Not This Price: A Dark Bully High School Romance (Roman Academy Rules Book 3)

  Not This Price

  Roman Academy Rules Book Three

  L.V. Chase

  Copyright © 2021 by L.V. Chase

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  1

  Cin

  Optimism has its time and place. That time isn’t now, and that place isn’t in an interrogation room.

  In TV shows and movies, the interrogation rooms are big enough to serve a Thanksgiving dinner. The villain can sit in the middle of a long table while the two heroes pace around the room. It’s large enough that the male detective has enough room to grab the villain by the front of his shirt and slam him against the wall.

  But between me, the two chairs, and the linoleum table, whoever is going to be arriving is going to end up playing footsie with me from the lack of space. If a detective wanted to slam me against the wall, they would need to remove the table first. It would be a Feng Shui-type of interrogation.

  But I’m not a villain.

  And the oxygen already feels depleted.

  And the hard plastic chair is creaking under me with all of my fidgeting.

  I can hear the rumble of voices, chairs scraping against the floor, and the chiming of the elevator through the door. Every sound gets under my skin, scratching at my nerves and telling me that I better goddamn be panicking.

  The door opens. The man who steps in could be a WWE fighter. He would only need to change his suit into a wrestling outfit. He slams the door shut, triggering vibrations under my feet. When he yanks out the chair across from me, hitting his knuckles against the wall, his eyebrows are lowered and his jaw is set like he’s stepping into the ring ready to win a championship belt.

  “Miss Reeves,” he drawls, setting a manila folder with a pen clipped to it on the table. “I’m Detective Ambrose. How are you doing? Do you need a drink? Water? Soda?”

  “Is my mother okay?” I ask. “I heard someone was murdered. Was she…was she the victim?”

  “You should know that you’re not under arrest,” he continues. “We’re just here to talk. As long as you don’t have anything to hide, you have no reason to be nervous.”

  “Is my mother okay?” I repeat. “I couldn’t get in touch with her.”

  My anger at her trying to take Grayson is all but gone. If Grayson killed her…no, I can’t think that. But if he did, it means he didn’t want her. The thing between them was one of his sick lessons, or maybe she threatened him, or maybe…

  No, I shouldn’t be relieved that Grayson might have killed my mother. What am I thinking? Painful thoughts tumble about in my head. No matter where I turn, there’s nothing good for me.

  But not my mother. As much as I resent, even hate her at times, she’s still my mother.

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and whisper. “Fuck.”

  Ambrose slides the pen out of the folder. “You might be able to distract your teachers, Miss Reeves, but petty tricks won’t work on me. I can understand why you might be confused about that. I mean, damn, you must be the luckiest person on earth. You meet criminals everywhere you go, but you’ve never been arrested yourself.”

  I stare down at the folder. It’s not very thick, but twelve-point font can communicate a lot on a single sheet of paper.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I say as I try to collect my thoughts. “I don’t know any criminals.”

  He frowns, but it’s an exaggerated frown. “Really? That’s interesting. Your mother’s been arrested for multiple DUIs, solicitation, and shoplifting. Your mother’s boyfriend, Richard Durkin, has been arrested for drug possession, assault, public intoxication, and—"

  “I barely know Richard,” I say.

  “You were there when your mother bailed him out for the assault and public intoxication.”

  “It was my money bailing him out,” I say. “I wanted to make sure she didn’t spend it on—"

  “So, you know him well enough to bail him out of prison?”

  I exhale loudly. “I know my mother well enough to want to keep her happy, which is why I’ve been asking you if she’s alive.”

  “There’s no reason to be rude, Miss Reeves,” he says coolly. “I’m not even finished with your list. Damian White. Arrested for drug possession while you were in the car. That car was found to be involved in a hit-and-run.”

  I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. “That has nothing to do with me.”

  “Diana Mason,” he continues. “Committed attempted murder. Against you. Now, Grayson Voss has been arrested for murder. Am I missing anyone?”

  At least a few more of my mother’s boyfriends. Two of my teachers from my old school were arrested for statutory rape. Aurora or Damian must be guilty of revenge porn.

  When I don’t respond, he leans back into his chair. “Well, let’s talk, Miss Reeves. What is your precise relationship with Grayson Voss?”

  “We’re classmates,” I say. “Did he hurt my mother? Don’t you need to notify me if something happened? Am I here because you think I’m involved? I was angry at my mother, but I wouldn’t...I wouldn’t have hurt her.”

  “Stop deflecting, Miss Reeves,” he says. “It’s time to be honest. Mr. Voss was the one who called emergency services after you’d been stabbed by Diana Mason. I’ve also heard from sources that you and Mr. Voss had a contentious relationship, but he’d also stepped in for you previously—including preventing you from being expelled twice. The first time after sucker-punching a boy, and the second time after getting in a fight with some girls. It appears that you both use violence to solve problems.”

  “I don’t know why he did that,” I say. “And I don’t care why. I care more about my mother right now. Is she—”

  “You have a temper, Miss Reeves. Is it possible that you were distraught over Diana Mason’s attack? Did Mr. Voss retaliate on your behalf? If you’re afraid of him, it’s understandable, but he’s currently in a jail cell. Now is the time for you to unburden your conscience.”

  My arms fall away from my chest, my hands clasped on my lap. “Diana committed suicide.”

  I hear the sound of the pen tapping against the folder. It makes me think of footsteps to the gallows.

  “She stabbed herself three times?” he asks. “Doubtful. Even under the manic episode she was enduring.”

  I take a deep
breath. “You guys are the ones who decided she committed suicide. You—”

  “That was a different detective,” he says. “Didn’t you follow the case? I assume the rest of your classmates did. Whether or not it was homicide or suicide, it would be tragic enough to be worth some interest. Unless you felt guilty about it.”

  “I have nothing to feel guilty for,” I say, but we both know it’s a lie.

  The pen tapping stops. Ambrose leans forward.

  “Grayson Voss has been charged with the murder of Diana Mason, Miss Reeves,” he says. “You can hide from the truth as much as you like, but it will come out. I’ll be more lenient on you if you don’t force me to spend time digging for it. Were you in a love triangle with Grayson Voss and Diana? Did he take it too far? Did he feel guilty that Diana attacked you over him and decide she was a liability?”

  The door swings open again, nearly scraping against Ambrose’s Oxfords. A man steps in, barely squeezing in after Ambrose slides his chair back a couple of inches. This man is bulky and his button-up shirt is pulled tight against his chest. His face is doughy, and he’s balding. He doesn’t seem much older than fifty.

  Ambrose jumps to his feet, hitting his left knee under the table, as he recognizes the man.

  “ADA Brady.” Ambrose adjusts his tie. “This is unexpected.”

  ADA? Assistant to the DA, I’m guessing? Someone important, then, from the way Ambrose changes his posture. The name’s vaguely familiar for some reason, but I can’t quite place where I might have heard it from before.

  “This is a complex and delicate case, considering who we’re dealing with,” the man called Brady says. He glances at me but keeps his focus on Ambrose.

  “We’re being diligent, sir.”

  “I’m certain you’re being very diligent, detective,” Brady assures him. “I have my full faith in you. But Miss Reeves here is a confidential informant. If we keep her too long, the Vosses may become paranoid, which could cause us issues in another case.”

  “I wasn’t aware there was another case outside of the Mason one,” he says.

  “Another agency is dealing with it,” he says. “I was just informed of it. The feds want us to release her now.”

  I’m not a confidential informant. Not in the literal sense and not in the sense that I am confident or informed. Grayson or his father must have orchestrated the lie somehow. Grayson told me that his father’s contact list had powerful names, but I hadn’t imagined it involved the fucking FBI, if I understood correctly.

  “Understood.” Ambrose shakes his head. “It’d be nice if the feds even tried to keep us informed.”

  “You know it makes them feel superior to keep us out of it,” Brady says. “I’ll take Miss Reeves back to her car.”

  “Sure, sure.” Ambrose mumbles about the “fucking feds” as he leaves the room.

  Brady gestures for me to follow him out. I oblige.

  Ambrose turns to the left, aggressively pulling out a chair behind a desk. Brady rests his hand on the back of my shoulder, guiding me to the elevator. He presses the down button and steps closer to me, lowering his head so that we’re nearly cheek-to-cheek.

  “Don’t talk to anyone in the Voss family,” he whispers. “Not while this investigation is going on, and especially not to Grayson. If the police find another reason to talk to you, I can’t stop them.”

  I glance at him. Maybe their inside man isn’t someone from another agency.

  “How is Grayson’s case going?” I ask. The elevator chimes as the doors slide open. “He didn’t do it.”

  “You’re quite certain,” he says.

  We step into the elevator, our shoulders nearly colliding. He presses the button for the ground floor. As the doors close, he sizes me up.

  “I have a gut feeling,” I reply.

  He faces forward. “I can’t answer about his case. I have to maintain a shred of the integrity that my job requires.”

  As the doors open, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out.

  Mom is calling

  My heart skips a beat. Since the interrogation switched to talking about Diana, I knew my mother was likely alive, but it’s reassuring to see proof of it.

  “Hey, Mom,” I answer.

  Brady puts his hand on the back of my shoulder again, steering me out of the elevator.

  “Did you call before to apologize?” my mother asks.

  “Apologize? What?” A bubble of my anger is returning, now that I know she’s unharmed.

  “For turning me into the villain for poaching Grayson before you could,” she says.

  Time is moving differently for us. To her, our argument was two nights ago. To me, it was a dream I had months ago. It’s a faded period of time before Grayson was charged with murder, and a detective accused me of being an accessory to it. It was before I realized he was innocent and guilt had tunneled deep inside me.

  That guilt makes it easy to forgive my mother. I push the rising anger away. When I thought she was dead, I thought about how I couldn’t force a tiger to change its stripes, and I couldn’t stop my mother’s childish behavior. She grew up too fast. I can’t blame her without condemning all of my mistakes, too.

  As for Grayson, there’s no way that he’d do anything with my mother. Now that I think about it more clearly, the idea of him cavorting with her is ridiculous. He’s a fucking god at the school. He doesn’t need a washed up thirty-something.

  I just want to forget everything and move on.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as Brady and I step out of the police station. “I shouldn’t have gotten so upset over a man.”

  “Exactly,” my mother says. “Especially one like that.”

  “You seemed to be having a good time when I saw you,” I say, a sliver of bitterness slipping through despite my best efforts.

  “Well, I’m good at acting,” she says. “You know what that asshole did to me? He threatened to kill me, Cinnamon. He threatened my life. No exaggeration.”

  I glance over at Brady, but he’s scrolling through his own phone. Cars slink past us, waiting to speed up once they’re far away from the police station.

  “And now they’re saying he killed this other young woman!” she continues. “I dodged a bullet. Probably literally. He’s a sociopath.”

  Her words confirm for me what I already guessed. That my mother tried to screw Grayson over somehow. That he was never into her. I’m simultaneously horrified and relieved that he threatened her, conflicted over what that means.

  Fuck. Now, I really just want to forget the whole thing.

  “He’s not—he didn’t do it, Mom,” I finally say.

  Brady turns his head towards me. I turn away from him.

  “You’re just upset over him,” I say more quietly. “That doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything.”

  She huffs. “You’re really going to defend him after everything he’s done?”

  She’s right. I shouldn’t be. I should hate him, cut off the strings, and let him go down for his sins. Even if he’s completely innocent of everything else, he admitted to being part of a sex ring. He recruited vulnerable girls for power-hungry men. And he humiliated me, over and over.

  “He didn’t do it,” I repeat.

  “He didn’t do it,” she mocks. “You’re so cruel, Cinnamon. I finally admit that he isn’t a decent man, which you’ve been ranting about forever, and as soon as I agree with you, you treat me like I’m an idiot. You’ve never believed anything in your life. You just loved disagreeing with me. It’s the only thing you love.”

  The line goes dead. As I slowly lock the screen and slide it back into my pocket, I can feel Brady watching me.

  “My mother,” I say, turning to him. “She’s very theatrical.”

  “Women always are,” he says. “They only enjoy life when they’re the victim.”

  “We also enjoy wool socks,” I retort before I can bite my tongue. I force a smile. “I’m sorry. I should be thanking you. You helped me a lot
back there.”

  “It’s no problem,” he says. “Besides, I enjoy women with a little fire in them. It makes everything more stimulating.”

  “Yes, fire tends to be stimulating,” I say. “Especially when it burns.”

  He smirks. “Sure, but it never does. I’ll see you later, Cinnamon.”

  I nod. “Thank you again. I owe you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Brady offers me his hand.

  I shake it. His hand reminds me of the subway’s sticky handrails. When I pull away, my hand still feels grimy. I shove both of my hands into my pockets.

  “Have a good semester, Cinnamon,” he says.

  “Have a good…year,” I say, but he’s already walking away.

  I turn the other way, walking down the street and trying to remember which block takes me back to campus.

  I should feel less anxious after leaving the interrogation room. The walls aren’t closing in. I could run from this city and let it fall under the foot of powerful men with terrifying fetishes. But all I’ve got in my pocket is lint and a gum wrapper. It’s not enough to get me out of South Bronx. It’s not enough to get me what I want.

  2

  Grayson

  The barren cell has a bucket for a toilet and lumpy mattress for a bed. Both are stained and disgusting. The concrete floor's cold and dusty, but I sit there instead. A lone fluorescent bulb flickers above me.

  I've been here for six hours. I know because they didn't even bother to take anything away from me, like this whole thing is a joke. There's no phone signal inside the cell, though, so I can't tell what's taking our lawyers so damn long to get me out of here.