Pretty Little Lies, page 3
“Clearly,” Nicolo responds to his friends as he looks me up and down. “You’re dressed like a dancer, but I hate to break it to you, klutz. You’re too clumsy to be in this art program. I bet she fails out before the end of her first week,” he taunts, laughing at me to his friends.
“Good one, Nico,” someone praises him.
His friends laugh around me. Though they’re different faces than the ones that followed him in high school, they’re the same person. Tall, good-looking, muscular guys with mean expressions permanently etched on their faces. A perfect match for Nicolo’s cruelty.
“And just look at her. You think she got that outfit from Goodwill or just the dumpster out behind it?” Nicolo mocks me, bringing tears to my eyes as he targets my vulnerability.
“I-I–” I stutter.
“You must be new here. I would have noticed someone strutting around in rags before now. Is it your first day, New Girl?” Nicolo sneers.
I’m struck by the realization that Nicolo doesn’t recognize me. While my body can’t seem to function properly over being in his proximity, my worst nightmare from high school has completely forgotten about me. I flash back to our confrontation in the halls of our high school, Nicolo pretending he didn’t remember my name, and I realize that it wasn’t just to hurt me. He really thinks so little of me that four years later, he doesn’t know who I am.
“Yes, it’s my first day,” I gasp breathlessly, trying to regain some form of composure in front of him while I stand frozen like a deer in the headlights.
“Well, let me give you a little hint, New Girl. Stay the fuck out of my way,” he growls, echoing his sentiment from years before and bringing back a fresh flood of memories. “Ugh,” he groans, looking down at his spinach-and-coffee-covered pants and shoes. “I’m going to have to change before my next class. I guess I’ll just buy something from the school shops.” His eyes flick back to me once more as his expression of disgust transforms into another sneer. “I would recommend you do the same, but it looks like you won’t be able to afford them. Maybe you can borrow a clean outfit from the homeless guy down the street.”
Nicolo’s friends burst into laughter, their heads tipping back as they point at me.
I fight back the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks as I stare down at my feet. I can’t bring myself to apologize again or even try to clean up my mess as his words cut deep. Spinning on my heel, I race from the cafeteria, ready to crawl into the deepest, darkest hole I can find.
Spotting the nearest bathroom, I rush through the door and sprint to the far stall, closing and latching it behind me. My tears of hurt and mortification burst from me in gasping sobs as I tremble uncontrollably.
How is it that Nicolo Marchetti, the man who has plagued my life for years, is suddenly at school with me once more? And what’s somehow worse is that he doesn’t even recognize me. I should be grateful, considering I have Clara to think about. I don’t want him to know anything about me. Still, in this fresh introduction of ours, I’ve clearly made Nicolo, an enemy.
Huddling in the bathroom stall, I allow myself ten minutes of self-pity, releasing tears until I can regain my breath. Then I pull myself together once more. I can’t afford to miss my next class over what happened with Nicolo. I need to find my resilience and push through if I’m going to take advantage of this opportunity Rosehill College has afforded me.
When I step out of the bathroom stall and approach the mirror above the sink, I’m glad I’m alone. My face is a mess, despite being free of makeup. My tears have left my cheek splotchy, and the tip of my nose is an angry red. Turning on the cold water, I wash my face, rinsing away my salty tears and cooling my flaming skin. I dry off with paper towels and fix my hair, pulling it back into a French braid that will keep it off my face once more.
I then turn to my leggings, which are stained with dark coffee splotches and oil from my salad dressing. I do the best I can to blot away the worst of it, using paper towels and water to help lift the stains, but I’ll need to work on them more when I get home. I can’t afford to simply replace my leggings if I can help it. At least I have a few other pairs, though these were my best ones.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten, but I won’t have time to stand in line for a salad again. Instead, I head to the expedited pre-packaged food fridge, grab a fruit bowl and bottle of water, then add it to my meal plan. Clutching my meal to my chest, I head outside to enjoy my food in peace and quiet. Finding an empty bench, I sit and eat, soaking up the summer day as I think about my encounter with Nicolo.
He’s just as cruel as I remember him being, if not more so, and I wonder what could have possibly turned him into such a mean person. Maybe it’s his excessive life of privilege. Though I bet it has more to do with his father being a prominent mafia figure. How can anyone turn into a decent human being when their way of life revolves around taking advantage of other people’s weakness and misfortune? He didn’t even allow me the time to feel bad for spilling hot coffee on him, which I know from the angry red splotches on the back of my hands must have hurt him as much as me.
I finish my meal with just enough time to make my way to class, and I head into the new gray stone building, rushing upstairs to find the right room. This is one of the few remaining core classes I’ll need to finish to complete my degree. For the most part, I was able to get them done during my time at community college, but not this history class.
The room is almost full, and I rush to find an open chair in the theater-style raised seating. Slipping into my chair, I tuck my bag beneath my seat and pull out a notebook just as the professor enters the room.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” someone says coldly behind me as I sit up straight.
Once again, the hair raises on the back of my neck, and I slowly turn to find Nicolo sitting a row behind me and a few seats to my right. My stomach drops as I realize he must be talking about me. His eyes are locked on mine, and his lip curls in utter disgust as he scoffs at me.
“What?” his blond friend with a clean-shaven face asks quietly beside him as the teacher starts to speak.
Nicolo jerks his chin in my direction, and when his friend glances my way, fresh mortification heats my cheeks. The friend snickers and I turn to face the front of the room, willing them to ignore me now that class has begun.
I can barely focus as the teacher introduces herself, writing her name on the board before handing a stack of syllabi to the nearest student seated in the front row. When the stack of papers reaches me, I take one and pass them down, turning to read what’s before me, focusing studiously on what the professor will expect rather than the handsome jerk behind me.
As Professor Kennedy reviews the class expectations in depth, whispered hisses issue from where Nicolo sits. I keep my eyes focused forward adamantly, doing my best to ignore what I’m sure he only intends to be a further insult to injury.
Something thunks lightly against the back of my head, and I catch sight of a crumpled piece of paper tumbling to the floor in my periphery. I can’t put him off any longer. Turning stiffly in my seat, I meet Nicolo’s playful eyes once again, and he smiles cockily.
“Hey, New Girl, did someone forget to tell you that we don’t let trailer trash into this university?” he whispers.
I glare at him, tired of the way he finds amusement in hurting me. “Then someone must have missed the memo when they sent you an admittance letter,” I snap back, keeping my tone low so as not to draw attention from the front of the room.
“Oh, shit, Nico! New Girl’s got claws!” Nicolo’s blond friend says behind his fist as he chuckles.
Nicolo backhands his friend’s shoulder, shutting him up with a cold look.
“You think you’re funny, klutz?” Nicolo demands, turning his attention back to me.
I shrug and turn to face our professor once again. The silence that follows behind me feels more ominous than any form of relief. My muscles tense as I wait for the next attack, sure that Nicolo’s not done with me.
The pen that hits my head a moment later, point directed at me, makes me jerk forward unexpectedly. Ow. I try not to show my pain, though I can’t stop my hand from reaching up to find the tender point of contact and cover it defensively. Someone snickers, and I grind my teeth as I regain my composure, refusing to glance back and give Nicolo the satisfaction of knowing he hurt me.
“Psst, New Girl.”
Another object flies past my ear, making me flinch.
“What?” I hiss, whirling to stare him down as fiercely as I can.
“Who’d you have to sleep with to get into the university? You clearly couldn’t afford the tuition otherwise. Haven’t you noticed you don’t belong?”
“Is there a problem?” Professor Kennedy asks, her voice raising to carry more authority as it travels to the back of the room.
I turn to find her eyes on me, watching me with pursed lips that give her a bespectacled face and an angry librarian look.
“No, ma’am,” I whisper to a round of snickers behind me. “Sorry.”
“Eyes up front,” she says dryly in response, no doubt thinking I must be mooning over Nicolo or something.
I’m going to have to get more intentional about when I get to this class and where I sit. The back row is looking far more appealing. At least then Nicolo wouldn’t be able to launch missiles my way.
I struggle through the remainder of the hour, keeping my eyes locked forward despite the continuous onslaught of paper balls and other objects thrown my way. As soon as Professor Kennedy dismisses us, I’m up and out of my chair, making my way hurriedly toward the door. But when I reach the end of my row of seats, Nicolo’s already waiting for me.
His imposing figure bars my path, his arms crossed over his chest to reveal his strong biceps beneath the fabric of his blue polo. “What’s your name, New Girl?” he asks.
I swallow hard, fear gripping my chest as I worry he might recognize me if I tell him. “Anya,” I reply simply and hold my breath.
“Well, Anya,” he sneers. “Why don’t you go back to whatever podunk town you came from? Chicago’s my town, and I don’t want you here.”
A shiver runs down my spine at the threat behind his words. I know his family all but runs Chicago, and they’re reputedly quite willing to prove their power with violent displays. But he wouldn’t hurt me, would he? In the middle of broad daylight on a college campus? Perhaps I should just keep my head down and try not to provoke him. I don’t particularly want to find out.
3
NICOLO
Tilting my chair against the back wall of my econ class, I can’t get Anya off my mind. It’s irritating. She burst into my life like a tornado, dumping coffee and salad all over my favorite pair of shoes and effectively ruining my day. While I couldn’t care less about the way her clumsiness scalded my skin, I care more about the way she looked at me. Like I was a viper, some poisonous snake that would surely kill her given a chance. She spilled all over me, and she had the nerve to look at me like I’m the ass?
As the oldest son of Lorenzo Marchetti and the heir to his business someday, I’m used to people treating me with respect and, when I demand it, fear. But Anya seemed to dislike me before she even met me, and that rankles me. Who is she to judge me? No one. She might be beautiful with her natural waves of golden hair and sky-blue eyes, her dainty chin and nose, but she’s clearly inferior to me. A charity case, probably here on some scholarship to the private college because no girl from a proper family would be caught dead in the rags she was wearing. Hell, I could see the runs in her leggings telling me she’s in desperate need of a new pair.
“Dude, Nico, your new car is sick,” Jay says enthusiastically beside me, pulling my attention away from the clumsy new girl and back to the present.
I smile cockily, thinking of my black Maserati parked in the garage beneath my Lincoln Park penthouse apartment. A belated birthday present from my father, my new car handles like a dream. I’ve taken it out several times over the last few weeks just to show it off and race it around town. Not that anyone in my family necessarily needs a car. We have drivers for that kind of stuff. But like my dad said when he gave it to me, a young man needs his freedom and a set of wheels that will take him anywhere he pleases.
“It hits zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds. Makes the girls go down on my cock even faster,” I brag.
I wonder if Anya might suck my cock for a ride in my new car. Immediately, I hate myself for even thinking it. Something tells me she wouldn’t, and that pisses me off even more. Girls don’t say no to me, but from the way Anya looked at me today, I think she just might. And that’s what infuriates me. She thinks she’s too good for me? In her threadbare clothes, a proper charity case? I’ll teach her not to look at me that way. If she doesn’t know enough to respect me, I’ll make her fear me instead. But no clumsy little nothing from some meaningless little town is going to come into my city and pretend like I don’t own her just as much as I own everyone else in Chicago. If I wanted to, I could have her chained to my bedpost for as long as it suited me.
We fall silent for a few minutes as the professor at the front of the class drones on, creating mind-numbingly droll noise in the background. Some days, I hate going to school. There’s no point to it in my mind. I might be passing my classes solely because of the private tutors my father has hired to ensure I do, but this is all just for show.
Dad thinks a proper degree is important to maintaining the family image. We can’t run the town if we don’t even have a college education, in his book. Especially since a large portion of our philanthropic gestures revolves around the funding for this school. But Dad doesn’t really care if I learn anything, and neither do I. It’s not like they teach something relevant to the kind of business my family runs.
“Look at that prime piece of real estate,” Dominic praises, leaning toward me so only I can hear.
His chin juts toward the model-perfect blonde that walks through the door, her pencil skirt snuggly hugging her curves. Her heels click on the floor, making her hips sway and demanding everyone’s attention. She’s late for class, and I almost think that’s her intention. She’s here to find a sugar daddy if I had to bet. Her outfit is too form-fitting to qualify as studious, and she’s dolled up like she’s looking to catch someone’s eye. There are plenty of those girls at Rosehill, here to waste Daddy’s money while they look for who might fund their Botox in exchange for pumping out a couple of kids and being a trophy wife. This one’s too obvious for me. But still, I can appreciate her efforts. She’ll find someone to drool over her. I can almost guarantee it.
“Mmm. What I wouldn’t give to put that rack to good use,” Dom practically pants, letting his chair fall back onto four legs as he watches her closely.
The girl’s eyes flick toward the back of the room as if she can hear him speaking about her, and her gaze meets mine. She gives me a sultry smile and the subtlest of finger waves. See, that’s the kind of response I’m supposed to get when girls look at me. An invitation to bend them over, spread their legs, and make them scream my name. I give her a subtle nod, returning her smile, though I can’t find it in me to fully appreciate how attractive she is. She blushes coyly and keeps peering up at me through her lashes as she finds her seat.
“Sometimes, I hate being your friend,” Dom gripes, making me chuckle as he slumps in his seat and crosses his arms in a grown-man pout.
“I can’t help that I’m better-looking than you,” I joke, glancing his way.
I get how infuriating it must be to watch girls throwing themselves at my feet and not get any of the action because, as close as my friends are to me–and they just might be good enough friends to become members of my family business someday–they just won’t get the same kind of respect that comes with the Marchetti name. Of course, they get plenty of pussy just from being my friends on top of their own admirable qualities. And any girl I’m not interested in, I’m happy to send their way. But sometimes it’s fun to take a girl just because I know I can.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, clapping both Dom and Jay on the shoulders and drawing their eyes to me. “Dom, you can have the blonde once I’ve broken her in. I’ll bring Jay along in my Maserati when I drop her off at your house. Then we’ll all get the ride we’re looking for.”
Jay chuckles, flashing his teeth to confirm his agreement.
“Fuck you, man,” Dom hisses, shoving my hand away. “I don’t need your sloppy seconds. I’ll find a girl on my own.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
Jay snickers. “Like, how about that dumpster diver that spilled her food all over Nico today?”
My irritation spikes once again at the mention of the new girl. Her soul-piercing gaze sticks with me, tugging at the back of my brain. I don’t know why, but something about her is familiar. It’s probably just her common face, so similar to the endless billboard sob stories of the impoverished immigrants that plague our great city.
Dom scoffs. “I wouldn’t have to stoop that low to find pussy. Even I have standards. But at least she had some fuck-worthy legs. Right? Mmm. And that ass–”
“Definitely a dancer’s ass,” Jay agrees.
“No one touches that leper,” I growl. “Not if you want to stay friends with me.”
“Easy, Nico,” Dom says, raising his hands in surrender. “What, you thinking about fucking her?” he teases.
While Anya was certainly appealing at a glance, I wouldn’t stoop to that level and fuck a girl that’s probably one late rent payment from ending up on the street. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s stripping to pay her way through school. I’ve heard some of the dancers have to do that if they don’t have parents to pay their way.
