Bully Me: Class of 2020

by Shantel Tessier

  Wren has other ideas. He takes one last step, so close to me now that I can feel his warm breath skating over my cheek, can see the flecks of amber and gold surrounding the black well of his dilated pupil. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. If I even blink, I suspect that he’ll pounce and tear me apart. He takes hold of a lock of my damp, tangled hair, winding it thoughtfully around his fingers. “You’re not a bet, Elodie. I’ve had to bargain with them for you. I’ve had to break my own rules in order to claim you, and it’s cost me greatly.”

  Over the top of my paralyzing panic, a hot, furious anger begins to rise. Who the hell does he think he is? So fucking entitled. So fucking arrogant. “You can’t bargain over a person. I don’t belong to any of you. I won’t be haggled over like a piece of meat.” My pulse is hammering at thirty different points all over my body: in my temples, in my ears, in the tips of my fingers. In my lips…

  Wren stares down at my mouth. He’s stopped breathing, wound tight, coiled like a hunter, ready to attack at any moment. I—Jesus Christ, I’ve got to get out of here, before—

  Wren tugs on my hair, leaning in even closer, his eyelids half closed as he angles his head to one side, assessing my features. I rock back on my heels. A weightless, terrible moment passes, where I register how unbalanced I am and I realize I’m about to fall. Then I’m sitting down heavily in the chair behind me, the air huffing out of my lungs as Wren continues to press forward. He places one hand on the arm of the chair, the other against the back of it, right above my head. I’m trapped in a cage made by his body, and all I can smell is him—a dark, heady, beautiful scent that teases the back of my nose. It reminds me of night blooming flowers, and cold winter walks with my mother, and the ocean, and my Uncle Remy’s carpentry workshop.

  Holy shit. The next time I smell this scent, it won’t remind me of any of those things. Powerful enough to overwrite my memories, the next time I smell this scent, it will remind me of this moment, trapped in this chair, the way my heartrate is soaring and I feel like I’m about to die a most delicious death. “Get away from me, Wren,” I whisper.

  He smiles sadly. “Wish I could, Stillwater. But it ain’t on the cards.”

  I’m poised and ready to react. He’s about to fucking kiss me. I’m not afraid of it. I’m shaking all over and I can’t fucking think straight, but I am not afraid. “Back up, Wren.”

  His lips are parted, his pupils almost swallowing his irises whole. My palms burn, my fingers itching. I don’t trust myself to move right now. A part of me wants to slap the intense, doped, lust-filled look right off his stupidly handsome face. A part of me wants to fist a handful of his hair and pull him to me, so that his full lips collide with mine.

  I want the kiss. I want him to suffer for this invasion of my personal space. I’m at war with myself, and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to react if he makes a move.

  “Your heart’s racing, Stillwater,” he whispers. “I can see your pulse in the base of your throat. You want me.”

  “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to stay away from my room.”

  “I told you. I didn’t go anywhere near your room.”

  My voice is uneven and full of nerves. “You’re lying.”

  Slowly, as if he’s got all the time in the world, Wren shakes his head. A droplet of water falls from the riot of curls that are hanging down into his face, and it lands right on my mouth. “I haven’t lied to you. I never will. I’ll give you all my dark, ugly truths, even though they’ll frighten you, Little E. I won’t hold back. You…” He dips his head, and I freeze beneath him. The air between us buzzes, brimming with a tension so sharp that it bites at my skin. Millimeter by millimeter he leans closer, and flicks out the tip of his tongue, licking the water droplet from my lips. I close my eyes, my lungs seizing. I can’t look at him.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “You are going to be mine, Elodie Stillwater. Of all my sins and misdeeds, making you fall in love with me will be the very worst of them all.”

  Want to know if Wren gets his way? Riot House, book 1 in Callie’s Crooked Sinners Series, is a STANDALONE and will hit kindles on April 29, 2020. If you’d like more information about the release as well as access to teasers, smoking hot excerpts, and amazing giveaways in the run up to Elodie and Wren’s release, you can follow Callie on Instagram, or join in the fun over in her reader group on Facebook!

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  Blurb

  There’s a new boy next door.

  He’s got cold eyes and a name too big for this tiny, pretentious town—Gavriel Moretti. I like to watch him sometimes from my window. I like to imagine his killer smile twisting that mouth up into words meant only for me.

  He had me figured out the first day we met. He called me out on my bullshit and pushed me away, but I was determined to be Gavriel Moretti’s friend. Maybe I liked cruel boys. Maybe I was lonely.

  Or maybe he was the first real thing I’d ever laid eyes on, and I was determined to escape my fake life.

  First, he hated me. Then he liked me. And maybe one day, if I was lucky enough, Gavriel Moretti would love me.

  **This is a prequel to the complete Bullets trilogy. This trilogy is a dark Reverse Harem Romance.

  Dedication

  For Evie.

  Chapter One

  Summer

  THERE WAS A new boy next door. He had cold eyes and a name too big for this tiny, pretentious town—Gavriel Moretti. I couldn’t help but stare at him from my bedroom window while I worked on homework or studied.

  Sometimes, I’d hear a door slam late at night, and I’d catch him leaving the house just to sit on the curb outside. He stared at the basketball goal in the driveway across the street while drinking an energy drink. I watched him until my eyes grew heavy. What was he thinking? Where did he come from?

  A week went by like this. Every night, he did the same thing. He stood there looking out on Woodbury Lane like the night sky could answer all of life’s burning questions. And every night, I watched him, hidden behind the darkness of my room and the blinds. I felt like a stalker, and it had become somewhat of a routine, an excuse to get out of bed and stop staring at the ceiling or thinking about all of the things I needed to do. My studies and extracurriculars were piling up. I couldn’t close my eyes without feeling guilty for not doing something else. I knew what was keeping me up at night. The insane pressure of my life was suffocating, and I wanted to know what kept him up, too.

  Rarely anything happened on Woodbury Lane without all of Chesterbrook knowing. When word spread that the Jamesons had a new foster kid living with them, the street went into a tizzy. I quickly learned that he came from New York. His father was in prison, and his mother was dead. They spouted off his background like it was some charitable resume. Every hardship added a level of pity. Some of them applauded the wealthy couple for taking care of a poor, innocent child. They celebrated the Jamesons’ selfless welfare like it was a badge of honor.

  But this boy was my age, a hardened teen that wore his burdens and his past on his shoulders—or so I thought. My only insight into his life was from what I saw late at night and when I overheard the locals gossiping. Some of the neighbors had the audacity to complain about their property values and safety. Gavriel looked intimidating. He was tall and muscular for his age and certainly wasn’t like any boy I’d ever seen at school. He seemed…larger than life.

  People here didn’t like anything or anyone that didn’t fit their mold of perfection. Chesterbrook was full of expectations and tragic prejudice. Unfortunate people with unfortunate circumstances were beneath them.

  I didn’t know what to think of the new boy. We hadn’t spoken, but I’d watched him. I sat at my desk and would stare, waiting for him to appear. I knew what he looked like. I’d memorized his dark hair, olive skin and broad shoulder
s from afar. Curiosity bled from my scheduled life. It provided the sort of distraction I needed.

  “Summer? You’re going to be late for your PSAT class,” my mother’s voice called from the hallway. I quickly adjusted the blinds and spun around, smoothing the pastel pink knee-length dress she’d picked out for me this morning. My headband was firmly in place. My pearls were wrapped delicately around my neck like a thick rope.

  Mom entered my room, still in her silk robe, still with black bags under her eyes. I found it ironic that she was coming to check if I was ready when in fact, she was the one that had to drive me. The water bottle in her hand was filled to the brim with Everclear. She liked the illusion of sobriety, but I knew if I breathed in her scent, she would smell like alcohol and Chanel No. 5.

  Sometimes, I wondered if my mother liked to polish me up because she’d lost her shine. I wasn’t exactly sure when it happened, but since the death of her good friends the Mercers, it was like she’d given up. And whatever energy was left over, she poured into making me look like the perfect person she wished she was.

  I watched her take a long gulp from her water bottle. Water wasn’t supposed to make you hiss in pain. I wanted to say something about her appearance but refrained. Instead, I replied to her question as she twisted the screw top back on. “I’m ready. Don’t forget that I have tennis lessons afterward.” The moment those words left my lips, I cringed.

  Mom’s lip curled in disgust, and I internally cringed. She didn’t like it when I had to remind her of my schedule. And I knew that my tennis class was probably dipping into her booze and pills time. If I had my way, I would’ve quit tennis or never even started. I wasn’t very good at the sport, but Dad was determined for us to fit the narrative he so expertly weaved around our family.

  “Of course I remembered,” she replied with a hoity frown. “Do you have your gear?” she asked, pretending to be the concerned mother.

  Bending down, I picked up my duffel bag in answer. Mom stared at it for a moment, then unscrewed the cap of her drink for another swig. I used her momentary distraction to steal another peek out the window at our next-door neighbor. Gavriel was leaving the Jamesons’ house, and I could see his tall body gliding across their perfectly manicured lawn from where I stood. Where was he going?

  “Is that their new foster child?” Mom asked. I hadn’t even noticed her pushing up next to me to stare. When it was just me looking, it didn’t feel so intrusive. But my mother was an opportunist. She liked to find problems and slap her name on them to make herself feel better about being a hot mess. My mother was a broken thing, and she liked to fix broken things.

  “Yep. That’s him.” My answer was dull.

  Mom looked him up and down while clutching her robe. “He’s older than I imagined. He looks about your age. We should invite them over for dinner. I think the Jamesons would like to be on the Board of Trustees for my new charity. Maybe if some of the donations went to the local foster system, they’d write us a check.” Scheming. She was always scheming; it was never about helping someone else. It was always about finding ways to boost her own ego and image. “I’ll put it on the calendar. Make sure you’re in attendance,” she added.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I choked out. Despite my mother’s motivations, excitement burst out of me. I couldn’t help the smile that crossed my face. I had seen Gavriel outside of his house, but we hadn’t met. Maybe I could figure out why he sat outside every night. Or maybe he could break the illusion I’d built up in my mind so I could let my curiosity go and get back to my predictable life. There was a change in the air, and I both craved and feared it.

  Chapter Two

  Summer

  Three days later

  MY MOTHER CLUTCHED her platter of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. Her pale pink dress that hit mid-thigh matched my modest ankle-length skirt. She brushed her hair and stuck to her anxiety pills instead of the Everclear. She looked prim and proper, and wore the perfect mask, covering the dark circles under her eyes with concealer and pulling her chestnut hair back into a polished bun. We almost looked alike. She managed to appear vibrant and put together, though we both knew she was falling apart.

  My heart raced as we walked down the drive and over toward the Jamesons’ large home. “Be on your best behavior,” Mom hissed as she adjusted her dress with one hand. I nodded. I was always on my best behavior. I followed their rules, danced to their tune. My parents wanted the picture-perfect family, and their expectations were the frame. It was Mom that needed to be on her best behavior. She didn’t like Mrs. Jameson, and she liked to get into a pissing match with her whenever she could. Sometimes, I wondered if my mom were jealous of her. Mrs. Jameson was wild and free. She cared about her image like any other person in this fucked-up town, but she cared about her yacht and traveling the world more. She probably became a foster parent to introduce some balance to her life.

  Mom knocked on their door, her tiny fist loud and insistent. We waited and waited, ears peeled for sounds of movement on the other side of the large, ornate entryway. “Maybe they’re not home?” I said while shifting on my feet. A part of me was hoping they wouldn’t answer the door. Meeting Gavriel would ruin the illusion I’d built up in my mind, and my mother’s opportunistic nature was bound to make all of us uncomfortable.

  The doorknob wiggled, and I sucked in a deep breath. “Hello!” Mom’s false, cheerful voice boomed. Mrs. Jameson opened the door with a smile plastered on her plastic face. She wore jeans and a wrinkled satin tank top. She was skinny—too skinny. Scattered wrinkles crept out of the outer creases of her eyes, and her blond hair looked dry and unhealthy.

  “Hello, Clarice,” she replied with fake enthusiasm. I could hear the dry, bland tone to her voice. Mom wasn’t deterred; she took a step past the threshold, inviting herself inside with the tray of cookies outstretched.

  “I made you some cookies,” Mom began while looking around the house for a mess or some sort of hint that their life was out of sorts so she could gossip about it later. She liked to point fingers at others because it was easier than managing her own turmoil. She glanced over her shoulder at me, urging me inside. I was internally cringing at her behavior but couldn’t tell her no.

  The moment I stepped inside, the smell of lavender hit my nose, and I smiled at Mrs. Jameson. The woman didn’t return the gesture. In her mind, I was my mother’s spawn and therefore the enemy to her social ladder climbing tendencies. This world was delicate and frustrating.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Jameson replied dully before taking the tray from Mom with a jerk of her hand. “I was just about to leave—”

  “I heard you got a new foster placement,” Mom interrupted. She wasn’t going to let Mrs. Jameson out that easily.

  “We did,” Mrs. Jameson said while straightening her spine. I braced myself for the standoff. “Such a poor kid. His father is in prison, you know. A dead mother, too. I’m just so thankful that I can fulfill that role for him.” She was listing off his misfortune like it was a prized award.

  “You’re just so...selfless,” Mom beamed politely, though it felt completely, utterly, entirely fake. Fake. Fake. Fake. “May we meet him? I’m sure he’d like these cookies I made! Growing boys and whatnot.”

  Mrs. Jameson’s face turned sour again, and I wondered why. Did she want to keep her new charity project to herself? “Of course. And I’m not selfless.” She swatted at the air for emphasis. The humility felt so strategic that I nearly gagged on the spot. “It just seems silly to have all of this,” she said, pausing to gesture around her immaculate home. “And waste it on empty endeavors. We want to truly help those that need it.” Mrs. Jameson sounded proud and determined to effortlessly boost her own ego.

  “It must be nice to have the time!” Mom exclaimed. “I’m so busy running all these charities I just don’t have the energy to commit to raising another child. Summer here is in all advanced classes, ballet, tennis, and is already taking SAT prep classes. Children really are the future. It’
s important to guide them, right?”

  “Is that why you brought store-bought cookies?” Mrs. Jameson asked, a twinkle in her eye. “Between running your child around, there just wasn’t any time, hmm?” There was a silent standoff between them that made me blush. I didn’t understand why they were hell-bent on keeping up with this pissing contest charade. It was like watching a fistfight.

  “Gavriel!” Mrs. Jameson screamed while tilting her head up the stairs. I listened for movement with my breath caught in my chest.

  Finally, hard steps echoed on the floor above us and traveled down the large, winding staircase. My eyes lifted to the top of the landing, and I swept my eyes up and down Gavriel’s body. He had long legs clad in dark denim and wore a bright white shirt that clung closely to the muscles of his abs and shoulders. I swallowed at the sight of him.

  Gavriel Moretti looked like the kind of guy that could break you with his voice. He effortlessly commanded the attention of everyone in the room. Even Mom seemed to tilt her chin defiantly in his presence. His eyes bore into mine in question, like he was trying to figure out who I was and why we were here. “Gavriel, darling. These are the next-door neighbors. They wanted to stop by and say hello. Summer here is in your grade.”

  I noticed that Gavriel’s lip curled at the word darling. He didn’t greet me though. He just glared at his foster mother in annoyance. “Why don’t we put these cookies in the kitchen, hmm? I wanted to talk to you about the new orphanage my charity is sponsoring,” Mom insisted.

  Mrs. Jameson looked like she wanted to kick us out of her home, but gave in. “Right. I’d love to chat about your little endeavors,” she replied before walking off toward the kitchen, with my mom hot on her heels.