Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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There is a bruise forming on my knuckles as I drive it into the stomach of my opponent but it barely makes a dent as he skillfully ducks and counteracts with a good solid punch to the face. I have taken many hits before but still it causes me to stagger in pain, head reeling, blood spurting into my mouth as my teeth unexpectedly bites into my tongue from impact.
I growl, pissed at the fact that I didn't even duck when I drop to the ground in a series of unceremonious stumbles but though my eyes are straining with fatigue from the lack of sleep and my body aches, I force myself to get up as quickly as I can. The first rule of combat training is: Never let yourself stay on the ground. But I hear the ding! of the alarm symbolizing that the fight is over and I have lost.
Damn it, I swear wildly in my mind, panting, heaving into a stance where my hands lower onto knees. The sweat is dripping down my forehead in a torrent and the pain is still throbbing in my cheek, where his fist has connected to my mouth. My opponent is a boy and he's much noticeably larger than me, with his frame built like a refrigerator and I'm shaped like a petite string bean, delicate and breakable.
"That was abysmal," my coach, Jensen, remarks as he passes me my bottle of water and an ice pack. I place it on my cheek, sighing as I sit on a spare chair by the ring, and pour the gushing cold water down my throat, quenching my thirst.
"Sorry, coach," I gasp, wiping my sweaty forehead with my hand. He tosses me a towel from my gym bag lying on the floor.
"I know he's bigger than you," my coach points out, "But you'll constantly meet opponents bigger than you so you need to use that weakness and turn it into an advantage." I nod. I know I'm on the smaller side and I'm not awfully strong but I am fast and agile.
"Yes, coach."
"Good." His eyes soften. "Anyway, how have you been doing?"
"Me?" I ask. "Oh, perfect."
I really am. It's been almost a week since Luciana and I exchanged numbers. She has followed me on Instagram and Twitter, befriended me on Facebook, and added me on Snapchat and recently, we've been talking quite almost regularly, discussing our favorite places to shop and cool new club openings that we should go together.
Before all this, I've always considered her as someone to be idolized. Luciana seems so perfect, so beautiful, so untouchable, so popular but now that I'm talking to her, interacting with her, getting a feel of her personality, she seems so normal. Well, as normal as you can be for an eighteen-year-old billionaire heiress who's bound to inherit a nightclub empire and travel on private jets.
"Really?" he questions, "You seem...unfocused."
"Am I?" This is a growing concern. Am I unfocused? I can't really afford to be unfocused right now. "I feel...fine." More than fine.
"If you need someone to talk to," Coach Jensen, for a rare moment, looks extremely human towards me, "I'm always here for you, Ems."
