Saint (Angelview Academy #1) - E.M. Snow Page 0,12

you’ll ever have the displeasure of meeting.”

“Oh.”

She waits until a couple of girls sashay past our table to continue, “Basically, their families have been coming here since the 1800s and they don’t let anyone forget that shit. There are three of them, but like I said before, those two”—she gives a shallow nod toward the redhead and the dark-haired boy—"are just Satan’s minions. Gabriel Carlson and William Halloway. Gabe’s dad is Bud Carlson and Liam’s family owns Halloway Motors, not to mention his mom’s family are like the Waltons of South Africa.”

My gaze lights on Gabe, who has his arm wrapped around a waifish, big-boobed brunette with over-plumped, shimmery lips. He’s whispering in her ear, and she’s positively giddy over whatever he’s telling her. “Bud Carlson, the televangelist?” I ask, suddenly recognizing the name from my late-night channel surfing expeditions. Loni nods, and I shake my head in disbelief. “Gabe’s the son of a televangelist?”

“Yup. You should see the new Porsche the Lord has blessed Gabe with for this school year. The boy’s even got his own set of commandments—thou shalt bang all the bitches being at the top of the list.”

I snort and turn back to her. “So, where’s the other guy?”

“Who knows? Probably opening the Chamber of Secrets or getting a blow job from Laurel somewhere.”

“They’re together?”

“Not technically. He dumped her last year, but she’ll still run to him when he calls like a pathetic little puppy. She’s convinced they’re made for each other and she’s saving her real virginity for him.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Ass and mouth not included, of course.”

“That’s kind of … sad.” I’ve been in her shoes and can almost feel sorry for Laurel.

Almost.

“Don’t bother feeling a damn thing for those two except grateful that he’s not here. Remember how I said those three guys ruin lives? It’s mostly because of Saint Angelle.”

I tilt my head, certain I’ve misheard her. “Wait … this school is religious?”

Alondra drops her hand onto her fist, rests her chin on them, and blinks at me like I’m adorable. “That’s his name.” At the face I make, a big smile cracks her features. “Extra as hell, isn’t it? His family founded this place and his dad is one of the richest shitheads in the country. He co-founded NightOwl.”

Wow.

“I used to have a profile on there,” I murmur, my stomach tightening as I remember how I’d scrubbed all my information from the social media site after the accident.

“Take my advice, Mallory. Steer clear of Saint if you can help it. This is his world. We’re all just living in it.”

4

By the time the first day of class rolls around on Monday morning, I’ve nearly forgotten Alondra’s warning. I can’t think of much beyond getting to class on time. I’m nervous, and when I get nervous, I tend to over-plan things. In this case, I’ve ironed all my uniforms until they practically stood up on their own, mapped out my entire route to each of my classes and typed up an hour-to-hour schedule for myself that I saved on my phone. It’s going to be hard enough fitting in at this school, but I’ll be damned if anyone accuses me of slacking in my studies.

Since I can’t sleep, I crawl out of bed early, and once I’m showered and dressed for the day—every inch of my appearance checked twice, from my black knee socks to my starched uniform to the neat French braid resting against my back—I head toward the dining hall to grab breakfast, as dictated by my schedule. My nerves begin to morph into excitement. I had worked hard with the guidance counselor to make my class schedule perfect and fit in as many advanced classes as I could to begin beefing up my transcript before I start applying to colleges. My workload will be brutal, but ultimately worth it once I make something of my life.

As I near the dining hall, the sound of angry voices pauses me in my tracks. Two other students, a girl with frizzy chestnut brown hair and a tall guy, are standing just outside the doors to the d-hall arguing about something. Assuming it’s just a couple fighting, I make my way closer as quietly as I can. I don’t want to get involved or be noticed, but I have to walk right past them to get food. Ducking my head until I’m staring at the toes of my cheap black flats, I move to dash by, smoothing my hands over my