Riot Rules (Crooked Sinners)

by Callie Hart

I’ve never once tried to dress in a way that might snag Dash’s attention. What would be the point? I hear Alderman’s gruff voice in the back of my head, reciting rule number three in an adamant tone, the way he always does whenever he calls: No boys. I repeat, absolutely NO boys. No dating. No falling in love. No nonsense of any kind. I mean it, kid. NO BOYS! I’m not supposed to fantasize about Dashiell Lovett. I’m not supposed to even think his name. The trouble is that Dashiell’s incredibly difficult not to think about. He’s a fair-haired, hazel-eyed colonial at a private American school, and he descends from nobility, for fuck’s sake. English nobility. Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility-type nobility. Even if I wasn’t living under Alderman’s edict, it wouldn’t really matter what I chose to wear. I could dress in the most constricting, ridiculous Jane-Austen-approved attire known to man and it still wouldn’t matter. I’d still be unworthy and overlooked. He proved that the other day when he looked up at me like he’d never set eyes on me before in his entire, spoiled existence. Arrogant motherfucker.