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Max chuckles, but her hazel eyes darken with concern. “Just be careful, okay? I don’t know what his deal is, but from what I’ve picked up around campus, he’s one of the richest and most well-connected kids here. Everyone calls him and his two friends the Sinners. There’s gotta be a reason for that, and I doubt it’s because they’re helping little old ladies across the street, y’know?”
The Sinners.
That’s what the girl who came up to my table to deliver her weird, cryptic warning called them.
Unbidden, I have a sudden vivid memory of Gray’s fingers digging into my thighs, his tongue attacking my clit like he was trying to kill me with an overdose of pleasure.
I remember the way his gaze caught mine, the challenge and raw hunger in his eyes as he ate me out.
A shiver runs down my spine even as heat pools in my core.
Yeah. “Sinners” sounds about right.
The next morning, I sleep in.
Since I’m making choices about which of my three meals becomes two, I make the executive decision to take an extra hour to sleep before getting ready. And morning classes are canceled anyway. According to the school-wide student calendar that updates on the tablet given to me by the school, there’s an orientation assembly this morning that’s mandatory for all class levels, even the people who’ve been here for years.
It feels stupid. I imagine it’ll be a lot of self-congratulatory back-patting of the staff and the rich students.
I have less than zero interest in watching this circle-jerk, so when I file into the lecture hall the assembly will take place in, I’ve brought my sketchbook, a pencil, and a complete lack of fucks. I don’t see Max in the crowded auditorium, so I take a seat at the back so I can blend in and ignore what’s going on around me.
The hubbub of voices quiets as the dean steps out on stage and takes his place behind an elegant podium.
I was right about what this is. It’s basically just an extended advertising pitch for the school, which strikes me as a little odd considering we’re all already students here. There’s even a drop-down screen behind the dean, showing pictures of various famous alumni as he narrates a laundry list of their accomplishments.
I tune him out, letting my pencil dance across the paper of my sketchbook as my thoughts wander. It goes on for a while, and the dean’s deep voice fades into a monotonous drone as I become absorbed in the sketch I’m creating.
But after several minutes, I pick up a new sound. Faintly suppressed laughter and soft whispers rise up in the audience around me—and then I hear my name.
My jaw clenches, but I keep my gaze firmly on my paper.
Jesus fucking Christ. You’d think these people would find something else to fixate on.
I expect the whispering to die down after a moment, but instead it gets louder, rippling through the gathered students like a breeze stirring the leaves of a tree.
What the fuck?
My head snaps up, sudden alarm bells ringing in my head. Something isn’t right here. Something’s going on.
When I look to the front of the auditorium, I realize with an uncontrolled drop in my stomach just what’s so fucking entertaining.
The dean is still speaking, blissfully unaware that whatever images of rich and powerful alumni should be displayed on the screen behind him are no longer there.
Instead, there are photographs of me.
Specifically, photographs from a file that should be impossible to get a hold of, unless you’re me. Photographs of me at twelve years old with my face busted up and my lip split, the frilly pink shirt I’m wearing splattered in blood and dirt and wet with alcohol.
Those pictures were taken the day the cops picked me up from my first foster home.
My worst foster home.
It’s not just photographs either. It’s the police report detailing the entire incident. A blow-by-blow breakdown of the entire thing, all the way down to the screams loud enough for the neighbors to get sick of the noise and finally call someone to stop what was going on.
A cold feeling washes through me, like my bones have been replaced with ice.
Ah. I see. So that’s what’s so damn funny.
My life.
