Page 92 of Vicious Butterfly
Before I know what’s happening, I’m walking past Ethan’s office, and it’s the one time he’s not playing his favorite game: turning some poor sucker into a simp for him. Chair wheels roll across the floor, and he leans his head out the door.
“Where you going, boss?” he asks, brow raised as if he has some kind of sixth sense telling him that I’m about to do something drastic.
“None of your fucking business.”
He’s up my ass and on my tail. “Tate.Tate!”
Spinning fast, I round on him, and he jumps back, finally remembering who the fuck I am. He breathes carefully, studying me, but not willing to say something or make another move.
“Leave it, Ethan.”
I carry on to my car, Ethan standing in the parking lot, the rain drenching him, nostrils flaring.
I tear out of the lot.
Even the roaring rain against the exterior of my Lambo doesn’t drown out the feeling—the past colliding with present in a way I never expected. My foot slams on the gas, tires sliding as I turn a wet corner too fast, driving like I have a death wish, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. My survival instincts could rival a cockroach’s.
Instead of heading back to Shadowridge like I should be, I take the turn off for North Point, my heart racing the whole way. I just need to see him, touch him … yeah. No. I need his heartbeat, his breaths. Him.
I get a text from Ethan.
What the fuck are you doing, Tate?
Dammit. Right. He has my location, which is important for so many reasons, like if he has to pull me out of a ditch. He’s not supposed to use it to spy on me. I ignore Ethan, who needs to mind his own fucking business, and keep driving.
I park on the road, the large stone North Point towers taunting me with their size. There’s a wrought iron gate that stands between Ryan and me. He’s in there—locked inside. That’s how they do things at North Point. Sure, they say it’s because they want to keep their students safe, but it’s all bullshit. I know how North Point works. It’s built for producing guys like Henry Savage and Gregory Kline. For conditioning and control of the next generation of elite society.
I text Ryan.
Me
Come outside
Dollface
Wish I could, but there’s no way I’m getting out of drill practice without divine intervention.
Me
Say you’re sick.
Dollface
As if they give a fuck if I’m sick. Gotta go before I’m late. xx
Are those x’s kisses? My racing heart does a flip, and my stomach fucking swoops. I must be coming down with something.
My gaze locks in on those fucking towers, laughing in my face. Whatever. I’m getting in there.
Another text. My chest thuds—is it Ryan? No. Ethan.
You’re fucking welcome, dumbass.
He’s going to pay for talking to me like that.
Lightning crackles around me as I storm the gate. Okay, not really, but it should. It would serve as a warning, tell everyone to stay the fuck away from me, and let me in. I shouldn’t have to go through all this red tape to see Ryan.
He’s mine.
