Riot Rules (Crooked Sinners)

by Callie Hart

The music he plays is often peaceful, but Dashiell’s never comes across as at peace. It looks like it costs him something when he sits down on that bench and positions his hands. He can’t sit still as his fingers move to hit each note.

This is something new. This music belongs to Dash.

It’s wild and it’s frantic. It’s electric and terrifying. It’s an outpouring of his soul, an evacuation, an escape, and it brings tears to my eyes. The music is pain, and frustration, and desperation, and it surges from him like a tidal wave. How is this wild, energetic, fearsome creature the same person who tossed me aside last night? He bears no resemblance to him at all. That version of him felt nothing as he told me to get down off the hood of Pax’s Charger. This version of him clearly feels everything. I try to marry the two of them together, and the pieces just don’t seem to fit. They are diametrically opposing forces, canceling out the other’s existence, but this is a fallacy, a trick of the light, because they are one and the same… I just haven’t figured out how they fit together yet.

“I see that.” He accepts my hand as begrudgingly as a person can. He scowls at me deeply once he’s back on his feet. “And people are always saying I’m the reactive one.” “No. You’re the annoying one,” Wren corrects. “Hah.” Pax is not happy about this. “And what does that make you?” “The hot one. Naturally.” This earns him an eye roll from both Pax and me. Truth is, Wolf Hall is comprised of three YA novel-style factions. There’s Team Wren, Camp Pax, and then there are the Dashettes. It’s impossible to figure out which girls are members of which faction. You can’t tell by the way a girl dresses, or how smart, or friendly, or shy, or cocky she is. The only thing you can guarantee about a female student at Wolf Hall is that she is a member of one of the factions, and probably a die-hard member at that. There have been fist fights at Wolf Hall over which Riot House boy is the hottest. And Pax only instigated one of them.

“You sure it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain girl named Carrie?” “Carrie?” “Ahhh, quit it. I saw you talking to her outside the party. You like her, don’t you?” There’s a too-light, too-excited tone in Pax’s voice. He can’t know about the kiss. If he did, he wouldn’t be asking me this question. He’d already be making plans. If I don’t play this carefully, he’s going to figure out that something happened and that’ll be it. As soon as class is over, he’ll turn into a category five hurricane full of vicious plans designed to bring Carina to her knees. Because we Riot House boys? We’re not allowed to like a girl. If one of us develops any sort of warm or fuzzy feelings for a female student at Wolf Hall, then she’s fair fucking game. It’s one of our rules. An attraction to a girl is a distraction from our friendship, as well as a threat to our reign as the undisputed rulers of the school. We made a pact a long time ago that we wouldn’t allow girls to make trouble for us. We decided we’d make trouble for them instead.

Confessing that I allowed Carina to get under my skin the other night? To Pax? That would be a nightmare. Out of the three of us, Pax masterminds the most hurtful ways to fuck with people. I grit my teeth, focusing way too hard on the notebook that I have balanced on top of my legs. “Alright, dude. Cool it. I don’t have a thing for her. No need to go wasting energy on someone who’s of absolutely no consequence.”

“Shit, Jacobi. Lord Lovett’s looking guilty as fuck over here. He’s got it fucking bad for Mendoza.” At this, Wren does something that spells certain disaster: he sits the fuck up. With very green, very interested eyes, he gives me a once-over that spells disaster. Then he smiles the devil’s own smile. “Carina Mendoza?” he asks. “That Carina Mendoza?” He points directly…shit, directly at the girl in question. How have I not noticed her in this class before? She’s sitting on a floral print sofa on the opposite side of the room, next to Mara Bancroft. She’s wearing a bright green silky looking shirt and a brown tie (what the fuck?) coupled with a pair of cut-off jean shorts that show off a vast expanse of thigh so delectable and toned that I want to crawl across the room on my hands and knees and fucking lick her. Carina looks up, right as Wren points at her, which is just stellar.

“See, I told you he was interested,” Mara hisses. I look up without even thinking—it’s an automatic reaction—and there’s Wren Jacobi, sprawled out like King Shit on the leather couch by the windows, pointing right at Mara. Only, from this angle, it kind of looks like he’s pointing at me. The last thing I need is Wren Jacobi aiming a digit at me.

She’s a shameless flirt, even when the boy she’s interested in is a goddamn pit viper. Wren might see her over-the-top little display. He might not. It’s tough to tell with the blank, unimpressed expression he wears at all times. No matter what, the guy looks permanently pissed.

I’ll tell you who does see the air-kiss, though. “Miss Bancroft. I’m not sure what you hope to accomplish with displays like that, but you’re better off pursuing a more intelligent suitor. The one you picked out is defective, I think.”

Wren turns a glare so icy and cold onto the teacher that it could put out the goddamn sun. So, he did see the kiss. If he knows Fitz is talking about him, then he must have done. “I’m far from defective, Doc. One can only imagine that she was hoping to garner my attention. In which case…” He looks back over at us, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “She has it.” The class erupts into a chorus of shouts so loud and bo...

“He’s saying that, after everything his captors did to him, even killing them wasn’t enough to satisfy him,” she offers. “And that he started out his quest believing it to be just and righteous. That he was doling out vengeance for the crimes they’d committed against him. But in the thick of it, he realized that his actions weren’t righteous or just. He was driven by pure hatred. And that’s something else entirely.”

“That’s right, Miss Bancroft. Sometimes a man becomes so enraged by the crimes others commit against him that his fury drives him to do the most wicked things. Even to kill. What do you think? Do you think Edmond was justified in his actions? Do you think those who sinned against him deserved to die?” Mara answers without hesitation. “Absolutely. Those fuckers stole from Edmond. They robbed him of so much. If someone did that to me, I’d want to destroy the bastards, too.” The doc smiles softly. “Any way you could?” She nods. “Any way I could.”

“I—” Harcourt blinks again. “The description of the boys was very specific. And did not include you, Dashiell.” “Lord Lovett,” he says. “I’m sorry?” “Lord Lovett. That’s my name. Lord Dashiell August Richmond Belleview Lovett the Fourth. My father was very particular about me being referred to that way when he dropped me off on the doorstep three years ago. Did he pay for the academy’s roof to be replaced that summer, or was it the one after? I don’t recall.”

For better or for worse (definitely worse, I’ve clearly lost my fucking mind) I’m following a sharp-tongued Riot House boy across the academy campus like a goddamn fangirl. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Go back to your room, kid. I’m not joking. This is willful insubordination. Why flout the rules when everything’s been going so well? Good old Alderman, chiming in just when I need a dose of common sense. Shame he’s not here to enforce his command, isn’t it? I want to know what the hell all that was just about with Harcourt. Did Wren and Pax really screw that kid’s mother? Seems unlikely, but I did see Wren coming down those stairs, and he was wiping something red from his hand. Above all else, I want to know if Dash touched that kid’s mom. Harcourt said the description of the two boys didn’t match Dashiell, but there’s this gross, awkward, tight feeling in my stomach and I won’t be able to rest until he’s looked me in the eye and given me an answer.

I won’t be forgetting those words or the scathing expression he wore when he said them any time soon. They cut so deep, they hit bone and sank down to the marrow. So why can’t I just leave this alone?

I fought tooth and nail to come here. Since my very first day at Wolf Hall, I’ve done everything in my power to avoid trouble. I’ve avoided any sort of behavior that would lead to me being noticed in any way. It’s the way it’s had to be. When you’re outrunning your past, sometimes the present needs to be minimized for it to be safe. Getting involved in anything remotely Riot House related is a bad, bad call, and equates to sheer insanity. I need to wash my hands of Dashiell Lovett and run in the opposite direction like I’m being stalked by a swarm of killer bees, but… Godddamn that but. I hate that but. It’s the root of all my issues. I can’t wash my hands and run away, because there’s something about Lord Dashiell Lovett the Fourth that makes my heart beat faster. When he sits at that piano, he’s a different person altogether. I’m searching for that Dashiell, I’ve been searching for him for a long time, and I can’t seem to let him go. And avoiding trouble, heartbreak and unwanted attention has its benefits, but it also makes for a very dull existence. And that’s precisely what I’ve been doing. Existing. Just getting by. Making it from one day to the next, congratulating myself when I accomplish such a small feat without hiccup. Living like that? Making myself so inconsequential? A piece of me withers and dies with every day that I observe the rules and play it safe. I’ve begun to wonder how long it will be before there’s nothing of me left. I like listening to him play. I...

I quickly realized that he was never going to tell me his secret, even though he knows mine, and pushing him wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

The thing about Dash is that he’s very intelligent. Scarily so. He can take a look at a person, open his mouth, and have them feeling like shit in under ten seconds. Well, fuck him. I will not be cowed by him. I make sure to meet his gaze and hold it. “We did more than that.” He frowns. “I’m sorry?” “Talk for ten minutes outside a party. You kissed me.” A smile on his face can be the most beautiful thing, but it can also be the cruelest. He takes a step forward, laughing quietly, as if at some private joke that I’m not privy to. “That’s what this is about? The fact that I shoved my tongue down your throat? Man. You fall easy, huh?” “What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t fallen—” He drops into a crouch in front of me. It was one thing, being so close to him on the hood of that car on Friday night, but it was dark, and I’d had three or four drinks.

In the daylight, Dashiell Lovett is a sight to behold. Pax has always been Riot House’s resident model, but with a jawline like his, it’s a miracle that Dash doesn’t model for some London fashion house, too. His mouth is full and pouty in a sullen way. His eyes are fierce and sharp as a razor’s edge, a beautiful hazel, blue one second, then brown, then green as he tilts his head. He stares at me with such seriousness that I have to fight not to look away.

“Let me tell you how this is going to pan out,” he says slowly. “If you aren’t careful, I’ll decide that I like you. An’ you know what that is, love?” He licks his lips, quickly wetting them. “That is a very, very bad day for you. I am not the kind of boy you want liking you, Carrie. I’m the kind of boy you want to never think of you again. See, when I like something, I want to make it mine. I want all of it. I need to know that I hold it in the palm of my hand, and it will never try to escape.” He holds his hand up, showing me his palm, in the very center of which is a ladybug. Quick as lightning, he makes a fist, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “I’ll wrap my fingers around it and—” He clenches his hand, tightening his fist. “Asshole! Let it go!” I grab his hand and try to prize his fingers open, but he shakes his head, squeezing harder until his knuckles turn white. “I break the things I like, love. Trust me. You don’t want me to like you.” His eyes are unfeeling. Cold. Hard. And in this moment, I believe him—craving any kind of attention from him would be very foolish indeed. I release his hand, rocking back a little so I can put some space between us. “Did you fuck that gu...

“Ooooh.” I roll my eyes. “I’m so impressed. I bet you pop pills like they’re candy, don’t you, big man?” He doesn’t react to my goading. Just nods. “Pills. Speed. Coke. You name it. I partake on a regular basis.” “Oh. Right. Sure. I suppose you’re shooting up heroin on a regular basis, too, right?” I’m being sarcastic, but a part of me is still as a corpse, numb, dreading his response. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “If it feels good and reduces all of this bullshit to white noise then I’m in, princess.” Wow. And just like that, any sense of conflict I might have been having over him melts like frost thawing at dawn. Only much, much quicker. If there’s one thing that will turn me off quicker than a bucket of ice-cold water over my head, it’s a half-baked heroin addiction. “You’re serious? Heroin?” “No need to look so stunned, Mendoza. It’s not that big a deal.” “God, you…” I shake my head. “You’re fucking pathetic, Dash. You know that? Fucking stupid, too. You don’t need to worry about ignoring me in class anymore. I won’t be bothering you again.” I’m sick to my stomach. I honestly, truly feel like I’m about to throw up. I wonder if he can feel the contempt radiating off me as I walk...

So, I had a nip of vodka, which is fucking child’s play in comparison, and yet she stood there, looking at me like I was the biggest loser on the face of the planet? Yeah, I don’t think so, love.

Why does she even care, anyway? It’s none of her concern if I want to cultivate a mild buzz between periods. I mean, who the fuck does she think she is? She’s a no-one, sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. If she’s not careful, she’ll wind up trying to get involved in something that falls strictly under Riot House dominion, something that really isn’t her business. Heaven help her then.

I follow the pathway I have seared into my mind, following the memorized lefts and rights without even paying attention where I’m going. And all the while, I’m thinking about Carrie. Fuming about Carrie. Obsessing over Carrie. Burning because of Carrie. The girl should have stayed the hell away from me. She should have heeded the rumors and done whatever she could to avoid me like the plague, not fucking follow me. Now she thinks I’m a fucking heroin addict, and the boys are about to make her life a living hell if I can’t convince them that I don’t give a shit about her, and—

I spin and turn back the way I came. As I march away from the center of the maze, taking wrong turn after wrong turn in my confusion, I’m cursing under my breath for an entirely different reason. Not because my friend was back there flirting with a guy, when I’d always assumed, always known that he was straight… …but because my friend was back there flirting with our teacher.

A lot happened in the split second when he laughed and said that, sure, he’d try anything if it made his life more bearable. I was standing back in that filthy living room, my body exposed, and Kevin was prepping a needle for me. I was a living flame of fear, and I was plunging the steel down into his eye. I wasn’t myself. I was Hannah Rose Ashford, and I was terrified for my life.

“No, you weren’t. You were lying in your bed, staring up at the ceiling, refusing to touch yourself even though you want to—”. Cocky English bastard. The nerve of him. “Oh, and I suppose I was gonna finger myself while thinking about you, was I, Lord Lovett?” His smile fades a fraction, dimming like a light switch being turned, but only for a second. It returns at full force a second later. He props himself against the doorjamb. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’re only human.”

I’ve seen the magic he can work with those fingers. I’ve heard his music in my dreams. Looking at him now, it’s hard to imagine that he was capable of creating something so beautiful. It looks like all he wants to do is destroy. His eyes shine brightly when he looks at me. And boy, do I feel it when he looks at me. My goosebumps have goosebumps. I…out of nowhere, I’m fucking aching under his gaze.

The dinosaurs couldn’t prevent their untimely demise; that meteor was going to hit Earth no matter what. The stars can’t stop themselves from burning out. Every light in the sky will eventually fade and die. It’s an inevitability that cannot and will not be stopped. My position is just as helpless when I find myself descending, tumbling further down the giant gaping hole in the ground labelled, “Caution: this way lies heartbreak.” Dashiell lets out a steady, audible breath, and the warmth of it skates over the skin at the base of my neck—air that’s been inside of him, touching and caressing me. Holy fucking Christ, I am so doomed. “I wasn’t aware that you were a psychologist-in-training,” he murmurs. “I’m not.”

He smiles to such a degree that a single dimple forms in his right cheek, shocking the hell out of me. Dashiell Lovett has a dimple. A saints-be-bl...

He does what he wants. Says what he wants. Takes what he wants. What would it matter if I refused his request? He’d do it anyway with a rogue smirk on his face, because no isn’t a word Dashiell Lovett has heard often during his lifetime.

I give him a tight smile, trying to get a handle on my emotions. One moment, I’m reeling at the fact that the guy I’ve been so obsessed with since I showed up in Mountain Lakes is sitting on the end of my bed. The next I’m wishing with every ounce of strength I possess that he will get up and leave. I’ve never been this conflicted. Not even when Alderman told me Jason had died of an overdose, and my mother was finally free of that sick fucker. My rescuer had come to me with the information gingerly, wondering if I’d want to go back to Grove Hill, posing the question with tense shoulders, afraid of what my response would be. I admit that giving him an answer caused me trouble.

“You have a lot of stuff for such a small space.” “Sorry. Should I throw out a few things? Make room for your ego?”

Oh my god. Oh my good fucking god, I just looked directly at his dick.

How dare he be this pleased with himself. In my bedroom. He shows up here in the middle of the night, soaking wet, cocky as hell, makes himself comfortable, and then takes off his shirt? Seriously, what plane of reality am I living in? I rock my head back, staring at the ceiling as hard as physically possible. “Just put your clothes back on, Dash. I’m not kidding. You’re—Wait! What the hell are you doing?” I’ll tell you what he’s doing. He’s gotten to his feet; he’s standing a mere eighteen inches away from me, and he’s unfastening his jeans and shoving the denim down his legs.

Toned legs. Tight black boxers. We’re talking skin-tight. I can see the outline of his junk through the fabric and I can’t stop looking. Jesus, Carina, stop fucking looking!

“Sleep with you,” I hiss. “Just let you penetrate me.” At this, Dashiell collapses back onto the bed, stifling a hail of laughter. “Don’t worry. I’m not planning on penetrating you.” Okaaaaaay. I rock on the balls of my feet, straining against my need to fling open my bedroom door and bolt out of the building and into the rain. My embarrassment levels are climbing by the second. They hit leave-me-here-to-die levels when he regains enough composure to sit up and look at me, and says, “Bloody hell, girl. You’re killing me.” Killing him. Like the prospect of him sleeping with me is so hilarious and unbelievable that the very mention of it makes him laugh to death.

“What do you hope to accomplish by coming here and showing me this?” I whisper. “What’s the point?” He thinks. Or stays quiet, anyway, staring at the floor, pressing the tip of his tongue against the swell of his bottom lip. After a while, he says, “People like to believe all kinds of shit about me, Carina. I don’t give a fuck most of the time. But you believing that about me? I couldn’t handle you believing that.”

“What’s the alternative? Are we supposed to get to know each other? Share all of our deepest, darkest secrets? What, you wanna date me, Carina Mendoza?” He laughs coldly. “We’ve been through this. I’m not datable. I’m fuckable. I’m hate-able. I’m plenty of things…but you do not want to date me, Carrie. I can promise you that.”

“Don’t tell me what I want and I don’t want, asshole. You don’t know shit about me. If you’re not interested in me, then have the balls to say that and be clear instead of all of this dancing around, and side-stepping, and…and being so godddamn English.” “Most people find my Englishness charming.” “Well, I don’t. It’s annoying. You’re always skirting around whatever you want to say. You can never take a direct, straight line from point A to point B in a conversation—” “Straight lines are boring. Where’s the fun in straight lines?”

“I can’t be direct like you people. I’ve tried. It causes me physical pain to be so abrupt. But fine. If you insist, I’ll give it a go.” He straightens, standing up tall, cracking his fingers as he stares down at me, his eyes full of ice-cold flames. “I’d fuck you, love. I would. But I’d probably never speak to you again. And you’d hate me. And I wouldn’t care, which would only make you hate me even more. Graduation will eventually roll around, and I’ll make some kind of speech. You’ll sit there in your chair on the second to back row, and you’ll be filled with a burning hatred for me. And I…I won’t notice any of it. I won’t feel a fucking thing. I won’t care. It’ll be a miracle if I even remember you exist. “So, like I said. You’re better off forgetting all about me, love. Once you’ve come on my dick, I’ll move onto the next pretty girl with a decent sized rack, and that’ll be that. You won’t hear from me. There won’t be any texts. We won’t go skipping, hand-in-hand, down the corridors of this dumpster fire. I’ll have ruined you. I’ll be this ugly sore of a memory that never goes away, festering in the back of your head, poisoning every future relationship you ever have because I made it impossible for you to trust all other men. And then I’ll be back in England, sitting on my spoiled ass, re-reading the classics and fucking the housekeepers ’cause I’ve got nothing better to do. Not thinking about you…” He steps closer, reaching up, taking a piece of my loose hair, windin...

“Am I supposed to be upset by that?” I hiss. “You’re acting like you just ruined my life. I hate to break it to you, but I’ve survived way worse than you, Dashiell Lovett.” “Oh, sweetheart,” he croons. “You’re mistaken. There is nothing worse than me.” The door clicks softly closed behind him.

Yeah. Now you’re getting it. I am an asshole. A grade-A, motherfucking, piece-of-shit, break-your-heart, rude-as-hell, evil fucking cunt.

I feel soiled. You can’t call me a man at this point; that’s too generous a title. I am a golem, constructed out of flaming bags of shit and garbage. On the other side of the room, Carina sits next to Mara Bancroft. I can feel her throbbing with embarrassment and anger—her mood generates a heat that can be felt from the other side of Fitz’s Den. It’s blistering my skin, giving me radiation poisoning, singeing my nerve endings, and yet no one else seems affected by it. No one else seems to have even noticed.

I’m supposed to fuck a random at Cosgrove’s soon, to convince my friends that I don’t give a shit about this girl. I do, though. Really fucking do. I can’t stop thinking about her. Can’t stop being mad at her nosy ass. Can’t stop thinking about how cute she is when she’s mad. I’d pay someone good money if they could tell me how to get the image of her tight little nipples poking through that t-shirt out of my head, too. That’d be fucking nice. I can’t be interested in her. I just can’t. So I pretend. My disinterest requires me to be convincing. I yawn. I stab the tip of my ballpoint pen into my notepad. I kick my feet out and cross my legs at the ankles, and I do not look at Carina Mendoza.

If he does anything to mess with Wren, and I mean anything that has a negative impact on my friend, I will destroy him.

And if this whole thing was more about experimenting with a dude, then fine. I have no issues with that whatsoever. But what was wrong with Sam Levitan? Levitan’s the head of the Math department. Way hotter than Fitz. Wolf Hall’s female demographic are constantly pissing and moaning about the fact that Levitan’s actually gay and none of them stand a chance with him. Fitz typically dates women. Or should I say girls. It’s common knowledge that he used to fuck senior chicks in the gazebo all the time back when we were freshmen. It’s so unexpected and unlikely, this weird connection between this asshole and Wren, that something about it just doesn’t feel right.

“You give me shit when I’m not paying attention. You give me shit when I’m paying too much attention. There’s just no pleasing you is there, Wesley.”