Laced in Malice

By Riley Gray

Behind the creepy castle like exterior of Birchtree academy is the sound of gossip, back stabbing and malice. When Zara’s dad takes on the new principle job at the elite boarding school, Zara knows she’ll be an outsider. She dreams of true love and marriage instead of possible frenemies and secrets. Definitely not Birchtree material.

In the cusp of everything are the twins. Oliver and Elizabeth (Lizzie) Nixon are renowned for their different – yet equally effective – methods of torture. And both have their eyes set on goody, goody Zara. Oliver wants to date her and Lizzie wants to befriend her?

At first, Zara is caught in the Nixons spell, but it’s not long until cracks begin to show through their dazzling façade. An anonymous email account, which targets students with their own secrets, has focused its energy on Zara using weapons only the Nixon’s could have provided. But have they turned on her? Is there a hidden agenda behind Lizzie’s interest in Zara? It’ll take four months, three warnings, two released sex tapes, and one dead body for Zara to finally learn the truth. And the truth can either destroy the boy she’s fallen for – and his twin sister – or save them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Riley Gray
• Release date: Feb 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301694211

Book preview

Chapter One

The Article

My own face stared up at me, tauntingly. I glared down at the magazine on the small table in my carriage and fought the urge to make yet another disgusted noise at it. I wanted to tear it up into tiny little pieces.

I turned and stared out of the window instead. Green, green everywhere and not a hint of stone. At first, I’d found it peaceful. The scenery change from the towering offices and concrete apartments to full, bright trees and lush, beautiful fields was interesting. I gawked for the first hour or so. Smiled at baby lambs that huddled by groups of sheep. Grinned at horses galloping and playing on large sloped greeneries. 

But it got boring. Fast. And actually, I’d kinda missed the grey of the city. I missed London and all the fumes and traffic and yelling. The busy streets and wayward children. The carriage window of the train pulled open slightly, and all I could hear here was the roar of the engine.

It was all incredibly riveting.

I stared back down at the magazine and swept it up into my bag. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t read it when it came in the mail this morning. Had convinced myself in the car journey to the train station from my grandparent’s house I didn’t want to look at it. 

And then, because I’m a huge traitor to myself, the first thing I did when I got a minute, was pull out the damn magazine.

I mean, what kind of school produces a quarterly magazine?

Birchtree Academy, that’s who.

I rested my elbows on the table and buried my head in my hands. God, this was going to be bad. No, this was going to be really, really bad. Every student in the school was bound to have read the article. They’d all know who I was, they’d all know about my family and my morals and principals and ambitions. I’d basically loaded a gun and handed it to them.

And all because my parents had divorced and found careers. I blamed them for all of this. Not myself. Just them.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out with a sigh. A text message from Mum.

Mum: I’m tracking your train journey on my new iPad! Isn’t that cool? Be safe and have a good time. Not much longer now! Mwah.

The part that had not forgiven her contemplated deleting the text message without answering it. But she was my mum, and I couldn’t do that. 

Me: Can’t wait to get off this train. No doubt I’ll have a blast and be super duper popular. Love you. Miss you more and more each day. Xx

Then I opened up my own train app and selected the map of the train I was on to see how far I had left. Two stops. Two long stops. The train journey took three hours, and, unfortunately, I’d been on it just over an hour and a half. 

I pressed my temple against the window and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force sleep. But of course, it didn’t come. So I took out my book of word puzzles and got started on a new crossword.

Yes, incredibly geeky with the coolness factor of minus one thousand, but they entertained me. I liked when my brain was tied up, when I didn’t have the luxury of thinking about anything else but the task at hand.

And it worked. When the train slowed, pulling into the second to last station of the journey, I glanced at my app still running on my phone beside my elbow and gasped. Forty minutes have flown past in what felt like the blink of an eye.

Train doors slammed open and footsteps bounded on and off. I stared out at all the passengers. This was obviously quite a popular station, and – wait, it couldn’t be – but was that civilisation in the distance? Hardly the city I was used to, but it was something.

Dad had told me about the town that was one train stop away. This must have been it. Hardly Oxford Street, but I’d take it over muddy trails and long, rough grass.

The door to my carriage creaked open, and I snapped my head around so fast that I cricked my neck. A boy walked in, around my own age, and oh my God was he beautiful. He had brown hair, a strong stubble-lined jaw, luscious full lips and a straight perfect nose.

He sat in front of me, a pair of Rayban sunglasses framing his face, and though I couldn’t actually see his eyes, I knew he was staring at me.

I cleared my throat and looked back down at my crossword puzzle, but I couldn’t concentrate. Find me someone who could when the real life Adonis comes and sits right in front of you.

I peered up through my lashes, surveying his outfit. A white t-shirt, denim jeans, leather jacket. And then I saw it. A rolled up copy of the damn magazine in his jacket pocket. I almost groaned out loud. Almost.

Hey, a deep voice said, and I sat up straight faster than the speed of light.

Er, hi, I said back.

You got a lighter? he asked. He slipped his sunglasses off and that was it. I was floored. Sparkling dangerously at me were a pair of bright blue eyes. It was like a spider’s web, and I was a fly. Get too near and I’d be trapped for good.

Erm, no. I don’t smoke.

He frowned and began patting his pockets, the magazine swaying dangerously. If it fell out then he’d pick it up, and there would be no way he wouldn’t see my face on the front. And he’d know. He’d know who I was.

If he had the magazine, he must be a student at the school I was now travelling to. Sooner or later he’d realise who I was. I just didn’t want it to be now.

No worries, he muttered, digging his hand into his back pocket and then smiling in triumph. I knew I’d put you somewhere.

I watched in shock as he pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear and slipped it between his lips. Then he fidgeted with the lighter for a moment, trying to get it to spark, until finally it lit.

You know you can’t smoke on here, right?

He inhaled a large drag of smoke and put the lighter away. Then he blew out the smoke right in my face. I coughed and waved it away, wishing the window opened more. There were only a few smells I hated more than cigarette smoke.

He laughed at my expression (which I’m sure was of sexy irritation, because who didn’t find the look of irritation sexy?) and offered me a pull.

Pass, thanks.

He rolled his eyes and shrugged. Your loss.

I tried not to watch him, when really all I wanted to do was stare at him all day. Now I knew why people shouted out to take a picture when they caught people staring. If he said it to me, I’d probably snap a picture with my iPhone, which, I thought, defeated the whole purpose of the saying.

Possibly.

What you got there? he asked, gesturing to my crossword with his half burned cigarette. He kept flicking the ash on the floor, making me increasingly paranoid he was going to set the train on fire.

A crossword, I answered simply.

You like them?

Yeah.

Can I see it?

Slowly, I turned the book and shoved it at him. He narrowed his eyes and looked down. Twelve down, it’s oxymoron. Try it. It fits.

I grabbed the book and stared to where he meant. My God, he was right. 

Wow, thanks.

Smarter than I look.

Definitely.

Finally, he took one last drag and slotted the butt through the crack of the open window. It zoomed past us and disappeared.

I scribbled his answer onto the paper, which made the one across it easier to guess, and pretty soon I was back on a roll. I almost forgot about the gorgeous boy in front of me. Almost.

Until he dipped his head and stared right into my eyes.

You have beautiful eyes, he told me.

Ha! Me? They were nothing compared to his. Thanks. I think.

No, they are. And you have a really unusual complexion. Where’re you from?

My dad’s English, but my mother’s from Brazil. She’s gone back there actually to… I trailed off. No offence, but why are you so interested?

He shrugged. I can’t be interested in a beautiful girl?

Are you coming onto me?

He laughed, and it was a wonderful sound.

Yes.

My cheeks burned. Oh.

In fact, he said, leaning his arms across the table and over my puzzle book, you know what I think’s a mighty shame?

What?

Society.

I gave him a blank look. You’re going to have to elaborate.

"Society makes women feel like shit about themselves for wanting to give in to natural desires. You think cavemen were mutually exclusive? You think women walked around and fretted about what their fellow peers would think if they went out and just got dirty with the first rugged guy they saw? He shook his head and sat back. No."

I still don’t get what you’re trying to imply.

Take us for example, he said, folding his arms. I’m attracted to you. And I know you’re attracted to me. When I look at you, at your body, I’m physically aroused. He dropped his arms and reached across to run a finger over the back of my hand. But you know what’s stopping us from having what could be half an hour of serious guilt free pleasure?

Indecent exposure laws? I quipped.

He ignored me. Society.

Society isn’t stopping us from having sex right now, I argued. I am.

"Because of society."

No, because I personally don’t want to have sex with a boy whose name I don’t even know. Sex, for me, is about more than physical lust.

He let out a breath. I don’t get that.

How can you not?

"Sex is all about physical lust. It’s about arousal and bodies connecting, not minds. When I’m having sex with someone, it’s all about the pleasure. It’s about getting every fibre of your skin alive and thrumming. You’re not supposed to think during sex. Just feel."

You sound like an expert, I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

Who did this guy think he was? Okay, yes, he was stunningly attractive, as I had thought about a thousand times in the space of ten minutes, but he sprouted a whole load of shit and tried to sound intelligent doing it.

Honestly, what kinds of girls fell for that?

I consider myself one, he said with a casual shrug. I like to open up the eyes of brainwashed females. But I can see that’s not going to happen with you.

You would finally be correct.

He grinned and slipped his sunglasses back on. Pity.

He leaned his head back and folded his arms again. My eyes flickered down to the magazine in his pocket. Had he read it yet? Why did I even care? The guy was a douche. 

But his words had warmed a forgotten part of my lower stomach, and stupid traitorous butterflies were going crazy down there. Within minutes, slow heavy breathing sounded through the carriage, and my eyes widened in shock.

He’d fallen asleep? So fast? I was insulted. He’d tried to get me to have sex with him by goading me, and then when I turned him down, he had closed his eyes and forgotten all about my existence.

Nice.

I shook my head and tried to focus back on my crossword, but it was futile. He’d wormed his way inside my brain, and all I could think about was the way his lips moved when he spoke and the glint in his eye as he tried to persuade me to sleep with him.

I pulled my knees up and rested my forehead on them. And great. Now I was picturing him looming over me naked. Fantastic. This was going to be a long thirty minutes.

Chapter Two

Birchtree Academy

The train pulled into the station dead on time, and the driver came over the intercom to announce we were at the last stop and to take all our luggage when leaving. The crackling speakers had startled mystery douche awake, and without sparing a glance at me, he’d stood, stretched (revealing very toned and tanned abs with a little happy trail of hair going…oh God, girl, get a grip) and darted from the train.

By the time I’d managed to grab my suitcase from the luggage rack and zip up my rucksack, he was long gone. I stared down the long platform, having sat at the wrong end of the train, and tried, in vain, to spot him.

The wheel on my suitcase had buckled, so I half dragged half pulled my suitcase down the never-ending platform until I reached the ticket barriers. One of the staff opened the big gate for me and helped me pull my luggage through, the gentleman that he was.

The station was small, obviously. So as soon as I got through the barriers, I was right in the ticket hall, which was about the size of someone’s living room. The only person standing there was a stern looking lady, with grey peppered black hair pulled into a low ponytail. She wore black suit trousers that were too big for her and a light blue shirt that had a coffee stain down one breast.

Nice.

Zara Smart? she asked, stepping towards me.

I nodded. Yeah.

I’m Linda Davies. Your father asked me to come and get you from the station. He apologises for not being able to come to collect you himself, but he was stuck in a meeting he couldn’t get out of.

The sad thing was that I wasn’t even disappointed. 

Okay, sure. Lead the way.

She took my rucksack from me and left me to deal with the broken suitcase.

We walked over to a plain, silver BMW. The interior was spotless, the seats leather. When she opened the back so we could slide my suitcase in, I noticed there wasn’t one spec of dirt or dust on the carpet.

I thought they say that the state of a car says plenty about the owner?

Whatever.

I slid into the passenger seat and whipped my seatbelt across. She climbed in beside me and started the engine straight away. She was all straight lines and sharp edges. Prompt and proper and not a mile over thirty.

So, I said, wishing I had the nerve to turn on the radio, what subject do you teach?

Science, she answered.

Obviously.

Which part? Chemistry? Biology? Physics?

All of it.

Okay then.

I very much enjoyed your interview in the Birchtree Academy Zine.

I flinched. Stupid magazine. You did?

I thought it was refreshing for someone of your age and class to have the beliefs and desires that you do. I wish more students were like that.

I blushed and stared out of the window. We were back to fields of hay and barley. Okay, maybe just fields of grass.

You know, they asked me loads more questions than what they published. The magazine makes me out to be some kind of saint.

I think that’s the point, Zara, she said. Your father is the face of Birchtree Academy now. You, as his only child and now as a student of the school, have to represent the image he wants to portray for the campus.

I fought the urge to snort.

Don’t be embarrassed about it. Your father is very proud.

I bet he is, I mumbled.

We sat in silence until the car rounded a bend and, like it just fell from the sky, was Birchtree Academy. I let out a low breath. It looked more like a castle than it did a boarding school. It towered higher than I could crane my neck to see. All grey brick and ivy. Black, wrought iron gates swung open automatically for us, and the BMW’s tires crunched over gravel as it drove onto school property.

It looked like a setting straight out of a horror film, especially with the darkening sky settling in the background.

There’s a staff and student parking around back, she said, stopping the car in front of the entrance, but I’m going to park here for now so we can get your stuff out.

This time, she single handedly lifted my suitcase like fricking Wonder Woman and carried both that and my rucksack up the five or so stone stairs leading to the double, wooden doors. 

Come on, she urged. Your father’s waiting.

Oh he was, was he? Glad to know.

Her shoes clacked loudly against the marble floor like tap shoes, which in comparison to my squelching Converses sounded like birds chirping. We had entered the main entrance. A huge hall with stain glassed windows, gold framed painting, and sweeping marble staircases, one on each side of the room but that both seemed to lead to the same place. 

I gawked. Like a tourist.

The entrance was airy and cold. Unwelcoming. A whistle of wind blasted through one of the stain glass windows. A slither of laughter echoed from a part of the school. One girl in jeans and a baggy t-shirt rushed past us, head down, without a second glance my way.

We stayed on the ground floor and went through door, after door, after door, until the floor changed from marble to tile to carpet. And finally, we got to a place that seemed a little more homely. The walls were still brick, but the furniture in the corridors were warm colours and quite clearly used, unlike the rest of the place, which had resembled a dead, old mausoleum. 

We stopped outside of a closed, wood door and Linda raised her hand to knock twice. 

Come in, a voice boomed.

Dad.

She opened the door, stood back, and gestured for me to go in first.

Dad’s office was amazing. All antique furniture and deep red walls. Long, brown curtains draped down to the carpet. And it smelled like polish in here. Dad stood from his place behind a large desk and came around to hold out his arms to me.

Though we’d had our disagreements (me coming here being one of them), his embrace still felt like home. 

I’ll give you your privacy, Linda said, shutting the door after Dad thanked her politely and warmly.

Sit, sit! Dad exclaimed, pointing to a sofa at the back of the room.

We both sunk down on it together.

This place is beautiful, Dad, I said, still looking around in shock. You did well.

Didn’t I? I’m telling you, this job position is a once in a life time opportunity.

What happened to the old principal? I asked. He retired?

No, he’s still here. But he’s the vice-principal now. Dad lowered his voice. He’s not my biggest fan. That’s for sure.

I laughed. If he got demoted, can you blame him?

Well, the board won’t tell me exactly what happened. Mr. Nixon tells me that he demoted himself. That the stress of the job was too much and he wanted to take the time to work on the novel he’s always dreamed of writing. But I don’t believe him.

Why?

The pay, the benefits, the security of this job position; it’s a lot to give up.

Some people have dreams outside of their careers, Dad.

He thought about this for a moment. True. So, how was the train journey? Not too strenuous, I hope?

Instantly, I thought of the douchebag. Strenuous was one way of describing it.

It was fine. I leaned forward and ruffled Dad’s hair to distract myself. You need a haircut.

His hair was so long now, it was falling into his eyes. Though he was in his late forties, he still had no grey hairs, something that Mum was increasingly jealous of. But he had cute little crows feet around his eyes, which crinkled when he smiled. 

I’ll get it cut soon. You like the suit?

He stood and modelled it for me.

Lovely, I answered. Designer?

The woman in the department store picked it out for me. Blueberry, or something.

My mouth dropped. "Burberry? You bought yourself a Burberry suit? That must have cost a fortune!"

He blushed, which was where I’d inherited it from. I told you. The job pays well.

Too well, I muttered.

Which reminds me, he said, walking over to this desk. I got you a present. Lessons start in two days and you’re going to need a little something to get you by. He grabbed a box bag from under his desk and presented it to me.

I lunged for it and stared inside.

Oh my God, I squealed. A MacBook? You got me a new laptop?

Your mother told me your other one stopped working.

That was one way of phrasing it. When Mum had told me she was moving back to Brazil to accept a job offer that was stationed there for two years, I’d been so angry, I’d grabbed the first thing I could and thrown it at the wall. Which happened to be my prized laptop.

I’d seriously regretted doing that once I’d calmed down.

You like it?

"Love it, I amended. Thank you."

No problem. But honey, I need to cut this short. I’m sorry, but I’m almost back to back meetings today. I wanted to show you around myself, but my diary is tight today.

I’m sure I can find my way around, I said, standing. If you give me a map or magic beans or something.

He laughed. Don’t be silly. I’ll get someone to show you around. You’ll love her. She’s been so helpful to me lately. He bent down to press a button on his phone.

Instantly, a nasally voice came through the other end. Can I help you, Mr. Smart?

Deidre, please send in Lizzie Nixon.

Nixon? Where had I heard that name? Wasn’t that the surname of the old principal?

Right away, sir.

Not a minute later, there was a knock on the door and Dad ordered them to come in. And then came an angel.

I wish I’d been joking. With the light from the window of the corridor illuminating behind her, she looked like someone sent down from heaven. She was already dressed in her uniform and had long, brown hair that curled and bounced past her shoulders, pale skin, features so perfect

Reviews for Laced in Malice

[amani_almughrabi · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

That was really good and would recommend reading it .