Prologue
Claire
I shift the old beater in drive and peel out as quick as I can, leaving a trail of smoke in my path. The smell of burning rubber fills the car, and it isn’t until I round the corner that the smoke diminishes. Behind me, just like my life—my past. A duffel bag rides co-pilot, along with the stash of money I was able to get from the safe.
It won’t be long until he’s on the phone with all of his goons, ordering them to search for his missing property—me. At least that's the way I’ve lived my life for the past few years, as a prisoner. His prized possession that he kept up on the shelf, out of reach, and displayed with the utmost prestige.
If I so much as wore the wrong color, he’d lose his fucking mind. I never went down without a fight, and when I did, I fought hard. I’m pretty sure that’s what he liked the most, feeling the wrath of my bitterness. He felt it alright, with the head of a golf club straight to his balls. I hit him so hard that he’s probably choking on them right now.
None of it matters anymore.
I drive for what feels like hours, though it was only two. Hopefully, those two hours have put enough distance between myself and the life I lived. I feel confident enough that it’s safe to pull into the next rest stop.
I pull into the first space available, and my eyes search the parking lot, just to be sure he didn’t follow me.
The coast is clear.
I reach over and unzip the black bag, pulling out my wallet and my ID with my new identity—Claire Hyland. At least the last name is new. I’ve been working on the name for the past four months, with the plan to take off as soon as everything was finalized. It’s the only way I could leave and not be found. I still can’t believe Jorge pulled this off. The car, the room to rent, and the job interview. Apparently, he has some connections with a well-known family from Redwood. It just so happens that they were in need of an art teacher.
I’m forever in his debt. He’s my best friend and the only person who knows that I left, let alone, where I’m going.
I pull out the papers he printed for me about the job as I sit in the parking lot.
Redwood High School
Long-term Art Substitute Teacher
I’ve never taught before. I don’t even like kids, let alone hormonal know-it-alls—but there isn’t much out there for someone with an Arts degree. A temporary teaching position is the perfect way to live low-key, for now, anyway.
1
Knox
My alarm goes off at exactly seven a.m. Just like every morning, I stretch my arm over the nightstand that holds my phone and slap it a few times until it stops. Hoping I hit snooze instead of stop. That happens at least twice a week, which then causes Mom to pound on the door. Either way, I always make it to class on time: the one and only perk of having your Mom as the new principal.
I close my eyes and try like hell to get five more minutes of sleep. Those five minutes do wonders, especially on a Monday morning.
The next thing I know, Mom is pounding on the door. “Knox, are you up?”
“I’m up,” I holler back, as I reach for my phone.
7:40. Shit.
I spring out of the bed at full speed and kick around some of the clothes on the floor, all of which were folded nicely in a pile at one point or another. Once I find the jeans I’m looking for, I slide them on over my boxer shorts then grab a couple matching socks from the floor and sniff em’ to make sure they smell clean. I yank down the first t-shirt I find in my closet then grab my phone and my bag and head out of my bedroom.
I hold the shirt in front of me, curious about what I’m wearing today.
Class of 2020.
A Class with a Vision.
It’ll do. I’m running late as fuck, and I don’t have time to change. I pull it on over my head, as I’m walking down the hall to the bathroom.
A quick piss, a brush of the teeth, and some cold water on the face and I’m on my way out the door.
I pull open the door to my Jeep and slide in, immediately starting it and rolling all the windows down. The breeze sweeps across my skin, cooling it on this hot spring day.
I glance at the clock on the dash and already know that I’m not making it on time. The school is only ten minutes from my home, but the first bell rings in eight minutes. I floor it, trying to eat up some of the miles from here to there.
I take high school much more seriously than most of my classmates. “It may be high school, but your choices today define your character tomorrow,” Mom often says.
I jog through the hall, sliding up tom my locker and almost passing it. Everyone is hurrying into their classes because the bell is going to ring in about thirty seconds. I spin the combination, drop my bag in and grab my art sketchbook and haul ass down the hall. Just as the door is about to close, I slip in.
Ms. Hyland gives me an eye roll and moves to the side, gesturing me toward my desk. I don’t even think I’ve seen her smile since she took over as our teacher in October, which was five months ago. We were all thrilled to hear that Mr. Mitchell was taking an early retirement; he was the king of asshole teachers. Little did we know, though, that Ms. Hyland was the female version, only hotter and much younger.
When I first laid eyes on her, I did what every other guy in this school did, I drooled. I daydreamed. I jerked off to the image of her in my head. Now, every time I do any of those things, I picture the scowl on her face when she said that she called the cops on us all.
It was Friday night, the last game of the season. Mom and Isaac, my future step-dad, were out of town, so I had a few people over. No big deal. It wasn’t a party, per say, just a dozen of us having a fire in the backyard. I knew that Ms. Hyland was renting out the guesthouse from my neighbor and best friend, Blakely, while she was here. What I didn’t know, at that time, was how big of a stick the lady had up her ass. It’s like someone shit all over one of her paintings one day, and she’s never forgotten it. I do have to admit, she’s got skills with a paintbrush. That’s probably why Blakely was so willing to help her out. It has to be, because Blakely Porter isn’t kind to many.
“Dude, crank up the fucking music,” Axel shouted with his hand pumped in the air, while holding onto his beer, causing it to slosh all over Harper, who was standing next to him.
“What the hell?” Harper groaned, as she swings her arm in a swift motion, causing droplets of beer to fly into Axel’s face.
I watched them from across the fire, seeing flames in Harper’s eyes. It was just a week prior that she dumped him, and they've been bickering nonstop ever since. They’re about as toxic together as chlorine and ammonia.
“If you’d move your ass away from me then you wouldn’t have to worry about it.” He tips his beer back and finishes it off, tossing it in the pit and ignoring her death glare.
“You’re an asshole,” Harper growled, as she tossed her half full cup at him and stalked off.
Axel, unfazed, just brushed off his cheek with the back of his hand and paid no attention to the beer stain on his black shirt. “How about that music, Burton?” His eyes shot to me from across the fire.
“It’s loud enough. We don’t need to piss off the queen next door.” At the time, I was referring to Blakely—my best friend, and also my neighbor. At only twenty years old, she owns the big ass house next to us, as well as a historical art studio downtown. It was all handed to her, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t deserve it. She may be like family, but I’m the first to admit that getting on Blakely’s bad side is never a good idea.