13. Vani
CHAPTER 13
Vani
I run away from them, barely able to see through my tears.
How does everything keep going so horribly wrong? I hadn’t meant for it to sound as though they’d sexually assaulted me. I’d just wanted them to see that there are ways of treating a girl, and getting her on her knees in the dirt just after she’d been injured in a crash isn’t exactly loving.
Not that they love me. They barely know me, and I barely know them.
So why the hell does this hurt so much?
I push through the doors, back into the building.
I’m not even sure where I’m heading. If I go to my room, they’re bound to follow me up there. I can’t even jump on my bike because I still haven’t checked out what state it’s in after the crash. I realize something else. I don’t know what happened to the keys. The guys used a truck to get it back here, so the keys might have fallen out on the road where I crashed.
I allow myself a moment to see how I feel about the possibility of riding again. Does it spike fear through me? What if I’m traumatized by the accident and I can never face getting back on my bike again? The thought of having a panic attack every time I tried is worse than the crash itself. I wouldn’t know who I was without my bike. It’s part of my identity. I literally grew up on the back of a Harley.
“Ivani?”
A male voice stops me in my tracks, and I buff away at my tears with the heel of my hand. It’s Dean Rossi. Great. This is just what I need…not.
I clear my throat and come to a halt. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I ran out of his office last night. He was always bound to want to see me, especially after the crash.
“Hello, sir.”
“I think we need to talk. Can you follow me to my office?”
I want to throw my head back and scream, but I don’t. Instead, I push it down and remain silent and follow him along the imposing hallways, toward his office. I remember how he caught me trying to put back Reagan’s file and cringe inside. That was probably one of the most humiliating moments of my life, and then to find out Reagan was dead, and how she died, only moments after…it’s hardly surprising the night ended the way it did.
I follow him into the office. He goes to his desk and sits. “Shut the door, please.”
I do, and then take a seat opposite him.
He steeples his fingers to his lips. “Obviously, I heard about you crashing your bike last night. I assume from the way you’re walking around today that you weren’t badly hurt.”
“A bit bumped and bruised, but I’m okay.”
“And am I right in saying the twins and Zane found you?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
I’m lying, but honestly, I just don’t want to get into what happened with the Preachers. I’ve got the feeling that won’t look good for any of us.
He clears his throat and sits straighter. “I’m sure someone has informed you about the rumors surrounding your half-sister’s death.”
I can’t meet his gaze, so I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear and nod.
“You understand that if there was any proof of anything like that happening, there’s no way those boys would still be at this college?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sits back with an exhaled breath. “Good. And you understand that idle gossip will not be tolerated either?”
I know what he’s saying—that I’m not supposed to talk about what happened to Reagan, or even mention Reagan’s name. Isn’t that what the others said? That talking about her was cause for an instant expulsion.
“I understand.” A painful lump knots in my throat, and I fight breaking down in tears again. “I really am sorry, for everything. I never meant to cause so much trouble.”
He considers this. “I should really inform your dad about everything that’s happened.”
A shot of adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I sit up and lean forward, my hands pressed together in a prayer. “Dean Rossi, I’m begging you, please don’t. I know he’s the one paying my fees, but I am an adult. I should be allowed to choose my own future, and I choose to stay here.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Ivani. I’m the one who gets to choose if you stay or go.”
I want to shrink into my seat. “Yes. Sorry, sir. Of course.”
I want to plead my case, but I also don’t want to make things worse for myself.
“If you stay, you can’t keep digging into what happened to Reagan. You have to let it go. I realize that won’t be easy for you, but I can’t have you creating drama here. You understand that we have the offspring of some very powerful families here at Verona Falls, and stories about dead girls never go down well.”
Yet the family of the girl who died were happy to take a payoff. Unless what the Vipers believe to be true is—that Jarl took the money, but always planned to take revenge on the three young men everyone believed responsible.
A new frisson of fear goes through me. What if the Vipers are the ones who are in danger?
But then I shake that thought from my head. No, it’s been two years since she died. What possible reason would he have to get revenge now, after all this time?
Unless someone coming in and stirring the pot is enough to do it.
That someone being me.
“Please, sir, just give me another chance. I’ll keep my head down and won’t cause trouble, I swear. I’ll be a good student.”
I mean the part about being a good student, but the rest of it…? Well, I’m not sure how I can bring myself to simply forget about what happened. How can I lead my life without knowing the reason Reagan jumped off that tower, or even if she’d been alone or not when she fell?
Had the Vipers been involved, or had it been someone else?
“Very well,” he says. “One more chance, but you walk the straight and narrow. I mean it, Ivani.”
Something inside me slumps, and it’s all I can do not to slide to the floor in relief. “Thank you so much.”
I get out of there as quickly as possible, closing the door behind me.
The Vipers hate me now. How could they not? Not only do they seem to think I was sent here by Jarl Olsen to find out about them, but they also believe I accused them of assaulting me. I try to tell myself it’s for the best, that they won’t come anywhere near me now, but that doesn’t stop my heart from breaking.
Who was I kidding? It could never work. Three of them with one of me? It wasn’t as though we ever had a real relationship forming. It was just sex.
I think of Mackenzie and her three men. They have a baby now, and they all live together in an apartment in South House. They seem happy.
Not that I want babies and apartments, or any of that shit. I want a career, and travel, like maybe to Europe one day, maybe France… with the twins on each arm as they show me around their city.
Fuck, no. That’s not what I want at all. Besides, I still have years here, if I want to get my degree, and I have to figure out how to make it through those years without getting kicked out. So far, that’s not looking good.
Should I believe them?
A part of me desperately wants to, but how well do I even know these men? I’ve given them my body, and I was getting perilously close to letting them into my heart as well, but do I really know them? Hell, no. They could still be screwing with me right now. It’s not as though they’d admit it, would they, if they were behind what happened to Reagan. Maybe they wouldn’t care what I thought, but they wouldn’t want Yarl Olsen coming after them.
Even if they are innocent, they’re still fucking bad news.
The sensible part of me says to go home. To run back to my dad and the MC, where I know I’ll be safe. But what then? Is that to be my future? To work doing the books for the club, and one day marry a biker and have babies? My heart sinks at the thought. I’d wanted more. I’d wanted to live some huge, vibrant life, to travel, and own a business, and be a boss bitch. Being with the Vipers had given me a tiny insight into that life. They’d made me feel like someone special. Saint and Lex had introduced me to a different culture, and I’d wondered if I might experience France for real one day. To sit outside in a street café and sip coffee, and gaze up at the Eifel Tower.
There’s something else that’s keeping me here.
If the Vipers weren’t the reason Reagan threw herself from the tower…what was?
It’s possible no one was to blame, and Reagan was simply depressed. She hadn’t had her mother in her life, and God only knows what sort of stories her father had fed her while she’d been growing up. My mother’s stories about Jarl Olsen made me believe he wouldn’t exactly have been a good father figure. Maybe he’d been the one who’d abused her, and the reason she’d jumped, and that was why he’d been so quick to take a payoff from Dean Rossi to not create a fuss about the death.
I get back to my room, eager to be able to shut myself off from the rest of the world, if only until my next class. I want to climb into bed and pull the covers over my head and hide away. I’d love to take a nap, but I don’t have time. Besides, the way my brain is turning everything over and over, I’m not sure I’ll be able to switch it off long enough to allow myself to sleep.
I open my bedroom door. The bottom of it scrapes against something on the other side, and I frown. Whatever it is, it isn’t heavy enough to create any pressure, but I heard the rustle.
I peep around the side of the door to see a note has been pushed through the gap beneath. Frowning, I stoop to pick it up. Who would have pushed a note under my door? It might be nothing—just an update on a class, or maybe notes I missed—but now my stomach is churning. The paper flutters in my grip, my hands shaking.
I unfold it.
Watch your back, whore.
My blood runs cold.
The letters are all in capitals and have been etched with such force into the paper that they’ve almost gone straight through it. Whoever wrote this clearly did so in anger.
My eyes well, and a tear runs down my nose and plops onto the paper. It pools in the ink and makes it run.
There’s only one person who springs to mind when I look at the word ‘whore.’ Only one person who has called me that in the past.
Saint.
Does he really hate me enough to write something like this? I did practically accuse his twin and his best friend of assaulting me. Would that be enough for him to hate me this much? Or maybe I got this all wrong, and it isn’t Saint behind the letter. I want to believe that, but no one else here is invested in me enough to bother.
There’s no name on the note, but it’s clearly meant for me.
I turn it over, searching for clues, and then bring it to my nose and inhale. Is that a man’s fragrance? Is it Saint’s or one of the others? Maybe Saint didn’t write it, and it was Zane instead. After all, he’s the one who’s always writing notes. Perhaps he wrote this one in capital letters to disguise his handwriting.
Is this their way of threatening me after I accused them of assaulting me? Not that I meant to accuse them… Maybe they want to keep me quiet, telling me to keep my mouth shut.
I’m not sure if this is really their style, but who else would have sent this to me?
Feeling as though I’m weighed down with grief, I go to my bed and sink down to sit on the edge, the horrible note still in my hand. I sit with my head bent, my breathing rapid. How has everything gone so wrong? Reagan is dead, and now the Vipers hate me.
I long to call my dad. I know all I have to do is say the word, and he and the rest of the club will be back here in an instant. They’ll drop everything to come and get me.
But I also remember how I told Dean Rossi I’m not a child anymore. I’m an adult, and adults must learn how to handle their own shit. I can’t go running back to the club every time something doesn’t work out for me.
I stare down at the letter again. Will this be the last of it? Is our relationship really over now?
I can’t be with men who write letters like this. Where will it end? They’re going to break my heart, over and over, and I can’t let them do that.
I’m better than this. Stronger than this.
In a sudden surge of anger, I screw the note up in my fist, hiding those poisonous words from my eyes, and throw it at the wall. It bounces off the hard surface and comes to rest on the floor.
They are such fucking assholes for making me feel this way. I’m the one who just found out her sister had died. I’m the one who came off my bike, and then was put through some crazy magic spell routine. The only times they’ve acted as though they wanted to take care of me have been to get in my panties. To think I was actually worried about them! Worried that all that fucking voodoo blood and hair and spit crap by the Preachers might actually hurt them. Good. I hope it makes their dicks shrivel and fall off.
I don’t really hope that—it would be a horrible waste, especially since all three of their cocks are deliciously perfect.
The thought that I won’t get to be up close and personal with any of them again makes me sad, but how can I give into them again?
It’s all gone too far this time.