Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(57)

Besides—fourteen-year-old Arya had crushed me for nothing more than blood sport. What would thirty-one-year-old Arya do when she found out the game I was playing?

The damp streets of Manhattan blurred through the window before the driver stopped by the redbrick building where Brand Brigade was situated. It was ten thirty at night. Arya’s office light was on through her window.

I watched as she floated around her office, plucking paper from the printer, while talking on the phone.

She’d grown up to be a workaholic. Just like me.

“Sir?”

“Hmm?” I asked absentmindedly, still staring at her through the window.

“It’s been fifteen minutes.”

It has?

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. I hadn’t even known I’d said it out loud. “We good to go?”

“Yeah.” I played with my matchbook. “Home it is.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN


CHRISTIAN

Past

“Faster.” Headmaster Plath smacked the back of my head. He glided along the kitchen tiles, lacing his fingers behind his back. Half my body was inside an industrial pot as I scrubbed it clean. My knuckles were so dry they bled every time I washed my hands. Which was often enough, seeing as I was on dishwashing duty at least four times a week.

I sucked in a breath, rubbing the cast-iron cleaner against the tar-like crust that had settled around the edges, refusing to submit.

“Mr. Roth was right. You’re so ugly you could snag lightning.” Headmaster Plath cackled, stopping by a window overlooking the green grass. There were students splayed on a hill by the fountain, catching sunrays, slurping slushies, telling each other about their summer plans. Mine included trying to get some work at the nearest town and walking ten miles to and from boarding school each day, because I couldn’t afford the bus tickets. I imagined Ruslana—there was no point calling her Mom at this point—was playing second violin to the Roths. Making Arya her fancy acai bowls, braiding her hair, carrying a beach bag for her across golden dunes in exotic places near the ocean.

“He is doing you a huge favor, you know,” Headmaster Plath continued, staring idly at his students through the window. His eyes growing large and greedy. I always got the idea that he liked what he saw just a little too much when he looked at some of the boys. “Nothing would have become of you if you’d stayed in New York.”

“It’d have been nice to have a choice in the matter,” I muttered, changing the angle of my arm while scrubbing the pot. My muscles were burning with exhaustion. It was not unheard of for my arms to be numb all night after hours of kitchen duty.

“What’d you say?” His head spun so fast that for a second I thought his neck might snap.

“Nothing,” I hissed. Students weren’t supposed to take on kitchen or laundry duties unless they’d misbehaved. It was supposed to be a detention of sorts, but I seemed to be a part of the staff here. Arsène and Riggs always told me it was bullshit, and I agreed, but there was little I could do about it.

“No.” Plath rushed toward me, eager to pick a fight. “Say it again.”

I turned to face him. My face felt red and hot. I was furious with him for pulling this kind of crap, and with myself for putting up with it. And with Conrad, who kept taunting me years later, albeit from a safe distance, just because I’d dared to touch his precious, stupid, spoiled girl.

“I said it’d have been nice if he gave me a choice!” I turned around, sticking my chin up.

He took a step closer, his nose almost brushing mine. “Do you have any idea how much he pays to keep you here every year?”

“I bet I shell out most of the fee, since I work here all year round.”

Plath pressed his nose against mine, towering over me, pushing my face backward, his eyes boring into mine. “You work here all year round because you’re a piece of trash who cannot stay out of trouble,” he jeered. “Because you’re a useless little prick whose entire contribution to society is cleaning and ironing good boys’ clothes.”

Something inside me snapped just then. I was tired. Tired of waking up at 5:00 a.m. to do other people’s laundry. Tired of doing my homework at two in the morning because I had to clean and scrub pots and pans. Tired of mowing the lawn on hot summer days without getting water breaks. Exhausted from being punished for something I hadn’t even wanted to do. At the same time, I knew Plath was challenging me. He waited for me to talk back. To retaliate. Wanted an excuse to strike me. I wouldn’t put it past him to put his hands on me. He’d been careful so far, but his mean streak overrode all his other traits.

So even though I knew I was going to regret it, I forced myself to smile. Stretching my mouth across my cheeks hurt my face, but I still did it, then uttered the words I should have told Conrad that time he’d beaten me up: “Fuck. You.”

I spit in his face, but not before gathering a respectable amount of phlegm. I knew I was going to pay for it, but it felt good. The spit landed on Plath’s right cheek and slithered down to his neck. He made no move to wipe it off. Just stared at me with an expression I was too anxious to decode.

The next few seconds were a blur. Headmaster Plath cracked his knuckles loudly. On cue, the kitchen door flung open, and three burly seniors who were on the rowing team walked in.