From the stories he’s told me over the past few weeks, his biceps aren’t the only muscles getting a workout in the local gym. My friend is incredibly charming, knows and gets on with everyone, and openly admits to being pansexual, though he’s explained he doesn’t think of me that way.
No offence taken.
“You do look exceptionally fine,” I agree. “If your gameplay sucks, you can always use those guns to charm the ref.”
He checks over his shoulder, and bends to whisper, “There’s been a few grumbles about me being included in the starting lineup. This stint on the team could be over sooner than I think.”
“Nonsense. All it takes is a few minutes to prove yourself on the field.” I give him a quick hug. “We both know you will absolutely smash it.”
“And if I don’t, I’ll have my good looks to fall back on.”
The abrupt shift back to his typical excess of confidence makes me grin. “That’s the spirit.”
More of his friends come to wish him luck and I move towards the bleachers, enjoying the warmth of the weak winter sun, even if the stiff breeze cancels out the full effect. I smile at the other spectators, some obvious WAGs, some here just to watch a good game, and the rest lending their support, like me.
A boy shoves past me, scowling when I say, “Excuse me.” He gives me the finger instead of an apology, joining with a group of three further down, laughing as they glance back my way.
I shiver, the sudden cold more to do with their rudeness than the stiff breeze.
Despite what the colourful pamphlets implied when I accepted the scholarship here, it doesn’t feel like I belong at Westlake. A fact hammered home by the ones who do fit into this pretentious place.
Until Aidan befriended me, I spent every day alone.
With a defiant sniff, I raise my chin.
Let them laugh. It doesn’t make me any less worthy, despite the hollow sensation in my chest.
Kincaid Tana runs onto the field, jogging into position, drawing every spectator’s eye with his commanding presence. He nods to a few players before facing forward, a mask of concentration slipping into place.
Watching him in motion, I forget the rumour that he killed a man over summer, cutting the body into so many pieces the autopsy table looked like a grisly jigsaw.
All I see is his physical perfection.
The permanent sneer of his upper lip, the cheekbones sculpted into cliffs so high you could dive off them and never surface. When he pulls up his shirt to clear the sweat from his brow, I swoon at the chiselled abs rippling underneath, the deep V dipping under the low waistband of his black shorts.
Another far more prevalent rumour around campus is that he has an enormous shoe size and the—ahem— appendage to match.
One of those is certainly true. His rugby cleats are gigantic.
My gaze falters when his cousin Ezra takes position a metre from me, and I retreat until the students beside me act as a privacy screen.
A few weeks back, I’d had the daft idea to auction my virginity on a specialised website. My joy as the bids met reserve was soon tempered when Ezra showed up at the hotel room on the appointed day.
I’d expected a middle-aged man attempting to reclaim his youth, not a boy my age.
Not a boy who went to my school.
I tried to follow through, but when he struggled to get hard, he got rough, and I got scared. I scurried out of the hotel as penniless as I’d arrived with the lingering taste of his revolting cock in my mouth, too appalled to try the auction again.
To my dismay, Aidan now seeks Ezra out, joking with him good-naturedly. Their heads are so close together they almost touch, then my friend gives him a shoulder bump, and moves to claim his own position.
With an effort, I focus my attention back on the rugby pitch in front of me as the ref blows his whistle to start play.
Apart from Aidan and Ezra, the guys on the field are indifferent to me at best, arseholes at worst. But watching their massive thighs driving them headlong into collisions, the tackles intimate and aggressive, they are gods.
My arms fly upwards at the first try, screaming my throat hoarse with the ragged cries of victory.
I’m so absorbed by the action, I don’t notice Alice Forsyth until she taps me on the arm.
“Hey,” she says, smirking at my startled yelp. “Chess, isn’t it?”
Despite her smile, I’m instantly wary. As head of the popular clique in our school, the beautiful blonde usually radiates a sunny excitement. But today, the late afternoon shadows of winter darken her blue eyes to black.
She glances over my shoulder, and I follow her gaze to see two girls behind me. Dory and Arabella, her besties.
Dory shifts her arm, and I see the glint of a blade in her hand. A few inches long, wide and curving to a point, her middle finger curls through a hole in the middle for extra control.
My vision sharpens, heartbeat thudding in my ears. The knife isn’t something she grabbed from a kitchen drawer or a garage workbench.
Its sole design is as a weapon.
“Follow us,” Alice says, her voice still sweetly soft. “I need a word.”
Arabella grabs my upper arm, guiding me before I have time to hesitate. I obediently follow, keeping aware of my surroundings, scanning for an opportunity to escape.
The moment my step slows, a hand shoves between my shoulder blades to drive me forward. My sideways glances tell me none of the crowd is paying attention. They’re glued to the on-field argument raging from the latest whistle.
Alice leads me into the shadow of the old science hall. The crumbling brick building, wet with moss where it’s in permanent shade, was replaced long ago and is now used for storage.
“You know who I am?” Alice asks while Dory and Arabella flank me like soldiers.
I nod.
She moves close enough her breath puffs into my face, pungent with stomach acid. “And you knew Ezra was my boyfriend?”
My heart thuds heavily, bright spots swimming across my vision. “N-no.” My throat tightens until I can barely swallow. “No, I didn’t know that. I—”
“And you didn’t think to ask before you yanked down his jeans and sucked him off like the slag you are?”
Not even close to what really happened, but I don’t correct her. My head spins with confusion, wondering why the moron would tell her anything.
Does the boy have a confession kink or something?
As she shoves her face closer to mine, I shake my head, my fear growing by the second.
Alice’s father is a high-end loan shark. A very rich, very powerful man who donned a suit to make everyone think he’s legit while not changing a damn thing about his business practices.
Westlake is packed with the offspring of powerful men, all operating on the wrong side of the law to great profit.
It’s kind of their raison d’être.
If she wants to hurt me, she will. The school guidelines are only for the poorer students like me, reliant on government subsidies. Anything short of killing me, the school will look the other way.
With all the sincerity my trembling voice can muster, I say, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t really cut it.”
Dory presses her blade to the divot at the base of my throat, piercing my skin. A drop of blood wells, then trickles down my collarbone. My bladder loosens.
I yank my elbow into Dory’s stomach, ignoring the cut she scores in my arm as she doubles over. I swing my knuckles up hard against her lips before driving the heel of my palm forward into Alice’s nose.
Turning to the side, I bunch Arabella’s shirt and headbutt her, the force cracking the bridge of her nose, blood streaming.
Alice collars me, tightening her arm until I’m in a chokehold.
I stomp my heel into her toes, twisting free the moment her grip loosens, and following it with a fist to her face, my knuckles screaming when she shifts so they crunch into her hard cheekbone rather than her tender nose.
A backwards kick strikes Dory mid-calf, the impact sending a splintered shard of pain into my hip.
I caught them off guard and got lucky, but it’s still three against one. I lunge to the side and sprint for dear life.
“Bitch!” Alice yells, giving chase.
My heart pounds faster and faster, battering my rib cage. My lungs are already burning. I jump over a splayed leg, skid on a spilled puddle of sports drink, and dart around the corner.
I’m built for late nights in the library studying, not speed, and only measure five-foot-two in heels. My pitiful stride leaves me taking two steps to their one and my head start quickly vanishes.
But my size makes cornering easy, and I gain ground by scurrying between a dumpster and the rear of the cafeteria hall, a narrow passage that I fly through, but slows them as they squeeze past.
The admin building would be safest.
I don’t think I’ll make it.
Instead, I pick my moment and double back, heading for the gymnasium. Maybe I can lock myself in a stall and scream until help arrives or find a cupboard to crouch inside until they get bored with looking for me and leave.
From the entrance, I scan for a hiding place. The cavernous space of the indoor court is no use, and my shoes squeak across the polished floor to the corridor behind.
I turn left, towards the female locker room, but stop when I hear peals of laughter. Reversing direction, I hurry to the opposite end, stomach clenching against the potential embarrassment as I push the boy’s door open to check inside.
Empty.
Even better, there’s a cleaning cart with used towels piled in a canvas bag hooked to the side. I climb into it, pulling several on top to disguise my presence. The strong whiff of disinfectant makes my head giddy.
I’m safe but don’t know how long my hiding place will hold or what the hell I’m meant to do tomorrow… and every day until the end of the school year.
Clasping my knees to my chest, I put the future out of my head, screw my eyes shut, and fight to control my breathing.