Page 5 of Raise Hell
One
The campus of St.Bartholomew’s College smells like expensive perfume and sin.
It’s probably in my head. But I still choke on the phantom odor as I climb out of the cab that can’t go past the impressively high main gates. St. Bart’s might as well be a fortress, considering how difficult it is to get inside.
The gate guard sounds apologetic when he tells the cab driver that he’ll have to let me out and turn around. Only school-owned town cars and personal vehicles with special faculty passes are allowed inside the thick wrought-iron fence that surrounds acres of school property.
Once you’re inside, there isn’t any getting out.
I wave away the cab driver’s protest and shove a handful of crumpled bills at him, enough for the fare and a generous tip.
There will be enough fighting to come. No point in getting into one now.
What’s a half-mile walk, considering everything that’s already happened?
Slinging my battered duffel bag over my shoulder, I set off up the hill that leads to campus. My boot heels slip and slide on the gravel, their smooth soles meant for fashion, not hiking. I have to be careful where I step if I don’t want to break an ankle.
Which means it’s going to take twice as long as it should to make it to the top of the hill.
Sun beats down on the back of my neck. Beads of sweat prickle on my skin, and every piece of my exposed flesh will probably be bright red within minutes. Physical activity is not my favorite thing at the best of times, but especially not when I’m wearing a babydoll dress and stripper boots I shoplifted from Nordstroms.
It makes twisted sense that entering St. Bart’s feels like passing through the gates of hell.
I remind myself that anything worth doing, is worthy of suffering. It would be idiotic to think any of this might be easy.
This is the first step of a thousand, each more difficult than the last.
There isn’t a sidewalk, because no one ever walks up this road.
But it’s arrival day for the new school year, so I’m not the only one headed to campus.
A line of solid black town cars roll slowly past. The windows are blacked out, but I know curious faces press against the glass. Jaws will drop when they realize who they’ve just seen, necks craning back for another look as the car turns a bend in the road and I disappear from view.
It’s been six months since anyone here laid eyes on Olivia Pratt.
None of them thought they’d see this face again.
The rumor mill will already be churning by the time I reach the cluster of buildings at the top of the hill. News will have spread far and wide, via text message or updates on social media, that Olivia Pratt is back at St. Bart’s.
Famous or infamous.
Sometimes, one is indistinguishable from the other.
I’m not disappointed when I reach the administration building and shove open the heavy oak doors. A dozen faces turn in my direction, expressions varying from shocked surprise to outright disdain.
Everyone takes a collective breath, and all conversation stops.
The tension is thick enough to choke on.
When the noise finally resumes, I know I’m the topic of every conversation.
Cold air from the air-conditioning rushes over me like spring rain, drying the sweat on my skin into what I hope is a dewy sheen. My heels clack on the shiny marble floor as I stride forward like I’m on a catwalk instead of this brightly-lit hallway full of intimidating strangers.
I’ve spent more than my fair share of time around rich bitches. They may wear designer clothing and expensive haircuts like armor and warpaint, but they’ll also fall apart at the first sign of true danger. Their pampered lives are no training ground for an iron spirit.
Even though they look at me like I’m the gum stuck to their shoes, I am the only true survivor here.
And I plan to do a hell of a lot more while I’m here than just survive.