Page 449 of Filthy Elites

“I don’t know you,” I breathe.

“That’s okay, I know you and we have time for you to learn all you need to know about me.”

The door to the back of the restaurant swings open and Clay strides through, smiling widely with my backpack in his hand.

His reappearance drags me from the haze Sebastian’s touch has put me under and I turn away from his hand, forcing him to move. “He has my stuff. Why does he have my stuff?”

“Because we’re leaving,” he says simply, gesturing to the guy who’s blocking my exit from the booth.

The guy—Hunter, I’m assuming as apparently the other two are Clay and Evan—slides out and I quickly follow him, rushing to grab my backpack from Clay and pulling it tightly into my chest.

“Here’s your final check, your boss added a month’s pay as severance,” Clay smiles.

Breathing becomes hard as the air around me seems to become thinner and less effective. I need this job; my mom and I need this money. She doesn’t even realize she’s taking it from me, but at least with me contributing, the lights don’t get turned off and there’s food in the cupboards.

Eyeing these awful boys who have come in here and turned my life upside down, I dart past them and into the kitchen, ignoring Esteban, the chef, who calls to me as I head for the manager’s office. The door is open and Henry is sitting behind his worn, chipped, wooden desk.

“Henry, what’s going on? I need this job.”

His face is pale, his normally sallow skin almost white as his eyes stare unseeingly at the wall.

“Henry,” I call his name again.

“I’m sorry, Starling,” he says, turning his sad gaze on me.

“What’s going on?” I beg. “Why?”

“Because if I continue to allow you to work here, they’ll have this place shut down.”

Scoffing, I shake my head. “They’re kids, they’re in high school for god’s sake.”

“The Lockwoods, Jansens, Morrises and Rossbergs run this town, even the shitty parts of it. I can’t risk this place getting on their radar over a sixteen-year-old waitress. I’m sorry, Starling, but you need to leave. I’ve given you a month’s wages, I know you need the money to help out your mom. But don’t come back here, you belong to them now.”

I’m gaping, my bottom lip trembling as I take in what he’s saying. I’ve just lost my job, he’s fired me because a rich kid wearing his school uniform threatened him. I shake my head. “I’m sorry too,” I whisper, turning and leaving his office.

Sebastian is waiting for me in the cramped corridor, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze imperious. He’s taller than I realized, towering over my diminutive five-foot-two height so I have to tip my head back to glare at him. His hair is a dirty blond, shaved close to his head at the sides, but long enough to style into a floppy mess on the top. Piercing green eyes watch me closely, like he’s taking in every detail and cataloging it. His expression is fire and ice all at once, and I shiver beneath his penetrating gaze. His arms are straining a little at the sleeves of his school blazer, the green color complementing his olive-toned tan skin. I don’t allow my eyes to venture farther down than his chest, although I’m sure his legs are muscled from all the sports I know The Elites are involved in.

Being this close to him is stifling. Everyone at GAA is aware of The Elite, their legacy is omnipresent everywhere at school. It’s like royalty or the president, you know who they are but you don’tknow who they are.

I’ve never spoken to them, never seen them up close, never considered them as more than a high school staple that wouldn’t have an impact on me. I’m not one of the kids that wants to be popular, I’m the polar opposite, I just want to make it through my sophomore year with as little drama and involvement as possible.

“Let’s go,” Sebastian orders.

“Go where?” I ask, shell-shocked.

“Home.”

“I can get the bus.”

“That won’t be happening again, the bus isn’t safe.”

“I’ve been riding the bus on my own for years, it’s perfectly safe.”

“It won’t happen again,” he tells me, and there’s no mistaking the order in his tone. His expression and his voice say he’s not used to being disobeyed, and yet I don’t seem to be able to heed the silent warning.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I can and I am. You won’t ride the bus again. Either I or one of the others will take you anywhere you need to go from now on.” He’s so calm, because he expects to be obeyed and the thought of me not doing what he wants is completely out of the question.

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