by Hart, Rebel
Reckless Rules
The Elites Of Weis-Jameson Prep Academy
Rebel Hart
Copyright © 2019 by Rebel Hart
Photo by Sara Eirew Photographer
Cover by Robin Harper of Wicked By Design
www.RebelHart.net
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Prologue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight:
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
About the Author
Also by Rebel Hart
Prologue
I wasn’t here to fuck around at the Arcadia Invitational. I was seeded 17th in the Girls 300 Meter hurdles, and I was here to kick ass and take names.
I looked to my left. Carly Richardson was the girl I needed to beat to get to the finals. Our times were milliseconds from each other. Our lanes were four and five, and I was ready to ignite like fire out of the blocks. Coach had told me that I didn’t have the acceleration to outrun her in the first 100 meters. I needed to outlast her in the last 100. I watched her jump, slap her thighs and sail through her pre-race routine. Her muscles rippled with effort.
Okay. Enough bullshitting.
I cracked my neck, did a couple jumps, high knees. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, visceral and real, and my heart rate was elevated. I took a couple calming breaths.
Okay, Ophelia. I told myself. The official mounted. It was time to get into the blocks. I did another jump, feeling my legs quiver like jelly. I slapped them. No. Now was not the time for nerves to make me weak.
I was a fucking bull.
Just before I knelt to my knees on the track, I glanced at the sidelines. Coach was there, giving me a stern look. His look of determination fueled me with confidence. We’d worked on my kick for the last 100 so many times these past weeks. He’d pushed me to my very breaking point. My mouth tingled with the remnant tang of vomit – if I did this right, I’d beat Carly. I knew what I was supposed to do. My gaze drifted to my mother and my step-dad who were pressed against the railing, smiling.
And then, there he was.
My stomach dropped. He was looking at me like he was hungry.
Over the past two days, I kept seeing him. He wasn’t a competitor, but his muscles strained against his shirt. Fit. Just how I liked them. His dark hair was artfully tousled. And his light-colored eyes kept finding mine across the crowd. It was as if everywhere I turned, my eyes found his form like a magnet. Behind me in the bleachers, waiting at the concession stand, drinking at the water fountain. Basically everywhere. Something about him told me there was something not quite right with him being here. But try telling that to my hormones and that fucking dream I had last night...
The guy smirked, and my body flooded with heat.
Fuck.
I couldn’t be distracted.
I settled my feet into the blocks. A rush of familiarity calmed me. These were just like the blocks at my high school. Though Nike was branded across them, they served the same purpose.
I tensed, waiting for that gun shot. Waiting for my time to spring. A sense of calm soothed my whirring brain, and my body stilled, tensed, waiting. This was instinctual. This was mechanical. And I was waiting...waiting.
* * *
“You did great,” came a voice from behind me.
I froze. My body, already weak and tired and achy and sweaty, clamped up. I whirled around, my bags swinging, and my eyes met his.
He was even more perfect in person. He had thick dark lashes that framed his stormy gray eyes. His lips were plump – totally kissable. And they were curled into a panty-dropping smirk. His face wasn’t quite symmetrical, but the crooked nose and thicker bottom lip added to his edgy look.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I didn’t make it to finals, but yeah.”
Just thirty minutes ago, I had run my fucking heart out. I wanted to make it to finals so bad, I could fucking taste it. I’d had my eyes trained on Carly, and I passed her right at the 200-meter mark like Coach and I had planned out last night. But then, out of nowhere, some girl in lane 8 put on the blasters and passed both Carly and me right at the finish line.
She’d run a personal record of 41.55 seconds. Enough to slide her into the finals and boot Carly and me to the curb.
I’d exited the field, given my mom and stepdad a hug, talked to Coach about what went wrong, and then escaped to the girls room to avoid everyone. I’d sat in the last stall sullenly, listening to the flushes of toilets and the chatter of happy people.
I was so fucking disappointed. And angry.
I’d found a quiet corner against the back of the stadium. I just needed like ten minutes to myself to compose my face before I confronted my family and Coach again.
Until he had found me. Mr. Mysterious Good Looking.
“You’re only a junior,” he said. “You’ve got next year to make it up.”
I jerked my chin up, narrowing my eyes at him. “Stalk much?”
“When I see a pretty girl? Nah, I just use the roster.” He smiled as he pulled up a crumbled roster from his pocket. He offered it to me, but I declined. “Suit yourself.”
I sighed. “Yeah, but who knows what will happen next year. I probably won’t have enough money to go here again.”
Bitterness soured my words. My body pulsed with irritation, disappointment and sadness. It crushed my soul to not be good enough. I clenched my jaw and let out an irritated growl.
“Ridiculous,” I muttered to myself.
“Mmm,” he said, nodding and pursing his bottom lip. For a moment, my eyes fixated on that lip. I wanted to bite it. Every nerve in me was short-circuited either from desire or anger, and I didn’t know if I wanted to punch the wall or kiss him. “That makes sense. Kinda unfair though.”
“Life’s unfair,” I ground out, shrugging my bag farther up my shoulder. “That’s how it is.”
“I’m Emmett, by the way” the guy said, extending his hand. I eyed the heavy veins that snaked down his arm to the back of his hand. I took it, delighting in the shivers creeping up my arm as his warm fingers enclosed around mine. “And you are?”
“You already know,” I snapped, then realized I was being a dick. I shouldn’t take my disappointment out on him. I smiled up at him. “But Ophelia. Ophelia Lopez.”
“A pleasure,” he said, bringing up my hand and brushing his lips against the backs of my knuckles. My stomach dropped. Holy fuck.
His gesture was old-fashioned. But holy fuck, it was sexy.
And it made the swirling knot of disappointment and anger in my chest dissipate with the press o
f his lips.
Our hands dropped but remained entwined by the fingers. Flickers of warmth skated across my chest, and I stared at Emmett. Why was I responding so strongly to him? This was insane. His eyes, I noticed, were dark, forbidding, like the Midwestern storms I was all too familiar with in the middle of buttfuck Oklahoma.
“So what are you doing here?” I asked, looking at him under my lashes. “You aren’t a runner.”
He stepped closer, and a delicious scent of expensive cologne filled my nostrils. Who was he? He gave off a different vibe than I was expecting. Something more...suspicious.
“I’m supporting my little brother,” he said. His fingers left my hand and trailed up the inside of my wrist. I sucked in a sharp breath. With my response, he stepped closer, and an electrical current built between us. “But that’s not important.”
Suddenly, his elbows were positioned by my head, his face leaning close to mine. His masculine scent flooded my nostrils – heavenly. I pressed back against the stadium wall, shocked at how my body both wanted to be next to his and far away. His eyes raked my face, and I couldn’t decipher the expressions in them. Curiosity, desire...and something else churned in the icy depths.
I jerked when warm fingers touched my cheek. His eyes heated. But my body was frozen, wanting more of his touch, craving it. His fingers trailed along the cut of my jaw, fiery tingles. I’d thought about this last night, dreamt of kissing the hot guy who kept popping up, but this was real. His body before me was real and warm and – my hand unstuck itself from the wall and trailed itself across his pectorals – hard.
“You’re different and odd,” I said, licking my dry lips. There was something just off about him. I couldn’t pinpoint any outward sign or anything that told me this. But I felt it. “But I like it.”
He made a small sound in the back of his throat. He grabbed my wandering hand and placed a soft kiss on the inside of my palm. The tender touch zapped me out of my stupor.
“Let me kiss you,” he said, locking eyes with mine. He was demanding rather than asking. “Let me.”
My mouth dropped in astonishment, drawing his heated gaze. He stared at my lips like an addict.
I should have said no.
But what was the harm?
My hormones were practically begging me to kiss him.
So I went up on my tiptoes and touched my lips to his. It was a small connection of flesh, but my senses went haywire, my body lighting up like a firecracker.
“Fuck,” he murmured against my mouth. His hand wound into my hair, tilting my heated face toward his. His gray eyes were delirious with desire, and my breaths came in short pants at just his taste. “You taste fucking delicious.”
His lips came down on mine again, and he deepened the kiss, opening my lips, sucking, nipping. Heat poured off him in waves. The kiss turned demanding, and I grabbed his soft shirt to press him against me. I whimpered into his mouth as his kiss sent me skyrocketing.
Emmett kissed like he was confused. His lips were soft, but as he grabbed for my body, his fingers dug into my sides. Almost punishing. Almost brutal. But I rolled with it, matching each sweep of his tongue with mine.
“Ophelia!” came my mother’s voice.
I shoved Emmett away, finding my mother’s shocked face over his shoulder. Oh shit. Coach, my stepdad Brendan and my mother were staring at me with a mixture of confusion, disappointment, and amusement.
“Sorry,” I said to them, wiggling past Emmett’s still form and walking up to the trio.“I got distracted.”
“I’ll say,” Coach said, fixing Emmett with a glare. “You look like a tomato.”
I brushed my hot cheeks with the back of my hand. I decided to roll with it and dismiss their ogling. “Whatever. I just needed to get it out of my system.”
But as I walked away from Emmett, I felt his heavy gaze on the nape of my neck. Shivers wracked my body and I ached to run back and finish what we had started. I couldn’t help it – I sent a backward glance to where Emmett lounged against the stadium wall. When our eyes met, a flash of desire took hold of me.
Emmett was decidedly not out of my system. I shouldered my bag again, trying to brush off the sexual images burned in my brain.
Well, he needed to get out of my system. I was heading back to Oklahoma, and I wouldn’t see him again.
1
Chapter One
I hate running.
I do.
It’s painful. It’s hard. It’s monotonous.
But then again, there’s always been some sort of thrill, some sense of accomplishment that I feel when I push myself to the brink of passing out. It makes my thoughts numb, everything focused on pulling my burning muscles forward, expanding my heaving chest, and feeling the sweat trickle down my back or off the bridge of my nose.
So maybe, yeah, I fucking love running.
I love the sweet satisfaction that comes from every cell in my body burning with this intense heat.
I love the pain.
I love the delirious effect of a good race.
I love the sound of my feet slapping concrete, track rubber, grass, dirt.
I love that however I do in a particular moment boils down to me. There is nobody responsible for my failures or successes other than me. I am the sole determinant of how good or bad I perform.
I’m damn good at running. Just not that good. I’m nationally ranked in the top 50 of the Girls 300 Meter Hurdles. Thoughts of the Arcadia Invitational sour my steps. Even though it was months ago, I still can’t get it out of my head. Just how hard do I need to work to run those thoughts out of my head?
Too hard.
I shake off the tendrils of disappointment that threaten to falter my stride. I obviously wasn’t ready to go to finals. Nameless Lane 9 had showed up to kick my ass in gear.
Today’s a long day. Seven miles.
I usually don’t mind the length. Back in Oklahoma, I switched between three different routes depending on what Coach ordered. However, I’m not in Oklahoma anymore. And the streets of Jameson, Massachusetts are unfamiliar and sometimes bricked. They are windy, confusing and different. But I like the change in scenery.
As I race through unfamiliar streets, the houses get more impressive and old, and I think about the surprising turn of events following Arcadia.
Not a week after the meet, I’d received a phone call from the Headmaster of Weis-Jameson Preparatory Academy. He had an offer that made my jaw drop. A full-ride scholarship if I attended my senior year at WJ Prep. A little digging and I was hooked; their track and field program was nationally ranked, and they churned out an Olympic athlete every couple years. Their coach, David Granger, was legendary. A former Olympian hurdler himself, he’d gotten bronze back in his heyday.
Mom couldn’t believe it. She’d grown up in Jameson when she was little – she hadn’t been back for twenty years. She’d actually attended WJ Prep herself, where she’d met my bio-dad.
It didn’t take a lot of convincing to move. Mom’s ties to Jameson plus my scholarship and the opportunity to train under a former Olympian… Fuck, I could be set for life with just this one year stint at WJ prep.
And now I’m here. A week before the semester starts. In a strange town with the opportunity of my life. Pre-season workouts would start a couple weeks in, but David had emailed a ‘suggested’ workout. He wasn’t technically able to supervise practice so early before the season starts in February.
Jameson is hilly, and I’m not used to hills. I push myself, feeling the remnants of my strength ebb as I struggle to put one leg in front of the other. With another right, I face an ornate gate: Crescent Hills, it reads. And holy fuck do these bitches have money.
I slow my pace, entering the community. The homes I pass get bigger and bigger as I go along. Immaculately landscaped yards feature fountains, perfect grass, trimmed hedges and sparkling driveways. Each one is breathtaking – clearly, this is the Mansion District. Many have gates across their drives, which lead up to columne
d porches framing massive wood or glass doors. Large stone potted plants decorate the porches, and I wonder what else these luxurious homes could be hiding behind their large windows and rooftop terraces.
As I run, each house rises into the backs of the mountain, and the road winds higher and higher. The steep elevation crucifies my legs. Jesus. My breath is painful, ripping an agonizing tear through my chest each time I inhale. What if I stopped here? I’m close enough to halfway.
I pause at a bend in the road. It overlooks the city before winding behind me, to further houses buried into the hills. Excuse me. Mansions.
Jameson sprawls below me. It is lit by the waning late summer light. I take a moment to bounce on my toes, feeling sweat dry on my calves as a cool breeze hit me. It’s a gorgeous place, that I can admit. My town back in Oklahoma was flat, with concrete buildings and concrete roads and concrete fences. It was a concrete jungle, with little style and no beauty points. Only in the spring months did the flowers contrast the gray.
Time to go.
I start down the hill, letting gravity doing most of the work. Ahead, the first car that I’ve seen emerges, slowly driving toward me. It’s a fucking fancy car. I stare at it. It glimmers a fire engine red, and as I get closer I notice the Lamborghini logo.
Fuck, these people are hella rich.
Suddenly, the car revs. It beelines toward me. A rush of red. The engine roars. A loud engine. It barrels down. Its lights aren’t on, I notice. I can barely register what’s happening before I dive out of the way. My foot dings the headlight as the car swerves just at the last second.