King of Bullies (Prequel to No Saint)

by Jo Raven

Arrogant.

  In control.

  Beautiful.

  Foul and mean, a fallen angel turned demon, come to oversee my destruction. His mouth is tilted up in a faint smirk, making those chiseled cheekbones stand out sharply, and he’s not wearing a jacket, his thin sweater plastered to that muscular chest and shoulders. When he lifts his hand to push soaked hair from his eyes, his biceps bulge.

  Why do I still feel so drawn to him? He’s the wicked king, the fairytale villain. A psychopath, enjoying others’ pain. My pain. How can I still dream of his mouth on mine when he’s smiling at my anguish?

  Pulling myself together, tearing my gaze off him, I get back on my feet and haul my bike upright beside me. I have nothing to say to him or his fan club. I hate how my chin trembles as I fight back belated tears. The shock is wearing off, I guess, and the cold is sinking into my bones. Bloodied, muddied, kind of terrified as I realize I’ve become a regular target for the gang now, I trudge into the school.

  I’ve been teased on and off for years. For my weight. For being too quiet. Too bookish. For becoming too closed off and emotional after Mom left.

  Ross hadn’t always been behind the teasing, but in the past year he has. He seems... focused on me. On causing me misery. Maybe that’s what the devil does. Daze you with his beauty while he drags you off. I need to stop fantasizing about him.

  His light blue eyes flash in my mind and my resolve wobbles. He never touched me, never shoved me, like his buddies. Could that mean he likes me? He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Can’t remember him with a girl by his side, ever, though the rumor mill has it he’s slept his way through half the female population of the school.

  Could that mean something? Maybe I stand a chance?

  The guy who called me fat, who said my ass is so big gravity defeated me.

  There must be something fundamentally wrong with me to so easily forget his insults, his attitude, his unnerving watchful gaze while his friends torment me, and be drawn back to him time and again.

  Lack of confidence and basic self-esteem? Or the Ross-bug that seems to be going around a lot, causing stupidity to any girl when faced with his handsome self?

  Gah.

  When will I give it up?

  CHAPTER THREE—ROSS

  Rain rhymes with pain...

  How many times did I wake up in a bar, curled at my dad’s feet as he snored, facedown on a table? How many times did I crawl out of the house, to escape his drunken bouts of violence?

  This time, I’m not gonna crawl into a corner and cry like a girl. Though I am cornered.

  I think Dad’s finally gone crazy. Gone around the bend. Fucking batshit. He was never a ray of sunshine before, never really sober, but these days... Shit, man. Sometimes I think he wants to kill me.

  Makes both of us sound crazy. Maybe I caught it from him, like a disease. Maybe I dropped down the rabbit hole together with him.

  Maybe it was in me all along, a genetic flaw, a missing chromosome, a misfiring neuron in the brain.

  Anyway, Dad wouldn’t kill me. He isn’t a murderer. He’s an asshole, sure, certified. A motherfucker. And I hate his guts. But it’s probably just a phase. He’s been lashing out at the mechanics at the garage, shoving them, punching them, cursing their mothers. A couple resigned. Others can’t afford to.

  And then there’s me. I wish I could resign from being his son. I wish he’d give any sign he gave a shit about me. I used to think he did, but that’s so long ago now I’ve sucked the memory—imagined or real—dry.

  So the fact that he’s cornered me in my bedroom with the belt in his hands and that drunk, mean gleam in his eyes should worry me.

  What should worry me more is the fact I don’t really give a damn if he hits me, if he punches me until I pass out and uses his belt on my back, over barely healed scabs, to lay out a new pattern of scars. I stare into his flat, cold eyes, the same color, same shape as mine, into an older reflection of my own face, and open my arms, inviting him in.

  “Whatcha smirking at, boy?” He snarls, lifting the belt and lashing at me with it. The buckle catches me on the arm, then my chest, leaving a line of fire, wrenching a gasp from my throat. “You think I’m fucking with you? Goddamn fucktard. Your mother should have taken you with her.”

  That leaves me winded for a different reason. “You know where she went?” He always refuses to talk about her, about why she left, what happened to her. How to reach her.

  “What the hell does it matter?” Snap goes the belt, and I grunt as it slashes across my stomach and ribs. “You don’t even remember her.”

  “I remember her,” I protest. “I remember—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” His fist flies at me, smashing into my jaw, followed by the belt, and darkness swallows me for a few precious moments.

  Next thing I know, I’m sprawled on the floor, on my belly, and the belt is dancing on my bared back, lightning strikes, electric shocks that make my body jump involuntarily. My jaw is clenched so tight that my teeth are grinding together, and my breathing is coming fast and shallow.

  “Stop,” I manage. “Dad... just stop.”

  Wrong thing to say. His boot presses down on the small of my back, promising agony. “Gonna snivel and beg, boy? Think that will save you? Strength is the only way to go. Getting the upper hand is the only solution. Pride. Have some fucking pride. Be a man and take it, or you’re not my fucking son anymore, got it?”

  Got it.

  I clench my teeth and swallow any sound coming up my throat as he methodically stripes my back and shoulders, as my hot blood drips to the floor. Drip drip drip, and the swishing of the belt, the thud of impacts, and nothing else.

  The house is quiet. Nobody to come and see what’s going on. No neighbors nearby to knock on the door. Nobody to save me. Ever.

  But I don’t need saving. Pain makes you into a man. Accepting pain means I am my father’s son.

  Dealing pain to others means I’ve learned my lesson.

  ***

  “Get him,” I say, and the gang swarms around the awkward, slightly overweight boy trying to make his escape without being noticed. “Strip him.”

  Laughter rings out as the idiots of my gang hurry to do my bidding. They’re not any better than the kids we’re toying with. In fact, they’re worse.

  We are worse. Assholes, all of us. Sickos. Arrogant sons of bitches, with a chip on our shoulder and a thirst to inflict damage. It’s all we’re good at. All we know how to do.

  “Get the lard-ass!” I yell and whoop as he yelps, overrun by my guys, as he flails and drops everything he’s been holding—his backpack, his phone, and a sandwich that unravels and rains mayonnaise and bacon bits all over him. “Make him piss himself!”

  A dark sort of joy spreads through me, a dark wave, as I watch, pulling the strings on this little act of violence. There’s this sense that I’m doing what I should. What’s expected of me. No more remorse, I tell myself, no more doubts. Strength is the only way. Aggression is the only path.

  Walk it. Follow it. Dad commands this whole town. You command this school. All these students, they’re yours to shape. Make them sit. Beg. Roll over. Crack the weak ones right open, like eggs, suck them dry, like your hopes and memories. This world doesn’t belong to the weak. It belongs to those who don’t panic and cry, to those who don’t piss their pants when you and your gang walk on by.

  My reign of fear has grown over the past months, my web grown thicker. It’s freeing, liberating, when I insult them, torment them, find their weak spot and strike.

  Doing to them what my father does to me.

  I was wrong. He isn’t crazy. What he tried to do is pluck out my fears, help me become stronger. Because I’m his son, his one true son, and he needs me to follow in his steps, eventually take over his business. He can’t deal with a weakling. Can’t be proud of one. That’s why he does what he does. Teaching me a lesson.

  It’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m his chosen son. Not a bastard, lik
e the Watsons who are running around this same town, or the other boy, another bastard son he once mentioned when he was well into his cups. I’m the one he kept by his side, in his house, at his workshop. The only one he gave his name to. I’m the only official son of Jasper Jones.

  He needs me ready to run the show one day. He needs me strong enough.

  The boy is finally allowed to leave, and I turn when the gang starts whistling and calling out in the lines of “Hey, Looney! Looney Tunes!”

  Luna.

  Before I say anything, the gang is all over her, calling her all sorts of names, advancing on her like a cloud of wasps, hungry for her reaction.

  “Nutjob Tunes!” someone calls out. “Fat-ass!”

  She doesn’t disappoint. She steps back, paling, looking for a way out. Cute little thing, her nose always buried in books, those wide green eyes often unfocused as she goes by, lost in thought. A good student, doing her homework, knowing stuff. I bet her parents love the hell out of her.

  “Ugly bitch,” I say, and she flinches as if I yelled it out loud.

  She heard me.

  It hurt her.

  Good.

  Someone grabs her backpack, pulls it off her, empties her books out all over the floor. She fights to get it back and she’s shoved away roughly. She stumbles but doesn’t fall. She waits until the guys have had their fill of throwing her books about, of calling her stupid names and making faces at her.

  After they’ve returned to me, she goes down on her knees to gather her things. I pretend not to observe her, instead I pretend to listen to whatever bullshit one of the guys is talking to me about, some nonsense about his sister and a junkie from Kansas City.

  But I’m keeping her at the periphery of my vision, and when she finally stands up and lifts her head, I see her face clearly.

  She has tears standing on her lashes, crystal drops, but the look she shoots me is defiant. Without a word, without a gesture, it’s as if she flips me off.

  It makes me feel good.

  And at the same time, sick. Physically sick, with bile rising in my throat. What the fuck? Why does it sting like this? Why can’t I take pleasure in her fear, like I do with everyone else’s?

  Luna isn’t weak, like everyone else, I realized then. She doesn’t need this violence, like me, to find her strength. She’s beautiful. She’s strong. She’s perfect as she is.

  That defiant streak... That resilience. Always getting back up, gathering her torn books, gathering her pride around her. Never speaking. Never letting those tears fall. As time passed, it made me angrier, that she should be so strong. And I hated myself even more for trying to destroy her.

  I thought I could never break her.

  I thought I could never break, either.

  I was wrong on both accounts.

  CHAPTER FOUR- LUNA

  Clever rhymes with never

  Day after day, month after month, I go through the same ritual at school, and in town: Ross Jones’ gang teasing me, pushing me about, calling me names and bodyshaming me.

  For some time, I thought I could take it, live with it. Ignore it and go on as if nothing was wrong. I’m strong. I always thought I’m confident enough. I may not be a supermodel, but I’m not ugly. I may not be a genius, but I’m clever. I read a lot, I know a lot. My grades are pretty good, my life is okay. My dad and my brother love me, and I have a great aunt and cousins. I may not have any real friends right now, but that’s probably because I’ve pushed them all away. Between the divorce, Mom’s vanishing act, and the bullying, I’ve turned into a bit of a hermit.

  Still. I always thought I wasn’t the kind of person bullying could break. No idea what sort of person I thought that would be. The breaking kind, I guess. Someone weak, not me.

  Never me.

  But like water eats at rocks, eroding them, wearing them down to sand, my resistance has worn thin, my armor is full of holes. Every mean insult, every shove and seemingly random hit, trips me up and bogs me down even more. I heard Chinese torture is like that, wearing down the prisoner little by little. Who knows if it’s true?

  It sure seems to work on me.

  All those sharp, wicked words are cracking me wide open, making me feel worthless. How many times have they broken into my locker and torn my books and notebooks to pieces? How many times have they written on my locker and on the walls insulting me? I hide my scraped knees and elbows from my dad. I’m sick and tired of picking myself up from the floor time and again, or swallowing back tears.

  Of seeing Ross smile as I suffer.

  He’s more vicious than ever, always coming at me when I arrive at school or walk down Main Street. He still hasn’t touched me, not once, but his words cut like blades. He hates me, and it’s slowly sinking in that it wasn’t attraction what I saw in his eyes: it was the interest of a predator seeing his favorite prey. His words are a true reflection of his feelings: he thinks I’m ugly, and he wants to see me hurt. It pleases him.

  He’s a monster.

  He has no reason to be that way. Sure, his mother walked away like mine did—but I didn’t bully people to feel better, like he does. His dad is rich, owner of Jasper’s Garage, the biggest workshop in the area. The man’s intimidating. I wonder if he approves of his son’s behavior. But I don’t really care.

  Point is, Ross has it all. He has no excuses for being who he is. He makes his own choices. It’s his choice to torment others, and what his dad does or doesn’t approve shouldn’t make a difference. Ross is seventeen. Almost a grown-up.

  Beautiful and cruel like some fae prince from the books I like to read, who for some reason picked me as his favorite chew toy.

  And I can’t take it anymore...

  ***

  “You want to leave?” Dad is frowning at the far wall, not even looking at me, as if the sight of me like now hurts him. “And go where?”

  Hey, looks like I can hurt others, too. The privilege doesn’t belong to Ross alone. But it gives me no pleasure at all. I guess I just can’t understand him.

  “It will be just for a short while,” I whisper.

  “How long?”

  I shrug. “Just to finish the school year.”

  Or longer. Until Ross finishes school and hopefully moves away. Though why he’d leave, I don’t know. One can still hope, right? But I don’t say all that, because the pain in Dad’s voice is bad enough as it is.

  “Luna...”

  “I can stay with Aunt Emily. She already said she would love to have me.”

  “You talked to her already?”

  I wince. “Yes. I asked her if she’d let me stay with her. Theoretically.”

  “Theoretically.” Dad’s voice has turned so sharp it cuts like glass. “You asked her. Before talking to me.”

  “I had to know if there was any chance... any chance I could do this.”

  Dad is quiet for a bit. Then he says, “What about Josh?”

  “What about him? He’ll be fine.”

  “He’ll miss you. Hell, I’ll miss you.”

  I swallow past a lump in my throat. “I won’t be all that far away. I’ll come visit.”

  “First your mom leaves us,” Dad whispers, “and now you.”

  “That’s not fair. You can’t blame me for mom.”

  “No, honey, of course not. I’m sorry.” Dad sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”

  I know. Deep inside I know. He’s only upset, and sad. I don’t want to leave him either, or Josh. The problem is, I can’t stay here anymore. Not with Ross around. I can’t breathe anymore. I can’t function. I can’t live.

  “Please, Dad. I need to do this.”

  “It’s that bad, huh? At school.”

  I don’t need to answer that. He knows. I told him bits and pieces. I had to explain my scrapes and bruises, the tears. The shredded books, the destroyed backpacks, the torn clothes. The descent into depression.

  “I’ll talk to Josh,” Dad says. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s for the best. And afte
r that... after this year, please come back to us, Luna. That boy can’t rip you away from us. You can’t let him win.”

  But I feel like he already has. Because, in spite of everything, even though he’s made my life so dark here that I’m leaving my family and my home, in spite of it all...

  ... I still can’t stop thinking about him every night.

  I still see his face every time I close my eyes.

  And worse, I still crave his kiss, his touch.

  What will happen when I come back and see him again one day? Will I shatter all over again, or will I be able to ignore him? Will I still dream of him or will I forget him?

  I guess only time will tell...

  Read on and find out what happens next in NO SAINT (Wild Men 6).

  Preorder links here: https://joraven.com/no-saint-wild-men-6/

  Meet the infamous Ross, black sheep of the family and bully extraordinaire...

  I drink too much, smoke too much, screw around. I’ve hurt people, been in and out of prison. I’m a bastard, a beast. I’m a bundle of joy.

  I mean, my own dad tried to kill me, what does that tell you?

  Then again, my dad did kill my mom, so maybe it isn’t just me. Who the hell knows. The world sucks and I’m giving it the finger in every damn way, except...

  Except there’s a girl. Pretty. Hot. Clever. She didn’t get the memo—that she should hate me, shun me, kick me when I’m down. That the world screwed us all over. She believes in the future—and sometimes she seems to even believe in me.

  Big mistake. I’m bad news. I made her suffer in the past, and nothing has changed. I’m not an angel, not a saint. I’m just no good.

  But for some reason I don’t get, I can’t let her go down with me. I find myself trying to be better for her, pretending to be someone I’m not.

  And if that doesn’t ring some damn big alarm bells regarding my sanity, well... then I’m done already.

  Excerpt from NO SAINT:

  After my penitence for the day has left a small puddle of blood on the street behind the grocery store—from my split lip and a cut I got on a shard of glass as I was kicked about—my road takes me, limping and cursing, between thinning houses and gardens, toward the river.