by
Very Wicked Beginnings
A Briarcrest Academy Prequel Novella
to Very Wicked Things
Copyright © 2014 by Ilsa Madden-Mills
Cover Photography by Toski Covey Photography
Cover Design by Sommer Stein of Perfect Pear Creative
Cover Model Tanner Belcher
Editing by Rachel Skinner of Romance Refined
Formatting by JT Formatting
ISBN: 978-0990368403
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
May 2014 proceeds from this novella will be donated to the
Keith Milano Memorial Fund for Suicide Prevention
For other titles by Ilsa Madden-Mills, visit Amazon
Table of Contents
Title Page
Welcome to Briarcrest Academy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Acknowledgments
A Preview of Used by Lynetta Halat
A Preview of Unrequited by Melody Grace
For those of you who have ever lost anything, whether it’s simply your keys or something as heartbreaking as your mind.
For my husband, the best beta reader a girl could have. You’re my Viking, for reals, babe. I love you.
“Two things about me: I play football—and girls.”
–Cuba
September
Junior Year
I WANTED THE gorgeous girl in the window.
More specifically, I wanted the dark-haired girl dancing inside the Symthe Arts Building as I stood outside on the twenty-yard line at football practice, fixated on her when I should have been focused on the line of scrimmage. I adjusted my helmet and squinted through the afternoon Dallas sun.
Did I know her?
Movement from other players on the field pulled me back. Good thing. As defensive end, it was my job to put the screws to or sack the quarterback as soon as the ball snapped.
Clearly, I was off today. Probably because I had a shit ton of homework waiting on me at home. With my dreams of being a doctor someday, I took each assignment seriously at Briarcrest Academy, planning for the future.
Just like every seventeen-year-old kid out there, I had the usual stresses.
But I did have more than the average. I had a sick mom.
Those thoughts faded when I looked back at the window and watched the girl run and then leap in the air, her body doing some kind of crazy in-the-air-leg-split-thing. Damn. She’d gotten at least four feet off the ground.
Then, after landing on her feet light as a feather, she danced away from my view. I waited for her to come back, wanting to check out her toned muscles again, especially her tight ass. And then I randomly wondered if her tits were small. Weren’t all dancers? Yeah. But still, she looked—
“Pay attention, Hudson!” Coach Howe yelled at me.
Fuck. Caught.
I automatically stiffened and tightened my defensive stance, running my eyes across the offensive line, waiting for the play. But Matt, the quarterback, was pussy-footing around, still undecided if they were gonna run or pass.
I got bored.
Out of my peripheral vision, I caught a flash of pink dashing past the window.
She was back.
And like I was addicted to her, my eyes drifted to the building again, one part baffled by the fascination, the other part wanting to get another glimpse of her long legs. As I watched, she adjusted her ponytail as she laughed up at her ballet partner—who was a dude. Crazzzy. Yeah, you’d think he’d be all feminine and shit, but he wasn’t. Nope. Dude looked buff, like he could bench press a school bus.
Something about the girl had me riveted. It was probably that short skirt she wore. I pictured slipping my hand underneath it to her panties. Her core would be hot, on fire for me, of course, and I’d ease my finger inside her wet—
Bam! I took a hard hit from Tank Carson, an All District offensive guard I routinely ran circles around in practice. He might be big, but I was quick and smart and had more moves than a freaking octopus. So the chance to plant my distracted ass on the turf was an early Christmas present for him. That’s what I get for letting some piece of ass get in my game, even if it was practice.
And so. My unprepared body flew through the air with 290 pounds of Tank on top of it. My head hit the turf, the contact reverberating inside my helmet and then everything went black …
A few minutes later, I blinked up into the hot sun, stretched out on a bench alongside the field. One of the assistant coaches gave me a smirk as he leaned over and peered at my eyes.
“Ah, so you are alive.”
I nodded, wincing as I sat up.
“Any nausea?” he asked, handing me a Gatorade and a bottle of Aleve.
I took both and shook my head. I’d had worse hits.
“Just woozy. Didn’t see him coming is all.” How fucking embarrassing.
He watched me swallow down two pills. “You got mowed down because you weren’t paying attention. Don’t be pulling that shit during a game. You thinking of getting a football scholarship next year?”
I rubbed my temple and sighed. Not really. Being a doctor seemed more important, but I didn’t say that. And sure I loved football, but ultimately, my goal in life was to help people, to make up for all the bad shit I did four years ago.
Still, there was a ton of pressure on the team. And I wanted to be a leader, someone the other players looked up to. Especially since the quarterback was a jerk, all into making himself look good.
“Sorry, Coach. I got distracted. It won’t happen again.”
He slapped me on the back. “Your eyes are good, and there’s no swelling. It’s possible you have a very mild concussion, so the best thing to do is rest up. I called your dad to come check you out.”
I said okay and after he walked away, I glanced over to see if the strange object of my stupidity was still in the window. I didn’t see her, and the studio lights looked dimmed, so I guessed her practice had ended pretty much as soon as I’d taken the hit.
Now, I’d never know who she was.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at the details of her face. Sure, I knew her hair was dark and her body tight, but that was about it. Put her in regular clothes, and she’d fit right in with half the girls at Briarcrest.
I got a pang of disappointment at not knowing her name, and it surprised me.
Why did I care about some girl in the window anyway?
I had plenty of other girls, probably prettier, to keep me occupied. And I didn’t dig chasing girls. I liked immediate gratification when it came to the opposite sex, and if I had to work too hard for it, then it usually wasn’t worth my time.
Yet still my thoughts persi
sted.
Had she seen me looking? Did she know who I was?
Because face it, everyone did.
Obviously she was a student at BA, but if I didn’t know her, it told me right away she didn’t hang in my social circle. In other words, she wasn’t popular. Meh. Everyone here thinks I’m the king of the school, even calling me Hollywood because they think my life is golden and perfect.
But it isn’t.
Because no matter who people think you are, no one really knows what’s underneath. The real truth is I’m an irresponsible, self-centered fuck who puts his own needs before others.
Just ask my mother. I’ve let her down plenty of times.
LATER THAT NIGHT at home, I relaxed in bed, finishing up some homework for Honors Chemistry.
Dad poked his head through the doorway. Earlier, he’d picked me up from school and taken me to the physician’s office where I’d gotten the okay that all was well. Since then, we’d eaten a light dinner and watched some television together. Typical evening at our house.
He eased in the room, adjusting his wire-framed glasses. “Hey, I gotta run out for a late staff meeting with the team.” He owns part of the Dallas Mavericks, like a big part. “You gonna be okay to check in on your mom in a few? Make sure she’s good?”
At the mention of her name, I got tense. Sighing, I eased out of bed. “Yeah, sure. She sleeping?”
I had no idea what her evening had consisted of since she hadn’t come down for dinner. She did that a lot, stayed in her room to read or watch mindless television. I don’t know what the difference was between watching it alone or with us but apparently there was.
He rubbed his jaw, wearing a thoughtful expression. “She seems good. No need to rush or worry, okay?” He checked his watch. “I’ll be home around midnight.”
I nodded and watched him walk down the hall, wishing I could leave too. That I could get in my Porsche and drive all the way out of Dallas, away from all the darkness that permeated my existence here in Highland Park.
Because much like my mother, I was alive but barely living.
A couple of hours later, I finished my homework and went upstairs to her room. As the door creaked open, my mouth got dry, wondering if maybe I should have come in sooner to see her, but that was stupid.
She’d said she wouldn’t try to kill herself again. She’d promised me.
I eased over to her bed and found her safe and sound, lying curled up like a little girl. Long dark hair cascaded across her pillow and rested against honey-colored skin. My mother was Brazilian and beautiful—everyone said so. She’d met and married my father while they’d both been students at Baylor University, both of them in the business department. He had light brown hair with pale skin and freckles while she was petite and exotic. They were opposites in personality too. He was gregarious and fun and loved to talk. She, well, wasn’t. Not anymore.
He loved to tell the story of how they met. About how he fell in love with her as soon as she walked into his dorm room on his buddy’s arm. Yeah, my dad loved her so much he stole his friend’s girl. Oh, he’d had to work for it because apparently she’d played hard to get, but he’d eventually won her over with his charming personality and relentless pursuit. His motto was all’s fair in love when a drop-dead gorgeous Brazilian is involved. I smiled, picturing him wooing my mom. Begging her to go to dinner with him. Asking her to marry him.
That had been nearly twenty years ago, though, and now they didn’t even share the same bed. And I don’t think it was dad’s choice. I’d watch him look at her sometimes. Like she hung the fucking moon. Like she was his star in the sky. But she never gazed at him. Or me.
I leaned down and moved a wayward curl, brushing my lips against her cheek. She smelled good, and dammit if it didn’t make my whole body draw up in pain, remembering a time when she’d hug me and tell me she loved me. Rubbing my aching chest, I took a step back, putting distance between us, wanting to run out of that room.
Not wanting to face the reality of her sickness.
I just missed her. I missed her singing along with a song on the radio; I missed her coming to my football games; I missed the way we used to be.
But I got it. I understood. She was hurting, slouching around the house with this hopeless look on her face. And that expression paralyzed me, yet ripped me up inside. Because she was withering away right in front of us, and no matter what we said or did, she refused to come out of it.
Her diagnosis was severe depression. Not cancer. Not even close. Physically, I guess she was healthy, if you overlooked the twenty pounds she’d put on in the past four years.
She stirred, and I took another step closer to the door. I didn’t want her eyes to search the room and find mine. Because I knew what I’d see … blame. The same thing I saw every day when I looked at myself in the mirror.
Because her sickness was all my fault.
I HEADED BACK to my room for a shower.
As I stripped off my track pants and shirt, I checked out the tattoo Dad had taken me to get for my birthday this past year, the first of many tats I planned to get. This one was a long vine of twisting red roses, resting on my upper arm and curving back on my shoulder. Most of the roses were in full bloom while one—a black one—was closed up, a circle of thorns protecting it. I’d gotten that flower for my sister, Cara. I flexed my heavy bicep muscles, watching the flowers move around on my skin.
Like that dark bloom, Cara was dead. She’d been gone for four years, but not a day went by that I didn’t think of her snaggle-toothed smile and strawberry-scented hair. She’d been born eight years after me, a surprise baby. A tiny replica of my mother, she’d been adored by everyone.
And at that thought, a slice of pain cut into me, and I nearly doubled over on the sink. Shit, what a fuck-up I was.
Must not think about her, I told myself.
So I thought about Ballet Girl.
I cranked up my radio and got in the shower. Before the water was even warm, I spread my legs and wrapped a hand around my cock, picturing her again, dancing, only this time I was the only one in the room with her. In my head, I stood behind her and watched her perform. My fantasy got hotter as she swayed and twirled like a beautiful goddess sent from the heavens to entertain me, looking ethereal and too damn perfect for this messed up world. I imagined her turning and seeing me and smiling so big I nearly lost my breath. Because she knew me. In this fantasy world, we’d been dating for a while now, spending time together, going out to dinner, laughing and talking, making out. She was in love with me and wanted me like she’d never wanted anyone or anything in her entire life. She couldn’t breathe without me. She wanted to make my life better. And I felt the same. I’d never been in love before, but maybe this time, with her—
Whoa.
Yeah, that kind of thinking made me stop my back and forth, but then I kicked it in again, stroking myself faster and harder. She was too good to not dream about. I got raunchier in my head, imagining me pulling her into my arms and kissing her, our mouths wide open, tongues licking, teeth biting. Then, I got down on my knees and unlaced her sexy ballet shoes. I worked my way up and slipped my hands underneath her skirt and eased it and her panties down her long legs. She spread her legs and begged me to lick her core, and I did, tasting her for the first time. I moaned into her, my tongue finding every secret crevice, devouring her. She came, her hands fisted in my hair, her cries echoing out into the empty dance studio.
She wanted me to fuck her, her hands urging me up off the ground, to finish what we’d started. I had to give her what she wanted. Because I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted any girl.
With furious need, I rose up and bent her over the pole that ran the length of the studio wall and took her from behind, my hands on her breasts, holding her hot skin against me. Of course, initially, I pictured her breasts as huge, but then I scaled them back, wanting to imagine her as she really was. And then suddenly I didn’t want her from behind. I wanted to see her face an
d gaze into her eyes, even though I didn’t really know what she looked like. And that frustrated me. Because this fantasy felt different, in a good way, and she seemed special—shit, this is crazy, I thought.
But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. I gritted my teeth, tossing my head back into the spray of water, picturing me taking her, sinking into her softness, making her all mine. She took my pounding, crying out my name and clenching around me as she came hard. Again.
A guttural groan came deep from within me.
Fuck yeah … pumping, pumping.
And then I got dizzy in the best kind of way, feeling tingles and goose bumps as the heat built and rose until bam! My orgasm slammed into me, and I came for what seemed like forever, my legs giving out as I sank down to the floor of the marble tiled shower on my knees. My entire body quivered, shaking with the aftershocks. With unsteady hands, I pushed wet hair off my face.
Fuck, me.
I wanted that girl in the window.
But not enough to find her.
“Two things about me:
I dance and I dance.”
–Dovey
“ARMS UP, DOVEY,” Mr. Keller, my instructor, called to me as I focused on my partner, Jacques, and the contemporary piece called Song of the Earth we were doing. He and I had the lead role for our annual school production, and it was a prime spot, one that would shine on my application to a ballet company next year. I needed to ace this part because I didn’t have a back-up plan. Ballet was it for me.
I put my arms in the air, rounding them out in fifth position. He nodded his approval.
I continued, executing the abstract movements, some of which were more demanding than classical ballet, requiring deep pliés and distorted yet elegant lines. Climactic and passionate, I let myself fly as I danced the last scene, envisioning myself as the character that loses the love of her life.
Then something weird happened.
Very Wicked Beginnings Page 1
