2. Cain
CAIN
I’d been at Kingston for three months before I saw her.
The girl who would change the entire trajectory of my life.
Up until this point, I’d been merely existing.
Surviving the hell that was this place they called a school.
On the surface, it was. There were classes and homework.
Tests and quizzes. But underneath, they tried to beat out any dissenting opinions.
Any part that might be different than them.
The message was clear—conform or pay the consequences.
Her blonde, braided hair looked like a halo around her head, but that bruise on her cheek caught and held my attention. Who would dare to hurt an angel like that? Just seeing it mar her beautiful face was enough to make my blood boil.
My money was on the cowards that called themselves ‘The Crusaders’.
They dressed like they were going to war while they snatched kids out of their beds in the middle of the night.
They got off on terrorizing us, all in the name of their religion.
They thought they were doing what they’d been called to do.
I called bullshit. If a tiny voice inside you was telling you to be violent with kids, maybe that voice wasn’t some Holy Spirit—maybe you were just a fucking asshole.
“Class, we have some new students today. We’ll be pairing them up with a few of you, so please make them feel welcome,” Ms. Planchard said with a clap at the end of her sentence to get our attention.
She was an elderly woman with shock white hair and a permanently furrowed brow, but my focus was zeroed in on the angel standing next to her, hoping that she’d be with me.
“Why don’t you find a seat that’s open,” Ms. Planchard said to the gaggle of students that looked exhausted and scared to be here. Rightfully so. This place was a nightmare.
The blonde’s eyes swept the room and found me. I sat up a little straighter, feeling my pulse quicken. She nervously made her way deeper into the class and with every step, my heart beat even harder.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked, her blue-gray eyes holding mine. I didn’t stand a fucking chance. Her voice was surprisingly raspy and slid down my spine like cool water. It was sexy as hell.
I shook my head and licked my lips, “It’s free,” I croaked out.
She sat down, skirt climbing higher on her thighs as she did. Her legs were covered with tights, but I unashamedly was picturing her without them on.
“I’m Delilah,” she said, eyes tracking down my throat and landing on the tops of my tattoos that peeked out right above the collar.
We each wore a standard issued uniform. Blue button-down shirts and navy-blue pants for boys.
Plaid blue and white skirts, and white short sleeved tops with peter pan collars for girls.
They gave them to us when we arrived as part of our welcome package.
It also included deodorant, a razor, toothpaste, toothbrush, and a comb.
Her uniform hung about her body a touch too tight, which I wasn’t going to complain about.
It showed off her delicious curves. Curves that were short circuiting my brain as I sat here next to her.
And that name, Delilah. A biblical temptress and cause of Sampson’s ultimate downfall.
Being a church kid, we knew all the stories well, whether we wanted to or not.
I should have known then of the havoc my proximity to her would cause, but even knowing the outcome wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.
“Cain,” I responded not sure of what to do with my hands. A part of me wanted to reach out and shake hers, but this wasn’t a job interview and the gesture felt weird. Instead, I picked up my pencil to transfer the nervous energy into something tangible.
“Alright, class. Now that you’ve found your seats, we’ll begin going over the material in chapter six. For those new here, do your best to keep up. You will be expected to know the lessons, regardless of how long you’ve been here or not, so pay attention.”
Delilah took notes as the teacher spoke, blowing out a sharp breath.
As she did, a little wrinkle formed in between her brows and her top teeth sunk into her lower plush bottom lip.
It was adorable how hard she was concentrating.
That focus. That determination—it told me one thing.
Delilah was just as desperate to leave this place and make something of herself as I was. Maybe even more so.
I did alright in my classes, but I excelled in Chemistry.
It was the one class that lit my brain up and made me think that maybe I could have a different future than the ones my parents wanted for me.
And Science, in particular, appealed to me.
You couldn’t lie. Couldn’t cheat the system.
It either worked or it didn’t. It dared to question, to challenge, to explore.
All the things I’d been told I couldn’t do.
They wanted to see me firmly planted at my father’s business. Montgomery and Sons. And without me it would just be Montgomery and Son, with my brother, Abel, at the helm.
That’s right. My parents named us after Cain and Abel. It was like they had set us up to be rivals from the beginning. But in true Montgomery fashion, my family believed if they instilled the fear of the Lord in us, that our story would end up differently.
My father inherited the lucrative business from my grandfather, and he planned to pass it down to my brother and me.
It was a pest control business that doubled in wildlife relocation.
If you had bugs or a fury invader, the Montgomery’s would be your first call.
My family envisioned me becoming a powerful family man at the helm of the business.
They wanted me to settle down with a woman who would stay at home and push out more Montgomery babies.
Preferably sons. When they saw my future, they saw a man who went to church on Sundays and brought home money in a respectable, familiar way.
What they got instead, was a tattooed fuck-up who spat in the face of their buttoned-up way of life.
I didn’t want their reality. I saw first-hand what their expectations were and wanted no part of it.
My future would be mine to make. Not theirs.
The Montgomery’s prided themselves on their image.
They saw themselves as helpful— good neighbors who followed the law.
If you saw them from a glance, their image would project that of a happy, typical, American family.
But that glance was nothing more than what they wanted you to see. Behind closed doors, terror reigned.
My father was creative in his chosen form of punishment.
If my brother and I acted up, he’d take us out back and use his extensive knowledge of toxins and poisons on us.
Starting with our bare feet. He would watch as the toxic spray sunk into our skin, burning us and causing painful muscular twitching.
I still twitched occasionally from the nerve damage he’d done.
My body carried the scars of his discipline and my brain held onto the resentment.
Every week, I found myself hauled out to the yard by the scruff of my neck, that is until I got bigger than him.
Once I had the height and muscle to overpower him, he had me carted off— too scared that I’d actually start to fight back one of these days.
He had every reason to be scared because I knew that one day I would make my way back there and become the very thing he feared.
I’d show him not only did I survive him and this place he’d dumped me at, but I’d become who they molded me to be— a fucking threat.
That look I saw in Delilah’s eyes when she’d stared at me held the same haunted and angry quality that I recognized in my own expression every time I looked in the mirror.
She’d survived some shit. But not only did she survive, no.
She burned with the kind of anger that could set the world on fire. Just like me.
“That’s too much,” I said gently, gripping the beaker from Delilah’s shaking hand. I didn’t miss the way my skin tingled at the slightest brush of her flesh against mine.
“What do you mean? It’s right at the line.
” She put her hands of her hips and looked up at me, her eyebrows furrowed and her blue-gray eyes looked larger than they were due to the clear goggles she wore over them.
The black, elastic strap wrapped around the back of her head, squishing her braid down at odd angles.
It had pieces of her hair sticking out. God, she was so fucking cute.
“But the meniscus isn’t,” I said back.
She just stared up at me. All five foot five of her, waiting for me to explain. I let out a sigh and set the beaker down carefully with both hands.
Leaning down, my elbows grazed the polished black counter, and I pointed to where the liquid was. “Okay, you see this dip in the center here? You might have to lean down to see it,” I said.
She leaned down and I could smell her. Like soap and something citrus.
She smelled like what I imagine happiness smelled like.
She was so close that her arm brushed against mine and it set off a million fireflies zapping along my nerves.
I’ve never been so drawn to anyone before.
Sure, I’ve had a crush here or there, but this felt different. Deeper on a cellular level somehow.
Maybe it was the shared trauma.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“This dip right here? This needed to be down here.”
“Well, it’s practically there.” She shrugged her shoulder.
I picked up the graduated cylinder and poured a small amount back into the beaker so that it would be level.
“Ah. So much better. Those two drops make all the difference,” she said with a small, but visible twinkle in her eyes. It hooked me.
Our bodies leaned into each other, moving closer as we argued.
Then a yard stick fell down between us with a loud smack, making both of us jump.
“Proximity!” Ms. Planchard screeched. She stared down her hawk like nose at us.
The yard stick was still gripped tightly in her wrinkled hands.
I knew from experience that one wrong move would end with far more than a jolt.
I willed my features to remain smooth, so it wouldn’t be perceived as disrespectful.
These teachers took even the smallest micro-expression as insolence.
In my opinion, I think they liked hitting people and were looking for an excuse to make that happen.
It’s like they’d never heard of therapy being an option and decided to make their lack of self-reflection everyone else’s problem.
Thankfully, a loud bell rang signaling the end of the class before things could escalate.
And they would have too. I’ve seen it happen in the blink of an eye.
Students were frequently being hauled out to the redirection room.
A place where screams become the lifeblood that pumped through these twisted halls.
If evil had a face, it would look like the teachers of Kingston Prep.