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1
Hawke
Laughter surrounds me from all sides. I high-five my way through the crowd of jocks and rich princesses filling the hallway. I want to shrink down, hunch into myself, but my parents expect me to be like them—popular, fun, the guy everyone likes.
So I do it, and I do it well. Too well.
“Hawke! Call me.”
“Bro! Text me later about the party!”
I wave and nod my head as classmates call out greetings. It takes everything in me not to turn around and shove the entitled assholes into the wall and tell them how shallow I think they are. I think about it all the time but never do a thing. It’s just easier to maintain the status quo, be the popular guy I’m supposed to be, even though it’s killing me.
Waving and smiling at everyone, I walk out into the bright Los Angeles sun. My car is all the way across the sprawling parking lot, a fifty-yard minefield of idle gossip and “bro” pats on the back standing between me and my escape from what I imagine a teenage Dante would have used as the seventh circle of hell if the Inferno had been written in the twenty-first century.
Luck is on my side, because I make it through row after row of high-end luxury cars to my vehicle without a single person stopping me. The black Audi R8 was a present from my parents. Present for what? I have no fucking clue. For existing, maybe? For being cool and popular among the children of Hollywood’s elite? They mean well and they love me, but they have no idea I’d rather go to the public school with normal kids than these spoiled brats.
“We want you to be with the best, Hawke. Greater Malibu Prep is the best high school in southern California.”
I wonder if my big shot Hollywood agent dad and my gorgeous ex-supermodel mom would think the school was so great if they knew half of the student population was high at any given time, including the “cool” kids they want me to be friends with. My parents probably wouldn’t care if they knew about the drugs. I mean, my mom and dad were the epitome of cool when they were my age. Hell, I know for a fact they both did their fair share of drugs back in the day.
Begrudgingly, I expend the necessary time and energy to be important in a group of kids that would kill to be me. In my mind, it’s a complete waste of time sucking up to the vapid, entitled, trust-fund babies just to achieve a social status I don’t want, in order to spend time around people I can’t stand. But I’d do anything to make my parents happy, and seeing me go to endless parties with well-known socialites on my arm makes them happy.
I sigh and start the car, its engine growling beautifully under the shiny black hood. Another day done. Only a little over a hundred more until I graduate and get out of here.
Crap. I hope I can last that long.
* * *
The beat of the drums vibrates through my body, every part of me moving with the rhythm. All of the stress in my life transferring from my hands to the sticks, to the sounds created by my frantic yet controlled movements. Sweat beads up on my forehead and trickles down between my shoulder blades as I use every muscle, every limb, every part of me to create the complicated beat that fills the sound studio built into the basement of my parents’ huge mansion.
My eyes close, the tempo taking over my mind and body—not thinking, simply feeling. Here, in this sanctuary, there is only me and the sound I create. I’m in charge, and with that power I can create something magical. If my classmates knew how much time I spent in the studio drumming, they’d turn their surgically perfected noses up in the air.
“Henry Walker!”
I fumble the drumsticks and they go flying in different directions. “Mom! You scared the crap out of me!” I fist my shirt to keep my heart from flying out of my chest.
“Sorry, honey.” Mom doesn’t look sorry at all. She looks… amused. “It’s not my fault. You didn’t answer the first five times I called your name.” She shoots me a smirk. This isn’t the first time Mom’s caught me unaware in the studio. I’m sure it won’t be the last.
“Whatever. You didn’t have to go all middle name on me.” I pout, sticking out my bottom lip in a way I know my mom can’t resist. My mom is awesome. Both of my parents are, even if they’re completely oblivious to my disdain for keeping up my social status at school.
She smiles, her eyes shining with love. “Come upstairs, Hawke. Sebastian Griffin and his daughter are here.” Mom pats my shoulder sweetly. Ugh! Lila Griffin is a first-class bitch. My mom is clueless to the amount of contempt I have for Lila, who is the biggest spoiled brat I’ve ever met.
I roll my eyes. “You don’t need me, Mom. Lila and I will catch up later.”
Lila Griffin has no idea I hate her guts. At least once a month, she tries to get me to go out with her. Every time I say no, it probably kills her to not get her way. Lilia, popular and pretty, has a dad who is a big time movie producer. She isn’t used to not getting what she wants.
Lila’s dad is here because my dad represents a lot of the actors and directors Mr. Griffin uses for his movies. Unfortunately, they work together a lot. But Lila? There are only two reasons for Lila to be at my house—one is that she wants to tell people she hung out with my mom, famous supermodel Vickie Hart. The other is to get her claws into me.
“Don’t be stubborn, Hawke. Come upstairs. Now.” My mom gives me her serious “mom” stare, which doesn’t keep her from looking drop-dead gorgeous, and heads out of the studio.
Never able to say no to my mom, or anyone in my family, I grab my drumsticks and shove them in my back pocket. Great. I can’t think of anything I’d rather not do right now than hang out with Lila. A girl who thinks most people are lower than the scum on the bottom of her designer heels.
This is go
ing to be fun. As fun as a root canal without Novocain. I trudge up the stairs, resigned to my fate of listening to the musings of someone who has less between her ears than the pocket-sized dogs carted around by half the snobs in LA.
Why is she in my house? This isn’t school, where I have no choice but to deal with her and her nonstop innuendos and invites to get in her designer pants. I should be able to come home without having to fend off any more of her advances. My safety zone. She’s in my safety zone.
Deep breath. I lift my chin and steel myself for the inevitable, patented Lila Griffin eye flutter-lip pout combo. There it is. Lila’s moony eyes meet mine and she gives me a small smile. Crap. I almost can’t hide my contempt.
“Hawke,” my mom says, interrupting my bewilderment. “Sebastian was just saying that Lila is going to a party at the beach. You should go with her, honey.”
Jesus, Mom! Embarrassment fills my face and ears with prickly heat and a healthy dose of “Hell no!” dangles from the tip of my tongue. I already knew about the party, and had planned to skip out for once, trading hours of menial chatter about rich kid problems for a night at home in my studio.
“Mom—” I complain, trying to think of a way out of this. Naturally, wanting to get her perfectly painted claws into me in any way possible, Lila doesn’t let me beg off.
“Hawke, come with me. It’s going to be fun. Cookout on the beach, volleyball, bonfire when it gets dark.” Her shrewd eyes narrow, a sly smirk cutting across her face.
She knows she’s got me right where she wants me. My family is my kryptonite and I hate disappointing them. The hopeful look on Mom’s face has me resigned to my fate.
Ugh. Maybe they’ll cut me a break. “I would love to go, but—”
My dad doesn’t let me finish my excuse. He stares at me from behind his signature black-rimmed glasses. “Son, go. It sounds like a great time. I remember the beach parties I went to when I was your age.” He chuckles and Lila’s dad joins in.
“I know I had a lot fun in high school,” Sebastian says, wiggling his eyebrows. Asshole.
“Go and have a good time. Sebastian and I have a lot of work to do and you’ll be bored hanging around here with a bunch of old farts, then we’re probably headed over to the Tannens’ for dinner.” Dad waves me away, all but shoving me out the door.
“I don’t think—”
Loud music erupts from upstairs, the heavy bass vibrating all the way to my bones.
“That kid, I swear.” My dad laughs, the fine lines around his blue eyes crinkling. My younger sister has recently taken to testing the limits of her top of the line sound system. Her taste in music is decent, more rock and less bubblegum pop, so I never complain.
“Honestly,” Mom says, smiling. “Excuse me, Sebastian. I need to have another talk with my daughter about volume control.”
As my mom turns toward the stairs, I jump at the chance for a minute away from the pressure of my parents practically shoving me into Lila Griffin’s arms. “I’ll tell her to turn the stereo down,” I offer, bounding for the staircase. “I have to change clothes anyway.”
Halfway up, I glance back at Lila. The calculating look on her face disappears the second she catches me looking. Her features morph into her usual sultry expression. What is she planning?
