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The day after the car incident was different.
I taught six classes. The first five had gone better than expected, meaning I didn’t have to slap anyone with a detention slip or call an ambulance/911/a SWAT team for assistance. But it was the sixth and last class that changed my life forever.
I sashayed into Jaime’s class—following another barking session from his bitchy mom—into an echoing silence I wasn’t used to. Everyone was seated, nobody threw anything, and Vicious, Jaime’s BFF, hadn’t cut anyone’s face and adorned their forehead with a satanic symbol just to burn time.
Normally, this was the part where I had to contain the wrath and deplorable behavior of the Four HotHoles. (Hot Assholes, as they were dubbed by everyone in Todos Santos.) It was three months before graduation, and they were all seniors, a possible excuse for their behavior. Except they’d been this way since the first day.
There was Jaime, who spent my class texting the whole world and drawing the attention of every girl who wasn’t tongue-deep into Trent Rexroth, the underprivileged mocha-skinned football star, who made out with random chicks in the back. He once had a girl sucking his cock under his table in calculus. I kid you not. There was Dean Cole, the airheaded stoner who enjoyed pranks and annoying me in equal measure, and finally, Baron “Vicious” Spencer, the World’s Biggest Jerk.
Vicious was by far the worst. He made good on his name. So goddamned cold and sullen all the time that people nicknamed him after Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols. He had coal black hair, expressionless eyes, fair skin, and the kind of rebellious anger that could electrify you to the point of the chills. The permanent tick of his clenched square jaw made girls wet their panties from fear and lust. He was a jock, like all the HotHoles, but he was leaner than the rest, not as muscular. But scarier. Definitely fucking scarier.
That day, Millie LeBlanc, a sweet girl who was the most frequent target of Vicious’s wrath, arrived three minutes late. I tilted my head, signaling for her to take a seat. I felt bad for her. Her parents had dragged her all the way from Virginia her senior year to take a job as live-in servants at one of the town’s many mansions—Vicious Spencer’s house to be exact.
As always, she strode right in the psycho’s direction and took the empty seat beside him as if she didn’t know or care who Vicious was. My soul shouted an extended “Noooooooo!” when I saw how he was watching her. He will grind you and feed you to his pet snake, I wanted to warn.
But Emilia just lifted her head, offered a polite smile, and drawled a Southern “hey, y’all” in the direction of him and the other HotHoles. Vicious blinked slowly, intrigued by the idea that she dared to speak to him without permission, and his expression clouded into a taut frown.
“Motherfucker, did you just ‘hey, y’all’ me?” He let out a feral growl. “Please tell me it’s a fucking safe word you’re using now because some new boyfriend shoved the Confederate flag up your ass, pole included. Otherwise, don’t ever fucking ‘hey y’all’ me again.”
Wow. That was more words than he’d spoken all year.
Millie sighed and said, “I’m only trying to be polite. You should try it sometime.”
“I don’t do polite,” he retorted, a rare smile tugging on his lips. Usually, he seemed to despise her, but he was studying her so intently it looked as if he was the one who’d like to shove numerous things up her perky little butt.
“Leave him alone, baby doll.” Trent, the guy next to her (who took a breather from letting the chick next to him suck his thumb) glanced from Dean to Vicious. “Vicious stop being a—”
“A raging fucking asshole,” Jaime finished from behind them, scraping his chair back and towering over their heads, his sculpted muscles flexed to the max.
Goddammit. It was the first time my workday had ever been blissfully uneventful. The HotHoles just had to ruin it.
Before I could warn everyone off with an impotent threat I’d never follow through with, Jaime galloped toward Vicious and pinned him to the nearest wall, his fingers laced firmly around Vic’s neck in a death squeeze.
“Where’s your loyalty, man? Leave it be, okay?” Jaime tightened his hold on Vicious’s neck.
“James!” I raised my voice, flying up from my chair and banging my palm over the desk. “Back to your seat, now!”
Vicious looked thoroughly amused, rolling his head on the wall and laughing like a maniac. Jaime and Vicious were best friends, but they were also two alphas with a shitload of testosterone and hormones coursing through their veins.
They were also the inventors of Defy. The teachers and high school staff didn’t know too much about Defy, because it went on at Vicious’s house parties over the weekends, but we got the general idea. The game was simple: Our students challenged each other to bloody fights and beat the shit out of each other. For fun.
