“I’m hopeless!”
With a sigh I scoot up and type out missing your smile. I chew on my lip. It’s not bad. Maybe an emoji? But then again, emojis change meaning by the day.
“Ugh. No.”
I jab the delete button, erasing the message letter by letter. Frustration mixes with a heavy bubble in my chest. It swells until it chokes me. Before I finish deleting the text, I let my phone slip from my grip to plop in my lap, rubbing at my stinging eyes. The mascara I applied is probably smearing, but I don’t care. I can’t get this right, so why does it matter anymore?
An innocuous computerized whoop sound makes me freeze. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Shit.
Mortification crashes through me as I scramble to flip my phone. The evidence of my clumsy mistake glares back at me, punching through my stomach and making it plummet faster than concrete shoes dragging someone to the bottom of the ocean.
Thea: Missing you [Photo attachment]
The message sent. There’s no way to unsend texts, because the technology gods like to laugh at us unfortunate souls who send embarrassing shit and regret it the minute it transmits. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t see it.
How will I know, though? Wyatt never struck me as the type to leave his read receipts on. He could look at the text and I would never know.
“Fuck,” I drag out in a harsh whisper.
What if Wyatt does open it and hates it? I already see three things wrong with my photo. I wish more than anything I could yank it back. Erase it from existence. Keep it tucked away in my secret folder.
I try to suck in a slow meditative breath through my nose like Maisy always instructs, but it catches in my throat while my pulse thunders in my ears.
A million thoughts scramble through my head. Pictures, too. Thanks overactive imagination. I see Wyatt with his longtime girlfriend when he reads my text. In my head, they laugh and I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.
Squeezing my phone with sweaty palms, I search the internet, scanning articles and results with a jittery focus.
Does the throbbing-prickly sensation in my palms mean I’m experiencing an adrenaline surge?
How do I unsend a text message?
Can I delete a photo from someone else’s phone before they see it?
In the middle of my fruitless searching, a notification banner pops up at the top of my screen for a few seconds before disappearing. Wave emojis bracket his name.
My heart stops.
He texted back.
Two
Connor
My life is great from the outside. I’m the life of every party.
Until I’m forced to return home and face reality.
After dumping the bag of soccer balls from practice in the garage, I head for the kitchen. There’s nothing good in the fridge when I raid it, but I snag a can of Coke. I need it after that practice and I’ll likely be up late tonight.
“Connor,” Dad acknowledges as he strolls past me, pausing to check his reflection in the microwave. “How was practice? The team shaping up to have a good year?”
I grunt in response, narrowing my eyes when I pick up a whiff of his cologne. It’s not his usual, this one something heavier on the musky notes. My grip tightens on the can in my hand and I blow out a sharp breath, eyeing him up and down.
Dad’s salt and pepper hair is slicked back and he has on a new tie, which he straightens in the murky reflection. I roll my eyes and turn my back on his stupid primping. If he’s given up, he doesn’t need to make it so fucking obvious.
A faint giggle drifts from the second floor hall, followed by a deep murmur.
My brows pinch together and I drag a hand through my hair, digging blunt nails into my scalp.
This family is such a fucked up nightmare.
Then again, who am I to judge my father when Mom does nothing to hide what she’s doing either?
A year and a half of this shit and it still feels like the first time I walked in and found her on the kitchen counter with her campaign manager’s pale ass pumping between her legs. My stomach rolls at the memory, the traumatic image permanently burned into my brain. At least back then she kept it a discreet secret. Now Damien eats dinner with us and spends almost every night in my mother’s bed. Everyone on the block waves at our dear family friend when he comes around.
It makes me sick.
“Going to bed. Have a good night, Dad.”
“Oh, Connor, don’t forget.” Dad gestures toward Mom’s insane anal retentive calendar on the wall. Well, her personal assistant is the micro manager, I suppose, but Mom’s no better. She trains her people well, and the rest of the world falls in line or faces the wrath of a socialite who fancies herself a self-made political woman. Dad peers over his shoulder. “Appointment tomorrow. Meet me in my office. I have a morning budget meeting with the school board, but I’ll still be able to take you.”
My lip curls. I cover it with a deep gulp of soda.
“Never forget.” With a tight smile, I wave my phone, where the calendar reminder Mom’s assistant programmed will go off soon. “Night.”
I don’t hang around for an answer before going up to my room and slamming the door behind me.
My athletic bag gets tossed in the corner as I cross over to my desk by the window, booting up my computer. I change into sweatpants and a t-shirt.
The quiet hum of my custom built tower and the glow of my double monitors sets my mind at ease. Soccer is fun to obsess over and keeps me in killer shape, but this right here is my real ticket to leaving my parents before they can leave me in the dust like they seem hell-bent on achieving this year once Mom’s re-election campaign is over.
They’re throwing everything about our family away, including me.
Fuck ‘em. I don’t need them if they don’t want me. The trust fund granddad set up for me isn’t accessible until I turn twenty-one, so I have an insurance plan in the meantime.
I won’t rely on anyone. The only person I can trust to look out for number one is myself.
While the computer powers through the loading sequence at top speeds, I set my Coke down, open the desk drawer to retrieve my stash, then drop into the high-back orange and black gamer chair. The wooden box has a design on the lid of a trippy night sky burned into the grain that I thought was sick as hell when I was fifteen and a bit of a dweeb. Now I think it’s kind of lame. Whatever, it keeps my bud dank.
Mom got all pissy when she found my old stash jar. We live an hour from Denver for fuck’s sake, yet she still has a stick up her ass about smoking as if she wasn’t sneaking into granddad’s conservatory to get away from boring society parties doing the same thing when she was my age. I found her stale leftovers out there when I was exploring the estate during brunch years ago. I know what’s up.
Smirking, I hold up a rolled joint. “Hello, beautiful.”
The first puff after lighting up has me relaxing back in the chair, hooking an arm over the headrest as I hold the smoke in my lungs for a long beat before exhaling, sending it curling overhead. I take another hit and close my eyes, humming in relief. This is what I needed to unwind.
When my limbs tingle pleasantly and the edge of stress I carried throughout the day ebbs away, I get down to business. The joint dangles between my lips as my fingers fly across the keyboard. I run through my normal checks—bitcoin investments, skim a few Reddit threads, and a social media sweep for anything unsuspecting idiots dump online and later delete that I can save as receipts when I need to put them in their place.
An automated web crawler script I run when I’m not at the computer hasn’t turned up much today, so I also do a manual scan to hunt down anything the script missed.
The corner of my mouth lifts when I come across one of the Coyote Girls on the cheerleading squad. Kamile, I recall, picturing last weekend when she drunkenly explained she was kammy with a K as she straddled my lap, trying to get with me at a boat party on Silver Lake. In the Facebook photo, she’s posing with two teammates with
a bright smile, but a telltale dusting of white powder by the corner of her nose means she’ll be deleting this within the hour once someone points it out.
It’s not powdered sugar.
Don’t people know by now? The internet is forever.
Screenshot.
I pull up the program I coded myself to keep track of the dirty little secrets I collect. Maybe the encrypted dossiers are serial killer levels of detailed, but I’m not the king of blackmail because I half-ass it with word-of-mouth rumors. That’s child’s play. No, I keep extensive proof to back it all up. Every skeleton in the closet, every corrupt truth, I keep it all.
With a few keystrokes, I’ve made a new file for Kamile, populating it with notes on her extracurriculars, her GPA, and the screenshot with the direct URL address. She can buy me out of using it against her, but it will cost a steep amount. Doesn’t mean I delete what I find. Knowledge is power and all that. Mine’s backed up twice and protected by my secure protocols to ensure I’m the one holding all the cards.
“Tsk, tsk, Kammy. The hard stuff isn’t worth it if it fucks with your future. Keep it herbal, girl. And this side of legal if you’re going to post evidence of being a bit of a bad girl.” As I’m doing a low-level search of the city for her name, a LinkedIn article pulls up for her mom, profiling the high-end rehab resort she heads in Ridgeview catering to celebrities and trust fund fuckups. A snort shakes my shoulders. “What will your mommy say?”
I knock back the last of my Coke and ash my joint in the empty can.
It’s fear of what I know that keeps people on my good side. Not just the students at school, but the teachers, too. Hell, I even have a profile on Holden Landry’s dad, Ridgeview’s chief of police, and the first entry I ever put in my black book of information.
This all started when I was turning seventeen. I wanted to figure out how I wound up with a slap on the wrist after getting arrested on serious assault charges with witnesses. When I uncovered the truth, I needed to know more, until it shaped me into who I am now—obsessed with collecting everyone’s secrets and lies. It’s almost a compulsion at this point, something I can’t turn off.
No one is real. No one is genuinely who they present themselves as. Everyone has something to hide.
The webs are spun all over this town, from my parents’ affairs and what they did to keep me out of trouble to the deeper corruptions infecting the picturesque town nestled in the Rockies.
For every truth, there are two lies. And I’m the keeper of it all.
Aren’t you proud of what you’ve turned me into, Mom and Dad?
I huff out a scratchy, deadpan laugh. A bitter aftertaste sits on my tongue at the thought. I take a deep puff on the joint to wash it away in a haze of tangy smoke.
What a twisted kingdom I’ve built for myself.
At my elbow, the phone screen lights up, the vibration buzzing against the desk. I let my attention flick to read the notification for a fraction of a second, more interested in finishing what I’m doing.
Reminder: Anger Management Appointment; Doctor Levitt - Tomorrow, 11am.
“Yeah, I fucking knew that,” I grumble.
The corners of my mouth tug down as I grab my phone, intent on flipping it over. I don’t need the reminder that I have court-mandated therapy—or why what happened was covered up, and I ended up with a shrink instead of in juvie for assault charges that magically disappeared. That magic being dirty hush money to grease the wheels and bribe the police chief. If I could get out of going, I would’ve figured out how to do that by now. Court-ordered makes it damn near impossible to escape. Faking it with Doctor Levitt gets me by.
Before I slam my phone face down on the desk, I get a new text. Assuming it’s my boy Devlin bitching about sitting alone in his big ass house in the mountains in a roundabout way without saying how lonely he is, I swipe it open without looking. I’ve already got the perfect GIF to send that will cheer the mopey bastard up before I invite myself over.
It’s not Devlin.
The tip of the joint burns down as I tap on the photo to see it full size.
My brows hike up in appreciation of the fine as fuck body this chick has. Damn, baby.
Her face is cropped, but I focus on the sexy little smile—pink glossy lips, fuck me—and take in the perfect tits practically spilling out of the little number she’s got on. What is that, a one-piece nightie? Who knows, but it has lace and highlights every one of her curves.
My hands flex, the desire to grab those hips shooting through me. They look perfect for my hands to grip as I pound into her.
The number isn’t one I recognize, but who cares? It doesn’t matter if I deleted this chick’s number. She’s texting me about missing me and I sure as fuck am down to play with her to take my mind off the shit I’m dealing with.
I take one last hit of the joint before putting it out to finish later. Heat coils in my groin, my dick tenting my sweatpants while I admire the babe in the hot little selfie. Blowing out the smoke, I drop my knees open, grinding my semi against the heel of my palm and mumble, “Shit, girl. Wish you were here with that dime body to take care of what you started in person.”
There’s a birthmark on her thigh, where the material rides up. I tilt my head, tracing my upper lip with my thumb in fascination. It’s shaped like a sun.
Too many urges and scenarios run through my head at once, each better than the last. I could call her up and get her ass here now—I bet it will look amazing bouncing on my cock. But first I want to have some fun with the mystery texter.
As I get up and move to the bed, I dip my hand inside my sweats to pump my cock, dropping my head back and groaning with my eyes hooded. She’s got me raring to go from one selfie, even with my buzz. Weed dick won’t hold me back from enjoying myself with this chick.
I settle on the bed with my legs spread enough to pull the material of my pants tighter, outlining my erection. After clicking on the lamp on the nightstand, flipping up my shirt, and tugging the waistband low enough to show off that I’m trimmed, I rest my hand on my stomach and snap a photo to respond with.
A lopsided smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I fire off my response.
Tonight just got a lot better.
Three
Thea
The air feels as if it’s been sucked from the room. Or maybe that’s the effect of forgetting to breathe while staring at the super sexy photo Wyatt texted in response. My prior worries have flown out the window as I melt into the floral print armchair, eyes locked on the photo like I’m in danger of missing out on his delicious six-pack.
He texted back.
He. Texted. Back.
“Oh my flipping god.” The words come out as a strained whisper.
A muffled squeal ekes out of me as I remember to drag in a huge gasp of air at last, before I pass out like a total basket case. Mark me down on the list of things that faint from overstimulation right below goats and the sweet dog in a viral video I watched from The Dodo who lives with a benign neurological condition.
My mind is the embodiment of the exclamation point on repeat. Several of them. A whole keysmashed parade of exclamation points.
Because Wyatt didn’t just reply with an emoji or say he missed me, too.
Nope. Freaking nope! Containing the grin on the brink of breaking free is next to impossible. I should text Maisy and spill the good news. Maise, your girl just successfully flirted and the world didn’t die of embarrassment!
I drop my phone in my lap and hide my face behind my hands, wriggling as I happy dance in place. The rollercoaster of emotions took me from the pits of anxiety and depression to clean off the track, launched into the sky by my elation that the boy I like responded. I can’t resist scooping the phone back up and viewing the picture full-screen, biting my lip.
He’s reclined on a bed with dark gray sheets, his green t-shirt rucked up to show off his abs and v muscle, his body lean and cut by athleticism. One hand is splayed low on his stomach, toying
with his waistband, where I can see the outline of his erection—and his trimmed pubes catching the dim light. I swallow thickly. Wyatt’s face is mostly cropped out by the angle, but I can still appreciate his jaw line and his playful smirk.
It sends an excited flutter through my belly as I picture his thumb stroking back and forth along the edge of his sweatpants before sliding under to squeeze himself.
Is he turned on because of the photo I sent? I can’t know for sure without asking outright, but it’s giving me a hell of a boost to think it’s true.
The picture has me flustered, my cheeks engulfed in warmth while I wrestle against the urge to look away. Wyatt is a hot lifeguard who owned every one of my fantasies at the summer retreat, but this has my mouth watering on an all new level. The energetic damn boy sound clip from TikTok is going off in my head on repeat and it ain’t wrong.
My gaze sweeps over his perfect body. He looks like he should grace the covers of magazines. It’s not quite how I remember him by the lake, but maybe my memories are blinded by his beaming, boyish smile. He could have been hitting the gym a little harder since I last saw him.
Before I can spend more time dwelling on my memory versus the photo, a new text comes in, making me jump when the phone vibrates in my hand.
Wyatt: Still there, baby?
My eyes widen. Baby? A giddy thrill zips down my spine. If I had known it would be this easy to show him how I felt, I would have done this at the beginning of the summer.
“Curse you past Thea.” I scold myself in a hush so Mom doesn’t come snooping on my business. She thinks I’m studying before bed. “See what happens when you bravely squeeze the day!”
Well, seize the day. But I like my poster with bright citrus fruit and the pun version better. It’s more colorful.
I’m still formulating the best way to respond when he sends another text.
Ruthless Bishop: Dark New Adult High School Bully Romance (Sinners and Saints Book 3) Page 2