Charming Devils: A Bully/Revenge Reverse Harem Romance

by Katie May

  I wiggle slightly, unnerved at being the sole focus of his attention, but I refuse to acknowledge him any more than I already did. Unlike the others, I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  Because Elias Briggs? He destroyed me worst of all.

  The rest of class is relatively uneventful. By the time the bell rings, I’m already out of my seat and racing towards the door. I can hear Mrs. Town call Cassian back, but he ignores her, practically running to catch up with me.

  “Peony!” he bellows, and I turn my head slightly—in a pathetic moment of weakness—to see him standing shoulder to shoulder with Elias and Karsyn. All three of them stare after me with inscrutable expressions marring their handsome faces.

  Fuck you all.

  I know that I have fifth hour with them as well, but I’m grateful for the reprieve when I duck into the girl’s locker room.

  “Peony!” Mariabella squeals as soon as she sees me, jumping up from her perch on the bench. She’s wearing a pair of tiny spandex shorts and a sports bra, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. “I didn’t know you had this class.” Quickly, she reaches into a locker—hers, presumably—and grabs a ratty T-shirt, throwing it over her head.

  “Gym and Health with Mr. Builder?” I query, moving to stand beside her. There are numerous girls already present, chatting amongst themselves before they have to enter the gymnasium. I spot Felicia, the bitch from Orchestra, watching me with a narrow-eyed glare, seemingly unconcerned that she’s both shirtless and braless, her small, pert boobs on display.

  Honestly, none of the girls seem self-conscious as they change. I spot more nipples and thongs than I ever thought possible as they switch out of regular clothes and into sporty ones.

  Yeah, no. That’s not going to work for me.

  “Mr. Builder is actually super cool,” Mariabella says, a catch to her voice that wasn’t there prior.

  “Hopefully he’s better than my middle school teacher,” I murmur under my breath. Still, she cocks an eyebrow at me as confusion dances across her face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” Grabbing my drawstring bag from where I tucked it inside of my backpack, I head towards one of the bathroom stalls. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  I don’t have the chance to hear her response before I slide into the nearest empty stall and quickly change into my gym clothes—a long-sleeved gray shirt and a pair of shorts. The last thing I want is for anyone to see me naked and question—

  Cutting that thought off before it can solidify, I exit the stall to see that only Mariabella remains. Quickly, so as to not make either of us late, I pull my hair back into a disheveled ponytail, not bothering to comb out the ends.

  “Sorry,” I whisper to her as we hurry out of the locker room and into the gym.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she replies back as we easily sidle into the line. There are about thirty students in this class, but only a few of them are familiar. Felicia, as I noted before, as well as Lauren. And there, near the end of the line, stands Emmett, who waves and offers me a gleeful smile.

  And Lucas, Elias, Karsyn, and Cassian.

  They don’t stand by each other—hell, they don’t even look at each other or me—but I can feel their presence like cobwebs caressing my face in a spooky, dilapidated haunted house. Unease skates up my spine as I remember my last Gym class with them.

  And Mr. Builder’s next words only cause my irrational fear to increase tenfold.

  “…I’ll split you into teams for dodgeball. Please remember what team you’re on when I assign them.”

  Logically, I know that the guys won’t try anything this time around. I know that. I honestly do. But try telling that to my juddering heart and the sweat beading on my forehead.

  As he goes down the line, assigning team numbers, I feel a brief pang of disappointment that Mariabella won’t be on the same team as me. Her face falls as well, and she grumbles as she moves to one side of the classroom. With heavy reluctance, and no small amount of trepidation, I move opposite her.

  Towards where Lucas stands.

  I’m grateful that Lucas is the only Devil on my team. And I’m even more relieved when Emmett joins as well.

  The blond football player smiles at me as he saunters forward with all the cocky arrogance a man like him can possess. He knows how good he looks in the thin shirt stretched tight over his pecs. And with his hair brushed away, he’s practically drool-worthy.

  “I’m kind of disappointed we’re not on opposite teams,” he murmurs when he’s close enough to not be overheard by the other students. Well, most of the other students. Lucas lingers only a few inches away from me, his red hair glinting like blood in the gym lighting.

  “Why is that?” I question, utterly aware that Lucas’s face is becoming graver and graver with every passing second.

  “Because I kinda wanted you to catch my balls,” he flirts, and I throw my head back in laughter. On the opposite side of the basketball court, Cassian, Elias, and Karsyn watch the exchange with narrowed eyes. Mariabella stands beside them, chewing on her nail uneasily.

  I have to give myself a pat on the back. Despite how badly I want to, I don’t flip the three of them off. Maturity for the win!

  “I hate dodgeball,” I murmur as Mr. Builder nods towards the multi-colored rubber balls set in a line in the middle of the gym. Those balls? They fucking hurt when they’re hurled at your face, especially when thirty are thrown at one time with no chance of escape…

  “Don’t worry.” Emmett nudges me with his elbow. “I’ll protect your sexy ass.”

  I just barely hold in my snort.

  Yeah, good luck with that. Especially since all of the Devils are going to be gunning for me.

  I’m pretty sure even Lucas will try to hit me with a ball, despite being on the same team. He’s just that wicked.

  “When I blow my whistle, you may begin!” Mr. Builder steps backwards until he’s on the sidelines, said whistle dangling from his thin lips. The shrill sound pierces the air, and immediately, students from each side—mainly the guys—run towards the balls in the center. I can’t help but smile indulgently when I notice that Emmett is one of them, hooting and hollering with his fists raised.

  “You came back,” a cold voice remarks, and I swear that a gust of icy wind accompanies his presence. All around us, balls fly and whack students, but at that moment, we’re in our own separate bubble. No one can hurt us.

  “I did,” I say dryly. Finally, I pivot on my heel to face Lucas Scott, the king of all bullies. Unlike the rest of us degenerates, he wears a polo shirt and black shorts that conform to his shapely legs. I can’t even imagine him wearing basketball shorts and a loose T-shirt. Not Lucas. It’s too…beneath him.

  Just like my existence was.

  Is.

  “Why did you come back?” His glacial eyes stay glued to my face as someone next to me releases a whimper of pain. Honestly, I’m surprised that none of the other Devils are aiming at me. Maybe they’re already out?

  One glance confirms that they’re aiming at Emmett, of all people, who merely laughs hysterically, unperturbed at being the target of their ire.

  “Why does it matter?” I place my hand on my hip and cock it to the side. “Are you going to tell me to leave? To never come back? Because I’ve heard that all before, Lucas Scott, and I’m not that petrified little girl anymore. You’re not going to scare me this time.”

  He doesn’t flinch at the venom in my tone. Hell, I’m not even sure he blinks. Those cold, cold eyes continue to stare down at me, thousands of secrets lingering in their depths.

  “We didn’t think you were ever going to come back,” he says at last, tone matter-of-fact and…something else. Something I can’t read.

  I pride myself in understanding these boys better than anyone—better than myself—but I’ve always known that Lucas would be the hardest to read. He wears his apathetic mask like it’s warpaint, like it’s the only thing he need
s to survive. But he doesn’t understand that there are no gunners aiming for him. He’s the only monster I know.

  Well, him and his three best friends.

  Ex-best friends.

  “What are you going to do about it, Lucas?” I ask in a surprising spurt of bravery. I take a step closer until we’re toe to toe. “Are you going to hit me?”

  And for the first time in all the years I have known him, something akin to horror flashes across his face. He looks…stricken, his face draining of all color. Just as quickly, he reconstructs his mask brick by brick, once more making him an impenetrable fortress.

  Before he can respond, though I’m not sure I would’ve even allowed him to, something whacks me in the back of the head. I release a whimper of pain, grabbing at my scalp, as I whip my head in the direction where I felt the ball come from. But instead of the Devils, as I expected, I see an unfamiliar male grinning at me smugly.

  Fucking asshole.

  With a huff, I stalk to the sidelines, joining the rest of my eliminated teammates. I spot Emmett leaning against the wall, nursing his chin and then his cheek.

  The Devils really did a number on him, that’s for damn sure.

  I’ve just selected a spot farther down the line when there’s a pained wheeze and a loud, agonized cry. Immediately, Mr. Builder blows his whistle and races onto the court, stopping both teams from throwing any more balls.

  On the ground, rocking back and forth while fat, ugly tears cascade down his cheeks, is the man who hit me. And standing opposite, expression unreadable, is Lucas Scott. The other Devils stand in a haphazard semi-circle around the sobbing guy, almost as if they were blocking him from escaping.

  Surely Lucas didn’t hit the guy because he hit me. He was probably just being his normal, competitive self. Or maybe he was pissed that I got eliminated before the real torture could begin.

  I watch in wary fascination as Mr. Builder helps the kid off the court before he blows his whistle, once more resuming the game.

  And then I watch as three balls—one from each of the Devils—barrel towards Lucas’s surprised face.

  I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. All I need now is for the other three guys to be in similar pain, but alas, beggars can’t be choosers.

  They’ll get what’s coming to them.

  Everyone here will.

  Chapter 9

  The last class of the day is also my favorite—Music Composition with Mrs. Bummer.

  I’m practically giddy as I skip through the halls, ignoring the blistering glares I can feel on my back. Nobody, not even the Devils, can ruin my good mood.

  My research shows that I have this class with Cassian and Lucas, both of whom eye me with no small amount of suspicion as I slide into an empty seat near the front of the class. I can’t help but note that Cassian sits on one side of the room while Lucas sits on the other. I knew that their relationship—all of their relationships—had become strained, but seeing it firsthand sends a surge of primal satisfaction coursing through me. It’s ridiculous to believe that I played any part in their falling out, but a girl can hope.

  My plans for revenge will prove much, much harder if they’re a united front. These boys—these men—are capable of creating fierce, deadly armies if they so desire. They can rule this world and everyone in it with nothing more than a cunning smirk and wave of the hand. You can stare at them and know immediately that they’re power. Pure and refined power, the type that kings and queens wield. But their kingdom? It’s this school. And their civilians? The unwitting students. I suppose that makes me their prisoner of war. Or maybe just a court jester—someone for them to laugh at and tease.

  But revenge can come later. For now, I’m going to enjoy my favorite class.

  I refuse, absolutely refuse, to allow the two Devils to ruin my good mood.

  Cassian is still sulky as his eyes periodically flick in my direction. Those gorgeous, pouty lips of his are pushed outwards, and I have the strangest urge to bite down on his lower one. To pull it between my teeth until he gasps in pain. The thought is completely irrational, and I shove it away instantly, focusing on Mrs. Bummer as she waddles into the classroom.

  She’s one of the oldest teachers at the high school, with pure white hair, a heavily wrinkled face, and sea-green eyes. She always wears buttons on her floral dress, each one depicting some weird ass saying or logo, usually in another language.

  “I hope you guys brought your composition notebooks, because—” She breaks off abruptly when she lays eyes on me, and the squeal that leaves her mouth doesn’t sound entirely human. “Well, praise be! Is that Miss Peony Simone?” She has a distinct Southern accent, one that becomes even more pronounced when she’s excited.

  With an excited screech of my own, I fly from my chair and wrap my arms around her.

  “It’s been too long,” I say, smiling up at my private tutor.

  Mrs. Bummer was a godsend throughout elementary and middle school. She knew about my history with the Devils—every explicit, horrendous detail—and never thought less of me. She loved me unconditionally, even when my own mother discarded me like trash, and was repeatedly a bright spot in the dark abyss of my life. Every weekday, from five to seven PM, I would travel to her music store, located just off of Riley Street. It was she who tended my love for music, fueling it until the flames turned into an inferno. And not just the violin. She frequently set me up with various tutors who were skilled at a variety of instruments, everything from the piano to the drums to the flute.

  “Why, you’re gorgeous,” Mrs. Bummer gushes, pulling back to examine me. “You grew up to be a beautiful young lady.”

  A blush erupts on my cheeks before I can contain it, and I have the irrational urge to look over my shoulder at Cassian and Lucas, both of whom I can still feel drilling holes into my scalp. I imagine they’re scoffing right now at Mrs. Brummer’s words. Maybe thinking about how much of a kiss-ass I am.

  “Have you been practicing while you’ve been away?” she asks, a stern scowl on her archaic face.

  “Of course. My ex’s father owned the music store, Twisted Beats, in California,” I admit, thinking fondly of Uriel Griffin. We split amicably a few months before I traveled back to Michigan, and I still text him periodically. I think we just both agreed that the relationship between us wasn’t working, at least romantically, but that we could still be friends. The last time he texted me, he mentioned that he was seeing a new girl who worked at the local coffee shop.

  I hear what sounds like something snapping, and when I whip my head around, I see Cassian holding a broken pencil as he scowls at me.

  “And have you finished that piece you were working on?” Mrs. Brummer queries with a cocked brow. “Charming Devils” was a passion piece of mine when I was younger, but over the years, I’ve been able to improve my craft until the song wrote itself. It didn’t feel like notes on a page. No, it felt like me. That song is a story of my life, a story that unravels my soul for the entire world to see.

  “I have.” I smirk at her, and her eyes light up in understanding. With a nod towards the grand piano, easily worth the price of my car, she moves to sit at the desk I abandoned.

  “Let’s hear it, child.” She waves her hand at me to begin, and I slowly slide across the bench. I move my fingers over the keys, familiarizing myself with the instrument, before I take a deep, reflective breath. I know that when I play this song, I’ll be revealing a piece of myself, a piece of my soul, to the two boys sitting attentively in the front row, staring at me with indecipherable eyes. But at the same time, I want them to hear it, to know what’s coming for them. I want them to question everything and wonder if this is it. If this is the moment I destroy them so irrevocably, they won’t be able to pick up the shattered pieces.

  I lived in fear for years.

  Now, it’s their turn.

  My fingers glide across the keys as I begin the song I’ve memorized. Years and years of playing, of writing, of composing, has led to thi
s moment. This single song, played to an audience of seven.

  The first half depicts immense, agonizing pain. The notes are lower, louder, to emphasize the fear I felt every day. The panic. The myriad of emotions pounding, pounding, pounding in my head. But then, the piece gets softer, lighter, as I detail my escape from the school and the new life I made for myself in California. And finally, the ending…a mixture of impishness and cunningness, all fleshed together in a fast-paced tune.

  When I finally finish, I bow my head over the keys and squeeze my eyelids shut. The emotions roaring through me, demanding my attention, are almost impossible to ignore. They sit on my chest like a fifty-ton weight, pressing down on my ribcage until I’m choking on my own blood. Because pain? It doesn’t just go away. I mean sure, there are moments when you forget about it, moments when it doesn’t monopolize your every thought, but it always returns when you least expect it.

  And it fucking kills you.

  “Charming Devils” took years to write, but the funny thing is? It’s not done. I just know there’s going to be one more section of the song, one more verse, depicting these final moments. And I also know that the ending is going to be written completely by fate, with me as the guiding hand.