Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
For two days, I can’t sit up for longer than ten minutes without a migraine splitting my skull open and rummaging around in my brain.
By the time I can make it out of my room without being in danger of passing out, I still can’t breathe without being able to feel exactly which ribs are broken, but my concussion has eased.
I’m once again saved by the fact that I’m so far ahead in all my classes.
I’m once again reminded that my obsessive studying behavior isn’t fear-based paranoia, it’s a realistic awareness of just how shitty my situation can get. I also have my knife on me and I’m prepared to use it, no questions asked.
When I take my seat in math class and I see that I got a solid A for my workbook re-do, I’m so relieved that I almost slump back in my chair. I remember at the last second that the action will hurt me dearly, so I smile instead. It feels strange on my face. I’ve only winced and grimaced for days.
Harley scored higher, the only person in the class to manage that feat, but I’ll accept that fact gracefully because he practically carried me back to my room.
He’s smug about it, clearly expecting our usual banter, but when I simply shrug and move on, he almost looks disappointed.
He has no idea about Avery’s little pyromaniac episode, and I’m certain he’d devolve into a sullen ass if he did.
My silence is a boon I’m granting her; I’m practically a saint.
At the end of our class, he waits for me to pack up. Avery isn’t around, something about extra training for an upcoming recital that apparently takes precedence over her actual education, but at least that means I don’t have to worry about repercussions for Harley speaking to me.
I look at him curiously, and when he gives me a slow smile, I fight the blush that’s creeping up my neck. There’s something different about his eyes today, something I can’t put my finger on, but it makes my stomach feel weird as fuck.
I really need to get over my crush on this guy.
“Let’s take a walk, Mounty,” he says with a voice full of honey, rich and thick, and I’m a goner.
We walk in silence as I let him lead me through the school.
I forget sometimes how big this place is when I’m sprinting from class to class, but my aching ribs remind me.
I get jostled a few times by passing students, and I push out my elbow to try and force them around me instead.
Being so damn short is a pain in the ass sometimes.
“Kyle and Nicky have both been expelled.”
Harley doesn't look down as he says this. They must be the guys that held me while Spencer whaled on me. The pace he’s set is brutal, and I can taste a hint of blood, but that makes sense with how hard I’m panting as I struggle to keep up with his ridiculously long legs.
His sculpted swimmer’s legs. Dammit, stop thinking about his legs!
“What did you get them for?” I ask.
I'm not sure if he'll give me a straight answer or not. I certainly didn't give him one when I led him out to watch Joey get arrested. Shit, I might come to regret that if I’m left in the dark on this one.
Harley grins savagely. “Kyle got axed for doping. He was on the track team, and there are students on the fast-track to the Olympics. They don’t take kindly to their teammates taking banned supplements.
Nicky… well, little Nicky Bianchi has some strange sexual proclivities, and he likes to take pictures of himself doing what it is he does.
Half of the classrooms in the school are closed for cleaning today. ”
I wrinkle my nose. Guys are disgusting. If I've touched that guy’s DNA matter just because he's a fucking deviant, I'll be pissed.
“So what do you have planned for Hillsong? What skeletons hide in his closet?”
If anything, the grin on Harley's face gets even more savage. He looks imposing, vicious in the best possible way. That’s the kind of darkness my heart reaches out for because it recognizes it. I swear to God my panties damn near disintegrate at how he looks right now.
“No expulsion for Spencer. I told you, I'm going to end him.”
A shiver comes over me. This could get out of hand fast, but that only makes it more exciting. “Give me details. I need to know what I'm signing up for in case you need back up.”
I'm running through lists in my head, equations and formulas on how I can help.
Minimize the witnesses, something to transport the body, cleanup crew so no evidence is left behind, and a deep grave somewhere remote and unrelated to either of us.
It's a lot to figure out on the fly, but fuck it.
I'm all in. I didn’t become the Wolf by being afraid to getting my hands dirty.
“I'm going to beat him bloody until he needs a tube to breathe. Anything less and he's getting away too lightly. It'll be hard, but I'll stop myself from taking him out. I'm not sure you'll be able to keep your scholarship if you're aiding and abetting a murderer.”
Dammit.
I’m almost disappointed. For the first time, I’m tempted to let something about my previous life slip so he can take the guy out. The feeling lasts a fraction of a second before my rational brain kicks in, then I’m only disappointed in myself.
Not for pouting over the lack of murder.
Oh no.
I can, have, and will continue to live with the weight of choosing my own life above all else.
That’s something I learned to compartmentalize years ago, and I only lose my shit about it once or twice a year.
I’m disappointed in myself for being willing, for even the briefest of moments, to drag him into the darkest and most violent parts of my world.
No one deserves that crap, least of all him.
At the very least, I know he’s been to the Bay and committed petty crime there. There’s no chance he hasn’t heard of the Twelve. Finding out I’m the Wolf is the worst possible outcome here, and I can’t believe I let it cross my mind.
Get a grip, Lips, fuck!
“The Beaumonts want me out anyway, what a way to go,” I mutter, forcing my voice not to show emotion.
Harley either ignores me or he doesn't hear me as he steps into the rose-colored light streaming through the chapel windows. This place is starting to become a trauma spot for me, my body filling with tension the second I step into the room. Hopefully, I’m not actually cursed by some would-be benevolent god upset about a chapel being desecrated like this and this isn’t about to go sideways.
Glancing around at the groups of guys beating the shit out of each other, the audiences watching on, and the bookie in the corner with a fistful of cash already, it’s clearly not the first time this place has been used like this.
Everyone is far too comfortable for this to be spur of the moment, and when one guy taps out to the sound of cheering, there’s no concerns about how loud they’re being.
This must be Hannaford’s fight club, one of the worst kept illicit secrets of the student body. It’s right up there with Avery’s hit list, the list of teachers willing to be bribed for better grades, and, of course, who’s fucking who.
A senior who’s taller than Harley but scrawny as hell shuts the door behind us and slides the bolt into place. He doesn’t look twice at me, but the rest of the guys here do. God, even the guys already mid-fight pause to eyeball the fuck out of me as Harley leads me through the room.
My hand slips into my pocket and grips my knife. I feel the urge to put my back against the wall, but after everything that’s happened to me in this room, I guess it’s to be expected.
Spencer Hillsong is already here, bare-chested and frowning over at us both.
He’s ripped enough, definitely a guy who works out, but even the biggest muscles are good for nothing without technique or experience.
He held his fists wrong when he hit me he obviously knows he’s outmatched because he instantly looks relieved to see me standing with Harley.
“Why the fuck did you bring the Mounty? You know the rules. No girls.”
The rules. Harley has challenged him to one of their little fight club matches and Spencer expects him to stick to the rules. This idiot has no clue what he’s in for. My heart surges in my chest as I watch them circle each other.
“Fuck the rules and fuck you, Hillsong. You've already shown everyone what a coward you really are. You need your friends to hold a girl down while you hit her. That’s fucking pathetic.”
I didn’t tell him that detail.
I only gave him Hillsong’s name, so either there were other witnesses or someone blabbed.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; there’s no honor among rich kids.
Any real Mounty would take the beating before they ran their mouth; violence isn’t a threat worth bending for.
It’s how you can tell the born-and-bred from the rest; we’re just built different.
Spencer scans the crowd, but he doesn't find what he's looking for. I'd bet good money it’s Joey. He's hoping the puppet master will leap to his rescue. What a dumb ass. Joey only saves himself.
Harley shrugs out of his blazer, and for a single heart-stopping second, I think he’s going to take his shirt off too. Disappointment burns through me when he rolls up his sleeves instead. Shouldn’t he be worried about getting blood on his white shirt? God, I’m such a pervert.
Harley glances down at me and gestures to one of the pews right in the front where I’ll get the perfect view of what’s about to goes down.
When I’m comfortable, he dumps his bag next to me and then surveys the room.
There are about fifteen guys all standing around, the other fights abandoned to watch instead, and the air is thick with their bloodlust. None of them spare me a glance as they watch Harley with greedy eyes.
“Anyone touches her or asks her for sex from here on out will get the same as Hillsong. You can film it and spread it around for all I fucking care, but that’s how it’s going to be. We clear?”