Brutal Titan: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Golden Olympus Academy Book 3)

by A. J. Logan

  Tonight, I just want to sleep—without nightmares, without thinking that the person next to me bailed on me and will almost certainly do it again, and without fear that I’ll just keep going back for more when she does.

  16

  Victoria

  A strong force latches around my legs, pinning my knees together as what feels like a hand slips under my back, rubbing along my shoulder blades. Clawing my way to consciousness, panic kicks in. My eyes fight to open as I struggle against the hold on my legs.

  “No, no, no.” The words pour out as a desperate plea. Am I screaming or silent? I can’t tell, but I do feel the grip on me go rigid.

  “Victoria, wake up.” Elliot’s voice registers in my mind as I relent, sucking in a deep breath and relaxing against him. I don’t know who I thought it was, but after vaguely recalling dozing off in middle of the party, I’m thankful there was plenty people around, unlike the guesthouse situation. Elliot remains tense with his arms under my knees and back as he hovers over me. “I was just going to take you to your room.”

  Looking around, I see that the patio has cleared out, leaving just a few people here and there, as I push away from him. “I’m fine.”

  “Yes. You were perfectly fine sleeping out here curled up in a little ball, looking like you were freezing to death, but being the gracious yet pathetic host that I am, I didn’t want to leave you out here because it’s a tad bit chillier than your demeanor.”

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I jump to my feet, wobbling slightly whether it’s from the alcohol or still being half-asleep, I don’t know. What I do know is he looks stupidly attractive even when he’s torturing me. “And whose fault is that?” Spinning, I begin to walk away as he says the last thing I expect to hear.

  “Mine.”

  Sluggishly rotating, I study his gloomy stance, shoulders slumped forward with his hands tucked into his pockets, a far cry from the chipper party host I’d witnessed all evening—except for when he was an arrogant bastard, yanking an orgasm from me that I thoroughly enjoyed. But what really throws me is how he knows exactly what to say to get to me. Hurriedly, I turn away from him. I’m not drunk enough to engage with him and not sober enough to keep my feelings to myself. Shuffling up the stairs, I don’t realize he’s a step behind me until I walk into the guest room that serves as my refuge. “Go away, Elliot. I don’t want to do this right now. I can’t.” My voice squeaks out, exhausted and emotional from everything going on.

  “I don’t want to do it either, so how about a truce?”

  “Sure, until you find some new way to make my life miserable.”

  He moves to the dresser along the far wall of the room. Pulling a drawer open, he reaches in, retrieving a sketchbook that I’m guessing is the same one I’d thrown at him. Stretching his arm out, he holds the book between us, his eyes penetrating me. I don’t know what to do, it’s all a joke to him. Everything. But I want this to be done. It’s exhausting waiting to see what he’s going to do next just to make me miserable.

  Reaching for the book, I grab it, my arm dropping by my side. “Fine. But only if we can go back to how it was before”—my voice drops, defeated—“you kissed me.”

  Moving in front of me, his arm slides around my back, pulling me to him. “I can’t go back because I know what it’s like to hold you, feel you, kiss you … touch you.”

  “No. You can’t call a truce then say things like that.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Sweet, caring, kind things. Things that make me believe you might be something other than the jerk who wants to make my life miserable. There can’t be a truce if you won’t stop because your kind, caring words are more painful than the brutal ones.”

  Raising his arm, his palm cups my cheek as he bends down. His lips so near to my ear I feel his warm breath on my skin. “I can’t help who I am any more than you can change who you are.” His hand quickly drops away as he steps around me, swinging the door open. He strides through, slamming it behind him as I flinch at the sound of frustration left in his wake. Just as he has done so many times, his abrupt one-eighty still leaves me floored. How can he be angry when he’s the one who stirred this up to begin with? That one stupid kiss has now spiraled into a never-ending torment session.

  My eyes drop to the smooth black leather, my finger stroking across it. Opening the cover, I read his heart-wrenching inscription again.

  Hopeless or not, I meant every word.

  E

  Moving to the bed, I drop the book on top, then step back. I won’t allow him to get into my head or make me drop my guard by thinking he won’t keep toying with my heart, because I know he will. Even before he kissed me, he always made me feel like a nuisance tagging along with him and Asher. Would he even have given me a second look if he hadn’t been forced to be around me all these years? Pulling my phone from my pocket, I quickly open the app to request a ride. There’s no way Asher will be sober enough to leave right now, and even if my car was here with me, it wouldn’t be smart to drive home. But I can’t be here. I have to leave because it’s taking every single ounce of my strength not to follow him. I want to tell him that I can’t go back either, knowing how it feels for his arms to hold me, longing to be back in them again, hopeless or not.

  17

  Victoria

  Morning comes too soon, although it was technically already morning when I arrived back home. Unfortunately, being in my bed hadn’t done anything to settle the twisted knots in my mind. Then the early morning message from Elliot that he fixed my car really didn’t help.

  Opening the bedroom door, I’m met with the familiar shouts of my father coming from the kitchen. Asher is usually the unlucky winner in his crosshairs because out of everyone in the house, Asher is the only one who goes out of his way to push our father’s buttons. My mother and I both do our best to avoid stoking the fire because once Victor Hastings gets going, there is always hell to pay, which is why I can’t understand why Asher insists on challenging him at every turn. The yelling and shouting matches are enough to drive me insane, but when it turns physical, that’s when I really get frightened. I don’t think my dad would ever intentionally hurt one of us, but I fear when he’s in his blinding rage that he could, so I usually do my best to defuse the situation. It works when my mom is involved, not so much where Asher is concerned because he never knows when to stop.

  Walking into the kitchen, I discover that my mom is at the receiving of his wrath, so I make an attempt to intervene. “Hey Dad, can you take a look at my car? It’s starting up, but I want to make sure everything is okay before I leave.”

  His furious expression turns to me, softening as he speaks. “Sure, princess. I’ll be right there.”

  “Thanks.” I hesitate when he looks back at my mom but doesn’t move to stand from the table.

  Leaning forward, he glares at my mother. “If I find out that you had anything to do with it, I can guarantee that you both will regret it.”

  Her face pales as she shakes her head, speaking in shaky breaths, “I didn’t. I haven’t talked to Nathan in weeks.”

  Nathan? My dad’s best friend and Quinn’s stepdad. I know he and my dad have had their struggles over the years, even not speaking after a falling out with their business, but I thought they’d worked everything out. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Their companies are direct competitors in the marketing industry, but from what I know, it hasn’t created any issues since they’ve patched up their friendship.

  “It’d better stay that way,” my dad says, kicking the chair back as he stands from the table, yanking the crisp white linen napkin from his lap before slamming it down on a plate of breakfast that looks untouched.

  Nervously, my mom looks to me before her eyes drop to the table, reaching for the glass of water in front of her. Hopefully, she isn’t in the wrong of whatever he’s accusing her of, but from the uneasy look in her posture, she has guilt written all over her.

  Tension fills my muscles as I
step into the garage, my father behind me. I pull open the driver’s side door and reach for the lever that unlatches the hood. Moving in front of the car, I watch my dad tugging and pulling on a few things before he says, “Start her up.”

  I sit in the car just long enough to crank it, then join my father where he’s glancing around. “Has it given you any trouble other than yesterday?”

  “No sir.” I force the idiot who sabotaged it and then repaired it out of my mind. Hesitantly I ask, “Is everything okay with Nathan?”

  “Oh, yes,” he says, giving me a reassuring smile. But he must note the concerned look on my face as he continues, “It’s just a little friendly competition between buddies. I can’t compete fairly when your mother goes behind my back to disrupt my efforts.”

  “I don’t think Mom would do that to you.” There’s uncertainty in my gut, but I wouldn’t think she’d interfere with anything business related that would result in hurting Ruby Flame Marketing because Monica Hastings enjoys her exorbitant lifestyle way too much. And I can’t say that I don’t love the lavish lifestyle myself, but I’d hope that I could find pleasure in the simple things in life—like children. But fancy clothes, expensive jewelry, and an extravagant house seem to be the few things that bring her joy because not much else ever has, including myself.

  That’s how I’d become so close to Olivia Bass. She found such joy in being a mother, in art, and in the simple pleasures of life. It was those things that made me long for my mother to be more like her and why I still can’t fathom her inconceivable decision to end her life. She seemed so full of life, excitedly planning a trip to Paris for us to visit all the art museums. She would laugh that no one would ever tour them with her and the one time she’d talked Elliot into it, he spent the entire time complaining and rolling his eyes, so she was happy to have someone to share her love of art with—which I understand perfectly. The one time I’d attempted to show my mom a sketch, her response was, “That’s nice.”

  It wasn’t just the fact that she was less than thrilled with something I’d worked on for weeks, it was the utter disregard for the portrait of her mother. In that moment, I realized she didn’t have an emotional attachment to anyone, just material items. Maybe I should’ve sketched her a new diamond bracelet instead. My dad, on the other hand, struggled to contain his heartfelt emotions when I presented him with a drawing of his mother. I guess that’s why I tend to be closer with my dad. Even with his horrible temper, he’s the more affectionate, doting parent. Between outbursts, I couldn’t ask for a better father, which is why I can’t understand Asher’s need to push him away and to the brink of maddening insanity.

  “Well, everything appears perfectly fine. Just keep your phone handy in case you have any issues.” Slamming the hood closed, my dad leans forward, placing a loving kiss on my cheek.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Anytime, princess. Love you.” He gives me a warm smile and waves as he walks across the garage before heading inside the house. It’s unsettling how different his demeanor is with me opposed to the man he was moments earlier with my mom, reminding me again of Elliot. One minute he’s kind, the next he’s like a madman, hell-bent on leaving nothing but destruction in his path. The scene that played out with my parents might not be exactly the same, but it just as well could be. I don’t want to tiptoe around someone. I’d never know what mask he’d be wearing or what would reveal the rage beneath. Elliot reserves his chipper attitude for everyone else and the last thing I want is someone who looks at me the way my father looks at my mother, like he hates the very thought of her in his presence, breathing the same air as him. Shuddering, I shake the thoughts out of my mind. My parents’ issues are theirs. I’ll always try to keep the peace but the one thing I have control over (sometimes) is staying far away from Elliot Bass and his enticing, maddening face.

  Ugh. Why can’t I forget about him? I know it won’t happen anytime soon. I drop into my car, shut the door, then back out of the garage. My destination is all because of him—the art studio to buy a new sketchbook. One without his stupid inscription written inside.

  Pulling into the parking lot, I notice there’s a class in full swing. Stopping at the glass, I watch for a few minutes before making my way to the back of the studio where the supplies are kept. Searching around, I find the shelf empty. That’s strange since it’s usually fully stocked with at least two dozen.

  “Hi, Victoria.” A smooth voice sounds behind me, and I turn to recognize Dalton.

  “Hey.” I clear my throat, a little taken aback by his sudden appearance. I point to the shelf. “Do you have more sketchbooks?”

  “No, sorry. We were all bought out first thing this morning.”

  “Seriously?” They’ve never been sold out.

  “Yeah. Some guy bought them this morning. He even asked if there’s anywhere else he could get some around town. Not sure what he needs with all of them, but he asked for a call when the next shipment arrives too.” Dalton chuckles, but I find no humor in this revelation.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble under my breath. There’s no way he’d go this far out of his way to drive me to the brink of insanity, right?

  “Was he about yea tall?” I ask holding my hand in the air around the spot where Elliot’s thick skull stops. “Brown hair? An idiotic, arrogant smug face?”

  Dalton looks confused but nods his head. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  So much for a truce.

  “I can hold some out of the next shipment when they arrive this week and give you a call when they come in.”

  “Thanks.” I force out the word, wanting to be polite to Dalton, but I’m absolutely fuming on the inside.

  Dalton reaches over, grabbing a spiral sketchpad off the shelf. “But we have these in the meantime.”

  “No, that’s okay.” Since it’s Olivia’s preference, I know that drawing in it will only remind me of her foolish son, so it won’t be relaxing at all.

  “Can I get your number?” He puts his hands in his pocket, rolling uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “I mean … so I can give you a call when the shipment comes in.”

  “Yes. Yeah, that’d be great.” I glance away as he motions for me to follow him to the register where he hands me a slip of paper.

  Taking the pen out of his hand, I focus on writing my name and phone number before sliding the paper across the counter to him. “Thanks again.” I give him a half-smile before turning to walk away.

  “Victoria,” Dalton hesitantly says as I turn back to him. “There’s a new exhibit at the museum that I’ve been wanting to check out. Would you like to join me, grab some coffee or dinner … maybe make a date out of it?”

  My mind races with so many thoughts that I don’t know what to say. I want to say yes. I want to forget about the face that popped into my mind as soon as I realized where Dalton’s question was headed, but I can’t—and I hate it. Elliot is nothing but misery wrapped in an enticing package.

  “Yes,” I respond as Dalton’s smile grows.

  “My dad needs me to help out all day tomorrow, but how about next week. Saturday okay for you?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Perfect.” He smiles, holding up the piece of paper with my number on it. “So, it’s okay for me to give you a call to iron out the details?”

  “Sure.” I give him a genuine smile, appreciating his politeness. I almost enjoy the fact that he isn’t so sure of himself, doesn’t assume he can have anyone or anything of his choosing. Actually asking instead of just taking. Dropping into the driver seat, I retrieve my phone from my pocket and do a quick search online for sketchbooks, ordering a few for backup because they’ll more than likely arrive before the next shipment, and it’s the only way to distract myself from everything going on around me. I’ll need the distraction this week for sure.

  18

  Elliot

  Walking into the house, I toss my key fob on the counter, grab a beer from the fridge an
d make my way out the back door before plopping down on a lounge chair. The same chaise I’d dozed off in last night, relaxed with Victoria next to me, even with the chaos of the bonfire around us. Shit. Tilting my head back, I gulp down half of the bottle before spotting Asher. He steps out the back door, making his way over before reclining in the chair next to me with a groan.

  “Getting started already?” he asks, looking to the beer in my hand. “Where have you been?”

  “Nowhere important,” I respond while envisioning the useless art supplies filling my trunk. It was a petty move, but it was the only thing that helped ease the anger of finding she’d left the sketchbook on the guest bed. She’d essentially thrown it back in my face. At least this time it figurative and not literal, although this felt worse. Flinging it at my head was an easier blow to take than finding her gone, my peace offering the only thing left behind in the bed I expected to find her in this morning. Downing the remainder of the beer, I head toward the house as I call out over my shoulder, holding up the empty bottle, “Want one?”

  “Yep,” Asher responds without hesitation.

  Stepping into the house, deafening silence engulfs. I hurry to the fridge, grab two beers, then head straight back outside. Handing off one of the beers, I sit on the edge of the lounge chair, looking to my best friend as guilt overwhelms me.

  “There’s something we need to talk about.” Or more like someone. At this point, I might be able to confess and get everything off my conscience without tarnishing my friendship.

  He lets out a defeated breath, twisting the cap off the beer before taking a big swallow, looking to me. “Yeah, I know. I’ve already heard all about it.”

  “Um. What exactly have you heard all about?” There’s no way it’s the topic of conversation I was referring to because he looks defeated rather than infuriated.