by Jo Raven
Table of Contents
King of Bullies (Prequel to No Saint)
Read on and find out what happens next in NO SAINT (Wild Men 6).
AUTHOR BIO
King of bullies
(No Saint Prequel)
by Jo Raven
Once upon a time there lived a boy with his dad who ruled the small town of Destiny. Like his dad, the boy was a bully who thrived on causing misery.
Like his dad, he was king.
Like his dad, he was lost.
One day he met a girl called Luna who made him feel something other than rage and pain, a girl who would one day show him that to be strong you don’t have to hurt others, or yourself, and that there’s great strength in kindness and love.
But that came later. That was then, and this is now...
*** This is a short prequel to NO SAINT ***
King of Bullies (Prequel to NO SAINT)
Jo Raven
Copyright Jo Raven 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
CHAPTER ONE—ROSS
Ross rhymes with Boss...
“What do we do with him, Boss?”
I shoot an indifferent glance at the unfortunate idiot who got himself in my gang’s sights as I walk down the school hallway. “Shove him out of our way. What are you waiting for?”
“On it.” Finnick grins like the devil incarnate and gives a wolf-whistle, then points at our target. “Get him.”
They fall on the guy like a swarm of grasshoppers, pushing him to the floor, tearing his backpack off, kicking him for good measure. He wails something and tries to fight them, but it’s no use. They’re all too happy to beat him up, so I make a call.
“Enough!” I shout at them, for some reason annoyed when they don’t obey at once, and stalk away, through the school grounds, wearing my anger like a second skin, yet simmering, sizzling under the surface with pain.
The pain that’s in my ribs, in my back, in my thoughts. I even limp a little this morning, and it pisses me the hell off.
“And her?” Edward, one of the pups following the gang, comes panting after me. “Ross. What about her?”
“Who you talking about?” I stop and turn to look.
Oh.
Her.
Her name is Luna. I noticed her for the first time a couple of months ago, when she stepped in my way as I was heading out for a smoke, planning to skip the last two periods of boring nonsense in favor of a nicotine high and a chance to stretch my legs.
Instead, I plowed right into this girl, all soft curves and bright eyes and a spark of absolute defiance in them that hooked me like a drug.
Ed takes my silence as a tacit order to get on with it, it seems, reaching out his skinny leg to trip Luna up. With her nose buried in a book as she usually is—a notebook this time, judging from the size—it’s an easy task. She goes sprawling, and something behind my breastbone twinges.
Might have been my heart, if I’d had one.
Which I don’t.
Folding my arms over my chest, I watch as she gets up, gathering her things, loose pages from her notebook, and I wonder what she writes in there. I wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling. If she’s scared. If she’s angry.
She glances at me, an accusing look in those pretty eyes, and I grin at her. “Got something to say, fat girl? Did your big fat ass fail to defeat gravity?”
Stupid insults. Even my wit deserts me when faced with this particular girl, and I don’t know why.
Her face crumples a little, nevertheless, hands clenching on the pages, scrunching them up. Guess I scored anyway. Her eyes dart around, noting who is there, who’s witnessing her humiliation. Yeah, I know now how she feels. I see the naked fear, and the pain, in her expression.
Like every time, I expect it to please me, to cleanse me. To take away my pain, wipe my thoughts clean, give me relief.
But it doesn’t.
Anger flares up inside me—at her, at my dad, at the world.
At myself.
Turning my back to her, I nod at the gang. Let’s fuck shit up.
And that’s what we do. This time I egg them on, to break school furniture, break lockers and scatter their contents all over the place. Break people, insulting them and shoving them around, kicking at them, inviting others to watch and laugh at them.
Though the gang does most of that, reporting to me, proud of their mean little acts, it’s on me. I never stop them. I never lead them, either. I don’t need to. My reputation came with me from the start: son of Jasper Jones, bully and depraved, taking pleasure in kicking puppies and tearing others down.
Not that they’re wrong. I am a bad apple. A bad person.
But you know what? I don’t see any saints in this town, either. I live in hell, and everyone else had better hitch a ride along with me. It’s only fair.
***
Fucking shit up is the gang’s business, like I said, and it’s happening right now. Even timid Jenner who always follows us around like a lost pup is taking part in it today, launching insults at our new target—a newbie, a nerdy boy with glasses who always has the answers in class.
Hey, as good a target as any. Today I’ll take anything. Any outlet. Any relief.
Hanging back, slouching against the wall, I watch the hazing and try not to think about that. About how the bullying doesn’t give me pleasure, but sometimes, like today... it’s needed. I need it. Seeing that boy’s fear, his distress, his helpless rage, helps me.
Because the world sucks.
Because my back is torn to shreds from Dad’s belt and the pain is blinding, and the thought of going back home later is making me break out in a cold sweat.
Because I dunno how to fix this—this situation, this life—and at least I won’t be the only miserable asshole suffering today, no sir. I’ll drag others down with me. That’s what I do. I break up other people’s heaven, pull them down to the pits with me. Tear their wings off and watch them bleed.
The gang is laughing and snickering, walking away from the crying boy, and I spare a moment of pity and contempt for him. Didn’t anyone ever tell him to suck it up and move on? That tears are for the weak, that asking for a better fate is for losers?
For pussies, Dad’s voice rumbles inside my head. Tears are for pussies and losers, so suck it up, boy, and get off the floor. What are you whining for? I feed you, put clothes on your back and a roof over your head. Ungrateful brat. You in pain? It’s because you’re too weak. If you were strong, you’d hit back harder. You’d go out there and wreak havoc. You’d show me you’re a man and not a sniveling crybaby.
“Fucking crybaby,” I mutter, pushing off the wall and starting the other way, not bothering to see how it ends.
“Boss?” Finnick calls behind me. My right-hand-man, who’d love to take my place and lead the gang.
Fuck him.
“What are you doing?” a voice cries out, a girl’s voice, familiar and pulling on my last fraying nerve. “Leave him alone! Leave him alone, you...”
Oh fuck me.
Octavia.
And behind her Gigi and Merc.
My rage flares again. “You slut.” I turn back around and advance on her, my hands clenching into fists. “Why don’t you run back to your mommy, huh? Go on. Get.”
“Leave that boy alone.” Her voic
e shakes a little. She even dares to raise a finger at me. “He did nothing to you. Stop harassing him.”
“Or what? What will you do?” She doesn’t look anything like me, I think, while my mouth keeps prodding at her defenses. Because she’s nothing like me. “Fight me? Go on, try.”
Octavia Watson has dark hair and blue eyes and looks like her mom. Unlike her sister Gigi and brother Merc, who look like me. But nobody has ever seemed to notice this similarity.
Hell, not even Octavia and her siblings have. Why would they? Nobody knows the truth. Nobody but Dad and me.
It doesn’t do anything to appease me. On the contrary, it pisses me off even more. Why shouldn’t they know? Little fuckers, little shits. Having it all and not being able to appreciate it, the stupid fucking idiots.
Jonas shouts something as the boy takes the opportunity of our distraction to make a run for it, pushing his glasses up his nose and holding his backpack under one arm, hair sticking up.
Oh well...
“You know, Ross, karma is a bitch,” Octavia informs me haughtily, the emotion betrayed by the spark of fear in her eyes, “and one day you’ll get paid in your own currency and won’t like it one bit.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?” I laugh in her face, honestly amused.
Does she think karma is something that comes after you’ve done something wrong? Karma found me first, before I knew my own name, knocked me down and danced all over me. Made me into who I am.
She shakes her head at me and walks away, followed by her siblings who shoot me baleful glares. The boy, Merc, looks just like me, dammit... Like I did when I was a kid, in old pictures where I’m sitting together with Mom, smiling at the camera, looking so happy...
“What’s your beef with them anyway?” Ed asks, appearing by my side, startling me.
His brother Jonas joins us, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah, what’s the deal?”
“No deal.” I shrug. "She’s a goody two-shoes, and they’re fucking idiots, all three of them. They keep on getting on my goddamn nerves.”
“Cool with me.” Ed has no problem accepting my assholery.
Nobody does. It’s who I am, how I act day in and day out. A bastard, a devil walking the school hallways, ruling over a court of cowardly, scared kids and a gang of aggressive fuckwits.
What he doesn’t know is that Octavia, Gigi, Merc are my dad’s bastards. They’re fucking bastards, and dare to live in the same town I am, with their mother, a happy cozy little family in their stupid cozy little house with its trim garden and white lace curtains at the windows.
Rubbing it in my face.
It makes me so fucking mad. And nothing helps. I call the girl names, I trip her up, I shove her around. She’s almost my age, did you know? That Dad fucked her mom at the same time he fucked mine?
I have my gang write stuff on her locker, open it and throw out her books. I watch and watch, hoping to catch the gleam of desperate tears in her eyes, to see... if she’s finally as miserable as I am.
But it’s not happening. She won’t do it. Won’t break down. She’s made of steel, my half-sister. My bastard almost-twin. Is it her mother’s love that makes her so strong? That confidence, that happy glow in her gaze, is it a gift from her family, that support she has from loving siblings and a mom who cooks her dinner and mends her clothes, who hugs her when she returns home from school?
I’ve seen it. I’ve followed her a couple of times, hidden in shadows like a creep. I’m a goddamn masochist, standing there in the shadows, watching all that family affection and warmth, all of them sitting around the table laughing and talking, leaning close to each other without fear.
It fucks me up. Makes me shake.
I’ll break her. I’ll make her afraid. I’ll make her flinch away from touches and words, like I do sometimes. I’ll turn her into a version of me.
It’s only fair. Jasper is her dad, too, so why should she be spared?
Fresh blood runs down my back, hot and stinging, and I’m still shaking. Fuck this shit. Fuck the world. None of this is making me feel any better, nothing gets that burning itch from under my skin, from my mind, this need to smash into walls and break everything around me, break my mind until the pain stops.
Things are only bound to get uglier as time passes. I can’t see a fucking way out...
CHAPTER TWO—LUNA
Luna rhymes with Fortuna
That’s what my aunt always says. Luna rhymes with Fortuna, the goddess of good luck. Luna means “moon”, it means bright.
None of that seems to apply to me, though. Where’s my good luck, where’s the brightness? I don’t see it, quite frankly. Life kinda sucks right now. Mom isn’t around. It’s been a couple of years since the divorce and her vanishing act, but it still hurts. I get why people get divorced, I’m not dumb. But why did she have to go so far away? Why did she leave us behind like we meant nothing to her?
And then there’s Ross Jones’ gang at school, teasing and bullying me, making my life hell. School used to be my escape. At home Dad mopes most of the time, and my little brother, Josh, misses Mom so much that he keeps acting up, crying and throwing things about. Demanding my attention, like I’m his mom now, like I don’t have my own problems.
We live in the middle of nowhere, so there aren’t any distractions. And joy of joys, our only neighbor is Ross Jones and his dad. Just my luck, right?
Fortuna, my ass.
At first I thought it unfair. Where’s the justice in this, huh? Why me? What did I ever do to those stupid guys? To the whole frigging world?
But later I started feeling that... that I deserve the teasing and bullying. That they’re right to call me those names.
That I am fat. I am ugly. I am stupid. I’m starting to believe all of it.
Dad says I’m beautiful. That my body is fine as it is. That I shouldn’t compare myself to others, that I should accept myself as I am.
But how? Surrounded by tall, willowy girls in tight jeans and tops, looking like they stepped out of the pages of fashion magazines, how can I accept myself, my lack of a thigh gap, my jiggling legs and big boobs, and my ass. My big, fat ass.
The ass Ross Jones has specifically made fun of.
It shouldn’t matter that he was the one who said those things. But it does. God it does, because Ross Jones is hot. He’s sex on legs. He’s beautiful. His beauty is cold, arctic, with those ice-blue eyes and white-blond hair. He has the kind of square jaw that makes girls stupid, the kind of sharp cheekbones you can cut diamonds on, and then he has the muscular body of an athlete. Big shoulders. Broad chest. Thick thighs. A tight ass.
Girls talk a lot about his ass. And his cheekbones. And his jaw.
But it’s the eyes that get me the most (okay, and his shoulders, too. I love how broad his shoulders are). Those cold eyes that flare up with heat sometimes when he looks at me. There’s anger, rage, and what looks like sadness in their depths, the emotion sharp and jagged, snagging at my thoughts.
Sometimes, even... sometimes I think I see interest lurking in his gaze.
For me.
And it makes me burn up inside. Despite the things he said to me. Despite him watching impassively as his gang shoves me about and stomps all over my stuff, breaking it and tearing it apart.
I’m crazy, right? Come right out and say it. Is this some sort of Stockholm syndrome? Is it because of how attractive, and popular he is? How can I want someone who treats me like shit under their shoe? I’m an intelligent person.
Right?
Yeah, this makes me wonder, too. I mean, when they say love is blind, what do they mean? This is the opposite. Love makes you stupid, rather than blind. Being blind would have fixed this.
Or maybe that’s my mistake, right there: this isn’t love. It’s lust, and attraction. A gut-wrenching need to have his attention, to have him smile at me, say I’m beautiful. Put those powerful arms around me, lean in and kiss me...
God, what am I doing to myself?
I h
ave to stop...
***
I ride my bicycle to school every morning, and though today it’s raining, I decided against taking the bus. I’m running late as it is, and by the time I walked to the bus stop and caught the next bus, I’d have missed half the morning’s classes.
That’s how I arrive at school: looking like a drowned rat. I’m wet, cold, and out of breath, and the last thing I need is to draw the attention of Ross’s gang.
But I do. Yeah, I’m just so lucky... They must’ve skipped first hour, not all that surprising knowing what a bunch of losers they are, and are gathered outside the school fence, smoking in the cold drizzle. The moment I arrive on my creaking bike, dripping and wiping rainwater from my eyes, they’re on me, like flies.
And he’s there, too.
Ross.
“Would you look at that... It’s the fatso on her alien piece of space junk.” This is Jonas, one of the assholes constantly following Ross around, mimicking his way of dressing, his hairdo... his insults. They all do that, to a greater or lesser degree. “What’s the matter, couldn’t take off for your home planet?”
“Too much weight,” his brother Edward mutters. “You should throw some overboard.”
“Your ass is too fat,” Jonas says slowly, pronouncing each word with exaggerated care, as if I’m slow. But what worries me more is that he stalks toward me, flicking his cigarette to the ground. “You’re an ugly cow, aren’t you? A stupid, fat cow.”
The words strike like bullets, one after the other, taking my breath away. I’m still straddling my bike, my hair plastered to my face, dripping into my eyes, and I can’t find the energy, the desire to fight back.
“What’s the matter, cat ate your tongue?” Jonas is right in front of me, and before I know what he’s doing, he shoves me.
Sky and earth tumble over and over, and I find myself sprawled in the mud, the bike half on top of me, aches everywhere. I should have expected that, I think. I should have turned around and rode my bike away.
But what really gets me is that, all the while, Ross has been watching from hooded eyes, leaning back against the wall, one booted foot casually propped against its surface, a half-smile on his lips.
