Chapter 8
EIGHT
The one free study hall I have for the week without tutoring the boys is my haven.
Seeing Joey sitting at my desk is enough to piss me off. Seeing him sitting there with his polished leather loafers on the table makes my blood boil. Of all the pompous, dickhead things to do, this just takes the cake.
His uniform is hanging on his frame a little loosely, like he's lost some weight in the last few months. His eyes are as calculating as ever, but there’s a manic energy to them that hasn’t been so obvious before.
He smirks and waves me over, like I’m a peasant here to cater to his whims. I want to punch him. In the dick. So hard that his ancestors feel it.
I manage to contain myself, but it's a close call.
When I get close enough to hear him at a reasonable volume, he calls out to me and half the building, “Mounty! I thought I'd find you here. I'm starting to think you're a bit of a nerd.”
His smile would be called flirtatious by less jaded folk. I see it for what it is: a baring of teeth, like a lion to its’ prey. The careful demeanor is starting to fall away, but I’m not entirely sure that this is all by design. There’s something off about him today.
“What do you want with me, Beaumont? Just say it and get a move on, I have homework to get to.”
He drops his feet back to the floor as his eyes flash dangerously at me, then he leans in toward me as I empty out my bag.
The movement is smooth enough, but it’s too fast to match the rest of the ‘leisurely ruler’ thing he has going on.
I really don’t care enough about him to try to figure it out, either.
I just want him to leave. If it’s not a threat to me, I couldn’t care less.
It’s the first time he’s looked anything but arrogant at my rebuttals, and his eyes are burning holes in my skin. “What's your poison? I'm having some supplies sent in, and I don't know what you drink. Any party favors you like? I can get whatever you want, on me, as my guest.”
Party favors.
He’s asking me if I want him to buy me drugs. I give him what I hope is a bored look, despite my disgust. His smile doesn’t falter.
“I don’t need anything. I’ll drink whatever, I’m not a rich douche with fussy taste,” I say in an airy tone.
Joey grabs one of my pens and twirls it in his fingers.
I wonder how many girls he’s done this with, this casual dance to lure in a victim.
He’s attractive, but all I see is the evil in his eyes when he looks at his siblings, the guy who talks down to everyone around him, or the guy who calls girls he’s slept with sluts.
The guy whose mask is slipping as we speak.
He’s waiting me out. He wants to see if I’ll tell him to leave or try to get him to talk to me, but he really has no clue how well-versed I am at this game.
I choose to ignore him instead. I’ve spent years learning to study no matter where I am or who is around me.
I focus on the Lit assignment in front of me, and I’m jolted out of my study by another voice.
“Chatting up the Mounty? I thought she was off limits.”
I look up and see a familiar senior. It takes me a minute, and then I realize it's the dickhead I punched in the throat, the one who told me he would schedule me in for a fuck.
Guys like this are the type to rape a woman and then tell his friends she was gagging for it.
The type that thinks he's a gift to the world and everyone should get on their knees for him.
I fucking hate him.
Joey is watching me with this sly look on his face, like he knows what I'm thinking. The other guy doesn’t notice at all.
He tries to make a stand, puffing out his chest as he calls Joey out. “I don't really think that's fair—”
Joey cuts him off with that scathing tone they all share when they’re passing down a decree. “Fuck fair. If you don't leave now, I'll have to make an example of you, Devon.”
A single bead of sweat appears on Devon’s brow and rolls down his face. The library isn’t warm, if anything, there’s a consistent chill to the air. I can see the tremble of his lip. The tiny flick of the muscle in his cheek.
Joseph Beaumont Jr. doesn't have friends.
He has victims, plebs, and pawns.
Better to be a pleb, out of his eyeline and safe, than to be a pawn in his game. I don’t think I have that option anymore. I think he’s toying with me, testing me, until he knows whether I’ll be of any use to him.
I fucking hate him, too.
Devon leaves without another word, and I get back to my studying, intent on just blocking him out.
He doesn’t like being dismissed and starts up again. “What if I want to buy you something? I’ve invited you there as my guest, it would be rude not to.”
I grit my teeth. I don’t want him to think I owe him anything. “I’m not interested, thanks. If there’s not going to be some sort of drinks table, I’ll just go and dance. Not a big deal.”
He blows out a breath like he’s frustrated. I would bet he's never really felt that emotion. “Suit yourself. You sure do make it hard to impress you, Mounty. I’ve had girls start Fight Clubs over who got to have me for the night. I’m a little put out.”
“No, you’re not. You’ll forget I exist the second you leave this room.”
He laughs, and then finally he does leave. I try to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. I don’t like the way Joey speaks about me, like I’m a thing to possess. It takes me a minute to admit why it feels so familiar, why there’s an instinctive pang in my chest over it.
That’s exactly how Matteo talks about me.
One of the perks, or drawbacks depending on how you look at it, of sitting next to Harley in the majority of my classes is that we’re always paired up for assignments.
Hannaford is big on joint assignments, as they like to foster working relationships.
I know this is because the other students all come from their own dynasties and they’ll all be dealing with one another once they take over their family businesses.
I’ll never have to worry about that shit.
The best I can hope for is to be accepted into a pre-med college course.
Harley is an exemplary student, we’re neck-and-neck for the top of every class but working with him can be a major pain in my ass.
He likes things done his way, to the point that compromise is a dirty word to him.
He will look at the syllabus and just cut the assignment down the middle, the exact middle, and in the same way every time.
I'll be handed one half, and he will do the other half.
After my first experience with him, I made the decision to just roll with his shitty attitude, but that means that it’s difficult to get ahead in my classes without knowing which half of the assignment I’ll get. So I do what only an insane person would do.
I do the entire assignment and then give him whichever half he deems to be mine.
This has become a truly joyful experience for me.
The highlight of my week, even.
Every time he tells me what I need to do, I open my bag and hand him the half he assigns me.
The first time, he scoffed at me but took the papers anyway.
After reading my work, he was both incredulous and pissed off.
Five shared assignments later, he’s now used to lagging behind me, eating my academic dust.
“How far ahead are you, really?”
He’s holding my half of our French Revolution assignment. I’m particularly proud of this one and tempted to give Harley the other half. If I thought he would take it, I totally would, just to know how highly the teacher would mark it.
Sitting in our history class, we're supposed to be plotting out how we plan to do the assignment. Harley is reading through my half with raised eyebrows and a little frown on his face. I’m reveling in that look. I’m gloating. I’m feeling fan-fucking-tastic.
“I could catch the plague and be out for three months and still be the top of the class.” I'm so damn smug. I can't help myself.
He shakes his head at me, but he drops my work into his binder and snaps it shut. Avery is whispering furiously at the girl she's partnered with, and I feel sorry for the poor soul. Dealing with the devil is never pleasant.
“I heard you're going to Joey’s party tomorrow night.” A statement, not a question. I give Harley a look.
“I promised I would, so I am. If I say I'm going to do something, I always follow through.”
He blows out a breath, then leans forward on his elbows toward me. I can see his brain working, the cogs moving and mice running on the wheel. He's not happy about something.
“Look, I get that I've been a dick. I get that Avery started a war with you on my behalf, and you have no reason to trust me, but you shouldn’t go tomorrow night.
Joey is up to something, and when he's scheming, it never turns out well.
Things have gone really badly in the past, like permanent-damage-and-death bad.
You should just pretend you're sick or something.”
How do I explain to this gorgeous, infuriating, rich prick that there is no way Joey Beaumont could break me?
That I survived neglect, food insecurity, the slums, and foster care?
I survived the Game and becoming the Wolf, I have ties to the Jackal that are proving to be damned near unbreakable?
? He wouldn’t even understand what any of that means, that I was put to the test by the most dangerous underground criminal organization and I didn’t just survive, I won.
There’s no way to even hint at the truth without risking more questions, so I shrug at him vaguely.
“Seriously. What do you hope to gain by going to the party with him? He’s not going to date you.”