Like You

by Rachel Leigh

  Copyright © 2020 Rachel Leigh

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the copyright owner,

  except as permitted by U.S. copyright law .The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the author.

  For permissions contact: rachelleighauthor@gmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book contains mature content and is not recommended for minors.

  www.rachelleighauthor.com

  ISBN: 9798651935888

  Cover design by R.L Kenderson @ R.L Cover Design

  Editing by Fairest Reviews Editing Service

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Bonus Prologue

  Also by Rachel Leigh

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Claire

  I shift the old beater in drive and peel out as quick as I can, leaving a trail of smoke in my path. The smell of burning rubber fills the car, and it isn’t until I round the corner that the smoke diminishes. Behind me, just like my life—my past. A duffel bag rides co-pilot, along with the stash of money I was able to get from the safe.

  It won’t be long until he’s on the phone with all of his goons, ordering them to search for his missing property—me. At least that's the way I’ve lived my life for the past few years, as a prisoner. His prized possession that he kept up on the shelf, out of reach, and displayed with the utmost prestige.

  If I so much as wore the wrong color, he’d lose his fucking mind. I never went down without a fight, and when I did, I fought hard. I’m pretty sure that’s what he liked the most, feeling the wrath of my bitterness. He felt it alright, with the head of a golf club straight to his balls. I hit him so hard that he’s probably choking on them right now.

  None of it matters anymore.

  I drive for what feels like hours, though it was only two. Hopefully, those two hours have put enough distance between myself and the life I lived. I feel confident enough that it’s safe to pull into the next rest stop.

  I pull into the first space available, and my eyes search the parking lot, just to be sure he didn’t follow me.

  The coast is clear.

  I reach over and unzip the black bag, pulling out my wallet and my ID with my new identity—Claire Hyland. At least the last name is new. I’ve been working on the name for the past four months, with the plan to take off as soon as everything was finalized. It’s the only way I could leave and not be found. I still can’t believe Jorge pulled this off. The car, the room to rent, and the job interview. Apparently, he has some connections with a well-known family from Redwood. It just so happens that they were in need of an art teacher.

  I’m forever in his debt. He’s my best friend and the only person who knows that I left, let alone, where I’m going.

  I pull out the papers he printed for me about the job as I sit in the parking lot.

  Redwood High School

  Long-term Art Substitute Teacher

  I’ve never taught before. I don’t even like kids, let alone hormonal know-it-alls—but there isn’t much out there for someone with an Arts degree. A temporary teaching position is the perfect way to live low-key, for now, anyway.

  1

  Knox

  My alarm goes off at exactly seven a.m. Just like every morning, I stretch my arm over the nightstand that holds my phone and slap it a few times until it stops. Hoping I hit snooze instead of stop. That happens at least twice a week, which then causes Mom to pound on the door. Either way, I always make it to class on time: the one and only perk of having your Mom as the new principal.

  I close my eyes and try like hell to get five more minutes of sleep. Those five minutes do wonders, especially on a Monday morning.

  The next thing I know, Mom is pounding on the door. “Knox, are you up?”

  “I’m up,” I holler back, as I reach for my phone.

  7:40. Shit.

  I spring out of the bed at full speed and kick around some of the clothes on the floor, all of which were folded nicely in a pile at one point or another. Once I find the jeans I’m looking for, I slide them on over my boxer shorts then grab a couple matching socks from the floor and sniff em’ to make sure they smell clean. I yank down the first t-shirt I find in my closet then grab my phone and my bag and head out of my bedroom.

  I hold the shirt in front of me, curious about what I’m wearing today.

  Class of 2020.

  A Class with a Vision.

  It’ll do. I’m running late as fuck, and I don’t have time to change. I pull it on over my head, as I’m walking down the hall to the bathroom.

  A quick piss, a brush of the teeth, and some cold water on the face and I’m on my way out the door.

  I pull open the door to my Jeep and slide in, immediately starting it and rolling all the windows down. The breeze sweeps across my skin, cooling it on this hot spring day.

  I glance at the clock on the dash and already know that I’m not making it on time. The school is only ten minutes from my home, but the first bell rings in eight minutes. I floor it, trying to eat up some of the miles from here to there.

  I take high school much more seriously than most of my classmates. “It may be high school, but your choices today define your character tomorrow,” Mom often says.

  I jog through the hall, sliding up tom my locker and almost passing it. Everyone is hurrying into their classes because the bell is going to ring in about thirty seconds. I spin the combination, drop my bag in and grab my art sketchbook and haul ass down the hall. Just as the door is about to close, I slip in.

  Ms. Hyland gives me an eye roll and moves to the side, gesturing me toward my desk. I don’t even think I’ve seen her smile since she took over as our teacher in October, which was five months ago. We were all thrilled to hear that Mr. Mitchell was taking an early retirement; he was the king of asshole teachers. Little did we know, though, that Ms. Hyland was the female version, only hotter and much younger.

  When I first laid eyes on her, I did what every other guy in this school did, I drooled. I daydreamed. I jerked off to the image of her in my head. Now, every time I do any of those things, I picture the scowl on her face when she said that she called the cops on us all.

  It was Friday night, the last game of the season. Mom and Isaac, my future step-dad, were out of town, so I had a few people over. No big deal. It wasn’t a party, per say, just a dozen of us having a fire in the backyard. I knew that Ms. Hyland was renting out the guesthouse from my neighbor and best friend, Blakely, while she was her
e. What I didn’t know, at that time, was how big of a stick the lady had up her ass. It’s like someone shit all over one of her paintings one day, and she’s never forgotten it. I do have to admit, she’s got skills with a paintbrush. That’s probably why Blakely was so willing to help her out. It has to be, because Blakely Porter isn’t kind to many.

  “Dude, crank up the fucking music,” Axel shouted with his hand pumped in the air, while holding onto his beer, causing it to slosh all over Harper, who was standing next to him.

  “What the hell?” Harper groaned, as she swings her arm in a swift motion, causing droplets of beer to fly into Axel’s face.

  I watched them from across the fire, seeing flames in Harper’s eyes. It was just a week prior that she dumped him, and they've been bickering nonstop ever since. They’re about as toxic together as chlorine and ammonia.

  “If you’d move your ass away from me then you wouldn’t have to worry about it.” He tips his beer back and finishes it off, tossing it in the pit and ignoring her death glare.

  “You’re an asshole,” Harper growled, as she tossed her half full cup at him and stalked off.

  Axel, unfazed, just brushed off his cheek with the back of his hand and paid no attention to the beer stain on his black shirt. “How about that music, Burton?” His eyes shot to me from across the fire.

  “It’s loud enough. We don’t need to piss off the queen next door.” At the time, I was referring to Blakely—my best friend, and also my neighbor. At only twenty years old, she owns the big ass house next to us, as well as a historical art studio downtown. It was all handed to her, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t deserve it. She may be like family, but I’m the first to admit that getting on Blakely’s bad side is never a good idea.

  Little did I know, Blakely was the least of my worries that night.

  Taya came out of nowhere and gave me a nudge in the direction of the house next door. I looked over and there she was. Her hands stuffed into the pockets of a black robe that barely covered her red satin pajamas. She had to be on a mission to come to a high school gathering in her pajamas. My eyes popped, and I froze. The scowl on her face was enough to tell me how pissed off she was.

  “Knox Burton, can I have a word with you please?” She looked straight at me. The flames in front of me distorted her face but didn’t begin to mask the anger in her eyes.

  I tossed my full cup in the fire and a few people started to scatter and leave. I walked over trying to her trying to exude confidence.

  “It’s just a little get together. We’re not doing anything wrong here.” I stuffed my hands in the pocket of my jeans and gave her a smile in an attempt to calm her. In the end, I just pissed her off more.

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning. I’ve been awake for the past hour listening to your lame music and hearing all your high school drama. The cops are on their way, so I suggest you stash your beer and send your friends on their way.” She then turned and walked away.

  I turned and looked back at the house, and everyone was already gone, including Axel. That little shit. I knew they were all scared as hell of Ms. Hyland but some back up would have been nice. I didn’t even give her a second thought. I hurried into the yard and began picking up any evidence that minors were here drinking because Mom would fucking kill me.

  I sat by the fire alone and waited, and waited, and waited. Thinking that any minute I'd see flashing lights come into view. I glanced down at my phone and realized it had been forty-five minutes. Either they were really busy tonight in the zero-crime town of Redwood, or she fucking played me like a fiddle.

  I threw my head back and laughed. “Good one, teach.”

  It was from that day on that I realized she was the ice queen. I avoid any confrontation outside of this classroom. After that night, I’m pretty sure she labeled me as a troublemaker. Even so, she’s well aware of my 4.0 and the fact that my mom is her boss. She’s just a temporary inconvenience in my life. At the end of the school year, I’ll never see her again.

  I watch as she reaches in a black bag and pulls out an apple. She sets it down on the podium and takes a seat at her desk. “This is your assignment for the hour, sketch it. Papers on my desk at the end of class.” She doesn’t even look at us. It’s like we are all just a big fat waste of her time. Everyone does as they are told, but I sit there watching her, trying to figure her out.

  Her strawberry blonde hair cascades around her face, as she looks down at some papers in front of her. Something startles her, and she lifts her pale face, as her pear green eyes catch mine. The light reflecting off them shows sadness. My heart drops deep into my stomach, and I’m as frozen as I was that night at the fire. Only this time, something is different; this time, it’s like she’s letting me see a part of her that no one else does—something less robotic, something vulnerable.

  Until she breaks our gaze and tells me to get to work before she goes back to grading papers.

  She’s hot as hell on the outside, but inside, she’s ice cold.

  2

  Claire

  I’m five months into the school year, and I still haven’t fully grasped this whole teaching thing. Why couldn’t Jorge find me something with small children. High school students, really? It’s only been five years since I graduated, but nothing has changed. There are still the mean girls who sit in the corner and gossip, thinking they have the world in the palm of their hands. The jocks who think they own the mean girls. And, then there are the kids who really want to be here because they care about their education, but don’t have a leg to stand on because they get pushed around.

  For the most part, I keep to myself. I give the assignments, I grade them, and occasionally, I step in to stand up for those who do want to be here. As for the ones who don’t, I don’t have time for their nonsense. I’m too busy feeling on edge, as if Malcolm is going to walk through those doors at any moment.

  The vibration of my phone inside the desk drawer startles me. I jump up with enough spring in my ass to catch the attention of Knox Burton. I glance over at him and see him watching me. Like he’s waiting for me to make some kind of move. I tell him to get back to work and slowly slide the drawer open, just enough to get a peek at the text.

  Jorge: All is fine. It’s time to stop worrying. It’s time to LIVE.

  It’s easy for him to say. He isn't the one living in hiding. If Malcolm even knew for a second how close Jorge and I were, I would have never put him in this situation. My first couple of months at Malcolm’s house were lonely. It wasn’t until my first assignment that Jorge and I grew close. He is the only blessing to come of this, and the one real friend who I was able to keep under the radar, and in the end, it worked in my favor, more than it did Jorge’s. I miss him like crazy. He really was my only friend in the outside world, even if he was on the inside. All of the others that I associated with during our hosted parties and events were all for show. They never gave a damn about me. All they cared about was being in the good graces of Malcolm Rossi. I don’t blame them, because they didn’t know him. They knew of his name, his reputation, and his power, but they didn’t know what happened behind closed doors. Sure, everyone has heard the rumors, but no one ever believed them enough to do something about it. Or God forbid, go against him.

  I was the wife of a mafia billionaire. The lonely woman who was surrounded by strangers and often spent her days in her custom made art studio. I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on him. They burned into my soul, and I was scarred for an eternity.

  “That’s a beautiful piece.” A masculine voice echoed through me. His warm breath on my neck.

  I stroked mint green in the waves of the sea. Ignoring his compliment.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” He stepped in front of me, putting space between the canvas and me.

  “You may want to move or your nice black trousers will have a lovely stroke of seaweed across your crotch.”

  The bout of laughter that escaped him was almost s
inister. I should have known, at that moment, when his dick instantly hardened right in front of my face that I was in for a long haul of trouble with this man.

  Instead, I found myself sucking said dick in the men's restroom at the gallery, not even twenty-minutes later. Twelve hours later, I was waking up in the bed of a king. A buffet of breakfast in my lap and my own personal car waiting outside for me. From that day on, he owned me. And, he made damn sure that everyone knew it.

  Sarai mio per sempre.

  For the first month, I would drink those words up like a fine bottle of Chateau Mouton.

  You will be mine forever.

  Wrong, Mr. Rossi. I’m free, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.

  My lips curl when I think of him losing his mind back home. Searching high and low, sending his men out only to have them come back empty-handed.

  I gave up an unlimited supply of money for my freedom, and there’s no amount of money that would ever take me back there. I’ll substitute teach, wear department store clothes, and use handbags that don’t have a designer tag on them. If I allow myself, I think I can find happiness here

  I reach down into the desk drawer and send Jorge a quick text back to thank him.

  It’s time to LIVE.

  The words stick out like a sore thumb. Maybe he’s right. I need to let my guard down. I need to have a little fun. I was invited by some of the staff to have a drink after work. That would be a start. I haven’t even taken the time to get to know hardly anyone in this town.