Hateful Bully (Bad Bullies Book Two): A Dark Step Brother Bully Romance

by Logan Fox

  No one notices.

  No one cares.

  Emma grins at me around some mashed potatoes, and I smile back at her.

  My father lets out a deep laugh. “You know I’ve been letting you win, right?” Instantly, Diana and Candy both start giggling.

  I roll my eyes at Emma, and potato sprays out of her mouth at how hard she laughs at my expression.

  The table goes silent.

  Emma claps both hands over her mouth, her shoulders collapsing like she’s deflating from the inside.

  “Wash up and go to bed, Emma,” my father says. “I’ll come to tuck you in a little later.”

  Emma’s eyes widen. She keeps her hands over her mouth as she slips off the chair and scrambles up the stairs to her bedroom.

  “She wasn’t done eating,” I say, sitting back in my seat and crossing my arms over my chest.

  My father shrugs, leaning an elbow on the table as he makes eye contact with me. He grabs his wine glass, studying me with his head tilted to the side as he brings it to his mouth. “She could do to lose a few pounds,” he says.

  Anger bursts open inside me like someone stepping on rotten fruit. I stand up so fast, my chair tumbles to the floor behind me.

  Diana gasps, a hand fluttering to her chest as if I’ve just unveiled a fucking assault rifle. I bare my teeth, but all my father does is give me a cool, condescending smile.

  “Time you went to bed too,” he says.

  “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  Wayne Bale takes a long sip of his wine, glances across at Candy—who’s watching me with an unreadable expression—and then hitches up one side of his mouth. “Sure acting like one, Josiah.”

  Candy sniggers, hurriedly covering up the sound with a hand.

  My father stands. He’s a head and shoulders taller than I am, and I’m already five-eight. “Come, Candy Cane. We’ll see who’s gonna whip who.”

  Diana’s up in an instant, but instead of following, she just waves at my father as she passes him on her way to the kitchen. “Anyone need a refill?” From how unsteady her steps are, she doesn’t need another drink.

  Candy doesn’t stop her.

  Dad doesn’t stop her.

  No one ever stops her.

  My father holds out a crooked arm in Candy’s direction. “Shall we?”

  Lips twisting into a disgusted sneer, I watch as Candy takes another small sip from her wine, dabs her lips, and takes my father’s arm as if they’re off to a fucking debutante ball.

  She lifts her pretty little nose at me and says, “Good night, Josiah.”

  As soon as their footsteps fade, all I hear is the ceramic squeak of my teeth grinding together. I sit back in my seat, poke at the food still left on my plate, and glance over at Candy’s half-full glass of wine.

  Bitch acts like nothing will melt in her fucking mouth, but I know she has more than one glass of wine some nights. Some mornings she reeks like a goddamn brewery.

  Guess it’s not just her blue eyes she gets from her mom.

  I move around the table, snatch up her glass, and throw the bitter liquid down my throat with a grimace.

  In the kitchen, glass shatters.

  I rush inside but come up short as soon as I spot what made the noise.

  Diana’s on her hands and knees, picking up pieces of her broken wine glass. I watch her for a few seconds before I turn around and head for my room.

  As I push my bedroom door open, I pause for a moment to listen.

  There’s a faint sound—perhaps my father’s bellow of a laugh—but it’s so dampened down by the thick doors in this house that it could just as easily have been my imagination.

  Just another night at the fucking Bale house.

  Chapter Two

  Candy

  The glass queen clicks when I tap her down on the chessboard. Mr. Bale’s chessboard is old but beautifully kept up—each piece sparkles like it’s brand new.

  “Check,” I announce triumphantly. I sit up tall, lifting my chin at my opponent, my stepfather, Wayne.

  He pores over the chessboard, the fingers of one hand curled around his chin, the other flat on his bunching thigh as he leans closer to inspect the board.

  Gosh, but for a middle-aged man of—I don’t even know how old he is—he’s in really good shape. The rolled-up sleeves of his crisp white dress-shirt bare tanned, well-defined arm muscles. Eyes the color of dark wood regard me for a moment over the rims of his spectacles. I’ve only ever seen him wear glasses at night when we’re playing chess. They make him look like the type of professor every student would be drooling over instead of paying attention in class.

  “My, but you’re a clever little girl, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

  Pride rushes through me like electric fire, and I giggle nervously at the compliment. I snatch up my bottle of water and take a big sip, so I’ll stop fidgeting while I wait for him to make his move.

  Wayne Bale frowns at me, but with that smile on his mouth, I know he’s not really mad at me outsmarting him. “I bet you wouldn’t be so damn clever if I’d fewer whiskeys in.”

  I wasn’t really counting, but I’m sure my stepfather has only had like two drinks in the hour we’ve been playing chess in his study.

  His eyes shift to the water in my hand. He nods as if he’s made a decision, and gets up from his chair.

  “Time to level the playing field,” he says ominously as he heads for the drink cart pushed against a nearby wall.

  The study, the master bedroom, and a guest room share the third story of Bale manor. I’m only ever allowed up here when we’re playing chess—the rest of the time, this area is strictly off-limits.

  Dark, lustrous wood panels the walls, mostly bare but for a few framed certificates. There’s a fire crackling and spitting on the hearth of the massive stone fireplace. It’s a few yards away, but its heat is impressive even at a distance. A framed photograph of Wayne and my mother at their wedding day is perfectly positioned on the center of the mantel. A large desk and the two chairs by our chessboard are the only other pieces of furniture in here.

  Ice clinks and bottles clank as Mr. Bale pours himself another drink.

  I watch him moving around, taking in every perfectly groomed hair on his head, his wide shoulders, trim waist.

  Oh my God, I’m ogling. I hurriedly turn my attention back to the board.

  A blush heats my cheeks. I squirm in my seat, willing my face to cool down.

  I can’t help staring—he’s so freaking handsome. I met him for the first time at dinner a week before the wedding. I honestly thought he was a movie star or something until Mom told me that he works with stocks and commodities. My mistake—but it didn’t help that he’d been dressed in a tuxedo at the time and that everyone at the restaurant knew his name.

  Mom’s so lucky. I can’t wait to find someone as good looking, charming, and intelligent as Mr. Bale. I’d marry him in a second.

  No, it’s Wayne. He’s asked me so many times before to call him by his first name.

  He makes his way back to me, but instead of going to sit in his chair, he passes it and comes to stand beside mine. I nearly put a crick in my neck craning to look up at him, and then turn wide eyes on the beautiful tumbler he hands me. Creamy liquid swills against the glass, and a few ice cubes tap against the side when he twists his wrist.

  “You’re operating at a massive advantage,” he says.

  My fingertips prickle in silent warning.

  “I…I uh…probably shouldn’t,” I murmur. My blush deepens, and he shakes his head, eyes wide as if he’s just noticed my discomfort.

  “Crap, I forgot,” he says. “You’re starting school tomorrow.”

  New school.

  New friends.

  I’m scared and excited. I’ve missed a lot of school over the years while Mom and I hopped from state to state.

  Wayne retracts the glass. I’m on my feet a second later, snatching it back.

  I catch a faint scent of ice
cream, and I’m desperate to know what it tastes like. Desperate to prove that I’m sophisticated enough to enjoy a nightcap.

  He laughs when my hands close over his, although his are twice my size, and releases the glass. “You sure? I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

  I nod, bite the inside of my lip, and gingerly take a sip from the crystal tumbler.

  My eyes flutter closed. God, it tastes just like ice cream too. With a bit of a bite to it, of course, but…hmm…

  “Candy for my Candy,” Wayne says.

  My eyes pop open, and a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “I know what you’re doing.” I point at him as I take my seat, moving as gracefully as possible. “But I’ll kick your butt even if I’ve had a few.”

  He shrugs broad shoulders, a smile ghosting around his expressive mouth. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he says.

  I keep sipping at my delicious drink as he sits down opposite me and studies the chessboard. I let out a happy sigh into my glass, rippling the surface of the liqueur with my breath as my stepfather tries to puzzle out his next move.

  When Mom first said she’d met someone, I thought it was just another fling. Oh, she’d claimed Wayne was different. That he was successful—a real man—and nothing like the others. And boy, had she had a lot of friends over the years. They weren’t all bad, but none of them came close to Mr. Bale.

  It’s no wonder she married him as soon as she could. In fact, I think he proposed the day after our two families met for dinner that one night.

  I couldn’t be happier for her.

  But, honestly? I couldn’t be happier for me. A guy like Wayne doesn’t throw you out of his house because he thinks you snorted the last of his coke. He doesn’t throw your mother around the room because she wasn’t in the mood to suck his dick.

  No. A guy like Wayne? He’s the kind of guy that holds you tight as he whispers, I love you’s into your hair.

  I squirm in my chair and press the back of my hand against my cheeks. I wish I had enough guts to ask him to open a window—with the fire blazing in the corner and everything closed up tight, it’s way too hot in here.

  But the last thing I want to do is inconvenience him by asking him to open a window or to put out the fire. I slip out of my cardigan and lay it over the arm of my padded leather chair.

  “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” Wayne muses quietly, as if to himself.

  I giggle and quickly drown the sound with a gulp of my drink. A milky ice cube bumps against my lips. Wow, that went a lot faster than the glass of red wine Wayne lets us have at dinner each night.

  “Aw,” I murmur sulkily, peering theatrically inside the glass with one eye open, the other squeezed shut.

  A strong hand wraps around the crystal. “Promise not to tell your mother?” When I look up, Wayne’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.

  I nod.

  “She doesn’t seem to like it when you drink,” he says, quirking up an eyebrow.

  I nibble at my bottom lip.

  Mom is a goddamn hypocrite, but I would never dare say that out loud. She doesn’t like it when I drink? Well, guess what, Wayne? It annoys me when she gets stoned on coke, or mainlines some horse, and I can’t stand the smell of weed. But yeah, I get that she doesn’t like me drinking. People do stupid shit when they’re drunk.

  She nearly had a fit when Wayne poured me half a glass of wine the first time we sat down for supper. But he explained to her that Josiah and I are teenagers, and if we don’t get exposed to alcohol in a family setting, we will take the first chance we got to abuse it.

  She’d flinched when he’d said abuse like she didn’t like the word one bit.

  Despite the heated monolog rattling through my mind, I force a smile, nod quickly, and then lift a hand, my first two fingers intertwined. “Scout’s honor, Sir.”

  Wayne’s eyes grow hooded, his mouth smoothing into a line. But then he smiles and heads back to the drink cart.

  My body’s growing warm and a little limp, but that strange look sends another prickle through me.

  Oh, God. I think I’m crushing on my stepdad.

  I sit forward, studying the chessboard to prevent my eyes from moving back to Wayne all the time. I don’t think he’s made a move since I put him in check, and that makes me feel like a million bucks. I squint a little. Hang on…

  I purse my lips and lean a little closer. “Did you move my bishop?” I ask.

  “Why would I do that, Candy Cane?”

  I smile at that, but then I school my face into a sober expression again. “I could have sworn my bishop was…”

  Where?

  Not there.

  Because there, where it is now, that’s not a check.

  “You’ll wrinkle that pretty face of yours if you keep frowning like that.”

  I take the glass from him, smiling in thanks as I have a sip of the heavenly liquid. Ah, there’s that strange aftertaste again. I guess liqueur is different from wine. It’s sweet when it goes over your tongue, but it leaves a bitterness behind that I don’t get from merlot.

  Well, look at me, all posh and stuff. My cheeks are glowing now, but there’s no point in trying to cool them down. It would be pointless with that fire.

  A yawn threatens to crack open my jaw as I study the board, but I manage to suppress it.

  Gees, what time is it? I guess I should call it a night after this one.

  I’m starting school tomorrow—my first day at Maple Ridge. I want to wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’m actually really excited about starting at a school where I get to wear a uniform.

  The last school I’ll ever be in until I graduate and head off to college.

  “One more, then I have to get you to bed,” Wayne says, clearing the chessboard with a sweep of his hand.

  “Hey, I was winning!” I sit forward in a rush, and liqueur splashes over my hand.

  How did my glass get so full? He only ever poured it halfway—

  I’ve made a mess on the really expensive-looking white rug. Without thinking, I bleat out a loud, “Fuck!”

  My face glows when I hear that word. Wayne’s eyes dart up to me, and for the first time since Mom and I moved in, anger darkens his eyes.

  “There will be no foul language in this house, girl.” His voice is so low, so dangerously deep that I force a dry swallow.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bale.” I carefully set the glass down, dripping liqueur all over the coffee table.

  “It’s—that’s…okay.” He sounds as if he’s struggling to keep his temper. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  Relief washes over me, and it ekes out the last bit of energy I have.

  “I should clean—”

  “Leave it.”

  As soon as I’m sure the glass is steady on the table, I slip back into my seat. This time, when I yawn, there’s no stopping it.

  “Finish your drink,” Wayne says as he starts picking out the pieces for a new game.

  “I’m a bit tired. Maybe I should—?”

  “Don’t waste, Candy Cane.”

  “Okay,” I murmur. I take up my glass and gulp down another mouthful. It burns the back of my throat, and that bitter aftertaste is even more noticeable than before. When I try to focus on the chessboard, it’s too blurry to make out.

  My head tips to the side. The glass tilts in my hand as icy panic sluices through me. When a dark shadow falls over me, my heart knocks hard and heavy against my rib cage.

  He takes away my glass. Glass clicks on glass as he sets it down on the coffee table.

  A big, warm hand strokes my hair. I try to force my eyes open, embarrassed that I couldn’t even handle a glass—

  several glasses

  —Of liqueur, but I can only flutter my eyelashes.

  “Time for bed, Candy Cane.”

  I have to get up, but I can’t; my body has melted into the armchair. “Sleep here,” I mumble.

  “Come on, b
aby girl. Daddy needs you in bed.”

  Daddy.

  Stepdad.

  Hot dad.

  A hand slithers under my knees, another around my shoulders. Gravity reluctantly releases me as I’m lifted, lifted, lifted.

  His smell envelops me; leather and wood. With every exhale, a warm whiskey breath tickles my face. His powerful chest moves against me as he carries me down the hallway and into my bedroom.

  Everything’s spinning by the time he pushes open my bedroom door with his foot.

  I don’t want him to let me go. I’ve never felt this safe, this loved in my life. My fingers tighten; I have his shirt clutched in my fists.

  He comes to a stop in front of my bed. “Let go, baby girl,” he murmurs into my ear, his mouth brushing my earlobe.

  I shake my head, nuzzling against his strong chest.

  “I told you to let go.” His voice is rough now. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

  Tears prick at my eyelids. Why is he angry with me? The last thing I want to do is make him angry with me. Angry men do bad things.

  They punch, and they shove, and they choke, and they try to put their hands up your skirt.

  So I say the only thing I can, the thing that always calms them.

  “I love you.”

  The words slip out and hang in the air like a plume of smoke. Shame scorches my cheeks, and then tears are running in rivulets down my cheeks. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  My words tumble and slur as I hastily let go of Wayne’s shirt.

  He sets me down on the bed and steps back. When I try to focus on him, he’s just a wavering shape.

  “I know you do,” he says quietly. Then he perches beside me to stroke my hair. “Now go to sleep, Candy Cane. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  Wayne’s hands brush my neck, my shoulders. He tugs the sheets, but I can’t make out if he’s tucking me in or opening me up.

  I shift a little, desperately trying to open my eyes, but they’re too heavy.

  “Hush, baby girl. Just go to sleep.”

  I slip away when he starts stroking my hair again, losing myself in his soothing touch.