The Help: A Reverse Harem High School Bully Romance (Kings of Linwood Academy Book 1)

by Callie Rose

  He shrugs. “You’re not as good at sneaking out as you think you are.”

  “You followed me?”

  A sardonic grin tilts his lips. “Does it count as following if we already knew where you were going?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine, then. We followed you.”

  “Why?”

  “River wanted to see if you were really as good as Ethan said you were.”

  I huff a breath, leaning back against the headrest. “Well, obviously I’m not.”

  A deep chuckle falls from his lips. “Nervous?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “You’re usually better at bluffing than that, Pool Girl.”

  I flip him off and turn my head to look out the window. I should probably be more careful about how I act around him, but now that I’ve been here for several weeks and he’s never made a move to get me fired, I’ve relaxed a little. Enough to not just take his shit lying down.

  “Don’t worry,” he says after a minute. “River’s smart, and he’s patient. It might take a while, but I’m sure he’ll come up with something good.”

  “Not helping, asshole,” I mutter.

  His burst of laughter fills the car, and I almost grin, despite the worry eating at me. He seems to like me best when I’m giving him shit, and maybe that’s another part of why I’ve stopped walking on eggshells around him.

  Still, though…

  This fucking favor.

  The rest of the day passes without any word from River. And the next day too. I see him in class and in the hallways, but he doesn’t even mention the bet I lost. He acts like nothing has changed, and that only puts me more on edge.

  On Wednesday night, I agree to go to a football game with Lauren and Andrea, two girls from my Calculus class. They’ve been to every game since school started, and they keep telling me how much I’m missing out by not going. Personally, I don’t see it. But hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, right?

  The weather is getting a little chilly, so I slip on a light jacket and scarf before heading back to Linwood to meet up with them. The game is actually kind of fun, although it feels weird cheering for a sport I know almost nothing about. I didn’t go to many football games at my old school either; it was just never something I was into.

  But as I watch our team play and the cheer squad do their routines, Iris and Savannah’s frequent catfights in the locker room start to make a little more sense. This is important to them. Their whole world revolves around these nights, around who’s on top of the pyramid or who gave the best performance. They live and breathe for this shit. It’s admirable, in a way, even though I don’t really understand it.

  The Linwood Lions win, and after the game, there’s a house party at another mansion a few miles away.

  It’s about as packed as the last party I went to, and I notice Lincoln, River, Dax, and Chase right away. They’re holding court in the large main living room; the twins are entertaining everyone with their loud, charming voices while River and Lincoln languidly sip their drinks.

  Chase catches sight of me and winks as I pass, but I just keep moving. Those boys have all been on my mind way too much lately. I need to get serious about keeping my walls up around them. I’ll do whatever stupid favor they want, but I’m not looking to be their friends.

  I lose track of Lauren and Andrea almost immediately as they squeal and run off to join another group of friends. I’m sort of regretting coming to this party at all. I feel a little anti-social at the moment, and I know it’s the stupid bet still hovering over me that’s making me feel this way.

  God, I hope River just gets it over with soon. I can’t take this fucking waiting.

  I grab a drink, then tug my phone out of my back pocket and text Hunter.

  ME: Hey Dummy. Guess what I did tonight?

  HUNTER: What?

  ME: Went to a football game

  HUNTER: What????

  ME: I know right? It’s almost like I’m a real high schooler or something

  HUNTER: Was it fun?

  ME: Ehhh

  HUNTER: Bahaha!! Okay at least now I know you’re not an alien impersonating Low

  ME: Nah. But I kind of wish I was

  HUNTER: Errr what?

  I tell her about the disastrous round of poker and what came of it, feeling even more like an idiot as I lay it all out.

  HUNTER: Damn. What do you think he’s gonna make you do??

  ME: Fuck if I know

  HUNTER: What if he asks you to blow him? Or ALL of them???

  ME: Wow, that’s the FIRST thing your mind went to?

  HUNTER: Hey, I’m a freakin realist. You owe a guy a favor? It’s gonna involve sex somehow

  ME: Well then I’m not doing it. They can ban me from whatever games they want

  HUNTER: You sure? They’re all fine as hell

  She knows that because she threatened me with death if I didn’t send her pictures of all of them.

  ME: That I don’t want to be coerced into giving them all blowjobs? Yeah, pretty sure

  HUNTER: You’re no fun

  ME: No, I’m just not a porn star, thanks

  HUNTER: ….

  She’s still typing out a message when someone bumps into me from behind, making the liquid in my cup slosh over the side.

  “Oops, sorry.”

  A guy with short brown hair whose name I don’t know puts out a hand to steady me. Or tries to. He’s wobbly on his feet, and he ends up clinging to me for support.

  “It’s cool, don’t worry about it.” I pry his fingers from my arm with one hand, trying not to spill any more of my drink.

  “All right, little buddy. Let’s leave the nice lady alone.” Trent chuckles as he comes up behind the boy, taking his shoulders and turning him away before giving him a little push. The guy stumbles slightly and then weaves away, and Trent grins at me.

  “Um, thanks,” I mutter.

  I don’t really know what to say. It’s not like he rescued me, exactly, but the way he’s looking at me makes it clear he sure thinks he did.

  “It’s the least I could do for a pretty girl like you.”

  Uh, what?

  I don’t really like Trent, although I don’t specifically dislike him either. But we barely ever interact, and he’s never hit on me like this before. He’s a good looking guy, I guess. His bright blue eyes are set a little close together, which skews the proportions of his face, but he’s got the classic blond-haired, tall, strapping thing going on that girls seem to love.

  I’m not interested though. He’s nowhere near as good-looking as Lincoln and his friends—not that I’m interested in any of them either.

  “I saw you in the stands tonight,” he continues, stepping a little closer to me as a pack of girls moves through the kitchen behind him. “I’m glad you finally came to a game. What’d you think?”

  “It was cool. Congrats on the win.”

  “Thanks.” He grins again, and his gaze heats as he rakes it up and down my body. “Maybe you were my lucky charm.”

  I roll my eyes. “I doubt that.”

  “Well, you’ll have to come to all my games now, just in case.” He steps a little closer, brushing the knuckles of one hand down my arm.

  “Yeah, I probably can’t,” I say, taking a small step back. “I work a lot when I’m not at school. You know, I’m one of the Black family’s housekeepers.”

  I figure that might turn him off without me having to outright reject him. Everyone here is so obsessed with status, I can’t imagine he’d want to get caught hitting on the help. But he just bites his lip, leaning in as he speaks.

  “Maybe sometime I could see your little uniform.”

  Ew. Gross. Okay, I was trying to be nice about this, but fuck that.

  “I don’t think so,” I say curtly.

  Then I push past him and walk out of the kitchen—only to run smack into Savannah. I yelp as my drink sloshes in the cup, but I manage not to spill anything this time.


  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, skank?” she hisses.

  “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Not that.” Her eyes are slits. “Were you fucking hitting on Trent Calloway? Don’t you know he’s off the market?”

  My eyebrows drift up. “Oh, is he? Did Iris finally make her move?”

  Her lips pinch together, and her nostrils flare. That was a low blow, but I think she deserved it. I know she and Iris are still fighting over him, though I don’t think that claim has been settled yet.

  “No!” she whispers loudly. “That’s not—she hasn’t—” She lets out an annoyed breath. “He’s off the market to poor skanks! That means you.”

  “Yeah, well that’s fine by me. I’m not interested anyway. I hope the three of you have a long and happy life together.”

  She gapes at me, blinking rapidly. “What are you talking about? That’s—I’m not going to share him!”

  I smirk. “Why not? You both want him so bad. Why all the fighting? I’m sure he’s got more than enough beefcake to go around.”

  “You’re disgusting.” Her lip curls. “Although it doesn’t surprise me a slut like you would come up with an idea like that.”

  I got under her skin, I can tell. But she’s getting under mine too. Being called shit like “pool girl” and “the help” bugs me, but nowhere near as much as being slut-shamed. I lost my virginity when I was fifteen, a few years after I realized I was actually going to live to see my twenties and beyond. And I like sex. As far as I’m concerned, it’s one of the highlights of being alive.

  What I don’t like is people who use it as a weapon or a tool to get what they want, and that’s what Savannah and Iris seem to be all about. Their whole feud over Trent isn’t about him as a person, it’s about which one of them lands the star football player.

  I push past her, refusing to get sucked into a petty fight with her like Iris always does. As I cross the room, I notice Lincoln watching me.

  Did he see my altercation with Savannah?

  Did he see what came before it?

  He’s got a scowl on his face that makes me think maybe he did.

  And when I arrive downstairs at the Black house at 7:25 the next morning only to find that he left for school without me, I’m positive of it.

  He saw Trent hitting on me, and he didn’t like it.

  11

  Just like that, I go back to taking Mom’s car to school. She doesn’t question why, and Samuel Black doesn’t notice or care that Lincoln and I are no longer carpooling.

  All four of the kings seem pissed at me again, actually. Not that we were ever really friendly, but the temperature on the usual cold front has been turned down to well below freezing.

  Luckily, I don’t have too much time to dwell on it, because pretty much every minute that I’m not at school or doing homework, I’m helping my mom prepare for the cocktail party Samuel and Audrey will be throwing over the weekend. The house is, to my eyes, already immaculate, but Samuel asks for a deep clean of everything on top of coordinating with the kitchen staff and hired caterers.

  On Saturday morning, Mom and I split the main level in half—she takes the west wing, and I take the east wing. I start in the ballroom, mopping and polishing the floor and dusting every surface. It’s a massive room, and by the time I finish, my arms are sore. I decide to do Mr. Black’s study next, since it’ll be easier work.

  The recessed lights are on dimmers, so the room always has a warm, soft glow. All the furniture is dark wood, and there’s something so old-fashioned about it all, like this is where the man of the house comes to smoke cigars and talk to other men about railroad company takeovers or some shit.

  I start by dusting everything, then I use a rag to wipe the surfaces of his bookshelves, end tables, and desk. I sit down in the large wingback chair to organize the few documents scattered over the desk into one pile, and as I’m setting them aside, I notice that the top desk drawer is hanging about an inch open.

  I’m about to shut it, but something stops me. This drawer is usually locked, which never struck me as weird or anything. It’s a wealthy man’s desk in his private office. But now that I’ve got a chance to peek inside, I can’t quite talk myself out of it.

  My gaze flicks up to the doorway, but I haven’t seen or heard any of the Blacks moving around the house all day. My heart beats a little faster in my chest as I tug the shallow drawer open wider, poking at the contents like I’m afraid they’ll bite.

  There are several receipts, some letters that’ve been opened and then stuffed back into the envelopes, and a large manilla envelope with a few pieces of paper sticking out.

  So, pretty much what you’d expect to find in a desk. Boring.

  I’m about to slide the drawer shut when a word on one of the pieces of paper in the big envelope catches my eye.

  Paternity.

  My hand freezes as I cock my head. Is that a paternity test?

  I try to slide it out a little farther with my finger, almost afraid to touch it at all, as if the first thing Mr. Black will do when he comes back is dust for fingerprints. It takes a couple swipes, but I manage to drag the paper a little higher so more of it is visible.

  It is. It’s a lab result for a paternity test, but—

  The front door slams, and I jump so high my knees bang against the underside of the desk.

  “Fuck!” I hiss as pain explodes in my kneecaps.

  My hands shake with urgency as I quickly shove the paper back into the envelope, trying to get it into the exact position it was in when I found it.

  I close the drawer, leaving just an inch of space as before, and practically throw myself out of the chair as footsteps come down the hall toward me. Picking up my rag, I wipe down a bookshelf I already cleaned, trying to get my breath under control as Samuel Black steps into the room.

  “Ah, Harlow. I’m looking for your mother, do you know where I might find her?”

  “Um, she was in the kitchen last I saw her.” I glance over my shoulder, positive my guilt is written all over my face. But my voice sounds pretty normal, and Mr. Black doesn’t bat an eye.

  “Good. Good. I just wanted to go over a few things with her for tonight.”

  His gaze sweeps the room, and his eyelids flicker just slightly when he notices the desk drawer sitting open a crack. I keep my focus on the bookshelf, pretending not to notice or care as he walks over and closes it, engaging the lock.

  He doesn’t know I looked. He can’t know, or he wouldn’t have just closed it so casually. Maybe he doesn’t even think I noticed.

  “It looks good in here.” He gives me a wide, genuine smile, and I can’t find any suspicion in his eyes. “Keep up the good work.”

  When he strides out to go find Mom, I nearly collapse against the sofa in relief. My hands are shaking, and I can’t quite suck in a full breath. Jesus, that was fucking stupid. I didn’t even close the door before I started poking around.

  As the pounding of my heart starts to ease, an image of the document in the envelope flashes in my mind. I didn’t get a great look at it, but it was definitely a paternity test. I don’t even know for sure who it was testing, and I have no idea if it was positive or negative. I assume Mr. Black was the subject of the test, but that begs the question: is Lincoln not his real son?

  They look a lot alike—same strong bone structure and nearly black hair—but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of people look similar, especially if you assume they’re related and look for features they have in common.

  I grab my cleaning supplies and make a hasty exit, heading for the library next.

  Something strange is definitely going on in this house. But even as curiosity pricks at me, a warning alarm in my head tells me that some secrets are better left buried.

  Mom may not be great at organizing aspects of her personal life, but she’s an amazing party planner. I continue cleaning while she meets with the cook, the caterers and hired servers, and the groundske
eping staff to make sure everyone is completely prepared for tonight.

  It’s kind of cool to see her like this, actually. In Big Boss Mode. I know housekeeping was never her ambition, but I could see all the skills she’s honing here translating into a job she really loves somewhere down the line.

  Hopefully sooner rather than later.

  We’ve been at the Black house for less than six weeks, and I’m already itching to get out.

  The activity and energy level of the house staff builds as the day goes on and peaks just before seven o’clock, when the first guests arrive. Mom answers the door and takes their coats before ushering them into the ballroom. It’s beautifully lit with a soft yellow glow, and the wet bar along one wall is fully stocked, with a professional bartender on duty.

  I really wish I could escape upstairs for the actual party—I’m exhausted from cleaning all day, and I’m not the most social person under regular circumstances, which these definitely aren’t. But my mom needs help, and I want to support her, so I stay downstairs and help wrangle and greet guests.

  The entire Black family is fashionably late to their own party, and when they do arrive, it’s with all the fanfare of royalty on parade. They converge on the upstairs balcony as if they synchronized their watches down to the second, then make their way down the stairs as a unit.

  Mr. and Mrs. Black are arm in arm, and I almost do a double-take to be sure it’s really them. They’re both dressed like they’re headed to the Oscars, Samuel in a perfectly tailored tuxedo and Audrey in a deep maroon evening gown that drapes from one shoulder and has a two-foot train. I’ve never seen them this dressed up before, but that’s not what catches my attention.

  No, it’s the way they’re looking at each other.

  Like they’re… in love.

  Maybe that shouldn’t be strange in a married couple, but for these two, it’s definitely unusual. On a regular day, there seems to be a wall between them; they might kiss or hug, but even those actions seem stilted, formal, and forced.

  Now, though? She looks up at him and her eyes sparkle, a soft smile curving her lips. She doesn’t look as dazed as usual either, so maybe she skipped her daily dose of Prozac. But why would that make her seem happier?