Break Me, Baby: A Reverse Harem High School Bully Romance (Silver Creek High Book 1)

by Belladona Cunning

  I don’t know why they’re so scared. It’s not like he’s doing this to keep people away from me. He’s doing this purely to teach me a lesson. A lesson I’m not sure he knows or wants the answer to. 

  That’s where I find myself today. I slept in, disregarding Debra’s bitchy voice yapping at me this morning to get ready. Instead, I gave her the finger and turned over. Before long, she knew I was in no mood for her and shoved off to do what she does every weekday.

  She may push me, but she knows when not to, and that was this morning. It’s almost what brings me to right now, giving me almost four hours to myself. I plan on using that well.

  Not caring about my scantily clad body, I grab my phone and make my way from my bedroom. I get to the top of the stairs before it buzzes in my hand with a text. Knowing who it is before I even check, a smile is already tugging at the corner of my lips when I slide my finger across the screen.

  Karma: School sucks without you.

  I giggle. Me: Don’t you have Davis to keep you company?

  Karma: He’s not as fun! All he wants is sex, sex, and more sex. I want to know about what we’re doing this weekend. It’s Friday, there should be a party going on.

  Like that’s a bad thing?

  Me: No party, but I wouldn’t mind some downtime.

  Karma: That sounds so boring.

  A fully belly laugh escapes me. Locking my phone, I continue my way downstairs to the kitchen. My stomach growls in annoyance as I strut my way through the foyer and under the archway.

  Except, when I get to the kitchen, I’m not alone like I originally thought.

  A scream rips out of my throat before I can stop it, fear evident. My arms wrap around my body, trying to best cover myself as I turn the way I just came and run to the living room. It all happens within a second, even before the man has time to pull his head out of the fridge from perusing his options.

  It isn’t until I get to the mouth of the living room that I give pause. Retracing my thoughts, a pang of recognition flares in my head. I stand there awkwardly, trying to digest it. But the more I do, the more it serves to piss me off.

  Grabbing the throw blanket off the back of the couch, I wrap it around myself just as he comes through the archway of the living room.

  “What are you doing here?” I can’t stop the anger from filtering into my voice.

  “Jess, I can explain, okay,” he says, peering at me with earnest intentions. I can’t say I believe him. Too many people in Silver have earnest intentions and look at where that’s gotten me so far.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, tightening my fingers around the blanket as his eyes scan over me, narrowing slightly.

  “I’m your goddamn father, Jessalyn Marie Savoy,” he states angrily. “Why are you walking around half naked at home? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  It actually looks like he’s super pissed. Ha, yeah right. In order for him to be upset, he’d have to care. Nothing really says, “I love you and care about your well-being,” like being ghosted for most of the summer.

  “That’s rich. You actually sound like you care.” I narrow my eyes slightly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  There is no way he can be serious right now. Since the beginning of June, I’ve felt like nothing but a burden, especially to that bitch Debra. When my father left, she’s been showing her true colors more and more, hitting me here and there. Her slaps, jabs, and punches are leaving marks on my skin now. Marks anyone can see if they look closely.

  She’s abusive, mentally and physically. Yes, I can stand up for myself verbally, but if there was even a hint of a mark left on Debra from a physical altercation, I know with all my heart she would not double guess her decision in sending me to military school.

  She tried to appear as if she gave a shit about me in the past when my father was around. She’d dote on me, take me shopping, and you know, pretend to be a mother. She had him fooled, but not me. Never me.

  Nothing really changed until she punched me across the face for the first time, which coincided with his disappearing act. My father wasn’t supposed to be home, and it was a complete surprise when he came around the corner of the kitchen. I can still remember the day like it was yesterday. My father had a business meeting and couldn’t go to lunch with her. Not much of a stretch, considering the two hadn’t been on good terms for weeks prior. But that day, she let her anger get the best of her. Only, it wasn’t my father that got the brunt of her fist; it was me.

  It took two trips to the icebox for frozen vegetables, some anti-swelling cream, and a tub full of makeup to cover up what she’d done to me. Her and my father fought like rabid pit bulls for hours after that, screaming and yelling until the walls shook with their anger.

  That was the last night I saw him. The night he packed his stuff and left me in the dust; left me with the woman that ruins everything she touches.

  That night, she came into my room again, drunk off her mind with a glass tumbler of whiskey in her hand. Her harsh breathing made me wake up, and I’m glad it did, because a second later she threw the tumbler at my face. The only reason my face doesn’t have scars on it from the shattering glass is because my forearm caught the brunt of impact.

  I can still remember the fury behind her actions, most of it directed at my father for daring to leave such a prize as her—those are her words, not mine.

  Even two months later, I can still feel it. Hell, there’s even still a visible mark at my hairline from a stray piece of glass. It’s no bigger than the tip of an eraser off a number two pencil, but it’s there. And every time I see that mark, it always causes me to remember that night.

  What makes it so much worse is the fact I texted him right after, explaining it all. It was me throwing him a lifeline, all the while I screamed inside my mind for him to accept it. He never did. Not even once. But that doesn’t stop me from texting him every time something happens. Call it whatever you want, but it’s like I’m compelled to keep tossing him that crumb.

  I text and text and text, but all I get is radio silence. Some father I have, huh?

  “Nothing,” I reply, defeat clear in the drop of my shoulders.

  Silence extends between us for several minutes. My eyes look at everything but him, trailing over the bookshelf filled with scholastic books, mementos from over the years, a few potted plants, and several pictures of my father and me. Seeing them has an unfamiliar pang zapping my lifeless heart. The look on our faces, all alight with such humor and love. The way we used to spend so much time together, going on adventures and sharing our deepest darkest secrets with one another.

  My father was my best friend. Yes, most would call me a daddy’s girl, but that’s not it at all. We had a connection, him and I. It didn’t matter what was going on in our lives, we were both there for the other.

  At least, until that night of the party. And I know most of it is my fault. It started with little secrets here and there, then lying about the things I was out doing. At that point, toward the end, I never spoke to him. We never hung out anymore. It’s like we had become complete strangers.

  I know it’s silly, but I expected him to notice. Expected to see the cry for help hidden under all the silence and hellraising. Too bad he never did. He must have been too busy with his businesses to care. He continued to pull away, just as I had, and we have spoken little since. A few things here and there in passing, but nothing too strenuous, too deep. And it cut off completely the night he left Debra.

  To say I missed all our deep conversations would be an understatement—I practically salivate for even a sliver of attention he’d toss my way. But I never allowed him to see that. Instead, like most teenage girls, I acted as if I didn’t care. When, in fact, the entire time, I was silently begging him to see what was so obvious underneath the surface.

  The pain. The guilt. The harboring sense of disappointment.

  It has its claws buried in me so deep I can barely breathe.
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br />   “Jessalyn,” he finally says, my pain echoing in his words, “talk to me.”

  “I’ve tried talking to you.” A rage I’ve never felt before burns in my veins like vinegar and poison. “You just won’t listen.” Peering at him, my eyes lock on his. “I’ve tried, and tried, and tried, and tried to get through to you. I text. I call. I practically beg your fucking voicemail for even an ounce of attention. And it never fails. You ignore me.”

  His brows pull in together with a look of confusion. “Huh? You’ve texted? Called?”

  He is seriously not trying to lie to me right now. Not now. “Seriously?”

  Releasing a sound of disgust, I turn away from him and make my way toward the stairs, my lunch long since forgotten.

  “Don’t walk away from me, Jessalyn!” he yells, but that doesn’t stop me.

  “You mean how you walked away from me?” I call out over my shoulder, disgust coating my words in a sickening layer of putrid slim.

  Climbing the stairs two at a time, I slam my door once I enter and fall back against it. Tears instantly burn against the back of my eyes before they lose their battle of hanging precariously on my bottom lid and start trekking down my cheeks.

  Strength leaves my limbs shaky and weak, and I slide down the door until my butt lands on the floor with my knees pushed into my chest. Putting my face in my knees, I softly cry into the confines of the blanket, allowing myself this one moment of weakness. Just one moment before I have to slip my ice-cold mask back into place.

  The only thing that pulls me from my stupor is the feeling of my phone vibrating in my hand. I ignore it. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, and I know it’s more than likely Karma asking why I haven’t replied already.

  A few moments later, it buzzes again, and again, and again.

  After several minutes of nothing, I sneak a peek at my phone. The five-minute reminder I have set on my texts just will not allow me to keep from checking. Thumbing through the messages, my face screws up in confusion when I find an unknown number left several texts.

  But just as soon as I read them, I know exactly who it is. No explanation necessary.

  Unknown: Behave, and maybe I’ll take it easy on you.

  It’s funny he’s just now texting me this. Four days later. His audacity causes me to roll my eyes as I flip the screen off with so much anger, I can barely see straight. Fuck him. I didn’t run any fucking where. I stayed home. I chose to take care of myself, rather than subject my person to any more bullying.

  All those assholes can get fucked for all I care.

  Unknown: Your tears won’t help you, little girl, but they sure are gorgeous.

  He’s pretty fucking sick if he thinks his girlfriend’s tricks made me stay at home. I’m not crying over their stupid antics. I’m distraught because of my father; because he doesn’t care about me enough to take me away from this hellhole.

  That he freaking lied to me, thinking I would allow that.

  Even through all the months I kept pulling away from him and everyone else, I never, not once, lied to him about something important. I kept secrets, yes, but I never lied to him. Unless, you count it as a lie if I said nothing to begin with. Then, if so, I did. I lied my little mouth off.

  Unknown: I’ve been looking forward to this for two years.

  Ugh, suck a dick, Callum, I think to myself with a roll of my eyes.

  Unknown: This time I’m not going anywhere. Remember that.

  It doesn’t look like I am, either. My father doesn’t want me. Debra doesn’t want me, but she refuses to send me somewhere because of her precious image. So, I’m fucked if I do and fucked if I don’t.

  I literally have nowhere to freaking go, and he thinks just because he tells me he’s not going anywhere that it should terrify me. No, thank you. That’s not how this works, sweetie. Not in the slightest.

  Just because some guy thinks he can run the school, cutting off my way of dealing with the bottled-up shit from two years ago, doesn’t mean it will happen.

  I’ll still find my fix. He can bet his messed-up car on that.

  There are more places in this town to get laid than our high school and some raunchy parties, I just chose them because they were easier. In fact, there’s a strip club down by route nine, just outside Silver Creek town limit. It’s an upscale gentlemen’s club, really. I’ve heard rumors of that place and know for a fact they must test all patrons and employees before they allow them admittance.

  It will be the perfect hunting ground. Fuck, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. Through the years of fumbling hands and half-assed orgasm’s, I could have been having the real thing all along. Rolling in dick that actually knows how to get a woman off.

  Oh, yes, I can see it a tad clearer. And Callum unknowingly gave me the ammo I needed.

  CHAPTER 13

  A door slamming brings me out of my little world, and I hear Debra walking around downstairs. It can’t be my father, because shortly after our spat downstairs a few weeks ago, I heard him leave and, again, haven’t heard a thing from him since.

  Without a word, goodbye, or even a fuck you, just like he did two months ago.

  Shouldn’t surprise me, really. It’s not like he gave a shit about me enough to take me with him, so as far as I’m concerned, he’s just as much dead to me as Debra. I just wish it didn’t have to be like this.

  Yes, the moment he left, his duty to Debra was no more. But that had shit to do with me. His parental duties didn’t dry up overnight like their marriage. I still needed a father to save me. I still needed a father; someone to talk to and unleash all my woes.

  Not to say I’d ever do that but fuck him for taking the opportunity away from me.

  Hearing her clicking heels against the floor grates on my nerves. Just once, I’d like to see Debra not so put together. Maybe a piece of hair left out of her stern librarian bun. Or maybe, a stain on her business suit she got from lunch.

  Just something!

  She’s too put together all the time. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, she always has to look her best.

  “Dinner will be in one hour,” she yells up the stairs, causing me to roll my eyes.

  Plating dinner from a five-star restaurant in town takes an hour for little miss perfect, or better yet me. Come on. Give me some greasy Chinese takeout any day of the week. I’d happily sit Indian style in front of the television and eat right out of the carton with their complementary chopsticks.

  Slipping out of bed, I push into my slippers and make my way downstairs. Knowing her, she’s probably waiting on me to get down here and divvy out the food, anyway. That’s usually what her calling up the stairs mean. So instead of trying to read her mind for an hour, I’m just going to get down here and do it.

  The hardwood flooring creaks under my weight as I slowly make my way down the stairs, my hand lightly skating over the handrail. I side eye the pictures hanging on the wall next to me, with their perfect little frames, and the constructed, perfect little family trying to smile for the camera.

  It was all a lie.

  If you look closely, in every picture, Debra’s eyes are as dead as she is inside. My father’s frown lines deepen with each passing year, giving him an air of unhappiness that’s too hard to miss. And slowly but surely, you can see my smile, ever so slightly, slip into a tight-lipped scowl, the last picture being taken right before my father left us.

  Everything was just too much to pretend anymore. I can still remember my mother’s reaction when the picture arrived a few weeks later. It horrified her. Made her so angry she threw it at me, then made it a point to tell me how worthless I was. How she could have been a model if it hadn’t been for my father knocking her up, which she did not remember was her original plan to begin with.

  To her, I was nothing more than a fuck up. A daughter she should have drowned at birth, if I’m quoting her correctly.

  But I didn’t care. There is no sense in faking happiness when all I feel inside me
is an ugliness that stretches throughout every part of my being.

  Ripping my eyes away from the picture, I come to a stop at the landing, asking, “Paper plates or fine china?” I already know the answer before I ask, but I just enjoy getting under Debra’s skin.

  “We do not use paper plates in this house, Jessalyn!” she screeches. “Now, get yourself presentable, because we have company for dinner.”

  Company? Since when do we have anyone coming over for dinner? It’s been months since my mother has entertained guests, and I know the reason—she doesn’t want anyone to know my father left her in the dust.

  So, why now?

  Glancing down at myself, a satisfied grin creeps over my lips. I’m in my pajamas—a tiny, almost see through camisole, short, satin shorts, with no bra or panties underneath either.

  It’s perfect.

  Fluffing up my hair, I pinch my cheeks to give myself a little flush and make my way to the kitchen. I never once let the smile fall off my face, thinking about her reaction. Horror will forever etch itself into her face.

  Only, when I step into the kitchen does it fall off my face.

  “What in the hell?” It slips out of my mouth before I can stop it, and by the gasp that reverberates off the walls, I know Debra heard it. But I don’t have eyes for Debra, I’m too consumed by the guy flashing me a cocky smirk from beside the island.

  Callum.

  I hate the way seeing him in my kitchen causes my heart to race. Hate the way my body reacts to his presence, almost as if it has a mind of its own.

  He’s my enemy; the boy that spend his days bullying me, after ordering people to do it from afar for the last two years.

  I should not be reacting to him. At all.

  I should hate him; hate everything about him.

  What am I saying? I do. I hate him more than anyone else in Silver Creek.