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No Elias.
So who is the golden-haired god?
I glance through a curtain of hair as someone takes the empty seat beside me. Great. It’s that Mr. British from the lockers. He shouldn’t put so much effort into looking like Gabriel Fallen; it’s embarrassing. He drapes his arm over the back of his chair, angling his body toward me and doing a man-spread so epic poets should boast about it. The front of his uniform shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a torn Iron Maiden tank and beautiful black-and-grey ink underneath – thorny roses entwined around a Classical woman who reaches up with open fingers, releasing butterflies that flutter across his neck. Pathetic. He’s even copied Gabriel’s ink. Piercings dot his ears in blatant defiance of the school’s uniform policy. His tongue plays with the bar threaded through his labret, and I notice he’s also got a tongue stud that’s identical to Gabriel Fallen’s.
Ew, fanboy. I wonder if he went the full-hog and got Gabriel’s dick piercing, too?
“Nice to see you back, Gabe.” A girl with honey-blonde hair turns in her chair to bat her eyelids at him. Mr. British nods at her, but his gaze is on me as he flirts back at blondie. The intensity in his shale-grey eyes shocks me – the way he talks is all surface charm, but that look… it’s like he’s lifted up a corner of my skin and is peeking at my soul, and for all the blood and bruising, he likes what he sees.
Fuck.
He doesn’t just look like Gabriel Fallen, he is Gabriel Fallen. My ears ring as the lyrics to my favorite songs filter through my head. How did I miss the fact that Gabriel Fallen goes to Stonehurst Prep?
Fuck me dead.
Thanks, universe – way to make my ‘no boys’ rule infinitely more difficult to follow.
It makes a sick sense – Stonehurst is the most prestigious school in the city. All the rich families send their kids here. Emerald Beach is built close enough to LA to be a hub for the entertainment industry. Many of the major studios have lots out the back of Beaumont Hills, not far from my place in Harrington Hills. The school’s brochure lists famous actors who’ve graced the halls, so I expected a ton of teen stars and social influencers.
I just never expected him.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot back at the lockers,” Gabriel says to me, blondie forgotten. He blinks at me, and his eyelashes are so long they tangle together. I say nothing, because if I open my mouth I will throw up.
We’re the only two people in the back row. Gabriel leans over my desk, using his index finger to turn my schedule toward him so he can read it. A rush of his scent hits me – this sultry, sugary, smoky fragrance that makes me think of torrid winter nights dancing around a wild bonfire. Not that I’ve ever danced around a fire like a pagan, but if Gabriel asked, I wouldn’t refuse.
He studies my schedule, then studies me. His arm presses against mine. I’m coming apart under his gaze, my edges fraying, my secrets dancing on the tip of my tongue.
“I’m Gabriel. And you are?”
Gabriel fucking Fallen is touching my arm.
This is like the start of a bad teen movie. I marathoned a ton of the classics over the weekend – Mean Girls, Easy A, Clueless, 10 Things I Hate About You, The Craft (because you never know, witches could walk the halls of Stonehurst and I want to stay on their good side) – hoping they might somehow prepare me for my first day of high school. But nothing could prepare me for the electric jolt that fires through my veins at Gabriel’s touch.
“Mackenzie Malloy,” I manage to choke out. I fancy my voice sounds husky, mysterious. Not like I’m desperately trying to hold back bile. “Your friends seem to know me.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Mackenzie, which is the way a reputation should be.” Gabriel’s smile manages to look both arrogant and mischievous. “I’m pleased I decided to come back to school this year after all.”
I nod, because that’s what you do when the singer who’s wept with pain from your speakers implies he wants to spend time with you.
“We have our first two classes together,” he continues. His British accent makes every mundane word sound musical. “I’ll walk you there – this place can seem a bit like Pan’s Labyrinth.”
“I don’t need your help.” I swipe my schedule back and shove it into my notebook. Too late, Gabriel notices the sticker on the inside of the cover. The latest Octavia’s Ruin album art. Fuck. Now he’s going to think I’m a band-junkie stalker.
“Nice taste in music.” That arrogant smile tugs at his lip again, making the piercing wiggle. “I’ve heard their lead singer is a real wanker. Though he makes up for it by being a demon in the sack.”
I turn my face away, willing the heat rushing through my veins to leave my cheeks the fuck alone. My heart hammers against my chest. It’s like the universe is determined to mess with me. It knows how important this year is to our whole fucking plan, so it throws the one guy in front of me I might’ve wanted to get to know.
All those nights when the silence of the house gets too much for me, when the walls close in, dripping with memories I don’t want to face, I turn on Octavia’s Ruin and scream the lyrics into the empty rooms, attacking the silence with power chords. Questions swirl inside my head – all the things I’m dying to ask Gabriel about the meanings behind his lyrics, about the way his voice cracks on ‘Requiem for a Rose’ as if he can barely stand the pain any longer…
But I don’t.
Every moment of homeroom is torture as I force myself to ignore Gabriel. The teacher reads announcements, and I don’t hear a word. All my brain-space is taken up with the awareness that Gabriel’s leg hovers next to mine and how fucking tempted I am to drop my knee against his and feel that heat searing between us again.
Finally, the bell rings and I snatch up my bag and shove my way to the front of the room. The homeroom teacher calls my name, but I’m already out the door.
So much for my Visigoth pride. At this rate, by the end of the day I’ll be a puddle of goo formally known as Mackenzie Malloy.
Mackenzie
