Just Drop Out (Hannaford Prep, #1)

by J. Bree

It’s probably just my guilty conscious giving me the heebie-jeebies as I look over the corpse of my opponent. His blood is still fresh on my hands, cold and congealed, and I wipe them uselessly down my jeans. My clothes are just as stained as my hands, even my face is spattered with the red stains of his life ending. I look like something out of a horror movie, which is about right considering I’ve just bashed a man’s skull in with a rock while a whole crowd of people looked on in sick fascination. There isn’t a person watching that dares to make a noise. The vise-like grip of the Club holds their tongues.

I’m small for my age. Years of food insecurity have taken their toll, and I was the youngest contender in the Game this season. None of that matters though; I’ve won. I’ve beaten thirty men and teenage boys to take the victory and the spoils of this war.

“Welcome to the Twelve. You’re replacing the Hawk. Who do you choose to be?”

My eyes land back on the Jackal, and I lift my chin until I no longer feel like I’m looking up at him. “I am the Wolf.”

The boy on the stand is so gorgeous, it’s hard to look directly at his face. Instead, I look at his hands as they clench tightly where they rest on his lap. There are dozens of other teenagers in the room, but I can’t look away from him for long before I am drawn back to him, a moth to a stunning flame. He has broad shoulders and big arms, like he works out more than regularly. His hands are big and strong. I like the look of those hands. The more I look at them, the more I imagine what they would feel like on my skin. I imagine them stroking over my arms, my neck, cupping my face and pulling me in against his chest, tilting my head back. A flush settles over my skin. Who is this guy? How has the mere sight of him turned me into a babbling mess?

I can look as far as his neck without breaking out in a sweat, and as the trial drags on, I manage to make out the script tattoo on his neck. The words ‘honor before blood’ are tucked under his chin, the black ink stark against his pale skin. He has to be a gangster, but that doesn’t suit his fair looks at all. He looks as though he has never done a hard day’s work in his life. His sandy hair is messed artfully, and his nose is straight and unmarred. The tattoo tucked under his jaw is the only suggestion that he’s not a pampered model. When the judge reads out his case, he says the guy is my age, and no boy of fifteen gets ink like that unless they're already out on the streets.

What a dick. His rap sheet isn’t great, but it also isn’t violent, which makes me feel slightly better about ogling him. Car theft. Breaking and entering. Violating a work order.

I’m the Wolf of Mounts Bay, and I can survive anything.

The icy blue depths pull me in, and I feel like I’m drowning. He’s angry. He’s hiding it well, but he looks at me and I can see the burning pits of hell in his eyes. This guy is one step away from being a killer. I shiver. I should not find that attractive or exciting. But, fuck me, I do. It’s my curse for being a loyal supporter of the Jackal.

We're standing outside Hannaford Preparatory Academy, and the building looms over us like a ghoul. It looks more like a castle than a school, and there are honest-to-god turrets and an incomplete moat surrounding the building. There’s a bronzed statue of a light-horseman in the gardens. The school was built in the 1800s and boasts many presidents and political savants as alumni. The extracurricular roster includes an equestrian program and an Olympic-level swim team. It has a near perfect college acceptance rate from the students who have walked these halls, and the waiting list to get in is the stuff of legends. Looking at the building alone makes me feel so intimidated that I consider getting back in the car.

There are students everywhere. The entire grounds are teeming with teenagers, and I'm getting a ton of curious looks. I try not to let it get to me as I walk up to the office. When I make it, huffing and puffing under the weight of my bag, the door is being held open by a group of teenagers and it’s clear they're closely related. They're all dark-haired, blue-eyed, and their facial features look as though they were carved from marble by a master artist. The older boy is smirking at the front desk, and the other two, a boy and a girl, are looking at him despondently, glassy-eyed and utterly bored. None of them spare me so much as a glance.

“And who, exactly, are you?” the girl, Avery, says and I startle when I realize she's talking to me. “Lips. Lips Anderson. I'm a freshman.” A smile dances around the edge of her painted lips, but her eyes aren’t amused. “What sort of degenerate names their child Lips?” the boy drawls and, weirdly, it makes me feel kind of boneless. He turns to face me, and I’m struck dumb by the sight of him. That is until I see the disgust on his face. He looks at me like I'm a venereal disease. I choose not to answer him and push away from the wall. I brush past the group to pile all my paperwork up on the desk, feigning confidence, even though I'm kind of shaky. Is the whole school full of gorgeous, rich assholes? The older sibling looks down his nose at me as well before he turns on his heel and stalks out, presumably to go find his new single room. The receptionist ignores me and turns soft eyes onto the remaining boy.

He smiles, and his whole face changes. My breath catches in my chest and I take note. This boy can use his looks as a weapon, and he very clearly knows it. “Actually, I'd rather share with Mr. Arbour and Mr. Morrison, if that's possible? I know there's some triple rooms, and we’re probably the best candidates in our year to bunk together.” Yvette blushes and stumbles over her words. She's quick to take his bait, and it's hard not to roll my eyes. “Oh, the triple rooms aren't for boys of your breeding or stature. They're for the lower families.”

“Avery is already in one of the singles. There's two available, and I popped her straight in it. Your twin called me earlier and…expressed her desires.” Her hesitation seems totally out of place, and when she looks at Avery there's fear in her eyes. I make a note of that too and file the information away. “Lovely. Thank you, Yvette.”

“These are girls of very prestigious families, and they have some serious concerns about sharing with a girl with your…reputation.” What the hell? “What exactly is my reputation?” “We’ve had a few run-ins with Mounts Bay High girls before, which has led to strict rules about how our students spend their time outside of Hannaford. There are concerns for the safety of the students and their property.”

I've got a text waiting on my phone, and I don't have to look at it to see it's Matteo. He's the only person who has my number and, really, he's the last piece of my old life I have left. The the same icy fingers of fear up my spine as I read his text. This town doesn't feel the same without you. Come home soon. I snort, but there isn't much I can say to him without some sort of consequences. Matteo D’Ardo was another foster kid, and four years older than me. We met at school, and he had taken me under his wing even before my mom died and I wound up in the system. He was dangerous. More dangerous than any of these rich kids could ever be. They play pretend in their safe little bubble, but Matteo was the Jackal. He owned more than my home city; he owned the entire state. In a lot of ways, he owned me too.

The twins are flanked by a guy so gorgeous I’m stunned, and it takes me a second to realize it's the guy from the courthouse last month. He looks absolutely devastating in his uniform, and there are girls frothing left, right and center over both him and Ash. Avery is looking down her nose at them all. I notice again that the teachers all eye her like she's a ticking time bomb with their name on it. Interesting.

That's the second reference to something happening last year I've heard, and now I'm interested to find out what they're going on about. I glance up and make eye contact with the hot boy by accident. I hold it for a second, and then glance away because I don't want to look like I'm scared of his attention, even though I'm beginning to sweat in his general proximity. Get ahold of yourself. “Who's the new kid?” “Lips.” Avery stretches my name out, and it sounds so juvenile coming from her. Both boys snigger, and I roll my eyes where they can't see. Ash sums up the opinion of me that the whole room has already come to. “Who gives a fuck, she's Mounty trash.” If only that were true.

My first class is history, and I'm relieved to see a seating plan posted on the door. I'm at the back and sharing with a male student, Harley Arbour. Avery is at the desk in front of us, and Ash isn't in the class, which is great because I don't want to be called trash this early in the morning. It’s harder to rein my temper in.

“Your name is Eclipse?” His voice drips with venom. Fucking rich boys. “What can I say, my parents were hippies.” That's not even close to true, but it's an easy lie I've told a hundred times. It's much easier than saying my mom had a conversation with the moon one night and decided to dedicate her unborn child's name to it. That kind of story comes with blank stares, or worse, they figure out she must have been high. I wonder how many kids can say they spent the first three weeks of their lives detoxing from heroin in a NICU? Lucky me.

“I don't need your help. Why would I need help from some gangster kid? Steal any cars recently? What the hell are you doing at this school?” I say, and the words come out harsher than I intended.

“I was at the courthouse getting my emancipation last month. I had to sit and hear all about your summer activities.”

“You got 99 percent, with only one question wrong. A very good score.” He exhales, and then his eyes narrow. “What's wrong with that?” “I know you enjoy being the top of the class. Miss Anderson got 100 percent. I don't think you've ever been beaten in my class before, so I hope you’re up for a challenge.”

Maybe I have made a mistake coming to Hannaford.

“Let me explain to you how this works. I'm a Beaumont. My family is old money, so old it will never run dry. In fact, I wipe my ass with more money than your pathetic little family has ever made, and I have the connections to not only ruin your life, but to end it. If I tell you to move, you move.”

My mom told me that my dad had been sent to prison in a different state for drug trafficking, which meant I had basically been left to raise myself. I think I'd done a great job of not turning into a hopeless asshole, and someday I would be a doctor or an engineer or some other career that paid ridiculous money. Then I would never have to worry about food ever again.

I smile as I hit send. Matteo had sent the same message to me the day after he had moved out of the group care home. Back then, I'd wished so hard that I could move out of there with him. He was like a security blanket to me in the group home. Something safe to go home to. He'd told me when I'd accepted the scholarship that I would have to go back to him when I was done with school, that I wasn't allowed to grow apart from him. It made me feel wanted, in a dark, twisted

This Jackal just wants his Wolf safe and by his side. Don’t forget that while you’re at this big posh school.

Then they add me to the list, and they will do to me what they’re going to do to you. I'm sorry, I’m terrified of Avery.

When I see who the student is, I begin to think it’s a trap. Ash Beaumont. Clearly, I’ve pissed someone off in a past life.

“Oh, goody. I get to spend three hours a week with trash,” he drawls, and I grit my teeth. “If you want the help with your assignments, then yeah, you’re stuck with the trash.” He grins at me, and it’s not a nice thing.

I can’t push it until I know the lay of the land. I need to hold my cards close to my chest until I know the best way to play them.

After all five washing machines are running, I sit on the floor in the laundry room to start on my own homework. There's no way I'm going to leave my things out in the open, and now I need to invest in some serious hardware for my door.

“So, I've always wanted to fuck a Mounty. I hear you poor folk are wild in bed, and I'm willing to give it a go. When are you free this week for a quick fuck?”

“I wouldn't fuck you if you were the only rich dick left in this building. I wouldn't touch your disgusting cock for a million dollars.”

I have five pins and two plates holding one of my legs together, which is a violent and dark story for another time, which means unless I could’ve done basketball sitting down, I couldn't pick gym. Music was a very different beast. I can't play any instruments, but I can sing. Actually, I can fucking sing. But I haven't been able to hear the sound of my own singing for years without my PTSD kicking my ass all over the shop.

The door in front of me opens, and out walks Blaise fucking Morrison. Blaise. Fucking. Morrison. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be at school with Blaise Morrison. I knew that he went to an ultra-exclusive private school and that he had dozens of privacy orders in place to make sure he could go to school like any other teenager, but I couldn’t have ever hoped that I would see him in the flesh, let alone breathe the same air as him.

Blaise Morrison, Blaise fucking Morrison, is the lead singer and guitarist for Vanth Falling, which is my favorite band and, not to be too dramatic, is also my entire reason for existence. I first heard of Morrison when he was still solo and uploading covers of his favorite songs. I was completely struck by the fact he was my age and doing what I could only dream of doing. I have every song he has ever sung, even his earlier less-great stuff, and I sleep in one of the band’s shirts every night. I have followed his entire career—of two years, but that is irrelevant—and I’m basically a walking encyclopedia on all Vanth Falling knowledge.

My obsession for him is for his lyricism and his range. He is so talented, and a modern poet, and I respect him so much as an artist. Now, seeing him up close, I can also say with absolute confidence that he is panty-dropping hot. His hair is spiked up like he's run his hand through it a hundred times already today, and his glowing green eyes are dancing. He's tall and leanly muscled, he fills out his uniform in a mouth-watering way, and I want to rip it off him.

“I would have paid good money to watch you punch that asshole.” The corners of my mouth tug up into a grin. Who would have thought the way to civility with Avery's boys was by acts of violence toward Joey’s group?

“Fuck, am I going to have to elbow my way to class?” I mutter, and Harley grins at me. “Such popularity! Maybe you should try and move up to the junior class instead of slumming it with us, Mounty,” says Avery as she breezes forward, tugging Harley with her. He grumbles at her. “If she flattens another guy, I want to see it. If she does it to Joey, I will wank over it for the rest of my life.”

The Beaumonts are not the type of people to fuck with without serious consideration. I need a plan.

Speaking of Avery, she is enjoying being in the thick of it. Her hand is curled around his arm possessively. I roll my eyes at her, and Lauren giggles next to me. She's a sweet kid. I wish she were a bit braver, and we could actually be friends. “Any other songs you’d like, Claire?” he says to Miss Umber with a flirty wink. I could just die. If he ever does that in my direction, I will expire.

“If you're going to be like this the whole hour, I'm just going to go study in my room.” “If you think my brother wants to be your friend, then you are a dense Mounty slut,” he snaps at me. Oh, the ways I would break this boy if I didn't desperately need my scholarship. I sit, because I also need the credits I get for these sessions, and then I fold my own arms to mirror him.

“My sister is perfect. She is selfless, smart, and the kindest person I know. Joey is a sociopath. Don’t you ever forget it,” he whispers, and I feel the words on my skin.

I can feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Losing my clothes and having to walk back to my room naked isn't great, but I've survived worse. I can feel the panic start in my chest, and I count backwards from a hundred. In French, just to really keep my mind busy.

I’m not ashamed or embarrassed by my body. I used to be scrawny, too thin and lanky for my frame, but the months here at Hannaford have put some meat on my bones. I have boobs for the first time in my life too, nice ones and big enough that they hide the scars on the left side. I didn't need Avery seeing that and digging around in my past. I am more than a little shy about how many scars I have. My leg is mottled with red and white raised skin after all the operations to put it back together. I have a burn on my hip that I can't think about without triggering my PTSD, and then there's the two perfect circles on my shoulder. Bullet in, bullet out. Would these girls know what a healed bullet wound looks like? Would they question me about it?

When I finally put my room back together, I climb between my sheets and text Matteo. I need something, anything, from someone who cares about me and, in his own twisted way, Matteo does. Do you remember when I drank for the first time and you told me I was too good for that kind of thing? I think I'm going to go out next week, and I think I may end up in a fight.

You could call in a favor. There are many people that would take care of your problems for you. I could. But I won't.

“No.” I look up at his cold, blue eyes. The color and shape are identical to his siblings, but they don’t feel the same. Looking into Joseph Beaumont’s eyes was like staring into a void.