Cruel Prep - A Mafia Romance

I pull my mouth into a smile and give the girl a sarcastic thumbs-up. "Thanks for the warm welcome."

She snaps something at me that sounds an awful lot like the c-word. I push past her and make my way into the stream of students, but I block it out.

I block all of it out. It's a skill I've had to perfect after The Incident. By the end of this school year, I expect to be a professional.

If I survive that long.

2

LILY

"Welcome, new students!" the woman in the red pantsuit says, pressing a hand to her full bosom. "I'm Principal Cooprider. It's a pleasure to greet you all on your first day here at Ravenlake Prep."

I take a look around at my fellow new students. I'm the only senior here at this stupid new student luncheon. Everyone else seated at the long tables is a pimply-faced freshman, and even they are glancing at me with scorn and condescension written all over their faces.

Great. I'm even below the fresh meat on the social totem pole.

I don't pay much attention to the proceedings. A string of prominent Ravenlake Prep staff is introduced. Athletic director, theater coordinator, blah blah blah. I don't plan on participating in any of this stuff. My only goal is to make it through this year and then get the hell out of this town and never, ever come back.

It looks like things are about to wrap up, praise the Lord, when the auditorium doors behind us burst open and a tall man strides through like he owns the place.

When he gets close enough for me to see his face, I realize that's because he does own the place.

Not officially. But Mr. William Foster is responsible in one way or another for just about every dollar that's gone to the Ravenlake Prep budget. In fact, he's responsible for just about every dollar that's gone to the budget of the whole damn town.

Most of the people in Ravenlake, Texas worship at his feet like a king. It's easy to see why-he really looks the part. Arrogant smile, slicked-back dark hair that bears a single gray streak racing from his right temple backwards, a thousand-dollar Armani suit that he wears like a second skin.

If I had to draw a cartoon rich person, I'd sketch this exact man. He is a stereotype if I've ever seen one. And yet, still intimidating.

But even if the rest of the town falls all over themselves to pay homage to Mr. Foster, you won't catch me doing anything like that.

Not after the stuff he said about me in the newspapers this summer.

We've never spoken. Not officially. But Mr. Foster thinks he knows me very, very well. In his front page op-ed, he wrote: "Lily DeVry is nothing more than a reckless young girl with a wild imagination and a desperate need for attention. I don't blame her, of course. She's just a child. The issue is parenting."

I can handle people saying negative things about me, but publicly and baselessly shaming my mother? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

I try to calm myself as Mr. Foster mounts the stage and turns to survey the assembled new students. Dr. Sharon, the therapist I started going to after The Incident, told me to picture my body filling up with cool water like a vase anytime my emotions started to get out of control.

So that's what I do. Drop by drop, until I can unclench my fists and breathe again.

Up at the podium, William Foster is taking a weirdly long time to smile at each and every person here. I think it is meant to be a sign of warmth and kindness, but it comes off as kind of sinister, like if a shark smiled at you.

The freshmen squirm in their seats when his eyes land on them. I, however, force myself to sit still and meet his gaze straight on. If he recognizes me, he doesn't show it. He gives me the same placid smile he gives everyone else, and then clears his throat when he is finished.

"Welcome to Ravenlake Prep." His voice echoes off the stone walls and climbs to the ceiling, bouncing around the rafters. He has a voice for the pulpit. It carries. And though the whole town seems to worship at his feet, Mr. Foster boasts a particularly devoted following at Ravenlake Prep. Maybe the days of this building holding a cult aren't entirely over.

"I make it a point to meet every new student who walks through the doors of this school. As a businessman, I like to know where my investments are going."

He raises a brow, waiting for everyone to laugh at his teasing joke. The administration chuckles immediately. The freshmen take a bit longer to catch on. I don't join in at all.

Suddenly, I start to feel a little claustrophobic. I don't know if it's the creepy stone architecture or Mr. Foster himself, but I need to get the hell out of this room.

I mumble something under my breath about "bathroom," even though none of the freshmen seated around me give a shit. Then I take off, head ducked, straight for the doors Mr. Foster just came through.

I burst out into the empty hallway. I thought getting away from everyone would help, but my panic is only worsening.

I rest my head against the stone wall and try another patent-pending Dr. Sharon technique: naming as many colors as I can until the anxiety lessens. Red. Blue. Purple. Green. Orange. Black...

It's not helping. A memory is coming back, a bad one.

It's dark. Trees all around me. I'm sweating, running.

I think I'm lost. I don't usually run in the dark, so I might've missed a turn somewhere, and now I'm not sure if I'm running back towards home or just getting deeper and deeper into the woods.

I can't hear much over the sound of my own breathing and the crunch of the ground beneath my feet...

Until the sound of a girl's pained whimper stops me cold.

"You're not supposed to be out here."

A voice snaps me out of my memory. I glance up-and freeze.

The boy casually leaning against the wall a few yards away from me looks like something out of a dream-or a nightmare. A single beam of ghostly light hits his face from a stained glass window overhead.

His jawbone is sharp and wide, his nose a harsh line down the center of his face, and his eyebrows slant over his deep-set eyes. Dark hair is buzzed close on the sides, but left longer on top and lands over his forehead. Everything about his features is hard and cold ... but beautiful.

Breathtakingly beautiful.

He wears dark-washed jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a black bomber jacket, and his timeless style makes his appearance feel even more unreal.

Surely, this boy can't be real.

Our eyes meet. It feels like my entire body is buzzing with electricity. Like I'm experiencing a kind of power surge.

"What did you say?" I finally gasp. My voice sounds weirdly strained.

His dark eyebrow arches upwards. In amusement or disgust, I can't tell. "Your social skills need work," he says wryly.

I'm pretty sure he's kidding, but not positive. Everything about this boy is mysterious. Baffling.

"I'm not here to socialize," I retort. I wince when the words leave my mouth. It's a lame answer, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances, seeing as how my brain is basically short-circuiting.

He nods slowly. "You're the new girl."

I wrinkle my nose. "Something like that."

"Exactly like that, I think."

There's a level of arrogance in his voice that would normally piss me off. Instead, it just intensifies the heat building in my core.