Devils' Day Party: A High School Bully Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  Hot bullies, busted cars, and the party of the year.

  On an endless loop.

  I don’t know how, but I’m living today over and over again.

  Every year, the town of Devil Springs holds a celebration known as Devils’ Day.

  There’s no magic, but there might as well be: we wear masks, we play tricks, we party hard.

  Every year, the students of Crescent Reform School party the hardest.

  They’re the lewdest, the most wanton, ribald, and lascivious.

  Why shouldn’t they be? Our ultrarich prep school sits in the middle of the woods, a place for wealthy families to dump their black sheep.

  Except for me.

  My parents sacrificed everything they had to send me to Crescent Prep.

  I can’t let Calix Knight, Barron Farrar, and Raz Loveren ruin that for me.

  They’ve bullied me for years, and I’ve never known why.

  At least today, they have something real to be pissed about.

  I crashed my shitty yellow VW Beetle into Calix’s Aston Martin.

  And somehow, someway, I keep waking up at the moment of the crash.

  I can’t undo it; I can’t run from the Knight Crew.

  My mantra has always been: this too shall pass.

  But not today.

  Not the worst day of my life.

  Table of Contents Table of Contents

  Front Matter Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Signup for my Newsletter

  Author's Note

  Quote

  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

  Epilogue

  Back Matter Havoc at Prescott High Cover

  Filthy Rich Boys Cover

  The Secret Girl Cover

  I Was Born Ruined Cover

  Keep Up With The Fun

  More Books By C.M. Stunich

  About the Author

  Devils' Day Party

  Devils' Day Party © C.M. Stunich 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.

  www.cmstunich.com

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  this book is dedicated to the devil inside of all of us.

  play with that delicious darkness, but do not let it consume you.

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  Author's Note

  ***Possible Spoilers***

  Devils’ Day Party is a reverse harem, high school, enemies-to-lovers/love-hate/bully romance. What does that mean exactly? It means our female main character, Karma Sartain, will end up with at least three love interests by the end of the book. It also means that for a portion of this story, the love interests are total assholes. This book in no way condones bullying, nor does it romanticize it. If the love interests in this story want to win the main character over, they’ll have to earn it.

  Should be interesting, considering they only have one day to do it …

  If you’ve read my other high school romance series—Rich Boys of Burberry Prep, Adamson All-Boys Academy, or The Havoc Boys—then just know this one falls right in the middle in terms of intensity. It’s not quite as gritty as I Was Born Ruined (the first book in my Death by Daybreak Motorcycle Club series).

  Any kissing/sexual scenes featuring Karma are consensual. This book might be about high school students, but it is not what I would consider young adult. The characters are nuanced, the emotions real, the f-word in prolific use. There’s underage drinking, marijuana use, sexual situations, and other adult scenarios.

  None of the main characters is under the age of seventeen. This is a stand-alone novel, meaning we get a happy ending in this book.

  Forever is composed of Nows –Emily Dickinson

  There’s blood all over my steering wheel.

  The strange thing is, I can’t remember how it got there.

  Reaching shaking fingers up to my head, I come away with a smear of ruby red on my hand, the perfect match to the blood on the steering wheel. This is my blood. The thought comes to me along with fits and spurts of memories from this morning. Running late, spilling scalding coffee down my chest, finding my dress for tonight’s party missing from the clothesline out front.

  I shake my head, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. Looking up, I see the shiny black surface of Calix Knight’s Aston Martin dented and streaked with yellow paint. My bumper is very firmly planted into his passenger door.

  Speaking of … my own door flies open, and Calix’s warm hand is on my upper arm, not, unfortunately, to offer assistance of any kind. Instead, he jerks me out of the seat and slams me back against the side of my car.

  “Are you fucking insane?!” he snarls, releasing me as several concerned citizens approach us, all of them huddled under the protective awning that covers the gas pumps. Just past its barrier, rain pours in a seemingly endless wave, a cold chill working its way into my skin as I shiver and try to remember how I managed to crash into his absurdly expensive car. Without insurance.

  Swallowing a lump in my throat, I glance over to see that his car’s parked perfectly straight in the space, right next to the gas pump. My own car—which I bought off my neighbor for about five hundred bucks—is perpendicular to his, T-boned into the side of Calix’s like I did it on purpose.

  Did I? Would I?

  After all the years of suffering he and his friends have put me through, it wouldn’t surprise me.

  I glance back at his face, too handsome for his own good, with cheekbones carved by the gods, and a mouth that’d be worth millions if it ever smiled. The only expressions I’ve ever seen Calix Knight wear on his face are a cruel frown and a red-hot smirk.

  Once, I saw his orgasm face. And even that was vicious, his hands a hot cruelty on my hips, triumph written into every line of his wicked visage. I should never have slept with him. My mistake. I don’t often make the same mistakes twice, but … I’ve just rammed him, apparently. Different sort of ramming, still not a good idea.

  Calix looks at me like he’d very much enjoy wrapping those beautiful hands of his around my neck. Luckily, we’re surrounded by people.

  “Are you okay?” an older woman in a bright yellow shirt asks, approaching us cautiously. I notice she has tiny daisies painted on her nails. Calix levels a dark glare on me before taking a step back, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

  “I’m okay,�
� I reply carefully, watching him to see what he might do next.

  “Should I call the police?” she inquires, and the crowd, realizing that nothing interesting is going to happen, begins to disperse back to their cars.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Calix replies easily, fixing a smooth smile on his face, one that’s made up of black moths and bats, full moons and starless skies. There’s a darkness to it that makes it sinister, rather than comforting. “We’re classmates; I won’t be pressing charges.”

  My heart thunders in my chest as Calix leans forward, under the guise of brushing some stray strands of purple hair back from my face.

  “You know what tonight is?” he whispers, his breath hot against the side of my neck as the woman moves away. But her gaze doesn’t leave me, almost as if she knows what’s really going on beneath the surface of this seemingly pleasant interaction.

  Of course I know what tonight is. The whole town knows what tonight is. But I can’t seem to find the words to respond.

  Calix presses his lips to the side of my throat, but I’m neither flattered nor excited by the attention. Instead, I’m terrified. Because today is officially known as Devils’ Day in our shitty little town outside Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

  And tonight … tonight is the Devils’ Day Party.

  “I know what tonight is,” I say finally as Calix runs his tongue over my pulse, and I shove him back as hard as I can. He laughs, but at least that move puts some distance between us. His dark eyes flick over to the front of the convenience store as the little bells on the door ring and Raz and Barron step out. The cavalry has arrived, I think, feeling my palms get sweaty. Any one of these assholes is hard enough to deal with, but all three of them? And on Devils’ Day?

  Supposedly, the holiday is named after some ancient Native American tradition. The local tribes would set up bonfires all around the edges of the woods and perform ritualistic songs and dances to draw the demons and devils from the earth. Everyone in the tribe would wear masks, to confuse the spirits as to who was human and who was one of them. And they’d play tricks on each other—cruel tricks—to prove they were just as cunning.

  Today, we celebrate in much the same way. Except the bonfires burn next to state-of-the-art sound systems, and alcohol makes its rounds along with weed and psychedelics. Masks are still worn, tricks are still played, and I swear that the devils still rise from the earth to torment humanity.

  My devils come in the form of Calix, Barron, and Raz. Every year. Like clockwork.

  “What the fuck happened here?” Raz asks, a plastic grocery bag clutched in one hand as he circles the cars, surveying the damage and then looking up at me with a sharp smile. “Little trailer trash bitch thought she’d get the first Devils’ Day trick on us, huh?”

  Is that what I did? I wonder, my head ringing, my mouth tainted with the taste of copper. I think I bit my tongue when my head hit the steering wheel. I’ve never liked Calix and his friends, and it’s true: I’ve played my fair share of tricks on them during Devils’ Day in the past, but … Would I really hit Calix’s car like this, in front of all these people?

  “I’ll pay for the damage,” I say, managing to keep my voice firm as I lift gray eyes up to Calix’s crow-black stare. He meets my gaze, a smirk crawling across his face as Barron watches us from one side, silent but no less scary than the other two.

  “With what money, Trailer Park?” Calix asks, moving back over to the gas pump and pulling the hose from his car. “The change your dyke mothers pay you for working part-time at that dump they call a business?”

  “Don’t talk about my parents like that,” I say coldly, feeling my temper get the better of me. I have to keep it in check though. I have to. They like it far too much when I get riled up. “At least my mothers didn’t ship me off to another state like a dirty little secret. That’s more than any of you can say about your own parents.”

  “Say that shit again,” Raz spits, coming around to stand in front of me and tossing his grocery bag into the backseat of the car. He slams his palms on either side of me, pinning me in against the side of the Aston Martin. Ever since I can remember, Raz has worn red contact lenses over his pale blue eyes. I think, mostly, it’s to piss off that conservative senator daddy of his. But for whatever reason, the effect is monstrous. Monstrous, and yet, he smells far too good. Probably to lure in prey, like a carnivorous plant or something.

  “Back off of her,” Barron says in that low, deep voice of his, like gravestones and cold, dead things. But he isn’t defending me because he likes me. He’s defending me because he wants to wait for the dark and quiet to play his tricks. I might like him and his big hands, stained with charcoal because he draws too much, if he didn’t work so damn hard to make my life miserable. “People are watching.”

  Raz pushes off the car, his long, lean athlete’s body a testament to his position on the track team. From what I hear, dear old dad was disappointed that he couldn’t hack it in football. Even as the star sprinter on the team, he’s a fucking disappointment.

  “I’ll find a way to pay for it,” I repeat again, desperate to avoid having the cops called on me. Based on the way my car is positioned against his, I can’t seem to come up with any way that I might’ve done this accidentally. Although, knowing Calix is loaded, what does it really matter? He’ll pay to have the car fixed—or more than likely just buy a new one—and I’ll have gained nothing except for a burden the boys can hold over my head.

  “Maybe I’ll let you pay for it tonight with your mouth?” Calix opens the driver’s side door of the car as Raz shoves me aside, leaving me to stumble and fall to my knees on the pavement. His laughter rings out as I turn and throw a handful of rocks as hard as I can at the back of the car, the wheels kicking up dust that I cough on as I rise to my feet.

  As the boys—pretty much everyone calls them and their friends the Knight Crew—speed off, they drag my car along with them for several feet, metal screeching against metal, exponentially fucking my vehicle up.

  Typical.

  I’ve never liked Devils’ Day, and I’ve especially never liked the party that follows it.

  But I always go.

  Always.

  Because if I don’t, they’ll find me anyway, and I’d rather be in a crowd, wearing a mask, than at home alone like I was that one night.

  This too shall pass, I repeat, as I climb in my car and, on the third try, manage to get the engine to turn over.

  At least today, the guys have something real to be mad about.

  There are only two schools in our county. One is over an hour away via a bus that starts picking up kids in our area at around six in the morning. My mothers—yes, they’re lesbians and I have two—didn’t want that for me. Instead, Mama Jane, who grew up wealthy, liquidated what was left of her trust fund and prepaid four years at Crescent Preparatory Academy.

  It’s a nice school, much nicer than Devil Springs High, the public school that struggles to get a fraction of the funding that the Crescent enjoys. But it’s also in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere—and that’s no accident. It used to be called Crescent Reform School for Boys. Back in the 1800s, any wealthy family east of the Rockies with a troubled son could send their kid there, either to get rid of them or to … fix them. Today, the school functions in much the same way, though not officially. No, now Crescent Prep is where wealthy families send any kids—boys and girls—that they want to disappear. We have pregnant senator’s daughters, disgraced heiresses running from leaked sex tapes, and teen boys too wicked with privilege and hate to fit into high society.

  And for three years now, I’ve gone to school with all of them. Outclassed, outmatched, outspent.

  The only friend I had at Crescent Prep before our newest addition—a girl named April—enrolled here, was my bestie, Luke.

  Luke, who describes herself as a pansexual, genderfluid otaku, has highfalutin fucking asshole parents who can’t handle their kid’s identity. They basically tossed her into the backw
oods of Arkansas, so she wouldn’t embarrass them in front of their fancy friends.

  “You did what?!” Luke—born Lucille, which is hilarious if you know her—chortles as I narrow my eyes and tap my red and black nails against the side of the rock I’m perched on. “I can see the headline now: three-hundred-thousand-dollar Aston Martin crushed by shitty yellow VW bug with eyelashes. What a glorious start to Devils’ Day!”

  “You’re not helping,” I murmur, turning to the third member in our little group of outcasts. April Iseman, the heavily pregnant sophomore that enrolled at Crescent just four months prior, stares back at me, pushing her glasses up her nose and huffing a sigh. Her mom is a state senator for Louisiana with big ambitions, and a pregnant fifteen-now-sixteen-year-old does not fit into her carefully laid plans. “Can you back me up here? There’s nothing good about this. Today is Devils’ Day, for fuck’s sake. Calix and his minions don’t make life easy for me on a normal day. You think today, of all days, was the right time to stage a coup?”

  “Well, why did you do it then?” April asks, tilting her head to one side, long, brown hair cascading over her shoulder. She sits primly on another rock, dressed in our school uniform—royal purple skirt and white dress shirt, her tie loose around her neck, Mary Janes polished to a shine. Despite her official status as an outcast, April is leagues apart from the rest of the students who attend Crescent Prep—even me. She’s punctual, studious, respectful … which is why she had little choice but to team up with me and Luke.

  “I … don’t remember,” I say, reaching up to rub at my sore head, my hand coming away with a bit of dried blood. The excuse sounds lame, even to my own ears, but it’s true. Something about the way I hit my head must’ve knocked my brain around a bit. No matter how hard I try, how hard I concentrate, I can remember driving down the street toward the gas station and then nothing else until the pain of impact. “But I know I’m not stupid enough to start shit on Devils’ Day.” With a long sigh, I glance up toward the towering sides of Crescent Preparatory Academy.