Bad Boy Rebel (Salma Rebels Book 1)

by Skye Darrel

  My parents trade a look. “The Royce Innovations that’s been in the news lately?” Mom asks.

  “That’s us, Mrs. Finch. Pleased to meet you.”

  Mom’s pupils go big. “Likewise, Mr. Royce.”

  The three of them shake hands.

  “How do you know our daughter?” Dad says.

  Everett glances at me, and I hope he notices my please-shut-up face. “It’s complicated,” he says. “Best let April explain.”

  “What do you want?” I say. My tone is sharp.

  “May I speak with you in private?” Everett asks. “About what happened today.”

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  “Please, April. In private.”

  I’d tell him to get out, but my parents have this bewildered look. No doubt they have a hundred questions I’d rather they not ask. Also, Everett said please. Also, and despite his totally crazy and unannounced appearance, I’m surprised how good I feel. He has this way of staring at me that gets my pulse racing. Like he can see the real me and likes what he sees.

  “We can talk in my dad’s study.”

  Everett looks to my parents for approval, which annoys me more than a little.

  “Sure,” they say together.

  I take him into the study. The door is soundproof, and there's no way Mom and Dad can eavesdrop.

  “How’d you even find out where I live?”

  “My security took down your information.”

  “Oh great.”

  Everett looks me in the eye. “Am I intruding?”

  “Showing up at a person’s house unannounced is pretty much the definition of intruding. What do you want? Is this about my cousin?”

  He takes a step closer. “It’s about you.”

  Another step closer.

  My back bumps against the bookcase, and his face hovers inches from mine, a vein pulsing on his neck. I smell aftershave that reminds me of mint and metal, and a faded cologne, the fragrance tinged with an unfamiliar male scent underneath that reminds me of nothing in particular except for him. It’s a warm smell, not unpleasant.

  Suddenly I’m aware of how exposed I am in my tank top.

  He leans into my personal space, and I swear he’s sniffing my hair. When he pulls back to look into my eyes again, his face is tortured. Like he’s in pain.

  I should shove him back and I put my hands on his chest, but I can’t bring myself to push. My heart skips in heavy beats. “What do you want?” I whisper.

  No answer.

  His hand skims over my bare shoulder, sending electricity down my spine. Then I glance down and see the bulge in his pants.

  Heat flashes in my cheeks. I slap him before I can even think.

  Everett just stands there.

  My palm stings.

  “I deserved that,” he says.

  “Yeah.” I look away, pretending to be indignant, but my heart’s hammering a thousand miles an hour and I’m pretty sure my face is a tomato. I haven’t been this close to a boy since high school—but Everett is no boy. A normal girl would knee him between the legs and scream for help right about now.

  “What do you want?” I ask again.

  “Had to see you.”

  “W-Why?”

  “To make sure you’re okay. Outside my building today, you seemed upset.”

  I snort. “It was an upsetting situation. Anyways, I’m fine.”

  Everett steps back, leaning against Dad’s antique desk, and he puts his hands in his pockets as the heat in his eyes vanishes. The bulge in his crotch has gone down. He’s all proper and normal again.

  I’m relieved—and slightly peeved.

  “Do you still care what happens to St. Jude?” he asks like we’re having a casual conversation.

  “Um, yeah. I told you before.”

  “Join me next Monday in Baltimore. I’ll be touring the hospital. I haven’t decided yet whether I’ll shut it down permanently. Perhaps, Ms. Finch, you can convince me to keep it open.”

  “And how do I do that?” I ask suspiciously.

  “You have a certain effect on me. I should like your opinion, that’s all. We will tour the facilities together.”

  “I’m not your friend,” I stammer. “I’m not your . . .”

  “Are you declining?”

  My breath hitches. “I didn’t say that either.”

  “Give me an answer, April.”

  “I’ll go,” I say after a while, “as long as you promise you won’t get all weird on me—and also—you can’t ask any questions about my life. Got it?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Okay then.”

  We exchange numbers. The whole thing feels like I’ve agreed to some kind of bizarre date with him. Not that I would ever agree to a date with someone like Everett Royce. Borderline stalker. Crazy. And evil to boot, according to Camila. That’s what I tell myself as he puts my number in his phone.

  “My assistant will send you the details,” he says.

  Everett opens the study doors. My parents are waiting outside.

  “I invited April to an event next Monday,” Everett says to them, “Please don't be concerned, I’ll keep her safe.”

  Keep me safe? Wow. I’m not his to keep.

  “Honey?” Mom asks. She’s smiling.

  Dad crosses his arms and watches our visitor carefully.

  Everett gives me an anxious look. Maybe he's worried I'll tell them he tried to kiss me against the bookcase. Maybe he's worried I'll tell them he got a freaking erection in our house. Serves him right. And I bet all those reporters and protesters who'd been outside his fancy building would love to know what an animal he is.

  “We’re visiting St. Jude Children’s Hospital,” I say to my parents.

  Everett leaves without another word.

  We watch him walk down our driveway to a black Audi sedan parked on the curb. He gets in the driver’s seat. The car pulls away.

  Dad turns to me. “Please explain, young lady.”

  “There’s nothing to explain,” I say, flustered. I’m not even sure what just happened myself.

  Mom looks at me as if I'm giving her grandchildren. “April,” she says, “are you dating that nice man?"

  “What? No!” I tell her right away what happened this afternoon before she gets her hopes up—all except for the parts two well-meaning parents don’t need to know in detail. I also skim over Camila’s involvement. “I barely know him. He wants to shut down St. Jude and I said he shouldn't. We had this talk. It was weird. Then he just showed up here. Everett invited me to tour the hospital with him on Monday.”

  Bringing up the hospital silences my parents. Five years ago on a Sunday afternoon, all three of us found out about my diagnosis there.

  “You do whatever you think is right,” Dad says.

  Mom nods. “How old is he?”

  “I dunno,” I say, heading toward the stairs. “I never asked. Good night, guys.”

  My parents let me go. Even Mom can tell I want to be left alone.

  But when I’m alone in my room, I lie in bed wide awake. I keep thinking back to Everett’s eyes—and other parts of his body. I wonder what it’d be like to kiss him as I toss and turn. I wonder what it’d be like to feel his . . .

  My panties are damp, my nipples stiff. Ugh. I get out of bed and change into a fresh pair as images of him ravishing me run through my head. Get it together, girl. He’s not the first good-looking man you’ve seen.

  Okay, maybe he is the first one who’s that good-looking. It’s the way he carries himself too, the way he looks at me.

  Whatever. Like I’m impressed.

  Not that impressed.

  He’s a rich asshole. That’s why he thinks there’s nothing weird about him waltzing into my home like he owns the place. I bet he’s used to people giving him whatever he wants.

  I try to sleep but fail badly. Finally, I get my phone and send him a text: My parents want to know how old you are.

  He texts back: 27.


  Me: Wow really?

  Everett: You look older than 19.

  So he remembered my age. Big deal: I’m the oldest 19-year-old you’ll ever meet. Where are you?

  Everett: Back at the city. I’m thinking.

  Me: About what?

  Everett: You. Are you seeing anyone?

  I take a deep breath and pull the covers up before my fingers fumble over the screen: I see people every day.

  Everett: You know what I mean. Tell me.

  Me: Are you seriously asking if I have a boyfriend?

  Everett: Yes. I made an educated deduction you’re not married.

  Me: I don’t have a boyfriend.

  Everett: Good. I’m not seeing anyone either.

  Me: I didn't ask for your relationship status. And I don’t want a boyfriend.

  Everett: Do you believe in fate? That things happen for a reason.

  Not really. Sort of. Maybe? My thumbs slide across the screen: Sort of.

  Everett: So do I.

  Me: Good night.

  Everett: Good night, April. I’ll be thinking about you.

  I put my phone away without answering and roll on my side. “You shouldn’t,” I whisper in the darkness.

  Also by Skye Darrel

  Royce

  Angel

  Avalon

  Guardian My Love

  Thank you for reading.

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  Skye Darrel writes edgy contemporary romance about obsessed alpha males with a steamy side of dirty. Her books include full-length novels and short reads. Always with a Happily Ever After.

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