Beautifully Yours: A High School Bully Romance (Voclain Academy Book Three) Page 3

  Everett is the first out the door, and we all jump up like a game of whack-a-mole to follow him.

  Down the long hall.

  Past the guest bathroom.

  One left turn, and then we are there, in the kitchen.

  Finn’s leaning against the counter, sweating bullets and looking a particularly pallid shade of green as he breathes in and out heavily. All I can think is his face is coloring to the shade of Luigi’s hat. Ian stands on the opposite side of the giant marble island, holding a bowl of candy in one hand and an open beer in his other. He’s always so composed, so put together, but right now, he’s staring at Finn, his mouth open, the whites of his eyes visible like he’s seen a ghost.

  “He stabbed me!” Finn says emphatically before sagging against the counter with one long wheeze.

  Ian’s nostrils flare, the vein at his temple throbbing.

  “What the fuck, psycho,” he grits out, baring his teeth with the words.

  My heart pounds its drum beneath my ribs, and the world plays wobbly top around me. Is this a prank or something? Everything goes silent in the kitchen. There’s the laughter of a girl from far away and the thump of the radio from outside.

  Blood seeps across the cotton of Finn’s shirt. Red trickles slowly into the light purple fabric, nearly reaching the button, and it’s a small stain, just a mark that could be ketchup or barbecue sauce except for the handle jutting out of his abdomen. I can’t see how deep it is. I don’t want to see how deep it is. His fingers curl around the stainless steel handle, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. My wobbly-top world teeters.

  Panic tastes like vomit on my tongue.

  My eyes dart back to Ian. No way did he stab Finn. Ian may be a brute force of nature—he is a brute force of nature—but he doesn’t commit attempted murder. My first semester he beat the crap out of Finn Berkshire to get the asshole off of me, but even then he stopped. He didn’t knock him unconscious, though I’m sure he wanted to. He didn’t land Finn in the hospital, though he could have kept going.

  No way he did it, but then who did? And why is Finn blaming him?

  Ian stares at Finn, for once oblivious to my attention. His lips are thinned into a grim line, and his face is so wan, like he has dressed up as a ghost for Halloween. His hair stands out in dark, inky strands against his colorless forehead. He’s tan from summer, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him now; even his knuckles are blanched, his fingers cinched tight around the bowl and the beer bottle. His eyes, normally the color of storms on the horizon, seem to have this white tint about them, more silver than stone. Disgust and shock vie for first prize, but neither one wins.

  Ian blinks once at Finn. Twice at the floor. And three times as his head cocks toward us standing there, our backs nearly touching the built-in refrigerator.

  “Mother-fucker stabbed himself,” he says finally, the words clear and strong. His eyes settle on me, and I know what he must see there, the swallow in my throat, the panicked dart of my gaze to Finn, who’s now groaning against the counter and shaking his head, back to Ian.

  Everett to my left says, “What the fuck,” like he’s people-watching and sees some particularly confusing behavior. Chase to my right snorts and shakes his head, probably trying to clear away the fog of booze that hangs around his brain. All the while I silently plead with Ian to tell me why, to explain how it all happened.

  Raven leans against the granite counter next to Vixson, crossing her wedge-sandaled feet at the ankles, and surveys the situation with a frown on her glossy lips. Finn groans again, this time through his teeth, as more bullets of sweat pop along his brow line. Raven bursts into laughter, cackling like she’s never seen anything funnier in her entire life, like someone’s not bleeding—hopefully not to death—in her parents’ kitchen. She doesn’t even seem surprised, just amused and maybe a tad annoyed at the disaster that’s unfolded.

  My gaze locks with Ian’s again as Raven laughs. He frowns at her reaction but says nothing as I take a step toward him, then another across the marble floor. I want to check him for injuries and make sure he’s all right.

  “Everyone knows Ian would just beat the shit out of you, Berkshit.” Raven shakes her head as she clicks her tongue. Her auburn locks lie long against her shoulders. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m not lying!” Finn spits at her, sending drops of spittle out into the world with his words as his face somehow turns even greener under the hanging pendant light he stands below.

  Raven doesn’t spare him a response. No one does as my hands skim across Ian’s body for injuries.

  First his shoulders, then down to his biceps.

  Across his forearms to uncurl his fingers from the bottle and bowl he holds and set them on the island beside him.

  Over his stomach and up the column of his throat.

  Across the bristle that dots his jaw line and over his cheekbones.

  Back around and into his hair before I am convinced he is whole and drag him against me. At first, I’m just hugging an unmoving statue, but his hands wrap around me slowly, and then we are standing there together. I feel moored to sanity in his arms.

  “Clear out! Party’s over!” Raven shouts. “And pick up your beer cans. Cops are on their way.”

  Somebody yells, “Cops!” and it’s like playing a long-distance game of telephone around the property, with the word being echoed as chaos ensues. I breathe in Ian and the scent of cardamon and cinnamon that lingers on his clothes as everyone scrambles, running through the kitchen and down the hall. I can’t see them; my eyes are squeezed shut as I reassure myself that everything is all right, that Ian is all right, but I hear their collisions with oomphs and the sound of glass shattering.

  Raven’s next words are served with an eye roll. “Assholes just bailing, huh?”

  Ian speaks with Everett over my shoulder, but my fingers are curled into the fabric of his shirt as I will the darkness to stay away. I can feel it there, lingering at the edges of my brain, threatening to wash over me in an instant like one angry, dark tide.

  One. Two. Th...three. Four. Blue!

  I repeat the little mantra inside my head, taught to me by Dr. Murray to control the panic attacks, but I find no comfort there. The comfort I find is in the metronome of Ian’s heartbeat and the solid feel of him beneath my fingers. He feels like home, my safe place, and I never want to let go.

  “Yeah, some dumbass just stabbed himself,” Raven says into her phone to the 911 operator. “You heard me.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask against Ian’s shirt.

  “I’m okay, sweetness,” he says into my hair, and the words bring a blanket of comfort, but I don’t know if I believe them, especially with Finn howling the occasional interjection of Ian’s guilt, a story he’s apparently sticking to.

  I peel myself off of him, and I look up at his remarkable face. Despite his words, there’s a furrow to his brow I don’t like seeing there. Ian doesn’t do confused or bewildered. His father would expect nothing less than absolute conviction in his every movement. He looks down at me.

  “I’m okay,” he repeats.

  “What happened?” I ask, ignoring Finn’s hundredth “He stabbed me!” squeal.

  “I came to get the stuff for Archie, got it, and was ready to leave, when the dumbass grabbed a knife out of the knife block and stabbed himself.” My eyes dance over the scene to the knife block beside Finn, and Ian on the other side of the island beside me.

  “Harlow,” he says, drawing my attention back him. He looks down at me. “I need you to call my father if it goes sideways.”

  “What?” My voice sounds an octave above normal, panic leached into the words. “Why?”

  “In case they don’t believe me.”

  His words hit me like a wall of bricks, but I refuse to stumble and fall. “They’ll believe you,” I protest.

  I steer him away from Finn and Archie and Everett, who are guarding him like he’s one snap away from taking that knife out of his a
bdomen and hurting someone else. Ian and I stand beside the back patio doors.

  “Maybe you should leave,” I whisper, desperate to not do this.

  He shakes his head. “Just makes me look guilty, sweetness, and for once, I have nothing to be guilty about.” He ducks his head to whisper to me. “It’ll be fine, eventually. My prints aren’t anywhere on that blade.”

  I muddle through his words. Yes! That sounds like a solid plan. That’ll get him off free and clear. His prints aren’t anywhere on that blade. It’s all going to be okay.

  I nod once in understanding as Raven shouts into the phone, “S...sorry lose...you,” and hangs up.

  She looks at us. “They are on their way. Everybody clean up before we all spend a night in lockup.”

  Everett nods to Archie in a silent signal that he’ll stand guard by Finn as Raven grabs a box under the sink and starts tossing trash bags to those of us in the room. Molly goes in one direction, and Chase walks the opposite way down the hall.

  I look to Ian, who says, “Go, I’ll be fine. Don’t want you arrested tonight either.”

  I give him a quick hug and race down the hall after Molly, leaving the crumbs and grabbing empty bottles and Solo cups and tossing them into my bag. I am at the rear of the house with Molly, cramming one last full trash bag into an already overfilling container, when I hear the sirens.

  Red and blue lights reflect off the moss-covered trees as four police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck arrive, curling around the huge driveway.

  Raven texts furiously and mutters, “Bitch always bails,” before putting a perfectly polite smile on her face.

  “Miss, where are your parents?” An officer frowns at her, a spindly man with a chipped front tooth and what seems like a permanent scowl.

  Without missing a beat, she says, “Monte Carlo, but I am sure we can straighten this out, officer.”

  “Are there any drugs or alcohol on the premises?”

  “If there are, I don’t know about it.”

  The middle-aged man looks less than amused as two EMTs, each the size of a linebacker, unpack a gurney out of the back of the ambulance and arrive at the police officer’s side. “Where’s the victim?”

  “The big baby is inside,” she says sweetly.

  “And the perpetrator?”

  “You mean, the victim? He stabbed himself.”

  The guy’s forehead wrinkles could hold the Nile River at the moment.

  He cocks his head at the door, and the other officers and EMTs disappear inside. As I watch them leave, it feels like I’m watching the end of the world.

  — Ian —

  Well, fuck.

  This isn’t good.

  Sergeant Sourface regards me like he just walked into a back alley and found me, knife in hand, over Finn’s dead body.

  Still, I know how it looks as I stand there, steered into the den by two beat cops who are no doubt trying to protect the “victim.”

  “Tell me again what happened, son,” the old timer says. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  Jesus, maybe I should just lawyer up.

  It sounds like a recording coming out of my mouth at this point. “I went into the kitchen. Berkshire came in while I was leaving. He tried to start a fight, and when I refused, he stabbed himself.”

  The cop raises an eyebrow.

  “He stabbed himself?” the asshole asks like this isn’t the twelfth time I’ve said it. “Only a crazy person would do that. Are you calling him mentally ill?”

  “I’m not calling him anything,” I reply with a calm blink. I know my face shows nothing. I probably look like I’m being questioned for illegal parking and not assault with a deadly weapon, but underneath the stoic face and the don’t-give-a-shit vibe, I’ve got a fraying grip on my anger, and I’m about to snap.

  This dude had his mind made up the minute he took the call, and it doesn’t matter that I am sure everyone’s stories match up, that I didn’t leave the study looking for Finn, that they all came into the kitchen to me standing there while Finn bled all over the place.

  Sergeant Sourface finishes scribbling in his flip notepad and stares at me. God, his hairline is retreating as fast as I want to leave this conversation.

  “How old are you, son?”

  Gggrrreeeaaaatttt.

  “18,” I answer like whatever attorney my father is going to hire for this is not going to chew him up for breaking literally every rule of interrogation, starting with declining to mention my right to an attorney. Keep digging that hole, my man.

  “I’m placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…” Dude keeps talking as he pulls out his cuffs, but I tune him out. The cuffs clink around my wrists, which I mean, come on, is it really necessary? It’s not my first time being arrested, but it is my first time being charged with attempted murder or assault with a deadly weapon or whatever else they throw on me. I haven’t made so much as one smartass comment. I barely resist the eye roll that threatens to surface, but the other cops are watching, and I know this game.

  Be polite. Stay calm. Don’t get a resisting arrest charge added to your indictment. He nudges me forward, his hands around mine cuffed behind my back. Shit, could he have tightened them any more? I feel the metal chafing my wrists already, and this is not helping my shitty night.

  I walk through the den, down the long hall, and past a standing replica of a Jeff Koons shiny rabbit. It’s definitely not real, but it distracts me for a moment because don’t these cops know the world they just walked into? This is where you don’t arrest anyone’s kid absent a damn perfect DNA match and a grand jury indictment, where the rich and famous will bury your career in a millisecond, without remorse.

  I walk outside, and it’s not quite dawn yet, but it can’t be far off. I spot Harlow standing next to our friends, a furrow on her brow, which quickly changes to shock as her mouth drops open.

  “Call my dad,” I say to her, then promptly shut my mouth before Sergeant Sourface decides to knee me in the spine.

  He opens the door to his patrol car, and I duck inside, sliding my ass across the fake leather. It’s not an easy thing to do either with my hands behind my back.

  The back of his car smells like old piss, but I ignore it. I look out the window, past the steel mesh, at Harlow. She looks worried, and I wish I could hold her in my arms and tell her it will be all right, but Sergeant Sourface pulls the car away as his partner fastens his seatbelt.

  All I can do is give her a single nod.

  4

  Harlow

  The world isn’t real. I am not real. This can’t be real.

  It’s like I am watching the movie of my life play out in front of me as they cart Ian away like he’s the criminal here. Everything is backward like I’ve stumbled into my own upside-down world, only instead of the evil monsters that prowl the night, there’s just shitty Finn Berkshire and a mountain of lies.

  The ambulance left at least an hour ago, and as much as I don’t want to wish anything but bad things on Finn, I am worried he’s going to die. Because if he dies then Ian’s going to rack up another charge: murder.

  I feel Molly’s hand on my shoulder, but it’s like I’m wearing a thick blanket because her touch feels dull and far away. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want the darkness to come so I can feel something, but we don’t always get what we want. I dig my phone out of my pocket and find the number for Mrs. Beckett.

  I shouldn’t even have her number. I’m sure Ian would prefer if I didn’t have his mother’s number, but she insisted after his overdose two semesters ago. I have the house number too, but if I call the house phone at this hour, I’m definitely waking Rosalind, their housekeeper, and I can’t do that. She certainly puts up with enough shit just from Ian’s domineering father.

  I press the dial button, but I still don’t feel the cold of the hard tempered glass against my finger. Everett and Molly are talking, but I don’t hear them.

  Rrriiiinnngg. Rrriiiinnngg.
Rrrii—

  “Hello?” Mrs. Beckett answers, the word panicked, but who could blame her? I never, ever call her.

  A beat passes and then she adds, “Harlow?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Beckett,” I manage quickly, though I’m running over my words. “Ian is fine.” I hear her sigh in relief. She definitely thought I was calling about another OD. “He needed me to call his father though.”

  “Oh,” she says, and she doesn’t sound relieved anymore. Ian doesn’t call his dad unless the elder Beckett requires it, which the man does once a week to check on the status of his son. I certainly don’t call him, ever.

  I should have said Ian was alive, not fine. Shit.

  “Oliver,” Mrs. Beckett says, “it’s for you.”

  There’s a rustling before Mr. Beckett barks, “Yes.”

  “Uh, hi, Mr. Beckett, this is Harlow Weathersby.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Why is it so hard to tell them? Just tell them! He’s done nothing wrong.

  “Why are you disturbing my wife and I, Ms. Weathersby?”

  Shit. He sounds pissed. I blurt out the words.

  “Ian’s been placed under arrest.” There’s a pause, and he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t so much as react with a hiccup in his breath, so I continue. “For stabbing Finn Berkshire, but he didn’t do it.”

  God, it totally sounds like he did it. What is wrong with me?!

  The other end of the line remains silent as the elder Beckett digests the information.

  “What town?” he finally demands.

  I think back to the sides of the police cars and the lettering there. “Greenbrier,” I say.

  The line disconnects, and I blink down at my phone. Is he taking care of it? Surely, he’s taking care of it.

  “What did he say?” Molly asks me before chewing on her bottom lip.

  “Nothing,” I say, looking over at her. “He just wanted the name of the town and then hung up.”