Rival (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © Mitchell Tobias Publishing, 2020

  Cover Design by Regina Wamba at Maeidesign

  Cover Model Photography by Michelle Lancaster

  www.michellelancaster.com / @lanefotograf

  Cover Model, Lochie Carey

  Editing by Madison Seidler

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Visit Ketley Allison’s official website at www.ketleyallison.com for the latest news, book details, and other information.

  Sign up for Ketley’s newsletter to receive a FREE full-length book by her!

  Briarcliff Academy Student Playlist

  Ghost - Au/Ra, Allen Walker

  Taxi - EXES

  Why Her Not Me - Grace Carter

  Rewind - Louis Futon, Armani White

  White Flag - Bishop Briggs

  Undrunk - Fletcher

  Better Now - Oh Wonder

  you broke me first - Tate McRea

  To Die For - Sam Smith

  What’s Good - Fenne Lily

  Find the rest of the playlist on Spotify

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Afterword

  Also By Ketley Allison

  About the Author

  1

  “You’re going, Callie. That’s final.”

  My stepfather gestures at his new wife to pass the potatoes, but he’s fixated on me.

  The New Wife, a.k.a. Lynda with a Y, lifts the platter of potato gratin before adding her opinion. “I can’t understand why you would object to attending an exclusive academy for your final year of high school.”

  “Lynda worked hard to get you accepted, honey,” Dad continues. “You should be grateful.”

  Pete Spencer may be my stepdad, but since I’ve known him longer than Lynda, I begrudgingly call him by a baby’s first word. New parents pray for the day their child calls them by that name. It signifies growth, recognition, love.

  For me, it doesn’t mean much.

  “Because,” I say, pushing my dinner around with my fork to buy time and think of an excuse. I don’t have friends to keep me here anymore. I lost them a few months ago. And the one remaining person I could count as family isn’t even at this table. “Because I’ve grown up in the city. I’ve laid down roots, and I don’t want to”—leave my mom—“leave here. Ever.”

  Dad lifts a forkful of Sunday night’s roast to his mouth and chews. “Well, it’s not like we’re giving you an option. You’re under my guardianship now, and I’m responsible for what’s best for you.”

  His tone doesn’t soften as he lays his claim on me. It contains nothing of his love for my mother, or what we had, or how it was taken away so brutally.

  My fork lands against the china with a clatter. I glance up from my plate. “You mean Lynda’s decided what’s best, and that’s whisking me away to Rhode Island, so she can start fresh with an untarnished family.”

  Across the table, Lynda tilts her head, her hand resting gently on the barest bump of her belly. “Callie, that’s not fair.”

  Her tone is kind, but her hand is possessive.

  “Why not? It’s true,” I say, blinking hard. I can’t let them see me cry.

  “That’s not even close to accurate,” Dad barks. “Apologize to Lynda. She’s thinking of your future, Cal, as am I. You’re better served at a school that has a direct path to the college of your choice. Your grades were excellent. Before...”

  “Before what, Dad?” I sit straighter in my chair. “Go on. Say it.”

  His lips thin into bloodless slits while his cheeks splotch with red, like the very words are chasing the heat away from his mouth. His eyes shine under the chandelier, but it’s an indeterminable glimmer. Dad could be internally raging. He could be howling. He could be wishing I’d just disappear already.

  “I’m not going to ruin this dinner further by opining on your behavior this last year,” he grits out. “Suffice it to say, the one hurdle stopping you from getting an education of that stature was—”

  “Money,” I cut in, and I make sure my sidelong glance at Lynda is noticeable. “I’m aware.”

  Dad shoves another bite into his mouth and falls back against his chair, his jaw muscles bulging as he chews. Although, it’s not his chair, is it? Pete Spencer hit the jackpot when he attended a banquet whose attendees paid $25,000 a head to sit in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and eat canapés. Dad used his connections—he’s always had those, even when he possessed empty pockets—and there he met Lynda Meyer, granddaughter of the Meyers line of department stores. Six months later, they were wed in a whirlwind multi-million-dollar wedding before moving into a historical monument on the Upper West Side, depositing me along with them as an afterthought.

  If I ever had any doubts I was a ride-along, those are long dissipated as I sit in a ridiculous ballroom for a dining room and listen to how they’re sending me away to boarding school for my senior year.

  He might as well hold a trumpet while announcing I’m not his real daughter.

  “Apologize, Callie,” my dad says again.

  I cross my arms, my appetite and my patience departing this room a long time ago.

  “That’s how you’re going to play this?” he asks, his dark brows forming into two eclipsed moons.

  “How else should I?” I ask, proud my voice isn’t trembling like it wants. But my eyes emote what my voice can’t. Please tell me to stay. Confess that you love me and want to keep me. Please, Dad.

  Dad reaches a hand over the pristine white linen and perfectly aligned table settings.

  My stomach lifts, as if pulled up by my heart, and I raise mine to—

  Lynda clasps his hand, and they squeeze their fingers together.

  “Your train departs early tomorrow morning,” Dad says to me. “If this is how you’d prefer to end your dinner with us, then by all means, be my guest. I’ve long ago tired of your antics.”

  “Antics?” I echo shrilly. “Mom’s isn’t even cold in the—”

  “If you’re not
going to eat the prime rib Sophia slaved all afternoon in the kitchen to prepare for us,” Lynda says, her pale blue eyes a pair of icicles sharp enough to pierce my chest. “Then you can kindly go upstairs and spend your final evening in your room.”

  “That’s not my room,” I spit. I throw my napkin over my untouched meal despite the mild pang in my chest that the one person who’s been nice to me in this house, Sophia, actually did slave over this food. Lynda’s never lifted a chef’s knife in her life. “And it isn’t my bed. My home, my life, is on Broome and Allen Street, a place I thought you loved, too, Dad.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Honey, you’ve got to let go. This is a better life for you, don’t you understand?”

  “Plenty,” I say, pushing to my feet.

  “Wherever you’re going,” Dad warns, knowing full well I won’t be headed upstairs, “you better be back in time for Clifton to drive you to the station. You’re seventeen, Callie, and therefore my ward. You’ll be attending Briarcliff Academy by this time tomorrow, do you hear me?”

  A server laden with a full plate of the dessert course scuttles aside as I head to the giant oak doors and proceed into the expansive foyer.

  It’s all so elegant. So unfamiliar. If I’d had the chance to tell Mom about how Dad would remarry a trust-fund billionairess and we’d live in a mansion with a private grooming room for a single mini-poodle named Frans, she would’ve laughed her head off, then told me to finish my chow mien or she’d eat it.

  Then I would’ve confessed to her how lonely I’d be in such empty spaces, and she would’ve pulled me into a hug, rubbed my back, and kissed my head, telling me there can be no loneliness when a mother loves you this much.

  Tears prick, and I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms to keep them at bay.

  “So help me, Callie,” Dad calls down the hallway. “You will be on that train!”

  As my answer, I slam the front door on a father who can’t be bothered to drive me to the station after deciding to ship me off.

  2

  I won’t admit it, but going to a new school makes me squeamish.

  I clutch my duffel tighter in my lap, the rest of my luggage resting in a private section of the train a couple of cars back.

  The sun hadn’t even cracked open its eye when I departed Meyer House this morning. I managed dig out my mom’s college tee—old, ratty and softened by wear from the trash bag Lynda filled to send to Goodwill—and paired it with my comfy jeans, worn and naturally ripped in various spots.

  My phone goes off in my purse, and I pull it out. When I see who’s calling, a thin smile breaks through the scowl I’d been deploying out of the train car’s window. “Hey.”

  “Hey, kiddo,” Ahmar says on the other end. “Sorry I missed you this morning. And at dinner yesterday.” His voice sounds pained. “I was called away.”

  “It’s okay. I left pretty early.”

  Ahmar Kazmi, my mom’s former partner in the NYPD, reads me better than most. He sighs and then adds in a quiet tone, “Your momma would’ve wanted you to go.”

  I frown as I tip my head back in the seat and close my eyes. “You knew I was leaving?”

  “You and I text a bunch, and I love getting your daily download, but sometimes I like to check in with the big man Pete and make sure you’re treated right.”

  My heart twinges. The meaning of “Dad” should be given to Ahmar. I’ve known him since I was a toddler. He rode along with Mom and me to my first day at elementary school. Then middle school. Ahmar was there during my first break-up at twelve, and my first heartbreak at fourteen.

  Ahmar was just … there. For hugs. For sarcasm. To be taken advantage of when I wanted to win an argument against Mom.

  “It’s true,” Ahmar says. “You can’t get that kind of diploma just anywhere. Definitely not at that sham of a school you were attending here. You gotta go. Make your momma proud.”

  “Yeah. I’m on the train.” There’s little point in arguing with Ahmar, just like it wasn’t worth the effort to fight with Dad and Lynda this morning. All of them stopped being able to handle me a year ago when Mom died.

  This isn’t the first time they’ve banded together in an attempt to “fix” me. I guess they get props for not surrounding me with white walls and a locked door this time.

  As if sensing my inner monologue, Ahmar says, “You deserve to look forward to the future. You can turn this situation into something that can better your life. You fucking got this, kid. Shit…” he mutters, pulling away from the phone.

  “It’s okay,” I say when he comes back on. “You can go.” At his breathy hesitation, I add, “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

  “You text me. Or call me. Every damn day, I don’t care. I got your back.”

  Just like he had my mother’s.

  “Okay,” I say. But the urge bubbles up, and I’m unable to swallow it. “Ahmar?”

  “Yeah, kiddo?”

  “You’ll catch the guy who killed her, right?”

  Static crackles between us for a few seconds. “Sweetheart,” he says. “I ain’t ever gonna stop.”

  I hold the beaten in, faded duffel bag closer to my chest as the train slows to a stop at Briarcliff Station.

  My luggage Lynda packed while I was out last night follows me as I step down the train’s stairs, a staffer rolling them toward me between the rows of seats. Unused to such treatment, I stutter out a thank you while lifting the suitcases onto the platform.

  He lifts his attention from second suitcase as I grab it. “You a Briarcliff student?”

  After a second of hesitation, I nod, lifting my the case before the train bell rings for its imminent departure. “Yeah.”

  “Well, shit,” the guy says. “You’re going to be eaten alive, young pup.”

  He ducks his head in just as the train’s doors slide shut.

  Frowning, I hitch my duffel higher on my shoulder and push forward, rolling my suitcases with one in each hand.

  “Callie Ryan?”

  I straighten.

  “Over here,” the voice says.

  A man in a full suit stands at the curb. A girl stands with him in school uniform, propping up a sign with a weak wrist, while using the rest of her energy to hold her phone to her face. I squint, since the girl doesn’t seem particularly helpful in angling the sign toward me, but eventually see my name scrawled in lazy cursive.

  “That’s me,” I say as I make my way over. He busies himself lifting my luggage and carrying them over to a town car parked on the street.

  The girl is wearing Briarcliff’s colors of maroon, black, and white, with her plaid skirt hiked up well past her knees and shirt unbuttoned one button too low. Her long, straight hair is held back from her face with a simple black-lacquered headband, and her blazer is thrown over her arm as she gives me her profile and scrolls through her texts.

  I try for polite. “Um, hi?”

  Her jaw moves, but not to talk. It’s to grind down on the piece of gum in her mouth. Her thumb moves across her screen at warp speed, and she’s still holding up that damn sign with the help of her elbow leaning into her thin frame.

  Maybe she’s hearing challenged, I think as I set my own jaw. I stick my hand out. “I’m Callie.”

  Pop goes the bubble she’s formed. “I know.”

  “Okay.”

  I decide to turn to the person who has actually acknowledged me as he approaches.

  “You ready to go?” he asks.

  “I think so. You’re here to take me to Briarcliff Academy?”

  The girl snorts, as if I’ve just blurted out the dumbest thing imaginable.

  “I am.” The man has kind eyes, softened at the edges from age. “I’m one of the school’s most requested drivers, Yael.”

  Piper gives another snort.

  Yael’s proud smile falters. “If you’ll come with us.”

  My feet don’t move. I glare at the girl. “I’m gonna blame your snot nose on allergies, since you can’t possibly be insu
lting the man who drives your ass all around town while you make out with your phone.”

  It’s enough to get the girl to peer over her screen. “Excuse me?”

  I shrug. “Or maybe you’re working on your Tinder profile so you can learn about human connection. I mean, I doubt your phone works as a proper dildo.” I raise my brows. “Even with the vibrate function.”

  Her lips peel back in disgust, but I notice Yael’s subtle grin behind her as he motions to the car. The girl spins on her heel and waltzes to the passenger side door he’s left open, impressively walking a straight line despite her eyes never leaving her phone’s screen. The sign falls to the pavement as she steps into the vehicle with a swish of unimportance.

  Yael follows after her, hastily picking up my discarded name and tossing it in the nearby trash can.

  I don’t debate whether that’s a sign of things to come.

  I slide in after the girl, the car’s air conditioning a cool refreshment against the surprising late August heat. Gusts from the vents blow back the girl’s pin-straight strands around her shoulder like her own subtle wind machine.

  That same air makes my kinky brunette waves stick to my lip gloss. I pull my sunglasses from my bag and perch them on my head, scraping my hair back. This impossible doll of a human has the right idea with her headband.