Page 1 of The Tenth Circle (Vicious Saint: Prelude)

HENDRIX

August Orientation

H ow the hell did I get here?

In a world reeking of self-righteous privilege?

Which deity of the universe did I piss off enough to put us in the one out of three-hundred million?

For years I’ve been laying low in a three bedroom Manhattan apartment with my mother and Aunt—having nobody to answer to but them and my intrusive thoughts.

Why, out of all the nineteen million people residing in New York State, does MY MOTHER have to be the one who wins the mega-millions?

I know most would be side-eying me right now.

Even contemplating my sanity.

Hendrix, who would actually hate becoming a multi-millionaire? Moving into a fancy condo and the top one percent? Joining a new school for the “elite” where you can walk around in the same shoes you’ve been gawking at through the windows of Madison Avenue?

Have you never watched Sex and the City?

Yeah, I have, and I will never be a Carrie Fucking Bradshaw. Not with my baggage and forty plus inch hips.

Alas, the universe, despite my stomping and whining, has decided it’s time for Hendrix Montgomery to take a walk on the wealthy side.

A girl whose most wild adventures involve riding the train at night between Times Square and Broadway.

If somebody told me I would end up in a school where the only struggle for girls was deciding between Yves Saint Laurent and Moncler, I’d choke on a Pepsi from laughter.

Don’t even get me started on the guys.

Riverside Preparatory School is on the opposite side of the world, ahem , I mean island, and for good reason. The number one being having an actual hand in the city budget.

And, because I’m me and don’t go down unless I do it petty, I decided for my ego’s sake I’ll dress in my grungiest outfit for this stupid orientation day Mom insists I go to.

Whatever happened to Cliff’s notes?

“Let’s go. We’re gonna be late, Hen!” Mom shouts from the front of our place, already dressed to the nines in Chanel.

“Coming…” I try my best not to grumble as I reach for my bag, making sure to toss an extra pack of cigarettes inside before hiking it over my shoulder.

I hear her whine the second my feet hit the hallway.

“Really? Shredded jeans?” Mom’s crossed arms fall in defeat at her sides. “Guess I should be happy you at least decided not to wear a cigarette behind your ear.”

With a wide sarcastic smile I reach into the tote and pull out my fresh Newports, tapping my palm against the bottom.

Mom shakes her head. “You’re really such a brat, you know that?”

“I would’ve gone with bitch, but that works too.”

With a small chuckle Mom turns, ambling toward the front door where the rest of her Chanel is waiting for her on the dining table.

Begrudgingly, I follow, but not before I mouth off, “That bag costs a monthly mortgage, you know.”

Mom counters with a middle finger over her shoulder.

Passing the kitchen island, I reach for a pancake off the stack she made earlier and take a large chunk out of it, washing it down with whatever’s left of my orange juice from breakfast.

Here’s the thing about new money and prestige—it takes some time for the brain to catch up with living like you have it, and judging by the mess Mom left in this fancy shmancy non galley kitchen, hers most definitely has not. After all, it was Auntie, not her, who bothered to hire a maid.

After another swift “Let’s go,” I polish off her orange juice too before taking another bite of the pancake.

Then I grab another one for the road.

What a damn shocker, Hendrix was right.

There was literally no point to this stupid orientation other than smiling when necessary and being put on display for the less than welcoming teenage residents.

I could feel the excitement radiating off Mom the further we got through the tour—a dream of hers finally coming to fruition after so many years of us living in the shadows of the middle class.

Not that she’s making it obvious. Mom’s greatest knack has always been her ability to adapt to any crowd.

She’d call it practicality, I’d call it self-preservation.

All that changed was the crowd.

Here’s another fact about the brain when going from rags to riches…it has the tendency to forget the past is never far behind. Even when the footsteps aren’t loud.

We’ve been at this orientation thing for what feels like decades, and only just got outside by the football field for a lunch break.

Which in Hendrix terms means cigarette break .

I could definitely use one over a meal, and that’s saying a lot because it’s scorching out here and I’m pretty sure I spotted some lasagna in the “Dining Hall” our tour guide introduced us to.

Insert judgmental eye roll.

What the fuck is with all the romanticizing, anyway?

Say it with me, entitled snobs, caf-e-teria .

Anyway, as amazing as air conditioning, lasagna, and a smoke sound, I have to put all three on hold because I’ve somehow managed to snag a friend along the way to this blistering hell of a half-time.

Her name is Rebecca—Bex for short—from the west coast in an area where it never gets as hot as the Devil’s dick outside. Climate shifts don't matter, because I can still guarantee her skinny ass is not sweating in the same crevices as me.

But she’s cool people. Made this whole experience like ten percent less intolerable. Which is the only reason I’m not ditching her for nicotine and carbs.

I will splurge on a snack, though. I’m no masochist.

Pulling the granola bar I bought at a vending machine next to the “Dining Hall” out of my pocket, I rip it open and bite down on the end of it.

There’s some awkward silence between us as I chew—mostly because she looks like she’s about to combust—but whatever, I guess I’ll do the polite thing and spark up some convo.

Looking down at the granola bar, I pick at the chocolate chips. “So what brings you to Riverside?”

She throws her wrapper in the nearby trash can. “I moved here from La Jolla. My stepdad is opening up his own art gallery not far from here.”

I toss some chocolate in my mouth. “Rich stepdad sounds miserable.”

“He’s not too bad.”

Shrugging, I add, “I dig it, then, I guess. I was happy being in public school, though.”

Bex’s face looks as if she’s not going to argue the fact. “I get that. This atmosphere is definitely unique compared to the broken lockers and old desks at my other school.”

This time I add a huff. “I’d take old desks over Mom’s new money any day.”

She shifts in her seat, seeming intrigued. “New money?”

“Yup.” I pop my lips. “Lotto to be exact. Who knew it was actually possible to win?”

“What’s up ladies?” The red headed tour guide appears out of nowhere, a grin plastered to his face as he towers over us.

I check the name on the tag of his blazer, since I can’t remember for shit what he said it was during the tour.

Archer.

Meh. Boring. Just like this school.

Bex is doing the chipper greeting as I begin examining my nails, but then I hear her introducing me, too, leaving me with no choice but to engage.

“Howdy.” I tell the Archer guy after she states my name.

Clearly the effort wasn’t enough for Archie Andrews because he continues conversing with Bex only.

Fine by me, at least until there’s a little white stick hanging from my lips stopping me from backhanding somebody.

I’m listening to them just enough to hear Bex mention having to use the bathroom, and when she stands she asks if I need to go too.

A piss stop would probably be a good idea, but I am due a bad one. “All good. I’ll be finding a place to hide so I can smoke a cigarette.”

Archer does not like this response. “And I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

And I’m gonna pretend I didn’t get forced to listen to him go on for over an hour about the history of all the amazing rich white men who founded this school.

They take off and I scan the area for the perfect escape, Mom sensing it immediately because she’s grilling me from four tables down.

“Really, Hendrix?” she hisses as I pass her and Nina, Bex’s mom.

“Really, June?” I retort, still moving. “It’s either this or I’m out.”

I can feel the eye roll like the beads of sweat at my neck.

There’s a door on the other side of the court, so I make my way over to it quickly, needing to enjoy my smoke indoors and out of this damn heat.

To my delight it’s unlocked, so I twist open the knob and squeeze inside, then close the door carefully behind me.

Looking around the dark room, I find sports equipment littering the floor, leaving me to assume it’s the storage area for the gymnasium.

Creepy, but at least it lacks the overcompensating redhead.

Spotting a small open window in a corner, I shuffle through the junk and step up onto a crate so I’m level with the glass to vent the smoke.

It’s a coming up for air moment when I pull the cigarettes from my bag—seconds passing before one is out of the pack, in my mouth, and lit, the smoke invading my lungs like the sweetest form of acid.

Morbid analogy, yes, but also kind of true.

I’m about two pulls in when the sound of scuffling makes me whip my head around, searching the shadows of boxes and gym stuff for signs of life.

The signs come in the form of whispers and moans.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I grumble under my breath. What is this? An actual episode of Riverdale ?

Who would have sex in a place like this?

My question is answered right after I flick my little friend out of the window, climbing down the crate and making my way over quietly to where the moans grow louder.

Sure enough, there they are, huddled on the floor behind a pile of boxes and desks, two horny imbeciles sucking face.

Correction. Three horny imbeciles—and judging by the head bobbing up and down, faces aren’t the only body parts being sucked on.

I’m trying to get a glimpse of the guy, but since his back is to me and it’s dark in here, it’s impossible. The only decent view I’m given is the silhouette of what may be a blonde kissing him and the bobbing head of hair.

Gross.