The Complete Tempest World Box Set Page 4

  “No, that’s okay. I want to stay and talk to the teacher. You go on ahead.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Randy,” I said quickly, cutting him off. “Listen, I’m not interested. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Got it.” He turned and stomped away, muttering bitch under his breath.

  Fuck him for not taking a polite decline. Fuck his expensive clothes. And fuck his rich, popular-boy, entitled attitude.

  I zipped my backpack and walked up the aisle, hitching the strap higher on my shoulder and clearing my throat at the teacher’s desk to get his attention. “Mr. Schubert? Can I speak to you?”

  “Yes, of course.” He set his glasses on his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How can I help you, Miss Lowell?”

  “I enjoyed your class.”

  His eyes brightened. “I’m glad. That’s high praise. I’m sure you had great teachers at Alliance.”

  “I had a few. I’m looking forward to taking your class. Can I possibly get your notes for the lectures I missed?”

  “Absolutely.” Looking equal parts surprised and impressed, he glanced down, and I saw he’d been reading my academic report. “Send it to your Lowell email?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He tipped his chin toward the door. “Better move on to your next class. It’s best not to be stranded in the hall on this side of the building when the students clear out.”

  Shit. Sabrina had warned me.

  I stepped out into the hallway and glanced both ways. Only a few students remained, and all were wearing navy and black colors. They gave me long looks that didn’t feel friendly. I didn’t know where my next class was, but I figured that at this point, returning the way I’d come was my best option.

  Turning, I walked fast, the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as rapid footsteps approached me from behind.

  “Hey, güera.” A short Latina suddenly appeared and moved right in front of me.

  I came to a screeching stop, glancing nervously at a taller girl who joined the girl who’d called me blondie. The taller girl had a cruel glint in her eyes.

  “Qué es?” I asked them. What’s up?

  The shorter one narrowed her eyes. “You speak the superior race’s language, chica?” Girl.

  I shrugged. “Un poquito.” A little. Only enough to get an A minus in conversational Spanish.

  “I don’t like white chicks.” The taller girl reached out and fingered a lock of my hair.

  My eyes widened when I heard a click and a switchblade appeared in the girl’s hand.

  “You afraid?” The tall girl’s brown eyes glistened as brightly as the metal of her blade.

  I nodded. Of course I was afraid. I wasn’t a coward, but I saw no need to lie. Not when faced with someone wielding a blade.

  “You’re in our neighborhood. South side of the school belongs to us,” the shorter girl said. “You need to pay a tribute. Entenderme?”

  Yeah, I understood, or at least I thought I did. But before I could blink, the taller girl yanked my hair hard and sliced off a two-inch piece.

  “You bitch!” Turning on her, I put my palms on her chest and shoved her backward, reacting without thinking. The locker clanged as her body slammed into it.

  “Puta!” Her face mottled with anger, she called me a bitch as she pushed away from the metal and came at me. Her blade slashed through the air, and I jumped back to avoid it. She stalked me, her lips twisting into a cruel grimace.

  Scared shitless, I backed away more, but stopped when I ran into a wall of flesh. My heart hammering, I turned my head and saw a big Latino guy standing behind me.

  I started to scream, but the guy clamped his big hand over my mouth. I was so scared now; it was all I could do to keep from pissing myself.

  “What’s going on, Belinda?” he asked the tall girl, his voice deeply accented like hers, while I trembled.

  “That puta pushed me.” Belinda jabbed at me with her blade.

  “You cut off her hair, Lindy.” He made a low rumbly sound. Was he laughing? “Did you think she was going to thank you for that?”

  “This doesn’t involve you, King.” Belinda tossed a long lock of her black hair over her shoulder, using the hand that held the knife.

  “It does, ’cause you’re pissing me off and making me late for my poetry class.”

  “Stupido, that rap shit of yours.”

  “Not stupid to me. This gringa’s hair’s not stupid to her. You need to learn to consider others. Find a better outlet for your anger. Make friends instead of enemies all the time, entenderme?”

  “Fuck you, King,” Belinda said, though her expression relaxed and she closed the blade. Jerking her chin to the shorter girl, she said, “Ándale, Yolanda.” Let’s go.

  “Stay away from this one,” King said low to them, an undercurrent of steel in his tone as he gestured to me. Belinda might have the blade, but he had the upper hand. “She’s under my protection. Pass the word on.”

  “Órale.” Okay. Belinda turned away, thrusting her arm in the air with my blond hair in her grip, her middle finger extended.

  “I’m gonna remove my hand from your mouth.” My rescuer’s warm breath tickled the skin at my nape. “Don’t scream, or teachers will come. I don’t need more detention, ese?”

  I bobbed my head, and he released me. I spun around, my eyes narrowed.

  He hadn’t gotten any smaller. If anything, my first glance hadn’t properly assessed his size. Tree-trunk thighs, barrel chest, stomach with a couple of folds hanging over his belt. He had to be near six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds.

  “I’m Juaquin Acenado. But everyone just calls me King on account of my size.”

  “Why’d you help me?” I asked, the suspicion in my tone obvious. I took care of myself, with the help of my brother. I didn’t want to owe anybody anything.

  “I like Belinda. I didn’t want her getting into trouble.”

  A scoffing sound escaped me.

  “She lost someone like I did.” His expression darkened. “But that’s not an excuse to terrorize people.”

  King studied me a long beat, and I studied him back. He had eyes nearly the same tawny gold hue as mine, but the color was more striking on him with his ink-black hair and bronze skin. He was also more handsome than I’d realized at first glance.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Lace.”

  “Nice name.” His eyes sparkled with sincerity. He was handsome, and apparently spoke and acted from his heart.

  I decided right then and there that I liked King. A lot. “Nice of you to help me. Thank you, by the way.”

  He smiled. “Que tienas agallas, Lace.”

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  “You’ve got a lot of guts to push someone holding a blade.”

  “I don’t think when I get angry.” I made a face. “Gets me into trouble.”

  “Join the fucking club.”

  “Really. You have a temper problem?” I arched a disbelieving brow. He seemed pretty controlled.

  “Oh yeah.” He nodded. “Why do you think I get all the detention? Detention’s where I met Belinda.”

  “Detention’s a bad scene here?” I asked.

  “Yep.” He cringed. “So’s walking the halls when no one’s around.”

  “I’m becoming aware.” I hitched my backpack into a better position. “I’d better get going.”

  “Where’s your next class?” he asked.

  “Don’t know, really.”

  “How about I walk you there?”

  “I’d like that. I mean, órale.”

  “Cool.” He bumped my shoulder, and when I skidded a few steps, he chuckled. “Sorry.”

  “I’m not. Glad I met you today, King.”

  “Glad I met you, Lace.”

  I smiled. I didn’t do that a lot because I didn’t have much of a reason to before. Didn�
��t see the point. But I felt lighter walking beside King.

  Alliance might have been a nicer school, but Southside didn’t seem all that bad anymore.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lace

  At my locker, on one side of me was a girl in basketball gear fixing her lipstick, using a mirror on the inside of her door. On the other side of me was an interracial couple seriously making out. I grabbed the history book I needed to take home with me and closed the door.

  “Have a nice afternoon,” I murmured.

  After the incident with Belinda, I figured it was prudent to be on somewhat friendly terms with as many students as I could, locker mates especially. Who knew when I might need someone to come to my aid again?

  “Hey, sis. How’s it going?” My brother approached with an easy saunter. With an even easier grin, he asked, “Guess who I just saw?”

  “Who?” I asked, clutching my heavy textbook to my chest.

  “Bryan Jackson.”

  My eyes widened. I’d been on the lookout for our childhood friend all day.

  “I invited him over to our place tonight, and a bunch of other people too. Someone’s bringing a keg. We’ll play some tunes,” Dizzy said, and my heart started to race as he raked a hand through his spiked platinum-and-black hair. “This school is super cliquish. I think it’s important to establish from the get-go with as many people as possible what type we are.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” I asked.

  “Not any type. Unless there’s one for kicking back, having fun, and making music.”

  That was my brother, a rock ’n’ roller to the core. He did his own thing, his own damn way. Dizzy didn’t let much faze him.

  “You gonna zip that book up in your bag?” He dipped his gaze. “You’re hugging it like a lover. You look like a total nerd.”

  “Hey, don’t stereotype me just because I’m trying to make good grades.”

  “Never. Even if it’s not my thing, I’m proud of you.” He pulled me close, the leather of his favorite jacket cool against my skin.

  My brother didn’t often hug me, but he was one of the few who did. Our drugged-out mother, who we never saw anymore, rarely had. It was her fault I was uncomfortable being touched without permission. Dizzy knew why. He’d been there when it happened. Bryan and his mom were too.

  Almost raped.

  The “almost” part was supposed to make it not such a big deal, but it had been the reason why Child Protective Services had gotten involved, and the reason we’d moved in with our uncle. Also, the reason why I suspected that Bryan had never spoken another word to me.

  That hurt. Dizzy, Bryan, and I had been best friends. I’d wanted—dreamed—that one day, Bryan and I would . . .

  Well, I didn’t indulge in girlish fantasies anymore. I kept my head out of the clouds these days, and my mind on achievable goals.

  “Did he say yes? I mean, is Bryan coming over?” I asked, avoiding my brother’s knowing gaze as I put the book in my backpack.

  “Yeah, he’s bringing his best friend. A guy who’s supposed to sing pretty well.” Slinging an arm around my shoulders, Dizzy steered me down the hall. “I mentioned the Fender. Amps. Bry asked about you.”

  My heart rate didn’t just speed up at that, it skyrocketed. “What’d you tell him?”

  “Just that you have an even bigger ego now than you did then,” Dizzy said with a grin.

  At the end of the hall, he pushed the metal bar to open the door to go outside, and held it open for me. I stepped through, and cold air blasted me as we descended the front steps.

  “You should’ve worn a jacket, Lace.” Stopping me on the sidewalk, he unzipped his and draped it around my shoulders.

  “I didn’t want to drag a heavy coat around all day,” I mumbled, wanting to get us back to the subject of our old friend. “Is that all you said to Bry about me?”

  My brother’s eyes suddenly twinkled. “I told him that you’re a center-stage hog.”

  “Diz.” I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not true.”

  “Lace.” He shook his head. “Anytime we’re messing around with music, you showboat. Just like you did the Britney Spears stuff when we were kids.”

  “Rockers are supposed to put on a show.”

  “Not serious rockers.”

  “Hmm.” I raised a brow. “So James Hetfield, Robert Plant, and Ozzy Osbourne don’t showboat and aren’t serious rockers?”

  “Those are all dudes.” My brother rolled his eyes.

  “Diz—” I put my hands on my hips.

  He snorted. “Don’t get testy and go off on a tirade about empowerment for women.”

  I was so caught up in our debate, I barely registered the sound of the school buses pulling away from the curb. “I’m not testy,” I gritted out through my teeth.

  “If you say so,” Dizzy said, being the peacemaker as he often was. He probably knew he had to, or there wouldn’t be any peace. “Anyway, I concede your point. But you know the stuff we do in the garage isn’t serious. We’re just having a good time with the music. You have a serious legitimate plan, a real shot to do something better with your life.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You will, Lace. You can do it. I believe in you.”

  “I’m trying, Diz.” I reached up and touched the side of my head, glad for the barrette that disguised the fact that I was missing a big chunk of hair. There were a lot of factors that could derail my efforts to get a scholarship. Dealing with bullies at our new school was only one of them. “Don’t discount what you do with a guitar in your hands. You’re the serious one, seriously badass.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit when I don’t sing.”

  “You sing.”

  “I’m not a front man.” He grinned. “Or a front woman.”

  “True.” I bumped his shoulder. I could never stay irritated with Dizzy for long. “Don’t forget, I also play the piano.”

  “Egomaniac,” he said, his grin widening.

  “Pain in my ass.” Translation: I loved him like no one else.

  Dizzy’s grin widened. He was fluent in Lace-speak and could read between the lines. “So, how’d your first day at Southside go? Make any friends?” He threw his arm around my shoulders.

  “One.”

  “A girlfriend-friend?” he asked.

  “No, a guy.”

  Bryan’s mom was the last positive female influence I’d had. I didn’t make friends with girls easily. I never took the time to analyze the reasons for that, but I knew that the dotted line led back to my dysfunctional relationship with my mother.

  “Guys only want one thing from a girl,” Dizzy said seriously, repeating the same fact he’d been drilling into my head since I started wearing a bra.

  “Not this one.” I shook my head. King didn’t give off that vibe.

  “Hope not.” Dizzy tilted his head, studying me closely.

  “You never want me to have any boyfriends.”

  “I want better for you than some Southside loser.”

  I had too at one time. Once, I believed in fairy tales and perfect princes who could charm you. I’d thought Bryan Jackson was different. He’d treated me nicely, spoken softly to me, and made me feel like I mattered.

  But that had been wishful thinking. I was older now, and wiser. It was just me and my brother. And it was my responsibility to get where I wanted to go in the real world—without any magical intervention.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lace

  I finished my homework, even reading through the extra notes Mr. Schubert had already emailed me, so that I’d have plenty of time to get ready for the party Dizzy had thrown together. In my frenzy to find the perfect outfit, my closet had exploded. The colorful debris field on my bed contained all my clothes and all my fashion magazines.

  Eventually, everything was rejected, even my favorite silver-studded black rock-chick outfits in favor of the known and familiar. Even if it wasn’t really me, the sweetheart-pink schoolgirl sweater set w
as a good color on me, and paired well with my tightest pair of jeans.

  Smoothing a hand over my curves, I glanced at myself in the full-length mirror.

  My makeup was heavier than usual. A deep mauve darkened my lips, and mascara lengthened my lashes, accentuating my amber eyes. My honey-blond hair was straightened. A strategically placed bobby pin covered the missing piece on one side. The ends flipped just right to call attention to my boobs.

  Bryan might not be a critical component to my happiness anymore, and his approval no longer mattered the way it once did. But I also didn’t want him to see me all grown up and dismiss me. I wanted him to be knocked on his ass.

  I moved down the dark hallway from my room on the second story at the back of the house. Dizzy’s room was beside it, then a small bathroom we shared between us, then the stairs.

  The master bedroom, where Uncle Bruce slept, was at the front of the house, overlooking the front yard. His door was closed, I noticed as I descended the stairs. His door was usually closed, especially in the daytime when he slept. At night, he worked at a metal fabrication facility.

  The length of separation between his room and ours felt symbolic . . . clear lines of delineation. His life didn’t involve ours, and ours didn’t involve his, even though we lived in the same house. Some might find that odd. But I was accustomed to being ignored by the grown-ups in my life. My brother was the only real parent I’d ever known.

  Downstairs, I trailed my fingers over the back of the 1960s-era evergreen couch. The earth-toned plaid chairs that were paired with it were also from my favorite design era. A simpler time, in my mind, when people marched for peace, gathered at a dairy farm for free music, and love seemed to take priority over hate.

  The furniture in the small living room was left by my grandparents, who had died years ago and bequeathed their house and possessions to their nonaddicted offspring. My mother had disappointed them so many times, they’d been glad to have her out of their lives. They’d never even known that Dizzy and I existed.