“Keep telling yourself we’re the bad guys,” Baron chimes in. “You want to believe your sisters are sweet and innocent, and I get that. But everyone on this bridge knows you’re full of shit. They’re whores like all the other girls we fuck. They’ve been throwing themselves at us since the minute they walked into Willow Heights, and there’s nothing we could ask them to do that they wouldn’t do willingly—and then some.”
“You just don’t want to admit in front of Royal that you couldn’t resist a chance to bang his plaything.”
“You did it to my sisters!” Dawson screams, raising his face. It’s tear-streaked and bruised from Harper’s knuckles.
“And you should have done this to us,” I say. “That, I could respect. But you’re less than a pussy, and you didn’t do shit. This is how a real man takes care of someone who touched his woman without his permission. Now step to the edge.”
When he’s through the railing, standing on the ledge, he starts sobbing again. Baron steps forward, but I shake my head.
“Don’t push him.”
He wasn’t always an enemy. He’s not a Darling. He deserves to die with dignity. We stand on the bridge for a long time while he comes to terms with his mortality, with his mistake, with his defeat… And my brothers come to terms with theirs.
They may not owe me, but they should have fucking known what would happen.
I’m a patient man, even a forgiving one. I let them all make up for the mistake they made by making the right choice this time. I let them take their time with it. I let Dawson beg and blubber, and Duke question me while Dawson’s crying too loud to overhear. I let Baron silently obey, though I know he’s dying to see how it feels to take a life, to be a god.
Finally, everyone accepts the inevitable. We watch in silence as Dawson disappears over the edge. We even observe a moment of silence for him before we turn to go.
twenty-six
Harper Apple
I stand at the small mirror in our bathroom on Monday morning, staring at myself through the film of smoke on the glass. I wish Royal hadn’t delivered my revenge right before my hearing with the admissions board, as much as I might have needed it. I feel disconcertingly raw, as if every nerve ending is exposed and the single touch of a feather could make me scream.
I don’t want to walk into a panel of rich school board members and cry.
I wash my face and return to my bedroom. I need something, a shell of armor to cover the painful vulnerability. I text Preston and then lay my phone on the dresser. I can’t count on him to protect me. While I cake on a layer of makeup to hide the bruise from where Baron hit my jaw, my gaze falls on the case for the colored contact lenses Preston put in my eyes. I open it and put them in one at a time, covering the exposed blueness of my eyes with a veil of darkness. The relief is small but instant, and I feel my chest loosening, as if I can breathe a little easier.
I know what to do now.
I go to the closet and take out a dress he bought me. I lay it on the bed next to a pair of black pumps with red soles. I find the belt that goes with the dress, the necklace he buckled around my neck, and the earrings and thick bra. I take out the straightener and do my hair the way he liked, then put on the jewelry, then the clothes. Each piece of the puzzle that I fit into place is another part of my armor, another layer of cool on top of the molten lava in my soul. When I’m done with my clothes and makeup, I step into the heels and stand back from my mirror.
I look like the girl he made me, a girl worthy of a Willow Heights scholarship, one with a 24-karat pussy who’s frigid and collected at all times. Not one who took the football team.
I step outside. The truck is gone, but in its place sits a shiny, new Escalade SUV with a giant bow on the hood. I smile and pull the bow off the sleek surface. A key is taped underneath. The paint is so beautiful I can’t help but run my fingers along it—it almost looks black, but up close it’s actually a deep, dark, shimmering red color, like blood mixed with liquid obsidian. I climb inside. The car smells like new leather. There’s an oversized envelope on the floorboards. I peek inside and find the title in my name, the manual, and assorted paperwork along with two fobs.
I start the car and drive to school. I hold the calm, detached feeling like a treasure as I walk into school.
Maybe Royal gave me what I needed, but Preston gives me what I want.
When I step into the office, the reception desk sits empty. At the desk where student office aids wait to show new students around and print tardy slips, Dixie Powell sits arranging papers. She stands when I walk in, circling the end of the desk and holding out a hand before she stops in her tracks, her eyes going wide. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.
“Oh my god,” she says, her hand going to her mouth. “Harper?”
I guess I did drop out of school and disappear after spring break.
I give her a tight smile. “Just me.”
“Whoa,” she whispers.
“I’m here to talk to the admissions board,” I say, feeling weird about the way she’s staring. I discretely run my hands over my hips. I’m wearing a red dress, but it’s not like, sexy. The pencil skirt of it hits just at the knee, and it’s belted and has a modest neckline. The heels are a little high, but not slutty. The lipstick is a little dark, but again, not scandalous. My hair is straightened and tied in a low pony, draped forward over one shoulder. Nothing to warrant the way she’s gaping.
So, it’s not my clothes. It’s me.
Suddenly, my pulse quickens. Did the twins spread rumors about what happened?
“Why are you disguised as Crystal Dolce?” Dixie asks at last.