My Sweet Bully Read online

  Basketball is the only thing I have that can get me out of this fucking place, and now I have to stand back and wonder if it will be torn from my hands just like my childhood. Because of her. All because of Prairie Westmin.

  It isn't fair. None of this shit is fair.

  She needs to pay for what she's done. Simple as that.

  The idea sends a rush of excitement through my veins. It's invigorating, refreshing, and it puts a smile on my face. I'm going to make her life fucking miserable, every chance that I get, I'm going to make her regret everything she's done to me.

  The bell rings for homeroom, making me lift my head and look over my shoulder.

  Slamming my locker shut, I tuck my binder under my arm and step into the classroom. I'm done thinking about her and what she's done to my family. She has no place in my life other than the hate and misery she's caused me.

  I'm not going to give her more of myself. That piece of me, the one that holds this rage inside, that's enough, and it's all she deserves.

  Her face makes me angry; her voice makes me insane with hatred. And yet she acts like she has the right to talk to me. Like we could ever be friends. Fuck that.

  If I had realized it was her to begin with in the parking lot, I would have left her where she was, and let the snakes swallow her whole. I didn't know it was her. Not from behind. And like a fucking idiot, I stuck my nose where it didn't belong.

  All because I fucking hate James Galligan. If you look up asshole in the dictionary, his face would be there. But I can easily say, I hate this girl more. It would have been worth it to watch him take bites from her soul.

  Except, she's so fucking beautiful. I want to taste her. Feel her all over. Lick her from head to toe.

  The thought ripples down through my chest, sparking a heat in my gut that burns hot and heavy. It surprises me for a moment, making me wonder if I'm losing my damn mind.

  How could I ever think like that about someone I despise? A girl who deserves to feel the same pain I live with every single day. A girl who won't see me coming, because she's pretending to be so fucking innocent.

  Fuck, that innocence, her purity is like a target for me. I can make her scream my name, make her beg for me to keep going until she jumps off the edge. I can make her buckle at the knees, aching for me to just finish her off.

  No. Not a chance. Forget her. I won't let myself think about her as anything other than a sore on my ass. She's not worth a fucking second of my time. In person or in thought.

  Dropping into my seat, I relax back, biting the metal edge of my pencil. I can't let her in my head like this. She's the enemy, period.

  Glancing up at the clock, it's almost eight, and I groan to myself as I realize the day hasn't even begun. I'm not the best at school, I don't really give a shit about history or math, but I know being here is the only way I can do what I love. Basketball is the only reason I'm even sitting in this seat.

  Yeah, that's if I'm lucky enough to still be considered for a scholarship.

  I have to do everything the judge ordered me to do to even come close to still having a chance. I can't fuck up at all, not if I really want this.

  Letting out a deep breath, I rest my elbows on the desk, twisting the tip of the pencil into the smooth wood grain. My eyes are down, the other kids around me are chatting and laughing.

  I catch small bits of conversations. Where they went over the summer, what they did, who they were with. It's all bullshit—stupid, no one gives a fuck—bullshit.

  I mean, who really give a rat's ass if someone spent the summer on the Cape or went shopping on the strip? No one. None of that shit makes a difference.

  Maybe I'm just a little too jealous, wishing my life was normal. But it's not. Not all of us are that lucky. And honestly, I don't want to hear shit about what they did, what trinkets they bought, or how many new pairs of shoes they got.

  Twisting in my seat, I grip the back of my chair in one hand, and stare at Chelsea Chandler. Even just looking at her makes me cringe. Her hair is dyed blond, her expensive shoes cry spoiled, and her sassy, pouty lips say, 'I'm better than you.'

  She notices me looking at her and gives me a snotty smile. “Something wrong, Ramon?”

  Smugly, I grin, tapping my fingers against the top of the chair. “No, please, go on. We're all waiting to learn how difficult it was for you to pull that floss from your ass on the beach.”

  Her jaw crooks as she glances at Michelle Fayette, another cheerleader asshole, and rolls her eyes. Her eyes drift back to me, mouth dropping into a frown. “Fuck you, Ramon.”

  “No, thank you though. I only fuck real women, not plastic whores.”

  The guys around us all let out a loud howl as they laugh and grin.

  “Screw you, nothing about me is plastic.”

  Looking her up and down, I suck in a gulp of air through thin lips. “I don't know, I'm pretty sure I smell Daddy's money in those overstuffed lips.”

  “You're such an asshole.”

  Smiling, I wink. “That's the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

  Chelsea rolls her eyes again, her mouth parting as she's about to tell me off. She doesn't get far, her words are quickly muted as the teacher walks in the room, silencing everyone instantly.

  “All right class, settle down.” Mrs. Gemstone sets her briefcase on the floor and claps her hands together. “I hope everyone had a good summer, but now it's time to get back to learning. Who's ready?” She holds out her hands, eyes bouncing around the class.

  No one but her is excited. Everyone groans all at once, closing eyes, and slouching deeper into their seats.

  Mrs. Gemstone smiles and lowers her eyes. “Oh come on, it isn't that bad. It's your last year, you should all be over the moon about that.”

  Her gray hair is curled up at the ends as her Hawaiian flower dress moves easily around her legs. She teaches French, and every so often she yells something out I don't understand.

  “Quelqu'un?” she asks, looking for someone to agree with her. “Anyone?” she repeats in English and asks again. But no one answers. “Bien, bien, all right, I have my answer.” Taking out a clipboard, she starts going through the attendance. Mrs. Gemstone is checking off names as kids raise hands and say they're present.

  “Benjamin Summons?”

  “Here.”

  Her eyes look up for a second, then back to her list. “Cassandra Thompson?”

  “Here.”

  The door springs open, causing a big gust of wind to blow a small stack of papers off the teacher's desk. Mrs. Gemstone lets out a small gasp as she whips her eyes to the door.

  “Sorry, I'm so sorry I'm late, I got lost.”

  My ears perk, and I lift my head to see Prairie standing in the doorway, her hands folded across her waist. Wearing a pair of tight jeans and combat boots, her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her baby doll t-shirt dips low, showing a peek of cleavage.

  Dropping her eyes to the floor, she looks up at the ceiling, then over at the teacher. “I'm really sorry, I won't be late again.”

  The entire room stares at her. She put herself on display, like a fucking statue in the center of the fountain. She looks so vulnerable as she stands there with wide eyes, a nameless fawn in a room full of wolves.

  This girl is going to get eaten alive.

  And I can't seem to fucking escape her.

  I can't escape her in my dreams. I can't escape her in my memories. And now she's here.

  Why the fuck does it feel like she's following me? Is the world out to screw me over? Is this some type of sick joke from the big man upstairs?

  Mrs. Gemstone presses the tips of her fingers into her desk and smiles. “Come on in.” Standing up straight, she takes her by the shoulders and moves her further into the room. “You must be Prairie Westmin. Prairie, why don't you take that open seat over there while I finish attendance.”

  Prairie nods and smiles, taking a few steps toward the desk the teacher pointed at. Lifting her face to look around the room, her eyes meet mine and she pauses mid step. I see her inhale sharply, surprised just the same as I am to have her walk into my homeroom.

  Her tits rise and fall, cleavage pillowing over the top of her shirt as she holds her breath. I won't break eye contact first. I refuse to. I want her to see me. To feel me. To know I'm a presence, and not just a face she pointed out to the cops.

  She's in my world now. If I can't escape her, she can't escape me.

  I'm going to make her life a living nightmare.

  Her eyes flicker back and forth over my face until she finally drops them to the floor and takes her seat. Nervously, Prairie tucks loose strands of hair behind her ears, and clears her throat as she folds her hands on the desk and sits up straight.

  Her back is stiff as a board as she shifts in her chair, uncomfortably aware that I'm so close. I know she wants to look back at me, I can see her eyes as they move, trying to catch a glimpse of me in her peripheral vision. Except, she's afraid to actually look.

  The principal's voice crackles through the overhead speaker, welcoming all the students back for another year. His voice turns to mumbles as my attention falls on Prairie. I can't stop watching her.

  Her neck looks smooth, edible, and I can see the outline of her bra beneath the purple material. She really is fucking gorgeous. I can't deny that. Her face is flawless. Ivory skin, rosy pink cheeks, lush lips.

  She has curves that could bring any man to his knees. Legs that I'd happily have wrapped around my hips, and a mouth that would look amazing around my cock.

  Growling to myself in my head, I have to stop. She's trouble. She's the reason I'm in this mess. Clenching the pencil firmly in my hand, it breaks in two.

  Waving her hand, Mrs., Gemston smiles at Prairie. “Why
don't you tell us a little about yourself.”

  Shaking her head, she bashfully looks down at her desk. “There's not much to say really. Moved here over the summer with my parents, end of story.” Shrugging a shoulder, she smiles with closed lips.

  The guy behind me, Tony Dillion, leans over my shoulder and whispers. “I'd like to mow that prairie, if you know what I mean.” Chuckling quietly, he says, “Nothing like a fresh field to make your dick hard. Ain't that right, Ramon?” He chuckles quietly as he speaks, the weight of his face over my collarbone shifts as he leans back in his chair.

  Back the fuck off! My mind instantly becomes defensive, as if she's mine and mine alone. I can't shake the idea that I own her. I own her happiness and her pain. I own her sadness and her smiles. I own her until I'm done with her.

  No one else can have her.

  She's mine for whatever I want. To torture. To tear apart. To break into a million pieces. It's all for me. Every last piece of who she is will be mine to crush between my fingers.

  My eyes stay on Prairie, knowing she can feel me looking at her. Her eyes keep moving to the left, as if she's trying to catch a glimpse of me over her shoulder, but she won't look directly at me.

  She smiles at the girl beside her, then turns her head to face the chalk board. Rolling a pencil between her fingers, she crosses her legs, and kicks her foot up and down.

  This desire pools in my stomach. A protective, drunken lust that has no place to go no matter how hard I'm trying to make it disappear.

  The teacher passes out our schedules, giving us time to look them over. But I don't examine mine. I stare at her, my evil, gorgeous muse, the girl who is somehow turning my stomach and making my dick twitch.

  We're water and oil. We don't mix. Nothing I'm feeling belongs. It will never work between us, but I can't stop the dirty thoughts from filling my head.

  What I want to do to her. The things I'd gladly make her feel. I want to spread her legs and plow inside her, and in the same sick thought, I want to make her cry, and lick her tears.

  She deserves to feel pain. So why do I want to give her pleasure too?

  It isn't making sense in my brain. The hate I feel should be enough to feed the anger and rage. The hurt I feel should be enough to bring her nothing but misery.

  And yet, I'm so drawn to her, to her body, to the way my fingertips slipped so easily over her skin, that I can't focus on anything else.

  Shaking my head, I exhale a heavy breath. I know what's important, regardless of the surge inside my dick for this girl. Her pain will be my pleasure. Her agony will be my happiness. Her tears will be my smiles.

  Prairie isn't here for anyone else. She isn't just some fuck toy for the guys in school to pass around. These assholes are ignorant, they think they own the damn world and everyone in it.

  Truth is, they don't even own the clothes on their own backs. Money can buy a lot of shit, but what they have isn't going to get them her.

  I claimed her first. The second she laid eyes on me that night, it tattooed my name across her chest in scarlet letters.

  If anyone is going to destroy her, it's me. I've earned it. No one else.

  These people don't know her. They don't know what she did.

  And they don't have a right to tear her to pieces.

  Only I do.

  3

  Prairie

  Walking out to the field, I start stretching. Gripping my ankle, I pull it up behind me and tilt my face to the sky.

  The sun is warm, heating the back of my neck as I stretch my other leg, and take the opportunity to look around. I haven't had the time to really sit back and take it all in. A new house, new people, new routine, new school. It's all been really overwhelming.

  Kids are in clusters all over the field. The skater kids on one side, the cheerleaders and football players on the other, and speckled in between are the nerds, the chess geeks, and all those that don't really have a social label.

  This school is smaller than my last one. There are less than three hundred kids in total. The exterior doesn't look like it's been touched since the sixties. The lockers are worn and dented, with layer upon layer of faded names, and heart shapes staining the metal surfaces.

  Even the fields are dated. The football goal posts have chipped paint and crooked forks. You can barely see the track markings for each lane, and the pavement has cracks, growing bright yellow weeds and small clusters of grass.

  Shit, even the uniform I'm wearing has a disco feel, with its dark blue fabric, purple pin stripes down the seams, and the school mascot, an aardvark, waving a flag with a giant B in the middle.

  I hear some hooting and laughing coming from behind me, so I turn to see what's going on. A small group of guys are on the basketball court, talking and joking around, shoving each other playfully.

  From the corner of my eye, one of the guys is bouncing a basketball, taking shots from half court and netting each one. When he turns to run back toward the other basket, I realize it's Max.

  My heart hammers in my chest as I watch him run around the court, his movements smooth and natural. He even has a little smile on his face. I didn't know he could smile.

  A jolt of lightening shoots through my body as his smile creeps a little higher, and I see an actual glimpse of lightheartedness. My eyes are drawn to his lips, to the full, kissable lips that sit beneath such cruel eyes. There's so much darkness in those eyes for a man so young, I can't understand it.

  The look in his eyes isn't new, I had seen it that night too. Only years of hurt can make eyes so hard. He blinks, and a flash of happiness of sparks in his eyes. He's not a monster, I can see that. His gaze has depth, his stare has emotions, but his eyes are shrouded in such darkness, they stop me from breathing.

  My stomach clenches as his calf muscles pop when he jumps up, and his biceps thicken as he throws the ball. Jogging to grab the bouncing ball, he glances back over his shoulder, and looks up the hill. Our eyes catch briefly, and I dart mine away to the clouds in the sky.

  Shit, he sees me.

  Damn this guy makes me nervous, but not in the way he should. Our history, brief as it may be, is tainted. I'm the girl who called him out, who swore an oath to tell the truth and that's what I did. I told the police everything. Of course Max is going to have a sore spot about it.

  “Hey,” a brown haired girl says as she steps up beside me, starting a stretch of her own. “It's Prairie, right?” Reaching across her chest, she pulls her elbow.

  “Yeah,” I say with a nod, as I balance on one foot, and pull my knee into my chest. “You're in my math class, right?”

  “Yup, that's me, two seats to your left. I'm Amy.” She gives me a smile, and lets her eyes drift off around us. “Where you from?”

  “Maryland, but we moved here over the summer. My dad decided it was time for a change.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I give her a halfhearted answer, my gaze roaming back to watch Max on the court.

  I can’t take my eyes off him. Watching him is addictive. My eyes are drinking him in. His body looks hard, with muscles bulging beneath his clothes all over, rippling in ways no boy at my old school ever did.

  Max Ramon is a man among boys, pure and simple.

  A couple more guys join him on the court, and it looks like they're starting a game. Amy notices me watching him, so she stops stretching, and rests her hands on her hips.

  “That's Max Ramon,” she says, her eyes following mine. Pursing her lips, she steps to my side. “But everyone just calls him Ramon.”

  “Yeah, I know who he is. We met briefly over the summer.”

  “Oh yeah? And how'd that go?” She's smirking. Amy already knows the answer before I even say it.

  Shrugging a shoulder, I crinkle my brows. “Not well.”

  She rolls her eyes and laughs out loud. “Yeah, I figured as much. He's kind of the bad boy around here. Max isn't the type of guy you want to bring home to daddy, I can tell you that much.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?” I ask.

  You know why! Don't be naive!

  “You really need me to spell it out?” I don't answer, blankly staring at her. “He's a dick, that's what I mean. And he's always been a dick. He sat behind me in Spanish freshman year, and put gum in my hair. . .” Pausing, she adds, “Twice. In first grade he stole my juice box just to jump on it and make it explode. He beat up some kid last year because he bumped into him in the hall. Oh, and another time—”