Page 19 of Tempting Little Thief

Delta is the last to slide in. “You should have asked Calvin to travel south, doubling the chances of him taking one of the two offers—your wing or your hoo-ha.”

Bronx sighs dramatically, playfully fanning herself. “Or I could just spread my legsvery unladylikethe next time I’m called into his office and asked to sit in the chair across from him.”

“Why does it sound like you need to add ‘again’ to the end of that sentence?” I flick my eyes her way over my compact mirror, triple-checking I didn’t get lipstick on my teeth.

“One chip at a time, Rocco. You know the game best. Dom took a chisel to your ice years ago and only just broke through.”

“Which is awfully sad when you think about it.” Delta joins in on Bronx’s fun. “It’s not like he requires a Magnum-sized hole.”

“Poor Damiano and his six-inch grower not shower,” Bronx adds with a faux pout.

I roll my eyes but chuckle along with them.

They’re only teasing. All three of us have seen Damiano naked, be it out at the Greyson lake house, when we’d go late-night skinny dipping or, on occasion, his suitless laps in the pool on the grounds. Or simply when he decides to strip down to his birthday suit on fun, drunken nights of partying.

He’s far from girthy challenged, and hehasworn me down over the last few months. If ‘wore me down’ refers to the fact that his argument of being a capable, wanting young man as I am a capable, needy young woman, and the idea that we could benefit sexually from one another has finally begun to make a lick of sense.

Sai loops our car around the long driveway, through the first set of iron gates, blocking us off from the rest of the estate, and starts down the long road that sometimes feels never ending.

Most of my life is spent within these walls and when I’m not here, I’m shadowed everywhere I go.

Sai may come off as the perfect, silent chauffeur, and he is as far as everyone else is concerned. He pretends he doesn’t hear whatever is said and that he doesn’t see whatever is to be seen, when really, he sees everything, hears everything,knowsevery-freaking-thing.He has this sixth sense when it comes to me.

Ten years as my guardian will do that.

When I was a little girl, he was my dad’s shadow, the man with the muscle when my dad wasn’t in the mood to use his own, and then just before my mother died, he became mine.

He’s taller than tall and built like a bull, with wide shoulders and arms that threaten to shred the seams of his suit jacket. His nose is a bit crooked and he has small scars littering his features, but not in a way that makes him appear rugged. His hair is as dark as his eyes, but over the last few years, hints of gray have popped up in the hairline near his temples. Him and my dad both.

When they stand beside each other, they look every bit as menacing as they did ten years ago. Age has only made them stronger, as it tends to do when everyone is trying to be the next you.

I know why my dad put his oldest and his most trusted friend with me.

There is no doubt in my mind, or anyone who knows the man behind the mask, that if anyone ever dared come after me, he’d go full-blown John Creasy on their ass.

The car continues at a steady pace, rolling through the parallel rows of palm trees, the peak lights that normally illuminate their height no longer glowing under the morning sun. As the last set disappears behind us, the road widens and curves, taking us around the dormitory and out the second gate that blocks it off from the academy building.

The only way for students, all of whom are required to live on campus, to get to the school and outside the estate grounds is through the bottom floor of the boarding house. It narrows into a single tunnel, leading straight into the Power Play Hall of Greyson Elite. People often ask why the school isn’t protected within the grounds of the Greyson property, as if the third and final iron fence locking us in isn’t protection enough, not to mention the guards all around, but if they gave it even half the thought they should, they would find the answer quite simple.

Greyson Elite is a prestigious private school for young scholars: the geniuses of our world and the rare few lucky enough to be invited. We’re a nationally accredited academy, though we don’t publicize such a rudimentary term.

If a concerning complaint or perilous predicament were to be whispered into the county sheriff’s ear or reach the district attorney’s office before we had a chance to sweep our own halls, we couldn’t exactly keep them off “academy” grounds when investigating. Pay the right people to make things disappear, yes. Keep them off the grounds, no.

But preventing them from sniffing around the problems in our own personal place of residence? Easy as the SATs.

It’s rare for an issue to slip under the radar, but it has happened in the past, and we’re not naive enough to assume it couldn’t happen to us.

It all comes down to one idea: Greyson Elite is no joke.

It’s competitive and cutthroat. We’ve allowed enough rumors to roam, strategic ones, of course, alluding to what our personal interests are in the students of this place, so everyone is constantly slicing the ankles of the person in front of them in hopes for their time to shine. We encourage it. People either graduate and move on, get stepped on, or arehiredon if they show promise or possess a specific skill our founders, a.k.a. our fathers, are after—reason number one most are presented with an invitation into the school to begin with, to help build our teams.

Tech whiz? Check.

Ties to prominent families overseas? Check.

Can hang five minutes sparring with Bronx or Damiano? Checkanda golden star.

If you’re connected to our world in any way with a kid in their last year of high school, you’re waiting next to your mailbox on May 1 with bated breath, the official invite day.

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