Broken Prince: A Novel (The Royals Book 2), Page 5

  Pain shines in his eyes as he makes a zipping motion across his lips. “Shutting up, Master Reed. You know what’s best for the Royals, right? You do all the right things. Get all the good grades. Play ball smart. Screw all the right girls. Except when you don’t. And when you fuck up, you affect us all.” His hand wraps around the back of my neck and drags me forward until our heads are pressed together. “So why don’t you shut up, Reed? Ella’s not coming back. She’s dead, just like Mommy Dearest. Only this time, it’s not my fault. It’s yours.”

  Shame swamps me, a murky, ugly substance that glues itself to my bones and weighs me down. I can’t escape the truth. East is right. I helped kill Mom, and if Ella’s dead, I helped killed her, too.

  I wrench myself away from his grasp and stalk back into the locker room. I’ve never fought in public with my brothers before. It’s always been all for one, one for all.

  Mom hated when we fought at home, but didn’t tolerate it when we were out. If we even so much as sniped at each other, she pretended we weren’t hers.

  Maria Royal’s boys don’t ever embarrass her or themselves in public. One disapproving look from her had us straightening our clothes, throwing our arms around each other like it was opening day at the ballpark and we were happy to be alive—despite being seconds away from thrashing each other within an inch of our lives.

  The door to the locker room creaks open. I don’t look up to see who it is. I know it’s not East. When he gets mad, he keeps to himself.

  “On Friday, before the game, one of the Pastels took scissors to some freshman and cut off her hair. Chick ran out school bawling her eyes out.”

  I tense. Shit. That must’ve been the girl Delacorte and I saw streaking out of the building and into the VW. “Blonde, skinny? Drives a white Passat?”

  He nods and the bench creaks as he takes a seat next to me. “Day before that, Dev Khan torched June Chen’s science project.”

  “Isn’t June a scholarship student?”

  “Yup.”

  “Huh.” I force myself to sit up. “Any other pretty stories you want to tell?”

  “Those are the two big ones. I’ve heard rumors about other shit, but haven’t confirmed them. Jordan spit on some girl during health. Goody Bellingham is offering fifty grand to anyone who’s willing to run train on the homecoming court.”

  I rub a tired hand over my jaw. This stupid school. “It’s barely been two weeks.”

  “And in those two weeks, your brothers stopped talking to you, you got into it with Delacorte, smashed a locker. Oh, and before Ella left, apparently you decided you didn’t like the look of Scott Gastonburg and tried to rearrange his face.”

  “He was talking smack.” The guy insulted Ella. I didn’t hear it, but I knew by the smug look on his face when we were at the club that he’d thought he’d gotten away with something. Not on my watch.

  “Probably. Nothing that comes out of Gasty’s mouth is ever worth listening to. You did us all a favor getting it wired shut, but the rest of the school’s falling apart. You need to man up.”

  “I don’t care what happens to Astor.”

  “Maybe you don’t. But without the Royals running things, the school’s going to shit.” Wade shifts on the hard metal surface. “People are talking about Ella, too.”

  “Whatever. Let them talk.”

  “You say that now, but how’s it gonna be for her when she gets back? She’s already gotten into a catfight with Jordan. I mean, yeah, it was hot as hell. But then there was the Daniel thing and now she’s disappeared. Everyone says she’s off getting an abortion or recovering from an STD. If you’re hiding her, now’s the time to trot her out, make a show of force.”

  I remain silent.

  Wade sighs. “I know you don’t like being in charge, but guess what, dude— you are and have been since Gid graduated. If you let things continue to slide, by the time Halloween comes it’ll be a horror show here. There’ll be intestines and brain matter splattered on the school walls. Someone will have gone full-on Carrie on Jordan by then.”

  Jordan. That chick is nothing but trouble. “Why don’t you take care of it?” I mutter. “Your family’s got enough money to buy Jordan’s.” Wade comes from old money. I think some of it is still stored in gold bullion in their basement.

  “It’s not money. It’s the Royals. You make people listen. Probably ’cause there’re so many of you.”

  He’s right. The Royals have ruled this school since Gid was a sophomore. I don’t know what happened, but one day we woke up and everyone looked to Gid. If a kid stepped out of line, Gid was there to set him straight. The rules were simple. Pick on someone your own size.

  Size being a metaphorical thing. Size being social status, bank account, intelligence. Jordan going after one of the Pastels would’ve been fine. Jordan going after a scholarship student? Not so good.

  Ella had fallen into a gap. She wasn’t a scholarship student. She wasn’t a rich kid either. And I thought that she was sleeping with my dad. That he’d brought home a whore from a high-class brothel. He and Steve liked to frequent those places on business trips. Yeah, Dad’s a real class act.

  I’d stood back and waited, and everyone waited with me. Except Jordan. Jordan immediately saw what I did. That Ella was made of something stronger than we’d seen before at Astor Park. Jordan hated it. I was drawn to it.

  “I don’t want that kind of control,” Wade is saying. “I just wanna get laid, play a little football, annoy my mom’s boyfriends, and get wasted. I can do all that stuff even if Jordan’s terrorizing every pretty girl that breathes the wrong way. But you? You’ve got a conscience, man. But with all this shit…with Daniel still walking around the halls like he didn’t try to rape Ella…well, silence is kind of considered approval.” He gets to his feet. “Everyone leans on you. It’s a burden, I get it, but if you don’t stand up, it’s gonna be a massacre.”

  I get up too and head for the door. “Let the school burn,” I mutter. “It’s not my job to put out the flames.”

  “Bro.”

  I pause in the doorframe. “What?”

  “At least let me know which way things are gonna go. I don’t care. I just wanna know if I need to start wearing a hazmat suit.”

  Shrugging, I glance at him over my shoulder. “Things can go to hell for all I care.”

  I hear a sigh of defeat behind me, but I don’t stick around for another second. As long as Ella’s MIA, I refuse to concentrate on anything other than finding her. If everyone around me is miserable, then fine. We can all be miserable together.

  I keep my head down as I trudge down the hall. I almost make it all the way to class without talking to a single person, until a familiar voice calls out to me.

  “What’s the matter, Royal? You moping ’cause nobody wants to play with you?”

  I stop walking. The barking laughter of Daniel Delacorte has me slowly swiveling to face him.

  “Sorry, I didn’t quite hear you,” I say coldly. “Wanna repeat that? To my fist this time?”

  He stumbles over his own feet, because the menace in my voice is unmistakable. The hallway is crowded with kids getting out of their after-class electives. Music students, debate team, the cheer squad, the science club.

  I advance with purpose, adrenaline spiking in my veins. I got in one punch with this jerkwad before, but only one. My brothers dragged me away before I could do any more damage.

  Today, no one is stopping me. The pack of animals that makes up the student body of Astor Park smells the blood in the air.

  Delacorte shifts to the side, not fully facing me, but wary of having his back to me. I’m not the kind of guy to stab someone in the back, I want to tell him. That’s your deal.

  But Delacorte thinks differently. He’s screwed-up in the head, preys on people he thinks are weaker than him.

  Anger radiates off his lean frame. He doesn’t like to be confronted with his cowardice. Daddy gets him off, after all. That’s fine, but Daddy’s not her
e right now, is he?

  “Is everything about violence for you, Royal? You think your fists can solve your problems?”

  I smirk. “At least I don’t use drugs to solve my problems. Chicks don’t want you, so you drug ’em. That’s your MO, right?”

  “Ella wanted it.”

  “I don’t like her name coming out of your mouth.” I step forward. “You should forget her name.”

  “Or what? Are we dueling to the death?” He spreads his arms out in invitation for the audience to laugh with him, but either they hate him or they’re afraid of me, because there’s not so much as a titter in response.

  “No. I think you’re a waste of space. You’re taking up oxygen that could be better spent coming out of someone’s ass. I can’t kill you—stupid legal reasons and all—but I can hurt you. I can make every waking moment of your life miserable,” I say matter-of-factly. “You should leave school, dude. No one wants you here.”

  His breath comes in shallow pants. “It’s you no one wants,” he jeers.

  He looks to the crowd again for support, but their bright-eyed interest is in potential bloodshed. They move closer, pushing Daniel forward.

  The coward inside of him snaps. He throws his phone at me, the plastic casing striking my forehead. The students gasp. Something warm and coppery trickles down, clouding my vision, coating my lips.

  I could punch him. That’d be easy. But I want him to really hurt. I want us both to hurt. So I grab him by the shoulders and slam my forehead against his.

  My blood paints his face, and I grin with satisfaction. “Your face looks prettier already. Let’s see what other magic I can make for you.” Then I slap him, hard.

  He flushes with anger, more at the disdain in my touch than the actual pain. A slap is a girl’s weapon, not a blow exchanged between guys. My open palm makes a smacking sound when I slap him again. Daniel backs away, but he can’t get far from me—his retreat is halted by the lockers.

  Grinning, I step in and slap him again. He blocks me with his hand, leaving his entire left side open. I deliver two strikes to the left side of his face before backing away.

  “Hit me,” he screams. “Hit me. Use your fist!”

  My smile widens. “You don’t deserve my fists. I use fists on a man.”

  I smack him again and this time it’s hard enough that his skin splits. Blood pools around the wound, but that doesn’t satisfy my lust for revenge. I clap a hand against one ear and then the other. Weakly, he tries to defend himself.

  Daniel purses his lips, gathering up saliva. I feint to the left to avoid the stream of spittle that spills out. Disgusted, I grab his hair and shove his face into the locker. “When Ella gets back, she’s not gonna want to see trash like you around, so either leave or start practicing your invisibility skills because I don’t want to see or hear from you again.”

  I don’t wait for an answer—I slam his forehead into the metal locker and let go.

  He tips over, one hundred and seventy pounds of douchebag collapsing on the floor like a discarded toy.

  I turn to find Wade standing there behind me. “Thought you didn’t care,” he murmurs.

  The grin I give him must be feral because everyone but Wade and his stoic shadow, Hunter, takes a step back.

  Leaning down, I swipe Daniel’s phone off the floor, then roll him over and pick up his limp hand. I press the thumb against the home button and then key in my dad’s number.

  “Callum Royal,” he answers impatiently.

  “Hey, Dad. You’re gonna need to come to school.”

  “Reed? What number are you calling from?” he demands.

  “Daniel Delacorte’s phone. Judge Delacorte’s son. You should bring your checkbook. I beat him up pretty good. He asked for it, though, literally,” I say cheerfully.

  I hang up and swipe a hand across my face as the blood from the cut drips down into my eye. Stepping over Daniel’s body, I drawl, “Later, Wade. Hunter.” I give the big, silent lineman a nod.

  He returns the gesture with his own chin jerk, and I head outside to get some air.

  Dad is frothing at the mouth when he appears in the waiting area outside Headmaster Beringer’s office. He doesn’t comment on my bloody forehead. He just yanks me up by the lapels of my blazer and brings his face close to mine.

  “This needs to stop,” he hisses.

  I shrug out of his grasp. “Chill out. I haven’t been in a fight in over a year,” I remind him.

  “You want a medal for that? A pat on the back? Jesus, Reed, how many times do we have to go through this routine? How many goddamn checks do I need to write before you smarten up?”

  I look him square in the eye. “Daniel Delacorte drugged Ella at a party and tried to rape her.”

  Dad sucks in a sharp breath.

  “Mr. Royal.”

  We turn to see Beringer’s secretary standing in the headmaster’s open doorway.

  “Mr. Beringer will see you now,” she says primly.

  Dad stalks past me, tossing over his shoulder, “Stay here. I’ll deal with this.”

  I try to hide my pleasure. I get to kick it out here while Dad cleans up my mess? Sweet. Not that I consider it a “mess.” Delacorte had it coming. He’s deserved a beating since the night he tried to hurt Ella, but I got sidetracked from delivering retribution because I was too busy falling in love with her.

  I plant my ass back in the plush waiting room chair, studiously avoiding the disapproving frowns that Beringer’s secretary keeps flashing my way.

  Dad’s meeting with Beringer lasts less than ten minutes. Seven, if the clock over the door is accurate. When he strides out of the office, his eyes contain that triumphant gleam he usually has after he closes a lucrative business deal.

  “All taken care of,” he tells me, then gestures for me to follow him. “Go back to class, but make sure you come straight home after school. Your brothers, too. No unnecessary stops. I need all of you at home.”

  I instantly tense up. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I was going to wait until after school to tell you, but…since I’m already here…” Dad pauses in the middle of the huge, wood-paneled lobby. “The PI found Ella.”

  Before I can even begin to process that bombshell, my father stalks out the front entrance, leaving me staring after him in shock.

  8

  Ella

  The bus rolls into Bayview much, much too soon. I’m not ready. But I know I’ll never be ready. Reed’s betrayal lives inside of me now. It slinks through my veins like black tar, attacking what’s left of my heart like a fast-acting cancer.

  Reed broke me. He tricked me. He made me believe that something good could exist in this awful, screwed-up world. That someone could actually give a damn about me.

  I should have known better. I’ve spent my entire life in the gutter, frantically trying to crawl my way out of it. I loved my mother, but I wanted so much more than the life she gave us. I wanted more than seedy apartments and moldy leftovers and a desperate struggle to make ends meet.

  Callum Royal gave me what Mom couldn’t: money, an education, a fancy mansion to live in. A family. A—

  An illusion, a bitter voice mutters in my head.

  Yeah, I guess it was. And the sad thing is, Callum doesn’t even know it. He doesn’t even realize he’s living in a house of lies.

  Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s fully aware that his son is sleeping with—

  No. I refuse to think about what I saw in Reed’s bedroom the night I skipped town.

  But the images are already bubbling to the surface of my mind.

  Reed and Brooke on his bed.

  Brooke naked.

  Brooke touching him.

  A gagging noise flies out of my mouth, causing the elderly woman across the aisle to glance over in concern.

  “Are you all right, sweetie?” she asks.

  I swallow the ball of nausea. “Fine,” I say weakly. “I have a bit of a stomachache.”

  “Sit ti
ght,” the woman says with a reassuring smile. “They’re opening the doors now. We’ll be out of here in a jiffy.”

  God. No. A jiffy is too soon. I don’t ever want to get off this bus. I don’t want the cash that Callum forced on me back in Nashville. I don’t want to go back to the Royal mansion and pretend that my heart hasn’t been shattered into a million pieces. I don’t want to see Reed or hear his apologies. If he even has any.

  He hadn’t said a word when I walked in on him and his father’s girlfriend. Not one word. For all I know, I’ll walk through the door and discover that Reed is back to his old cruel self. Maybe I’d prefer that, actually, and then I can forget I ever loved him.

  I stumble off the bus, holding my backpack strap tight to my shoulder. The sun has already set, but the station is all lit up. People bustle around me as the driver unloads everyone’s luggage from the belly of the vehicle. I don’t have any bags, only my backpack.

  The night I ran, I didn’t take any of the fancy clothes Brooke had bought me, and now they’re all waiting for me at the mansion. I wish I could burn every scrap of fabric. I don’t want to wear those clothes or live in that house.

  Why couldn’t Callum leave me alone? I could have started a new life in Nashville. I could have been happy. Eventually, anyway.

  Instead, I’m in Royal clutches again, after Callum used every threat in the book to bring me back. I can’t believe the lengths he went to in order to find me. Turns out the bills from the original ten grand he gave me had sequential serial numbers—all he had to do was wait until I used one, and then he was able to pinpoint my location.

  I don’t even want to know how many laws he broke to trace the serial number of a hundred-dollar bill in this country. But I guess men like Callum are above the law.

  A car honks, and I stiffen when a black Town Car pulls up to the curb. The one that followed the bus from Nashville to Bayview. The driver gets out—it’s Durand, Callum’s chauffeur-slash-bodyguard, who’s as big as a mountain and just as forbidding.

  “How was the ride?” he asks gruffly. “Are you hungry? Should we stop for food?”