The Bad Girl: A High School Bully Romance (Westbrook Three Book 2) Page 2

  Chapter Two

  13 years old

  ARWEN

  Sweat rolls down my neck, and I take a seat on the cement bench under a weeping willow. This thick, hot air is all the proof I need: I’m in hell. The southern summer heat is unrelenting—and very unaccommodating for my mostly black wardrobe. I’ve only been in Tennessee for two weeks and I already loathe living here.

  The cemetery is the only place in this godforsaken town where I feel comfortable. I come here every day to chat with random dead people. It may be a little strange, but graveyards are so peaceful. Besides, the dead are great listeners. They never interrupt or make you feel like they’re simply waiting for their turn to speak.

  I slip the hair tie from my wrist and pull my damp hair into a ponytail as I read the gravestone across from me.

  Silvia Pratt

  October 2, 1932 - January 16, 2013

  Beloved mother and grandmother

  “How ya doing today, Sil? I bet you’re not feeling very loved, considering the state of your flowers. My guess is neither your kids nor grandkids have been out here since they watched you disappear into that hole. I bet you spent a good portion of your eighty years taking care of those brats. The least they could do is show up long enough to put a fresh bouquet down. But don’t worry, I’ll hook you up tomorrow.”

  Someone chuckles behind me, and my heart lodges in my throat. I’ve been coming here every day this week, and not once have I come across another living soul.

  My head whips around, an angry scowl painted on my face as my eyes land on a boy. He’s sweaty and shirtless, his umber skin glistening in the sun. But it’s his sparkling white smile and sage green eyes that cause my heart to stutter.

  “Excuse me,” I quip. “Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop on someone while they grieve?”

  His head tilts as he studies me. “Look, I’m just here to visit my grandma,” he says, his brow furrowed with confusion as he chuckles and gestures to Silvia’s grave.

  I twist my mouth in annoyance. “This isn’t your grandmother.”

  He steps up next to the bench. “True, but she’s not yours either.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  He quirks one of his thick dark eyebrows at me, and I try to ignore the fact that it may be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. “Besides hearing your conversation, I’ve seen you at a different grave every day for the past week. And since you’re obviously new around here, I’m guessing you don’t know anyone buried here.”

  “Okay…freak. Are you stalking me or something?”

  He lets out a full-blown laugh this time, and my stomach flips at the sight of it. The boy is cute, I’ll give him that. He seems nothing like the other guys I’ve seen in town, walking around with an air of entitlement in their designer polos and thousand-dollar sunglasses. Still, I don’t understand what’s happening to me right now. This boy is not my type. At all.

  “The girl who hangs out in a cemetery thinks I’m a freak. That’s a little ironic, don’t you think?”

  I smirk, holding back the smile that’s threatening to break across my face. “A little too ironic, and yeah, I really do think.”

  He doesn’t get my Alanis Morissette reference and shakes his head, running a hand through his drenched hair. “You’re an odd one.”

  “Thank you,” I chirp, ignoring the tinge of embarrassment prickling my skin. “I can’t think of anything more depressing than being normal.”

  That earns me another toothy smile, and I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from doing the same. Shit. He’s…cute. I think I might be crushing on this boy.

  How is this possible?

  Maybe the heat is making me lose my mind.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t spying on you. There’s a park right over there.” He points to the soccer park to my left on the other side of the fence. “I run the track every morning. It would be hard not to notice you.”

  A blush tints my cheeks, and I avert my eyes. “You run in this suffocating heat? Why?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. Summer can be brutal around here, but I’ve got to stay in shape for football.”

  My features bunch with disgust. There isn’t anything more cliché than a southern boy playing football. Gross.

  “Okay, graveyard princess,” he says, taking a seat next to me, “what’s your issue with football?”

  “Nothing,” I singsong, patting my bare knees. “Besides it being a misogynistic and chauvinistic sport.”

  He laughs again, and it vibrates through me. “You obviously aren’t from the south. We believe in the three Fs around here—faith, family, and football, and not necessarily in that order.”

  The faint southern accent in his tone causes the corners of my mouth to tug into a smile. “Lovely. I should fit in perfectly.”

  I’ve never been to church. Never even stepped foot inside of one. We weren’t even that family that goes on special holidays. It’s not like we’re necessarily atheists. With all the praying my father did for my mother, it’s safe to say he believes in a higher power. We just aren’t religious people. As for family, I don’t have much of one anymore. And football is seriously the worst sport.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he says, heating my skin with his stare as it roams. “Where are you from?”

  “Denver,” I answer reluctantly.

  “I’ve been there a few times. It’s beautiful.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to agree or something. But I don’t want to talk about Colorado. I can’t. When the silence begins to linger too long, he hits me with more questions. “What brings you down here? Are you staying or visiting?”

  My gaze falls to my feet, the dread I’ve been trying to ignore since we got here making its presence known. The kid sure loves asking personal questions. “Family bullshit. And it’s permanent. Unfortunately.”

  Tears spring to my eyes at the memory of my mom taking her final breath. It’s true what they say about the death rattle. The horrifying sound will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Losing her hit my dad hard. We both felt so lost. Things would never be the same without her. Still, when my dad told me we were moving to Tennessee, I freaked. Denver was our home. It held all my memories with mom. Being here feels like losing her all over again.

  My father was so excited when he told me he was opening a new hotel in Nashville. I was just glad to see a smile on his face again—it’d been so long. My parents opened the first Brighton Hotel together after I was born, and it was my mother’s dream to expand one day. Even though she was gone, my dad was still determined to make it come true for her.

  Little did I know, he was planning to uproot my life by moving us to Westbrook. He wanted a fresh start for us, and he seems…happy. As much as I hate being stuck in this town with nothing and no one other than my only parent, I don’t want to ruin this for him.

  I blink away the moisture in my eyes before meeting the stranger’s stare again.

  “I’m sorry. That sucks.” The lack of remorse in his tone and twitch of a smile on his lips make it seem as if he’s glad I’m stuck here, and I hate the way it makes my stomach flutter. “It’s not all that bad here, though. You’ve already made a friend. I’m Aidan, by the way.”

  “What makes you think I want to be your friend, Aidan?”

  “Come on, I’ve got to be better than the ones you’ve made so far,” he teases, gesturing at the cemetery with a wave of his hand.

  My smile slips through this time, a bubble of laughter escaping. “I suppose it would be nice to know someone at my new school,” I admit.

  Not only did my dad move me thousands of miles away from my home and all my friends, he did it during my last year of junior high. The idea of starting eighth grade at a new school with no friends is terrifying.

  I sigh. “I’m Arwen.”

  His eyebrows shoot up at my name. I don’t blame him. It isn’t one you hear every day. There’s only one other Arwen that I know of, and she’s fictional.
br />   “That’s a great name. It’s nice to meet you, Arwen. Welcome to Westbrook.”

  Chapter Three

  Present

  AIDAN

  Every inch of my body is aching as I head down the stairs for my morning run. Between drinking more than I should’ve and the very fitful night of sleep, my body doesn’t exactly feel up for it. My tongue skims over the tender flesh on my bottom lip, proof that my intense exchange with Arwen last night hadn’t merely been a dream.

  She’s barely spoken to me for years. But that all changed because of Violet St. James.

  If I’d known how tangled up Violet would be with the Westbrook Three, I never would’ve started talking to her.

  Now, I’ve been sucked back into Arwen’s orbit.

  There’s been even more tension than usual over the past couple of weeks. The way it’s been building, it was bound to come to a head eventually. Though, I never expected the explosion to be in the form of a kiss.

  My father eyes me over the rim of his coffee cup from the table as I enter the kitchen, his contempt prickling my skin.

  Declan Shaw comes from old money. His life and future were mapped out for him from birth. As it was for his father and his father before that. When I came into the world, the same was expected of me. He wants me on his throne one day as the head of the family empire. But I want to build something of my own—to stand on my own two feet. Something my father can’t even begin to understand.

  At my mother’s insistence, my father finally agreed to give me the chance to carve my own path, but he made it very clear yesterday that he’d do nothing to help me. If I decide to take charge of my own life, I’ll be doing it without our family’s money. Football is my ticket to freedom. If I want to go to the college of my choice to study whatever I choose, I’ll need a scholarship to make it happen.

  “I’m going for a run,” I tell him, grabbing a Gatorade from the fridge.

  “This show of defiance is getting old, son. What’s the point of all this anyway? Do you know how many kids would love to be in your shoes? To have a job and financial security right out the gate? Why on earth would you want to turn your back on something like that?”

  My jaw tics as I unscrew the cap on the bottle in my hand, taking a big swig to cool my temper. You’d think the bastard would be proud I don’t want everything handed to me on a silver platter.

  “Is it really so wrong, wanting to live my life doing the things I love? The world of finance isn’t for me, Dad. I’d rather struggle every day and be happy than live in luxury and be miserable like you.”

  A fire blazes behind his eyes as he takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t say another word before standing and storming off.

  My father has never raised his voice or hand to me. It’s not “dignified” behavior. But make no mistake, I will pay for my harsh words.

  The sun is rising by the time I finish my run, and I decide to take a stroll through the cemetery. It’s not something I do very often anymore, but I feel the need today. There’s no big mystery as to why. It’s always about Arwen. This is where I first laid eyes on her.

  I watched her for days, moving from one grave to the next. She would talk to them and bring them flowers. It was the oddest thing. I’d never seen someone look so alive in a cemetery before.

  The day I finally decided to approach her, I was nervous as hell. Especially once I was close enough to see her beauty. Then I heard her talking to a dead person like they were old friends, and I just wanted to know her.

  I walk through the rows of headstones, immediately spotting signs of Arwen. Stones with little trinkets placed around them, and fresh bouquets. It’s not hard to figure out which ones are from her. She always brings them dahlias, because they’re her favorite.

  It’s strangely comforting knowing she still comes here. Like maybe there’s a part of the girl I fell in love with, somewhere inside her.

  An idea comes to me when I spot a wildflower, and I pluck it from the ground before heading over to one of the bouquets Arwen left behind. Smirking to myself, I place the flower in the center of the dark red dahlias then stand back to admire my work. The bright yellow sticks out like a sore thumb and I laugh.

  I’m not sure why I care or what I hope to gain from it, but I want her to know I was here. With any luck, this one tiny flower will take root inside of her and spread the way wildflowers tend to do. Every time she comes here, I want her to think of me. I want her to remember what we had—and what she threw away.

  Chapter Four

  Present

  ARWEN

  The ground around the bench is littered with tiny pink petals from the cherry blossom tree, the light breeze causing more of them to fall around me as I take a bite of my string cheese. The sun is shining, the temperature a perfect seventy-five degrees, the birds peacefully chirping. But Violet’s secluded lunch spot isn’t the same without her.

  It’s hard to believe she got suspended for telling Thatcher off in the middle of class. Our little saint has quite the fire in her, and I think her passionate spirit might be rubbing off on me.

  What the hell was I thinking kissing Aidan last night? It felt too telling, my lips and tongue trying to reveal the secret I’ve been holding in for years. Not even the taste of his blood could conceal the truth that’d been spilled into our kiss.

  Usually when I get in his face, he runs away like a scared little boy. This time, the bastard backed me into a corner—and he made me want to kiss him.

  He’s no longer the fumbling little boy I tricked into being my first kiss. When I felt the pressure of his hands on my back, I was ready for him to fuck me right there. My leg hiked high around his waist, my back pressing to the metal railing as he moved in and out of me. Which is exactly what happened in the version that played out in my mind later that night as my hand slipped under my silky black panties.

  This is why I’ve kept my distance all these years. My feelings for Westbrook’s golden boy are complicated at best. He was the first friend I ever made in this shit town. Then he had to go screw it all up by catching feelings for me. We’ll never be right for each other. He doesn’t have a single flaw, while I collect them like trophies.

  People in this town think I’m bad news. All because I’ve broken a few hearts and busted some balls. And, okay, there might be a few things from my past I’m not particularly proud of. I helped Thatcher and Cole do things that made us seem cruel and ruthless. But, only because people don’t know the full story.

  We aren’t the true villains.

  No one seems to remember that we were bullied and treated like trash. Yeah, we did some bad things to some bad people. If we hadn’t, those assholes would still be running this joint, terrorizing anyone they pleased. We made Westbrook High a better place by becoming the very thing we hated. Sometimes the only way to defeat a monster is to become one yourself.

  Now, we’re the infamous Westbrook Three—feared, hated, admired.

  “Hey.”

  I look over my shoulder at Violet’s annoying friend Samantha Miles and groan with disdain as she steps closer. “She’s not here.” I turn my attention back to my lunch, stuffing the rest of the cheese stick in my mouth.

  “Is it true? Was she really suspended for cursing Thatcher out in the middle of class?”

  I scoff, shaking my head. “Do you honestly think I would sit here and gossip about Violet? I don’t treat my friends that way—unlike you.”

  “What exactly is your problem with me?” Her raised voice is demanding, but she shrinks back as I cut my eyes up at her.

  “Excuse me?”

  Her stance straightens, and my eyebrow quirks with amusement. She’s normally so mousy. “You don’t even know me.”

  She’s not wrong. I didn’t even know this girl existed until Violet and I saw her leaving Sal’s with Thatcher a couple of weeks ago. When I found out she was supposedly Violet’s friend, I was pissed. Anyone with eyes could see there was something going on between Thatcher and Violet.
Then Thatcher told me about Samantha’s obsession with Aidan, and I had everything I needed to know about her.

  “Aww, of course I do.” My eyes rake over her. There are soft ringlets in her auburn hair. Her mini skirt and mauve crop top were likely bought in the kids’ section to fit her petite frame. If she wasn’t so irritating, she might even be cute. And, if she weren’t Violet’s friend, I would deal with her the same way I’ve dealt with most of Aidan’s girls. “You’re just another vapid, shallow girl hoping that hooking up with the star football player will improve your social status.”

  Her mouth drops open but by the time it closes, understanding lights her brown eyes, her expression almost smug. “So, this is about Aidan.”

  The absolute certainty in her statement causes my stomach to somersault. I’m getting too careless with him. The last thing I need is for people to notice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Her cheeks redden as she shuffles her feet. “I mean, it was obvious something was going on between the two of you at the diner Friday night. And Violet told me there’s some bad blood there.”

  Damn it. I knew it was a bad idea for Violet to invite Aidan and Samantha to join us at Sal’s last week. But she wanted to let him down easy, and I wanted to witness his disappointment. The whole thing was a total nightmare. With Aidan mooning over Violet and Samantha drooling over him, I nearly lost my mind. It was impossible to keep my temper in check.

  The next night, Violet flat out asked me about Aidan. And, though I didn’t lie, I hadn’t been completely honest with her either. Not even Thatcher or Cole know about my past with Aidan. They’re simply loyal without question, never asking why I react to him the way I do.

  “But it’s not a problem anymore, our date Saturday night was a disaster. It’s safe to say my little infatuation with Aidan is officially over.”