Contents
Preface
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
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Author Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © by Amber McCammon
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
Cover Design: Pink Elephant Designs
Editing: Monica Black – Word Nerd Editing
Interior Formatting: Pink Elephant Designs
“I am not a saint, unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps trying.” – Nelson Mandela
Chapter One
18 months ago
THATCHER
The bell rings as I slam my locker shut, rolling my shoulders before turning my attention to the mindless drones walking through the hallway. It’s the first day of sophomore year, and my entire body is already tense with dread. I don’t want to face another year of this bullshit or these people.
Things were supposed to be easier at the top, but I hate being king of the Westbrook High shit mountain. I’ve become someone I never wanted to be—someone I don’t even like or recognize anymore.
I’ve done things I’m not proud of to gain the fear and respect of my so-called peers. In high school, you’re either the hunter or the prey. It’s all about survival. The bottom of the food chain is brutal. I should know, I spent plenty of time there.
Some giggling girls gawk at me as they pass by, their whispers spoken as if they want me to hear them. With a smile plastered on my face, I give them a wink.
“Good morning, ladies.”
Squeals of excitement bounce off the walls as they scurry away, and I cringe. No way in hell would I ever touch any of them. I know their type—superficial, petty mean girls. The kind who wouldn’t have given me a second glance a few years ago, unless it was to spew something vile and hurtful in my direction.
Now, I’m the Thatcher Michaelson. Everyone either wants to be me or do me. They’ve all forgotten about the chubby little rich boy with no friends. The one they teased and bullied relentlessly. Forgetting isn’t so simple for me.
“Hey, man!” My best friend Cole steps up next to me, a shit-eating grin on his face, and the pressure in my chest eases.
“Damn,” he whistles, checking out another gaggle of girls as they pass by. “Have you seen all the fresh meat? These freshman girls have me starving. I’m ready to feast.”
“Not interested,” I scoff.
Cole follows beside me as I walk toward the art room, excited I’ll begin every day doing something I love. Which I’d never admit out loud. My passion for art is something I keep to myself. It’s my secret, an escape.
“Not interested?” he hedges. “Why the hell not?”
If you believe the rumors floating around Westbrook High, I’m quite the ladies’ man—a reputation I acquired thanks to Brandi Roberts and her band of harlots. Things didn’t go down as everyone assumes, I merely continue to play the part because admitting the truth isn’t an option. There are only two other people who know the real story. Cole is one of them. He knows I haven’t slept with anyone since they took their claws out of me, nor am I interested in doing so. Which could be why he thinks dating a freshman would be a good idea.
“I’m not about to mess around with some freshman girl who’s going to look at me like I’m her happily ever after.”
The days of considering myself a good guy are long gone. Even if my actions were justified and necessary, there were still consequences. I couldn’t knowingly drag some unexpecting girl into this mess. I won’t corrupt someone the way I have been.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be like having a puppy you can teach new tricks.” He laughs as my eyes slide over to him, waggling his eyebrows.
It’s tempting, the idea of being with someone who knows nothing about who I was or the things I’ve done. But, realistically, how long could that last? Shit was bound to hit the fan eventually.
“Hard pass.” I chuckle, playfully shoving him. “You’re such an asshole.”
He isn’t, though. Cole is a good guy with a broken heart who’s simply looking to mend it. He won’t tell me anything about this girl or what happened. All I know is they slept together, and she tore his heart out. He was a wreck all summer.
“Takes one to know one,” he retorts.
My eyes are still on him as I walk into the art room, only to be brought to an abrupt halt when someone slams into me. My expression hardens as I turn to glare at the person clinging to me as they steady themselves.
“What the hell?” I take a step back as I pry them off me.
The offending party comes into focus, waves of golden hair tumbling around her face, bare, slender shoulders peeking out. It’s the kind of natural blonde you can’t get from a bottle, with strands of strawberry and platinum weaved in.
Her head sways from one side to the other as she observes my hands on her arms. I should remove them, but I don’t. She tilts her head up, and my heart feels heavier as it thuds in my chest.
The girl isn’t pretty in terms you would expect a high school girl to be. She looks young and innocent, not a stitch of makeup on her face. Her beauty is pure, no enhancements needed. It’s freaking stunning.
She reminds me of those expensive porcelain dolls my sister used to collect. Her round, doll-like eyes are crystal blue, the color deepening around the ed
ges. Her pouty lips, such a light shade of pink, nearly blend in with her fair skin. Her skin, good god—it’s so smooth and pale, as if it’s never been kissed by the sun.
I’d wager every part of her is pure—untouched—and I hate that it only makes me want her more. Color spreads across her cheeks as if she heard my thoughts. I’m tempted to reach out to brush my knuckles over the painted skin.
Cole snickers behind me, breaking the trance. My chest tightens as I release her, clenching my fists as my arms drop. This is the kind of girl I have no business getting involved with. She’s not the type you have a little fun with then move on. She’s the sort who gets under your skin and stays. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let that happen. I’m too jaded. Too tainted.
“You need to watch where you’re going,” I bite out.
Her lashes flutter, the color on her cheeks darkening as she opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again. My eyes wander down, playing connect the dots with each tiny beauty mark decorating her neck and chest before settling back on her face.
Her brow furrows. “I didn’t… You were…”
My lips curl on their own accord as I watch her squirm. Come on, baby doll, show me that backbone. Prove to me you’re a real girl after all. Then we can play.
Before she can stutter out another word, Arwen steps up next to me. “Leave the poor girl alone, Thatch.”
She ignores my scowl as she stretches her arm across my chest to scoot me back before gesturing with the other for the girl to go. I might be annoyed if I wasn’t so relieved someone put a stop to the weird little thing happening with Goldilocks.
Out the corner of my eye, her blonde hair floats by, and my jaw ticks as her fresh spring scent fills the air around me.
“Who the hell pissed in your Cheerios this morning?” Arwen scoffs.
I shove past her and make my way to the table at the back of the room, my best friends following behind me.
Cole chuckles. “Dude, I thought you said you weren’t interested in freshman girls. You sure as hell seemed interested in blondie.”
“Oh my god, is that what happened back there? I’ve never seen you act so…” Arwen pauses, trying to think of a fitting way to describe my actions. Stupid, pathetic, creepy, I silently finish for her. She snaps as the word comes to her. “Awestruck! I’ve never seen you so captivated before. It was intense.”
I take a seat, making a show of scraping the wooden chair across the floor before slamming my backpack on the table and my ass down. “You can both fuck off. I’m not interested in that little snowflake.”
As if on cue, she breezes back into the room. I grind my teeth as she walks toward her table, annoyed with myself for being unable to pull my eyes away.
She keeps her head down and her hands in the pockets of the oversized overalls she’s wearing, looking as if she wishes she could disappear altogether—like she knows my eyes are on her. Her head turns in my direction, her eyes hooded as they land on me. As red splashes on her cheeks, a smile tugs on my lips, and I lick them to keep it at bay.
Cole slaps a hand on my shoulder as he takes the seat to my right, and I frown. Her forehead bunches in confusion as my glare darkens, forcing her to look away as she hurriedly takes her seat.
“Since you don’t want her, does that mean I can give it a try?”
Anger and jealousy twist in my gut at the thought. I think I might hate this girl for making me feel this way. The last thing I need is to get tangled up with someone like her, yet every part of my being is screaming mine.
I cut my eyes over to him, tempted to punch him in his smirking face. “Don’t push me, Masterson.”
“Don’t worry,” Arwen coos from my left, bumping my shoulder. “I’m thinking it’s you she wants.”
When my eyes snap back to the girl, she’s studying me, bottom lip tucked between her teeth and skin flushed down to her chest.
Fuck. What is wrong with this girl? I was a total jerk to her. She should either hate me or be afraid of me. Preferably both. She sure as hell shouldn’t be looking at me like I’m a sexy mystery she’s dying to solve. It’s going to take a lot more than usual to keep this one away.
Chapter Two
Present
VIOLET
My skin heats, buzzing to life as it senses his stare, but I keep my eyes on the piece of paper in front of me. My efforts in ignoring him are fruitless, though. Every part of my being is acutely aware of the brooding boy at the back of the room. My shaky hand marks an X on the paper, then I lift my gaze to Joey. He beams at me, and I swear I can hear the asshole two rows back seething.
“This is why you win every time,” Joey whispers as he quickly scribbles an O. “You always take that middle square, then I’m screwed.”
Calculus may be the most boring class I’ve ever had to suffer through, and Joey’s been a lifesaver. Not only does he keep me entertained so Mr. Boyd’s monotone voice doesn’t put me to sleep, he helps keep me distracted. He’s the buffer between me and him.
This is the second class of the day where I’m forced to be in the same confined space with the boy who hates me. My days begin and end with him. There’s no escape.
Smirking, I tuck my untamed mop of blonde hair behind my ears. “If you win, you’ll get to choose the first square.”
“You’re such a brat,” Joey teases, reaching across his desk to tickle my waist.
Gasping, I jerk to get away, causing my desk to make a loud screeching sound as it moves with me. I like Joey, he’s fun and sweet. But only as a friend. I’m not attracted to him, and I hate when he gets flirtatious or makes excuses to touch me. It’s not that he’s ugly. He’s kind of cute, with his blond spiky hair and amber eyes, there’s just no spark there, no jolt to my senses—like there is with the jerk at the back of the room.
My eyes flicker to him, my stomach flipping when I meet his stony stare. He looks even angrier than usual, his jaw clenched tight, his molten eyes burning my skin. Christ all mighty, the bastard is fine as hell. Why are the assholes always so freaking attractive?
He’s like a combination of James Dean and a young Marlon Brando. Thick, dark hair, intense chocolate eyes, and insanely luscious lips. Guys shouldn’t have lips like that.
He’s caught me ogling him several times, his lips spreading into the same predatory smile while he challenges me with his eyes.
“Hey, Saint, don’t you know it’s a sin to covet things you can’t have? Wanting me will only leave you unsatiated. It’s never going to happen. Believe me, if you had me, you’d never be the same.”
I don’t know what kind of a freak secretly crushes on the guy who’s been nothing more than a bully, taking every opportunity to tease and humiliate me, my virtue being his favorite thing to poke at. As if being good is a terrible thing.
To him, I’m nothing more than the annoying little do-gooder he loves to mess with. It’s why he dubbed me “Saint” shortly after learning my name.
He’d earned a nickname from me last year as well. With his James Dean good looks and attitude, I felt Rebel was fitting for him. The rebel with a silver spoon. Not that I’d ever have the balls to call him that to his face.
There’s more to him than his good looks and bad boy persona, though. He might strut around the school like a king in his castle, but I see past the façade. His insecurities and vulnerabilities are the waving white flag, making it impossible for me to hate him.
“Ms. St. James!” Mr. Boyd calls, and my gaze shoots back to Joey with surprise. “Please turn around. Mr. Roberts can have your full attention after class.”
Joey covers his mouth to hold in his laughter, his honey eyes dancing with amusement. I stick my tongue out at him before facing the front of the room. As Mr. Boyd shifts to the white board, my mind drifts right back to the last person who should be occupying my thoughts.
Thatcher Michaelson is the biggest jerk at Westbrook High and the bane of my existence. He’s had it out for me since the first day of my freshman year. All becau
se I had the audacity to be in his way. I mean, he’s the one who came barreling into the classroom, as if it was Thatcher’s world and the rest of us were merely living in it. He ran into me, not the other way around. And even though it wasn’t my fault, I’d been ready to apologize. That’s the type of person I am. You know, polite. But I withered under his stare, unable to catch my breath as his intrusive eyes skimmed over me, making me feel as if it were his hands doing the roaming.
Joey brushes his pencil through my hair, pushing it aside before the eraser lightly dances on the bare skin above the collar of my shirt. My stomach tightens with unease, but I remain still, pretending to not be bothered by the intimate act. Then I feel his fingertips at the base of my neck, and before I’ve even had a chance to process this new level of inappropriate behavior, a familiar deep voice calls out from behind me.
“Hey, Roberts, why don’t you keep your hands to yourself?”
My mouth drops open, my face feeling like it’s on fire as Mr. Boyd and everyone else in the classroom turns their attention to me. Thatcher never fails to find ways to embarrass the shit out of me. It’s like a fun little game for him. I never see him pull this crap on other people. What is it about me? Why is he so hellbent on making high school miserable for me?
When the Saint Falls: a high school bully romance (Westbrook three Book 1) Page 1