Resurrection: A Dark High School Romance (The Sainthood - Boys of Lowell High #1)(11)

But I’m okay with that.

This isn’t fun if I know he’s suffering a moral crisis every time we tango between the sheets.

I signed up for uncomplicated sex and multiple orgasms. If that’s no longer all that’s on the table, then I want no part of it. It’s better we end like this before his doubts ruin something good and true. There is no shortage of willing bodies to share my bed, and I won’t go without.

He kisses me passionately at the bottom of the stairs, and as goodbye kisses go, it’s pretty damn impressive. I stay in place, watching him walk across the cabin to the door. He stops with his hand on the door handle, talking to me without turning around. “I know we only communicate to confirm our sessions, but you know how to reach me.” He glances over his shoulder, his expression fiercely determined. “If you need my help, at any time, you only need to ask and I’m there.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “You’re a good man, Diesel.”

A pained look washes over his face, and I know he doesn’t agree, but it’s exactly that sentiment which confirms my statement. Any other hot-blooded male wouldn’t turn down no-strings-attached sex with a younger woman, but Diesel is a decent guy, and he won’t use me for sex.

I watch the security cameras, waiting until I see his car exit the gates of the compound, before I head into the study.

I open the secret panels in the floor, removing the sturdy black box and placing it on top of the desk. I tap in the code on the panel of the box, unlocking the lid and retrieving the stack of files there. Then, I take out my hardback notepad and pick up where I left off last month.

I’m determined to crack the secret code the files are written in. Because I know the truth I seek is somewhere in here, and I won’t rest until I’ve uncovered it.





CHAPTER 2


“Your father would never have tolerated this,” Mom says. I nurse a cup of steaming black coffee while picking at the shriveled eggs and incinerated strips of bacon she made for breakfast. I want to eat it, because I know she’s trying, but I’ve never been a breakfast lover. I’m never hungry first thing, and Mom knows this. But I shovel another mouthful down, not wanting to offend her.

“I know, but he’d back down if he knew I wasn’t unhappy about it,” I say, sipping my coffee as I watch Mom studiously. She’s pacing the kitchen, looking put together on the outside, but something’s nagging at her. And I don’t think it’s the fact I’ve been gone all weekend “camping” or that I got expelled from Lowell Academy over a sex tape.

“What’s going on with you?” I ask, pushing my half-eaten plate away.

She stops pacing. “What do you mean?” She runs her fingers through her wavy hair in a clear tell.

“You’re agitated.”

“I’m just concerned for you. Starting senior year at a new school is a big deal. Especially a public school when all you’ve been used to is private. It will be a big culture shock, honey.”

If she knew I’d been slumming it with Darrow and his Prestwick High crowd for half a year, and that I’ve seen and heard things that would turn her prematurely gray, she wouldn’t be half as worried.

I shrug, tossing my hair over my shoulders. “Not to me it isn’t.” I stand, taking my plate and scraping it into the trash. “Sariah and Sean attend Lowell High. They have less archaic rules. And no one knows me there.”

That last part isn’t the full truth, because the video went viral, and now, everyone in my new school thinks they know who I am before they’ve even met me. But I don’t want Mom worrying unnecessarily. She’s been a basket case since Dad’s fatal car accident, and it’s felt like I’ve lost both parents.

But I’ve noticed a difference this past month. She’s not locking herself in her room crying all the time. She’s been going out. Heading into the office and taking an active role in managing her successful advertising agency. Meeting up with friends at night. And she’s started to pay attention to her appearance again which is how I know she’s beginning to heal.

Giana Westbrook, a.k.a. my mother, is drop dead gorgeous. According to Dad, he had to fight off competition to win her heart back in the day, and he was always fending off would-be admirers.

I can see why.

Even at forty, she is stunning. Tall with long dark hair, piercing green eyes, and a figure most supermodels would kill for, she looks twenty years younger and could easily pass for my sister. She often does, which is something Dad always got a kick out of.

He used to say I was the mirror image of her, and he always showered me with compliments, but I’m a pragmatist. I might share the same height, the same hair, and the same eye color, but that’s where the similarities end. I’m curvier with bigger boobs which, when combined with my slim lower body, make me look like I’m about to topple over all the time. And, where Mom has this gorgeous heart-shaped face and delicate porcelain skin, I have Dad’s round shape and his facial features with fuller lips, olive-toned complexion, and less defined cheekbones.

I know I’m pretty, but I’m not in Mom’s league. Which is fine by me, because I loathe attention.

“You have your dad’s confidence and self-belief,” she says, gently cupping my cheek. “Nothing ever fazed him either.”