Beautifully Wicked: A High School Bully Romance (Voclain Academy Book One)

by Jordan Grant

  His “little incident” was starting a rave that resulted in over a hundred freshmen out of their minds on mushrooms and molly, running around campus naked and having mass orgies on the quad and, unfortunately, with the statute of the founding father of the campus. So basically, Gabriel is a blue-eyed, college bad boy with a devastating accent and a burgeoning, albeit relatively minor, rap sheet. He is essentially kryptonite for girls’ panties.

  Hell to the mother-fucking no.

  I guide Harlow around me and lean down as she slides into the booth.

  She is still looking at him.

  “Do you want me to commit murder?” I ask, whispering the question in her ear.

  She startles, yelps, and turns to me, in that order.

  “W…what?” she asks.

  “Do you want me to commit murder?” I cock my head.

  Her eyes narrow, and I know she knows what I’m talking about, but apparently, she’s going to make me say it.

  “Because,” I gesture lazily at Gabriel who winks at us from the counter—the fucker—“if so, keep looking at him like he’s a human ken doll. That’s definitely how you can make me commit murder.”

  Harlow snorts as I slide into the opposite side of the booth and our waitress appears, a plump, middle-aged red-head named Betty, who knows my order by heart.

  “What’ll you have, sugar cubes?” Betty asks in her smoker’s voice.

  Harlow grabs a laminated menu from behind the napkin dispenser and looks at it hurriedly.

  “Trust me?” I ask her.

  The menu’s got about a thousand options, all written in eight-point font. She looks up at me and nods.

  “She’ll have a famous Dave’s burger, an order of fries, and a coke,” I tell Betty.

  “And a slice of pepperoni pizza,” Harlow chimes in.

  I look at her with my best insouciant expression and raise an eyebrow.

  Harlow breathes in deeply and tilts her nose like she’s a puppy. “I can smell it from here.” She nods to the turnstile on the counter rotating to show all the fresh pies.

  “You smell Dave’s famous burgers,” I say.

  Our bickering doesn’t even faze Betty, who asks. “No milkshakes?”

  Harlow’s eyes go wide. “Do you have strawberry?”

  “Sure do, sugar,” Betty says before she writes it down.

  Betty looks at me. “The usual?”

  I nod. As Betty leaves with our order, I look over at Harlow. God, she looks like a dream in that black sweater-dress she’s wearing. It matches that defiant lock of hair by her temple perfectly.

  “I thought you were going to trust me?” I say.

  I don’t really give a shit about the order, but I do love watching her squirm. My cock sure enjoys the show too.

  “I did trust you.” She shrugs and pats the table like she’s trying to test its sturdiness or something. “I’ll try a burger.”

  I don’t reply. I just stare at her. I do it to the guys sometimes. Archie hates when I do it. He normally spills his guts in five seconds flat before cursing my existence.

  The table must meet Harlow’s expectations because she looks up at me finally and meets my stare. We sit there, staring at each other. My eyes are starting to water, and I’m really hoping she’ll just give up when she tilts her head like she’s studying me and grumbles, “You are so intense.”

  It sounds like a criticism, but I smirk regardless. I don’t say anything and she fills the silence.

  “You should come with a poison control warning, Ian Beckett, because you can only be taken in small doses.”

  “Nothing about me is small, Harlow.”

  She rolls her eyes even though warmth spreads across her cheeks.

  “Bigger isn’t always better,” she quips. “Maybe your fancy car is making up for something.”

  I stop breathing and lean across the table at her, my palms pressed flat.

  “If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll prove it to you.”

  “Like what?” she says.

  “Like you want me to fuck you,” I hiss. “We’re in a public place, Harlow. I’m fairly certain they frown on that sort of thing.”

  Her eyes snap wide. “I…I…This is what I’m talking about!”

  I crack a smile as Betty arrives with our food. It smells like grease and sugar and fucking delicious.

  I take a huge bite of my burger. Two bites in, I look over at her, and I freeze, third-bite mid-way to my mouth.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Hmm?” She’s not looking at me. She’s stabbing a bite of pizza with her fork.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, watching her.

  She has her strawberry milkshake in front of her. She’s taking her fork and knife, cutting off a bite of pizza, and then dipping it into her milkshake like it’s a tortilla chip.

  “What?” she asks, still focused on the pizza and acting like what she is doing is completely normal. She looks up at me and notes my horrified expression. “What? I like a little sweet with my salty, sort of like you.”

  I grimace. My tongue wants to go hide from the sight of this.

  “That’s gross,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Not only are you ruining the milkshake, but you’re also ruining the pizza.”

  She laughs and does it again.

  “You’re the weird one, Beckett,” she tilts her head at my milkshake. “Who orders a vanilla milkshake? That’s the most boring flavor there is.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetness,” I say, taking a sip. “There’s nothing vanilla about the things I plan to do with you.”

  She coughs on her milkshake and sputtering, grabs a napkin. I grin and rip another bite from my burger.

  30

  Ian

  I am leaving Microeconomics, my backpack slung over one shoulder. I’m wearing my red-and-black Nike Airs with a pair of jeans and a regulation-approved white button-down. Everything but my shirt is completely against dress code, but no one says a thing. Hell, last period, Dr. Anders complimented my taste.

  It’s game day, and Voclain only cares about one thing on game day: that I bring home the win.

  Audrey Murphy winks at me as I pass her locker, but I don’t reciprocate. I’m not intentionally trying to be an asshole, but she’s still hung up on the fact that I let her go down on me two summers ago. I don’t want to give her false hope.

  “Hey, QB.” My alternate linebacker grabs my shoulder and squeezes hard. He always greets me the same way, and I bury the urge to flinch.

  Morris tries too hard. He’s the biggest guy in school, clocking in at just under 250 lbs. When he tried out for the football team freshman year, Coach was so excited, I thought he was going to piss himself, but Morris is an alternate for a reason, and although I tolerate him for the sake of the team, he can’t go two sentences without the words pussy and tap it coming out of his mouth.

  Inwardly, I groan, but I tilt my chin toward him by way of greeting.

  “What’s up, man?” Morris says, hanging onto my arm like a lovesick puppy. I think if he ever was just genuine, not pretending to be whatever he thinks he needs to be, I’d actually like the douche.

  “Nothing much,” I say, though that’s a lie because I just spotted Stormy down the hall, and I have risen to the occasion, literally. I shove my backpack in front of my junk and pretend to search for something as I pull the old tuck trick.

  Shit. What is she doing to me?

  “You?” I let the word slip past my lips, mostly because I’m distracted and I don’t think better of it with all the blood rushing down south.

  Morris gives me a toothy grin. “Oh, you know, man. Just tappin’ that pussy.”

  Point. Made.

  “See you at the game tonight,” I say.

  Morris frowns at my lack of a reaction to his bedroom exploits. I should probably try harder, but I only have so much self-control and all of it is currently devoted to not pinning Stormy to her locker and making her day, and mine, in front of the enti
re school.

  “Sorry, man. Gotta keep your eye on the prize, you know?” I add, and that seems to appease him because he nods and heads over to his next victim.

  Her hair falls into her eyes like strands of white snow as she searches for something buried in her disaster of a locker. It’s not gross—no moldy food or shit like that—but it is a disaster. Papers and pencils fall out of the thing every time she opens it. It’s basically like Jenga except with textbooks and notepads instead of wooden blocks. I don’t know why she won’t bring her laptop to class like the rest of us.

  I’m going to ruin you, I think, stalking toward her. I’m going to spoil you for all others—men and women alike—because I don’t discriminate.

  Vic passes her locker, the man slut, and says, “Lookin’ good, Weathersby.”

  His stare lingers on her ass because she’s on the tips of her toes, shoving her butt out and the skirt she’s wearing can only take so much.

  I groan aloud at the sight.

  “Hmm,” she mumbles, and I know she has no idea what he’s said or that every guy passing her locker right now is watching the show.

  Something dark and deadly in my chest purrs in satisfaction.

  I want to shove her admirers to the floor and shout, “Back the fuck off!” But they’re just looking, and honestly, I can’t blame them. I may have called dibs at the beginning of the semester, but half of them forgot the moment they saw her and the other half forgot to make sure I wasn’t watching.

  My tongue flicks over a canine.

  Everything has changed now. She is mine. And if I have anything to say about it, she always will be. It’s time to remind everyone who’s the alpha in this pack.

  I come up behind her, and she has no idea I am there. I place one palm against the neighboring locker and one on the other side of her, but she remains painfully oblivious. I do mean painfully because normally a girl would be swooning in my arms by now. I’m not used to being ignored, even unintentionally.

  I lean down and breathe her in, letting my breath warm her ear. I am dizzy in her scent. She stills, her back going rigid.

  My lips kiss the shell of her ear as I purr, “I can still taste you on my tongue.”

  She lets out a little whimper, and that’s all the permission I need. I grab her just above the hip bones and spin her around. Her blue eyes look a little dizzy, a little dazed, before I cover her mouth with mine.

  Her hands are pinned between us, my palms on either side of her face as I explore her mouth with my tongue. A burst of lemon zest greets me from the tea she’s been drinking. How can a person taste this good? She always tastes this good.

  I can’t help myself. I move closer, press against her tighter, until I know even with the old tuckaroo, she can feel me, iron-hard against her. I’ve never done this before. Normally, I don’t give enough of a shit to mark my territory.

  The school erupts around us. Someone wolf-whistles. Another cheers. A third claps. Morris is down the hall making barking noises, and somehow I just know he’s pumping his fist as he does it.

  “Get a room!” Archie yells over the commotion.

  I don’t care about any of them as I ravish her mouth.

  She’s like a caffeine rush when you’ve had two hours of sleep the night before a final.

  I want her.

  I crave her.

  I need her.

  When I finally pull away—and believe me, it’s solely because breathing is a human necessity—her cheeks are flushed with warmth, her lips a little bruised, her breath erratic.

  I play with the black lock of hair near her temple.

  “Will you be my good luck charm at the game tonight?” I ask.

  She shrugs, though the pulse visible at the nape of her neck belies her nonchalant expression.

  “Depends. What do I have to do?” she asks, her fingers skimming over the buttons on my shirt.

  “Well for one,” I make sure I say it loud enough our audience hears it. They will have it spread around the entire student body in less than ten minutes. “I’m going to need those panties you’re wearing.”

  She is boring a hole through my button-down before she lifts those big blue eyes to mine.

  “What are you going to do with them?” she asks.

  I blink. I hadn’t thought this out. I’ve never asked a girl for her panties before. They more or less just get thrown at me.

  “Keep them on me,” I manage, glad it sounds 100% not like I’m bullshitting. My game face is practically untouchable.

  “Your uniform doesn’t have pockets.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “And?”

  Ah, there goes that blush creeping down her neck.

  She gulps loudly, and my game face is having a hard time not cracking under the pressure.

  “And I’ll need a good luck kiss,” I add.

  “A good luck kiss?”

  “A good luck kiss,” I say, repeating the words slowly.

  “Won’t your parents be there?”

  I shake my head and recite exactly what my mom told me earlier today. “Dad has pressing business matters upstate.”

  “Anything else you demand of your good luck charm, sir?” It totally sounds likes she’s mocking me. Probably because she is.

  I lean in because this next part is just for her.

  “When we win tonight,” I say, “I want you in my bed, naked, with those beautiful legs spread wide.”

  “And if you don’t win?” she squeaks.

  I stare at her like that’s a dumb question, because it is.

  “You said...” she begins, her eyes big, round saucers.

  My game face splinters around the edges. I don’t want to worry her. Shit.

  “Not for that, Stormy, not unless you want to.”

  She lets out a steadying breath.

  “I want you there,” I duck my head so close that our noses nearly touch, “because I am going to be hungry after the big game, and there’s only one thing on the menu.”

  With that, I push away from her, biting my lip to stifle my shit-eating grin as I walk away, leaving her slack-jawed against her locker.

  — Ian, That Night —

  Coach calls us in for a final huddle. It’s the fourth quarter with 17 seconds left on the clock, and we are one point down with the Admirals in the lead.

  Archie got benched three minutes into the first quarter. Chase in the third. Now there’s just me and Everett and the rest of the team.

  The Admirals play dirty. They would’ve taken me out if they could have, but I learned my lesson the moment I saw one of their guys go for Archie’s knees. It was a dirty move, and they got flagged for it, but we are paying the price because I don’t have my best running back front and center.

  Still, when Coach looks at me and says, “You got anything to add, Beckett?” I accept.

  My brothers need to know it’s time to bring it all. But I’m not going to yell at them like Coach or kiss their asses like their parents.

  “We do it for them.” I point at Chase, who probably has a torn rotator cuff, and Archie, with his leg straightened in a splint because God only knows what the assholes did to his knee. “We leave it all on the gridiron.”

  My brothers break out into a chant of Hooah!

  The referee blows his whistle, signaling it’s time to get our asses back on the field. I am carrying my helmet because despite the chilly air, I’m sweating my balls off. I see Harlow in the stands, next to Raven and Vixson. I blow her a kiss, and the home crowd goes wild.

  Aurora starts a chant on the sidelines. Harlow ducks her head for a moment, but then seems to think better of it and blows me a kiss back.

  We may be down by one, but I can’t help feeling like I’m the one winning. I am going to show her just where I hid her panties later tonight.

  I shove on my helmet, and as we fall into position, everything fades away. There is just us, my team and me, surrounded by the smell of fresh-cut grass and the grease from the concession stand wafting
through the air.

  Michaels lines up in front of me, stepping in as Center for Davenport. I am ready as I call out, “Blue 42. Blue 42. Ready. Ready. Ready.” Ha, fuckers! “Hut!”

  Michaels has barely passed the ball to me before an Admiral, who is likely pushing 350 and looks like he aged out about four years and a stay in the state penitentiary ago, takes him down.

  My receiver off to my side goes down, and it’s like a row of dominoes. Rainey then Anders followed by Tinsor.

  My brothers fall. They all fall until there’s no one left. Bones is scrambling to stand, but he is hopping on one ankle. The Admirals’ tightend looks like he wants to smash me between his meaty fingers and take a bite.

  I run.

  My brothers lie on the ground, clutching their stomachs to their knees. They took out some of the defense with them, but not the big guy.

  My heart hammers inside my chest. All I hear is the rush of my breath. All I feel is the harsh shine of the stadium lights and my feet slamming into the grass.

  I dart to the left, around Patton, lying on the ground and moaning, barely avoiding a hefty linebacker. Then another pops up out of nowhere, and his fingers skim my jersey. For a moment, I think I’m going to face plant, but I rip free of his grasp and barrel forward.

  I spot an opening on the other side of the field, to the far right, but there are still three Admirals to get through and one of me. I sprint for it.

  I hear one of them groan as he goes down, barely avoiding tackling me. Now the odds are better—two against one—but the hefty guy who looks like he could play for the NFL is still standing.

  Hefty guy moves light on his feet given his size. I am at the 20 yard line, my legs pumping as hard as they can go, my arms swinging at my sides, my fingers gripping the leather ball.

  15 yards.

  A linebacker is on my heels. I can hear him breathing so loud it’s like he’s going to have a heart attack.

  Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump pounds my heart.