Resurrection: A Dark High School Romance (The Sainthood - Boys of Lowell High #1)(2)

It’s split into two levels—junior and senior. The junior chapter controls the schools and teen drug supply and generally lays down the law among their peers until the members successfully pass initiation and “jump in.” Then they become members of the senior or main organization, and successors take over their crown at the junior level. Typically, the transition occurs once the members graduate high school.

All the local gangs are structured similarly, and regular crew wars are the norm. The Sainthood are known rivals of The Arrows, the crowd Darrow runs with, and I’m guessing Dar’s presence at this party is a way of pissing The Sainthood off. While Darrow has Prestwick High locked up tight, The Sainthood rules the hallways at Prestwick Academy, and they own the streets. The Arrows are small fry, and Dar despises The Sainthood because they have what he wants—control, respect, loyalty, and fear.

I could do without this tonight, but I need the distraction of sex and alcohol more, so I drive toward the nicer part of Prestwick where Galen Lennox lives.

Bile fills my mouth as I pull up in front of the familiar house. Cars, trucks, and bikes are parked haphazardly across the wide front lawn as I drive up the sweeping driveway. I pull into an empty space in front of the monstrous gray brick two-story building and kill the engine. Swiping the bottle of vodka from the passenger seat, I hop out and head toward the open front door.

Chills creep over my spine as I step foot into the gloomy hallway. A massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting dim light over the marble tile floor below. Mahogany stairs extend upward on either side of the lobby, the steps covered in a drab green carpet that has clearly seen better days. Cobwebs cling to the high ceilings and cornices, and a thin layer of dust obscures the pictures of ancestors covering the walls as I walk toward the sound of the thumping music.

My heels make a clacking sound as I walk through the depressive corridor decorated in dark wood panels and dull green and gold wallpaper. I remember how creeped out I was the first time I was here, but it’s worse now with the added obvious neglect. I pass a succession of tall, mahogany-stained doors, all closed with no sounds of life, so I continue toward the music.

Reaching the end of the hallway, I turn left and head straight for party central.

I step into the vast room, glancing at the vaulted ceilings adorned with expensive chandeliers and the myriad of windows draped in heavy ruby-red velvet curtains. A DJ spins tunes from an elevated dais at the end of the room, but other than that, the room is completely bare of furnishings. At one time, this was an ornately decorated ballroom, host to lavish parties that were the talk of the town, but it’s clear no one is looking after this place anymore.

A large crowd dances on worn hardwood floors while others sit in clusters on the ground at the edge of the room, talking, laughing, smoking, and drinking. I inhale the scent of weed as I walk through the space, keeping my eyes peeled for Darrow, but I don’t spot him or any of his crew.

Exiting the ballroom by the rear door, I head outside. Sounds of laughter filter through the air as I step around the outside of the property toward the back patio. My feet slam to a halt at the sight of the overgrown maze, and I allow my mind to wander back to that night. I was only a kid, which is why I didn’t recognize the address even if I remember every other detail of my last visit here.

I uncap the vodka, chugging it down my throat, welcoming the burn and latching on to it rather than letting the memory unfold.

I press on, my feet picking up pace as I round the bend and spot several of Darrow’s gang. A group of about twenty is lounging by the old pool, huddled around a makeshift bonfire, sprawled across garden chairs and loungers. The pool is empty now, save for the leaves and debris cloistered on the old blue-tiled floor.

I stop in front of the lounger Bryant Eccelston is lying on. Bryant is Darrow’s bestie and number two, and where one is the other is never far. A cute blonde is draped around his broad five-feet-eleven-inch frame. “Where is he?” I ask, drilling him with a look.

“Cute outfit.” Bryant smirks, taking a slow perusal of my body, his gaze lingering on my chest out of habit.

“Cut the crap, Bry. Where’s Darrow?”

He cocks his head to the side, and the flickering light from the bonfire highlights the deep scar running from his left eye across his temple and into his hairline. “He’s back there.” He jerks his head backward as his lips kick up ever so slightly. The blonde on his lap giggles, sending me a smug look as she wraps her arms around his neck.

Ignoring the theatrics, I walk in the direction of the pool house, swigging from the vodka bottle, willing it to hurry the fuck up and numb my pain.

The door is open, and I push inside, hearing them before I see them. It’s not a surprise. Not after Bryant’s carefully staged intervention outside.

I walk across the living area, sidestepping crumpled beer cans, stale pizza boxes, and wrinkled clothing, listening to the pants and groans emanating from the bedroom, cursing that dickhead under my breath.

I open the door with a flourish, leaning against the doorway as I watch a bimbo with brash red hair ride my boyfriend’s cock. She’s really going for it. Bouncing up and down on him like she’s on a bucking bronco. Darrow’s pelvis lifts as he grips her hips, sweat gliding across his chest, as he groans in pleasure, thrusting up inside her. She moans, throwing her head back as she succumbs to the sensation.

And I know how good it feels, because Darrow’s got a big cock and he knows how to use it.