KNIGHT: A Dark High School Bully Romance

by L. J. Woods

  “I don’t know.” He squints, holding the paper away from his face, arm outstretched as I make my way over to him.

  “What’s it say?” Lowering to the ground, I sit across from him, studying his face for a clue.

  He doesn’t move the paper out of his sight when he answers, “My dad killed my mom.”

  Nineteen

  “Wh-what?”

  “Sebastien King killed my mom,” he repeats, that voice a low growl. “He admitted it to the police but the fucker couldn’t admit that to me.” There’s rage in his voice, then the inevitable …

  SMASH!

  He throws the rest of the glass at the wall and it smashes into pieces. I jump, I always jump, glass and whiskey spraying against the wall. Putting the sheet of paper at his feet, he reads it over and over, hands on his head, fingers through his hair.

  “He fucking killed her,” he mutters. “He took her away!”

  I’m shaking when I move closer to him, knowing the beast inside wants to run wild. Whatever colour left in his face is gone, his eyes glossy and narrow. I have no words for this. No words for the unthinkable. All I can do is take Damien’s shaking body in my arms, pull him to my side, and hold him the same way he did when I told him my darkest secret.

  “It’s okay,” I say, relieved when he lets me take him in my arms. “I’m here.” He tries to say something but his voice cracks, and his body goes limp. His head digs into my chest like he never wants me to let go. “I’ll always be here.”

  * * *

  The fire crackles in the room, the air smelling like wood and Damien.

  We’re still on the floor of the office. The only difference is a fire’s roaring and papers lay around the room. While I would usually be nervous sitting next to a roaring fire, with Damien, it feels calm. Safe. Even while being in the home of a murder.

  We found another bottle of scotch tucked away in one of Sebastien’s drawers. It’s been helping us digest the tragedy we’ve discovered.

  “He beat the shit out of my mom, and the final time, she slipped, hit her head bad, and he didn’t call the police,” Damien repeats the facts, calmer now, albeit still with a slur. “What kind of sick man lets his wife bleed out in front of him?”

  After finding more about his dark past, Damien’s been more of an open book. Blame the whiskey or the trauma, but his past is as dark as mine. As twisted and murky.

  Damien wasn’t the only person Sebastien laid his hands on. According to Damien, his wife was no different.

  “She didn’t want this life anymore,” I remind him, piecing together the stories he’s been telling me. “You said they were fighting a lot. She had a plan to leave?”

  “But he wouldn’t let her,” he says slowly, as if he’s looking for all the pieces to magically align. But I know better. They don’t. If anything, it gets muddier.

  We’ve been sitting here for a while, and the longer Damien tries to piece it together, the less sense it makes. I reach out, my hand on his bare back. “You sure you don’t want to head back downstairs?”

  “It’s like he knew something, or someone, was fucking with his plan, so he let her die.” Damien takes a moment before he chuckles, taking a swig from the bottle. “Like father like son I guess. Fucking ironic.”

  “What?” I catch that, my brows lowering, my hand moving away from his back. “Whaddya mean ‘like father like son’?” It’s not like I don’t see the similarities. The aggression, the crave for power. The haughtiness. But I want to know what he means.

  “He didn’t call the ambulance,” he’s laughing now but I don’t know what’s so funny. “And I didn’t call the ambulance for him either.”

  The room shifts again, my chest tight like a cage squeezing in on it. I can hardly get the words out, “W-wait …”

  “I did the same thing he did to my mom,” he laughs again. I know he’s processing this but is he saying what I think he’s saying? “I’m just like the old man.”

  “What are you saying, Damien?”

  “You really wanna know?” Damien looks up at me with a look I haven’t seen all week. It’s that look he gives me in the hallway when he’s about to drop a bomb. My heart picks up, my hand moving to clutch it. I’m hoping it’s something that doesn’t make me hate him. That doesn’t make me regret all this. “What does it matter anyway? You don’t fucking trust me.”

  “What are you talking about?” My voice is a shaky slur and I already can’t breathe.

  “I killed my father, Jo.” No. “I didn’t call the ambulance. I watched him.”

  “No!” I’m pleading but my voice is too hoarse for it to sound that way. “Stop.”

  He doesn’t, “I watched him as he gurgled and shook like a possessed snake until he couldn’t make any more sounds I—”

  SLAP!

  My hand comes to his face without even taking another second to think about it.

  What the fuck?

  What. The. Fuck?

  My hand comes at him again, my body wanting to make sure he felt the first one, but he grabs my wrist. The words come out anyway. “How could you? You made me think I’m the one who killed your dad! You made me and the whole fucking town think that when … when you could’ve—”

  “Don’t be stupid. You saw him slip. You saw him hit his head and you didn’t do a damn thing, either.” He laughs and my other hand goes flying but he catches that too, a menacing smirk on his face. When I look into his eyes, the Damien I spent the last week with isn’t there. “Trust me now, Medusa?”

  Now I’m spitting in his face because that’s the only thing I can do with his grip around my wrists. “Fuck you, Damien.”

  “You do.” He smirks. “A lot.” I wriggle against his hold and when he sees me horking up another one he lets another threat through, “Do it again, Medusa. You’ll end up like the old man.”

  A gasp escapes my lips and after that attempt at intimidation, I sure as hell let another one fly. I pull against his hold at the same time and when he loosens his grip, I collapse against the floor. He’s on top of me, staring into my eyes. “This is what you wanted, right? Me? My trust for yours in return? Well look at me Medusa, I’m a monster.”

  I bring my knee between his legs and give one hard tug. “Fuck!” he screams. But that gives me enough leverage to get away.

  He’s right.

  He is a monster.

  “That’s right, Medusa,” he calls, and knowing what the word means, I never want to hear it again. “Leave! They always do!

  “It’s Jo!” I scream walking down the steps and grabbing my backpack. My voice echoes in the foyer as I rummage for a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Pulling it on as quick as I can, a familiar lump grows in my throat, tears building in my ducts. Taking my jacket off the floor, I grab my phone from the charger near the door before I look up at him. He’s looking at me from the second-floor staircase, glass in hand, eyes glossy but he doesn’t say anything. So I do. “You fucking deserve it!” My voice cracks and before he can see any more of my emotions, I’m moving out the door.

  Snow hits my nose when I get outside and it’s already dark. Checking my phone, it’s almost midnight. Calling Henry tells me the Archinalds gave him the holidays off so it’s a Christmas Uber for me. Damien doesn’t come after me and for some reason, that makes me even more livid as I stand in the cold, Docs in the snow. It’s only now I realize my shirt is inside out as I pull my leather jacket around me. The last week starts replaying through my head and I’m tempted to go back in there and give Damien more of my mind. But why? What the fuck what that change?

  A bump in the snow makes me trip. I hold my hand out for balance as I make my way to the gates. I want away from this place. Every time I come here, every time I’m around Damien it only makes my life worse. So why do I still crave him? Why do I still wish he’d come out here, throw me over his shoulders and make me stay?

  Once the Uber arrives, the drive back to the Archibalds’ is slow in the snow. I keep my fingers tight around my
phone the entire time, staring out the window at the snow-covered firs. I’m stupid for checking my phone every couple of minutes, waiting for his name to flash and tell me how right I am and how wrong he is. But I’m praying for rain in a drought. Chances are, that won’t happen.

  The Archibald house is empty when I get there and I’m not even sure what I was hoping for. A Christmas tree with the Archibalds drinking eggnog around it? A lavish party to take my mind off my woes? Hell, I’m even willing to put on a stupid poofy dress if it gets my mind off everything.

  “Hello?” I call out for good measure.

  All the lights are off and the place is dead quiet. Eery. Vincent doesn’t even pop around the corner with a sassy remark. Dropping my bag on the floor in the foyer, my chest feels like it’s closing in. Stumbling to the kitchen, I reach for a bottle of water, glugging it like I’ve come back from the desert and it kind of feels like I did.

  Depraved and lost.

  Delusional to think that Damien King would be anything other than what he is.

  A devil.

  It’s going to take some sorcery to get him out of my head but I’m going to try. Damn it I’ll try.

  * * *

  I’m not sure where the Archibalds’ went off to for the holidays.

  And I don’t want to ask.

  The rest of the week I’m left to my thoughts in a big empty house.

  When Willow calls, I tell her some bullshit about Cabo I find online. I text Allie here and there but I’m not surprised her responses are sporadic. Christian doesn’t answer.

  Damien hasn’t texted or called and I’m starting to think this is it. We’ve reached the end before anything even begun.

  Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz!

  Groaning I crack open an eye. My room smells like old pizza, alcohol and whatever stench my body’s giving off. My head aches like it has been the last six mornings and I’m starting to get used to this feeling. Damien must feel like this all the time. Is that why he’s so fucking psychotic?

  I groan again, realizing the devil is still on my mind. I’ve drunk through a handful of bottles, the only thing to put me to sleep. I’ve tried burying my woes in junk food I’ve got no appetite for. I even tried rummaging around the house for any clues to no avail.

  The only thing that’s been keeping my mind off Damien is finding out what happened to my parents. If it wasn’t an accident, who’s behind my parents’ death? Damien’s been my greatest distraction but he won’t be anymore.

  Bzzzzzzz! Bzzzzz!

  My phone sounds like it’s vibrating off the nightstand and I hold my hand out to catch it. Bringing it under the covers with me, I hold my breath like I do every time I look at the screen.

  Willow: Look at the hats we got for NYE!

  Fuck, New Year’s Eve already? Attached is a picture of my sister in a gold sparkly hat. A chain leads to a matching mustache and glasses, a huge grin on her face. While it makes me smile, there’s a heaviness in my chest.

  Like a basic bitch, I was looking forward to spending New Year’s Eve with Damien. Our rock and roll Christmas was a prerequisite to some Damien and Jo debauchery come December 31st. But here I am, spending New Year’s Eve alone.

  I send her a heart reaction, too lazy and emotionally frozen to send her anything else before I throw my phone across the room and pull the covers back over my head. If I stay here long enough it’ll be next year and all this won’t matter anymore. At least I’m hoping.

  * * *

  Red.

  Blood.

  The knife clatters to the floor, the clean part of the blade reflecting the moon.

  I can’t breathe, four walls closing in around me.

  My heart booms, pain with every thud.

  “Mom!” I cough through burning eyes. My skin ablaze like the ceiling. “Da—”

  I’m on my knees. My throat closing in.

  It’s over.

  It’s all over.

  SLAM!

  A loud bang pulls me out of my nightmare. My hole.

  My t-shirt’s sweaty, smelling like alcohol and my stomach twists.

  Something hard bounces on my bed and when I bring my eyes above the sheets, a familiar scent enters my nose.

  Peppermint. Whiskey. Pot.

  “Happy New Year, Medusa.”

  Twenty

  “Damien?”

  My voice comes out soft and croaky.

  As I’m blinking the blur away, a tall dark shadow coming into focus.

  Fuuck. While a part of me hoped Damien would come after me, I didn’t expect it to be like this. Waiting for clarity, I watch him take a look around my room, my heart finding that quick pace again when his eyes lock on me.

  He looks … amazing. Not that he’s in any special getup or anything but he looks a lot more put together than how I left him. His grey joggers aren’t helping to stop my gaze, his bulge pushing against the fabric. The way his hair hangs over his eye isn’t helping either.

  And that makes me mad.

  I’ve been holding up in my room, hiding my tears from the universe and he’s been Damien fucking—

  “King,” he says, pulling his leather jacket off to reveal a fitted grey shirt, v-neck making it way too easy to see those hard pecs. “It’s King.” He lets his jacket drop to the floor.

  “The fuck are you doing here?” Sitting up, I see what hit my lap seconds ago. A box of condoms. Magnums.

  “Thought you might still want your New Years’ fuck.” He walks towards me and I’m suddenly aware of how messed up I must look.

  I’m not sure how many more hours of sleep I was able to squeeze in before this interruption. My head feels a little better. Wish I could say the same for my stomach. Damien’s making the knots inside so much worse. I reach for my hair, untangling some of the curls matted together and I hope to god my eyes don’t look as red and dark as the last time I looked in the mirror.

  “You sure you didn’t want to be alone on New Year’s Eve?” I ask, pushing my pillow up behind me. “Because if I remember, I’m the one who left you.” And I’m proud of that decision, even though it doesn’t feel that way.

  Lifting the comforter off my body, he gives himself a better look, a smirk spreading on that face. “If this is where you want me to join you, I’m okay with that.”

  Pulling the blanket from his hold I hide the fact that I’m still wearing the same shirt I wore when I left his house. “Get the fuck out.” I still don’t have the words I want to say and he doesn’t get to decide when I’m ready to talk to him.

  He reaches to touch my chin but I pull away before he grips my chin in his fingers. He’s staring at me with that intense look, the one that makes it easy to forget his downfalls. I’m not getting caught in his orbit. If he’s not leaving, I will. Again.

  “I need a shower,” I mutter, pushing the comforter back even more. “When I get out, you better be gone.” Swinging my legs over the bed, I jet for the bathroom, making sure I lock the door once I’m inside.

  “Jo?” he calls from the other side while I pace against the cold tiles.

  I’m biting my nails when I turn around to face the door, my head already feeling like marbles are rattling inside. Placing my palm against my forehead I ask, “How’d you even get in here?”

  “That’s your question?” His voice booms through the door and it startles me. I can tell he’s right on the other side. Walking over, I press my hand against the door before he continues speaking, “I miss you.”

  So he’s playing nice again.

  And even though there’s warmth rising to my face, I’m not falling for it this time. “Well, I don’t want to see you!” I call back, but my hand stays there, my head falling against the door. That’s such a fucking lie but I can’t let him know better. I won’t. My voice is softer than I’d like, “So go.”

  The door jiggles but I don’t open it, “Jo, open the door. We’re talking. Now.”

  “Yeah, cause the box of condoms on my bed means you’re willing to talk.”
>
  “Isn’t that how we talk? With our bodies? With my dick buried deep inside you? It’s addicting, Jo.” Great. Now we’re both addicts to this toxic dance. God, why does it feel so good to know that? “You’re addicting and it’s fucked up but,” he pauses before he bangs on the door again, making me jump. “Get out here, Rowland. I gave you your time.” And he’s back to being demanding.

  “Go!” I yell, eyes shut tight. Not waiting to hear a minute more, I make my way to the shower, ignoring the rattles at the door.

  I’ve barely stripped off my shirt before the water hits my head, pouring over me like a refreshing elixir. I try to get his words out of my mind. I won’t admit how much I miss the way he uses that teasing tongue. The way my body reacts to his tantalizing touches, those kryptonite kisses. It’s poison. Damien King is a delicious, deadly poison. My nose stings, a tear coming to my eye yet again. But fuck, he’s also the goddamn antidote.

  “Jo?” His voice is louder now and when I pull back the curtain, his eye meets mine.

  “Geez!” I jump, startled by his presence. I’m naked in the shower and I’m starting to feel vulnerable again. Why doesn’t he ever listen? “Did you pick the lock?”

  “That’s your job.” He smirks before tilting his chin to my sister’s door. “Willow’s door is open.”

  Rolling my eyes, I groan, pulling the curtain so it covers his face again. I’m an idiot. “Get the fuck out, Damien,” I say to the ceiling.

  “Are you sure you want that?”

  No. “Yes.” I wish my voice was more convincing.

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  “Yeah, well, take my word for it.”

  “I know who started the fire.”

  His words make me freeze under the flow of water. “What?”

  “But if you want me to leave …”

  Of course, he’s brought a treat to dangle. And I fall for it. “Wait!” I call. But I don’t hear anything. “Damien!” I need to know more. He can’t leave after saying that. No matter how mad I am at him.