Home > Angry God (All Saints High #3)(4)

Angry God (All Saints High #3)(4)
Author: L.J. Shen

“I’d rather have my dick sucked by a hungry shark.”

Arabella Garofalo reminded me of tiny, inbred dogs with diamond-studded pink collars and squeaky barks, who occasionally bit your ass and pissed themselves when excited. She was mean, desperate, mouthy, and perhaps worst of all—entirely too eager to offer me blowies.

“Why don’t you get your dick sucked by Hazel? She just got old-school braces, so it’s practically the same,” Knight suggested cordially, fishing his Alkaline water bottle out of a designer leather backpack and taking a swig.

I knew there was vodka in there. He’d probably popped a few Oxies before getting here, too. Asshole made Hunter S. Thompson look like a fucking Boy Scout.

“Booze before ten a.m.?” I twisted my lips in a lazy smirk. Love letters and nude Polaroids spilled from my locker in a river of teenage desperation. No girl had the guts to actually come talk to me. I collected and tossed them into a trash can nearby, never breaking eye contact with Knight. “I thought being a virgin at eighteen covered your pathetic quota for senior year.”

“Eat shit, Spencer.” He took another swig.

“If I did, would you go the fuck away? ’Cause in that case, I’m tempted.”

I slammed my locker shut. Knight didn’t know about Lenora Astalis. Bringing attention to her wasn’t on my agenda. Right now, she was a Goth freak with zero reputation or social status to speak of, and that’s how she was going to remain in these hallways, unless I showed any trace of emotion toward her.

Which—spoiler alert—I didn’t have.

“Don’t be fresh, Spence.”

“I’m stale as a five-day-old shit.” I threw my backpack over one shoulder. Ain’t that the truth.

“Gross, man. Having Luna, Daria, and me as friends didn’t really humanize you as much as your parents had hoped. It’s like putting a little hat on a hamster. Cute, but useless.”

I stared at him blankly. “Are you even talking in English right now? Get your ass something greasy and a bottle of water before everyone gets secondhand alcohol poisoning from your breath.”

“Suit yourself. More prime English meat for me.” Knight waved me off, a spring in his step.

I shook my head as I followed. As if he’d ever do something about said meat. For all intents and purposes, the guy was a fucking pussy-vegan, more virginal than olive oil. He wanted to dip his dick into one hole, and one hole only. It was attached to Luna Rexroth, his childhood crush, who was in college, miles away—hopefully being less pathetic than him and getting laid.

However, there was no doubt the English meat Knight had poetically referred to was Lenora, which meant her presence at All Saints High had already drawn attention.

I could see why her older sister, what’s-her-face Astalis, was a hit with the dudebros. I’d seen her around. She looked like the kind of attention-seeking, bubbly, mass-made blondie who’d traded her soul for a pair of red-soled heels.

“The only English chick I’m interested in meeting is Margaret Thatcher.” I popped a mint gum into my mouth, shoving another one into Knight’s without his consent. His Mel Gibson breath was so flammable he could torch the motherfucking school if he lit a joint.

“She is dead, bro.” He chewed obediently, frowning.

“Exactly,” I quipped, hauling the strap of my backpack to my other shoulder just to do something with my hands. It was only nine-thirty, and already today excelled at sucking all the hairy balls in the universe.

When Knight remained glued to my side, despite not having the same first-period class as me, I stopped walking. “You’re still here. Why?”

“Lenora.” He unscrewed his “water” bottle again, taking another generous sip.

“Throwing random names in the air is not conversation, Knighty-boy. Let’s start with an entire sentence. Repeat after me: I. Need. Rehab. And. A. Good. Fuck.”

“Poppy Astalis’ hotter-than-Wasabi sister.” Knight ignored my jab. “She’s a senior, like us. Gives good-girl vibes.” He let loose a devilish smirk, turning around and running his eyes over her black-clad figure. She was only a few feet away, but didn’t seem to hear us, with the hustle and bustle. “But I can see her pointy fangs. She’s a natural born killer, that one.”

Poppy. That’s what’s-her-face’s name. Eh, I was close.

Lenora was a year younger than me, and if she was a senior now, that meant she’d skipped a grade. Goddamn nerd. No surprises there.

Knight continued his TMZ report.

“Their dad is this hotshot artist dude—runs that snooty art institute downtown. Honestly? I’m boring myself into a coma by repeating this information to you, so let’s just cut to the tea—the black sheep of the family is here for the year, and everyone wants a piece of that lamb.”

The meat metaphors were getting creepier by the nanosecond. Besides, I knew very well who Edgar Astalis was.

“I’m guessing this is the part where I should feign some kind of interest.” My jaw ticked, my teeth slamming together. He was lying. There was no way anyone wanted to touch Lenora. She strayed too far from the conventional hot-girl look. The black rags. The eyeliner. The lip piercing. Why not jerk off to a Marilyn Manson poster and save the condom?

Knight rolled his eyes theatrically.

“Man, you are really forcing me to spell it out. I saw your ass swallowing Girl, Interrupted with your eyes.” He clapped my shoulder like some kind of old, wise mentor. “You’ll be lucky if she ain’t pregnant after that eye-fucking sesh.”

“She looked familiar, that’s all.”

She did, because I’d been expecting her to show the fuck up since the minute her sister and dad crashed this town.

At school.

The gym.


It didn’t even make sense, but I still looked—even at my own parties, where uninvited guests weren’t welcome. She was a dark shadow following me everywhere, and I always tried to maintain the upper hand in our imaginary relationship. Fuck, I even rummaged her stupid-ass Instagram and found out what she watched and listened to just so I could understand her cultural world better and crack her, should the occasion occur.

And, well, it fucking had.

I decided on the spot that, despite Knight’s status as my closest friend, I wasn’t going to tell him I knew her. It would only complicate things, pushing my secret one more inch toward the light.

As it was, the truth was clawing at me, leaving welts of uncomfortable reality. Sometimes, on bad nights, I was tempted to tell my parents what had happened to me. They were decent parents, even my dipshit self had to admit. But ultimately, it boiled down to this: no one could take my pain away. No one.

Not even my damn-near-perfect, loving, caring, powerful, billionaire parents.

We come into this world alone, and we die alone. If we get sick, we fight it alone. Our parents are not there to go through chemo treatments for us. They’re not the ones losing their hair, puking buckets, or getting their asses kicked at school. If we’re involved in an accident, they’re not the ones losing blood, fighting for their lives on the operating table, losing a limb. “I’m here for you” is the dumbest sentence I’d ever heard anyone say.

They were not there for me.

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