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Samantha tries desperately to remain standing, but like Humpy Dumpy, she has a glorious fall. “You little sh—” Her ass hits the ground so hard I think one cheek actually bursts.
“I give this a zero out of ten. Way to stick the landing,” I taunt. Not totally satisfied, I pour Ariah’s salad on Samantha’s cherry-red face, which is contorted in rage. Then, one by one, Lev, Wyatt, and Sebastian follow suit, emptying their drinks.
Wes is the last to walk up to her prone form. He holds out his hand, and Samantha turns a cold, shit-eating grin on Ariah before reaching for his hand. “I told you he was always m—” Samantha’s so busy talking she misses when he swerves her hand and pushes her forehead so hard that her head smacks the floor with a thud.
Grabbing the garbage can closest to us, Wes towers over her, pressing his booted foot on her chest, and I look on in glee. Samantha opens her mouth to speak just as Wes removes his foot and pours the trash all over her face. “The only trash here is you. Now stay the fuck away from us, or next time I’ll have Lev dump acid on you instead of his soda.”
The dining hall breaks into raucous laughter. I survey the room and smile at all the cameras, recording Samantha as she fails to stand. Finally fed up, she pulls off the designer heels she had bought the night we followed her and grabs the leg of the table closest to her. Which also happens to be near me.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I kick the table, causing her to fall flat on her face. Pressing her onto the floor, I snarl, “Now you’re exactly where you’ve always belonged, on the ground beneath our feet.”
65
SEBASTIAN
The week has flown by. Samantha hasn’t been seen or heard from since the incident in the dining hall.
I smirk, remembering how her eyes widened when she realized Wes wasn’t there to help her. I’ve watched the video at least a dozen times. Lev also may or may not have hacked into and posted it on every digital billboard along the I-95 and I-84 corridor.
“Everyone, please take your seats. We have a lot to cover before finals,” Lilliana instructs from the lectern.
Exams are in two weeks, then we have a month to spend away from all the bullshit. I can’t say I’m not looking forward to spending the holidays with our girl.
A phone rings above the chatter in the room. I turn toward the noise and see Professor Monroe’s eyes widen in surprise. She hastily pulls the device from her cranberry wool sweater pocket, whirling around to answer. The class continues to bustle about, taking their seats and pulling out their laptops.
“I have to go,” Liliana blurts, scrambling to grab her things. “It’s time. . . Charli?—”
Waving my hand, I say, “Go. I was teaching today’s lecture anyway.” I know it’s the call she’s been waiting for. We briefly touched base prior to class. I didn’t ask for details, and Liliana didn’t offer them. But I know Charli is one of her partners, and by the look of joy on the professor’s face, I assume this is good news.
Liliana smiles. “Thank you. I need to be there for her. I’ll be in touch.” Then, she dashes out of the room.
“Today, we’re going to be discussing the Heather McGhee book you all should’ve read during fall break,” I explain, stepping behind the podium. I wait until the room quiets before I begin. “How does McGhee’s overall premise tie into our conversation about the impact of policies on society?”
A hand shoots up, and I tip my chin, signaling the student to speak. “One of the big takeaways was how discriminatory policies against marginalized groups have economic impacts.”
“And that’s a crock of shit,” someone snaps. My gaze moves toward the sound of the voice. Beau McCarthy. This should be good.
I move from behind the stand, stride over to the desk, then sit on the edge of it. “Why do you say that, Mr. McCarthy?”
The smug youngest son of an oil tycoon smirks. “Because everyone has an equal opportunity to make it here, and all this bullshit about laws making it so only certain people win is nonsense.”
“Says the guy whose family has never had to worry about food being on the table for generations,” Ariah mutters, rolling her eyes.
Beau’s hands fist on top of his desk. “That’s not because of some law. Let’s be honest here. All this talk about how the government makes policies to benefit some over others is just another way to try and pit people against each other.”
“No. You can’t have an honest discussion about economics without acknowledging oppressive systems in place that continue to foster inequities,” Ariah retorts.
Beau grits his teeth. “What do you have to complain about? You fucked your way out of being white trash.”
You can almost see the silence with the way the room quiets. I gleam, watching Wes’s, Wyatt’s, Owen’s, and Lev’s hackles rise. Owen slips a butterfly knife from his boot, flipping it open as he prepares to stand. Ariah’s imperceptible shake of her head freezes them in place. Following her lead, I refrain from any reprimands.
Aloof to his colossal mistake, Beau continues. “Bitches like you always complain. ‘This country is so horrible. The rich are so corrupt,’” he mocks, not noticing the predator lying in wait.
My jaw locks. That’s a step too far. “Mr. McCarthy, I suggest you learn to read the room,” I growl, but Beau never knows when to shut the fuck up—a problem that plagues his older siblings as well.
I roll my shoulders back, glaring at the prick, oblivious to the pain awaiting him. Beau’s fucked. Owen’s knife flips between his fingers—Wes cracks his knuckles while Wyatt’s expression declares Beau’s imminent death, and Lev’s fingers are flying across his keyboard. Destroying the McCarthy family by releasing the insider trader information his father’s been using to try and recoup the family fortune that wife number five is snorting up her nose, I’m sure.
Ariah holds up her hand, halting all our movements. “I always find it hilarious how fragile the male ego can be when challenged. Are you so insecure that resorting to unimaginative name-calling is the best you can do?” she quips.
