Chapter 05: What went wrong?! 

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A month before deserting me at Royal Imperial's polished doorstep, my father, the pompous and bastardly Robert Quinn had hosted an ostentatious soirée to celebrate getting rid of me.

He'd been uncharacteristically mellow that day, going to the extent of buttoning my suit and gelling back my hair with dagger hands that penned his name to slice lifelines.

But there was only so long he could stick to the pretense. Just before the guests began pouring in like fine wine, he gave up the charade and grabbed me by the shoulder, forcing me to meet those reptilian eyes of his. The words he spat were venom straight from a cobra's mouth.

"Fuck this up and you'll find yourself beside mommy."

Dead. Buried six feet under his legacy in a florid casket. How enticing.

It was at that party that I first saw, more so than met, Vincent Cross. He was despicable at best; a porcelain doll stitched to his father's side. Undeniably suave in the type of suit that hung off my shoulders in waterfalls of fabric, his black hair and ashen eyes made choir boys look unholy.

Our gazes had met only once that night and he'd smiled with a supernova captured in the cage of his teeth. I hadn't reciprocated.

Was our crumbling friendship an aftermath of that?

I blinked, as if to shake the thought, and the world swam back into focus. I was still stuck in the classroom, in this insignificant school where everything was always fucking peachy. Except my entire life was teetering along a broken axis, tauntingly tipping towards calamity, and no one was waiting to catch my fall.

It was stupid and I was overthinking it but the two empty seats beside me couldn't be more conspicuous if they tried. They might as well have been doused in neon paint.

Looks like Vincent's got a new favorite now.

It did look like that, didn't it? What other reason could there be for him and Chase not showing up to class? And what did he need to tell Chase that was so important that he didn't tell me first?

Admittedly, Johnny was an infuriating asshole at the worst of times but he was a right asshole.

I'd been replaced.

Just like that. Totally and utterly expendable.

I cast my gaze out of the window and thought: Weren't replaced and expendable just synonyms for abandoned?

It was depressing, more than anything, to stare out at the sluggish autumn morning, at the soft red brick of the sports storeroom that idled in the breeze.

Was it a coincidence that the shaky bridge between me and Vincent had been built at the very side of that storeroom?

Surely not.

I wasn't a big believer in coincidences. But the memory felt so vivid in my head. Almost as if I was reliving it.

The joint burns between my fingers but I continue to suck dying drags from it anyway, keeping my eyes shut because I can't quite bear how bright the world is without me. The storeroom is cold where my wrist touches it. The gritty texture of the brick is the only thing tethering me to reality.

Behind my eyelids are lit, but everything else feels dark. And it's not the walk into a dark room and can't see shit kind of dark, but more the light destroying light to result in darkness kind of dark. A metaphor. For how only the bad things in life are a certainty.

That probably explains the dismal mood I've come used to in only my first three months of freshmen year. Or maybe it's always been there, hidden in the undergrowth of thorns that encase my heart, and is only blooming now 'cause preppy boarding schools are catalysts like no other.

I exhale with a heavy sigh, but something crashes against my throat, making me choke and yank my eyes open.

Henry Russo is glaring at me. I cough and gasp violently around the arm that's killing my jugular, and drop my spliff somewhere in the frenzy. Henry doesn't miss a thing, though, and ruthlessly stomps on the blunt.

He leans closer as I desperately curl my fingers around his arm. He has all the advantages and he knows it. Being a senior, he's both taller and stronger than I am.

The backdrop of lush greenery that glimmers gold under the magnanimous sun is an odd sight behind his head of tight black curls.

"Two seconds, Quinn. That's all you have. Give me my fucking money or—" A closed switchblade slips into his fingers and he skims it leisurely along my jaw, "—this is gonna end up in your throat."

"Ryder!"

I jerked my head at the sound and the memory fragmented with that motion. Mr. Monroe's eyes—two frayed walnuts shielded behind glasses—were halted on my face.

I licked my dry lips. Monroe was easily the nicest and meanest human being I'd ever met. "Yes, sir?"

"Did you find the answer outside the window?"

"No, sir."

A hand peppered with warts, much like the rest of his skin, idly scratched at his sweater-covered paunch. If exasperation could be translated into actions, this would be it. "Did you even get the answer?"

I snuck a glance at my copy. Incorrect workings blinked back at me. "Not exactly. Sir."

The row of boys seated in front of me looked over their shoulders, grinning and laughing fondly as if being in the same class made us all friends. The worst part was they didn't even sound like boys laughing. They sounded like war worn men dryly chuckling around cigars at the ill-fated.

"Get to work," Monroe snapped at them. He turned back to me. "I want that work done, Ryder."

"Yes, sir," I repeated, and stared at the questions in front of me. I already knew I wasn't going to do them. Not when I couldn't think straight.

Eli nudged my arm. I scowled and looked up at him. His expression was apprehensive, almost fretful. Carefully, he slid his copy next to mine.

I scoffed. "I'm offended."

He rolled his eyes with something like relief. "If you're gonna be a self-righteous prick about it, offer expires in three. Two—"

I took the copy. His graphs were annoyingly meticulous. I traced my finger over the smooth curves of his pen, then compared it to my raggedy lines. 

Was it possible, I wondered, that the answer to what went wrong between me and Vincent was written somewhere along lines like these, back between the spaces of time that witnessed the beginning of our friendship?

"I dun'ave ih," I mumble around Henry's arm.

A snarl enraptures his face. "What was that?" Before I can respond, he shifts his barrel-of-a-gun arm down a little. I hear the flick of the blade, and then it's pressing against my throat, colder than a corpse. The tip breaks skin but I don't realize that until Henry is dragging it across my neck as if it's a puppy on a leash. I wince and writhe in his hold, but that seems to push the blade deeper so I hold my breath and concentrate all my efforts on staying as still as possible.

"Don't fuck around with me, Quinn," he grunts. "Call your rich daddy and get me my money or I swear to god, I'll—"

It takes me a moment to realize the laugh that's cut him off is mine.

"You think this is funny, you little shit?" The blade nips at me again, but I can't stem the giggles that leak through my lips.

I think it's hilarious, in fact. Here I am, Ryder Quinn, son of Robert Quinn, one of the richest and most influential men in the country and yet a petty drug dealer has a knife to my throat and all the diamonds and dollars in the world can't stop the blood soaking my collar.

What a fucking cliché.

"Hey." The word is loud in the deathly silence, and sharp like a commander's is on a battlefield. I'm not the one who said it. Neither is Henry.

I flit my gaze to the side, trying not to move my head with the knife still at my throat. My eyes and brain ache under the strain but my peripheral picks him up.

Vincent Cross.

He stands a few feet away from us, holding an unlit Marlboro in his fingers, a lighter in the other hand. He's alone, I notice. As he usually is.

Henry exhales sharply through his nostrils and I feel it on my face. "Fuck off, Cross."

Vincent cautiously steps forward. "What're you doing?"

What the fuck does it look like? I want to say, but Henry beats me to it.

"Stay out of it," he snaps. His tone is less menacing than it had been with me. Is it because he knows who Vincent is?

Vincent pauses, then props the cigarette into his mouth. He ignites the tip and takes a hasty drag. "What'd he do?"

"Took my shit and never fucking paid."

"Hm." The next drag is longer, more thoughtful. "How much?"

I try my hardest to pin him with a glare but those sly grey eyes of his wander everywhere but me. Henry slackens his hold a little. "Two-fifty."

This encourages Vincent to move even closer. His free hand delves into his back pocket. "Hundred?"

A sharp nod on Henry's part. Christ, what the fuck is happening? Vincent's lips purse almost as if he'd expected nothing else. A black wallet plays between his fingers. It isn't bulging but I can still see the flash of pale green.

He briefly counts the notes, then extends his arm out to Henry, offering the entire thing. Just as Henry reaches for it, he draws back. "Let him go, first."

Henry sneers and pulls away from me. I gasp like a fish out of water and suck in buckets of air, bracing my hands on my knees. It's dizzying, how good the oxygen feels.

"There's fifty bucks extra," I hear Henry say, and lift my head to see him frowning. At least he's honest.

"I know," says Vincent. "It's a down payment. Don't sell to him—" he nonchalantly points the cherry of his cigarette in my direction "—ever again."

What the fuck?

Henry laughs. "Works with me." He crouches until he's at my eye level, and pats my cheek a little too hard to be affectionate. "Later, asshole," he mutters, and vanishes around the corner of the storeroom.

"What the hell was that for?" I shout once Henry is out of sight, and I'm able to stand upright again.

Vincent doesn't reply, just stares at me. His face is irritatingly empty. All pale flesh and pink lips, rugged like the edge of a cliff. But when he finally says something, I lose my breath again.

"Your father will kill you if he finds out."

My father. My stupid, motherfucking, son-of-a-bitch father. Of course he'll kill me, why didn't I think of that? 

My heart rattles in my chest, knocking into my lungs and preventing my breath.

"Oh god," I gasp out, the sound garbled and choked. I'm so dead.

"Relax," Vincent drawls, stepping forward with a handkerchief in his hand. "Who's gonna tell him?"

What? I frown through my daze of paranoia, struggling to make sense of his words. "You?" I say dumbly.

"Not this time."

I gape at him, dumbfound. Why is he helping me this extent? What could he possibly gain from it? "I'll pay you back," I mumble, and this makes him laugh.

"Just forget this ever happened, Ryder." He presses the cloth to my neck and steps back to give me one last look. His expression is what I assume to be appraising. "First period starts in ten." He flicks the barely smoked cigarette behind him. "Don't miss it."

And just like that he's gone. Faster than he appeared. He's done me a favor, and he knows it, but then why does it feel like I'm left in a debt deeper than before?

"Look who it is," Johnny declared as we strode out of the classroom. I barely registered his words at first. My mind was still muddled with unanswered questions.

Why did he pay for me? Why didn't we ever talk about it again? Why Chase?

"Boys!" An arm slung around my shoulder. I swallowed the lump of nostalgia lodged in my throat and looked up at Vincent. Over the years, his face had softened but something else about him had sharpened.

"Missed you in math," Johnny pointed out, making him scrunch up his nose.

"Extra math. On a Sunday. Come on. I had better things to be doing. And you're lucky I did, because we—drum roll, please—are going out tonight."

Johnny whooped loudly. An echo of his jubilance bounced back at us.

"And we'll bring some St. Jude's girls with us." He said it so quickly, the last part, as if he'd made a mistake and was profusely apologizing. Only Vincent didn't apologize. 'Cause he never made mistakes.

My confusion must have been palpable 'cause the smile slipped off Johnny's face.

"Wait—what?"

"Well, since Chase's taken such a liking to Alaska Finton, I figured we'd take some St. Jude girls with us as well." Now, didn't that sound simple?

I glanced at Chase. His face was set like one of Michelangelo's ornate sculptures.

"Oh. Um, okay," Johnny mumbled, his eyes darting to me. I didn't know what he expected. I wasn't going to counter Vincent.

"Look more excited than that," Vincent laughed as he looked between Johnny and me. "It'll be fun. I promise."

"Right," I said. "Fun. Yay."

He laughed again. Eli was the only one looking as reluctant as I felt. He usually didn't contribute much to these conversations, just went along with the plan, but he was unnaturally uneasy today.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? We hate the St. Jude's girls and they know it. And we've never went out with them before. Not like this."

All the wisdom of the world was entombed into Vincent's cackle. "Oh please, Elijah. What could go wrong?"