One where I was definitely about to kiss him.
How can I want to kiss my bully after all the crap he’s put me through?
He’s blackmailing you, girl!
My inner voice of reason sounds like Maisy today and I nod in miserable agreement. “I know.”
But I did want that kiss. I would have thrown away my first on a fake, though, and that doesn’t sit right with me. It’s a good thing Mr. Coleman showed up when he did.
I flip my phone in my hands a few times, playing with the cupcake grip on the back. Messaging him has been on my mind, or at least reading back through it all. I think I’m ready to see it now.
“Right.”
Taking a breath, I unlock my phone and scroll to the beginning.
After weeks of talking to him, the first photo I sent seems so tame. As I skim through the message history, my body warms up, my clit throbbing when I get to one of his dirtier messages.
Can’t stop thinking about those sweet sounds you make. You make my cock so hard, I want to bury it in you so deep you’ll never get me out, baby. Just you and me, fused together. How does forever sound to you?
“Oof,” I mumble, cheeks on fire. “The boy knows how to use his words.”
But I did, too. I thought it might make me cringe to read it back, knowing it was Connor on the other side of the screen, but some of it surprises me. Secret Folder Girl showed up, confident, aware of what she wanted. Talking to him like this—well, having phone sex—was easier.
I keep expecting my phone to ping. That’s been the weirdest part in the madness of the last two days. I got used to anticipating his messages, got excited at the notification sound on my phone. But he’s kept his word, leaving it to me to text him first.
It was hard enough to work up the courage to text Wyatt. I don’t know what to say knowing I have to face him at school, that he’s right next door.
What I need is familiar. Comforting. Safe.
I need to know I can walk away for a minute without someone like Connor breathing down my neck. Tossing my phone aside, I lean over to grab my laptop from the end of the bed and drag it over. Once it’s loaded, I go to my old blog.
The beauty of posting these pictures was that I didn’t know who was on the other side of the screen. It was an escape. The distance and sense of anonymity are what gave me the courage to be this version of myself, where I could experiment with the girl in my secret folder without judgement because no one knew me in person to realize how different I was in reality.
How much I fall short of the mark.
A comment on the second post catches my eye. It’s from two days ago, but the last time I posted to this blog was years ago. “What?”
Missing these intelligent eyes and talking to you. Where have you gone, love? Do you miss me, too? I dream of finding you, coming to steal you away for the whirlwind romance the world has to offer you. It’s me, I’m your world. If I held out my hand, would you take it? The thought consumes me.
Clicking on the other posts, I find a new one on each of them. It’s the same username. Henry_Your_GoodKnight.
It’s him. My old online boyfriend.
Mixed feelings swirl through me. It gives me a sense I’m wanted, desired, seen. But at the same time, there’s something about the comments that makes my blood run cold and my heart beat faster.
Time has given me a different perspective on the nature of these comments. He was only a few years older, but still. The age I was in these photos and when I was enthralled with our late night emails? A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck and I work to swallow past my dry throat.
Opening a new tab, I find the folder in my inbox where I saved our emails, clicking on the last one I never answered.
To: Thea Marie
From: Henry Knight
Subject: ramblings to a princess in a tower
Love, you’re all I think of. It’s been so long, I fear I’ll forget your perfect, porcelain face. Those innocent lips and your sea-blue eyes haunt my sleep. Why won’t you answer me? I’ll keep sending you messages. I won’t stop. Ignoring me won’t work.
Answer me, love. Talk to me.
I’ll tell you what I really want. At night I sit up thinking about our conversations, the things you’ve told me. I want to hear your voice. Let me call you. We’ll talk all night.
Once I hear your voice, I know you’ll stay in my heart forever. If you do this for me, I’ll reward you for being my princess again. We’ll do what we talked about. I’ll come find you, I promise. We’ll live the life we planned out. I’ll meet your every desire and give you what you ask for in those big sea-blue eyes.
—Henry
My breathing is ragged. I fan my fingers over my chest, rubbing.
I stopped because Mom was getting suspicious, and I was so scared of getting in trouble. There was no way I could let him call me in the middle of the night, with my parents asleep down the hall.
Closing the laptop, I climb to my feet. Pity party officially over. I will not sit around dredging up weird old memories to compare to the new ones.
The only comfort I need right now is comfort food.
A short while later, I’m elbows deep in baking to relieve the stress. The kitchen smells amazing. Two trays of finished double chocolate chip cookies sit to the side of our wide kitchen island, ready for baking once the first batch comes out, while Constantine sprawls at my feet, occasionally peeking up with a tiny whine to beg for scraps.
“I don’t know,” I tell Maisy on FaceTime, the kitchen iPad propped on the recipe stand.
She’s in her airy bedroom, running through yoga poses with her hair in a sloppy bun. I finally broke down and explained I’ve been weird for weeks because of a mystery texter who wasn’t Wyatt.
“I think I might’ve gotten myself into hot water. He’s so zero to a hundred.” I slice through butter, crumbling it with my flour and salt to make a batch of pastry dough. By the time I’ve baked through my feelings, I’ll have enough for a full on bake sale. Maybe French club can host a fundraiser this week. “I mean, I’m crazy to agree to this whacky boyfriend and girlfriend thing with Connor, right?”
Maisy loses her balance and tumbles out of the handstand. “What!”
“Uh—”
Shit. I got wrapped up in talking while I was baking on autopilot. The plan was to tell her about the mistaken number debacle and keep Connor’s name out of it.
Maisy freaks out, kicking her limbs in the air in a goofy dance. “Thea Kennedy has a boyfriend! What! And it’s Connor fucking Bishop!”
She devolves into squealing while I shush her, frantically trying to muffle the volume on the iPad before Mom overhears from the other room where she’s watching a docuseries on a big cat zookeeper.
“Shh, jesus!” I make a pained face as I flail my butter and flour covered hands around the iPad. “Oh my god, I’m going to end you! Please be quiet!”
“Okay.” Maisy sits up, leaning toward her phone. “But for real?”
Blushing, I say, “Well, yes and no? It’s not real. We’re pretending. His idea.”
“Tell me everything, girl!”
I laugh and wipe loose curls back from my forehead with my forearm, hesitating to figure out what to say.
Because that’s the thing—I can’t tell her everything. This is only the second time, ever, I’ve wanted to hide anything from her. She’s my best friend and we’ve never held back from each other. We’ve pretty much been synced up on the same monthly cycle, both getting our first periods within days of each other the second summer at camp. Good times.
Despite our open friendship and deep connection, the only other time I’ve kept something from her was when I had my online boyfriend. I was vague on the details, calling Henry a pen pal instead.
Checking around the corner to make sure Mom is still absorbed in her show, I keep my voice low. “So, he asked—well, no. He’s Connor,” I start, laughing nervously. “He
demanded I pose as his girlfriend because he doesn’t date and doesn’t want a real one, but he’s got my pictures so what am I supposed to do? It’s not like I knew I was texting those photos to him. Now he says I’m his until graduation.”
“What? Why?”
“Right?” I shake my head. “It doesn’t make any sense. I told him to pick someone else, but he, uh…was really convincing.”
I suck on my lips, ignoring the tendril of heat when I think about how close I was to kissing him.
Maisy squints at me, her face filling more of the frame as she scoots across her floor. “You know his reputation, don’t you?”
Sighing, I nod. “Yeah. Anyway, he wouldn’t tell me when I asked for details. It kind of made me mad.”
As I add cold water and mix the ingredients into a sticky dough, my anger grows. I frown when I look down and find I’ve taken it out on my dough. I pat it in penance.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Are you talking to the food again?” Maisy snorts. “Goob.”
“That’s not what you say when I feed you my rustic tartlets.”
Maisy moans and rolls onto her back, folding her hands over her stomach with a blissful expression. “They’re so good. Screw school. We’ll run away together, head for Venice Beach. You’ll open up a trendy bakery, and I’ll teach yoga. We’ll live in a really shitty one-room apartment, but it’ll be close to the ocean, so who cares? It’ll be glorious.”
My breath puffs out on a laugh at her elaborate fantasies of leaving Ridgeview in the dust. “Yeah, I’ll make you some soon.”
“Goddess.” Maisy blows a kiss at the screen. She pops up on her elbows. “Ugh. Mom’s calling. I’ve got to go.”
I grimace in sympathy. Both of our mothers are a lot to handle. “Good luck, girl.”
After she ends the video call, my thoughts turn as I roll out and turn my pastry dough. A new sense of purpose fills me. I’m determined to get to the bottom of why Connor is so adamant he needs me by his side.
Fifteen
Connor
When I meet Thea in the morning, blocking her driveway so she has no choice but to get in, I’m prepared for battle. It turns out I don’t need to be. Other than rehashing the same argument about the merits of her doll car, she eventually gives in.
A few days pass where we settle into this new routine. I pick her up in the morning, she kicks up a cute little fuss about it, then when I remind her the clock is ticking she hops in. She still asks a deluge of questions, but is no longer resisting the deal. Her questions have my guard up. She’s probably looking for any way out, but now she’s approaching me with more logic and strategy.
Good luck, little mouse. You’re going up against a master. You can’t outsmart me.
She’s acting like she genuinely cares and wants to help, but I can’t believe that. I’m blackmailing her. Why would she help me?
Doctor Levitt would spout some crap about harboring trust beginning with small steps, like believing someone means what they say instead of looking for the lie, but people suck. We’re all wired to save ourselves. Thea can’t be as honest and straightforward as she seems.
As soon as we pull into the student lot in the morning, she scurries off before she’s seen. Without meaning to, I’ve been arriving before the rest of my crew. Somehow, she gets me to consider her. She gets under my skin, bending me to her will. It must be that inexplicable instinct to protect her.
For now it’s enough to add a few Instagram posts together to lay the groundwork. We can stay pretty DL until I need her on my arm for Mom’s campaigning, but she stays in my head all day and my dreams at night.
Devlin’s starting to notice. He busted my balls about it last night before our soccer match. He should focus on his own shit. I’ve seen glimpses of the kinky game he’s playing with Blair Davis.
It’s my fault anyway for pulling out my phone and looking at one of her photos in the locker room.
My days seem quiet and bland without her messages. I think I miss them, if that’s possible. Me. Torn up over a chick. Unbelievable.
All I keep wondering is if she misses what we had, too. It wasn’t always about getting off—she’d show me her baking, or slip in comments about her day. An amused sound punches out of me because she’s really chatty for such a quiet girl once she breaks past her line.
The move is hers to make, but I hope it won’t be long before she craves it too much to care that it’s me. I wasn’t kidding, I’m betting I’m the only one who can give her what she wants. Her stupid Wyatt couldn’t handle her, not like I can.
I might not believe her word, but the physical chemistry between us? It’s a firecracker.
Thinking about her texting me, knowing it’s me this time… I trace my lip and cock my head. Anticipating the satisfying thrill is almost too much to handle.
I’m stalking the halls, looking for Devlin before first period when he didn’t show in the parking lot, but something else makes me halt. Some underclassman crashes into my back and I swear I can see his soul leave his body when my scowl lands on him. The kid squeaks out some apology and disappears. I turn my attention back to what made me stop.
Thea. Standing awfully fucking close to Coleman.
Her secret blog I discovered flashes in my head. Is Thea better at this than I gave her credit for, putting on a good girl act to get attention? I knew it. No one’s that naïve. And here I was, all protective over her when I saw those creepy comments. But she clearly has no qualms throwing herself at men.
Fake girlfriend or not, teacher or not, no chick of mine should be seen cozying up with another man. I need to do a deeper dig on Coleman to find something—anything on him that will keep him away from Thea. My suspicion from the other day hasn’t faded.
She touches his arm for a brief second with a big smile, then gestures to the pastry-filled table beside them. Vague recognition crosses my mind. There was a new Instagram post Thea made this week of her kitchen exploding with baked goods with the caption bake your feels away followed by a yellow heart and a sun emoji.
To make matters worse, she’s wearing the same sweater from the photo I was looking at last night. My hands ball into fists and my teeth clench. How many guys would she send a photo like that to, pulling the edge up to show off her stomach and a hint of her tits?
I’ve seen the fucking blog. That was a couple of years ago, but maybe she’s had good practice since then and upgraded to the way she was with me.
Jealousy is an irrational emotion, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it surging, calling on the vicious anger threatening to break free, threatening to break Coleman’s face for looking at her. I don’t fucking share.
I stalk the length of the hallway. If he didn’t get the message the two times he’s seen me all over her, I’ll make it crystal fucking clear this time. She’s mine and he needs to stay away.
“I think you’d be a perfect fit to head the winter formal planning committee,” Coleman tells her, waving at the table. “You organized this so well. What do you say?”
“I don’t know,” Thea murmurs, blushing a pretty shade of red. “I’m not a great public speaker.”
“This wouldn’t be like that. I was the faculty advisor last year, and the students kept it informal, more like a club meeting. I think you’ll do great.”
“Really?”
Christ, she’s so starved for attention, she needs him to praise her? I’m going to put my fist through a locker.
Thea spots me as I stop a few feet away and goes still. She picks up a wrapped pastry and takes a step toward me.
Acid feels like it’s boiling beneath my skin, seconds from exploding. I have to get out of here. I might not listen much to that quack therapist every week, but the coping methods keep me in check.
Without acknowledging Thea or Coleman, I keep walking down the hall to cool off before I deal with them.
After I skip first and most of second period to go for a long run on the track, then grab a shower,
I’m late to English class. Exercise helped, but I’m still on edge as I enter the room. The sight of Coleman is enough to have me teetering close to the uncontrollable anger again.
What’s so great about him that the girls are always eating out of his palm? Until Thea, I didn’t care about a young teacher getting his rocks off with the ego boost of high school girls fawning over him.
Coleman’s eyes harden at my interruption. That all-American veneer cracks under pressure. Come on, everything about this guy screams creepy. How do the girls want anything to do with him? Their red flags should be flying around him.
“You’re late, Mr. Bishop.” Coleman pretends to be authoritative, but I’m not taking it seriously. “Care to explain yourself?”
My skin feels too tight. I almost lost complete control earlier. The thing about being a little unhinged is the breaking point is always a hairline trigger away.
“No,” I snark, eyebrow raised.
“Excuse me?”
Coleman doesn’t find my backtalk amusing. The urge to laugh bubbles up in my chest and I push it back down with serious effort. The humor helps cut through the red haze of rage.
A few muffled snorts sound to my left. Devlin and Blair have their hands covering their mouths, eyes sparkling. Everyone loves a little bit of anarchy to break up the monotonous bullshit of high school.
Their gazes meet in mutual interest and something passes between them. See? Fucking told him he had the hots for her.
Thea doesn’t seem as impressed with my antics, a disapproving, worried frown marring her pretty features. I’m reminded once again why I shouldn’t trust her. Why I can’t want her like I do. Why does my dick not behave when I need it to? Maybe everything she does will stop messing with my head if I can hit it once and get her out of my system, like the mystery of what she tastes like when it’s not my imagination is driving me insane.
Ruthless Bishop: Dark New Adult High School Bully Romance (Sinners and Saints Book 3) Page 12