Awful Curse: A High School Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (The Celestial Bodies Series Book 1)

by Elena Monroe

  “I'm being here for Luna right now. Want me to find you when I'm done?”

  She just snubbed me in front of the girls and whatever gaze ended up on us.

  She told me to wait like a dog who needed to learn patience before getting the treat.

  Every part of me was set on fire, and my hormones with it.

  “Nah. Do your whole girl power moment. I'll find someone else.”

  She didn't even seem insulted as I walked away, only letting myself steal a quick glance behind me to see her reaction.

  I knew I was fucked.

  I knew she was going to be the death of me.

  I knew with or without my consent she officially just crowned herself my queen.

  There were plenty of girls to invite back to my room. Suddenly my narrow taste wasn't interested in anyone that didn't have purple hair. It was like a ton of bricks hitting only my heart and missing all other vital organs. One should have hit my head so we could all be on the page.

  Girls flirted with me, only the brave ones; the shy and meek needed not apply. Those quiet girls were afraid of us; the group was intimidating. If we’re honest, they knew we were out of their league.

  None had what Arianna did.

  I felt trapped by my new-found devotion to Arianna. It was narrowing my already narrow sight and attitude.

  There was only one girl I used for sex, Whitney, who we had been repeating senior year with for longer than I cared to think about. Every year we started over, and every year she forgot me. Her attraction was unwavering though.

  I knew I wasn't going to let our flirting get out of hand; I was making a point to Arianna. The point was for her to realize that me being king meant that I put zero effort into hookups, which also had the desired outcome of jealousy.

  Whitney was giggling into her Solo cup that I stopped her from sipping as I pushed her hair back behind her ear. I whispered bullshit.

  I wasn't trying, and she was still swooning over my voice. We were in eye shot if she turned around. I'm sure Kate would point it out, after all she was “Queen Bitch” until I dethroned her.

  Whitney’s hand landed on my chest, and she pushed her ass off the wall towards my body.

  See? Brave.

  Arianna’s head snapped in our direction, and she quickly came over to where we were standing. I had to bite back a victorious smirk. I made sure my face looked bored with her antics and interruption.

  I leaned against the wall firmly against Whitney folding my arms and dragging my eyeline up to hers. She didn't even look at me, only Whitney, when she spoke.

  “Hi, I'm Arianna, I don't think we've met.”

  Whitney looked confused with her own transition from aroused to now scared of the girl in front of her. My ripped up soul tried not to enjoy this. Whitney pushed out a shaky hand and introduced herself.

  “Now that we know each other, I just wanted to make sure you didn't forget who I was.” There was a silence between her thoughts, probably for effect. “You see, we aren't in threesomes, so your services aren't needed any longer.”

  She stood there, regal, even though her words sounded filthy. I pushed my lips together, looked at Whitney without remorse to our quick death, and waited for her to leave without Arianna really driving it home.

  The disapproving sigh was hard to ignore. I almost thought she'd stomp like a child too before walking away.

  Shifting my body flat against the wall I looked at Arianna, waiting for her to make the first move. Arms still folded against me and still perpetually bored, I had no problem waiting for my explanation.

  “I don't kiss and share.”

  I popped an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean kiss and tell?”

  She pushed my shoulder harder than I expected as her eyebrows got tense. “No, kiss and share. I’m not sharing. Period. It's me and only me, or you can run after Whitney.”

  I didn't dare move an inch, not even to breathe in a full breath. I wasn't giving her any reason to think Whitney mattered at all. I licked my lips trying to find the right words that didn't make me feel pussy whipped.

  “Okay, no kissing and sharing. For your information, that was a lesson in waiting. I don't do that. Guess we both have hard limits.”

  I pushed myself off the wall and expected her to follow. I could feel her eyes roll behind me. She was truly an equal, never bowing down to anyone, not even me.

  Arianna

  Bolton had a roadmap to all my weak spots.

  Weak spot number one: sharing.

  Weak spot number two: proving him wrong about me.

  Weak spot number three: thinking he hated me, but I'm smarter than that.

  I could see how he thought he was sneaking those stares from across the room. Little did he know that I had been staring the whole time, trying to figure him out;, no move went unnoticed.

  Not much came of me basically stalking Bolton with my eyes. I learned he was quiet, calculated, and every other trait I could think of that basically drew a thick red line back to psychopaths. Yet, I found myself following him back to his room.

  It screamed adventure, and I was in a desperate need of one.

  His room was painted black; it wasn’t a typical kind of dark that seemed endless or camouflaged space. This midnight kind of black was angry.

  His room was a literal mess—clothes thrown around, his desk didn't have enough space for it to be used as an actual desk, and his bed wasn't even made.

  I pinched my eyes closed just looking at it, I could feel my military dad reacting. I wasn't a neat freak, but when you grow up as an army brat you are conditioned to not have many possessions and you make your bed according to military standards.

  He sank onto his bed, that's how plush it seemed. I awkwardly stood in the middle of his room, waiting for his brash commands.

  “Shy all of a sudden?”

  His arm was behind his head, and his hoodie raised slightly, allowing me a peek at his ivory skin at his waist. It gave me chills that crept up my spine.

  I had seen guys shirtless. Hell, I wasn't even a virgin, but looking at Bolton felt dangerous.

  This trepidation was a sendoff to the most epic adventure I'd have yet.

  “Shy? Me? I'm the opposite of shy.”

  He sat up, swinging his legs off the edge of his bed, and my heart started to beat slightly faster. He was unpredictable in every way. I was glued to his movements when I watched him tug at his hoodie until it was off.

  His shirt got tugged up in the process, and he didn't bother to hold it down or keep it on him at all. His exposed, defined chest almost glowed in the dim lighting. Every muscle was on display, creating hills and valleys I was lost in.

  I could see the ram’s horns, which he insisted was certain was a birthmark, and almost every blue vein under his translucent skin.

  He wasn't a king. He was a god above other men—one I was about to worship and apologize for later.

  “Then let's finish what you started.”

  My hands on his shoulders, barely pushing him to sit back, was easier than I thought. He was doing what I was demanding for once, and the power was something addictions were made of.

  I straddled his lap the same way I did earlier, except this time he wasn't leaning back, and there was no gap between my chest and his face.

  “I'm not a throne you know.”

  I looked down, puzzled at his words.

  “You can’t just storm the castle, demand a crown, and sit on the king like a throne.”

  He was teasing me, and I was going to tease him right back. I unzipped my hoodie and shook out of the arms, letting it pollute his already trashed floor. A cropped tank top and strapless bra were the only material between us.

  “Doesn't every king need a queen?”

  He smirked at me before his hand pulled me by the neck into him even more. Our lips crashed together, and I swear I felt sparks crackle against my lips—sparks that I knew were a warning sign for something even more combustible.

  His open mout
h poured arousal into mine as our tongues laced together, trying to taste more of each other than possible. His hands dropped down to my waist keeping me stationary on his lap. We both knew every movement I made only spurred him on; that much I could feel below me, against the crotch of my jeans.

  The sparks crackled along my lips as his pulled away. “No strings... just friends... okay?”

  His words were full of strained breaths. Nothing matched, his words slowed down my motivation, but his hands were grabbing at my hips in such a famished way.

  I didn't know how to take what he said—compliment or insult?

  Just friends? No strings? What was he really saying? No king makes rules without thought, normally to protect the people, but from what?

  Even his lips against my neck and collarbones felt like raw energy tickling my surfaces that crackled even after his lips moved to a new patch of skin.

  “Just friends?”

  The words slipped out before I could catch them; the rest of me was distracted, basking in the energy. My question hung between us, heavy, as he ignored it.

  His trailing kisses got lower, kissing my breasts through my bra and tank top. I repeated my question, and this time, I demanded an answer, instead of a shaky previous voice distracted by his full lips. This time I got creative while repeating myself: “Just friends…? What if I want more?”

  I pushed him from lust to annoyance with one question, just like that. He pulled away fully, leaning back on his hands and looking bothered by the world, as he normally did.

  “I don't do more. Hard limit.”

  Now I knew how to take it—insult.

  If it hurt, then it was always insulting.

  “I'm different.”

  I meant to sound confident, instead it just landed as cocky.

  “Different doesn't prove shit, Arianna. It doesn't prove loyalty.”

  So he wanted loyalty. His rulings were to protect himself and promote loyalty. Good thing I grew up with American pride. That shit was poisonous and prideful.

  Bolton's phone buzzed against the balled up, wrinkled, covers on the bed next to us. It lit up with another girl's name, and suddenly loyalty seemed like something he should learn to practice before he preached.

  I got off of his lap. The mood was passing, and my panties were drying up.

  His fingers typed away, replying to the mystery girl with the name I wouldn't forget now.

  I fetched my hoodie out of the sea of black fabric on his floor and headed for the door without warning. The worst part was that he didn't stop me. I pulled the door open only to be met with a girl I hadn't officially met yet.

  I remembered her from Austin’s introductions and had seen her face in our history class.

  Cheyanne. One half of the twins.

  All goth.

  All sour.

  All intimidation.

  She looked like someone you shouldn't piss off, and I knew when to be quiet. I slithered by her, hoping she'd ignore me all together. The strong judgment in her eyes didn't ignore me; it burned like holy water on a demon.

  Maybe there was more to Bolton than I realized. I only looked back once to witness their exchange. He handed her his hoodie, and my uncertainty rang even louder in my ears.

  Why his hoodie? Who was she to him? I made it clear I don't kiss and share.

  I purposely walked slowly, hoping I would catch another glimpse of the mystery girl with mean features and meaner mannerisms. She didn't need the fishnet and piercings to look hard; it was more obvious than her choice of jewelry.

  I kept walking slowly with no reason to rush. Bolton didn't come after me, and apparently she wasn't leaving anytime soon. I gave up at the same time I arrived at the girls’ dorms.

  I had a habit of holding out hope for longer than it was healthy.

  When my mom passed away, I was convinced it was a cruel joke and held out hope for some miraculous return. It's embarrassing to admit I held onto that same hope until I hit high school before I realized hope didn't change shit.

  Hope was a pipe dream, a placebo, a castle in the sky… one hundred percent fake.

  No matter how real you were, hope seemed unavoidable. Desires grew from hope; crushes grew from hope; all the good emotions we craved came from the counterfeit feeling named hope.

  It made me wonder what was real and what wasn’t. Is hate really all that bad? At least it's real, authentic, more tangible than a castle in the sky…

  Hate was a throne in hell.

  Still a throne.

  I lost hope for Bolton. Every ounce of hope that I had almost let grow again quickly turned into hate for him. I hated Bolton and his games.

  Kate, Luna, and I were sitting in the quad, which was basically a huge patch of grass with benches and a willow tree that provided a type of ambience I praised. All my textbooks were sprawled out around me, all open to chapters I still needed to catch up on. Transferring a few months into a school and learning at a college level made my brain pulse with frustration. I was so studied out that everything looked German.

  I let my body fall back onto the grass, arms spread wide, and the temptation to make a dirty snow angel crossed my mind. I hadn't been anywhere with snow yet. Dirt angels were the next best thing.

  Kate was reapplying her lip gloss, like she did every ten minutes. “So you and Bolton...”

  She wasn't asking anything specific, so I kept ignoring her until she grew claws long enough to sink into the truth—the awful truth she wanted to know.

  Luna playfully shunned her, even though I'm sure she wanted to know too. Her good girl charm and big heart couldn't stomp out good gossip.

  Kate's eyes widened, and her voice made a strained type of sound meant to capture how annoyed she was. “Well, Arianna, what happened with Bolton? He never hooks up.”

  I didn't bother to sit up, keeping my gaze on the willow tree now upside down. “He's kind of a dream, but there's something about him that makes me hate him.”

  Luna laughed, clearly well versed in assholes who you tend to love anyways. She had personal experience with Nyx, at least that's what the gossip pointed to.

  “That's why no one tries to get with him.”

  “Thanks for the warning, guys. He should come with labels.”

  Kate sipped her overpriced coffee and scrolled through social media, no doubt, when she spoke. “He does. His face is angry and filled with hate. He wouldn't selfie very well.”

  I couldn't help her observation making me laugh so hard I felt my stomach clench into an abdominal workout and not let go.

  She wasn't wrong; it was obvious he wasn't the happy type. Shame, the anti-happy type just happened to be exactly what drew me to him.

  I sat up, making eye contact with Kate—the one girl I knew wouldn't lie. Kate was brutally honest and took pride in whatever reaction that got as long as her truth was spoken. “Tell me about Cheyanne?”

  Luna’s once carefree face turned instantly worried at just her name.

  Damn, who was this girl? Did she strike fear into everyone?

  Kate put down her phone with a huff. “She's kind of our friend. She's all types of weird and very intimidating.”

  “Okay, but what's her connection to Bolton?”

  Luna looked at Kate like she was trying to measure out mentally how honest she'd be.

  “They never dated or anything crazy like that, why?”

  I swear I saw her eyes actually roll when she said “why.”

  Kate was straight out of the movie Clueless, and none of her minded one bit how not politically correct that was anymore.

  I hesitated to share how I ran into her. I didn't want them to think I was easy or worse think I actually liked him when I was now dead set on hating him. “I ran into her in the boys’ dorm. She was there to see Bolton. Gotta know the competition, right?”

  The girls looked mortified before they locked eyes with each other and burst with laughter. My eyebrows raised and eyes widened, while I tried to pretend to go back
to reading, between gasps for air.

  Kate touched my leg, still trying to contain her laughter. “Oh, sweetie. Cheyanne isn't competition, and you aren't completely helpless in the looks department. I know Bolton isn't hitting that. I only ever heard about Whitney, and you pretty much took care of that at the party.”

  She’s not competition, yet she picked up his hoodie in the middle of the night? Never mind the blow to my ego when he stopped kissing me to respond to her text. I begged the jealousy instead of me to stay a slow simmering burn.

  I knew myself. I tipped towards hate instead of hope, and my punishment was emotions like jealousy.

  I let my body fall back down into the plush grass and tried to want to study some more. No amount of green tea matcha was going to dig me out of my self-loathing slump today.

  Arianna

  Today was the first day I wasn't late for history class. Somewhere, my parents were celebrating—one in heaven and the other on some secret retreat, fighting even more secret wars.

  I stopped in the hallway to pluck my phone from inside my jacket pocket of the mandatory blazer to text my dad. He hadn't texted me in a week, and more than three days made me hyper aware of the possibility of losing him.

  Me: Text me when you can. Ignoring the three day rule? Punishable by death—by me, not terrorists.

  I waited a few moments in case the even more anxiety triggering dots appeared. My head dropped, and I slipped my phone back into my pocket.

  “Arianna. Late. Again.”

  I looked up at the clock and couldn't even argue; I was late by two minutes. Dr. Alba was no joke in his old school glory.

  He was anti-talking and anti-phones, but I enjoyed his class the most. He didn't speak at us, and he wasn't so hands-off that it felt like a pointless study hall, like I was used to.

  I sat down in the only seat available, next to Bolton.

  No one dared to sit next to him in the back. Half the time he used the other desks to prop up his own feet.

  Thank god this was the only class I had with him.

  “Now that everyone is here, we can get started. Halloween is coming up. Does anyone know the dark history of Arcadia?”