Ruthless Rose: A High School Bad Boy Romance (Rosehaven Academy Book 3)

by Leila James

  Ruthless Rose

  Leila James

  Ruthless Rose © Copyright 2021 by Leila James

  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. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This novel is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Credits

  Editing by Rebecca Kimmel:

  www.thewritingrefinery.com

  * * *

  Proofreading by Krista Dapkey:

  www.kdproofreading.com

  * * *

  Cover Design by Diana TC:

  www.triumphbookcovers.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Also by Leila James

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Honestly, I’m perplexed. An early morning phone call requesting my presence in the office of Rosehaven Academy’s headmaster before classes begin this morning is not something that has ever happened to me before. And when I told my parents where I was going so early, they’d flipped out and started asking all kinds of questions—questions I have no answers to because the secretary hadn’t given me a single clue about what is going on. Great way to start my week.

  Hello, Monday. Nice to see you again.

  My hands grip the wheel of my crappy old Honda Civic more tightly as I make the turn onto school property. My stomach twists angrily into knots and my palms sweat. Funny how I’m halfway to panic when I know for a fact I didn’t do anything. Hell, I never do anything.

  I’m the nerdiest of the nerd girls and don’t even care that I’m labeled that way by my peers. In fact, I take an amused pride in it. I study hard and get good grades. It’s the life of an academic scholarship student here at Rosehaven Academy. I hardly ever go out, unless it’s with Max, my closest friend, to the movies or something equally tame. It’s in my best interest to steer clear of all the partying and boozing it up and who knows what else the rest of my classmates partake in. Only once so far in my senior year have I even bothered to attend a football game, and that was in support of my new friend Scarlett. She hadn’t wanted to go alone, so Max and I went with her.

  I suck in a breath as a terrible thought occurs to me. Oh my God, maybe this has something to do with that awful prick Justin. He drugged Scarlett at Beau’s party this past weekend—and from what I gather, he’d had every intention of raping her. But I hadn’t been there and don’t know anything that would be useful, or even why the school would be asking. I only know what Scarlett has told me. My brow furrows.

  Scarlett filled Max and me in on some of the nitty-gritty details via text after she was released from the hospital on Saturday. From what she told me, her boyfriend, Xander, and his stepfather, Sebastian, arrived in time to stop Justin from hurting her. The kicker is Xander’s dad, Joseph—Justin’s stepfather and the CEO of Grey Technologies—had encouraged the whole thing, using Justin as a weapon against Scarlett and Sebastian, who, as it turns out, is actually her dad. The whole complicated mess had all been in the name of revenge. Well, that and Justin is just a sick, rapey asshole.

  So yeah, maybe it has something to do with that. I didn’t actually witness anything that went down with Justin, though, so I have no clue why they would want to see me about any of it. I quickly park in the student lot and whip out my phone, checking for text messages. Maybe they are pulling a bunch of us in for some reason.

  But there are no texts from my friends, nothing to indicate that anyone other than me has been singled out for a chat with the headmaster.

  Taking in a shaky breath, I tap out a message to Scarlett and Max in our group chat.

  Me: Hey. I just got summoned to see Gilmore before school.

  Me: Any clue what it could be about?

  Max: Um. Not really.

  Me: They didn’t ask you to come in?

  Max: Nope.

  Scarlett: Me neither. Sorry, girl.

  Me: Will you be at school today, Scar?

  Scarlett: Yeah. I’m okay. Really.

  Me: I thought maybe it was about—

  Me: Ugh. Never mind.

  Me: I’ll go find out what they want.

  Max: I can sense your anxiety rising with every word you type.

  Max: It’ll be fine, Daph. Whatever it is.

  I slip my phone into my blazer pocket and wipe my sweaty palms on my red-and-black plaid uniform skirt. I inhale a deep, calming breath, then blow it out slowly. Time to figure this out. I pull my book bag across the center console, sling it over my shoulder, and step from the car.

  All the way up the walk and into the building, my mind scatters, diving off in a million different directions. What could they possibly want?

  Pushing the door to the main office open, I look around. The place is practically deserted this early in the morning. The big counter stretches across the room, but none of the secretaries usually seated behind it during the day have arrived yet. With a shrug, I decide to peek around the corner because I have no clue if I’m supposed to go directly to the headmaster’s office or not.

  A brief glimpse down the hallway toward the administrators’ offices has my heart jumping up into my throat. A large figure clad in our school uniform sits hunched over on the bench outside of Headmaster Gilmore’s office. His forearms rest on his thick thighs, his big hands dangling between his long legs. His head is dropped, chin to chest, so I can’t see his face, but I’d know those broad shoulders anywhere.

  Micah Robertson.

  He’s the talented tight end for our football team. A Rose—one of the elite at this school. His family helped found Rosehaven Academy three generations ago. That alone makes him untouchable. Almost invincible. Throw in his jock status
and insanely hot good looks and it all adds up to a constant line of girls just waiting for him to notice them.

  Speaking of being noticed, I stand stock-still for several seconds, my throat becoming increasingly dry, hoping Micah hasn’t seen me standing here. Maybe I can turn around and leave, wait outside until he’s done with whatever business he has here this morning. Because I’m not one of those girls who hopes he’ll look my way. I’ll never be. I used to think—

  Never mind. Those kinds of thoughts will get me nowhere. Last year, on my very first day as a student at Rosehaven Academy, I’d been almost excited to see him … but then he’d shown me exactly what he thinks of me.

  Nothing. The guy practically looked right through me as if I didn’t exist. He doesn’t remember me.

  With a quick glance at my phone, I see that it won’t work to wait Micah out. The secretary had been very specific when she asked me to come in at 7:30 a.m.

  Glancing down at my feet in my favorite pair of Vans, I cross the office, hit the hallway, and somehow keep myself going.

  I can be pretty quiet when I want to be. When I’m about three feet away from Micah, his head finally snaps up, his gaze connecting with mine and pinning me in place. His dark eyes bore into me like I’ve given him some reason to be upset. A cold shudder rolls through me.

  It takes me a few seconds to find words. “Um, is the headmaster in his office?”

  “See for yourself,” he grunts, rolling his eyes.

  What the hell? I blink, not understanding what his problem is. I feel his eyes on my back as I pass him and approach the door to knock. Goose bumps pebble along my skin.

  “Come in.” The gruff voice of Headmaster Gilmore sounds on the other side of the door. With a quick side-eye in Micah’s direction, I twist the knob and push the door open.

  My eyes bounce from the headmaster to … the head coach of the football team, Coach Roland. I try to school my features, but have a hard time doing it because now I’m really lost. A tight line forms down the middle of my forehead and blood rushes to my cheeks, making my head pound. I have nothing to do with the football team. I’d even go as far as saying I have an aversion to football players. Some of them are okay, but a lot of them fit right into a certain stereotype: big, rough, full-of-themselves, bullying jockfaces.

  “Have a seat, please, Miss Davis. Thank you for coming in this morning.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but the headmaster nods hastily toward one of the chairs at the side of the room, so I sit, crossing my feet at the ankles and smoothing my skirt over my thighs.

  Headmaster Gilmore’s head bobs once at the other man, which I guess is Coach Roland’s signal to … Oh, no. He’s not going to … Why? No ...

  Coach Roland’s voice is forceful as he barks out, “Micah. Come in here, please.”

  My eyes widen, and I try to hide it by looking down at my hands, which are twisted together in my lap. I’m a bundle of freaked-out nerves, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

  At six-foot-three and two-twenty—give or take ten pounds—Micah’s big body practically fills the doorframe when I look up to see him standing there. I have a random thought about where on earth he must have to order his blazer from to find one that actually fits him.

  Holy shit. Can he see my hands shaking? I clasp them tightly together in an effort to disguise my nerves.

  “Micah, have a seat, son.” His coach gestures to the chair right next to me.

  He gives his coach a hard look, shakes his head, mutters to himself, then stalks over to sit down. His shoulders take up so much room I have to shift my chair over to accommodate him. It’s either that or be smashed together, arm to arm.

  I struggle to breathe while I’m stuck here trying to plaster some sort of smile on my face as the coach and headmaster both turn to me. It’s like Micah’s sucked all of the air out of the room with his very presence.

  The headmaster folds his hands atop his desk as he studies my confused expression. “So, Daphne, I hope we didn’t throw your schedule all out of whack this morning by asking you to come in to see us.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I just— I have no idea what I’m doing here.” My throat works to swallow, but it’s difficult, given my mouth is bone-dry.

  His head bobs. “Of course, of course.” His gaze slides to Micah for a moment, who has slouched in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, his body stealing all the remaining physical space in the office, just like he’s already taken up all the air. The headmaster gestures to him. “Micah’s having a bit of trouble in a few classes and while we applaud his athletic ability, we also expect our athletes to reflect well on our school academically.” He clears his throat. “That said, when Head Coach Roland told us one of our key football players was in need of some assistance, we thought the easiest thing to do would be to find someone in similar classes who would be capable of tutoring him. We need his grade to come up to an appropriate level in both Spanish II and Physics.”

  Micah shifts in his seat, sitting forward. His elbows rest on his thighs, and his hands scrub through his short brown hair as he sighs deeply.

  In my peripheral vision, his arm muscles bunch and flex, barely contained by his blazer. His whole body is stiff with restraint. He’s like a storm cloud ready to burst, unleashing a torrential downpour. A bomb on the verge of exploding.

  Coach Roland looks sternly at Micah before he focuses on me. “When we asked around, we found you were highly recommended by your teachers, Daphne.”

  I glance at the headmaster and then at Micah’s coach. I wet my lips and try to swallow again. “Do I have a choice?” My voice is tremulous. I kind of hate it.

  “Yeah.” Micah sits up, smirking. “Do I have a choice?”

  Wow.

  Coach Roland presses his lips together, staring at Micah, his rising anger evident. He tamps it down before he speaks. “If you want to maintain your spot on the team, no, you don’t have a choice.” He gives his head a quick shake. “And I have to say, I don’t like your poor attitude. We’re trying to help you.”

  I suspect if they were on the field, Micah’s coach would be right in his face shouting at him that he’d better learn some damn respect and manners.

  I sneak another glance out of the corner of my eye. My shoulders immediately tense. Oh, man. Micah makes me uncomfortable on a daily basis, especially since I’ve had to be around him a little bit now that Scarlett is dating one of his best friends. But shoot, the disgruntled, raw energy radiates from him in a way I’ve never noticed before.

  Headmaster Gilmore gets my attention. “You certainly have a choice, Daphne, but this can be beneficial for you, too.”

  I frown. What?

  He rubs his hands over his dress pants. “You’ll be hearing from your guidance counselor later today on that.” He glances briefly at Micah before returning to me. “I’m sure you’d prefer to have that conversation in private.”

  My mouth opens, and I blink before closing it again. “Um, okay …” I huff out a breath and nod. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Chapter 2

  We must have been in the headmaster’s office longer than I realized because by the time Micah and I shuffle out of there—neither of us very happy—the hallways are full of students heading to their first class of the day. Black blazers with rose logos and black-and-red plaid skirts reign supreme.

  My thoughts are a mess, wondering what the headmaster was talking about at the very end of our conversation. Why would the guidance counselor want to talk to me? My grades are impeccable. None of my grades have dipped below an A+ this semester. My college applications aren’t finished yet, but they aren’t technically due until January 1. Even if I want to apply for an early decision acceptance somewhere, I still have almost a whole month. Ugh. It can’t be that.

  With a sigh, I follow Micah toward the side door that leads to the hallway where most of the senior classes are located. He yanks the door op
en and as he passes through, it smacks into a chair and bounces closed behind him.

  I’m glad I wasn’t following more closely, or I’d have ended up with the door slamming into me. Blowing out a quick breath, I grab the handle and let myself out.

  Micah’s long-legged stride eats up the hallway, and if I want to say anything to him, I’ll have to hurry to catch up. Shit. Do I really have to say something to him? I feel like … like maybe I should. I owe him that, I guess. I’d be embarrassed as hell if I got called out like that by my coach. At least I think I would be. I’ve never had a coach in my life.

  I scramble down the hallway as fast as I can. It takes me a good thirty seconds to catch up to him. “Micah,” I gasp out, “can I talk to you for a second?”

  He rounds on me, forcing me to skid to a stop or run right into him. He towers a good eight inches or so over me, the top of my head barely meeting his chin. I tilt my head back. “I—”

  He looks down at me, his tongue tucked into his cheek. His stare is ruthless. Coldhearted. Steely. Fierce. His eyes say I’m just a peasant, and he’s a king. I’m no better than a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.

  Under his terrifying scrutiny, I feel less than. Not good enough. My heart rate accelerates when I realize I’m not sure what I’m trying to say even though I’ve stopped him in the middle of the hallway. Poked the beast. And he. Looks. Pissed.