Brutal Bully (Bad Bullies Book One): A Dark High School Bully Romance Read online

  Brutal Bully (Bad Bullies Book One)

  A Dark High School Bully Romance

  Logan Fox

  Copyright © 2019 by Logan Fox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Editing: Charity Chimni

  Cover Design: Logan Fox

  Photographer : Sandy Lang

  Model : Vladimir Eliseev

  Disclaimer

  Please note that this book was previously published as Brutal Prince.

  Brutal Lover is a full-length standalone romance novel. No cliffhanger. Angst, plenty of steam, and HEA guaranteed.

  This book is for mature readers only as it contains scenes some may find triggering.

  Bad Boy Lovers is a series of full-length standalone romances that can be read in any order.

  Brutal Bully Playlist

  French 75 — Cane Hill

  Cage — Blackshots

  Who’s Gonna Stop Me — Tommee Profitt, Jung Youth

  lovely — Billie Eilish, Khalid

  Forgive Me — The Plot In You

  My Body Is a Cage — Monarchy

  DRIP — Crywolf

  when the party’s over — Billie Eilish

  Your Love is Like a Car Crash — Blue October

  Stop a Bullet — Black Light Burns

  Heaven — Julia Michaels

  Check out my Brutal Bully Playlist!

  Prologue

  Life isn’t fair.

  Life is fucking cruel.

  But we only get this one, so we have to make it count. You can’t dwell on the past. You have to look ahead, count your blessings, and make plans for the future.

  That’s what my mother used to tell me, when I was sad because my best friend moved out of town. When I had to have surgery to remove my tonsils. Then, a year later, my appendix.

  She’d always have faith that a better day was just behind the horizon.

  Go to sleep, my girl.

  Have pleasant dreams.

  Tomorrow is a new day.

  My mother was raped, tortured, and murdered last week during a home invasion. The sadistic criminal who did it then set fire to our home.

  Where was I?

  At a party, getting drunk and trying to lose my virginity.

  It’s been eight days, fourteen hours since my mother’s beautiful soul left this earth. Life should have been easier by now, but it’s not.

  See…Mom lied.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I go to sleep, I don’t have pleasant dreams anymore.

  When I try to count my blessings, I come up short.

  My plans for the future?

  I don’t have any.

  When I look ahead, all I see is darkness.

  I’m waiting for that bright new day you promised me, mom.

  Because tomorrow still hasn’t come.

  Chapter One

  Indi

  I don’t remember Lavish being this travel-brochure perfect town nestled against the gentle slope of a mountain. Somehow, it’s impossible for me to picture myself ever having lived here. I traveled through Mallhaven — Lavish’s sister town — to get here. The towns share sinister-looking black peaks, as if they were split down the middle when those spires rose up out of hell.

  When I drove through Mallhaven, the town was already cast in shadow. Lavish, on the other hand, dazzles in the remaining hour of sunlight.

  My GPS sends me straight through town, where my path winds up one of the roads leading higher into the mountains. There are tons of pines here; so many that twilight’s shadow falls around me as I stop outside a fanciful wrought-iron gate. I can’t see a house from here. Instead, I’m surrounded by more firs and the dark, distant peaks of the Devil’s Spine.

  Getting out of the junker Mom’s insurance company passed off as a rental car, I head over to the gate and grab hold of one of the iron flourishes.

  The metal is ice-cold, slightly damp.

  There’s an intercom to one side. I press its button, and seconds later a voice warbles out through the speaker.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Indi.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I grind my teeth as I bend at the waist to put my mouth closer to the slotted microphone. “Indigo. Virgo. Your granddaughter?”

  “I was expecting you several hours ago.”

  I straighten, thinning my lips and hoping to all hell the voice on the other side of the line isn’t expecting a reply. It was a five-hour drive through states and counties I’ve never been. What the hell was she expecting?

  Slamming my car door, I rev the engine and tear through the gates as soon as they’re just wide enough for me to pass.

  As much as I would have liked to knock those majestic gates off-kilter, the last thing I need is Mom’s insurance company billing me for damage to their car.

  * * *

  It’s super hard to stay angry. I mean, I’m trying, but this place is just so fucking beautiful. The air is fresh and piney. A chill promises a cool night.

  Lakeview — which I still insist should have been named Swampview — was always so hot and sticky. Even in winter, the nights were hot. We had air conditioning at our lake house, of course, but I’ve always been the outdoors type. I hated being cooped up in my room. Mom used to—

  The road curves, and I almost don’t make the unexpected turn. My wheels go off the side of the paved road, digging into soft grass and spitting it out behind me before I can steer back onto solid ground.

  “Fuck.”

  I slow down the car, and then stop. As I wait for my heartbeat to drop back to normal, I peer out my windows to take in the towering pines and the dark, distant peaks.

  They’re prettier on this side. Not as sharp, not as jagged.

  Hiding their true form.

  It takes me a good few minutes to reach my new home.

  I was expecting a mansion, but gran’s place is just a big house. Double story, with a loft or attic on top. Big wrap-around porch. Immaculate lawn. No fences either — the lawn ends several yards away from the house.

  Right where the now-black forest begins.

  There’s a woman standing by the front door. She looks like those old, rich ladies who wear pearls to breakfast and have a butler whose name is undoubtedly James. But contrasted against a house that needs a new coat of paint and some replacement roof tiles, Grandma Marigold looks out of place.

  I stop my car in the drive, get out, and wave at her.

  She’s wearing a dress-suit and standing tall and proper, with her lips pursed and red as a raspberry. She shifts her shoulders a bit, purse intensifying the closer I get.

  It’s been years since I’ve seen her last. Close to two decades, in fact. That was right about the time Mom and I moved to Lakeview.

  She’s not anything like I remember, except if what I have in my head are manufactured memories from a toddler. My gran had rosy cheeks, a chubby body perfect for hugs, and a smile that could light up the room.

  Just like my mother.

 
I force a smile. “Hey, Granny—”

  “You shall call me Marigold,” she cuts in. Her eyes rake over me, and don’t I feel every inch of a pile of brittle yellow autumn leaves right now?

  “You look just like your mother.” It should have been a compliment — Mom was the epitome of grace and beauty — but in that tone of voice, it becomes an insult.

  Eyes the color of flint dismiss me. “And you’re late, just like she always was.”

  “Yeah, I do take after her,” I murmur to myself as Marigold pivots on her mules and struts inside.

  I glance out at Lavish before following. I’m starting to wish I’d had a flat on the way and had to sleep in my car instead of washing up here.

  Not that I have a choice, of course. I still have a few months to go before my eighteenth birthday, which means I’m still a minor.

  Someone, apparently, has to take care of me until then.

  Somehow, whoever gave Marigold that responsibility, has never met the witch in person.

  * * *

  “Dining room,” Marigold states, flipping a hand in the direction of a glaringly sober teak dining room set sporting silver tableware.

  “Living room.” Another flip of her hand points at a room that hasn’t seen any living in a fuck-long time.

  She doesn’t even have a television in there.

  “Your room is upstairs, first door on the left.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  Marigold stops, twists to face me, and studies her watch with lifted brows. “Dinner was ready an hour ago.” Her mouth twitches as she lets out a labored sigh. “But I guess I can reheat everything. Wash up and be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  With that, she strides away.

  I take the stairs two at a time, shaking my head and grinding my fucking teeth. I toss my backpack into my room which — no surprise — looks even less hospitable than the living room, and immediately begin exploring the house my mother grew up in. In fact, I grew up here too. For a year or two, anyway.

  Which room was hers?

  The next door opens to a second room that looks as much a guest room as mine. I don’t even bother going inside.

  There’s a bathroom, a study, and then another bedroom on the other side of the hall.

  Another guest room.

  And, of course, the last room must belong to Marigold. I don’t bother going to look — I’m pretty sure it’s as devoid of personality as the rest of the place.

  My shoulders droop as I thump my way downstairs.

  I’d really hoped some trace of Mom remained in this place. A family photo, some toys; heck, even just one of her earlier paintings.

  Guess Mom wasn’t kidding when she said she and gran weren’t on good terms. It all had to do with Dad, of course. Mom was a hopeless romantic, and as soon as she met her husband, she turned her back on the Davis family and became a Virgo instead. She lived in Lavish for a year or two after I was born, but then we all moved to Lakeview.

  That was the last time I ever saw any of my family from Fool’s Gold county. Honestly, I didn’t miss them. My mom and my dad were the only family I ever needed.

  I’m halfway down the stairs before I remember Marigold’s stern instructions. And she’s probably the kind of woman who’ll insist on seeing my fingernails before I can sit at the dinner table.

  I wash my hands in the bathroom sink and catch sight of myself in the mirror when I’m looking for the towel.

  I look every inch the orphan I am. Shadows under my green eyes, my dark hair is mousy and unkempt, skin sallow.

  Dinner is served on white china, with silver cutlery. Mashed potatoes, pale pork bangers, and a heap of pale peas.

  I guess if anyone could suck the life from a bunch of peas, it would be Marigold.

  And yeah, she does check my nails. I keep them short these days, no polish. I mean, what would be the point?

  “I trust your trip was a pleasant one?” she asks, startling me out of the trance I put myself in trying to pin down a slippery pea.

  “Huh?”

  Her eyes narrow. “I do hope you don’t plan on slouching like that at your new school, young lady.”

  Yup, there it is.

  Guess gran was expecting a younger version of Mom. All radiant debutant and perfectly honed social skills. I used to love playing dress-up with her elegant cocktail dresses and expensive jewelry.

  But ever since the home invasion—

  “Sorry,” I mutter, resuming my pea-chasing adventures in the land of white china and colorless silverware. “I left my ball gown behind in the blackened shell that used to be my house.”

  When I look up — because Marigold’s gone all quiet — I regret the comment. Her face is as bone-white as the china. Even her red lips have paled.

  “I’ll see myself out,” I mutter, shoving away my plate and storming from the dining room.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Grandma’s reedy voice calls out behind me.

  “Out!”

  “You can’t drive on these roads after dark. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Then I’ll walk!”

  “Don’t go far.”

  Thankfully, the front door isn’t locked — guess Lavish is one of those awesomely safe small towns where everyone’s so rich, no one has to steal each other’s stuff — so I head straight out and stand in what’s left of twilight.

  There’s a buzz in my ears, and I don’t like it one bit. It’s usually the precursor to a binge. Like the one I was on the night my mother was murdered.

  I glance behind me at the slightly dilapidated house and picture the prim and proper woman probably still seated at the dining room table, taking one tiny bite of food before putting her knife and fork down again.

  Zipping my hoody up to my throat and whipping the hood over my head, I fast-walk straight for the fringe of pine trees suffocating Marigold’s pathetic house.

  How long until that bright new day, Mom? ‘Cos all I’m seeing on the horizon are goddamn thunder clouds.

  Chapter Two

  Indi

  Half an hour later, I realize someone’s following me. Suddenly, an early-evening stroll through the woods to clear my head doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

  I know I should hurry back to Marigold’s house as if the Big Bad Wolf himself is after me, except…

  I’m lost.

  Yeah, I love the outdoors, but that doesn’t mean I know how to navigate using the stars and shit. And the woods in and around Lakeview don’t have shit on this place. I’d been following a path that became fainter and fainter, until I wasn’t following anything anymore except my desperate need for space.

  I glance around, but see nothing. I tug my hood up a little higher, wishing it was black and not beige. At least that way I could slip away into the shadows.

  I break into a trot.

  A second later, so does the person following me.

  My trot turns into a slow run.

  My pursuer speeds up.

  I begin sprinting.

  I dart between the trees, and barely avoid falling flat on my face when a root snags my sneaker. Catching myself against a tree trunk, I pause for all of one breath before I hear foliage snapping and breaking behind me.

  I shove away from the tree and break into a run.

  My breath comes hot and fast, my lungs screaming for me to stop. But if I do, I’m dead. I mean, why the hell else would some random guy be chasing me if he doesn’t want to slit my throat? It’s not as if I dropped my wallet or something.

  I bat branches and leaves out of my way, forcing myself not to look back, knowing the second I do, I’ll trip, fall, be gutted to death.

  Instead, I squint forward. Finally, a dark shape looms up ahead. I skid to a halt as I gape at the remains of a church. The roof and two of the walls are caved in. Brambles have reclaimed much of the structure, leaves and drifts of dirt the rest. But there’s no mistaking the cross that used to be on the tower, even if it’s stuck upside down in
a hillock of soil that’s grown moss and small shrubs all over it.

  And here I was trying to find my way back to my gran’s house.

  I want to laugh, but I’m too busy panting. Thundering footsteps push me out of my trance, and I dart into the midnight depths of the church. My heart thumps too hard, too loud, as I hunt around furiously for somewhere to hide.

  * * *

  Briar

  I slow down to a walk, allowing my breathing to return to normal after the first leg of my evening run. I love these woods on a Sunday night. So quiet. Nothing but me and the trees. Early evening is best, of course, when there’s just enough ambient light to make out the well-worn path between my house and the church.

  Back in the day, I played cops and robbers in these woods with my best friend, Marcus. The church would always end up being the site of our inevitable Mexican standoffs. But fuck, that was more than eight years ago now. I don’t even go inside the building I just use it as a landmark during my evening run. Halfway.

  It’s a challenging run; largely on an incline, and veering around the tangled foliage and the wicked thorns that give these woods their name. I’ve torn plenty of my clothes up here, and even had some scars added to my existing ones. The church itself is still a ways off, but I know this path so well I could walk it blindfolded.

  I heave in a huge breath, mentally readying myself for another sprint, before a faint snapping of twigs reaches me. I let out a slow breath, straining to hear over the rush of blood in my ears.

  I’m not alone anymore.

  Wolves have been spotted here before. It’s one of the reasons we were told never to play here when we were kids. Not that me and Marcus ever fucking cared.