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

by Logan Fox

  “Are you sure?” His voice is deep, rough.

  In answer, I move my hand down until I touch him through his boxers.

  He presses against me, and I shudder at how hard he is. How big he feels.

  In this perfect moment, aching with anticipation, I can’t imagine being with anyone else ever again.

  I’ve never felt this way before. Not about anyone. And I can’t explain why it’s Josiah. Why it’s someone I shouldn’t—can’t—be with.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Josiah shifts behind me. A moment later, my fingers touch warm, soft skin. I wrap my hand around his length, my eyes fluttering closed when his breath hits the back of my neck. I stroke him, and he groans like I’m tearing open his rib cage to get at his heart.

  I’m bursting with impatience, groaning in wordless protest as he takes his time to line up with my entrance.

  There’s no rush, but this can’t happen soon enough.

  I don’t want him to lose his nerve.

  I don’t want to lose mine.

  I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to Hell. Now, all we have to do is consummate this sin.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Josiah

  I’m not torturing her on purpose. I was expecting to be balls deep in her already, breaking her, claiming her as mine. But something’s not right. I thought I heard a sound, but it could have been my imagination.

  Or a guilty conscience.

  “Please,” Candy whispers.

  She pumps my cock again, and I nearly come undone right then and there. I don’t even know how the hell I’m supposed to last long enough to get inside her.

  This is nothing like my fantasy.

  She wasn’t begging me to fuck her—she was pleading with me to stop.

  “Please, Josiah. I want you to—”

  There’s a crash in the distance, maybe from the kitchen.

  We both jerk into a sit.

  My heart climbs into my throat as I yank up my boxers. Candy tries to close the two halves of her pajama top, but most of the buttons are still scattered on the floor.

  There’s no other way out of this room except through the window, and I won’t risk being caught halfway through.

  “The blanket,” I say through my teeth.

  She lays on her side, and I hurriedly pull the blanket over her before sliding into the shadows behind the curtain.

  I’m sure my heart’s beating so loud that anyone in a ten-mile radius can hear it.

  Dad walks into the room, scans it, and seems about to walk out again. Relief sweeps through me. But then he pauses and glances over at the couch. He shouldn’t be able to see Candy from where he’s standing, but somehow, he notices something amiss.

  “There you are,” he says, coming around the side of the couch. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  He sounds…different. Rougher than usual. Then a smell hits my nose.

  Cigarette smoke.

  What the fuck? He stopped smoking the day Emma was born.

  I tense when he crouches beside the couch. “You awake?”

  Candy stirs a little, but doesn’t reply.

  “Where were you?”

  “Here,” Candy says.

  “Bullshit, I checked.”

  My hands are in fists, but unless I really want to fuck up this situation, all I can do it watch. All it will take is my dad noticing the smell in the air, or the mess I made of Candy’s usually sleek hair…just one little sign to prompt him toward further investigation.

  But I guess he’s been drowning his sorrows too—there’s a little sway in him when he reaches out for her.

  Don’t you fucking touch her.

  As if he hears my silent command, he hesitates, and then pulls back his hand. “Your mother’s gone to stay with your aunt for a few days. Said to bring you too as soon as you surfaced. But, uh…I’d rather not drive so far in the dark. We’ll go tomorrow, okay?”

  Candy murmurs something.

  My father sighs. “You should get to bed.”

  He stands, as if waiting for her to rise.

  When she doesn’t, he grimaces down at her. “As stubborn as your fucking mother,” he spits out, before turning on his heel and striding out of the room.

  I count to ten while my heart thunders away in my throat, and let out a relieved sigh when I hear him climbing the stairs.

  I’m at Candy’s side a moment later.

  She watches me with wide eyes, but doesn’t sit up. Doesn’t move.

  “Get up,” I say. “You have to get to bed.”

  Reluctantly, she pushes up to a sit, wincing as she fumbles to keep her pajama top closed. I stand, but she doesn’t rise with me. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone.”

  “He’s lying.”

  I crouch, put my hand on her knee. “What do you mean?”

  She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Josiah, my mom hates her sister. They haven’t spoken in years.” Another shake of her head. “She would never go stay with her.”

  I shrug. “Why would he lie?”

  Her blue eyes drill into me before she blinks and looks away. “I don’t know.”

  “I mean, is it absolutely impossible for her to be with your aunt?”

  Candy uses her thumb to press her bottom lip against her teeth as she gives this some thought. “I guess…they could have…I guess they could have made up or something.”

  “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

  There’s such confusion in her eyes, I hesitate.

  “Hey…” I touch her chin, lifting her gaze to mine. “You gotta remember something.”

  She watches intently. I smile.

  “We’re in this together.”

  Something that could have been relief touches her face. “But what about—”

  “He can’t keep the truth hidden. If he’s lying, we’ll find out.”

  She wraps her hands around my wrist, squeezing me. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

  I so badly want to kiss her, but not with my dad nearby. He could decide at any minute to come downstairs and make sure she’s gone to bed.

  I help her up, and walk her down the hallway, straining for any sound that might indicate my father is on the move.

  Why would he be lying?

  Even if he is, the truth always comes out…no matter how hard you try to hide it.

  Chapter Forty

  Josiah

  A faint bang wakes me.

  I sit up in bed, my heart racing.

  Somehow, the sound merged with the dream I was having of chasing Candy through the mansion. She thought it was some big game, giggling and squealing every time I got close enough to brush her skin with my fingers. Then she’d dart off again.

  Always slamming a door behind her.

  I’d throw it open, and she be just within reach again. Tantalizingly close, but as soon as I’d reach her, too far away.

  It doesn’t make any sense. Why do I still have to chase her? She’s mine. I already have her. But the mind’s sick like that. Always planting seeds of doubt, nurturing them with lies. As if I need to sabotage my happiness right now.

  Thump.

  So that slamming door hadn’t just been in my dream. I toss the sheets from me and hop into a pair of sweats. It’s overcast outside—the room’s interior is gloomy, and the shadows blur at the edges.

  All the doors in the hallway are closed.

  Thump.

  The hairs on my arms lift.

  Thump.

  I follow the sound upstairs. There I have to wait a moment to determine if it’s coming from the study or the master bedroom.

  Thump.

  The study.

  I pad silently on bare feet. When I grab the handle, I expect it to be locked. It always is, except when my father’s inside. No one could live through that constant banging, not even him.

  But the handle turns.

  I throw open the door.

  Bang.

  Not a door after all, but a
window shutter. Despite that window standing open, it’s stuffy and warm in here. I sweep my gaze over the room and spot the fire burning on the hearth. I stare at it for a moment, utterly perplexed. Why the hell would Dad leave it unattended? He could burn the whole fucking house down.

  Bang.

  Window first, fire second. As I get near, a gust of wind sends the shutter slamming shut again.

  Bang.

  “Christ,” I mutter, pulling closed the window. It refuses to latch, so I jam the shutter tight and will it stay.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  I spin around at the sound of my father’s voice, a hand to my bare chest. He’s dressed like he’s off to meet a client—pinstripe charcoal suit, hair immaculate.

  “I’m closing the window.” And then, because he just keeps staring at me, I add, “You left the fire going.”

  “Keeps the place warm,” he says. “I’ve told you before, you’re not allowed in here.”

  A rough laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. Dad tilts his head, watching me like I’m a new species of maggot that’s just crawled out of his apple. “Don’t worry, I’m not expecting us to sit down for a fucking chess game or anything.”

  My body tightens, my hands curling into fists. Fully expecting violence.

  Instead, my father hauls in an audible breath and washes his hands over his face. When he looks at me again, I notice the shadows under his eyes for the first time. He walks over to his desk and turns his back as he fiddles with something by his computer.

  A white cord falls to the floor—he’d had his phone charging, and I hadn’t even noticed it.

  “They need me down at the station,” he says, voice as flat as his eyes. He walks to the study door and holds it open, staring out into the hall. I pad past him, careful not to make eye contact, and start down the stairs as he locks the study door behind him.

  “The police station?” I ask, turning as he comes down the stairs.

  His face is grim. “Put on some clothes,” he says instead of answering me. “It’s not decent, you walking around like that.”

  Dear God, I almost laugh. But thankfully, my all-too curious mind is whirring away again, insatiable.

  “Dad. Police station?”

  He walks a few steps, and then stops. Sighs. He speaks without turning back to me. “They…” He waves a hand toward the middle door in the hallway. Emma’s room.

  My skin prickles.

  “They need me to go down and give a statement. There were some discrepancies during the autopsy.”

  I’m still rooted there when he disappears down the stairs. His car starts up a few seconds later, barely audible.

  Movement catches my eye. I turn to face Candy, who’s peeking out of her door with heavy-lidded eyes. “Hey.”

  “He’s gone?”

  I nod. “How are you feeling?”

  Why the fuck is this suddenly so goddamn awkward? I step closer, but she hurriedly retreats as if she’s about to slam the door in my face. “Candy?”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “I don’t know.” Another step. I put my hand on the door, ready to push it open if she tries to close it. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” But her eyes keep darting from me to the hallway behind me, as if she doesn’t quite believe my father’s left the house. “Just hungover. Did he say anything about my mom?”

  “Nope.”

  Finally, she opens the door a little more. She’s wearing leggings and a pastel pink sweater, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.

  “She’s not answering her phone,” Candy says. “I’ve been trying all morning.”

  “And?”

  Candy licks her lips and steps into the hallway. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shakes her head and says, “My mother hasn’t spoken to her sister in like,” she rolls her eyes, “shit, ten years? Maybe more.”

  “We’ve been through this. Why would he lie?” I ask through a sigh.

  “I don’t know, but I know my mom isn’t with my aunt.”

  I shrug. “Then, where would she be?”

  Candy looks away. When her eyes come back to me, they seem more unsettled than before. “What was he saying?”

  “He’s going to the police station.”

  Candy’s watching me intently. “You don’t think that’s weird?”

  I don’t usually sleep late, but I don’t know if that’s the only reason why I’m so irritable all of a sudden. I guess I can’t expect anyone in this house to be a ray of fucking sunshine, but for fuck’s sake.

  “I think it’s weird that you’re acting like nothing happened yesterday.” I step closer to her, holding out a hand.

  She backs up out of reach. “I’m worried about my mom.”

  “Okay, fuck, I get that.” I duck my head forward, bringing my eyes to her level. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  She blinks furiously for a second, her mouth parting. “Nothing. I mean, I’m just—” she cuts off with a low growl and pivots on her heel. “Forget it.”

  “Candy!”

  But she’s already halfway down the stairs, and ignoring the living fuck out of me.

  Coffee. That’ll wake me the hell up. But that’s in the kitchen, and if I’m not mistaken, Candy’s headed straight that way.

  Fuck it. I should get out of the house anyway. I’ll stop for some coffee at that place down the road, bring her back a latte and some bear claws or something.

  We could talk.

  Fuck knows, we need to talk.

  We need to fuck.

  But I force that sinister thought away as I slip into my room and put on a pair of jeans, a shirt, and my red Maple Ridge hoody. What happened yesterday was impulsive and stupid. Kids being kids. Hormones raging and all that shit. Sure, I enjoyed it, and I’m sure she did too, but it didn’t fulfill the purpose it was supposed to.

  I shouldn’t still be thinking about her. I was supposed to get her out of my head, not wedge her deeper in. And now, because she’s worried about her mom, so am I. I couldn’t give a shit about Diana with her fake hair and her fake tits…but I’d do anything in the world not to have Candy worry anymore.

  Coffee and bear claws.

  We’ll talk this out.

  Things can go back to normal.

  I turn my car’s ignition, and my eyes slide back to the house.

  What if normal isn’t an option anymore?

  There was a traffic jam en route to the coffee shop. Some idiot took out a traffic light last night, and now the road’s backed up. I almost turn around, but I’m intent on getting that coffee. I get like this sometimes, like I’m stuck on a train track, and there’s no stopping until I’ve reached my destination.

  When I finally get back home, the house is silent as the fucking grave. Emma’s grave, I guess, since there probably hasn’t been enough time for insects and shit to start burrowing through her coffin, hunting for her putrefying flesh.

  I leave Candy’s coffee and the confections in the kitchen until I’ve tracked her down. My search takes me to the second-floor landing, but instead of heading straight for Candy’s door, I pause in front of Emma’s.

  What Dad had said keeps playing on repeat.

  Discrepancies.

  I slowly push open Emma’s door.

  Just like it was yesterday. Utterly pristine and lifeless.

  Autopsy.

  I thought autopsies were only done if there was some criminal aspect to a person’s death. I mean, I know I’d said a lot of shit at the funeral, but I think the worst Dad could be accused of was negligence, right?

  I walk over to the side of her bed and switch on her night lamp. Its warm yellow light glows brighter than normal on this darkly overcast day.

  Thump.

  I jerk, my teeth clicking together.

  The fuck?

  Thump, thump.

  In the breathless moment that follows, there’s a whistle from outside as a gust of wind buffets the hou
se.

  “Fuck.”

  I was going to wait for Dad to come back and then tell him about the window, but the wind isn’t letting up, and I know for a fact it’s going to drive me insane if I keep hearing that shutter thumping.

  Study’s locked though, and I sure as hell won’t be picking that lock. They make it look easy in movies, but I’ve tried it before. Might be more frustrating attempting that than just letting the window keep banging.

  If only there was another way.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Candy

  I try to warm my hands on my cup of coffee, but the cold seems to be coming from inside. Josiah left a few minutes ago, and now the house seems too big and empty around me.

  I shrug my shoulders and take a sip of coffee as I head for the TV room. I stop halfway down the hall when a memory trickles into mind—

  Josiah’s lips brushing the side of my neck, his hot breath bringing out goosebumps all over my skin

  —and turn on my heel and head back into the kitchen instead.

  I dial mom’s cellphone number from the house phone.

  Straight to voice mail.

  My aunt lives in Illinois, a three-hour flight. She should have arrived already, should already be with her sister even if she hit traffic leaving the airport.

  I don’t know my aunt’s number—I don’t even know if she still stays in the same apartment she did all those years ago.

  Why would he lie?

  Josiah was right to ask, of course. It doesn’t make any sense…not unless Mr. Bale is hiding something. Like, maybe their relationship isn’t as rosy as it was before they sent us to Happy Mountain.

  That’s it.

  I straighten up in a rush, cursing under my breath when I slosh warm coffee over my hand. I absently grab a kitchen towel to mop up the mess.

  They’re getting a divorce, aren’t they?

  The thought solidifies, takes root. I replay every moment since the cab dropped us off. Now an unreadable glance between Mom and Wayne has deeper implications than just a look.

  How long was it going on for? Or was Emma’s death the final straw?