Page 140 of Dance of Thorns

Mostly.

As if on cue, the new girl strides around the corner of the hallway. Well, technically a quarter of the fucking school are “new” today. It’s day one of the school year, and she’s one of the incoming freshmen.

Dove Marchetti: Cesare Marchetti’s princess of a daughter.

She flashes a killer smile as she sashays down the hall in her short plaid skirt, knee socks and open blouse, looking like a wet dream.

Notmyfucking wet dream. But definitely one for just about every other guy who attends this fucking school.

They won't give a shit that she’s “dirty new money” like me because it’s overshadowed by that pushup bra, big dark eyes and million-watt smile.

“Don’t drool, Viggo.”

My jaw clenches before I turn. Scott Hathaway, “of the Upper East Side Hathaways” as he has a nauseating habit of saying, is a grade behind me. But despite being a cretin, a creep, and a piece of shit, the motherfucker is royalty in this school. And at Pembroke, that’s saying something.

He’s already the varsity quarterback in his sophomore year and has the entourage around him to back it up.

But none of that is why I don’t just beat the fuck out of him.

“What’s the matter,Viggo?” Scott grins at me. “You jizz in your pants already?”

It’s probably the millionth time I’ve heard him or one of his little friends call me that. Viggo as in Viggo Mortensen, the lead actor inEastern Promises, a movie about—wait for it—the Russian Bratva.

Howfuckingoriginal.

But the single most annoying thing about this little bitch isn’t the dumb name he calls me. It’s not his obnoxious, all-American-douchebag persona.

It’s the fact thatI can’t hit him.

Not because I’ll get in trouble or whatever. But because Dad is in the middle of negotiating ahugedeal with Mitchell Hathaway, Scott’s equally douchebaggy father.

I know. But as Dad’s told me easily a dozen times, “You gotta get down and eat with the pigs if you want to get fat.”

Dad knows what he’s doing. He built the empire I’ll lead one day from fucking nothing. I also happen to know that this deal he’s working out with Mitchell Hathaway will eventually mean we fuckingownthat cunt.

But until that happy day, Nikolai Antonov’s son categorically cannot, sadly, beat the ever-loving shit out of Mitchell Hathaway’s son.

It’s beenveryhard to keep myself in check. Not just stopping myself from punching his lights out, but also from telling him that his dad is just as fucking dirty as he says mine is. Scott doesn’t know about that side of his dad’s business, andfuckwould it be sweet to be the one to clue him in and watch him realize he’s just as sullied as the rest of us.

But I bite my tongue, daily, because that’s what my father needs me to do.

“Tell me, Viggo…” Scott grins, nodding past me. I glance back to see Dove surrounded by a gaggle of rich, horny Thornfield Prep motherfuckers.

Scott snickers, elbowing his buddies. “You got a little stiffy for that freshman? Well, too bad,” he smirks. “That chick ismine.”

To be clear, there’s nothing little about my “stiffy”. But if the rumors I’ve heard from some of the cheerleaders who occasionally buy weed from me are true—I mean, who the hellelseare they going to buy from at this buttoned-up shithole—Scott’s“stiffy” sure is.

“Cool.” I pat his shoulder abitharder than I should, winking at him. “Good luck with that baby dick of yours. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

His face darkens as I brush past him.

“The fuck did you just say, bitch!” he yells after me.

“It’s the motion of the ocean, right, Scotty?” I yell back as I turn to grin and hold up two middle fingers at him. “Not the size of the boat!”

Eat a bag of dicks, motherfucker.

That bitchy cheerleader isallhis.