Bullied by the Baseball Captain: An Academy Reverse Harem Bully Romance (The Bullies of Strathmore Reform Book 1)

by Jenni Sloane

  And now here I was at Peppino’s with Archer. Archer, who’d stood by and let his brother force me to sing. Archer, who used me. I was a companion if he was bored. A target if his brother ordered him to make me one. I’d started to find something appealing about his solid impassivity. He might be a bodyguard, but he’d seemed somehow gentler than the other bullies. Now I knew him for the coward he was.

  He greeted me with his usual clipped nod, which I didn’t return. I got started on the bathrooms. I was so nervous about tonight, I’d sweated through my polo in minutes. My costume was as ready as it was going to be. It wasn’t perfect, but it was beautiful. I’d managed to steal some time in the rehearsal room yesterday to run through my act. My performance wasn’t going to change any lives, but I was tentatively excited about it. This was a chance to live my fantasy of singing onstage. A chance to perform something that wasn't a hymn. And if I screwed up, well...it wasn’t like I’d ever had the respect of the Strathmore student body to begin with. So I had nothing to lose.

  Try telling that to my body, though, which sweated and shook throughout the morning. I was grateful to hide behind the noise and bulk of the industrial dishwasher, talking to no one.

  Archer came back around noon to grab his usual slice of pepperoni. “You look pale,” he told me.

  I ignored him. Go away, I willed.

  He cleared his throat. “I just want to say that I’m sorry about what happened the other day. When Ian gets an idea in his head, he can be a real bastard. I know he’s sorry too.”

  I turned to him, anger puffing me up. “I don’t believe that either of you is sorry.”

  “I can see why you’d—”

  “If I were you, I’d stop talking. You say you’re your own person. But you stood by. You stood by while he humiliated me. You say your brother’s a bastard, stubborn… You’re about ten times his size. You could stand up to him. So no, I don’t believe you’re sorry, or that you didn’t mean for it to happen. You did.” I wiped my hands on my apron. “Now, I’m getting back to work.”

  “I am sorry,” he said—louder, as though that would make a difference. “For what it’s worth.”

  “It’s not worth anything.”

  He hesitated, giving a slight nod. He took a few bites of pizza. I stood, there, tense, waiting for him to leave.

  “You nervous about tonight?” he asked.

  “Did you hear me?” I demanded.

  “I did. And I understand. Now I’m asking about the show.”

  “I’m not nervous,” I lied.

  He shrugged, pushing some dishes closer to where I could reach. “I am.”

  I snorted. “You’ve done this before.”

  “Like I said. I’m not much of a guitarist.”

  In spite of myself, I was curious. Still angry, but curious. “So you play while he sings?”

  “While he does bass solos, mostly. He’s a decent backup singer, but he’s no front man.”

  “Who is the front man for Certifiable?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Seriously? Someone who doesn’t know?”

  I made a concerted effort not to blush. “I’m pretty clueless about, like, current music.”

  “No, no, that’s great. It’s so nice to talk to someone who doesn’t know a creepy amount about us, or isn’t pretending to know. Sorry, that sounds so arrogant. But it’s—well, it’s true. People at Strathmore get a little stalkerish. Even the ones who hate us.”

  I smiled hesitantly. “Well, I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Okay, well, our front man is Bonetongue Deeds.”

  I burst out laughing before I could stop myself. “Bonetongue Deeds? He sounds like a villain in a steampunk novel.”

  Archer’s mouth did that little twitch again. “I don’t know what steampunk is.”

  Seriously? I did my best to explain it to him.

  “Sounds cool,” he said when I was done.

  “Yeah, it can be. When it’s done well.”

  There was an awkward silence. A silence that left me room to wonder if he’d meant that apology.

  I found myself curious about him again. I considered asking him about Kayle, and how she’d saved his life. “I…think that’s his story to tell,” she’d said.

  I’d opened my mouth to speak, when his phone rang. He answered. “Hello?” He paused. “Ainslie.” He said her name flatly. I heard Ainslie’s high, eager voice on the other end, though I couldn’t make out what she said. “It’s not a good day,” he said. “No, I just did. Ainslie… It’s not going to work. Forget it. I’m hanging up now.” I could still hear her talking as he hung up. He glanced at me, holding up the phone. “I get a cell phone for work. I made the mistake of giving Ainslie the number once. Now she calls from the landline over at her job at least twice a week, asking if we can get lunch together. And sometimes she just shows up here and requests me as her server. It’s weird as fuck.”

  “Huh,” I said, not sure what else to say.

  “Ian won’t give her the time of day, so I guess she thinks she can stay close to him through me.”

  I struggled to think of a response. I had so many questions. But he was looking at me again, and it was hard to focus on anything but that stoic gaze.

  “Well,” he said finally, just when my skin had started to heat oddly. “Back to the grind.”

  I nodded.

  “Break a leg tonight.”

  “You too,” I murmured.

  And he left.

  “Can you stay till five-thirty?” Lane asked me. “The evening dishwasher called in sick, and I can’t get the substitute in until five.”

  “I, um…” I had wanted to be back to Strathmore early. To put the finishing touches on my costume and to rehearse a little before the show started at seven. But I remembered Callahan’s warning to stick to the narrative. I had to succeed as a bathroom scrubber so I could get promoted to pizza maker on schedule.

  Staying until five-thirty wouldn’t make me late, but it would mean shaving things close. “I don’t know if the school would—”

  “I’ve already spoken to Miss Callahan,” Lane said. “You’re cleared to stay late.”

  Great.

  I went back to the dishwasher, trying to decide if I should ride my bike to the school as fast as possible at five and hope I had time for a quick shower before the show, or ride at a normal pace to avoid getting any sweatier, in case I didn’t have time for a shower.

  I jetted out of the restaurant at five thirty-one, racing over to the bike rack.

  Only to find my bike gone.

  Impossible.

  Nobody could have cut that lock, not without tools that would have attracted attention.

  But the bike was gone.

  I realized with sickening fury that there was only one person who could have done this.

  Archer.

  He was the one who’d assigned me a coat peg rather than a locker. He must have fished through my purse, found the key… He wasn’t the only person who could have gotten the key, but he was the only person with motive. If Ian had told him—or if he’s decided on his own—to sabotage my chances in the talent show…

  There was no time to and confront him. If I had any hope of reaching the school in time to go onstage, I had to start walking. No—running.

  So I did. Down the gravel road shortcut, through puddles, through sludge. I got scratched by brush and covered in sweat and mud, but I didn’t care. I had one thought in my head:

  Don’t let them win.

  It was ten after seven when I arrived. Everyone would be gathered in the auditorium.

  I raced up to my dorm, fumbling for my key. I was still panting so hard I was wheezing.

  The first thing I saw when I opened the door was a mess of feathers. They were strewn among strips of familiar fabric. My heart clenched tight, and I went to my knees. “No,” I whispered. “No, no, no,” I repeated, my voice growing louder.

  Sticking out from under the bed was my costume. It looked l
ike a dog had gotten ahold of it. Fabric hung off it in strips. One sleeve was completely slashed. Tiny tufts were all that remained of the feathers I’d so carefully sewn on. Beads littered the floor.

  Tears streamed from my eyes as I stared at the mess. Who had done this? If Archer and Ian were conspiring against me over the talent show…had Ainslie let Ian into my room? Had she done this on his orders? It seemed like a group effort—Ainslie could have ruined the costume while Archer stole my bike. Ian could have masterminded it all.

  But why? I’d done what he’d wanted. I’d gotten up on the altar to sing for him.

  Stupid girl. When will you learn to stop asking why?

  Part of me wanted to run out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door. I’d leave campus, live on the streets if I had to. Get myself arrested and go to prison with Mason. Anything, just as long as I didn’t have to stay here. But a stronger, darker part of me was making itself known.

  Fuck them.

  I peeled off my muddy, sweat-soaked Peppino’s uniform. Grabbed the rehearsal tank top and leggings Kayle had lent me and threw them on. I put the remains of my costume on over top.

  You will not break me. Any of you.

  It hung from me in shreds, but I didn’t’ care. I put on my shoes. Ran down the hall to the bathroom and turned on the tap to splash water on my face. Stopped and studied myself in the mirror.

  I left the streaks of mud on my face. The tangles in my hair. And I ran down the stairs, my heels clacking on the first floor corridor as I made my way to the auditorium.

  “Number fifteen,” I panted at the check-in assistant. He stared at me as he handed me the number to pin on my costume. “You’re on deck,” said Kelly Hartford, the assistant stage manager, ushering me backstage. “Did you check your music?”

  I shook my head. “I just got here.”

  Kelly fumbled to get my head mic taped on.

  A kid named Albert Budson was finishing his juggling act. My insides were so full of rage and adrenaline, I had no room for butterflies. Albert took his bow and left the stage. And at a nod from Kelly, I walked out.

  I could hear sounds of confusion and amusement as I walked out—my hair knotted and still stuck to my neck with sweat. My face free of makeup but smeared with filth. My costume looking like it had gone through a garbage disposal. I stared out at the sea of faces and prepared to sing so beautifully, nobody would give a shit what I was wearing.

  There was a terrifying moment where I wasn’t sure my accompaniment track was going to play. Then, to my relief, it started.

  I took a deep breath. Stepped more squarely into the light. And began to sing.

  I made it through about three lines before the track began to skip. I faltered in mid turn, my choreography temporarily forgotten. The track improved, and so did I. But after a few lines, it skipped again.

  I started to panic. People were shifting uncomfortably. Some were laughing. I squeezed my eyes shut briefly.

  Don’t let them win.

  The music smoothed out, and I continued to sing. But I couldn’t lose myself in the performance the way I had during rehearsal. Not when I was constantly worrying my music would cut out again.

  I made it through a verse, but my movements were off. I felt stilted and unsure. Someone in the crowd booed, and was silenced by a teacher, but not before a ripple of laughter passed through the audience.

  When the music cut out again and was replaced with a hip-hop track, I knew this wasn’t an accident. Someone had tampered with my music.

  Now the audience’s laughter swelled, until it seemed to drown out everything. I stopped moving. Turned to Kelly in the wings. “Cut the music,” I called.

  She did. I stopped trying to move. I just stood there, under the lights, and began to sing acapella. Just as I had for Ian and Archer. But this time was different. It was my choice. My story.

  The crowd grew quieter as I filled the auditorium with my voice. I heard Kayle yell, “Yes, Amma!”

  I was halfway through when somebody threw a granola bar onstage. It landed at my feet. Someone who knew about Cole starving me. About Kayle stealing granola bars for me. I ignored it. I finished the song to mixed applause, jeers, and laughter. Bowed, then walked offstage with as much dignity as I could muster.

  When I reached the wings, the adrenaline left me, and I was aware of what an idiot I’d made of myself out there. I needed to get outside; I needed some air. But before I made it out of the wings, someone grabbed my arm. I turned to face Ian Kemp.

  “Come out with us,” he urged, his voice low.

  I almost punched him. I wanted to. I wanted to punch him a hundred times harder than I’d punched Archer. I wanted teeth to fly. “Let me go.”

  “I’m serious, Amma. Come out and sing with Archer and me. You didn’t get a fair shake.”

  “Because of you!” I hissed. “You sabotaged me.”

  “Amma, I swear I didn’t!”

  “Then you put someone up to it. I’m not stupid.”

  “No, Amma, listen. I don’t know what happened. But it wasn’t me.”

  “Was it your brother?” I demanded, ready to tear his throat out.

  “I don’t think so. I really don’t. Arch wouldn’t do that.”

  “You don’t think?”

  Kelly called, “Ian, Archer, you’re up.” The crowd was clapping for act number sixteen.

  “Amma, please. We’ll fix this. You can come out and sing with us. Your voice—it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard. People deserve to hear it. You deserve that.”

  There was that naked pleading in his gaze gain—it had its hooks in my ego. It twisted something in my chest.

  “I don’t even know your song.”

  “Ian!” Kelly called.

  “We’d pick something we all know,” Ian said. “Archer says you know “Never the One” He’s heard you sing along to it at work.”

  I hesitated. My fantasy of singing for a cheering crowd came rushing back. If Ian Kemp asked me to sing with him, the crowd would be on my side. And the satisfaction of making Archer play a song he hated was tempting.

  “It’s not a trap.” Ian tugged my hand gently. Sparks shot through me. “It would mean so much to me, Meg.”

  Meg.

  He didn’t even seem to know he’d said it. He was just staring at me with those desperate eyes. Who was Meg? Was Meg the “her” that Archer had mentioned at rec that first day? The one Ian missed? Whoever she was, I got the feeling Ian wished I was her.

  And suddenly, I had my answer.

  I kept my gaze on his. Let the fury ebb from me so that there was nothing between the two of us but blank space. “I will never again in my life sing because you tell me to,” I told him. “I gave the performance I wanted to give. It was mine.” His grip loosened, and I slid my wrist from it.

  I turned and walked away. The backstage crew was too busy hustling the Kemps onstage to notice me leave the wings and step out into the empty corridor. I made my way to the exit. Gaines was on guard duty, but was passed out at the small watch station desk, a thermos of spiked coffee balanced precariously on the edge.

  The evening was cool, but the air was strangely thick. I walked across the grounds, toward the part of the fence farthest from the school. The shadows were thicker here I wasn’t sure what I’d do once I got there—I could barely see the tops of the imposing iron spikes. I was in no hurry to try climbing the fence. Maybe I’d dig my way under. Or maybe I’d just wrap my fists around the bars and rattle my cage. Either way, I was grateful for the fresh air and the solitude.

  I was almost to the fence when I heard a metallic clang, followed by a thud, then a grunt.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  I heard another long groan and hurried over the shadow on the ground by the fence. “Are you okay?”

  “TT?” a low voice moaned.

  Shit.

  “Cole? What are you doing out here?”

  “Making my great escape. What does it look like?”
He tried to move, then hissed.

  I squinted down at him, my eyes slowly adjusting to the weak moonlight. “You climbed the fence?”

  “Not successfully.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  He hissed again. “Presumably.”

  “Where?” I knelt beside him.

  “Ankle. Left one.”

  I looked at his ankle, which was covered by his pants and shoe. “Do you need to go to the nurse?”

  “No. TT, don’t be stupid.” He was breathing hard. “I either have to make my escape or pretend I never tried.”

  I sat on the grass, enjoying the cool dampness of it. “How are you going to do either of those things?”

  He panted for a few more seconds. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  “Then you’ll scale the fence again?”

  “Probably not.” He gave a small, almost-embarrassed sounding laugh. Then he forced himself onto his side, moaning through gritted teeth. He propped himself on his arm and looked at me. “What are you doing out here? And why are you wearing a dead bird?”

  “I bombed at the talent show,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I was admitting this to him, but what did I have to lose?

  “That sucks.”

  “I guess.” I told him what happened.

  “That’s really shitty, actually,” he said.

  “Really? You think it’s shitty? You think it’s any shittier than the myriad shitty things you’ve done to me?”

  He pushed himself up a little more, so we were closer to eye level. “I didn’t say it was shittier. Just that it was shitty.”

  I didn’t answer, and for a while, he didn’t speak.

  “So what were you doing?” I asked finally. “Trying to escape and get back to your brothers?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I was a little drunk at the time.”

  “At the time? You mean five minutes ago?”

  “The fall sobered me up.”

  I snorted. “You know, maybe if you were willing to work like the rest of us, you’d have a job out in the community. And you could escape then, instead of trying to climb an eight-foot fence.”