Bad Boy Blues (St. Mary’s Rebels, #0)

by Saffron A. Kent

Bullies are cowards. They can’t stand on their own two feet so they hide behind empty threats. All they need to set them straight is a little pushback and I’ve been teaching Art how to do that. Since I have a little experience in that area.

When girls my age were falling in love with cute boys, I was falling in hate with Zach. When boys were asking them out on dates, carrying their backpacks, opening their doors, Zach and his minions were pushing me through them.

He’s here. The boy I hate, the boy I’ve always hated, is back. And he’s standing just ten feet away from me. God, ten feet is not enough distance between us. Nope. It’s close. It’s real close. We need an ocean between us. A continent. A whole planet. An entire galaxy, maybe. As it is, I can see him clearly. I can see every angle of his face. The sharp peaks of his cheekbones, the slant of his jaw, his strong forehead. Even his eyelashes, how thick and dark they are. How all together, he has to be the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen. Such a delusion, his beauty. His meanness comes forth in his size. In the veins of his neck and the way he comports himself. All silent and watching and intense and big. And Jesus Christ, he’s gotten bigger. He’s taller than I remember. Broader too. Was he this huge three years ago? This… beautiful, with slick, black hair and full lips? His shoulders look massive. Even from ten feet away, I can see his chest straining against the dark t-shirt that he has on. His entire body seems to be bursting out of his clothes: black leather jacket and blue jeans.

He screams rebel. Bad boy. He screams that he doesn’t give a fuck. He didn’t three years ago and he doesn’t now.

He did pick on me and I did hate him. I hate him even now as he throws a smirk at someone to his right. Bastard. I hate that smirk. It’s so unfair that it’s beautiful and sexy. He’d never change.

With his champagne glass poised at his mouth, Zach is watching me with his black demon eyes. Like he used to. Like he never stopped. He never went away. Last three years never happened. It’s still prom night. I’m still sixteen and he’s eighteen. I’m still waiting for my boyfriend to show up while Zach’s laughing behind my back because he’s about to ruin all my dreams of love.

Him. Zach is leaning against the brick wall, his foot propped up. A cigarette hangs from his lips and he doesn’t have his jacket on, leaving him in his dark t-shirt that shows off his bulging biceps. Oh jeez. He isn’t even flexing them and they look menacing. “You scared the fuck out of me,” I accuse. An intricate-looking Victorian lantern lends enough light that I can see him. His face is turned toward me and I can’t escape the sheer grandness of his features. Sharp and cutting with a square jaw and high cheekbones, complete with dark velvet hair. “I can see that,” he comments. Then his corded chest swells out like a giant wave as he takes in a drag before sending the smoke out in the night.

“Cleopatra Paige.” I don’t think I’ve ever said her full name out loud and I don’t think I will after this, either. Her name’s like her. Loud and dramatic and a fucking handful. Or mouthful. Whatever.

For three years, I was free. Free of this place. Free of my parents. Free of all the things that they made me feel: anger, hatred, loneliness. But apparently, I’m back and there’s one very important difference. She lives here too, the girl with blue hair. The girl who bore the brunt of all my hatred and who I haven’t stopped thinking about since I saw her the first time when I was twelve.

“I won’t give up though,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. “Now that I know you think I’m hot.” With that promise, he leaves and all I can do is watch him go. And then, I smile. His thumb was soft and smooth. The only place I felt it was where he touched me, on my jaw. Ryan’s touch was exactly what a touch should be: warm and fleeting. It didn’t radiate out to any other part of my body. It wasn’t consuming. Not like his touch, scorching and electric. Something I’ll think about for days to come.

Still smiling, I walk inside the staff room and take a seat beside Tina. Mrs. S is yet to come and so everyone’s talking. Well, mostly gossiping, and of course, the topic of conversation is Zach. Leslie, one of the maids, is extremely happy that he’s back. “I can’t believe how hot he’s become. Did you see that body?” She waves a hand over her face. “Man, oh man. I want him.”

Get in line.

Why didn’t I think of this before? Why didn’t it occur to me that he might be sleeping? I’m an idiot. That’s why. Oh, and another question: why the hell does he sleep with no shirt on? I can see him. Like, really fucking see him. He’s sprawled on his stomach, both his arms flung above him. One over the pillow and the other seems to be under. The gray sheet that he has on only covers his lower body, leaving his back exposed and bare. I wasn’t wrong last night. He has grown and has become tan. Even though I haven’t ever seen him without his shirt, I can still tell that those grooves on his shoulders where they meet his biceps, weren’t there before. The bulges of his arms have grown as well, making them look like tight waves of water. Not to mention, his back is a freaking study of taut planes and ridges that move when he breathes. Jesus Christ. It’s so unfair, right? That someone so breath-stealing can be so rotten.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he thunders – I don’t know how he manages that since he just woke up but still, the sound echoes in my chest. His arm is stretched out wide, strangling the curtain with his grip, and for a few moments, all I can do is stare at his face. It’s clenched tight, every little line, every taut muscle on display. He’s anger personified with his ticking jaw and gritted teeth. I’m supposed to answer him; I know that. But my tongue is swollen. I stare at the five o’clock shadow on his square, killer jaw. Dark, enticing skin. Spiky, messy hair. Black eyes dripping with rage. And veins. God, he has so many veins, running just under his skin. One of them goes down his taut neck. It bumps over his collarbone and then disappears beneath his muscled pecs. His chest is massive and the curves of it make a tight valley that then changes into the ridges of his abdomen. I go to count those ridges; I’m pretty sure that he’s got a six-pack. Could be eight too. But I get sidetracked by the fact that he’s not wearing anything. He’s naked. Naked. “Oh my God!” I squeak, clenching my eyes shut. “How did you get in here?” “Oh my God. Oh my God,” I chant, trying to dissolve into the tiles my spine is stuck to. “You’re naked. I thought you’d at least have your pants on.” “What the fuck. Are you doing?” he growls, this time slowly. “Why were you sleeping naked?” I snap. “Who sleeps naked?”

He sleeps naked? So. Hot. 😏🤤

Rub one out. He means… rubbing his thing out. Right? Masturbation. The thing that’s on full display right now. A few feet away from me. Within touching distance. Is this the punishment for making up that lie about him? No. No. No.

I bet his dick is very impressive. 🍆

I can’t believe this is happening to me. I can’t believe I’m trapped inside a bathtub, with a naked Zach glaring at me.

Swallowing, I look at the curl of his biceps. They are huge. He could crush me, if he wanted. He could wrap his large arms around me, restrain me with his body, cover me and hide me under him. And it would take days for someone to find me.

He remains silent but watching. There’s no expression on his face. Nothing but pure intensity, and I can’t look at him. He’s too close. Too large. Too naked. His smell and the heat of his skin surround me like two strong arms and I can’t break their hold.

The air seemed full and brimming but I knew it wasn’t the sun. It was him. Anyway, right now, he’s by the pool, doing push-ups. In nothing but a pair of black track pants as he watches me talk with Grace. What’s his aversion to clothes? Why can’t he work out in a shirt or something? Why does he have to put his… sculpted muscles on display? People who wanna rub one out. I shake my head and dismiss his crass words. But I can’t dismiss what’s happening in front of me.

With every rep, his arms strain and bulge, and I think that any time those veins of his will pop out of his skin. Whatever. I don’t care. Neither do I care about the fact that he’s glistening, and I can see every ripple and groove of his shoulders and back. Even the drops of sweat that are pooling in those ridges. Why’s he working out in this heat, anyway? The main house has a big gym, for God’s sake.

It’s him. He makes me conscious of my figure. I thought I’d forgotten all the mean things his minions would say to me when my boobs started growing back in the ninth grade. But that’s the thing about bullying, isn’t it? You never forget. Never. You might pretend that everything’s okay now. That it doesn’t affect you anymore, their little insults and jeers. That years might have dulled their effect. But he’s bringing it all back for me.

Zach lowers his fork and chews slowly as he stares at me. His eyes are hot and they move like they did the night he came back. They stop at my breasts for a few seconds before going down and pausing at my belly. I’m all covered from top to bottom, but his eyes make me feel… unclothed. They make me sweat. I’m very aware of the droplets sliding down my spine and even my stomach. I swear with the way he’s watching me, he can see that drop plopping into my belly button.

Zach appears menacing, glaring down at me. His words highlight the fact that he’s bigger and stronger than he was three years ago. Every muscle in his body is bunched up and stacked, fraught with power. And my front is smashed with his.

Yeah, nothing about her has changed. Blue is still the same. Loud, spunky… bright. Brimming with so much life that it’s hard to look at her. But still I looked. I watched her get humiliated for years. I watched her get pushed around, get insulted, laughed at. For years, I was her bully. I’m not a fan of words or letters or anything. Never have been. But bully is the word I hate the most. I hate it so much that it might be a living, breathing person. A person I want to strangle and choke the life out of.

The guy I hate is the only thing on my mind. He’s the first thing I think about when I open my eyes in the morning. He’s the last thing I see when I close them. He doesn’t even leave me alone in my dreams. It’s worse than what it was at St. Patrick’s. When school was over, I got to cross the line and go back home. That invisible line between the south side and the north protected me from him. But now I live where he lives. There’s this constant awareness of him being around. My heart’s always ready to pound at the slightest smell of him. The butterflies are flapping their sharp wings, making me bleed on the inside. My lungs are always on the verge of losing air. I’m obsessed with him, with the way I hate him, with the way he makes me feel.

Zach’s leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes on me. He’s sweaty and the only article of clothing on his body is a pair of track pants. They hang so low that they show more than they hide. Namely, that deep V of his sculpted pelvis. But the worst and most disturbing thing is a hint of the dark tuft of hair that disappears under the waistband. I don’t want to think where it leads and how long he’s been standing there or if he heard any of the conversation Tina and I had.

Zach comes to a stop right in front of me, his ropy muscles all magnified and somehow, more enhanced than a few days ago when I saw him naked. He puts both his arms on either side of my head, looming over me.

It was the most perfect moment. He was perfect. He totally defended you, Cleo.

His soft tone hits me in the stomach. Right in the indentation of my navel, and I suck in a breath. Zach notices. He notices my heaving chest. I bet he also notices how my breasts are punching the fabric. They feel heavy to me. Heavy and dangling and… ripe. God, and sweaty. Just like his torso, all ridged and corrugated with muscles. It’s like we’re both suspended in this moment. Him with his eyes on my chest and me with my eyes on his face. It’s wrong and it shouldn’t happen but it is happening and I want it to stop.

His eyes bore into mine. The blackness of them reaches out and almost consumes me. “You think about me all the time. I’m the only thought in your head. I make your heart beat faster, don’t I? I make your chest feel tight. You shiver when I’m close. Your pulse is fluttering on your neck. Tell me, did it flutter when he asked you out?” I gasp; the bastard overheard everything. Damn it. And he’s right. He’s so fucking right but I don’t have the time to argue with him.

Every morning on my way to work I see him working out by the pool, shirtless. I feel his stare across the expanse of ground that separates us but I make it a point to never stare back. I make it a point to not see how his muscles ripple and how sun spotlights every drop of sweat that he sheds. I also make it a point to never go into the kitchen in the morning because Zach’s always there, getting fussed over by Maggie.

Zach did ruin my date. He said there were no secrets from him. So he probably figured out that tonight Ryan was taking me out. This is exactly like prom. But unlike prom, unlike all the years at St. Patrick’s, I don’t have the need to get even. All I feel is empty. Exhausted, tired. Scared. I feel scared. I feel like for years, I’ve hated Zach with such intensity that he’s consumed every thought in my head. He’s taken up all the spaces in my body that I have nothing left to give. Nothing left to feel. Maybe I hate him so much that I’ll never be able to love anyone. I’ll never have what my parents had.

I don’t remember sitting on the bed but I am. Right on the edge as I read the love story of Perseus and Andromeda. Apparently, the night sky is full of them, love stories. That’s where the term comes from: a love written in the stars. Again, I don’t remember taking off my sandals and lying down but I am. I’m on my side, facing the big window as I keep on reading. The sheets feel warm like a cocoon, and even if I didn’t already know that this is where Zach sleeps, I’d smell him and figure it out. Blueberry pie and clean musk.

I take in the room; it’s dark. The overhead lights have been switched off. I swallow in fear. And then, my eyes fall on a shadow. A big, black shadow in the shape of the guy I’ve come seeking. He’s sitting in a chair, in the glass alcove, overlooking the sky and stars and age-old love stories. The only light in the room is the glow of the lamp, ripping his body in two: dark and light. I can see his elbow propped up on the arm of the chair and his gorgeous soft lips lightly wrapped around his finger. He’s contemplating as he watches me sleep.

I nod. “Yes. Loving someone so much that you become immortal like a star. So you could love them forever. Yeah, it’s beautiful.” It’s something I want. So, so badly. It’s something that I’m afraid I’ll never have. Because of him. Because of how much I hate him, the guy who told me the most breathtaking tale of love. The guy who thinks love makes you bleed.

I would’ve probably fallen on the floor if not for a strong grip around my arm. His fingers flex on my bare skin when he looks at my feet. “What the fuck happened?” My toes have splotches and ugly looking boils around them, and I’m sure my skin must be ripped on the bottom and in the nook where my foot meets my ankle. Ugh. Stupid blue sandals. Before I can answer him, he comes down on his knees. Those fingers of his vanish from around my arm and grip my left ankle. I have no choice but to hold on to his shoulders, his very hard and curved shoulders that ripple under his threadbare t-shirt as he moves my foot this way and that.

A second later, Zach sits in front of me, on the closed toilet seat, and spreads out the first-aid box right next to me on the counter. Then he circles his large fingers around my ankle once again and puts my foot on his thigh. I suck in a breath at how hard it is, the muscles there. It’s like putting my foot up on a rock. A very warm rock.

Then he comes even closer to me. I’m so stunned by what he’s saying that I don’t even protest when he splays his palms on the counter on either side of my body and hangs over me. “Is that what you want from life, Blue? A guy who doesn’t care about you. A guy who doesn’t do anything and everything to be with you,” he whispers. “You should thank me. I did you a favor. I saved you.” His whispered words are causing a ruckus in my chest. Can whispers do that? Aren’t they supposed to be soft? How can they do mean things to my heart, then? “The only thing you need to save me from is you,” I whisper. His features rearrange themselves into something even more unreadable. Something hard like granite and sharp like glass before he rasps, “Believe me, I’m trying.” A pain shoots up in my chest and I realize it’s my heart. Maybe it’s bleeding. Maybe the butterflies that he created in me a long time ago are slashing it with their savage wings. In love, you bleed forever. I wonder if in hate, you bleed forever too.

I push at his chest again as I continue, “I came here to be in your way because I want you to leave me alone. I came here because I want you to keep your promise. You were right. This town already has its bully and it’s not me. I don’t want it to be me. I don’t want to be like you. I don’t want you to consume me. I don’t want you in my thoughts. And I’ll do anything, anything at all including tolerating your presence for a while if it sets me free for good. Do you understand that?” I watch something crackle over his face. Dangerous and hot. On fire. The flames of which radiate outward and lick my body. “Anything, huh?” A tremble passes through me at his low, criminal tone. A tone that’s darker than his eyes, those thick eyelashes. Darker than the midnight velvet strands of his hair.

Looking back into my eyes, he shakes his head once. “You want me to stay away from you, don’t you? You want me to keep my promise? And you’ll do anything for it?” Is he… implying what I think he’s implying? When I keep looking at him with a frown, he squeezes my waist hard. Harder than I had anticipated, and I whimper. “Answer me. You’ll do anything to save yourself from me, yeah?” I nod. Wordlessly. Like a little, plastic, brainless doll. “Then let’s see how much you wanna be saved. Show me how much you hate me, Blue. Spread your fucking legs.” I get a serious case of shivers at his low tone. I’m not sure if my thighs drop open themselves or he powers his way between them. But suddenly, he’s here. Between my thighs.

His bronzed hands get under the skirt and all I can see are his wrists, one of them with the tattoo peeking out. The feel of his callused fingers makes me whip my eyes up at him. Only to find him watching his hands on me, as well. Something about that is so… needy. As if he has to look with his own eyes before believing that he’s touching me. Touching the tender skin of my thighs, making me squirm. “Zach…” He lifts his eyes up to me. “Are you a virgin?” My thighs shake at the intimacy of his question. At the expanse of his broad chest that’s filling up my entire vision. “What?” “Your cherry. Do you have it?” I should push him away. I can end this whole thing now. I can just jump down from the counter and take off. I don’t care if he ruins my dates, uses me for his amusement. I don’t care. It’s okay. I don’t want to date or fall in love or anything even remotely that. As long as I don’t feel this way. Heavy and panting and so, so lazy yet so awake and throbbing.

Then he moves again. Putting pressure on my thighs, he slides me down the counter until my ass almost hangs over the edge. He hitches up my calves around his waist and my ankles cross at the small of his back, just over his tight butt. I thought his thumbs were driving me insane but the scratch of his jeans along my thighs turns every breath into something… erotic. Before I can dwell on that, Zach grabs my face. His hands are so large that they span my entire cheek, going up to my messy hair. “So, if I shove your panties aside and stick my finger inside you, I won’t find that tiny little piece of flesh that proves you’re untouched?” I shudder at the graphic picture he’s painted. Inside me. His finger. Fingers that are tangled up in my hair right now. Fingers that are rough and raw.

The hymen doesn’t prove anything. Some women are born without one and some lose it playing sports and such.

I jerk when he says my name. Well, the name he gave to me. The name that I’ve always, always loved in secret. In fact, I never even acknowledged it to myself. I’m acknowledging it now. Maybe because Zach not only says it, he makes me taste it. I never thought you could taste a name, especially not your own. But mine tastes… musky and spicy.

My words cut off when he moves away from my lips. A moment later, I feel him on my neck. He’s nosing the line of my throat. I grip his biceps. “A-are you smelling me?” “Yeah,” he groans. I flinch and my neck bends sideways. I’m nothing in the face of his aggression right now. The way he’s sniffing my neck, like he’s snorting a line of cocaine. I’m nothing in the face of that need. Need of a junkie. “Why?” “Because you smell nice. Like sugar.” And sugar is his favorite thing in the world. He’s eating up my scent. God. I arch my back when he gets to the triangle of my throat, and I take a deep sniff of my own. What I smell is exactly what I fell asleep to, in his bed. His blueberry pie and musky scent. “Y-you smell good too,” I blurt out, then clench my eyes shut in embarrassment.

Zach lifts his head and I have to open my lids when I feel his panting breaths over my lips. He looks drugged up, I swear. His pupils are wide, swirling like he really just took a hit of something potent, a narcotic that jacks up your heartbeat and sends you into the stratosphere. “Do you know what else I’ll find?” he rasps, his fingers touching the pulse on my neck. “What?” “If I touch your pussy right now. Do you know what I’ll find?” The P word is even more intimate than the V word and I can’t stop myself from arching my back even more and fisting his shirt.

And neither can I stop my pussy from clenching, opening and closing like a mouth. “No.” Zach rubs our lips together. “Wet. I’ll find it wet. And swollen and slippery and fucking horny.” Slippery. I’m slippery. I can feel it. The moisture, sticking to my panties. “I can smell you from here. Your pussy’s wet, Blue. She’s so fucking wet. She’s leaking. For me. She wants me. She doesn’t hate me, does she?” he says, pouring his words down my throat, jamming it w...

But what shocks me more than anything is that he’s… hard. His dick is hard and it’s pressed up against the most intimate part of me. The bulge in his jeans is right up at my wet panties and I like the weight of it, the heat of it. “I don’t. I don’t… want to…” Finally, Zach stops and looks into my eyes and a tear breaks free, streaming down my cheek. His thumb wipes off that tear with such tenderness that a few more shake loose and follow its path. “You don’t wanna feel this way, do you?” I shake my head. “No. Not for you. N-not for someone who…” I swallow as the words rip out from somewhere very, very deep inside of me. “Someone who makes me hate. Someone who doesn’t let me move on and let go. You change me. I don’t know how you do that but you change me into a worse version of myself.” Something goes off in my chest, then. A bomb of memories. Memories of that night three years ago when I said all sorts of things to him: the prom night.

My cock is hard as fuck. Harder than it’s ever been. I jump into the shower and try to clean off the feel of her. I try to clean off her scent, her softness. And when the memory of her becomes too much, I pull at my cock. I hear her words in my head: I don’t want to… Not by someone who makes me hate. Tears have never been my thing. But still, I jerk off to her. I beat it, pull it, tug it, until I’m spraying cum all over the tiled wall, thinking about her blue hair and her sugar smell. Fuck. Fucking fuck. Fuck. Bracing my hands on the wall that wears my cum and breathing deep, I clench my eyes closed. Probably in regret. But then, I shut it down. She hates me anyway. One more crime against her wouldn’t matter.

I remember this tug in my stomach. This flapping and fluttering. At the time I thought, I was so hungry that my tummy was making weird noises. But later, I realized that they were the butterflies, and that tug was the miserable connection between us. Anyway, when I did talk to him, he turned out to be a complete jerk who called me a thief, smirking, looking me up and down like I was a reject or something. I got angry at that, and I might have said something back. But again, I don’t remember.

After I ran away yesterday, I spent the night at my old house. I couldn’t sleep, not like I’d slept in Zach’s bed but I lay there, curled up and crying until the morning came. I had enough presence of mind to carry a phone in the pocket of my dress and text Tina that I was spending the night at my parents’ house. I did tell her things. But not everything. Not about my stupidity in breaking into his room. Not about what transpired between us. And how I responded. How I became… all turned on and Jesus Christ, wet. I was wet. For Zach.

Blue never acted disappointed in me because she’s always assumed the worst. She’s always looked at me with disgust and hate. It’s comforting. Familiar. It’s how everyone in my life has looked at me, if we count out Nora and Maggie. But then, they’re getting paid, aren’t they, to be nice to me. What isn’t comforting is the way Blue looked at me today when I found that kid and pulled him out of the hole. Today she looked at me like I moved the stars. It hurt. It still does. I never thought it would. Never thought that naïve, innocent, warm look in her eyes would be so glaring and harsh. Never thought it would make me angry. It made me want to remind her who I was. But it also made me want to grab her and kiss the fuck out of those blue-painted lips. And that can never happen. She won’t let it.