Riot Rules Page 2

  Once Pax has parked, Wren helps me out of the car. Pax stands well back with his hands in his pockets, face contorted into a rictus of pain. That’s the thing about a dick injury—all men sympathize and groan in agony when something like this happens, because it’s so easy to imagine that it’s your junk that’s been mangled. One guy on a football team gets accidentally kicked in the balls and the whole team fucking feels it.

  It occurs to me that I’m hobbling across a parking lot in my boxers, clutching a tea towel to my crotch—very undignified, completely lacking in decorum—but propriety is the least of my concerns right now.

  Through the sliding doors.

  Across a yawning expanse of linoleum.

  Around the obstacle course of wobbly, mismatched wooden chairs that constitute the waiting room.

  Then, all three of us are standing in front of a wide-eyed, unimpressed looking nurse. The little plastic tag pinned to her pale blue scrubs reveals her name to be Tara.

  She arches an eyebrow at Wren. They always do that—assume he’s the one in charge of our mismatched, bizarre outfit. They’re not wrong, per se. It’s just that they’re also not right. Her eyes dart down to the wadded up, bloody tea towel I’m still holding against my injury. “Vacuum cleaner?”

  “No! No vacuum cleaner! What the hell, lady!” If I sound a little indignant, it’s because I am. This is already humiliating enough. Now there are middle-aged women thinking I’m some sort of deviant who sticks his cock into electrical appliances? Fuck’s sake, somebody shoot me now.

  Like a predatory cat, Pax leans against the nurse’s station, resting one elbow on top of the counter. People recognize him when we’re out in public sometimes. He’s been modelling for the biggest fashion houses recently, and most of his editorials are international campaigns. This nurse doesn’t seem to know him, though. She barely looks at him, and he barely looks at her. He inspects the stack of paperwork and the calculator in front of the woman’s computer screen. The collection of pens beside her keyboard. The empty Bolognese-stained Tupperware abandoned by the phone. He smirks at the photo of the puffball cat that’s pinned under the clamp of the woman’s clipboard. “We have ourselves a bit of a dilemma,” he purrs. “Our friend, here, was…”—he looks up at the ceiling— “washing himself, and he tore something vital. And now, as you see, he’s leaking his life blood out of his favorite organ. We were hoping you guys would be able to do something about that.”

  Tara slowly tugs the photo of the hideously fluffy cat out from underneath the clipboard clamp and slips it into a drawer, out of sight. Later, she’ll wonder why she did that. It won’t make a lick of sense to her. I know why she did it, though. She loves that cat. Would do anything to protect it. That cat, for all intents and purposes, is as important to this nurse as a flesh and blood child. The primitive, animal part of her brain recognized Pax for the dangerous creature that he is, and her first instinct was to protect her baby lest this sharp-fanged monster try and eat him.

  She scowls. Shoves a stapled document toward me across the counter. “Fill this out and bring it back up here when you’re done.”

  On my right, Wren shakes his head. “Treatment first. Paperwork after, lady.”

  A certain amount of charm wouldn’t go amiss right now. A warm smile and some lingering eye contact would likely have me in front of a doctor right away. Pax wouldn’t know how to charm someone if his life depended on it, though. Wren is perfectly capable of affecting charisma when the mood takes him, but that’s just it. The mood rarely takes him. He’s the most obstinate, confrontational person I’ve ever met, more likely to try and terrify this woman into submission rather than take an easier, nicer route. Unfortunately for me, I happen to be the charming member of our three-strong society, and I’m in no position to flirt with Tara. Not with my dick’s imaginary voice screaming at the top of its high-pitched imaginary lungs for help. It’s a goddamn miracle that I’m even still standing.

  Tara fixes Wren with a baleful glare. “We need to know about his medical history. Allergies. Past injuries. That kind of thing.” She enunciates each word slowly, as if she thinks he’s a little slow and might not be able to comprehend what she’s saying. “We also need to make sure he has insura—”

  “If you say insurance, so help me god I will smash every stick of furniture in this place,” Pax growls. “If someone’s hurt and in pain, they should be helped before you vultures make sure your pockets are gonna be lined.”

  Tara sighs; the rush of air sounds like it’s come all the way up from the basement of her weary soul. “Look. I’m an RN. I’m not lining my pockets with anything but unpaid bills, buddy. Now. You wanna stand here, arguing about a corrupt healthcare system that I have absolutely no power to fix? Or do you wanna go sit down over there and help fill out those forms so we can get your friend’s penis reattached?” She stares him dead in the eye, grim and hatchet-faced.

  Pax flashes her his teeth as he grabs the papers and leans over the counter, snaking one of her pens—a flashy gold number with a pink-haired troll glued on the end of it. “Two minutes. Takes any longer than that and we’re storming the place.”

  “You do you, kid.”

  I sit on a rickety chair with my eyes closed, sweating, bare-chested and mortified, while my friends argue over the answers on the form. I provide information when prodded, but I let them get on with it otherwise. All I can think of is the heavy, wet, pulsing sensation between my legs, and the way the room seems to be see-sawing.

  Eventually, the boys finish the paperwork and take it up to Tara, leaving me sprawled out on the chair, groaning miserably like a wounded animal. I descend into a weird trance state, only this trance isn’t the peaceful, relaxing kind. It’s more of a mental paralysis, where I’m walled in by endless panic and it feels like the world is about to end but my body is completely frozen and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “Wow. You look like you’re having yourself a day.”

  A voice.

  Female.

  Kinda sexy, actually.

  The slightly raspy, unusual sound disrupts the insults I’ve been hurling at myself. I open my eyes, look up, and wai—whoa! My spine straightens like someone’s just shoved a cattle prod up my ass. Legs for days. Beautiful almond-shaped eyes that are a deep, rich brown, the color of the earth after a downpour. They’re so mesmerizing that I forget about the blood running down my legs for a second and all I can do is stare.

  Her hair is wild—tight, corkscrew curls. The bridge of her nose is smattered with freckles, giving her a girlish look that contradicts her very noticeable curves, which are showcased by a tight NASA t-shirt and black denim skirt. Her skin is pale as fresh poured cream. The apples of her cheeks sport a high flush, like she’s just walked out of an overly hot room. I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful in my life.

  “Never thought I’d find Lord Lovett sitting in a hospital waiting room in his underwear, covered in blood. Jeez, you…” She eyes my crotch. “You weren’t mauled, were you?”

  She knows who I am. And she didn’t say my title with any sort of emotion. That’s not normal. It’s impossible for most people to say the words ‘Lord Lovett’ without a sneer on their mouths or wonder in their eyes. This girl says the words like that’s all they are: words. A series of letters strung together and nothing more, with no implication of land, or wealth, or privilege attached to them.

  “Sorry? Have we met?”

  She arches an eyebrow, appraising my bizarre appearance; I realize belatedly what she’s seeing. God, this is such a fucking disaster. “Oh, only once or twice,” she says. “A day, for the past three years. You’re joking, right?” She laughs, hiking the strap of her bag up higher onto her shoulder. There’s nothing for me to do but laugh right along with her.

  “Of course. Totally fucking with you,” I agree. “You know me.”

  “Yeah, you’re always pulling stunts and messing around in English, right?”

  English? English class?
This aphro-fucking-dite goes to Wolf Hall and I haven’t noticed her before? How can that be even remotely possible? Three years? I’ve overlooked this girl for three years? I don’t think so. “Yeah. Well…English is a bore, right? Gotta stay entertained somehow.”

  The smile slides right off the girl’s face. “Cut the shit, Dash. You have no idea who I am, do you? God, you’re such a prick. You and your Riot House asshole friends think you’re so goddamn special. And you? You?” Her voice rises, that cool ease from a moment ago long gone. Her features are tense now, eyes narrowed, the bridge of her nose wrinkled, smashing her freckles into a knot, her full, amazing fucking lips pressing together into a line so hard that they all but disappear. I’m so confused by her wild change in mood that I inch back into the wooden, wobbly seat, pressing the tea towel to my cock a little tighter just in case she gets any ideas. How can she be even more beautiful now that she’s livid?

  Christ, was Pax right? Have I lost way too much blood? Maybe I do know this person, and this amnesia is a temporary side effect of lack of oxygen to my brain. “Look—”

  “You,” she continues, stabbing her index finger in my direction. “With your fancy, well-to-do English accent, and your fancy car, and your fancy clothes—”

  “Hey! I buy my shit from American Apparel!” It’s imperative that I defend myself against this onslaught, even though I have no idea where it’s coming from and I’m tragically disarmed by my injury. The girl huffs, and there it is—the derision. Alive and well, after all. For just a moment there, I thought…

  “Don’t lie. Your daddy sends you your clothes from Brook’s Brothers of London, doesn’t he? Do you even own a pair of jeans, Dashiell? Or, like, any other, regular kind of pants that don’t need to be dry cleaned?”

  “I’d be better equipped to respond if I was wearing any kind of pants right now.”

  “Funny.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, the warm brown of her eyes turning stony and hard. The weight of her gaze on my bare skin increases to uncomfortable levels.

  “What’s your blood type?” Wren hollers.

  Jesus, come on. I just told him that. “O negative!”

  The girl’s mouth turns down, briefly impressed. “O neg’s rare. They’re having a blood drive here today. You should donate. That’s why I’m here, in case you were wondering.”

  I glance down at the blood-soaked tea towel. “I doubt that’s going to be possible. Any surplus blood I might have had is on the floor.”

  Over at the reception desk, Pax is gripping the edge of the counter with both hands; the veins stand out in his neck. He looks like he’s about to vault over the desktop and shove Tara out of the way so he can input my details into the computer himself. “I’m not being stupid! That’s his actual name!” he snaps.

  Tara deals him a deathly scowl. “I wasn’t born yesterday, okay. Just because he’s English—”

  “Man, trouble follows you guys around like a bad smell, doesn’t it?” the girl with the stunning skin and the great hair says. “The three of you burn around this little mountain town like you fucking own it.”

  “Wren does own a considerable amount of it. He bought Cosgrove’s last year. Y’know, the bar? I put most of my money in stocks and shares. Seemed more…prudent…”

  My mystery classmate’s nostrils flare. “Yeah, I don’t really care about your portfolio. Perhaps you should acknowledge the wider world outside of your toxic trio every once in a while. Maybe that way, you won’t end up offending everyone all the time. God, you should go and help them. That nurse is about to call security on Pax.”

  Even as she says this, Pax swings away from the desk, his eyes flashing like liquid mercury. Ahhh, shiiiit. I know that look. The motherfucker’s about to go nuclear. “Da—oh, come on. Carrie? Fuck’s sake, leave him alone. The man’s hurt. Dash, get over here and show her your driver’s license. This woman’s making life really fucking difficult.”

  “Where the hell do you think I’ve got my driver’s license stashed?” I say this, but in the back of my mind, I’m turning this girl’s name over in my head like it’s a smooth, precious stone. Carrie. Pax took one look at her and knew her. Pax, the guy who fucks a girl and forgets she even exists thirty minutes later. He called this beautiful creature by her name. Have I entered a parallel universe, where everything is identical to my reality, except there’s one person extra here? What the hell is going on?

  I turn back to say something sharp and witty to this girl, Carrie, but when I look up, she’s already walking out of the hospital’s exit.

  It feels like the axis of the earth has shifted. Marginally. An imperceptible fraction. Enough that I can notice the difference, and now everything feels…off kilter.

  Eventually, the paperwork gets sorted.

  Eventually, I get to see a doctor.

  Some lidocaine, one tiny stitch, and an icepack later, and I’m walking (like John Wayne) out of the hospital, still wearing my hospital gown.

  When I slump onto the back seat, feeling like I just survived frontline combat, there’s only one thing on my mind. “That girl. Carrie. What’s her deal anyway?”

  From the front seat, Wren laughs mirthlessly, pulling an orange prescription bottle out of his jeans pocket and rattling it in his hand. “Gotta wait five days for that stitch to dissolve before you let your dick get hard. Wouldn’t wanna tear again, man. ’Til then, you’re better off not daydreaming about Carina Mendoza.”

  Pax snatches the prescription bottle out of Wren’s hand. “Percocet? Nice, dude. You’d better be in the sharing mood.”

  Wren talks, laughing with Pax, but I’m no longer in the car with them. I’m back in the waiting room, looking up into a pair of irate brown eyes and feeling about an inch tall. Carina Mendoza. Carrie, with eyes like dark cinnamon. Carrie, who already made my dick hard by scolding me like I was a naughty kid.

  I’m still back in the waiting room, replaying the interaction I had with the girl in my head on a loop, when Pax pulls down the driveway that leads to Riot House and spits out a string of curse words so colorful that I’m yanked into the present.

  Wren’s face is a picture of dismay. “What the actual fuck?”

  Leaning forward is tricky. I’m nicely numb on painkillers, but I can tell that I’ll be paying for the movement later, once the Percocet has worn off. Riot House is an architectural masterpiece. Constructed out of glass, and slate, and thick ash beams, the three-story building is a thing of beauty. A beauty that is currently marred by the giant dick and very hairy balls that have been scrawled across the impressive front door in blue spray paint.

  Mud kicks up from the Charger’s tires as Pax brings the car to a jarring halt. Both he and Wren hurl themselves out of the car and up the steps like their asses are on fire; I bring up the rear as quickly as I can, which is to say not very quickly at all.

  Wren glares down at his fingers, which are stained bright blue. “Still wet. We just missed them.”

  “I’m gonna fucking kill them.” Pax paces up and down on the porch like a caged animal. “Who’s this stupid? I mean, I’m serious. Who is this stupid?”

  Wiping his fingers on his pants, Wren’s eyes have a steely, vicious glint to them. “I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.” He points to the camera, mounted to the eaves of the overhanging porch roof. “And when we do, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

  2

  CARRIE

  FOUR DAYS LATER

  “You…did…what?”

  Being a redhead, Presley’s fair complexion is prone to flushing whenever she has the slightest reaction to something. Her cheeks are aflame right now. She was lounging quite happily across the foot of my bed like a five-foot-eleven lap dog, but the moment I mentioned Pax Davis’ name, she sat bolt upright and began staring at me like I just told her I murdered the Dali Lama.

  “What do you mean, called Dashiell Lovett out?”

  Wolf Hall is a drafty, eerie old place, full of crooked angles and dark little nooks
. The place was built back in the mid-1800s, and unlike many other private academies, has only ever worn the one hat. It was an academy when it opened its doors, and it’ll remain an academy until its doors eventually close. On the third floor of the school, in the girls’ wing of the main house, my bedroom is one of the smallest. A number of the other girls have rooms big enough for a sofa and a proper desk to study at, but my little box of a room is barely big enough to fit my bed, me and Presley inside it.

  I rub at my face, groaning as I sidle down the negligible strip of free floor space between my bed and the wall, making for the window. At least I have a decent view; the observatory that overlooks Wolf Hall is my favorite place on school grounds. At night, the small, squat block of a building is lit up, silhouetting its fat, domed roof against a host of stars.

  I put my hands on my hips and sigh. “It was four days ago, Pres. No big deal.”

  “It most definitely is a big deal. I go away for a funeral and you get into it with a Riot House boy? What the fuck! I need every single last detail.”

  Her astonishment is totally justified; my behavior back at the hospital was out of character. I press my forehead against the window, wishing we could talk about something, anything, else. “I don’t know. I saw him sitting there and I got so angry. He just stared at me with this stunned look on his face, like I had two heads. He didn’t even ask why I was at the hospital. I had to tell him.”

  “You did say he was in his underwear, covered in blood,” Presley points out. I hate when she points things out. Her logic gets in the way of my outrageous overreactions all the time. If she was any kind of friend, she’d agree with me and keep her mouth shut, with her ‘reason’ and ‘benefit of the doubt.’ I’m aware that she’s right, though. Yes, Dashiell Lovett, Sun God of Wolf Hall, was injured. His face was so ashen, he’d looked like he was about to keel over.