Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  “Dad...please. Later, okay?” I gave him the puppy dog expression I’d mastered at an early age. The pouty, puffed out bottom lip always won him over. Add wide eyes and fluttering lashes and he was doomed.

  He hesitated but relented as predicted. “Fine. But the election is just months away. I’d like to keep my office.”

  My dad, the mayor of our rural town, was assured reelection, unless, of course, the voters got wind of my most recent slip-up.

  “Have fun, but not too much,” he finally joked. “Home by 1:00 AM, no later.”

  I groaned but flashed him a smile in the mirror. He shut my door, leaving me alone with my worst mistake to keep me company while I finished my makeup.

  Yes, I could admit, this time I’d taken my slap-down into uncharted territory. As cruel as I sometimes was, I’d never uttered the go kill yourself refrain so many teenagers tossed around like hello and goodbye.

  Unable to resist, I let my mind do what it had been doing all evening, detour back to this morning before the bathroom bloodbath.

  “You are such a cunt! No one likes you. No. One. They pretend to worship you just to avoid your tyrannical ‘slap downs,’” Susan Crabs yelled in my face after I’d accidently shouldered by outside our last class, making her stumble.

  “Is that true?” I turned to face the gathering crowd. “You all hate me, right?”

  A few nervous chuckles and head shakes dominated the responses.

  She was right about what my friends had initially coined “a Frankie Slap-Down.” They made it sound like a menu item at the old school burger joint down the street from the school. Most kids avoided the restaurant’s greasy burgers like they tried to avoid being on the wrong side of a slap-down.

  The phrase took off and was embraced by friends, enemies and everyone in-between, evidenced by the chant rising around us, “Slap down, slap down, slap down...”

  No one wanted to be on the receiving end of my negative attention, but they sure as hell enjoyed watching me ridicule someone else.

  I needed to think fast. Did Susan deserve a verbal slap or something more physical?

  She didn’t give me time to decide, escalating our feud to the next level when she spit on my recently dry cleaned cheer top.

  No. She. Didn’t.

  Based on our spectators’ gasps and her saliva dripping over the raised letter A— she did.

  My hand shot out before I realized what I was doing. The impact from a well-placed palm across her cheek sent Susan reeling. She stumbled but somehow stayed on her feet, a weird grin on her face. She righted her glasses and stepped towards me. One of her nerdy, look-like-a-librarian-friends grabbed her elbow and whispered in her ear.

  “That’s right, bitch. You better listen to your friend and back off. Better yet, why don’t you go kill yourself like your step brother? No wonder he pulled the trigger. Living with a bottom feeder like you every day, it’s no surprise he bailed. And you slept with him. How fucking sick.”

  “You are a horrible person,” Shelby added her usual insult before tossing her dark hair, something she did after speaking. If anything, my best friend was predictable and quickly forgotten when Susan’s fight faded and then crashed completely.

  For the first time since we’d been on this frequent collision course, her shoulders slumped and she dropped her gaze, staring at her tattered chucks. I’d gone too far, bringing up Chad’s death, but I refused to accept defeat or apologize. I couldn’t afford to appear weak for any reason.

  Worse, my mouth seemed to have its own evil agenda and continued to hurl insults. “What? You thought no one knew about your so-called secret? He killed himself because he felt like shit for fucking his little sister.”

  “We weren’t blood-related siblings,” she cried before slapping a hand over her mouth, clearly realizing she’d just confirmed their illicit relationship in front of numerous witnesses.

  “What’s going on here?” our new science teacher, Mr. Reed, demanded, suddenly at my side. “All of you get to class. Susan, would you like to report anything?” He studied the pink handprint on her right cheek.

  She glanced up and narrowed her eyes at me. “No, sir. Nothing to report here.”

  Picking up her discarded pack, she shrugged it over her shoulders before reaching for her sole supporter’s arm. They hurried down the hall, putting an end to the first slap-down I wished I could erase.

  “SURE I CAN’T GET YOU something, babe?” Seth dropped down in the chair next to me, leaving his buddies behind to check on me. He’d been the doting boyfriend since showing up on my doorstep, something he excelled at.

  I shook my head, not bothering to look up from the napkin I’d twisted and shredded into tiny pieces. Instead, I reached for a fresh one and started the twist-and-tear process all over again.

  From the moment we crammed ourselves into the over-stuffed limo, a hot pink monstrosity with a black top, he’d been trying to cheer me up. He really was a good guy, not your typical conceited jock. I was lucky to have him.

  But why couldn’t he dominate in bed like he did on game day?

  He scooted his chair closer and draped a muscular arm over my shoulders, pulling me closer. I cuddled into him, an attempt to stop the waves of guilt that had been crashing over me since seeing Susan on that stretcher.

  Seth was my first, and I wasn’t impressed. He might be big and brutal on the football field, but when it came to anything sexual, he fumbled, unable to make the right passes or connections.

  Unaware of my thoughts, he ran his nose along my jaw and tried to kiss me, confident in my inability to resist him. If he only knew.

  I shoved him away, something I’d never done. “Stop. Seriously. I’m not feeling good.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Frankie, you’ve been waiting for this night all year. I ordered the ugly pink limo you begged for, bought enough booze to last until the next party, and I’ve been catering to you all fucking night while you mope. Since when do you pout?”

  Evidently, he’d done more than sample our alcohol selection because he never challenged me. But he was right, I wasn’t prone to pouting or sulking. And he wasn’t the only one unsure how to deal with this version of me. Even my best friends were avoiding our table, whispering and shooting bewildered glances my way when they didn’t think I was looking.

  An out of control Frankie was a Frankie they couldn’t relate to. They expected me to lead and be on point every second. And, until this moment, I’d never considered my position a hardship. I relished the attention and control.

  It was time to get a grip on my emotions, besides, my dress was too cute and too expensive to be hidden away under a table all night.

  “Fine. You’re right. Let’s dance!” I didn’t wait for an answer and dragged Seth up with me.

  He laughed, relieved to have the standard me he was used to back and in working order. Holding hands, we pushed through the sweating, grinding bodies, accepting smiles, nods and even a few pats on the back from our classmates as they slowed down long enough to greet us.

  By the time we reached the stage the song ended and the band stepped back, allowing Ms. Saunders, our VP, to hobble forward on heels she never should have attempted to walk in. Especially while trying to balance two crowns on a satin pillow.

  I’d somehow managed to forget about the official King and Queen of Hearts coronation, yet another Valentine’s tradition.

  “Ready to grab your crown?” Seth teased.

  I wasn’t, but played along. “We’re not guaranteed to win, you know.”

  Carmen and her latest boyfriend, the latest in a string of relationships that never lasted, agreed with Seth. “Come on. Who always gets the most votes?”

  Handing the cushion over to the band’s unprepared frontman, Ms. Saunders fumbled with the mike. The guitar player moved to help, his expression betraying his frustration.

  “I won’t stop the music for long, but it’s time to announce this year’s King and Queen of Hearts. The winners were unan
imous. No need for a second vote or protests.” She laughed at her feeble joke attempt. When she realized no else was laughing, she cleared her throat and confirmed Carmen’s prediction, “Seth Westbrook and Francesca Allen.”

  Painting on my brightest smile, I let Seth lead me up the stairs.

  “Speech! Speech!” several of Seth’s teammates chanted as the crowns were placed on our heads, reminding me of the earlier slap-down mantra.

  Mentally shaking off another guilt attack, I reached for the microphone, dropping my hand when the gym doors swung open and the last person I expected to see entered the room bundled in a wheelchair, escorted by her family and two police officers.

  For the second time today, I watched my classmates step back, creating a wide path for the unlikely procession to make their way to the stage.

  “Holy shit,” Seth hissed.

  Ignoring him, I closed my eyes, inhaled through my nose and exhaled slowly, preparing myself. Calmer, I squared my shoulders and faced my accuser.

  That’s what Susan Crabs had become―my accuser. Like the witches of Salem, I prepared myself for the modern version of a stake burning.

  I’d underestimated the mousy girl, and I had to give her credit. She was about to serve me a slap-down I never expected.

  Our gazes locked. Despite her earlier blood loss and ghostly skin color, she wore a determined expression. I gave her a nod of respect; the least I could do. Shockingly, she returned the gesture.

  “Miss Allen, we need you to come with us. We’re meeting in the principal’s office. Your parents are on their way.”

  Expecting Seth to help me down, I was shocked for a second time when he backed up and raised his palms.

  He didn’t need to say a word. His actions told everyone what he thought. I was no longer worthy to be his queen. A criminal had no place beside a college-bound athlete. Associating with someone like me would not be to his benefit.

  The officer took my arm and paraded me through my peers.

  I searched the crowd for my girls. Rather than offering looks of support, they took their cue from Seth, dropping their gazes before I could make eye contact.

  The crown on my head felt like a heavy brick. My reign had come to a sudden and defining conclusion.

  Before reaching the exit, I spotted Amy Wilson, the school’s most shunned student. Without a second thought, I removed my crown and placed it on her head, earning a tentative smile.

  Hers was the only smile I saw for the rest of that long night.

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday, September 8, 2020

  Frankie

  My parents hadn’t spoken since we piled in the car, heading to Randall Academy where I’d complete my senior year.

  In adherence to our agreement with the Crab family, a contract that kept the extent of my bullying history out of the press, I’d been expelled from Luther Academy and forced to finish my junior year with a tutor at home.

  I’d also been enrolled to start school in the fall at an alternative school for fuckups, near Portland, hours away from my Southern Oregon hometown. Fall had arrived on schedule, and I was on my way to the campus where I’d be living in a dorm.

  From what I’d read online, some students lived on academy grounds, like me. Others lived off campus.

  I was on probation after earning a misdemeanor assault charge for slapping and shoving Susan.

  My ex-boyfriend and those I had considered friends turned on me, providing law enforcement with numerous accounts of times I’d been aggressive towards my peers, giving them ammunition for their case. They failed to mention their own participation, covering their asses as a precaution.

  According to the lawyers that negotiated on my behalf, I had gotten off easy and should be grateful for the chance to graduate and avoid long-term detention.

  I’d been seventeen during the proceedings. I was eighteen now. Any future incidents and I would be charged as an adult. No more slap-downs in my future. Not if I wanted to finish my education and help save my father’s political career.

  In all honesty, my father’s career was the least of my concerns right now. He’d been nothing but an asshole since my expulsion, treating me like I had the plague and barely speaking to me.

  My cell buzzed and I checked my texts. It could only be one person. My phone no longer lit up with invites and gossip. I had one friend besides family to chat with.

  Susan: You got this. I’ll find a way to visit.

  I sighed. There was no way Susan would be visiting. Her parents would never allow it. They barely tolerated our friendship.

  Susan, the same Susan who’d sliced her wrists, had become my best and only friend, something I could never have foreseen and still had difficulty believing.

  After a heartfelt apology letter I’d been required to write, she responded, offering an olive branch of forgiveness. We’d started out communicating through handwritten letters and sending them via snail mail, eventually graduating to emails and then texts. Now we even talked on the phone.

  My social media accounts had been disabled, thanks to the agreement. And considering the flood of hate messages I’d received before deleting them, I was more than happy to let go of my online presence and the pressure that came with it.

  The constant stress of keeping selfies and pictures posted that made my life appear more exciting than a celebrity’s wasn’t something I missed at all.

  Frankie: I hope you can get up here someway. I’m scared, I thumbed back, staring before I hit send.

  Prior to Susan’s suicide attempt and our unusual friendship, I would never have admitted my fears to anyone, but she was different, she actually cared. Seth, Carmen, Shelby and the others had abandoned me, making sure to slander me any chance they got.

  Susan: Maybe you’ll meet some new friends...a guy? She ended her text with a winking emoji.

  Frankie: We’re pulling up to the gate. Talk later?

  A new boyfriend was the last thing I needed or wanted. Getting through the school year and graduating on time without drawing unwanted attention was my goal.

  Her response—a smile and heart emoji. I tucked my phone in my purse and stared out the window.

  The school’s gated entrance reminded me more of a jail’s entry than an academy. I almost expected armed guards to greet us.

  I scanned the area. Sure enough, there was security patrolling at a discreet distance. Armed or not, I couldn’t see.

  We pulled into the long turn around drive and joined the line of vehicles, some expensive like ours, others barely running. I was so out of my comfort zone.

  “Honey, we can’t leave her here. Look at the cars. These kids are real criminals.”

  If my mom knew all my evil and not so legal actions I doubted she’d still be defending me.

  “She’s going. It’s that or a detention center. She needs to finish high school and put her past behind her.” My puppy-dog-pout no longer worked on my dad. He’d seen the light...or better said—he’d woken up to my darkness.

  “Uh...I’m right here,” I snapped, sick of my parents acting like I no longer existed but more shocked that my mom cared enough to stand up for me. “Just because someone doesn’t have money or a new car doesn’t make them bad.”

  I had never realized how judgmental my parents were. They proved it every time they opened their mouths. That didn’t reflect well on me either. I’d not only been the queen of smack-downs but I’d taken my entitlement mindset to an embarrassing level, looking down my nose at everyone.

  My dad’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “All the kids here are bad.”

  I clenched my teeth, refusing to bite.

  My father had become king of snide and rude comments directed at me, his only daughter. If his contingents could see him in action at home, I’m positive they’d reconsider their support. “Family first” was one of his biggest selling points. Part of me hoped he lost in November.

  “But...” My mom struggled to form a rebuke but failed, no surpr
ise there. She rarely disagreed outright with my father in spite of her recent attempts to be more assertive.

  All conversation was put on hold thanks to a trio of motorcycles that rumbled single file down the narrow strip between the cars and curb.

  Of course Dad had to comment. “Biker gangs. Fantastic.”

  “See,” my mom pleaded.

  I stopped listening to their debate, mesmerized by the Harleys and their riders. I lowered my window, hoping to catch their conversation.

  The first one off his bike was at least six-feet. His thick thighs filled out a worn pair of Levis and hugged his tight ass. He made the jocks back at Luther look small. Even Seth couldn’t compare, despite an extra inch or two in the height department.

  He lifted his helmet off, revealing a mop of spiky near-white hair. He shook his head and stretched, treating me to a strip of inked skin below his leather jacket. I had begged my parents for a tattoo, starting freshman year. I still didn’t have one.

  Grabbing a large duffel bag attached to the back of his bike, he leaned into an older man still seated on the first bike, offering a fist bump. The man wore a black leather vest with Soul Scorchers MC and a fiery skull on the back. I’d caught a glimpse of smaller patches on the front I couldn’t make out.

  “I’ll let Wolf and Harmony know you made it in one piece and keep an eye on your bikes until you two get checked in and park at your dorm.’”

  “Thanks Boone. Give Olympia a hug.” The blond hoisted his heavy bag over his shoulder and stepped onto the walkway, waiting for the other rider.

  I stared with interest as the third biker swung his leg over the monster Harley in one graceful arc, mimicking his friend or brother, I had no idea which, and stretching like they’d been on the road for awhile.

  He was taller and bulkier. When his helmet came off, I stifled a gasp.

  Long dark waves that brushed past his shoulders hung in a disheveled mess, but it suited him perfectly. His face was tanned like he’d spent his summer months soaking in the sun. He didn’t look like the type to resort to indoor tanning.