His Doll: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Isabella Starling

  Little Alice Leroux doesn't know it yet, but she's born to be a fucking sub.

  Sure, she's confident, and she has a sharp tongue.

  But whenever she snaps, she looks at me, like she's asking for permission. Every time she curses, her nipples get so hard they strain against her crisp white blouses. Every time she walks into my office, her breath quickens and she blushes so lightly you're barely able to tell. But it's there. And I want more.

  Once I'm done with the paperwork I hate so much, I head home. The drive back is quiet and I don't even listen to music. My mind's swimming with notes already, the music of her laugh, the tone of her gasps, the barely audible way her breath hitched when I touched her.

  I pull up in my driveway. There's a figure huddled on my front door.

  I park and get out, heading to my front door. The figure isn't moving, but the porch light comes on when I come closer.

  I can smell her from several feet away. Sweet and floral. Sinful as fuck.

  "Alice?" I ask in a rough voice.

  She looks up. Her eyes are angry, angry, angry. Behind the fucking rage though, she's just a hurt teenager. A very pissed off little girl.

  She gets up and points to a stack of suitcases. "You knew about this?"

  I don't look away from her. I just stare her down and she shakes with anger. "You fucking knew and you didn't tell me!"

  She huffs and comes closer to me, and her fists start hitting my chest. I let her, partly because my hands are full with paperwork and partly because I just want her touching me.

  "You knew she was leaving! You told me she loved me! You told me she cared!" She's yelling, she's hurting, she's crying. Big fat black tears rolling down her cheeks.

  I'm sick. I'm a sick fucking bastard because I'll be damned if it doesn't turn me on.

  "Go inside, Alice," I tell her calmly. "I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow."

  "Mommy caught an early flight," she spits out, wiping her eyes with a shaky hand. "Mommy couldn't wait to get away from her fuck-up daughter."

  I ignore it.

  If she's gonna stay with me, we're gonna need fucking boundaries. As much as I want to bend her over and teach her a damn lesson about disrespecting me, I don't. I hold up my files with one hand and unlock the front door. I walk into the hallway and she stomps in behind me.

  "My luggage's outside," she tells me as I set down my shit.

  "Then you'd better go get it," I say.

  Her eyes widen but I ignore her damn temper tantrum. She's a brat if I ever saw one. So fucking ill-mannered, so impulsive, so fucking... angry. I've never seen a teenager as angry as she is. Pissed off at the whole fucking world.

  She stomps outside and starts dragging her shit in while I get my mail and open some bills. Overdue and past due jump out from every page, and I think of the money Alice's mother put in my account this morning. All my problems, solved. So why do I feel like a fucking hypocrite?

  Once Alice comes back inside, I've shrugged off my blazer and taken off my watch. I can feel her eyes drinking me in hungrily when she stops in the doorway.

  "I don't want to live with you," she says pitifully. "I'm old enough, I can live on my own."

  "Too bad your mother doesn't think so," I reply.

  "I could just leave," Alice threatens.

  "And live where?" I ask. "On the street? You have a room here. You'll have your privacy. I'm just here to supervise."

  "Supervise? Like I'm a fucking child!" she screams, a low growl coming out of her. I've never seen her like this. Never seen her this pissed off. And I know she's hurting, but I can't cross the line. It's bad enough we'll be in the same house. I need to keep my damn distance.

  "Do you want me to show you to your room?" I ask her.

  She gives me a helpless look and I can tell her episode's almost over. She's gonna be in tears any moment now. And I can't fucking console her, not like she wants. I'm not gonna be her substitute for a fucking Daddy. That's the last thing I want.

  "Come with me," I tell her. I don't look back to see if she's following me as I head up the stairs. Her soft footsteps fall into place behind mine and we reach the room her mom chose for her.

  It was supposed to be a guest room, maybe a nursery someday.

  As fucking if.

  I open the door for her and she walks in. The room is nice. Her mom had some shit delivered, made it all pretty and girly and crap. Alice takes a long look then focuses on the door.

  "Where's the key?" she asks. "I need a key."

  "No key," I shake my head.

  "What the fuck?" she asks, her voice shaking. "I had a key at home."

  I don't reply, I just turn away to leave. But not fast enough to miss her crumpling on the floor pathetically, like someone just pulled a string and she fell apart.

  I stop in my tracks and listen to her sob.

  "I want my mom," she says. "I want my mom, I want my mom."

  Over and over again.

  And all I can think about is her mother's face when she signed the papers to get rid of her. The look of absolute fucking relief when she signed her daughter off to a stranger.

  I leave the door ajar and head downstairs. I can hear her sobs all the way into the kitchen.

  Three

  Alice

  I'm seething with hate.

  My mother and I never had a great relationship, but her latest stunt has finally convinced me how much I fucking hate her. The fact that she'd just give me up like that, as if I'm worth absolutely nothing, hurts like nothing else she's done before.

  And staying in Mr. Hawke's house... it's going to be problematic.

  When he closes the door on me as I cry, I decide I hate him. Maybe more than my mother. Definitely enough to get back at him and prove to him I'm not just a spoiled little brat.

  I only cry for a little while, ten minutes, maybe even less. The rest of the evening, I spend plotting my revenge. It's a good distraction to stop myself from thinking about my mother and what she's done to me.

  When Mr. Hawke calls me downstairs for dinner, I ignore it despite the rumbling in my tummy. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me obey him. Instead, I crawl into the big bed in the room and pile blankets on top of myself. I lie back and I think about all the ways I'm going to get back at him. And I fall asleep with a big, satisfied smile on my face, and tears drying on my cheeks.

  He wakes me up by rapping on my door sharply. He doesn't say a thing, but he knocks and knocks and knocks until I get up with a groan. My head is pounding from all the crying of the previous day, and it's a fucking school day.

  I walk into the room, padding in my slippers across the floor. Mr. Hawke is wearing a suit and drinking a cup of coffee at the kitchen island. He doesn't look up when I come inside, and I hate him for it.

  "I don't feel so well," I whine, and he still doesn't look up. I huff and puff and sit down at the table, expecting breakfast. "I think I should stay home today."

  "Absolutely not," he replies calmly, and I rage internally. Whenever I told my mother I was sick, she'd coddle me with attention and make sure I was alright, because I was sick a lot as a child. It was the only time she cared, too, and I crave it - the attention, knowing he wants me to be okay.

  But he calls me out on my bullshit instead and we spend several long minutes arguing about me going to school. He's not backing down, and he still hasn't looked up from his newspaper, not even once.

  Finally, he folds the paper and sets his empty cup in the sink. "I'll wait for you in the car. Be there in five minutes or I'm dragging you to school in your PJs," he tells me calmly and I shriek in response, tearing at my hair.

  "I can't get ready in five minutes," I tell him angrily. "I need to wash my hair and pick an outfit and a bag, and I need to do my nails still!"

  "Four," he says and walks out of the room.

  I contemplate throwing a bagel at his back, but storm up the stairs instead. I get ready in a rush, pull out a dress and slip it over my t
ights. I leave my hair messy over my shoulders and apply makeup in a haste. I know I'm going to be late either way, as I hear his steps on the hallway. He's coming to get me, just like he promised he would.

  Instead of giving him the satisfaction of dragging me down, I exit the room and give him a look of real fucking contempt.

  "I look like shit," I tell him angrily. "And it's all your fault."

  "Next time be on time," he scoffs. "Or you're walking to school."

  He turns around and I follow him down the stairs, stomping on the steps with every move I make. We get into the car and the jackass won't even let me sit in the front seat.

  "Why the fuck not?" I ask, stomping my foot on the ground.

  "You'll distract me," he says simply. "Sit in the back."

  My hate for him burns with an even deeper intensity, but I do as he says, sitting in the backseat. We drive to school in complete silence and I stare at him in the rearview mirror the whole time.

  His eyes are so bright, a sharp contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. There's something about him driving, the calm confidence he exudes when we're on the road. It makes me clench my legs together, and it makes me hate me more.

  "Drop me off a block away from school," I tell him.

  "No," he replies. "You'll skip if I do that. And Alice, I'm calling your headmaster tonight. I'll be asking him to keep me posted with your activity in the school. So, you'd better be on your best behavior."

  I seethe with anger once he pulls up in front of the school. I slam the door and start walking towards the building with my head down.

  Of course, Trina and her gang are already here - I don't need to look up to know that. I realize they're watching me and hear them snickering.

  "Hey, Alice," someone calls out to me, and I look up.

  The feeling of being noticed, of being called by my name, is fucking dangerous. Because usually I'm fucking invisible. I sit at my desk alone. Once, three days went by without anyone in school saying a word to me. I just floated by unnoticed. I bruised my skin really good on the third day, to remember what it felt like to be treated like that.

  As soon as I see whom the voice belongs to, I change my mind about wanting to be seen. Sarah, one of Trina's new friends, stares at me with pure hatred in her eyes.

  I have no idea why she's even talking to me. Usually, she pretends I don't exist.

  "Yeah?" I ask softly, stopping and toying with the handles of my bag.

  "We're in a group project today for English," she tells me.

  "Huh?"

  She walks closer to me, and I can tell how much she hates me. I don't know what kind of fucking lies Trina fed her, but the way she feels about me is fucking obvious. If I were any smaller, she'd stomp me into the ground, and she'd feel fucking good about it.

  "A group project. In English," she repeats like I'm stupid. "We got paired up last week."

  "Okay," I say softly. "What do you need me to do?"

  "Don't care," she shrugs. "I told Professor Arnold I don't want to partner with you when you didn't show last week. She assigned me to another group."

  "So who am I working with?" I ask in a shaky voice.

  She shrugs and moves to leave. I make a motion to tap her on the shoulder, and she shrieks when my hand touches her.

  "Get your fucking hands off me," she tells me sharply. "Don't you dare touch me, you fucking slut."

  I just stare at her. Stare and stare and stare.

  I nod, and leave.

  I risk one look over my shoulder.

  Mr. Hawke is staring at me from the car. I know he saw what happened, and I hate him for it. At the same time, I want him to see. I want him to know how bad this actually is, how fucking awful it feels coming to school every day.

  But instead of doing something, he looks ahead and drives off.

  With every yard he puts between us, I hate him a little more.

  English is a nightmare. Mrs. Arnold has always fucking hated me, and she seems delighted to tell me I'll be working alone. I am too, because it means I don't have to deal with anyone else.

  We're writing essays on a topic we have to research in groups. Well, we were supposed to do the research a week ago. Now, it's time to write the essay.

  My topic is gothic romance, and I know fuck all about it, apart from the fact I binge read a couple of novels in the genre last year. And I love writing, so I get the words on paper easily.

  When we turn in our assignment, Professor Arnold looks pretty pissed about me actually completing the assignment.

  "Alice, please stay for a minute after class," she informs me coolly, and I just stare at her. She's gonna give me shit again, I can already tell.

  I stay behind because it's lunch now, and I don't have a place to go, anyway. It's a relief, to be honest.

  "You wanted to talk to me?" I approach her desk once my classmates file out of the door.

  "Yes," she says, furrowing her brows. "I've noticed you and Trina don't sit together anymore."

  "No," I shake my head, not offering another word on the subject.

  "I've also noticed Trina's grades slipping," Professor Arnold continues. "When you were sitting together, you distracted her, Alice. You chattered, you didn't allow her to focus on schoolwork. You disobeyed me at every opportunity, and you didn't allow your friend to pay attention to class," she finishes.

  "It's not my fault-" I try to speak up, but she holds up a hand to shut me up.

  "I don't want to hear it. The fact of the matter is, her grades are slipping, and yours are getting better. It's not right."

  I grit my teeth. I'm going to tell her the truth.

  "It's not my fucking fault," I spit out. "The reason her grades were good is because we exchanged our papers."

  "What do you mean?" Mrs. Arnold asks with wide eyes.

  "I filled out a test," I start to explain. "And then we swapped them when you weren't looking. And I filled in and corrected what she'd done on hers. We signed in the end, her on the one I filled out."

  Mrs. Arnold looks pretty fucking red. Her eyes are bulging and she looks like she's about to explode.

  "You swapped tests?" she asks, and I nod.

  "That's why my grades are better now," I say. "Because I don't have to fill out hers, since she doesn't sit with me anymore."

  She just stares at me for a long time, finally saying, "I don't believe you. My god, Alice, you're a grade A liar."

  I just stare at her. It's a rare occasion that I tell the truth, and she doesn't believe me.

  "I told you the truth," I protest. And I fucking know, I just know, she can tell.

  She stares at me for a long time, then writes me a note.

  "I'm sending you to the principal's office," she tells me calmly. "You cheated on several tests and you will have to retake them."

  She hands me the note and I rip it out of her hand. I hate her.

  "Good," I tell her. "Is Trina retaking them too?"

  She stares at me for a long time.

  "Trina's retaking the last few," she tells me. "Seeing as she failed the last two, which I assume is because she wasn't prepared, and you distracted her."

  I just stare at her. Her saggy skin, tragic blonde curly hair, ill-fitting glasses. And then I smirk.

  "As you wish," I tell her. "I'll tell mommy dearest Mrs. Arnold is giving me trouble." My bottom lip trembles as I lean on her desk, and she moves back instinctively, as if she's scared I'll slap her.

  "I'll tell her you're my least favorite teacher," I sniffle. "And how much trouble you're giving me. How sad you make me. How fucking hard you make things for me."

  "Alice..." she says softly. "Don't do this."

  "Scared?" I ask her with a grin, tilting my head to the side. "Oh, what a shame."

  "I need this job," she swallows hard. "I need to take care of-"

  "That's what I thought," I interrupt her. I rip the principal note and let the pieces fall on her desk. Then I giggle and leave the classroom.

  I
spend the rest of the lunch break in the washroom cubicle, punching pretty bruises into the skin of my thighs.

  Four

  Jacob

  My phone rings as I watch Alice leave for school. Some girl comes up to her and I can see her whole body deflate, see how fucking hurt she is by whatever that little bitch tells her.

  A real need to teach someone a lesson awakens deep within me, but then I look at my shrilly-ringing phone and the need disappears. My ex-wife's number flashes across the screen and I groan, driving off without giving Alice another look.

  But I can't stop thinking about her. The way she looked, so fucking broken, so sad and downtrodden. God, I hate seeing her that way. The only time her face should be streaked with tears is when she's kneeling in front of me, begging me for more.

  "Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair to get the thoughts out. I can't let myself do that, fantasize about Alice that way. It will only lead to trouble.

  My phone keeps fucking ringing all the way to work, and I finally turn it off when my sessions begin. It's a weird fucking day, and I don't quite feel like myself. I spend more time worrying about Alice than the patients in front of me, and I feel really fucking guilty about it.

  Once I've left for home, I know Alice will already be there. She always goes home from school alone, her mom told me. She either takes a cab or a bus. I didn't give her money this morning, so I guess the bus it was.

  I've just pulled into my driveway when my phone flashes again. I'd turned it back on to make sure I didn't miss a call from Alice, and I groan as I look at it.

  But it's not Karen's number, it's one I don't recognize. I pick up the phone, wondering what this is about.

  "Hello?"

  "Mr. Hawke?"

  "Yes?"

  "My name is Alvin Russet, I'm the principal at Beaumont High. I believe Alice Leroux is under your care now?" a man asks on the other line.

  "That's correct," I reply stiffly. "Is there an issue?"

  "Not at all," the man laughs, fake as fuck. "I'd just like to meet you in person, discuss Alice's future here and at a college next year. We want to make sure she's doing well here at Beaumont, and I would love to talk to you about a few things."