Page 11 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
has the courage to lose
sight of the shore.
André Gide
The following morning, nothing happens. I go to class, but I can barely focus. I should be excited about my first day at Wilton. It’s the top school in the nation, and I’ve worked my ass off to get here. But the thrill of a stellar education is overshadowed by my fear that I won’t live long enough to complete it.
The day after passes by uneventfully, too. I am still alive, which is nothing short of a miracle after messing with the Romano family. Nothing out of the ordinary happens. I go to class like I should and even receive an interview request from the campus coffee shop, which I applied to online before moving to New York.
And the next day is normal again. I go to my classes. I even do well in the interview and get the job. Days pass, and eventually, I am finally able to breathe normally. The fear of death subsides, but I still remember that night. From the hookup to the police call, it’s pinned to the back of my mind, but at least I’m able to move on with my life. A part of me starts to consider that they’ll leave me alone. That the Romano family doesn’t care enough to retaliate.
It’s a naïve thought that I have no business thinking.
It’s a month after the incident, and I’m about to leave work at the coffee shop. I shove my little green apron into my employee locker and sling my leather backpack over my shoulder. It was a splurge from my first paycheck, along with a brand new iPhone to replace the cheap flip phone I lost to the Hallway Incident. Hell, I’ve even downloaded the Tinder app, however I haven’t created an account yet. When I do, though, I know what my number one swipe right criteria will be—no mobsters.
I’m not paying attention as I exit the break room and bump into someone, spilling the coffee I’m holding all over me. I curse, though I’m grateful the coffee is iced not hot.
“Watch where you’re going.”
I know that voice.
It’s painfully familiar.
Minka Reynolds lives in my hall. She and Aimee have butted heads since the beginning of the school year, so as Aimee’s roommate and friend, I’m an enemy by default. And I’m getting sick of it.
I can’t pass by her or her snooty friends without them sneering at my clothes or my hair or whatever they decide to make fun of that day. It’s grinding on my nerves, but I’ve been telling myself that, if I ignore them, they’ll stop.
I’m wrong.
They haven’t stopped.
If anything, it has only gotten worse.
And when I look up at Minka and see the look on her face, I know that she bumped into me on purpose. There’s a satisfied smirk on her lips, and she’s lifting a goading brow as if to say, “What are you going to do about it?”
Of course, I do nothing.
I sigh and turn around, returning to the break room. I may have started ignoring her jabs with the hopes that they would stop, but now it’s too late. I’m too committed to staying quiet, and I feel trapped in my stupid plan. Like if I speak up now, it’ll be a victory for her, a confirmation that she’s pushed me to my breaking point when she hasn’t.
So, the only other alternative is to act like I don’t care.
After slamming the break room door on her face, I drain the rest of the coffee down the sink and toss the empty cup into the trash. Looking in the cheap full-length mirror that hangs behind the door, I assess the damage.
The coffee is completely soaking my hoodie. I’m glad I have a job and can now afford to buy another one, because it’s completely ruined. I take it off and throw it away, too, knowing I won’t be able to remove the stains from my Signature Mocha Prevent a Nap Frappe™—who names this stuff?—with heavy whipping cream instead of milk, two pumps of hazelnut syrup, an extra shot, one and a half scoops of java chips, a caramel drizzle, and one stalk of vanilla bean blended in. Oh, and extra whipped cream.
Yes.
I’m one of those obnoxious drink orderers, but I make my own drinks, so who cares?
I feel naked in my silky spaghetti strapped camisole that dips low into my cleavage. It clearly looks like it belongs to a lingerie sleeping set. It actually is a part of the skimpy pajama set my last foster father gave me.
He’s creepy, and I know that he only bought it for me so he could see my body in it, but I kept it anyways. Beggars can’t be choosers. At the time, I didn’t own a lot of clothes and needed whatever I could get my hands on.
I actually grew to love how it looks on me, so I’ve never tossed it, even though I probably should have. I mean, who keeps lingerie sleepwear bought for them by their unnerving foster dad? Apparently, I do. And I like it. The clothes, not my foster dad. I ran away from that guy as fast as my social worker would let me.
But I was wearing the camisole and panties this morning when I woke up late. I didn’t even have time to change. I just threw on yesterday’s hoodie and black skinny jeans and high tailed it to work as fast as I could.
Now, I’m regretting my decision, but the dorms are across campus, and I have less than five minutes to get to Dr. Rolland’s lecture. There’s no time to change if I want to make it to class on time. And I do. Dr. Rolland is a spit talker, so I have to get to class early if I want a seat outside the splash zone.
