SNOB: A Dark College Enemies to Lovers Romance

Chapter 1

Darkness hasa special kind of pull.

Alluring yet repelling.

Seductive yet frightening.

As my eyes meet the cold gaze of the Grim Valley Demon, I’m tempted to do the one thing I’m told not to. Dance with darkness.

‘Stay here, don’t move and please, don’t be stubborn.” Uncle Jake’s words echo in my head, emphasis on “please.” So this wooden door with a sliver of a window is the only thing keeping me from doing just that: being stubborn.

Crash!

A loud sound comes from the main room as my chunky Oxfords press against the door, the platform far from necessary. Despite the mocking from my classmates, my height makes it easy to see through the dusty glass. But what I see is a total disaster.

An older man in a suit worth more than our shop knocks glasses off a weathered wooden shelf. One by one with a flick of his finger. “Jacob Everett,” he says, my uncle’s name coming with as much confidence as his stride. His golden cufflinks on his crisp suit shine under our dim lighting, offsetting our humble shop. “Are you ready to sign?”

My eyes follow the trail of mayhem, my skin sweaty underneath my spray-painted t-shirt. Something tells me this parasite is the same one who took over Josephine’s bakery, Kenya’s hair salon, and Miss Patricia’s restaurant. Valley staples. Uncle Jake hoped this day wouldn’t come, but fate always catches up.

“Yeah I’m not gonna do that,” Uncle Jake responds. The men around him are a contrast to his white tee, stained jeans and afro pick in his twisted coils. He crosses his arms, leaning against the rickety cashier counter. “This is more than a business, Sterling. Thanks to you, it’s one of the only places left in our community. So if you think I’m letting this go, you’re about to be really disappointed.”

While part of me wishes Uncle Jake would let this dust heap go, he’s right. We can’t give this up. It’s ours.

Chimes ring as the door to the shop opens again, my muscles tensing.

My eyes follow the sound and… woah, did the world just slow?

The guy who enters isn’t like the others.

He’s younger than the rest, taller too, his steps as confident as Sterling’s with a dash of carelessness. Like the rest of the men, he wears a blazer over a shirt that shows off a hint of muscle. It compliments that striking jawline as sharp as his appearance. Settling against an unstable bookshelf, he pushes his hands into his sleek black jeans as if he”s bored by the chaos around him.

A chill trickles up my spine matching the iciness of his demeanour. He senses me, his eyes flicking to mine as my gaze locks on dark grey eyes. Like the moon. Or iron.

Alluring, seductive.

Frightening.

There’s a sparkle when they catch the light, a single, black fleck dancing in each like trapped coal. The longer I stare, the more I get sucked into their depth. A smirk tickles one side of his full lips. One that makes my cheeks tingle, my thrifted leather skirt no relief to the heat spreading between my legs.

“I hear the plan is for you to move on to better things,” Sterling says, approaching my uncle like prey. I’m way too distracted by the way Iron Eyes holds my gaze. He winks and I swear I see a sparkle. And it hits me right in my gut. “You’re greedy holding onto all this.”

“All this?” Uncle Jake laughs. “We obviously don’t have much, man. Far from what you’re used to. And greedy? You’ve already bought half this town. My family can’t keep up with the rent.”

Crash!

The only thing to pull my gaze from Iron Eyes is the sound of a guitar smashing to pieces. It’s the red one Angelo promised to buy. My teeth clench, my hands turning to fists.

I have to put a stop to this.

When I press my hand against the door, Uncle Jake feels it. He locks his big brown eyes with mine and it’s enough for me to catch the minuscule shake of his head. “You can’t scare us,” Uncle Jake says, bringing his attention back to Sterling. “We’re from Grim Valley, man. We’ve lived through shit you only see on TV.” My palms sweat against the wooden door, my eyes darting from Uncle Jake to Iron Eyes.

He still has his eyes on me, that stare so intense, so deep, it feels like I’m falling into mercury.

What’s his deal?

Why won’t he look away?

Is he keeping guard? He’s way too young to be part of this fancy crew of criminals. But then again, Angelo joined the Scorpions at sixteen.

My hand comes to my mop of red coils, smoothing them down. Gaze still on me, Iron Eyes pushes a hand through his shiny black hair, an unruly curl tickling his dark thick brow. Swallowing hard, my throat feels like Nevada in summer. Dry as fuck.

“I’ll give you one last chance.” Sterling steps towards my uncle, backing him against the counter but Uncle Jake doesn’t budge. “Remember, you have a big career ahead of you. Give up the rights to your filthy thrift shop and finally feed your family.”

“Nope.” Uncle Jake doesn’t miss a beat.

“Stupid,” Sterling laughs before he tilts his head.

One of the older men steps forward.

Click!

Everything slows as my eyes land on the gun in the man’s hands. He points it at my uncle, a spell of dizziness hitting me.

Sterling turns to the boy with the iron eyes. “Stay outside, son.”

That’s the only thing to pull his gaze from mine. Then he speaks, his voice smooth and crisp, that carelessness extending to it. “Don’t worry.” He moves towards the middle of the room, next to the man with the gun. “I’ll help.”

“Oh?” Sterling crosses his arms. “So you want to show this Valley vermin the only answer we take?”

Iron Eyes shrugs like it’s no biggie there’s a weapon in the hands of a teenager. These guys look like they’re from The Hill, but I guess guns don’t phase them either.

“Kid,” Uncle Jake says, his arms stretched out in front of him, his hands splayed. “Careful with that.”

Iron Eyes glances at me, claiming my vision again before my eyes dart back to Uncle Jake.

Just give them the place.

I try to telepathically plead with the last person in my life.

Don’t let them take you away too.

“Kid.” Uncle Jake uses that same voice of reasoning when I throw a tantrum. “Don’t be like your father?—”

POW!

That sound fills the room as my ears ring.

No…

No!

My knees buckle, my hand clamping to my mouth as I fall to the cold concrete floor.

I can’t take any more of this.

I can’t take another loss.

My fingers tighten around the gold between my fingers. There’s no space for another photo. Another memory.

That feeling in my chest tightens some more, my eyes blurring.

I’m not ready to say goodbye. I never am.

Just as the room around me darkens, I hear a groan.

“You—you really fuckin’ did it, kid.”

My eyes pop open at the sound of that familiar voice, a wave of relief washing over me. Uncle Jake curses as Sterling’s laughter fills the room.

”And now?” Sterling asks, reaching into his suit blazer. He pulls out a cigarette like he just had a big meal. Reaching in again, he pulls out a silver lighter. One of those fancy ones that come ablaze when you flick them open.

Uncle Jake tries to stand, bracing himself against the counter. He looks up at Sterling with a sweaty face. “I thought I said no.”

Hell, my uncle is as stubborn as I am.

Click!

My stomach churns as Iron Eyes still points that gun at my uncle.

I’ve held back long enough.

Pressing my weight against the door, it makes a small creak before those metal eyes dart to mine.

I freeze.

Uncle Jake glances my way again before his head hangs.

“Take it.” My uncle can hardly speak but his words are clear. My eyes scan his body from where I stand, blood pouring from his knee. “Just take it.”

“Now, was that so hard?” Sterling puffs his cigarette in the middle of the room.

With one last glance at me, Iron Eyes drops the gun and strides to the door. Casual, like he didn’t just ruin everything.

“Teenagers.” Sterling chuckles, putting that cigarette to his lips. “I want you out of here by the weekend, Everett.” Reaching into his pocket again, he tosses a folded-up sheet of paper at my uncle’s chest. “Good luck with the Vultures.”

Mac

“My son isas ruthless as I am”

The puck hits the net, my eyes on the highlights from last night’s game playing on my phone. For once my focus isn’t on my favourite team.

It’s on that head of fiery hair glowing in my mind.

Did she notice how ruthless I am?

Wait a damn second, did my father just call me his son?

“My son,” he repeats, a whiff of peppery cologne coming with him as he sinks into the velvet cushion beside me. Don’t know why my father wants to open another fancy bar in the middle of The Valley. I hate coming here, and lately, we’ve been here a lot.

This bar sticks out as much as we do in the middle of worn buildings, boarded windows and cracked sidewalks. Velvet chaises, golden fixtures and expensive wood aren”t rare in The Hill. It’s sexy and sophisticated. Everything Grim Valley isn’t. My father considers himself the Valley’s Midas. But no matter how much money he puts into this place, it’s still The Valley. Filthy, disgusting, sad.

“My only son.” My father holds out a crystal glass of amber liquid. When I accept, he tilts his glass against mine, the crystal chiming. “I’m proud of you.” His words almost choke me as the burning liquid makes its way to my nose. He chuckles as I swallow, pushing it down. “You’re a sick fuck but I am proud.”

A sick fuck.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard these words. Last time, it wasn’t so nice.

“Still think I’m psychotic, Father?” I say, savouring the rare drink with Sterling McKinsley. Didn’t think I’d get here until twenty-one but I won’t push it. Coach’ll notice if I get drunk and I’ll never hear the end of it.

My mind drifts back to that doe-eyed stare, freckles like dots of ember.

Those bloodstone eyes.

For a moment, I felt a shift. Like my status didn’t matter to her. I bet it does now.

Does she think I’m a sick fuck too?

I saw her face plastered with horror when that bullet left the chamber. Petrified.

It made me want to do it again.

“The sickest little psycho I know,” Father speaks to me like he speaks to the men he keeps closest to him. An odd lightness to his tone. “But Malcolm, you know I don’t condone violence.”

“You do,” I remind him. “You just don’t like getting your hands dirty.”

“And neither should you.” With a rough hand, he turns my face to his. Wrinkled. Jaded. He wears the stress on his face like a trophy. It’s only his ruthless ways that stop the ladies in The Hill from lining up at our doors. “You can pull the wings off a butterfly. You can burn an ant with a magnifying glass. But the thing is, son, when it comes to people, it”s better to dominate with your mind. Your hands will get you in trouble. That’s why I hire out. Our status? Use it.”

“Why do you want that ugly old shop anyway?” I ask. “You already own half The Valley.”

“And now he owns more,” Gray says my father’s keyword, sipping a glass of whiskey in a grey sweater worth way more than that shop. It matches his hair, grey since the ninth grade. He swings back and forth in a leather swivel chair, used to McKinsley chaos. He thrives in it.

“Pow!” My father makes the sound in my head, his throaty chuckle following. The men around us laugh with him. With the exception of Gray, they’re all either old and frail or old and muscular. But if I know my father, each one of them has a purpose.

“I know you’re twisted, but that was ruthless,” Gray says. He wasn’t with us. But since he uses this bar as his hiding spot from his folks, he heard all about it. He nudges me with the tip of his grey leather slipper. “‘Fess up, what really made you pull that trigger, Mac?”

Her.

“Boredom.” My tone matches my words. “Wanted to get out of there.” My mind flashes to those eyes. Haunting and daring, threatening to consume me. “He wasn’t going to sign in a reasonable time unless you did something drastic.” Unless I did something drastic.

The power I got holding that gun in my hand was nothing I’ve felt before. Almost too powerful.

“He’s as calculated as you are, Sterling,” Gray chuckles.

Father chuckles with him. “Think you have what it takes to follow in my steps, boy?”

“I think he has his eyes on other things,” Gray says.

My eyes stay fixed on my phone, the hockey puck going back and forth between teams. But my eyes don’t align with my mind.

She couldn’t take her eyes off me and hell, I don’t blame her. I’m Malcolm McKinsley.

“Malcolm.” Father leans closer, his cigarette and whiskey breath coming with him as my eyes zone in on the black puck. “Did you know you’d ruin his chances? Forever?”

He’s speaking in riddles again and for some reason, I engage. “What do you mean?” My voice comes out as tired as I am.

Father clarifies, “Jake Everett.”

My hand tightens around my glass, my eyes lifting from the screen at the mention of that name.

“That man will never play again,” Father laughs between his words, the rest of the room laughing with him. “You set a precedent today. No one in this town will say no to us.” Knocking the remaining contents of the glass down my throat, it burns when I stand, my Father’s words loud. “You’ve paved the way, just like your old man. Now you can drop that stupid game and join a real career that will get you further than sports ever will.”

“I need some air,” I mutter. Codeword for needing a smoke.

Father lets me head for the door, tending to my habit he fails to acknowledge. Heat dances on my skin but when I’m outside, the night air brings relief. When I take a breath, a stench enters my nose that makes my nostrils flare. It smells just like The Valley. Regret.

My sweaty hands pat my blazer, searching for that rectangular bulge. Once I find the golden case, I pull out a black cigarette. My favourite. Leaning against the wall, the flame of my golden lighter only adds warmth to my skin.

Jake Everett. Potential draft pick for the Vultures. The dream team.

The first inhale is hardly enough to calm my mind. Sucking in another pull, the back of my head lands against the brick behind me.

What the hell was he doing at a dirty thrift shop? And how the hell was I supposed to know he would be the one on the other end of my?—

Click!

My jaw tightens, my inhale cut short.

I know that sound. I heard it just moments ago.

The smell of ginger and vanilla fill my nose. Sweet with a hint of spice. It tempts my palate as the air stills and I can hear a shaky breath once the sirens settle.

My eyes shift to my left, meeting that fiery gaze again.