by Serena Lyons
Serena Lyons
Wicked Heartbreaker
Copyright © 2020 by Serena Lyons
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
First edition
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
Contents
Prologue: Callum
1: Faith
2: Faith
3: Faith
4: Callum
5: Faith
6: Faith
7: Faith
8: Faith
9: Callum
10: Faith
11: Faith
12: Callum
13: Faith
14: Faith
15: Faith
16: Faith
17: Callum
18: Faith
19: Faith
20: Faith
21: Callum
22: Faith
23: Faith
24: Faith
25: Callum
26: Faith
27: Faith
28: Faith
29: Faith
30: Faith
31: Callum
32: Faith
33: Faith
34: Faith
Also by Serena Lyons
Prologue: Callum
Ibiza—two years ago.
“Want a line, Cal?” Rafe strides towards me, pupils unnaturally wide, his bottom jaw working too fast as the drugs zip around his system.
“Nah, this is enough for me.” I pick up one of the bottles of Dom Perignon from the overflowing ice bucket in our VIP section. Might as well take a swig, I need something to liven tonight up. No hard drugs, though. I’ve been using them too much lately. I don’t want to turn into Dad. Pathetic and checking into rehab every few months.
Rafe promised me the night of my life: end of season closing event at the most elite club on the ultimate party island. All the A-list celebs that grace the gossip pages letting loose in a safe zone. No press, no fortune-hunters, no consequences. The perfect blowout before starting university.
I couldn’t say no.
Even though I knew Millie would hate it. My chest tightens. There were tears in her big blue eyes when I told her I’d miss the final year ball she’s been harping on about ever since we started going out. Her bottom lip had wobbled, like I’d just massacred a family of bunnies in front of her.
I’m not going to feel guilty. She’s too fucking clingy. We’ve only been dating a couple of months. I told her I didn’t want an exclusive girlfriend. She agreed. I try to ignore the niggle inside my head that reminds me she’d say yes to anything to keep me sweet.
“Sure I can’t tempt you?” Rafe’s hand dips inside his bespoke Armani jacket. No matter how many times I tell him to relax, he always tries too hard and overdresses. Not that it stops the girls from throwing themselves at him. Although very few tempt him.
“I’m always sure.” I move towards the thick rope separating us from the masses. This is a lie; I’m not sure, I’m fucking weak. If I see the white powder, I’ll be powerless to resist. “I want to dance.”
I’ll lose myself in the music. Nothing calms me like a good beat, I’m my father’s son in that respect.
I move deeper into the club. It’s filled with gorgeous women, their writhing limbs barely covered by outfits designed for maximum titillation. Most of their eyes widen with interest as I pass; wet, red tongues swiping over their lips, telling me they like what they see. Everyone’s too drunk or high to hide their emotions. I’m a king as I glide through the crowd. It doesn’t matter that I’m probably one of the youngest men there. Women ten years older than me pout and arch their backs as I brush past them. And I know it’s just me, not the knowledge of who my father is, attracting them.
“Mate!” An arm grabs my shoulders. “Thought you’d turned lame and gone home.” It’s Axel. My best friend or nemesis depending on the day. He raises an eyebrow in a challenge.
I twist my Rolex so I can read its face in the flashing strobe lights. “Since when do I leave a party before two?”
“Thought you were pussy-whipped these days,” he laughs, but there’s a dark flintiness in his eyes. “The marvellous Millie.”
“As if. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You won’t say no to this then.” His arm stretches between us and he slowly opens his fist to show two small white pills. Axel always has something on him. He was such a good boy when he started school, and now he’s our de facto dealer. Oops.
Molly. Something quickens inside my chest. The tablets call to me. I can already feel the heat as they make their way around my body, the way I’ll sink into the music, become an extension of the pulsing crowd around me. MDMA’s the love drug and it’s seduced me.
Dad’s face flicks into my mind; rubbery, pathetic, old before his time as he reaches for another chemical stimulant to keep the party going. I shudder.
“Scared?” Axel must have heard something in my voice, seen the tremor I thought I’d hidden. His eyebrow lifts higher and something like contempt twinkles in his eyes. “Or maybe Millie wouldn’t approve?”
“I’m never scared.” I snatch a pill and throw it into my mouth before I can think better of it. The champagne bottle is still clamped in my fist. I wash it down, the rich bubbles releasing a hint of bitterness on my tongue. Then I pass the half-empty magnum to the closest person next to me. I shouldn’t have any more booze, only water for the rest of the night.
“Wow, tha—” A woman spins towards me. I catch a flash of teeth, the excited tone of her voice, and stomp out of earshot before she starts grovelling. It’s just champagne. The crowd isn’t as refined as Rafe promised.
“Good man.” Axel smirks and moves in front of me. “Now I’m taking you to the heart of the party.”
“This isn’t it?”
“With this riff raff?” Axel smiles wickedly and pinches his nose like there’s a terrible smell. He loves pretending to be the biggest snob in the world, when in reality his home out of term-time is a nineteenth-story council flat in Peckham. Not that you’d ever guess by looking at him. “We’re going to the inner sanctum. It’s a much more interesting crowd there.”
Laughing, I follow him through a warren of dark corridors and winding staircases. Axel navigates the club like he grew up here. It’s an odd sensation not being the leader for once. Especially when I remember how shy and uncertain Axel was when he turned up at our boarding school at fourteen, the scholarship boy in an ill-fitting uniform, a few shades darker than the rest of the student body. He seemed destined to skulk around at the edges of our year, never quite fitting in, but then we got paired together in biology. By the time we’d finished our two-week project on the impact of female orgasms on conception (and caused our twenty-two-year-old teacher to tear up in class—her own fault for setting such an open a topic), I knew he was going to be a friend for life. And once I was friends with him, the rest of the school followed.
Th clubbers thin out as we descend, and we get to a long, empty corridor lit by c
andles. At the end there’s a glossy red door guarded by a huge guy who looks like he eats steroids for breakfast.
“Welcome to the underground.” Axel smoothly palms a pile of fifty-euro notes into the bouncer’s pocket. I don’t even want to guess where the hell he got that much cash from. “This is where the real fun happens.”
The bouncer flings the door open, pushes Axel and me in, then slams the door behind us as if he doesn’t want anyone inside remembering there’s a whole world out here.
It’s darker, and my eyes take a moment to adjust to the room. The room is small, maybe fifty people tops, and at least half of them are writhing near naked as they move to the music. It’s not quite an orgy, but it’s not far off—couples kissing, strangers’ hands reaching out to tweak a stray nipple, cup a delectable curve, or stroke an unknown beauty.
Adrenalin jolts through me. This is much more like it. My scene, my crowd, my time to have fun.
“See you on the other side?” Axel winks, then pushes into the crowd, disappearing as people close around him. I laugh, glad he brought me here. The pill has already worked its way around my body, and I melt into the writhing mass.
Everyone has morphed into one organic being, moving in sync with the music, making it hard to tell where one person ends and the next person begins. Everyone’s warm, sweat-slicked, and at any other time I’d be disgusted by this, but the molly means I like the soft connection to all these other beautiful people.
A hand grabs on to my bicep, fingers clamping into my muscles like their owner is in the throes of pain or ecstasy. I follow the slim, brown arm up to see a beautiful brunette leaning back on to a man’s chest, her head thrown back in pleasure as his hand thrusts in and out of her skirt. Her eyes find mine, they’re dark with desire and seem to be telling me to step closer. I do.
Her arm moves up the back of my neck, clasping my head and pulling me down to towards her face. I’m kissing her, my tongue ravaging her mouth like the guy behind her is ravaging her pussy. She’s not really kissing me back, more panting into me as her body starts shaking uncontrollably, her lips vacuuming onto me as she explodes. I pinch her nipple, hear her moan even louder into my mouth, then tear myself away.
Fuck, I’m getting horny. And my ‘girlfriend’ is a three hour flight away.
I turn back to watch the brunette ride out the end of her orgasm, then feel a soft body collide into my front.
A stunning, petite redhead stares up at me like she approves of what she sees. She smiles slowly as her eyes traverse the length of my body.
“Want to dance?” She licks her lip and reaches out a finger to trace my chest through my shirt, making it clear much more than a dance is on offer.
Millie’s pretty blue eyes flash into my head. Even if we’re not technically exclusive, I shouldn’t be doing this.
The redhead’s finger works lower, over the flank of my belly to rest half under the waistband of my jeans. The world closes into the here and now.
What’s Dad always saying to me? Don’t get tied down too young. Maybe I should take his advice occasionally.
I smile as she lets her other hand drift over my biceps, pulling me closer to her.
“Or let’s go somewhere quieter?” Her hand moves into my jeans in one practised movement. The molly heightens every sensation, and my dick stiffens underneath her slim fingers.
She lifts an eyebrow and smiles with satisfaction as she starts rubbing me. She’s a minx.
“We don’t need to go anywhere quieter.” I haven’t fucked anyone in a club in ages. I push her against the nearest wall, my hand pulling down her tight bodice to reveal an already hard nipple. “How about we play here?” I pretend it’s a question, but the moan from her lips as I encircle her breast tells me she’s already my toy.
There’s a bright white flash, like a camera going off. I stiffen, spinning around, ready to give a finger to whatever paparazzo snuck in. Rafe fucking promised this party was a private, press-free event.
I’m ready to leave the girl and storm out when a dazzling white strobe light cuts across the crowd. Thank fuck, I was overreacting.
Time to focus on the fun stuff. Kneeling down, I hook my thumbs around her flouncy miniskirt, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. She doesn’t flinch, just runs her fingers through my hair, guiding me to her centre. I quite like the idea of her stumbling out of here in just her underwear hours later, so sated by my ravaging that she doesn’t care where her designer skirt is. I bend my lips to her lace thong and use my teeth to expose her hairless mound. She’s definitely no shrinking violet.
This will be fun.
[***]
Hours later, I try to reverse my way back to our VIP area, but the club’s a maze. I race up some concrete stairs, my heart still beating unnaturally fast, and fly through door after door. Finally, I find the sweet haven of a roof terrace. It’s peppered with oversized daybeds and hammocks in the classic Ibiza white. A few couples are slowly fucking, lost in each other and whatever they’re on.
I walk to the edge of the balcony. I’m done with dark debauchery, I want to see the crystal Mediterranean. The sun is already rising, turning the sky into a perfect pastel painting and making the sea shimmer with possibility.
It makes my chest ease in a way neither the molly, nor the redhead with the talented tongue did. I want to slough off all the remnants of her and the crowd. Their smear disgusts me, the shame of my comedown coils in my stomach.
I’m too weak. I need to give up the drugs and random hook-ups. Starting university will be the perfect opportunity. I can focus on more long-lasting pleasures; Millie and expanding my brain.
I smile and throw my arms wide to the ocean. Callum Carter-Wright version 2.0 begins here. All this partying was getting old, anyway.
My phone vibrates against my thigh as a flurry of messages arrive. The secret dancefloor must have been too deep to get any signal. Or maybe management does it on purpose—like how Vegas hotels don’t have any clocks or natural light—to stop mobile phones interfering with their patrons abandoning themselves to the music.
Twenty-five messages from Millie. My stomach twists in a ball at her name.
My dick’s still wet from the redhead’s mouth. I didn’t fuck her, I’d left my condoms upstairs in my jacket and I don’t ride unprotected. Especially not with good-time girls who’ll fuck a guy in a club without even knowing his name.
A blowjob’s not cheating, right?
I pick up a stray beer bottle and throw it out over the water. It’s fucking semantics, I still betrayed Millie. And I’d have done much more if I’d had a condom.
I quickly scan her messages.
Millie: It’s the ball tonight. Wish you were here… Do I look pretty?
There’s a photo. She does look pretty; her dark hair is pinned up in an elaborate swirl on her head and her neat curves look irresistible in a shimmering baby-blue dress that matches her eyes.
Millie: Hey stranger, miss you. Hope you’re not having too much fun without me.
I flick over another set of messages about the party and wishing I was with her.
Millie: Cal, what the hell is that picture about? Who’s the girl?
The picture? The flash I assumed was a strobe jumps into my head.
Millie: I can’t do this any longer. It’s all too hard, I’m tired.
There are more messages, dark, ugly ones that make me harden inside. What have I done?
Millie: I thought with you I’d feel good enough, but I just feel worse.
Millie: If you don’t love me, how will anyone. I gave you everything, and it’s not enough.
Another picture: I’ve done enough drugs to know her pupils are wide with something much more sinister than alcohol. Inky mascara-clogged tears stain her pretty face.
Millie: Goodbye Cal, I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough. For you. For anyone. For this world.
I sober up instantly. Hands shaking, I dial the number of Dad’s fixer in London. My hands never shake. This is
fucking serious.
I pray for the first time in years. Please don’t let me be too late.
Millie’s worth a million of me. What the fuck have I done?
1: Faith
Westforde College, Oxford University. Two years later.
Rule one for ensnaring the most eligible guy in college? Look hot enough to sear his eyelids.
My fingers tremble as I draw on thick, black eyeliner. I need to look vampy, sexy, irresistible, even if my usual style is barely requires dragging a brush through my hair. Not that it’s my hair anymore. I blew much more than I could afford on the best stylist in Newcastle before I caught the train down here yesterday. Even Gran would struggle to recognise me.
Gone is my long, mousy hair that I always tied up in a low bun to keep out of my face. Now I have platinum blonde tresses dyed an in-your-face turquoise at the ends. I am the hot, bad girl that Callum Carter-Wright won’t be able to resist getting to know.
My hand jerks, painting my eyelid black, as someone enters the bathroom.
“Oh, sorry, I…” The voice is female and incredibly proper.
I spin to face my intruder, the thinnest girl I’ve ever met in real life. Dark hair, all angles and bones, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
“My bad.” I smile, dampening a towel under the tap. “I forgot to lock the door. I’m not used to this communal living. I’m Faith.”
“Nina. Lucky you. I’m all too used to sharing bathrooms after eight years of boarding school.” Her eyes flick up briefly, pale blue and filled with pain.
I try not to wince at her words. I’m one of the few students in college who didn’t grow up attending elite private schools. The type where ‘character-building’ shared facilities, horse-riding and ski-trips are par for the course. At least I know enough about them from Millie’s stories to fit in.
“Where are you coming down from?” Nina asks.
“A small town near Newcastle.” I keep my answer deliberately vague. Nobody can guess at my connection to the village where I really grew up. I don’t want anyone jumping to the right conclusion.
