Sparrowood Academy (Book 3): Bully Romance

by Angel Lawson

  I look around in the mostly dark room—only lit by a window near the ceiling. It’s a storage closet for the science wing. Books, microscopes, lab materials.

  “Well, if you need to dissect a frog, you know where to go.”

  She looks up at me, eyes shining. “I had a really good time last night.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “So good you dragged me into the supply closet?” Her hands are flat on my chest, and she pushes them upward, linking them behind my neck. “I had a really good time, too.”

  She lifts to her toes right as I bend to kiss her, in synch. Her mouth is warm, her movements increasingly familiar, which is more pleasurable than I could’ve imagined. I know that when I tease her with my tongue she leans closer, I know that when she bites on my bottom lip I get hard, and I know that when she picks up the pace she wants more, and I’m definitely not one to pass up a greenlight.

  I slide my hands down her skirt until my fingertips graze the hem, reaching for the soft flesh of her thighs. I’ve already told her I’m not going to push her further until she asks for it, and I’m not taking her cherry in the supply room closet. But I will make her feel good. I’ll help her remember that sex is fun and not manipulative. Like she helps me.

  The following moments are filled with deep breathing and rustling clothes. Her fingers reach for my belt buckle while we kiss, feverishly, frantically. I break away after she lowers my zipper and places a warm, smooth hand on my cock. A jolt of electric desire runs through me.

  “Jesus,” I hiss, and she laughs quietly. This Eden. This confident one is more beautiful than any other that I’ve seen so far. I eye a chair in the corner, the right leg missing a foot. I pull her with me, pants hanging off my ass, and sit on the chair, the off-kilter leg dropping hard. I waste no time dragging her on top of me, legs straddled, her body pressing down on my hard, exposed length. I want her lips back on mine. I want the heat of her tongue in my mouth. And shitdamnfuck I need her body grinding on mine.

  In this position I feel her everywhere, on my cock, on my mouth. The cotton of her panties is thin, but it’ll do to keep her virtue intact.

  Maybe.

  I reach for the buttons on her shirt, destroying the clean, crisp fabric. Her bra is white lace, her tops of her breasts soft and round. I bend forward and kiss her neck, her collarbone, the exposed skin. Her hips roll, grinding against me, and I am ridiculously, overwhelmingly sensitive. It’s been a while, if you don’t count my right hand and some alone time in the shower.

  “Is this—" I start, ready to make sure we haven’t crossed a line. She cuts me off with her mouth, tongue lazy, breath in tiny pants. She picks up speed, her breasts bouncing in front of me, her panties damp. I lean my head back against the wall and try to stifle a groan, trying to hold back. I think I’m gonna fail. I’m going to be that guy who blows all over a girl before she comes, but her head falls to my shoulder and her hips kind of freeze, hovering over me as she moans, low and satisfied. I place my hands on her hips and glide her over my lap a few more times. That’s all it takes.

  “Holy shit,” I mutter, feeling the fog creep through my brain. The warmth spreads between us and even though I know it’s going to be a pain in the ass to clean up, I don’t want to move.

  She’s still face first in my shoulder and I shift her so I can see her face. Her cheeks are flushed—her eyes dark. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She holds my eye and I brush a loose strand of hair off her cheek. “That was…”

  “A dirty, amazing, spontaneous, supply closet dry hump.” She laughs, definitely embarrassed. “Welcome to being a normal teenager.”

  “You think that’s what normal teenagers do?”

  I give her a cocky grin. “If they’re doing it right.”

  I kiss her again and we separate, cleaning up as much as we can. I fight the urge to jump her a second time when she peels off her panties and shoves them behind a box of microscope slides. Just knowing she’s bare under that skirt sends me over the edge.

  “We’re late to class,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

  “What are they going to do?” She straightens her shirt, definitely no longer crisp. “Give us detention?”

  That’s exactly what they do—or Miller does—that afternoon as we stroll separately into the room. “You both missed class today.”

  I shrug casually. “I overslept.”

  He looks at Eden. She mouths, “Lady problems.”

  I fight a laugh and ignore the questioning looks coming from Hawk in the back of the room. Trip watches us with keen eyes.

  Dorian continues, “Unexcused absences are a mandatory detention and since you’re already here, you’ll have to help Mr. McAllen sweep the floors.”

  “Whatever,” I say, watching Eden walk to her seat, wondering the whole time if she’s still naked under that short skirt.

  When no one else is looking she looks back at me and slowly crosses her legs, giving me a wink. And bam. I’m hard again. I knew this would be the problem with Eden Warren.

  Detention, suspension, school fights, and even worse.

  Any and all of it is worth it.

  11

  Eden

  “You really hooked up with Gray in the supply room?” Rochelle asks, eyes wide.

  “Is that so surprising?” I ask. We’re in our room after dinner, sprawled on the couch. Ro’s got me hooked on this ridiculous show about the Devil living in L.A. that helps a police detective solve crimes. Six episodes in and I’m ready for them to bone already. I guess that’s why they call it a slow-burn.

  “That you finally caved and really made out with Gray? No. I’d be jumping him twenty-four-seven if he was my boyfriend.” She holds up her hands. “Which he is not—so no worries. The fact that you ditched class to make out with him? Yeah, it’s a little surprising.”

  After staying with Ro over the Christmas break, she was well aware of my actual relationship with the guys. Everyone else at school probably thought we had hot foursomes and bed-breaking sex, especially after those photos and videos Trip showed everyone, but she knew the truth.

  “Damn,” she says, eyes on the screen. The Devil has taken his shirt off, revealing his fit body. “I really need to find a man like that.”

  “If you’re looking for evil incarnate, I think there’s a few down on the second floor.”

  There’s a knock on the door and she hits the pause button. “Maybe that’s your sly Devil coming for round two.”

  I stop and glare at her. “Don’t make me regret sharing with you.”

  She pouts. “Fine.”

  I open the door and see a younger classman peeking out from behind a large bouquet of flowers.

  “Eden Warren?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “The office told me to bring these up.”

  He holds out the flowers and I take them. “Thanks.”

  Rochelle has leapt from her seat and shut the door behind the kid.

  “Who are those from?”

  “No idea. Gray, I would guess.”

  “Is there a card?” she says, rifling through the flowers. “Where is it?”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “These are not just regular flowers, Eden. They’re expensive. Like, flown in from Amsterdam, expensive. Even the vase,” she says, “it’s cut glass.”

  A weird feeling settles in my chest. I place the vase on the small kitchen table. A pale blue envelope is tucked between the petals. I pull it out and stare at my name written in clean, loopy cursive.

  I unseal the back flap and pull out the small card.

  Truce? Since we’re about to become family?

  “Gross.” I hand over the card. “It’s from Trip.”

  She reads it. “He’s right. If Tyson really does marry Hope, you’ll be part of the Cohen family. At least adjacent.”

  The idea makes me recoil. “I’m sure this is just another one of his games.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  I frown. “What
do you mean 'if he really marries Hope'?”

  She heads back over to the couch. “It may be from my personal, uh, interaction with Tyson, but I’m not seeing him as ready to settle down.”

  I knew Rochelle had hooked up with Tyson. Part of the family blackmail scheme. I didn’t know then that he was seeing Hope at the time.

  “So he’s a cheater.”

  “They’re all cheaters.” She rolls her eyes.

  I stare at the flowers. “What I don’t get is why Hope would do this to herself. Is it really worth it?”

  “Security. Money. A big house, never having to worry about paying a bill—”

  I jump in. “STDs, embarrassment, lack of self-worth…”

  “It’s a lifestyle.”

  “Yeah, it’s not one I’m willing to accept.”

  It’s a pointless conversation with Rochelle. She’s lived in this world her whole life. I reach for the flowers, lifting them out of the water and carrying them over to the coffee table. I drop them on the table, sit down and begin plucking off the petals one by one.

  “What are you doing to those poor flowers?” Ro asks, horrified.

  “Letting Trip know exactly how I feel about his proposal.”

  I stand in the small alcove near the linen room door on the boys' wing of the dormitory.

  “I never even knew this was here,” Rochelle says, eyeing the service elevator.

  “It’s important to know the layout of the building you’re in,” I say, sending Gray a telepathic thank-you. I give her a sly grin. “You know, for safety reasons.”

  We keep our backs pressed against the wall and wait as the students slowly emerge from their rooms and head down to breakfast. When Trip steps out in his tousled blond hair, pressed white-shirt, and perfectly placed tie, I’m hit with that same sense of disgust and self-loathing that happens when I see him. He’s ridiculously handsome. Absurdly so. Like a poisonous insect created just to lure in prey. It makes me feel even stupider for falling for his manipulations. Not anymore.

  I clutch the plastic bag of flower petals and wait for him to disappear down the stairwell.

  “He’s gone,” I say.

  “In a cloud of sex and five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce cologne.”

  I glare at Rochelle. “Seriously?”

  “Sorry, I have eyes and an unfortunate desire for boys that are terrible for me. I’m working on it.”

  Using the master key I borrowed from Gray, we enter Trip's room. I avert my eyes from the couch where we—well, I—had my lowest moment and clear off the coffee table. I’m not an incredibly clever person, and I don’t want Trip to think I put too much time into my response. That’s only feeding his ego. My reply is one simple word, and quickly we lay out the message in expensive, imported flower petals.

  Nope

  I do not want to call a truce.

  I do not forgive you. (Not that he asked.)

  I do not want to be part of your corrupt family.

  I am not swayed by expensive flowers, or handsome faces, or manipulative game play. Not anymore.

  The warm water glides over my skin, causing a ripple effect over the surface of the pool. The stroke is a hybrid; half freestyle, half dog-paddle, maybe a little breaststroke. Our roles are reversed. I’m swimming and Theo sits on the edge of the pool, watching closely.

  I still get waves of panic, but they’re more controlled. We’ve worked so slowly to get to this point. I’m determined to keep going and become proficient. I don’t want to be afraid. Not of the water. Not of losing control. Not of outside forces.

  Reaching the side of the pool, I place my hands on Theo’s knees and stand, dripping water all over his thighs.

  “Good job,” he says, running his fingers over my arms. “Two laps, that’s a record.”

  “With my head out, though.”

  “It’s a start.” He looks down at me, blue eyes shimmering in the pool’s reflection. “I’m proud of you.”

  I rest my arms on his legs. We’re doing this more. Little touches, growing closer. He holds back on me. I know it. He’s said it out loud, and just like he’s encouraged me to face my fears, I’m determined to do the same for him.

  “How many days has it been?” I occasionally ask this question. I try not to apply too much pressure, but I want him to know I care.

  There’s no hesitation and a hint of pride in his voice when he says, “Ninety-eight.”

  I’m shocked. Not just at how many days he’s been clean but how many days we’ve been at Sparrowood. “Almost a hundred! We should do something special to celebrate.”

  His jaw tightens. “There is something I’ve been thinking of doing.”

  “Want to tell me what it is?”

  “My grandfather’s birthday party. I know I said it was too soon, but it’s been more than three months. Which is a lot, but also not so much in the grand scheme of things.”

  I tug him off the side of the pool and into the water. The water splashes over my hips. He towers over me and he sinks down so we’re eye level. I can’t help but take a moment to admire his lean abs and chest. He’s healthy. Strong. He’s swimming and back on the team. He’s in school and out of trouble.

  “I was scared to go see my mom at Christmas. I had a lot of anger and fear. What if she rejected me or was mad? I’d made the deal for her to go to rehab, so it was possible she’d hold a grudge.” I look into his eyes. “Maybe I was lucky, but she wasn’t any of those things. She was happy to see me, and we had a chance to talk things over.”

  “You forgave her,” he says. “I’m not sure they’ll forgive me.”

  “They invited you, right?”

  He frowns. “I guess so.”

  “If you don’t think it will cause some kind of relapse or bigger problem, I think you should go.”

  He reaches for me under water. It’s easier to touch, floating under the water. It’s more innocent, yet not, because he pulls me to him and settles me on his lap. I wrap my legs around his waist. Not so innocent at all.

  He runs a wet hand through his hair. “Will you go with me?”

  I blink. “To the party?”

  “I think I can do it, but not alone.”

  “Of course, I’m happy to support you.”

  He swallows. “Not just as support, but as my date. A real one.”

  A coil tightens and expands in my chest. Theo’s asking me to meet his family. That’s a hell of a first date, and it’s also an admission that he’s ready to take a leap. A big one, if not two.

  “I’d love to be your date.”

  I’m rewarded with a slow, relieved smile, and under water, he drags me closer to his chest. His skin is smooth and hard. I’m not scared of the water anymore, but he’s still a life-preserver in a place filled with scary unknowns. What I’m not sure about is if he’s holding on to me, or if I’m holding on to him, or if we’re just holding onto one another.

  12

  Hawk

  Back in Kingston, libraries served specific functions; a place to get warm or dry, semi-comfortable chairs for a quick nap, free internet (with porn-blockers), and bathrooms. Reading a book or researching something (other than blocked porn on the computer) was never something on our radar, but like everything else at Sparrowood, ideals keep getting tossed.

  The chairs here are more comfortable, but I don’t use them for sleeping. I have an actual bed for that. I do have a book out in front of me—one that I should be reading. I have a History test in the morning. But what I find myself doing in here most often is watching these people. Them. The Brats, trying to figure out how they operate, what’s their next move, and how do I stay clear.

  This role isn’t much different from the one I had in The Park. It was my job to take it all in, study and assess. Protect. Command. It’s not just my last name that gave me the nickname Hawk. It’s my quiet observance. The way I hover without making a sound. My watchfulness.

  My current assessment?

  Things are too fucking quiet.

>   As if on cue, laughter breaks the tomb-deep silence, eliciting a harsh “shhhh” from the librarian and a glare toward the table in the corner. Rochelle smiles apologetically and Eden bows her head, suddenly interested in her book.

  It’s giving me way too much time to think about Eden. Focus on Eden. Obsess over Eden.

  Really, it’s pretty much like the last five years of my life, except now someone does my laundry, and I have clean sheets on my bed.

  Pretending to read, I scan the room, checking out the other students. It’s a busy night—Thursday—which means half the school is preparing for tests tomorrow. From the looks of it, not many are relying on Mitchell’s answer sheets this time around.

  The front door opens and a gust of cold air rushes in the room. A group of basketball players walk in, talking loudly. A sour taste forms in my mouth as I see Phillip flirting with a table of third-year girls. That guy can’t seem to help himself. Trip wanders around, stopping at tables. Lingering by bookshelves. Giving the librarian a quick, charming smile when she looks his way.

  Nothing seems out of place until Eden scribbles a note on a scrap of paper and heads up to the second floor, her long, bare legs vanishing up the steps. That’s not what’s out of place.

  Trip following her is.

  Slowly, I close my book and slide it into my backpack. With no one paying me the slightest bit of attention, I head up the stairs, my anxiety building with every step.

  I pass by the rows of books, searching down each one. I spot Trip on the other side walking past—or more likely, stalking. I dart down the row, attempting to catch him before he gets to her, but I pause when I hear voices on the other side of the shelves.

  “Jesus,” she says, “you really should wear a bell.”

  “I got your message,” Trip says.

  “Good,” Eden replies dryly. “Then there’s no reason for you to be talking to me.”

  “So you’re really going to keep this up? Remember, sweetheart, you’re the one that came to my room.”

  “I remember, it’s a regret I live with every day.”