Hateful Bully (Bad Bullies Book Two): A Dark Step Brother Bully Romance

by Logan Fox

  Chapter Three

  Candy

  Something pulls my hair. Not a whole section, just a few strands at a time. Stings. The pain—more irritating than anything else—forces my eyes open.

  Light burns my retinas.

  Damn, now that’s pain.

  “Shit,” I mutter, immediately squeezing my lids closed again.

  “Shit,” a young voice parrots back to me. Despite the pain, I lever open my eyelids again and blink a few times until I can focus on the face in front of me. “Emma?”

  The girl leans back, gives me one of her goofy smiles, and snatches her hand away from my head. She’d been stroking my head, but with her sticky hands, it had been more torture than pleasure.

  “Shit,” she says again, and then smiles.

  “Don’t say that,” I manage, and then smack my lips to bring moisture back into my dry mouth. There’s a glass of water on my nightstand. When I drag the glass closer, it bumps into a pair of aspirin placed just so on the corner of the nightstand.

  Who…?

  I snatch the pills, toss them down my throat and sit up while I start chugging at the water. Emma backs up a few more steps, watches me with that strangely intense expression of hers, and then bolts from my room.

  Weirdo.

  I consider lying back down again and waiting for the aspirin to kick in before attempting to get up again, but then I happen to glance at the clock on the opposite wall. I blink a few times and then squint.

  A second later, my eyes fly wide open.

  “Shit!”

  Why the hell didn’t anyone wake me up for school?

  Emma did.

  But was it on purpose? Does she even know what day it is?

  I’m so damn late, I don’t even think there’s time to shower. I hoist my vest up as I scramble off my bed, already wondering how I’m going to power through this day with a head stuffed full of aching cotton wool.

  As soon as the baggy vest I was sleeping in brushes against my nose, all thoughts disintegrate.

  I stink of booze.

  I rip off my vest and turn it the right way out, staring in horror at the fabric. I don’t remember much about last night, but I’m sure I would have remembered tipping a whole glass of liqueur over myself. At least, that’s what it smells like.

  But there’s nothing on my shirt. I look down at myself, and sudden coldness spills through me.

  As if in a dream, I bring a finger to my lips, wet it, and bring it down to the skin between my breasts. It touches something sticky. When I taste it, it’s sweet.

  But that’s all background noise. I’m much, much more concerned with the fact that I appear to have several bruises on my ribs and hips.

  Well, now I know I’m one of the select few who shouldn’t be touching alcohol. Obviously, I can’t handle it. I don’t remember bumping into anything hard enough to bruise, but I also don’t remember dousing myself with enough cream liqueur to transform myself into a walking fire hazard.

  Like mother, like daughter, right?

  When I look into the mirror, I don’t recognize the face staring back at me. My blue eyes have shadows under them, and my dark hair—normally sleek and shiny—looks like I haven’t brushed it in a week.

  Or washed it.

  I might have to miss homeroom because one thing’s for sure: there’s no way in hell I can arrive at school looking—and reeking—the way I do.

  Chapter Four

  Josiah

  Where the fuck is she?

  I slip my phone from my blazer to check the time.

  This is such fucking bullshit.

  I turn my key in my SUV’s ignition, but a second later, I switch it off again. Letting out a muted growl, I kick open my door and stalk around the back of Bale Manor.

  Trust the little bitch to make me wait. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’m doing her a favor, and she can’t be bothered to respect my time? If she’s busy slapping makeup or something on her face, I’m going to lose my shit in a bad way.

  My heart’s already pounding in anticipation of violence. Not that I may lay a hand on her, of course; I would never even think about harming a woman.

  I know she can’t hear me from the kitchen, so I hustle up the stairs. On the landing, I yell out, “Candy!” a second before I thump her bedroom door with my fist.

  It swings open and bares the empty room beyond. Her en-suite bathroom door is open a crack. Steam and the sound of running water spills out.

  She’s still in the fucking shower?

  I’m frozen in place for a moment. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to leave her behind, to go to school, to have her get herself out of this fucking mess.

  But my mind? It keeps replaying what Dad said to me at the dinner table last night. It was right after he and Candy had been laughing and joking like old friends while his wife and I looked on like spectators at a very boring circus ring.

  “So, do I just get on the bus tomorrow—?” Candy had been saying. I only remember because of how Dad’s expression had switched from one polar opposite to the next.

  “The bus?” Gone was his smile, replaced in an instant with a frown that cut a deep swathe between his brows. Then his eyes were on me.

  “What?” I’d asked, shrugging while I mentally scrambled to figure out what I’d done to piss him off.

  But as if he didn’t trust any answer I’d give, he turned back to Candy. “Didn’t Josiah tell you? You’re driving with him.”

  “Don’t see why she can’t take the bus,” I said.

  “The bus cuts through town. Do you really think your sister is safe driving through the slums?”

  As if we live in a rat-infested apartment in the middle of some dilapidated city, not in motherfucking suburban bliss.

  “Stepsister.”

  That didn’t help, of course.

  Dad pointed at me, lips curling in a snarl. “You will take your sister to school every day and back home every afternoon. Do you understand me?”

  I wanted to ask what I was supposed to do on the afternoons that I had football practice, but in his state, my father would probably have told me to drive Candy up and down like a fucking chaperon.

  Or quit football.

  Instead, I said nothing as I radiated silent disapproval.

  “Make it happen, or you’ll lose the car.”

  If we don’t leave the house in the next five minutes, we’ll both be late regardless of how many stop signs I run.

  “Candy!” I don’t wait for her reply—I storm over to the bathroom door and ram it open.

  I expect her to be in the shower, a pane of frosted glass between us, and some steam for good measure. She’s in the middle of the bathroom floor, staring at her reflection.

  Stark. Fucking. Naked.

  “Jesus!” I drop my eyes.

  Pointless, because there’s now a perfect shot of this moment imprinted in my memory.

  “Jo!” Candy stands for another second and then snatches a towel off the heated rails beside her. She drapes it over her shoulders like she’s cold instead of wrapping it around her like a normal person.

  It barely reaches her belly button.

  I turn my back, gritting my teeth at the fact that, without seeing my face, she can’t fathom just how pissed off I am at her. “You’re late!”

  “Yes, well, I—I know that!” she stutters. And then, as if she’s suddenly realized just how inappropriate all of this is, adds, “Get out!”

  “Not without you.” I turn my head—not too look, but so I can direct my voice better at her—and stab at the door. “Get dressed, and get in my fucking car or I’ll drag you out there with that fucking towel.”

  “I have to shower.”

  “Then you walk to school.”

  “Jo, please, I can’t be late on my first day!” Her voice catches. “Please. One minute, that’s all I need.”

  “Just tie your hair up, you’ll be fine,” I say, pushing the words through my teeth.

  I think s
he’s finally realized her attempt at modesty isn’t cutting it. From the corner of my eye, I see her readjust her towel.

  That’s not all I see.

  “Did you fall?”

  She goes rigid, her eyes still down and staying that way. “Yeah.”

  “Jesus, how pissed did you get last night?”

  Her voice drops even lower, barely a whisper now. “Just drop it.”

  “Christ.” I roll my eyes and then slam open the shower door. “If your ass isn’t in my passenger seat in the next sixty seconds, I’m leaving without you.”

  “Thank you.”

  My jaw bunches, but I don’t bother responding. Of course, she’ll be all fucking sweet when she wants something—that’s what women do, don’t they? They treat you like a piece of shit until they want something, then they’re suddenly dripping honey from every orifice.

  “Sixty seconds,” I repeat woodenly, before slamming the bathroom door hard enough to make her yelp in surprise.

  A minute later, Candy darts out through the manor’s front door. She races to the car, backpack in one hand, her shoes in the other. Her standard-issue school shirt is buttoned up all wrong and not even tucked into her pleated skirt…but she made it in time.

  She winces when she slams the passenger door closed behind her and turns that apologetic simper in my direction.

  “Don’t,” I mutter, holding up my hand. “Buckle up and shut up.”

  She bites her lip and eases her backpack to the floor between her feet. Then she starts prepping herself. I watch her progress without once looking in her direction, except if I have to check for traffic.

  The entire ride to school is utterly silent, but for the occasional rustle or huff of breath, as Candy puts on her shoes, re-buttons her shirt, drags her wet hair away from her neck, and subdues it into a ragged ball on the top of her head.

  I expect makeup to appear next, but either she forgot it at home, or she’s decided not to risk taking out an eye as I race us to school.

  We arrive seconds before the homeroom bell.

  Candy’s got her backpack in her lap, ready to go, but starts fumbling with the seatbelt, trying to get it to unlock.

  With a sigh, I lean back inside the car, grab her buckle, and unlock it.

  She smooths back a hank of hair that’s somehow escaped the messy prison on top of her head with a timid smile that makes her one slightly crooked tooth poke against her lip.

  No fucking wonder she couldn’t unlock it—she’s shaking like a three-day drunk who couldn’t find their bottle of spirits. Trust me to get shacked up with an alcoholic stepsister.

  Will Dad keep pouring her wine at dinner each night if he knows?

  I go around, and wrench open her door in case she starts fumbling with that too. But before she can climb out, I lean in really close and wait for her to make eye contact.

  “I’ve got practice this afternoon. Keep yourself occupied until I’m done. I’ll meet you back here at three.” I rummage in my blazer and pull out a stick of gum. “Open.”

  She blinks her big blue eyes at me, her lips parting with an unspoken question.

  Unspoken, because I grab her jaw, tug it down, and slide the gum between her lips before she can embarrass us both with her rhetorical idiocy.

  “This happens again, and I’m selling you out so fast your head will spin.” I step back, sneering at her when she doesn’t move. “You’re not a fucking kid anymore. Stop acting like one.”

  Chapter Five

  Candy

  I sigh as I fall tummy-down on my bed and burrow my face into the cool silkiness of my pillows. I haven’t even bothered taking off my school shoes, my blazer, undoing my hair.

  All I want to do is sleep.

  Which is weird, because I’ve overslept a few times this week already, and I’m sure I’m in bed before ten each night. I even catch the odd nap during lunch when I don’t have a test to study for.

  But every morning when I wake up, my eyes feel like they have sand in them. My mind’s slow, and my head is all fuzzy.

  Thankfully, Mom and Wayne are attending some charity dinner or something for Wayne’s work—they’ll only be home later.

  I could go to sleep now and only wake up at noon tomorrow.

  TGIF, right?

  And that’s what I was about to do when someone opened my bedroom door.

  I twist my head the other way, groaning low in my throat when I see Emma peeking around the corner of my door.

  “What do you want?” I didn’t mean to sound so bitchy, but God, I’m tired.

  Emma scans the room as if she wants to make sure we’re alone before creeping in. I watch her coming closer and push onto my elbows when she stops a yard away from my bed. “What?”

  “Wanna swim,” Emma says.

  I roll my eyes at her and flop back onto the bed. Mr. Bale handed down the law when Mom and I got here a few weeks ago. One of them was to never let Emma go swimming alone. I didn’t make much of that rule at the time—but this kid would live in the water if she could. Doesn’t matter how bad the weather is—every day at three, she insists on splashing around in the pool.

  “Go ask your brother,” I mutter.

  “Busy.”

  “Yeah, well, so am I.” Honestly, I’d take her if I didn’t feel like a regurgitated frozen dinner, but I’d probably nod off while she was swimming and let my new stepsister drown.

  I’d get into a lot of shit for that.

  “Puh-lease, Candy.”

  “God,” I groan, flopping onto my back with ill grace. “Can I just sleep for like one hour?”

  “Please, Can—”

  “Yeah, all right!” I’m up a second later, cheeks hot and chest tight. I scan the little girl with narrowed eyes. “You’re not even wearing your swim stuff.” I point. “Go. Mush!”

  She giggles at that and hurries from my room, her pigtails flying out behind her.

  This blows. I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter. I don’t even like kids.

  I rip free my bun and loosen out my hair as I kick off my shoes and head into my walk-in closet to change into something comfier than my school clothes.

  I’d just slipped a hoody over my head when I hear the unmistakable sound of a splash.

  “You’re shitting me!”

  I race to my window and stare into the backyard. “Emma!” I yell, but she doesn’t react. Instead, she’s standing on the first step—no water wings!—and attempting to put on her goggles.

  “Shit!”

  I race downstairs, my bare feet thumping on the steps. Emma does an in-elegant belly flop into the water as I reach the paved pool area.

  “Hey!” I yell out, coming right up to the edge of the pool. “You’re supposed to wait for me!”

  But Emma doesn’t respond, because Emma’s splashing the water like she’s fighting it. And I guess, seeing as she’s slowly starting to sink, that’s a very accurate description

  “Emma!” I pace one way, then the other, willing the little girl to swim to the edge.

  Except, I forget—she can’t actually swim. Especially without her water wings.

  “Emma!”

  Do I have to jump in? Can she really not even make it to the side? Or am I supposed to leave her to try and get here by herself? Crap, I have no idea what I’m supposed to—

  Something knocks into me from behind. I flail, barely managing to keep from falling face-first into the pool.

  Josiah hits the water with barely a splash. A second later, he reappears right beside Emma.

  It all happens so fast that I’m still reeling from his shoulder knocking into me when he drags his sister out of the pool with his hands under her arms.

  She plonks onto her bottom, coughing and choking like she nearly drowned, and promptly bursts into tears.

  When Josiah looks up at me, there’s murderous rage in his eyes. “The fuck?” he bellows.

  Emma starts howling.

  “I didn’t say she could go in!” I point at th
e choppy water, my heart beating double time when Josiah storms up to me.

  “She could have drowned!”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Exactly,” he spits out, swiping a hand over his forehead and smoothing back his hair. “You didn’t do anything. Ever think that might have been an option? Or were you just going to watch her drown?”

  My mouth falls open. “I would never—”

  “Yes, that’s obvious.” He shows me his teeth, and then whips around and hurries back to his sister. She’s hugging herself, her face contorting around a fresh volley of choking sobs.

  “I thought she was allowed to swim.”

  “Not by herself,” Josiah throws back over his shoulder.

  “I said I was coming.”

  “Shut up and bring me a towel,” he says.

  I’m so freaking angry, I can’t think of a comeback. With a strangled yell, I pivot and stalk into the pool room after yanking at the glass doors a few times.

  Josiah doesn’t look up at me when I shove a towel in his direction. “Here.”

  “You don’t ever come out here unless someone’s with you, got it?” Josiah’s telling his sister.

  My stomach turns over at the steel command in Josiah’s voice. I expect Emma to start crying anew, but all she does is swallow a sob and nod furiously at her brother.

  Josiah’s black eyes swivel up to me. “And Candy doesn’t count.”

  Emma’s still nodding.

  I scowl at him. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Not interested,” he mutters, draping the towel over Emma’s shoulders and scooping her into his arms.

  Then they’re gone, and I’m left standing beside the pool like an idiot.

  Suddenly, I’m not tired anymore.

  Suddenly, I can’t stop thinking about the row-upon-row of bottles I spotted in the pool house bar as I’d passed them to get a towel from the closet.

  Hands in fists, I charge back to the pool house.

  You know what’ll put me right to sleep? A nice big glass of wine.