Page 114 of Cruel Elite (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 3)

Penny has infected me, body and soul.

I’m not sure there’s a cure.

34

Noah

The mistakes start Friday night.

That’s when I took my first shot.

I drink until I fell asleep, ignoring J.C.’s frustrated text messages, and then wake up with a raging headache and drink again to ease it.

J.C. gave up texting me around two in the morning, though he starts again at nine.

If you aren’t here to help me set up in an hour, I’m locking you out.

I’m not sure if I even care.

Spring Fling has been this distant, magical event we all talked about for so long that I almost can’t believe it’s actually here.

More than that, I can’t believe I’m not more excited.

I didn’t realize how unexcited I was until I slid my fingers into Penny’s pants in the bathroom and made her come in my hand.

That alone was better than anything I’d done in the two years prior.

Better than anything I’ll do in the next two years, too.

So, now, the thought of sleeping with any girl I want to at Spring Fling rings hollow.

Because I don’t want justanygirl.

I want Penny.

And I don’t think I can have her. Not if I want to maintain my sanity.

She’s tearing me down, brick by brick. Soon enough, there won’t be anything left.

I have to protect myself—even if that means letting go of my crusade to ruin her life.

After J.C.’s second threatening text, I take a shower and slide into a worn pair of jeans, a heather gray sweatshirt, and my dark gray bomber jacket.

A bag I packed in my drunken stupor last night, complete with the list of essentials J.C. suggested I bring—condoms, a water bottle, more condoms, a change of clothes, and a few more condoms just in case—is sitting by the door. I grab it on my way out.

“Have fun on your camping trip,” my mom says, bent over the island with her hand on her head.

She was drinking last night, just like I was. The difference is, she’s so hungover she doesn’t even notice I don’t have a sleeping bag or hiking boots with me.

Fast forward a few hours and now, I’m lugging alcohol into a rented cabin in the middle of absolute nowhere.

“People are already showing up,” J.C. says, sounding miffed. “It’s not supposed to start until noon.”

“I don’t know if the attendees of this party would be considered rule followers under normal circumstances.”

“Still,” he huffs, “have some class.”

I help him cart a keg through the back door of the kitchen, where we stumble upon a couple making out in the kitchen, legs intertwined and hands exploring aggressively.

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