Beaten: A High School Bully Romance (Athole Academy Book 2) Page 2

  “Never rely on anyone but yourself, Ari. You’re the only one you can count on.” That was a lesson I learned the hard way.

  So, Rutger taught me how to drive, then gave me a book from the MVD to learn all the rules of the road. I studied that book until I knew every single law inside and out. Rutger had promised to take me for my driver’s license when I turned sixteen, but then his dad had gotten transferred with his company and he was gone.

  Last I heard, Rutger had opened a strip club in McLeod, which I guess is a pretty big achievement for a twenty-four-year-old.

  I loved Rutger, way more than a fifteen-year-old girl should love a guy who was practically an adult. But it was definitely unrequited. I was the little sister Rutger never had, and I think he just felt sorry for me.

  I’ll always be indebted to him.

  After what seems like forever, I pull up to the gates at the fancy community we live in. All mansions, nothing smaller than eight bedrooms, I think. As I enter the code that opens the big wrought iron gates, I wish for the hundredth time that we had a security guard manning the entrance. That way, maybe Devon’s creepy friends wouldn’t be allowed in.

  But, then again, they might not let me in either.

  I pull into the circular drive of our house. It’ll never be a home, as far as I’m concerned. It wasn’t even that when my parents were here. There are nothing but bad memories associated with the mansion that I’m pretty sure is the biggest of all of them. First was the neglect from Mom and Dad. Not outright abuse, but they just didn’t seem to care what happened to us. They were content to go their own way and just throw money at us.

  We never hurt for anything, never lacked. Anything in the world we wanted, we could get, even if it wasn’t something we should have. The parentals didn’t care, as long as we left them alone.

  I would have preferred living in a small shack with love.

  This time of year, our mansion fits in with all the others in the community. The snow covers the dirt where grass should be, but only weeds grow there now. With the white covering the dirt lawn, it looks pretty.

  Until you look closer. Like at the paint that’s starting to chip and the half dozen roof tiles that are missing. Or the pane in one of the living room windows that got broken during one of Devon’s drug parties. My brother had stuck a piece of cardboard in the window to keep the cold wind from blowing through the house, but I replaced it with carefully placed packing tape. At first glance, it just looks like a warped pane of glass.

  I know our neighbors have complained about the mansion’s lack of upkeep. Ben Penn’s mom is the community manager, though, and she’s really nice. I’ve talked to her a few times when she’s come by, I’m sure to ask us to do something about the dirt lawn or whatever. But her soft brown eyes have always scanned over me from head to toe, the moved over my head to take in the obvious lack of furniture and decorations in the mansion that you can see are missing even from the front door, and she’s gone on without saying a word about it.

  Sighing, I go into the house. The front door is always unlocked, because it only locks with a keypad and without having electricity, that means no locking door. Thankfully, the door was unlocked already when the electric company turned us off, or we’d be forced to climb out windows.

  I creep in, trying to be as quiet as possible. I never know what kind of mood Devon is going to be in, or if he’s got any creepy visitors. I just want to get upstairs, get out of my school uniform and then walk the three miles back to town so I can go to the gas station and do my bathing/clothes washing routine.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I see no one is around, so I pad up the stairs and into my room. I always check my bedroom for “strays” after the time I crawled into bed, only to discover it was already occupied.

  Of course, I no longer have a bed, thanks to Devon selling it. I now sleep on a folded-up comforter with a sleeping bag. And I usually wake up freezing with stiff hands and feet.

  Thankfully, my room is empty — and honestly, I think that might have more to do with the fact that I don’t have a comfy bed to crash on — so I go into my closet and quickly change into the cleanest jeans and pullover I can find.

  Since the water was shut off, we can no longer shower. Obviously. I do the best I can in the gas station bathroom, but there is only so much cleaning you can do with a washcloth and watered down liquid soap.

  The hardest thing is going to the bathroom. Since there isn’t water to flush, we use five-gallon buckets that I have to haul in — usually after filling them covertly from a neighbor’s hose — to pour water into the toilet. But we only do that for “brown” water, which means the bathrooms always smell like piss.

  It’s like we’re camping in a five-million-dollar house.

  I stuff my dirty uniforms into my backpack and grab my coat as I hurry back out the door. Even though I weigh a lot less than I should, my clothes are all too small and I have to struggle to get my coat on. It’s too tight to zip, unfortunately, but it’s better than nothing.

  The worst part are my shoes — my toes are always crunched up inside of them. Despite not having decent food for the past two years, my body still managed to do some growing and I figure my feet are now a good size or two larger than they were when I was fifteen. My feet hurt all the time and look like a professional ballerina’s after spending a lifetime en pointe. Or like the Japanese ladies a hundred years ago, who bound their feet to look smaller.

  I manage to get out of the house without seeing anyone and I make my way toward the community entrance. Normally, someone who looks like me with dirty hair and old clothes would cause suspicion, especially with my bulging backpack. But the people who live in Oak Place never even glance my way. It’s like if they don’t look, they don’t have to acknowledge the fact that there might be someone in need in their perfect little world.

  A car approaches me and I covertly glance at it, then smile and give a little wave when I see Beth. She returns the smile and wave, probably a little too enthusiastically. It’s like she’s so thrilled that someone is giving her some normal attention and not trying to knock her down. Poor chick has had a lot of that the past few months.

  But I guess we all have our crosses to bear. Some of them are just a lot heavier than others.

  Chapter 3

  T HE WALK TO town is miserable, as always. It’s so damn cold outside that my puffs of breath hang in the air. Even without the heater working in the Navigator, it would be so much better to drive to the gas station, but I just can’t waste the gas. I need it to get to the hellhole I call school.

  To earn the money for that gas, I take odd jobs here and there in town. So far, I’ve shoveled sidewalks, walked dogs, cleaned rain gutters, pulled weeds, and painted a fence. One time I even dug a trench for a new sprinkler system. I still have calluses from the layers of blisters I got doing that.

  Today, after I get myself and my clothes as clean as I can, I’m supposed to take down Mrs. Grover’s Christmas lights. Why they’re still up when it’s already spring is anyone’s guess. But then, maybe no one else but me is willing to climb a ladder in the winter to take them down from the third story of her old Victorian.

  It’s super dangerous, but I’m super desperate for money.

  I leave the gas station and shiver when the cold air hits my wet hair. I should just cut it all off because it would be a lot easier to take care of, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it. It’s past my waist and used to be my best feature. Now, I don’t think I have a “best.” I just have “slightly more noticeable.”

  When it’s clean — which hasn’t been the case for years, because liquid soap doesn’t make for good shampoo — it’s sort of a reddish blonde. Now, it’s sort of the color of a mud-covered pumpkin.

  The path to Mrs. Grover’s takes me by the poor dog chained to a tire. I’m sure the owner did that to keep him from jumping the fence and eating people, but I feel sorry for the poor guy. It’s a horrible life, for sure. He has a d
oghouse, at least, so he can get out of the weather.

  If he were my dog, he’d be sleeping inside and be up on the furniture. But then, considering the inside of our house isn’t much warmer than the outside, and we don’t actually have any furniture… guess it wouldn’t be much different than what he has now.

  The dog is a bit snarly and snappy. For good reason, obviously. If I didn’t spend all my time trying not to be noticed, I’m sure I would be the same way.

  I slowly approach the fence. The dog has seen me a lot over the past year, so he’s a less snarly with me than others. In fact, we’re sort of friends now.

  “Hey there, Ogre,” I whisper to him, even though he’s twenty yards away. I rarely talk, so my voice is pretty rusty. I have no idea what the dog’s name is, but I’ve called him Ogre from the first time I saw him. It fits. He’s mangy, growly and just… ogre-ish.

  The chain rattles as he makes his way to the fence to greet me. His way of saying “hi” is a low growl that I now know is just his way. I wonder if he’d attack me and chew one of my limbs off if I were to ever climb the fence. I wouldn’t blame him, because but he’d just be protecting his property, which is little more than a junkyard with a shack, but still.

  It’s the only place in Bearing like this. It’s like the slum area you expect to see in every single town is limited to this tiny patch of dirt guarded by a mangy mutt that would probably have fleas if it weren’t so cold. I’m surprised the rich citizens of Bearing haven’t had the place condemned, honestly.

  Ogre pushes his body up against the fence so I can scratch him. I think he knows I’m still a little afraid of him and don’t want to put my hand through the fence, so this has been our routine for a while now.

  I scratch him for several minutes, frowning when I realize he’s lost weight, weight he couldn’t afford to lose. It’s only been a few days since I’ve come this way, so it’s weird to think he’s lost weight that fast.

  I wonder if he’s sick.

  “You’re almost as skinny as me now,” I whisper to him and squat down so I can pull my backpack off. I open a side pocket where I keep emergency supplies but hesitate when my fingers touch the plastic bag with the few precious pieces of beef jerky. I stole that jerky from a bag Devon left on the kitchen counter a few nights ago. If he’d caught me taking it, he probably would have broken my ribs.

  Again.

  I’ve wondered if Devon would care if I starved to death. He never offers me any food, and, like the time he caught me opening a bag of chips, gets violent if I help myself to anything he brings in.

  While I suppose it’s not his job to take care of me, it hurts to know that Devon will buy pizza and alcohol — and drugs — for his low-life friends but will kick his little sister’s butt if she eats a handful of mixed nuts.

  I shake off my hesitation. Even though I won’t be able to get anything to eat until Monday at school, at least I know I’ll eat then, thanks to my parents also paying four years of lunch account up front with the tuition. The fact that they did that makes me wonder if they’d planned on taking off.

  But who knows when the poor dog will get food again? It looks like his meals are few and far between. He needs it more than I do right now. Plus, I still have a half package of crackers hidden on the top shelf in my closet if I get really desperate.

  “Here ya go,” I tell the dog as I carefully stick the jerky through the fence. He sniffs it, then snatches it and turns his back on me as he snarfs it down. I wonder when the last time was that he had anything to eat.

  Poor baby, I think as my eyes fill with tears. I feel like we have a connection, this junkyard dog and me. We’re kind of two peas in a pod, stuck in a life we never asked for and don’t deserve. More than anything, I wish I could get him off that chain, out of that yard and give him a better life.

  But what I could give him right now wouldn’t be any better than what he has, honestly.

  I give him the rest of the jerky and smile when he licks the fence, his way of saying “thanks.” His tongue sticks to the cold metal though, and he jerks. Before he struggles and tears his tongue, I quickly spit on it, the warm saliva helping to release him.

  I cringe at how gross spitting is, and there’s also the fact that to anyone passing by it would look like I just tongued the dog. Oh well, I mentally shrug; they already think I’m disgusting.

  “Now we’re like blood brothers,” I tell him as he licks the air a few times, testing his tongue. “Well, spit brothers, I guess.” I chuckle, and start to stand, but the back door to the shack opens, startling me.

  “Get the hell away from that fence!” I startle at the violence in the voice, like I’ve just committed some crime spree that left dozens dead. I look up and see a huge man standing in the doorway of the shack. He’s holding a shotgun, pointed right at me. I scramble to my feet and grab my backpack, taking off without a backward glance at Ogre.

  But I can sense his chocolate eyes following me. I mentally promise to sneak some more food to him. I’ll have to remember to save something from my lunch on Monday.

  Mrs. Grover’s project takes a lot longer than I thought it would, and it’s almost dark when I start back. She also didn’t pay me as much as I’d hoped, but twenty bucks is better than no bucks. I’ll put ten in the gas tank and the other ten in my hidden stash.

  I have been saving for the two years that my life’s gone to hell. While I only have a few hundred dollars, I’m hoping by the time I graduate I’ll have enough to get out of Bearing and away from Devon. I have no idea what I’ll do, but at least with a diploma, I can get a real job.

  Getting a job now would be great, but the few that are available to high school kids are taken by those that have access to clean clothes. No business wants to hire the stinky girl. At least the odd jobs are pretty steady, as long as I’m willing to do whatever comes along. The stuff no one else wants to do.

  I’m shivering uncontrollably when I finally make it back to Oak Place. The wet clothes in my backpack have soaked through and I’m pretty sure it’s frozen to the skin on my back. Plus, my thick hair never dried and it’s frozen too.

  While the house won’t be warm by any stretch of the imagination, at least I can change into something dry and crawl into my sleeping bag.

  My heart clenches when I see all the cars in the driveway. Devon is obviously having another party, which means drugs, drinking and scary people.

  And no sleep for me, because I’ll have to stay awake to make sure no one tries to molest me.

  It’s happened before, several times. While I’ve managed to get away with just some slobbery kisses and disgusting groping, I know I won’t always be so lucky. It won’t be long before I’m raped, giving my virginity unwillingly to some drugged out creep who won’t even remember what he did.

  But then I notice something—the lights are on! That means Devon paid the electric bill. I can’t believe it. After two years we finally have lights. I just hope that means the gas and water are on too. Sleeping in a warm house after a hot shower sounds like heaven right now.

  I hurry around to the back of the house and carefully open the back door. There are two sets of stairs in the house, thankfully, so I can sneak up the back stairs and hopefully get to my room without being noticed. I’ve had to do this countless other times.

  Not this time, though.

  Chapter 4

  G ET YOUR SCRAWNY butt back down here!” Devon yells at me and my heart nearly seizes. He’s angry, even though I haven’t done anything. I haven’t even seen him in three days.

  There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, not even in this huge mansion. He’ll find me; he always does. I turn and walk slowly back down the stairs, my eyes on him as I do. He’s scowling at me, a look that’s ominous and fills me with dread.

  Devon’s handsome face is long gone. In its place is a pock-marked, hollowed-out skull with skin. We’re both so skinny we could fit through a picket fence, but his is due to drugs.

  “Where the he
ll have you been?” he hisses at me as he grabs my arm in a grip so tight that I can’t help but cry out. In response, he yanks me to his side and I grimace. He smells even worse than I do. I’m pretty sure he makes no effort whatsoever to clean himself.

  “You better be good, or I swear, I’ll beat you so bad that no one will recognize your body.” It’s not an empty threat, I know. I nod dutifully.

  Even in his drugged-out state, Devon is a lot bigger than me. He might be skinny, but he’s strong. I don’t know if it’s the crack or meth or whatever the hell it is that he’s on, but he’s got like superhuman strength. I wonder sometimes if he could even take Alex Johansen in a fight.

  Devon drags me into the living room, where the party is in full swing. Unlike most of his parties, though, there are only guys present. It’s weird… and worrisome, for some reason that I can’t quite pinpoint.

  I have no idea why he wants me there. He’s never once asked me — or, in this case, told me — to join in one of his parties. In fact, most of the time I think he’d probably beat me if I did drop in. Whatever his reason is for wanting me there this time is making my heart pound and my empty stomach clench.

  The males in the room — surprisingly there are quite a few middle-aged men, something I’ve never seen before — all get quiet when we walk in. I quickly scan the unfamiliar faces. There isn’t a single one I’ve ever seen before. Another oddity.

  They’re mostly well-dressed men, another surprise. Expensive suits haven’t been seen in our house since Dad. I frown then, wondering at their presence.

  This isn’t one of Devon’s usual parties.

  The only furniture that my brother hasn’t sold is the huge sectional sofa, the coffee table, and his bed. I figured he wanted to keep the living room furniture for his parties, and the bed because he’s a selfish jerk. I can sleep on the floor, but not him.