Maybe I’m stupid.
Maybe he doesn’t think of me at all, even though he worms his way into my thoughts and brings my entire day to a halt.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling weak, I consider replying to an old email. Even if he doesn’t respond, it would be an outlet. The temptation hovers at the back of my mind. I haven’t taken things that far, though.
One of the earlier emails catches my eye.
To: Thea Marie
From: Henry Knight
Subject: a knight always comes for his princess
You’re 15? Damn. Thought for sure you were older. By the way you talk and those pretty pictures, you seem closer to my age. I would expect to find you entering college with me this semester. That’s not a big age difference, though. How do you like older guys? The idiots in your grade sound like their intellect is subpar to yours. They wouldn’t understand you the way I do, princess. You must have one of those old souls, something too special to waste on boys your age. The connection I feel to you is unreal, it’s hard to believe.
I used to feel just like you do. Tell me more about it. Tell me everything about you. I feel like I could reach through the screen and caress your cheek when you open up to me.
The world will show you what it has to offer you. It brought us together, didn’t it? Now that I have you, I can’t imagine you not being mine. Trust and it will keep offering you good things.
I guess I should sleep. It’s 4am here. Thoughts of talking to you and imagining your laugh always keep me up. I want to touch your hair.
—Henry
Any time I talked to him, I felt his pain, too. He was like me. An old soul stuck in a body too mismatched to feel like we fit in with the world.
Henry was my first love. As much as our conversations skewed toward difficult, dark topics, or how many times he had to talk me into sending another photo, and another, and another…my sick heart was happy I had him.
I jolt when I hear Constantine barking downstairs. It’s like a switch has flipped in my mind, the happy thoughts of love tainted by the logical side of me that judged myself the older I got. Releasing a rough sound of aggravation, I close out of everything, putting my face in my hands.
This is my crutch. My fall back. These memories are shrouded in shadows from a time I was tripping my way through growing up. If I had been able to express myself without fear of how much Mom would jump down my throat, maybe I wouldn’t have turned to the internet for comfort.
I chew on the corner of my lip until it stings. “Ouch.”
Pressing my fingers to my tender lip, I sigh. I used to think this was the most confident I could ever feel, but looking back at the old email thread, I feel in my bones how different it is from today, ever since Wyatt texted me back and took our fling to the next level.
I don’t need to try to recapture the excitement I used to feel with my online boyfriend as I broke every one of Mom’s rules, because now I have the real deal. It’s only been a week, but Wyatt and I have messaged each other every day.
Popping off the bed, I put my laptop on the desk next to a stack of filled journals. I go on my tiptoes in the closet to reach behind an old box of binders filled to the brim with recipes I printed out from online to grab one of my secret stashes of contraband clothes. I lift the lid of the box covered in a sunflower pattern and unveil lingerie Maisy and I bought in secret when we went shopping for our summer retreat in the mountains. The material is soft and luxurious beneath my fingers as I touch the pretty bra and a sheer emerald green bodysuit.
I spend a solid half hour taking all new photos of myself, starting in my crop top, picking my mood up off the floor. When I’ve got several new pictures on my camera roll, I glance at the clock on my nightstand framed inside a porcelain rainbow. Perfect. It’s about that time.
Picking the one I imagined earlier, where I’ve got a playful smile with the bottom of the crop top between my teeth, I send it to him.
My phone buzzes with a response right away. I bite my lip as pleasure fizzles beneath my skin. It’s like he was waiting for me.
Seven
Connor
It’s hours after the encounter with Thea at the end of my run, and I’m still obsessing over it. That was the closest I’ve ever gotten to her. Turns out, she smells like sugar.
And I wouldn’t say no to a real taste.
After stripping out of my shorts, I almost texted her. She seemed to need the salvation of release with her bitchy mom breathing down her neck. The way she stood up to me, so quiet, yet so fucking fierce—I was rock hard and even her mom’s arrival couldn’t dilute the force of desire coursing in my veins. I’ve had people yell and scream in my face, threaten me, hit me, and all of it pales to the resolute way Thea held her own.
She doesn’t fear me by reputation. We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? She has no idea who she’s getting tangled with.
Quiet, mousy Thea Kennedy interests me. I want to know what else there is behind the nerdy good girl.
I blame the thoughts of Thea when I enter the kitchen to grab something to eat for distracting me from realizing what was happening.
Mom and Damien look up as I pause in front of the fridge. He has a dish towel draped over his shoulder, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, shirtsleeves rolled up as he dices vegetables at the island. Mom leans against the counter beside him, a glass of white wine raised to her lips. Her cheeks are tinged pink, the way they flush when she’s been laughing.
It’s domestic and turns my stomach as soon as I lay eyes on them.
“Hello, son,” Damien greets.
My knuckles turn white as I fist my hands at my side. Son. No. Absolutely not. He has no right after what I caught them doing, after the beating I gave him for it.
I grunt in response, flashing him a glare. He always tries, and I never give him an inch. I’m in court-mandated anger management because he had to fuck my mom in our kitchen.
Mrs. Kennedy is to blame, too. That snooping busybody is the one who called the cops as a concerned citizen looking out for the neighborhood. The one thing Mom and I agree on is Mrs. Kennedy’s position on both our shit lists. Without her, I wouldn’t have been arrested and Mom wouldn’t have bribed everyone involved to land me with therapy instead of juvie.
The faint scar at the corner of Damien’s eye sends a sickening surge of pleasure into my stomach. I hit him so hard I fractured his brow bone. Mom’s frantic screams still echo in my ears.
“How was school?” Mom asks, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.
The laugh I bark out is jagged and loud.
“Let’s not pretend you’ve ever been mom of the year. Cool? Cool.” I wave a hand at the pair of them. “Go back to playing house with everyone who isn’t part of this dysfunctional family.”
Mom sighs.
Maybe I’d care if she ever acted like a decent parent.
This lovey-dovey scene can fuck all the way off. I have no intention of lingering around them, hell-bent on escaping to my room.
“Connor.” Mom’s clipped tone stops me in my tracks. Huffing, I half-turn back to her. She gestures to a manila folder sitting on the edge of the island, waiting in the spotlight cast by the pendant lights dangling above it. “Have a look through this. I’ve been wanting to talk with you about this matter for a while. It’s important we go over it before the campaign benefit for the children’s hospital.”
My stomach churns with an uneasy ripple. She has her politician voice on, the false-sweetness belying the snake waiting in the grass to bite your ankle. Keeping an eye on Mom and Damien, I swipe the folder and flip it open, thinking I’m about to have some accusation thrown in my face. I’ve been expecting it with the bruise on my face and my knuckles still healing.
What’s inside is so much worse than Mom being pissy over undeniable proof of me at an illegal fight ring.
The bafflement grows as I flip through pages of girls’ photos followed
by resumes, their entire lives profiled to the tits like they’re security threats and it’s necessary to know every minute detail about them. I suppose anything can be turned into a threat to a politician. My mom is the one I learned the lesson of knowledge is power from, after all.
“What is this?”
“Remember when I said we need to put on a united family front? Well, I also need you to have a girlfriend,” Mom explains, distracted by Damien offering her a taste of the meal they’re cooking. “A nice girl who will fit into the image we’re cultivating. Polls are showing a positive rise in my numbers for voters wanting to see a legacy continuing on the horizon. Commitment is something they value and respect. I’ve taken the trouble of having these options prepared for you to choose from. They’re already pre-approved and vetted.”
The horizon. The problem with Mom is she doesn’t just want to be re-elected to her office. She has a long-term plan. The endgame for her is the big one—the White House.
Controlling my expression to keep it blank is hard as disgust rolls through me, fighting back the urge to curl my lip. The entire folder is full of jersey chasing Coyote Girls. Not a single nice girl in the bunch at all, but all of them come from the crème de la crème families in Ridgeview. One elite name after another glares at me from the folder—daughters of old money like granddad’s, real estate moguls, and Fortune 500 CEOs. Daughters of the people in Ridgeview that hold positions of power and influence.
Half of them have hooked up with me. Hell, all of them want me to make them my queen. They recognize the power I hold at SLHS without adding in Mom’s political clout.
But I don’t date. Never have. Every one of the girls who come onto me are only interested in my name or my family’s money.
“You can have your pick from any of the selections.” Mom gives me a shark’s smile. “Isn’t that nice of me? It’ll be the perfect boost for our family image.”
How can she say that when she’s standing in front of me with him, making a goddamn meal together from scratch?
I lose the internal battle not to show my cards, snarling as I slam the folder down. The contents spill out in a cascade, spreading over the island, some dipping into the prep station Damien has going.
“What family image?!” My voice rises as I jab a finger at Damien. “Your fucking boyfriend is right there, and you think I need someone? Maybe you should stop spreading your legs for that piece of shit and worry about having an actual family! Instead of fabricating whatever the approval polls dictate, wouldn’t it be better to earn your votes the honest way?”
Mom crosses her arms and Damien casts a troubled look between us. Go ahead and try it, fuckface. If you step in front of me, I’m knocking you out again.
He takes a step closer and I raise my fists to a ready stance. “I won’t hesitate.”
Damien’s eyes go wide. With a menacing smile that makes him shuffle back to put more distance between us, I stare Mom down for a beat before leaving the room.
“You will do this!” Mom calls after me, her voice changing from the saccharine tone to something more forceful, more true to her actual character.
It sends anger racing down my spine, but I stomp up the stairs to my room instead of fighting her. I might get what I want at school, but with her it takes work. She believes she has full control over me because of the money. Everything with her is an endless sequence of moves until I can back her into a corner, proving that the outcome I want is the right one. If I don’t have smoke and mirrors, then my strategy blows up in my face.
My ragged breathing doesn’t calm down until I’ve paced my room, going over possibilities I can present to get out of this stupid ultimatum.
Movement from Thea’s curtains across from my window catches my eye and I creep over, keeping to the shadows of my bedroom so she doesn’t see me watching. She’s sitting sideways in an armchair angled toward the window, her bare legs crossed at the ankle and propped against the wall. Her head is bent, maybe reading something? Her foot bobs—she must be listening to music. There’s something about the way she’s sitting that amuses me. Is it even comfortable?
Watching her gives me an idea for getting around Mom’s girlfriend project, because she won’t sleep on this. I know how she gets. If I’m forced to do something, I’ll do it on my terms. I might as well have fun with it.
I have the leverage I need to make sure Thea has no other choice but to agree to become my fake girlfriend.
It’ll get me closer to her sugar-scented hair. Close enough to really pin her under my thumb and discover what other secrets she has for me to steal.
Her nosy Mom will hate it. If she was freaking out about me standing close to her, talking to her, she’ll blow a gasket at how I’m going to make sure Thea is corrupted and debauched in every way possible. I saw it in her eyes. She thinks I’m the worst kind of wild.
The perfect payback to Celine Kennedy has finally presented itself in the sweetest sweater-wrapped bow: her daughter.
Thea might be fun to play with, but everyone is a liar in some way or another. Apples don’t fall far from trees.
Eight
Connor
Third period English is lit this morning.
Devlin is out for blood with his little charity case obsession. She crawled up to him like a lost dog, surprising me by handing over a paper and acknowledging his existence when she usually ignores all of us like the uppity ice queen she is. A hot ice queen.
But I honor dibs, so she’s all Devlin’s.
I had snatched up the paper she presented to him and made up a love note instead of the essay assignment with his name typed at the top. He got her to do his homework somehow, but he also wasn’t taking it, declaring that he wasn’t accepting proclamations of love and calling what she wrote sweet.
Now, I don’t know what sort of kinky game he’s playing with her, but whatever it is, it’s brought a light to his eyes I haven’t seen since his cousin Lucas left for college. Davis brought his wrath on herself by picking Trent’s pockets right in front of us.
The laughter of our crew fills the room as other students filter in for class. Sean leans on Trent, howling with amused tears clinging to the corners of his eyes. Two of our friends from the dance team, Nina and Bailey, coo cruelly at Blair Davis while Devlin and I tag team her.
Fire flashes in her gaze. Yeah, she’s a total fighter, even if she stays silent the majority of the time we’re messing with her. “Listen—”
Devlin’s voice is cutting as he interrupts, wagging a finger at her. “I don’t like the way you look at my dick. It’s not sexy to think you might bite it off because you mistook it for a hotdog.”
“Oh damn!” I choke into my fist at the brutal burn. “Bro. That mental image. My eyes!”
Davis growls—actually growls like the trailer trash animal we call her—ready to fight Devlin. I’m kind of hoping she tackles him to the ground. He can take her, but it would be fun as hell to watch them wrestle. But our Devil Boy has her halting, balling her fists at her side.
“Whatever,” she spits. “You’re disgusting.”
“Oh, come on, sticky fingers.” Devlin props his chin in his hand, smirking because he knows he’s won, kicking the trash in the mud once again. These two are out for blood this year. “I’ve heard you get up to way worse for anyone willing to pay. But not me. I don’t pay for it, and I sure as fuck am not touching you with a ten-foot pole.”
He goes on. The man loves a savage diatribe, but I miss the rest of it because Thea walks in. Today her auburn curls are braided, a few strands escaping. She hugs her books to her chest as she pauses in the doorway to say bye to Landry’s sister. The school blazer is so big on her short frame, the cuffs of her sleeves become like sweater paws.
I want to unwrap her to get to the delectable body underneath. This lie of hers pisses me off, digging beneath the threshold of my patience.
Thea glances at me as she finds her seat at the desk in front of mine. Even more irritating than her fa
ke frumpy armor is that the only recognition for me is indifference. Maybe a hint of judgement because she’s caught some of how we’re treating Davis.
She doesn’t know I’m the one who gets her to come at least twice a day since she accidentally texted me.
Grunting under my breath, I turn my back on Thea to face Devlin at his seat behind me.
Davis sits stiffly in her chair in the next row over, sleek dark hair hiding most of her face as Devlin finishes eviscerating her by saying, “I don’t want this. It’s pathetic.”
Everyone watches as he rips the essay to pieces and flings the torn shreds in the air. They float to the ground by Blair’s feet. Our whole crew and the people that cling to us from the outer rings explode in laughter and coyote howls—the student body’s way of honoring our school mascot when something goes down.
Devlin takes out his finished essay and sets it on his desk. Damn, he’s an evil bastard. I snicker, sticking the tip of my tongue out of the side of my mouth.
Davis stares at the remains of the destroyed essay, her plump lips pinched at the corners as she fights not to react. The only reason we go at her as hard as we do is because she never does what we expect—doesn’t cry at the nasty names, refuses to fight back unless it’s Devlin, has never broken down, even after Devlin threw her lunch on the floor last year. She’s ice through and through, but ice has to melt sometime.
With a restrained bite in her tone, Davis asks, “Are you still going to—”
“You shouldn’t treat people like that.” A familiar soft but determined voice speaks up.
My mouth curves into a dangerous smile as Devlin, Davis, and I turn our attention to Thea.
She’s twisted around in her seat, cheeks tinged pink as she grips the back of her chair with white knuckles, practically touching my desk.
Ruthless Bishop: Dark New Adult High School Bully Romance (Sinners and Saints Book 3) Page 6