Fiery Little Thing: A Dark Academy Romance

Present

“Asshole.”

Both a noun and an unofficial adjective—such a versatile word. Just like cunt. For example, Kohen Osman is a psychopathic cunt.

Those are the two words that immediately come to mind when I see him leaning against the tree, carving into his lighter with a switchblade.

Kohen Osman doesn’t necessarily look like an asshole, but he’s the biggest one in this city.

“Klepto.” The aforesaid bane of my existence pushes off the tree and pockets his switchblade into his uniform, taking up‌ the entire footpath with his unwanted presence.

“Fuck off, Pyro.”

My head is pounding, and I’m two minutes away from turning my teeth to dust. His company is making my hangover worse.

Kohen always hangs around the school corner, leaning against a tree on a street I have no choice but to take. The only other option would mean adding an extra ten minutes to my forty-five-minute walk home. I figured I’d rather deal with the human embodiment of a cold sore than endure ten more minutes of this freezing weather.

I keep shuffling along. Paying no attention to the asshole by my side, I quickly check my phone to see if my granddad has decided to transfer money to fix my bedroom window after one of Dad’s friends threw a rock at it two nights ago.

Nothing.

Great. My T-shirt taped to the window frame isn’t exactly keeping the winter chill out.

Digging half-moons into my palm, I glare at Kohen. Every day, I wrongly assume he’ll leave me alone if I have headphones in or a shiv ready to pull on him.

But no.

Whether he’s risking giving himself hepatitis B with a stick-and-poke tattoo, or lighting something on fire, every day those disgustingly pretty golden-moss eyes of his collide with mine, and every damn day, he opens his equally disgusting pretty mouth to turn my mood from bad to worse.

He falls into stride beside me, twirling the lighter between his fingers and then flicking the spark wheel. It’s brand new, with a dazzling gold surface and a skull he personally engraved.

It would look great on my shelf.

Give me another week, and I’ll probably pocket that one too. Lord knows how much of his shit I’ve stolen after thirteen years of enduring his insufferable presence.

I’m pretty sure he knows I’m the one who keeps stealing from him. One day he’s going to try burning me alive for all the shit I’ve done. I just know it.

The pyromaniac kills the flame and then lights it again, on and off, on and off, on and off. He pulls the lighter away before I have the chance to snatch it from him.

We both look out of place while walking through this part of town—him with his tattoos and fire fingers, me with my reputation. The caliber of most students who attend and live around St. Augustine is beyond the type of suburbia with white picket fences and homey-looking buildings with children playing on the front lawn. The top ten percent reigns around here.

Each house we pass ranges in the millions, surpassing the term house and sitting comfortably within the category of mansion. Some are hidden behind tall trees or long, winding driveways. Others are open for all to gawk at.

A couple properties have the words manor or estate on big wooden signs by the entrance to their driveway. Maybe I’ll ask Grandpa to send me money to put a plaque out front of our house that says Crack House. Hell, I’ll even let them put the sign in place of my window as long as I can stop worrying about snow in my room or worse, someone climbing through.

A car pulls up ahead in front of one of the homes, and a lady clad in Louboutins and a Burberry coat glides out of the back seat of a Maserati, pushing her Fendi glasses up her nose as the car drives away. She’s blissfully ignorant of the world around her as she adjusts her open bucket bag in the crook of her elbow.

And just like that, I’m not queasy anymore.

Kohen shakes his head and slows his walk, knowing what comes next. He folds his white shirt sleeves up to his elbows, so I have an unobstructed—and unwanted—view of the muscles in his forearms bulging against the tattoos. Except it isn’t enough to distract me from the fact that we’re a few feet away from the grab bag in thousand-dollar shoes.

Stealing Nicholas’s laptop bag yesterday didn’t give me nearly the same thrill as this. A stranger. It’s an urge more profound than getting to the metal container behind my bed frame. An itch that needs to be scratched or else I’ll die. And why die when this woman makes it so damn easy for me?

Blood rushes through my ears as I near her, keeping my steps even and steady. She keeps buzzing the gate that won’t open, while my eyes are on the abyss of goodies hanging off her arm. Then I see the corner of a wallet, and the itch turns into a full-blown need.

Jackpot.

I love rich women; they can be so wonderfully oblivious.

My shoulder collides with hers as I pass, and I quickly pull away, making my stomach turn unhappily.

“Sorry,” I mumble, holding up a hand when the woman tears her attention away from the gate long enough to sneer.

She turns around without a word, too busy with the buzzer to notice the wallet-sized bulge in my pocket. I keep walking with a steady pace, innocently tucking a lock of copper hair behind my ear as Kohen mumbles something under his breath.

“Are you going to spend another night alone in your shitty house?” Kohen doesn’t spare me a glance, saying the words as if they taste like bile he’s been forced to swallow.

Great, it’s a talking kind of day.

“I was thinking of inviting your dad over, actually,” I snap, then chide myself to reign in my temper. My teeth chatter as I pull my blazer tighter around myself, even though it’s a record-hot day for winter. I need another hit so all this shit is more bearable. I can’t be hungover if I never stop.

The entire Osman clan is blessed with ungodly good looks that make the other mortals look pathetic—even their mom is bangin’. Their family shares warm, deep brown skin that practically dazzles in the sun because they probably eat gold for breakfast. Kohen is the only one who likes to keep his black hair cut short on the sides with soft curls on top, and just like Kiervan, he has staggeringly broad shoulders, thick legs, a thicker wallet, and the type of smile that makes everyone in the PTA give their life savings for a share in their pharmaceutical company.

They—not including Kohen—have the charisma that thaws even the coldest of hearts. I was ready to risk it all when I buddied up with Kiervan for a ridiculous charity project a few years back. And, I’ll be honest, I was suddenly a reverent humanitarian during those three hours he was charming my panties off.

Kiervan is everything Kohen is not; namely, he doesn’t piss me the fuck off. This particular Osman wakes up every day and makes my imagination run wild with all the ways I could kill him with a pen.

“I like them older,” I tack on, because mentioning his father dearest always pisses him off.

The dark cloud beside me darkens further, but I couldn’t give a shit. No one is making Kohen talk to me. He’s always been better seen from afar anyway.

Kohen scowls, then schools his features into an annoyingly nonchalant look. It does nothing to hide the fact that he wants to strangle me. “Funny, last night your mother said the opposite about me.”

Kohen’s father would never deign to look at the dirt on his shoe, especially my specific breed of dirt. On the other hand, my mother would mount anything that glanced her way, as long as she could score at the end of it.

I snap my fingers, pointing toward him. “So you’re who she got HIV from? It all makes sense now. Your father will be happy to know you do have manners with all the sharing you’re doing.”

It’s getting harder to hold my stare when my stomach feels like it’s wringing itself out. I catch the muscle feathering in his perfectly sculpted jaw. How dare he be easy on the eyes. More than easy. He’s an Adonis—the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, with hazel eyes from his mom and a condescending stare he acquired from his Turkish father.

Not that I’d ever tell Kohen, but that pyromaniac’s been featured in my dreams one too many times.

Too bad I want to deck him.

Finish him off in more ways than one.

“It’s called multitasking. I’m disappointing my family and ruining yours at the same time.” Kohen’s voice pierces through the momentary satisfaction of scratching the itch before a cold sweat starts on my spine.

“With a brain like that, it’s a wonder why they held you back a year.” Now that was the biggest disappointment. With how the tendons in his neck tick, I’m sure he knows it too. “I guess Daddy couldn’t buy your grades.”

At the end of the last school year, I thought I would finally get rid of the fucker, but he failed all his exams and showed up in my class the following semester. I could barely stand him when we were in different grades; sharing classes is a testament to my patience.

The only other thing Kohen and I have in common is that we’re still at St. Augustine High because of our families’ money and name. However, our families have different ideas about their reputation. His parents are building their fortune; mine are snorting, smoking, injecting, or fucking it.

Kohen lifts a tense shoulder and drops it, even though I can tell he’s not exactly pleased about being a nineteen-year-old who still needs to put on a uniform every morning and pretend to sing hymns in assembly.

The corners of his lips curl. “At least I saw my dad this month, Klepto.”

Well played, dickhead.

I sway in my steps when my stomach twists, threatening to push out the little bit of water I consumed today. I need to get rid of Kohen. Pronto.This material belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

I swallow the spit forming in my mouth and look straight ahead. “How’s Kiervan, by the way? Still on track to getting summa cum laude?”

Kohen’s annoyance vibrates off him in waves.

He opens his mouth, but I cut him off with a swift “don’t care” and a wave of my hand.

I pull out my earbuds from my pocket, press play and turn up the volume of my music to drown out the sound of the blood rushing through my ears.

He yanks a headphone out my ear, and I slap his arm out of pure reflex, then snatch the earbud back.

The distance closes between us, and I’m unsure if it’s because he moved closer or if I’m getting hit with another wave of vertigo. Either way, I stumble back, only to be pulled closer by the solid grip around my bicep.

“Why the fuck do you always have to be such an insufferable bitch?” His voice sounding like gravel, inches from my face.

Lethargy holds its sharp teeth in my muscles, weakening my attempt to shove him back. “Maybe because you’re an annoying piece of shit.”

They say the devil looks hideous up close. I wish I could say the same. Somewhere underneath my exhaustion, I’m hit with the disgusting thought that Kohen would look stunning underneath me.

He twists us around. The air punches out of my lungs as he pushes me against the wooden fence. Before I can make up from down, his fingers curl around the column of my throat, and his thumb presses against my pulse point, placing just enough pressure to keep me put. “I haven’t done shit to you, and all you do is—”

I scoff. “Do you even hear yourself?” My voice raises to a pitch too loud for my ears, and my stomach churns one pace faster than my heart rate. “You’re so goddamn delusional.”

My body struggles to escape. No amount of shoving, hitting, or kneeing is doing any damage other than winding me up and solidifying the hatred that’s boring down on me from his hazel eyes.

His body presses against me, forcing me to push as far back to the fence as I can, making me keenly aware of every firm ridge of his body that’s touching me—a toned thigh wedged between mine, chiseled abs brushing against my chest, strong fingers wrapped around my throat. If I hadn’t already been lightheaded a minute ago, I would be now.

Hazel eyes burn into me, taking apart every inch of my soul like he’s trying to figure out how I’m getting it all wrong.

“Typical Blaze.” He spits my name out the same way my grandparents do. “Always playing the victim when this is all on you.”

“You’re the one who started all this shit—for fuck’s sake, you lit my hair on fire in second grade!” I screech. “You stole my bag. Pushed me into a pool. Took my clothes from my locker at the gym. Showed up at my house—in my room—in the middle of the night. And that’s not even the half of it.”

I told the teacher, the cops, and cried to my grandad, thinking he’d do more than just throw money my way to shut me up. But every week, Kohen kept coming after me in one way or another. He’s the only consistent presence I’ve had in my entire life, and he looks at me like he can’t wait to snuff my light out.

His eyes harden into steel, and the words that follow slice worse than the real thing. “You look just like your mother right now.”

My palm cracks against his cheek. He doesn’t wince or even twitch. He does something far worse: he smiles. It’s all teeth, with a crazed glint in his eye to match.

His scent wafts over me, patchouli and mint, like the candle beside my bed, as he lowers his lips to my ear.

“Did that feel good?”

My eyes dart to the hand-shaped welt blossoming on his cheek, and my brain doesn’t register what it’s doing fast enough to stop myself from slapping him again to turn it crimson. “Better.”

His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t move away. He almost looks… pleased. So I do it repeatedly, hitting his cheek and arms. Wrapping my fingers around his throat only makes his eyes brighten, and bucking my body against his widens his malicious grin. But it all makes my body feel worse.

I still, panting into the space between us. I just need to get home and get to my stash, then everything will be fine. “Let go of me, you freak.”

His breath fans my cheek; the upward curl of his lips slowly turns down as if my actions have only just caught up to him. “One day, you’ll stop fighting me.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Always.”

“You can die trying.”

He leans down until his lips are next to my ear and tightens his hold around my neck. “Oh, Blaze,” he says mockingly. “I already know you burn so pretty. And if it isn’t by me, you’ll just do it to yourself. But your death is mine, Thief.”

I suck in a sharp breath when he pulls away, and my legs give out from under me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I shouldn’t have taken so much last night.

The white wooden fence scrapes against my back as I slump onto the ground, silently heaving. I don’t think he’s out of earshot when my stomach decides to give up. A prickle sinks into my palm as I keel over on the grass, liquid acid stinging my throat before spilling onto the earth.

I stay down, pulling my too-tight blazer around my torso and letting myself have a minute before resuming the remaining thirty-minute walk. My heart stutters as my hands dig into my pockets in search of the lady’s wallet, coming up empty each time.

“Motherfucker,” I grumble.

Like I said, Kohen is an asshole.

She was home.

Of course, my mother chose today of all days to show up. She returns every once in a while for food, to sweat out a withdrawal before snorting another line, or to steal my shit. The sight of the open cupboards is a good enough distraction to make me forget about the human stain that was taunting me.

I have to hand it to her though, she’s late. Grandpa’s grocery delivery came three days ago, and another box won’t arrive until tomorrow—or three days from now if he’s feeling especially vindictive about our existence.

Now, all that’s left are broken bits of pasta and an expired packet of instant noodles. I growl and slam the raided cupboard closed. The sound echoes through the empty house, and I try not to think about what other messes she might have left behind. This is the reason I have to lock my fucking door.

Grabbing the trash, I sweep Mom’s empty wrappers and crumbs off the counter and into the bin. I only have thirteen dollars to my name, and that’s meant to last me until the next delivery. My stomach turns, and I massage my temples like it might make this shit show go away. If I want to put food in my stomach, my only option is to cook.

It’s a damn good thing I don’t have an appetite then.

I’m going to kill Kohen the next time I see him for taking my shit. Whatever goodies I might have found in the lady’s wallet could have set me up for the week so I wouldn’t need to rely on my grandpa Jonathan Whitlock Sr.’s good graces to send me my fifty-dollar “emergency” allowance.

I can’t blame the old man for being an intelligent businessman. Who else would have thought of sending their addict daughter to the other side of the country to hide their greatest shame? Pay to put a roof over her and her fucked-up offspring’s head, cover their insurance, send them food once or twice a week, give the responsible one—somehow that’s me—some money in case of emergencies, ship her to a fancy school, weaponize it all to keep her in line, and no one will be any wiser.

Except, of course, Kohen figured it out and has held it over my head ever since.

He discovered that if I skipped school, Grandpa “accidentally” misses a grocery delivery and “forgets” to send me my allowance. If the school calls about my behavior, he halves the amount of food he sends, and that’s another allowance I won’t be seeing. Any money I get now will go straight toward fixing the broken window, and there won’t be anything left to buy groceries with if he decides not to send any.

Sure, our house is nice enough from the outside after the remodel. It’s lower-upper class, suitable to pass as an acceptable residence for a Whitlock. It’s secluded enough that neighbors won’t complain about the woman walking down the main street with her flavor of the day. Thick curtains ensure that the stains and a seven-inch rip on the three-seater couch remain hidden from prying eyes. No one will notice the coffee table, precariously balanced on a granola box; the circular dining table with just one seat, barely held together by duct tape; or the dried blood in the grooves of the tile floor and the shattered mirror in the downstairs bathroom—evidence of an incident where one of Dad’s friends tried to kill him.

I’m so goddamn sick of living here and under my grandfather’s thumb. I’m sick of praying Mom doesn’t come home and that Dad won’t come knocking trying to grab cash or a couple grams of anything I have. And fuck Jonathan Whitlock Sr. for leaving me in this godforsaken place with these horrendous people.

I drag my feet out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I can hear my bed calling me. Every cell in my body screams for sleep, nutrition, and more of what Tony gave me yesterday—in no particular order. But the last thing I want to do is sleep while Mom still remembers she has a house she and her friends can come back to.

The dirty wooden floors creak beneath my weight while I use the walls for support so I don’t go tumbling down the stairs. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right. Left, right.

I don’t look up from my feet until I reach the door to my bedroom, and my stomach sinks into the ground.

It’s unlocked.

The handle is broken.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

I tear into the room and take stock, heart pounding in my throat. Everything looks untouched—at least, I think it is. It’s hard to tell. My collection of stolen items that ranges in the hundreds covers every inch of flat surface—watches, pencil cases, glasses, books, jewelry, hair clips, creams, a couple of thimbles. I turn toward the shelf beside my bed where everything I’ve ever taken from Kohen sits.

It all looks fine. Mom wouldn’t have come in here unless she wanted something. The last time she was here, she took my warmest jacket and best boots. The time before that, she grabbed a couple pieces of jewelry to pawn off. Before that, she found my stash of—

I lurch into motion, crashing down onto my knees beside the bed to reach behind the frame. But I don’t need to squeeze my fingers to get to it because the metal container is on the floor. Open.

Empty.

Fucking. Empty.

I snatch the container off the ground and hurl it across the room. It hits the hallway wall with a vicious thud, the sound echoing across the frigid room. The breeze from outside filters through my T-shirt covering the window, forcing a shiver out of me as tears sting my eyes.

“That bitch!” I rip my lamp away from the wall, letting it join the empty container.

That was meant to last me a month.

A whole fucking month.

It would have lasted longer if I didn’t get carried away with Tony last night. Last month, he discounted a couple grams for me to sell so I could make some cash. Does she realize how many wallets I stole and how much shit I pawned just to get all that?

Fuck her.

Fuck Kohen.

My eyes catch on the black T-shirt taped over my broken window.

And fuck Dad too.

I collapse to the ground and slap the floor. Fuck!

I can’t stay here and wait for morning to come when there’s nothing to do at night. Dad stole the last TV we had, and one of Mom’s dates for the night broke the modem. I can’t even afford a fucking laptop. I also don’t know what I might do if Mom comes back tonight. Yell? Scream? Shake her until she gives me back what she took?

I drank my body weight at Tony’s house last night, and it’s only Wednesday.

Fuck it. I’ve got nothing better to do, and I need to forget this shitty day. Snatching my phone off the floor, I call the only person I’ve contacted this month.

Tony picks up on the third ring. How pathetic is it that my drug dealer is the only person who hasn’t let me down?

“I need a hit. I’ll owe you one.”