When the Saint Falls: a high school bully romance (Westbrook three Book 1)

by A. D. McCammon

  Everyone is still in a state of shock from Thatcher’s outburst as the bell rings, and I say a silent prayer of thanks no one had a chance to weigh in. The Westbrook High student body is nothing but a bunch of sheep, and they love to follow Thatcher’s lead.

  My cheeks are still warm as I get to my feet and pull my backpack over my shoulders. I’m terrified of what I’ll find when I let my gaze slide to Joey, but he greets me with the same warm smile he had at the beginning of class. Apparently, Joey is one of the few people at this school unfazed by Thatcher’s bullshit. Wish I could say the same.

  “So, I was thinking…” he begins, ushering me toward the door. He’s too close. I quicken my steps, trying to create more space between us, but he matches my pace. “I think we should exchange numbers, that way we can hang out after school or during the weekend sometime.”

  “Oh…” I falter, my skin tingling with discomfort. My eyes roam down the hall, seeing his girlfriend Erica studying us as she waits for him, her arms crossed. “Well, Erica has my number…”

  Erica and I are not friends. Not even close. But we were forced to exchange numbers last year when we worked on a class project together. It was the most painful three weeks of my life. There’s something seriously off about that girl.

  A plastic smile spreads across my face as I wave to her, alerting him to her presence. “Tell her to call me whenever you guys want to get together.”

  I have no intention of hanging out with either of them, together or separate. I wouldn’t even offer if I wasn’t certain Erica would never call. There’s a flash of disappointment in his features as my eyes land on him again, but he tells me he’ll see me tomorrow before scurrying down the hall to his girlfriend.

  Heading in the other direction, I weave through the people to get to the stairwell leading to the rear parking lot where my car is waiting. There’s some cookie dough ice cream with my name on it at home. I feel like I’ve earned it today.

  As I begin to descend the stairs, someone clears their throat behind me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Panic blooms in my chest and crawls down to the pit of my stomach, but I force my wobbly legs to keep moving.

  I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. I smell his crisp, clean scent, feel the heat of his stare, hear the agitation in his heavy breaths.

  “I’m a little surprised by your behavior today, Saint.”

  I grind my teeth, my instincts telling me to ignore him, but I can’t resist the temptation of curiosity. “Okay, Thatcher…I’ll bite. What behavior?”

  “You and your little boyfriend partaking in some foreplay in the middle of class. Not very becoming of a saint.”

  I pause at the end of the stairs, turning to face him. Which is a very bad idea. I freeze, unable to grasp onto anything other than the fact that we’re alone in the dark stairwell. He’s standing so close, the smell of the wintergreen gum he’s lazily chewing invading my senses. He inches closer, and I move back, eyeing the exit as I press my backpack into the cinderblock wall. The satisfied curl of his mouth reminds me to speak.

  “He’s not my boyfriend, and that was not foreplay,” I grit out.

  It’s none of Thatcher’s business, but I don’t do the dating thing. I don’t have time for boys and all the things that come along with them. Even if I did, there’s only one boy I’d be interested in—and he hates me.

  “Is that so?” He rests his left hand on the wall next to my head, and I hold my breath as he leans in. “Maybe you should clue him in on that fact. He sure as hell seems to think you belong to him, putting his fucking hands all over you.”

  My eyes widen at the fury in his tone, my lungs forcing me to take in a greedy breath.

  “And this…” His body shifts again, becoming nearly flush with mine as he lifts his right hand.

  Our eyes stay locked as he reaches behind my head, pulling my hair over my shoulder and away from my neck. His fingertips connect with my skin, sending a shockwave through me. A rush of air comes out of me in a whimper as it heats my core.

  With slow and concise movements, he traces over every inch Joey had explored before moving on to unchartered territory, his eyes darkening as his pupils grow larger.

  His touch overwhelms me, every nerve in my body humming and rendering me as nothing more than putty in his hands. As his stare flickers to my lips, I close my eyes.

  “This right here, my precious little doll,” he whispers, his lips so close to mine, it feels like a phantom kiss, “is definitely foreplay.”

  The moment I feel his full lips begin to blanket over mine, the door at the top of the stairs opens, and they’re gone. My heart lodges in my throat, and I keep my eyes screwed shut, the sounds of footsteps and laughter bouncing off the walls. As the warmth of his body leaves mine, I take a calming breath. By the time I get the courage to open my eyes, he’s gone.

  What the hell was that?

  Chapter Three

  VIOLET

  My mind is still in a haze as I park outside my house. Home sweet home. Not even the sight of blue siding and white spindle porch can calm my racing heart. The odd encounter with Thatcher in the stairwell knocked me off my axis. It’s hard for the brain to process things it doesn’t understand, and I can’t make any sense of what happened.

  Why the hell would he care about Joey touching me? Goosebumps spread across my skin remembering the wrath in his voice. “He sure as hell seems to think you belong to him.” He wasn’t wrong; Joey’s behavior was inappropriate. Especially given the fact that he’s dating Erica. Still, Thatcher thought Joey was my boyfriend. Not that it should’ve mattered to him.

  I struggle more than usual with the key in the lock on my front door, kicking it with my shoe in frustration once I get it open. The house is dark and quiet. I throw my backpack on the kitchen counter, dropping my keys next to it as I shrug off my converse.

  “Mom, Dad, I’m home!” I mock to the empty house, padding over to the refrigerator. “I had one hell of a day, but don’t worry, I’m going to drown my sorrows with ice cream.” I sigh at the silence as I make my way into the living room with the entire tub of ice cream and a spoon.

  I’ve always been a latchkey kid; it’s nothing new. My parents were still teenagers when they had me, and they’ve struggled. Both work fulltime jobs to keep us afloat—Mom a teller at the bank, and Dad a warehouse supervisor at the local produce plant.

  I’ve become accustomed to being on my own and learned early on how to take care of myself—and them, for that matter. Since my little brother, Austin, came into the picture, they have even less time to focus on me and my life. Not that I’m complaining. For fourteen years, I begged for a brother, and I love that little guy more than anything in this world.

  Still, it would be nice to have someone to talk to about my day every now and then. Like after the impossibly handsome bully corners me in an empty stairwell, melting me with his touch. My body heats with shame and embarrassment as I shovel another large spoonful of ice cream in my mouth.

  Thatcher has never been anything other than callous and cold toward me. He should make me sick to my stomach, but when he had me pinned against that wall, his body mere inches from mine, I felt a need unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I was consumed by it. He could’ve had anything he wanted from me in that moment, and I would’ve given it freely.

  Dread settles in the pit of my stomach. Maybe that’s been his game all along. He could tell everyone what happened today—how he turned “Saint” into a slut with one touch. No, not even he would be so cruel. If he wanted to embarrass me, he would’ve made sure we were caught instead of running away when we heard someone coming.

  Thatcher has taken delight in teasing and torturing me, but it’s always been from afar. He’s never gone out of his way to seek me out, never stood so close to me, and certainly never touched me—and that was no ordinary touch. He’d called it an act of foreplay, which is how it felt.

  Not that I have much experience. Bet
ween the fear of ending up like my parents and the walking, talking anti-sex campaign that is my baby brother, I’ve had no desire to go down that road. But for the first time ever, as his fingers grazed over my skin, I found myself reconsidering my stance.

  Thatcher seemed upset, angry even, that Joey had touched me. Then he went and did the same thing. Almost like he was marking his territory. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Thatcher was jealous. But that couldn’t be it. We’re told as little girls when a boy is mean to you, it means he likes you, but that’s total bullshit.

  There must be another explanation. Here’s to hoping it’s not one that makes me want to be homeschooled.

  The bell seems abnormally loud as it rings through the hallway. Cringing, I close my locker, then join the surprisingly large number of stragglers making a mad dash to their classes. Being late sucks. There’s nothing worse than having all eyes on you as you stumble to your seat. And today is the worst possible day to do exactly that.

  “Seriously, guys?” I bellow as a couple students bump into me.

  They laugh, not even bothering to acknowledge me as they continue down the hall. Groaning, I make a mental note of who it is. They better hope I don’t see them again today, or I might end up “accidentally” tripping them.

  My lack of sleep is making me extra cranky. I tossed and turned all night, the fucking disaster with Thatcher keeping me awake. Every time I started to drift to sleep, I was back there with him, my skin tingling as if he were still touching me. Now, I may be walking to my doom. It’s only a few more steps to the Spanish classroom where he’s probably waiting and ready to humiliate me.

  I come to a stop right outside the door, my tired eyes closing as I say a silent prayer. As soon as I open them and take that last step into the classroom, the final bell rings. As expected, everyone else is already in their seats and all eyes are on me. Keeping my head down and focused on the floor in front of me, I make my way to the last row on the right, relieved to find my normal desk still vacant, only to freeze at the sight of Thatcher sitting in the seat right behind it. He’s leaning back with a smirk on his face, his feet stretched out into the aisle and arms crossed.

  “Senorita St. James, please take your seat,” Mr. Branson says.

  Thatcher lifts an eyebrow as he shifts forward, placing his elbows on his desk. He’s challenging me—daring me to sit by him. Squaring my shoulders, I raise my head a little higher and walk to my seat. My heart pounds as I sit down and take my things out of my backpack. But as class begins without an incident, I allow myself to relax a little. Twenty minutes later, I’ve almost forgotten he’s behind me…until his breath brushes my ear.

  “Something on your mind, Saint? You look a little tired. Did you have trouble sleeping last night?” he whispers.

  My back stiffens, the flush on my cheeks crawling down my neck. He’s way too close, but I refuse to pull away.

  “Nope. I slept perfectly fine,” I clip.

  He chuckles, and the extra rush of air causes goosebumps on my skin. “Oh yeah? So, tell me, were your dreams as sweet as mine?”

  My stomach drops as he sits back, my head already spinning from the lack of oxygen. There’s no denying the effect he had on me yesterday. I’ve replayed the whole scene in my mind enough times to be certain. His reaction, however, I’m less sure of. As much as I want to believe his intentions weren’t malicious, it’s easier to imagine they were.

  It isn’t until the bell rings that I realize I spaced out the remainder of class. Hopefully Mr. Branson didn’t say anything important. I’m on my feet and out the door before the first ring even finishes, not caring who I bump into as I make my escape.

  My hand shakes as I open my locker. Thatcher has never been kind to me, but he’s never gone out of his way to mess with me either.

  I shut my locker, turning to walk to my next class, nearly running right into a girl from my Spanish class. We’ve never spoken, but I think her name is Lanie or Lucy. She’s one of those girls who puts way too much stock into her appearance—her hair and makeup always flawless, her perfectly matched outfits showing off all her assets. Today, her bleach blonde hair is curled, her lips shine with pink gloss, and her low-cut baby blue top hugs her push-up bra clad breasts.

  “Excuse me.” I force a smile as I try to step around her, but she blocks my path. Her strong vanilla scent makes my head hurt. Everything about this girl screams desperation.

  Her eyes roam over me with disgust. “I think you and I need to have a little talk. Girl to girl.” Her condescending tone causes unease in my gut. I’m not going to like whatever it is she wants to say.

  “I need to get to class.” She blocks my attempt to step around her again, her hand landing on her hip.

  “You need to stop throwing yourself at Thatcher. You’re only embarrassing yourself.”

  My eyes go wide as my face heats. Her lips curve into a satisfied smile. Is this chick for real? She was in class with us this morning; she knows I ignored him the entire class, even when he was practically nibbling my ear.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can assure you I would never throw myself at anyone, and I have no interest in Thatcher Michaelson. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Please, every girl here is interested in Thatch. But you’re wasting your time. You reek of your low-income status and look like a frumpy little girl,” she snarls, refusing to let me pass.

  My eyes narrow as the lump lodged in my throat continues to grow. She isn’t wrong. Not completely anyway. My middle-class lifestyle is very different from Thatcher’s. We can’t afford the “nicer” things in life. Most of my wardrobe consists of my mother’s old band tees. We even share our jeans and shoes. The only reason I have a car at all is because my grandmother gave me hers when she bought a new one. My Lincoln is nearly twenty years old—nowhere close to Thatcher’s brand-new Benz.

  She smacks her lips, pleased with herself. “Don’t shoot the messenger, honey. I’m only trying to help you out.”

  Before I have a chance to respond or push her out of my way, someone steps up behind me. “Hey, Lace.” The voice is masculine. Oh, right. Lacey Paterson. “Why don’t you help yourself out and go put some more makeup on your zit. It’s looking all kinds of gross.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip to keep the smile off my face as her expression contorts with anger. “Screw you,” she hisses before running off.

  We both laugh as I turn to thank him, but my appreciation quickly turns into annoyance when I realize it’s Cole Masterson. Thatcher’s best friend has never done anything to me personally, but he’s always stood by, complacent—which might be worse.

  Cole is as popular with the ladies as his best friend, and it’s easy to see why. He’s tall and lean with shaggy, sandy blond hair and green eyes that always seem to twinkle with mischief. It’s his smile that draws them in, though. There’s this playful seductiveness to it. Very different from his brooding best friend who you rarely see with a genuine smile on his face.

  I sigh. “Listen…I don’t know what Thatcher is telling everyone, but he’s the one who cornered me in the stairwell.”

  His eyebrows shoot up in surprise and I realize Thatcher hadn’t told him anything about what happened yesterday. If he hadn’t told his best friend, he probably hadn’t told anyone. I should be relieved, but my chest tightens. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know because he’s embarrassed.

  Cole wraps his arm around my shoulders, steering me toward my next class as if he knows where I need to be. “The stairwell, huh?” He acknowledges one of his friends with a quick handshake as he passes before smirking at me. “And what happened when he had you cornered in the stairwell?”

  My eyes fall to the floor. “Nothing,” I lie as we reach my next class.

  Cole chuckles, removing his arm from my shoulder, then gently lifting my chin so I’m forced to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes over my heated cheek. “These pretty rosy cheeks of yours tell a different story, Saint. But do
n’t worry. I’ll get it out of Thatch.”

  My eyes go wide as he places a hand on my back, pushing me into the classroom as the final bell rings. It isn’t until he takes the seat next to me that I realize he followed me inside. My brow furrows with confusion as I look at him, then around the room, trying to figure out which one of us is in the wrong place. Mrs. Hill walks in and immediately starts discussing last night’s reading assignment, and my body relaxes. I’m in the right place.

  When my eyes land on Cole again, he winks at me. Has he been in class with me all along? How could I not have noticed until now? Probably because he’s never spoken to me before today. What the hell is happening?

  Chapter Four

  THATCHER

  The food in the cafeteria doesn’t smell or look appetizing, but I was so out of it this morning, I forgot to grab my lunch. To be honest, I don’t have much of an appetite anyway. I’m too pissed at myself. After spending all my sophomore and most of my junior year denying my attraction to Violet—fighting every urge to be near her—I went and threw it right out the window—all because I was jealous of fucking Joey Roberts.

  Screw that asshole. The way he looks at her makes me sick, but when he put his hands on her, my blood boiled. His sister always thought she had a right to touch me however and whenever she wanted to. The entire gene pool is screwed up.

  Cole plops down at the lunch table across from me, grinning like a crazy person. “So…” he snatches a fry off my tray and pops it into his mouth, “I heard a rumor I’m hoping you can shed some light on for me.”

  Cole and I became friends in middle school, back when we were both outcasts—the rich fat kid and the poor scrawny kid. We had nothing in common.

  He walked to the beat of his own drum, and I always stayed in formation. He possessed the type of freedom I craved—unafraid and carefree. Cole was never scared to stand up for himself or others, which usually ended with him getting into fights. My parents didn’t want me hanging out with a “troublemaker” like Cole, merely giving me even more reason to do it.