Complicit in His Chaos Book 1: Tempted Read online

  Complicit in His Chaos

  Book 1: Tempted

  Keilan Shea

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 Keilan Shea

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Any unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  This is a work of fiction.

  keilanshea.com

  Contents

  Copyright

  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

  Bonus Chapter

  Keilan's Books

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  The sun glints off the tallest point of what may as well be a palatial estate as we approach the double-gates entry point. The yellow sandstone walls are opaque, but the spaces between the wrought-iron pickets offer a peek at a modernized take on Victorian architecture inlaid with … gold? It probably is. This is Gilded Academy, after all. It’s home for my last year of high school. Once I graduate, the Ivy League will be clamoring for me. This is the Golden Ticket—if I live up to expectations.

  I desperately want to live up to expectations.

  Benjamin pulls up to the gates, trusty old van sputtering and smoking. Though the asphalt is smooth, it feels bumpy. Lula is at fault. I love her as much as the rest of the family, but I’m also about to have a heatstroke. This van has fought through many years and is kept because she’s part of Mama and Papa’s past, evidence of how far they’ve come. I’ve never felt ashamed of her before, but as we wait at these intimidating gates for a uniformed guard to greet us, she makes me feel … conspicuous.

  Gilded Academy is the epitome of prestigious, and yet here I am. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we aren’t in California anymore, or even the United States. This place is fit for royalty. Gilded puts the luxury homes in Santa Monica to shame. Perhaps that’s saying something, but I haven’t seen much outside of Los Angeles or El Sol, so what do I know?

  “¡Vaya! This is official,” Benjamin, my chauffeur, says and rolls down his window.

  The khaki-clad guard stands stiffly a foot away. “Good day. What can I help you with?”

  Naomi leans over Benjamin until she’s practically sitting on his lap. They’re almost the same height, but Benjamin is much sturdier, so she doesn’t smother him. “We need to drop off a student and get her set up in her dorm.”

  “Name?”

  “Melody Lopez.”

  When it comes to me, Naomi’s overprotective with this insatiable need to be in charge, as if she were my mother. Faith Turner is my birth mother, but … I try not to think about her. I thank God for the Lopezes.

  The guard whips out a miniature tablet that I almost mistake for a fancier version of my Android smartphone. “Student ID, please.”

  I fish inside my oversized pants pocket for my wallet, which is where I tucked my ID when it came in the mail. Even the ID is fit for royalty. The plastic is firm yet flexible so it won’t break, and whatever printer they used is capable of real-life vivid hues. The modeling experience was enlightening. It wasn’t a one-and-done deal. They put makeup on my plain face, adjusted the lighting, and insisted I had my best smile on. All of that was done just to ensure that I look like me in my ID photo—unlike the washed-out, left-eye-half-open picture on my driver’s license.

  I unbuckle my seat belt and scoot over to the spot behind Benjamin to roll down the window and hand the guard my ID. He compares it to my face, and then either scans the ID or takes a picture of it with his tablet. “You’re clear. Follow the road to the garage. You can’t miss it.”

  As he returns my ID, the double gates open inward. The sandstone is warm like sunshine and the gold inlays sparkle like fire veins—the lifeblood of the Sun Elves’ kingdom from my favorite fantasy book series, The Sister Star. I’m desperate for the next book, which comes out in a month, and am tempted to reread the series for the third time. I’m so obsessed that I searched for video interviews and anything else I could find concerning the author, Beth Harris, and then I learned she doesn’t do those things. Beth Harris is a pen name.

  Benjamin takes Lula inside, following the road right and therefore framing the grounds in my new window view. I try to imagine I’m on the back of a volcanic steed. I’m not a creative person, so it amazes me when an author can paint a world inside of my head, one they invented with only words. If I could do that, I’d take myself to different worlds every day—with words. I’d come back to reality in a heartbeat. My attempt at safe daydreaming isn’t a complete failure, though, because I conjure up a memory of a paragraph that I’m fond of.

  Her steed trotted, sparks flying off his mane as he tossed his head and whinnied. They had been cold for so long on the icy plains that coming home to the Great Volcano was agonizing until they thawed.

  How does anyone write something like that? Well, now that I’ve seen “fire veins,” maybe I could come up with something, but it would be unoriginal. A copycat.

  “He said to follow the road to the garage,” I say and squint. I even adjust my round glasses. “That doesn’t look like a garage, but it’s where the road leads.” The rest of the expansive campus must be traversed on foot, it seems.

  “You can say that again,” Benjamin agrees. “The cars get their own mansion.”

  “Hardly. It’s only one level,” Naomi points out.

  “Not so, mi amor, I bet it winds underground. Old Lula is going to be trouble if it’s too tight. She’s a big gal.”

  “I’d accuse you of making a bad sex joke if Lula was a male van, but she isn’t, so it’s just weird, Ben.”

  Benjamin gasps. “Naomi. You’ll sully Melody’s innocent ears.”

  Naomi bites her lower lip. “She’s seventeen. It’s time to stop treating her like a kid.”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  Another guard greets us at the garage entrance. “I’m going to ask you to back up and park on the side of the road. Your van isn’t going to make it below ground level, which is full.”

  Benjamin salutes him and puts poor Lula in reverse. She protests with a squeak and a whine and another pollution-expelling cough.

  “Damn.” Benjamin rolls up his window and coughs too. “I think it might be time to put Lula down. That’s crossing a line. Look, a bird dropped dead out of that tree over there.”

  I gasp. “What?” I don’t see anything.

  Naomi rolls her eyes. “Mel, you’ll never learn because you’re so gullible.”

  An almost-wrinkly man wearing a tweed suit waves his hand through the smoke as he approaches Lula. I recognize him from the brochure. This is Superintendent Albert Mulberry.

  “You made it, I see.” He whips out a handkerchief from his breast pocket to cover a restrained cough. After returning the handkerchief with an uninterrupted flourish, he crosses his wrists and rests them on his apple-round stomach; the rest of him is skinny. He stands straighter and taps his ornate gold watch with a single finger, mimicking the rhythm of a leaky faucet.

  “Traffic was bad.” Benjamin flashes h
is charming smile, the one he uses to “tame the wild beast.” In other words, the one he uses when Naomi is testy.

  “It’s Tuesday,” the superintendent says, unaffected by Benjamin’s charm. “You picked the last day available to check in.”

  “We’re going to miss her,” Naomi replies. “Besides, she isn’t late, so why does it sound as if we broke a rule?”

  “I assure you, Ms. Lopez, you have not, but being here before 7 a.m., at least, would have been prudent. I must ask you to follow me in a brusque manner.”

  Fancy buggies with decent-sized storage compartments glide across the Academy’s paved walkways. When they’ve stopped, several women dressed in crisp white uniforms emerge and join us at Lula’s trunk. “We’re here to assist you,” one says.

  Benjamin thanks them and delegates.

  Beyond the necessities, I don’t have many things packed. I’m here to learn and study. As long as I can keep in touch with my family, using my phone and/or laptop, I’ll be fine—though that digital connection won’t stop me from missing the physical.

  Russel tried to give me something to “remember” him by. His jokes don’t usually get me as bad as Benjamin’s because they cross over into prank territory. I’m not going to take a BB gun to school, especially not Gilded Academy. I accused him of trying to get me into trouble. He raised his hands in defeat, except he grinned and said, “I wanted to see if you were naive enough to do it. It would have been funny. After all this fuss, preparing to walk among the Gildeds, you’d have gotten kicked out.”

  Mama and Papa didn’t find his “joke” any more amusing than I did and grounded him. That didn’t benefit our relationship. Russel and I don’t hate each other, but we’re complete opposites and have never figured out how to be more than reluctant siblings. I suppose that’s the curse of being almost the same age. I’ve never had this problem with Naomi, Benjamin, Josiah, Sage, or Grace.

  The ladies in white reassemble, all except for one of them piling into the same buggy. Superintendent Mulberry claims the seat next to the lonely woman and says, “Come along, then. No time to waste.”

  As soon as Benjamin, Naomi, and I squeeze into the back seat, the buggy takes off. I grab the door where the window meets, since there’s no pane, and contemplate the absence of seat belts; the ride is smooth, but that doesn’t stop me from tightening my grip. The campus extends, but buildings grow and hinder visibility, though the high sun restricts the length of their shadows. Gilded Academy is huge, practically a small town. I’m already lost and we’re barely inside the intricate web.

  “We tried to get a tour,” Naomi says, “but we were told there were none. Is Melody expected to know this place already?”

  “We don’t hold casual tours because anyone who would question our facilities shouldn’t be here,” Superintendent Mulberry retorts.

  Naomi folds her arms, unintentionally elbowing my ribs since I’m sitting beside her. Her mouth is open, but she’s biting down on her tongue to stop herself from retaliating.

  “Excuse her.” Benjamin places his hand on Naomi’s rage-vibrating thigh. If not for him, she’d have exploded a long time ago. “We’ve never done anything like this, and Melody’s your first scholarship student, so maybe you could help us out. There’s not exactly a lot of information online.” If Gilded Academy was anything but Gilded Academy, my family would have vetoed my decision to attend; its inner workings are a mystery to the public.

  “Melody will get a tour of the Crown with our freshmen. The Crown is the northern division of our grand campus, where grades nine through twelve mingle. The East Wing is reserved for grades three through five. The West Wing is exclusive to grades six through eight. We’re currently on neutral ground, the Embers, where all grades are welcome. Melody, if you log in to your student account, you’ll see a map and any other resources you might need concerning Gilded Academy, including your tour group’s meeting place and time. As it seems you did not receive any notifications, you would be wise to alter the settings in your account so that you don’t miss further announcements.”

  I use my phone to access my account on the academy’s app, which contains everything he said. My tour begins with Phoenix Fountain at noon. I turn on email notifications and try to hide behind my glasses and curly hair as my face burns. I should have been aware of this information a week ago. I’m an excellent student. Maybe I’m a bit of an airhead too, but I am an excellent student.

  “Do you see everything?” The superintendent glances over his shoulder to peer at me in the back seat.

  “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes linger on my outfit. I tug my roomy T-shirt away from my neck as though worried the loose collar will somehow choke me. Benjamin and Naomi are wearing casual clothes too—though they’re stylish and certainly not oversized—but the superintendent doesn’t scrutinize them. Is it because I’m a student here, or is my fashion sense as terrible as everyone tells me it is? I like to be comfortable. It’s the only thing I’ve ever confronted Naomi about, so she lets me. Is that so bad? I’m not a slob or anything. I know other girls my age wear skintight blouses or expose their midriffs, but that’s not me. I’d objectively look worse—right?—because it’d show my rolls.

  “I’d like to remind you that you must attend the tour in uniform,” the superintendent says. “Monday through Friday, you must always be in uniform and on campus—minus Friday night. The weekend is for you to do as you please. You may even leave the academy grounds since a guardian specified as much on your permissions form.”

  “Y-yes, sir.” Being around Superintendent Mulberry makes me nervous, manifesting as shivers and cold sweats. I would have been the valedictorian of my graduating class at Samohi this year, so maybe it’s to be expected. That, and getting along well with the H House Principal, is why I got this scholarship for my senior year at Gilded Academy. It sounds a little wonky, but no one gets into Gilded Academy unless they’re already a Gilded or can buy their way in. A scholarship, even for a single year, has never been offered before. I had an opportunity no one like me has ever had before, and I took it. I’m bad at a lot of things, but I excel at studying and therefore overachieving.

  “Thank you for this opportunity,” I add. “I won’t squander it.”

  “Maintain that attitude and we’ll get along fine,” Superintendent Mulberry says, “assuming your GPA continues to meet your scholarship requirements.”

  Naomi folds her arms tighter, and Benjamin wraps his arm around her shoulders to give her a little shake. I’m relieved she doesn’t say anything to antagonize the uptight superintendent.

  The silent pause is awkward, and my eyes wander to a huge glass-domed football stadium. It’s so much more official than the stadium at my previous school. I’ve never been to a college football game or anything like that, but I’ve glimpsed a stadium or two, and that’s what this reminds me of. Gilded Academy isn’t only about academics, but that’s where I plan to spend all of my time. I want library duty because I love libraries and this one is beautiful. It has spires as magnificent as the most noteworthy cathedrals and the mightiest clock tower. It’s familiar too. Somehow. And then I realize its golden glow is the first thing I saw outside of the walls, the highest point in Gilded Academy.

  My fingers itch to fling open its double doors and snatch a book off of the no doubt ladder-required bookcases. This is a dream come true.

  “You won’t spend much time in the Embers,” the superintendent says.

  But the library …

  Our driver stops in front of a single wrought-iron gate like the entry gates but not as large.

  “This is the Crown Gate,” the superintendent continues. “Grades eight and below are prohibited from entering.”

  The gate guard approaches our buggy and holds out his hand to me. “ID.” I flounder, searching my pockets, and give it to him when I find it. He scans the card the same way the other guard did, returns it to me, and says, “Welcome to the Crown, Melody Lopez.”

  CHAPTE
R 2

  The gate opens and the buggy parade continues inside the campus’s northern division, which doesn’t feel any smaller. Just how large is Gilded Academy? I need to study the map I glimpsed in my student account later. Before my account was set up, I tried to use Google Maps to explore, but the academy and Gilded are blacked out. I can’t fathom how much money that required, but it must be worth paying and jumping through whatever loopholes necessary to retain a semblance of privacy. Fame isn’t everything.

  Not all students who attend the academy have celebrity parents or are celebrities themselves, but there are enough. I tend to ignore gossip even when Naomi is ranting, but I know the big names you’d have to live under a rock (a tangible one, not the figurative one I’m accused of living under) to miss. For example: the Earnshaws. If Gilded is mentioned, the name Earnshaw is sure to follow. The Earnshaw boys are all musically talented too, which I admittedly enjoy.

  My hand hovers over my heart when I spot a phenomenal building adorned with gilded letters labeling it the Lancaster Library. This library isn’t as large, but it’s as stunning. Towers topped with turrets line its primary four corners, but the space between them is flat and is the base of a flourishing rooftop garden. Do I spy a solarium? My heart flutters with the sheer wonder of it all and I almost forget how to breathe.

  I stare in its direction long after I can’t see it anymore. Our buggy doesn’t stop again until we’ve arrived at a building that resembles a miniature crystal castle. Instead of golden sandstone, it’s white marble with gold inlay. Milky-white crystals contained inside glass orbs must act as lamps based on the sconces. A greeter who matches the ladies in white is stationed at the entryway, but she stands so still I almost mistake her for a sculpture.

  “This is Selenite Hall,” the superintendent says. “It is the residence hall for the young women living inside the Crown. We have strict rules with very few exceptions regarding entry to anyone who isn’t female.”

  Oh. Is that why all the people moving my things are women?