Riot House (Crooked Sinners, #1)

by Callie Hart

I still flinch every time I hear someone politely clear their throat. When Daddy Dearest clears his throat, it usually means I’m about to endure humiliation at his hands. Or some form of embarrassment. Or both.

I already have plans to dye my long, blonde locks dark brown again. Most fathers wouldn’t want their daughters bleaching their hair at seventeen years old, but Colonel Stillwater can’t stand the sight of me with my natural hair coloring. He’d never admit it in a million years, but he can’t handle me with brown hair. I look too much like her with brown hair.

But he could make me a blonde, and so he did. And I’ve hated every second of it.

“Go fuck yourself, Pax,” Carina hisses through her teeth; it’s the first time I’ve heard her sound anything other than friendly, and the venom dripping from her words takes my breath away. She doesn’t just dislike this guy. She fucking hates him.

Carina squirms, eyes fixed on a stack of books on the other side of the room, carefully avoiding Dashiell’s gaze. Her reaction to Pax was open hostility, but now she seems to have shrunk in on herself, shutting down altogether.

Dashiell lets out a morose sigh; he sounds honestly disappointed. “Don’t worry, Stillwater. Jacobi changes his mind like he changes his socks. His current state of attire notwithstanding, of course. He’s usually very good about changing his socks. I think that’s the thing I like most about him.”

Doctor Fitzpatrick, my new English professor, is a stone-cold smoke show.

But in the daylight, with the weak sun flooding in through the massive picture window right behind his head, I can see so much more of him now…and I’m so desperately, absolutely beyond fucking fucked. He’s beautiful.

Great use of the word lurid. And cunny? You must have had to look that one up, Jacobi.” All eyes turn to Wren.

“She can’t be a volunteer if you nominate her,” Damiana gripes, casting a sour look over her shoulder at me. “How is that fair? Some of us have been waiting our turn for months, Fitz.” “Oh, stop whining. I think we’re all tired of the ceaseless droning of your voice, child.”

“Anyone care to explain the rules to Elodie, class?” This is entertaining to him. He’s actually enjoying being here, teaching his students. In five different countries and in five different schools, I’ve never encountered another professor who enjoys his job.

“You stand up there as directed by our venerated puppet master, and you give us a debate argument. The argument has to be related to books or the English language. If the class argues your debate topic in an entertaining way without Fitz getting bored, you score an automatic A on the next assignment he sets.”

“Hate to break it to you, Dee, but if you use those terms when you message Wren, you are using text speak,” Doctor Fitzpatrick confirms. “If you—” “Like I’d text that pervert anyway!” she cries. Wren smirks, closing his eyes. “She does. Usually after midnight. And yes. DTF is considered text speak, too.”

There’s a very real danger that he’ll hold his cup to my lips, and I’ll drink down his poison like I’m dying and he’s the cure.

“Be less obvious, Stillwater. Desperation’s an ugly look.”

Dead mother. Only child. Small, like a porcelain doll. Pretty blonde hair. Pouty mouth I wouldn’t mind wrapped around my dick.

That’s what it was about her. She looked innocent, dressed in white, with all of that long blonde hair flowing down past her shoulders, every part of her singing with life. I’d immediately wanted to sully her.

For two weeks prior to Elodie Stillwater’s arrival, I spent a lot of time looking at that photo, jerking off to it but then refusing to let myself come, enjoying the anger that pooled in my stomach whenever I stared at Elodie’s pretty face.

So, yeah. I waited up for her to arrive. I volunteered, which should have been a pretty glaring warning to the Wolf Hall administration, since I’ve never volunteered for anything in my entire fucking life. I wanted to test out my theory and see if the time I spent torturing myself had had its desired effect, though, and there was only one way to do that. I had to see her face-to-face, even if it meant burning my way through my last pack of smokes while standing out in the freezing cold for two and a half hours.

Fuck her. Hurt her. Soothe her. Ruin her.

“By rights, she’s mine,” he says around his mouthful of food. “You had Damiana. Dash got Carina. I’m next up to bat.”

Why am I so dead set on her? Because she’s innocent, and I’m not. Because she’s wholesome, and I’m not. Because she’s untainted, and I’m not. And, most importantly of all, because she’ll be so pretty when I make her cry.

“Yes. He’s very well respected.” I could say so much more. I could tell her about the nights I spent twisted up and afraid beneath my bedsheets, wondering if he was going to burst through my bedroom door at any moment. She’d understand then how unimportant the location my bedroom here at Wolf Hall really is to me, so long as I’m as far away from him as is physically possible.

Colonel Stillwater knows I don’t speak French. My mother always wanted to teach me, she tried to speak French at home when I was little, as well as English, but my father beat her senseless for even suggesting such a thing.

His dick is hard, which isn’t out of the ordinary. He gets hard whenever he smokes pot. Some weird, fucked up wiring issue in his brain. The girl touching her pussy on the screen’s purely coincidental.

If he asks me if I liked having a dick thrust up my ass, I’m prepared to break my ‘no need to lie to the friends’ rule, just this once. Or at least bend it a little.

Two days later, he asked me to meet him in the observatory after dinner. So I went along, excited about getting to see him, getting to kiss him, getting to tell him that I’d fallen head over heel in love with him…and I walk in to find Amalie Gibbons on her knees with his dick aaaaaallllll the way down her throat.”

“…and then, I remembered that I had Amalie Gibbons on her knees and my dick was in her mouth, and things just got really messy. Because that was a really fun time, girls. A really fun time. I am sad you don’t want to play with me anymore, though, Carrie. I guess I should have said I was sorry or something. Better late than never, though, right?”

Look away, Jacobi. Look away. I should, but I don’t. I’m trapped by the pressure of her eyes on me. A slow, cunning smile begs to be unleashed across my face, and I relent, giving it free rein.

Dashiell’s eyes are fixed on Carina.

Fitz’s gaze is on his shoes, and—whoa, whoa, whoa… Hold the fuck up. Covertly, Fitz looks up, glancing at Elodie out of the corner of his eye. I wait for him to look away, but he lingers on her, just that little bit too long. The muscle in his jaw tics. That’s when he finally looks away. What the fuck was that, Fitz? I do not fucking think so, homie.

When I turn away from the delusional English teacher, Elodie Stillwater is staring at me.

Fucking wonderful. I know what’s coming next. Carina, Carina. Sweet little Carrie. The mother hen of the fourth floor. Fuck knows when Harcourt designated her protector over all new female students, but she must take her role very seriously if she’s willing to come here and face me down.

“I’ve got one word for you, Jacobi. Don’t.” Oh, ho, ho. This is gonna be entertaining. “Don’t be so devastatingly handsome? Don’t be smarter than every single man in this place? Don’t make my heart flutter in my chest every time you look at me?” Carina clenches her jaw, nostrils flaring. “You’re many things, Wren, but slick isn’t one of them. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve seen you looking at her. Just don’t.”

“Elodie’s mine. I’ve already cleared it with the boys. And I don’t need to clear shit with you. You won’t go near her.” Nodding, Fitz reaches up and takes hold of me by the wrist, slowly pulling my hand away from his face. “I won’t go near her.” He swallows hard. I leave his room just as the first bout of rain begins to lash at the windows.

wtf is happening

About to try my breathing technique again, my eyelids flutter…and the light starts flashing again, with a whole new message: A…R…E Y…O…U A C…O…W…A…R…D S…T…I…L…L…W…A…T…E…R ?

“Elodie, child. Be extra careful of the handsome ones. They’ll trick you with their beauty, but it’s all a façade. Their eyes may peer into your soul, and their mouths may leave you breathless, but beneath their pleasing exterior lies a wickedness bestowed by Saint Nick himself. All good-looking men have been tapped on the shoulder by evil.”

“I’m not accustomed to people thinking they can touch me uninvited.” He drops his hand back to his side, a slow smile spreading across his damnable face. “I’ll be sure to wait until I’m invited, then. You have a rose petal in your hair. I was just gonna get it out for you.”

“I care about Pax. I care about Dashiell. But not in a traditional way that most guys in high school care about each other. They’re not my bros. They’re not my homies. They’re oxygen. Daylight. Warmth. Familiarity. Shelter. Home. Safety.

“Get away from me, Wren,” I whisper. He smiles sadly. “Wish I could, Stillwater. But it ain’t in the cards.”

A part of me wants to fist a handful of his hair and pull him to me, so that his full lips collide with mine. I want the kiss. I want him to suffer for this invasion of my personal space. I’m at war with myself, and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to react if he makes a move.

“Your heart’s racing, Stillwater,” he whispers. “I can see your pulse in the base of your throat. You want me.”

“I haven’t lied to you. I never will. I’ll give you all my dark, ugly truths, even though they’ll frighten you, Little E. I won’t hold back.

“You are going to be mine, Elodie Stillwater. Of all my sins and misdeeds, making you fall in love with me will be the very worst of them all.”

DAMIANA: Wen R U gonna give it up? U know we make sense. We’re cut from the same cloth. Why would U wanna settle for some prissy little prude wen U already know how good I taste?

ME: Let it go. Some mistakes aren’t destined to be repeated. DAMIANA: MISTAKE? U weren’t calling it that when I swallowed ur cum, motherfucker.

All of us are painfully aware of the fact that none of us should get along. Pax is the spikiest, angriest, poutiest guy I’ve ever met. The chip on his shoulder is glaringly obvious and kind of sad, really. Dashiell’s spoiled rotten and so hopped up on Valium and Xanax that his world is fluffy and so mellow through his medicated rose-tinted lenses that he barely exists in the same plane of reality as us at all. And me. I’m the recluse. The pressure cooker. The guy who hardly speaks, whose skin begins to itch if he has to say more than three sentences in public, in fact. Who hates almost everyone, and finds the idea of having friends hanging around utterly repugnant.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you utilize a chair correctly. You know you’re supposed to bend in the middle and sit at a ninety-degree angle, yes? Your posture’s atrocious.” “My posture is directly correlated to my level of interest in my surroundings.” “Ouch.” Pax fakes a sniffle of hurt. “Sorry if we’re boring you, Your Highness.”

“Fine, pull over. I’ll get out and fucking walk.” “Don’t be a little bitch, Jacobi. We’re five hundred feet away from the entrance.” “Stop the car, or I’ll do more than kick a headrest,” I purr, in a flat, calm, perfectly amicable voice. “Jesus Christ,” Dash groans. “Let him out before he blows like fucking Etna. There’s no need to get so grouchy, y’know,” he tells me, spinning around in his chair. “You like something about this girl. For some weird reason, you’ve decided she’s the Morticia to your Gomez. There’s no need to let your temporary insanity cause contention between the three of us, though, is there.”

I want what any guy in my position would want: her complete and unconditional surrender.