Brutal Boy by Selena
one
Trigger Warning: The world of Faulkner is dark, gritty, and at times fucked up. The books set here may contain any of the following: cheating, dub-con, non-con, abuse, assault, rape, coercion, sharing, suicide, unapologetic feminism, neglect, adults using children for their own gains, rich kids with no consequences, poor kids with nothing to lose, and people living in abject poverty, doing things to survive and escape that might make sensitive readers uncomfortable.
If you don’t like the thought of teenagers participating in questionable acts such as unprotected sex, violence, sexual violence, drugs, pornography, gambling, bullying, and other acts of debauchery and desperation, this series is not for you. Also, if you’re offended by people taking the Lord’s name in vain or the word cunt, please return this book for a refund. This author is probably not for you.
Lastly, this is a work of FICTION. It does not portray a healthy relationship nor is it meant to. If that’s what you are looking for, dark romance may not be for you.
*
Harper Apple
Just walk in, I tell myself. It’s no big deal. You did it yesterday. Anyone who has anything to say can fuck right the fuck off.
I stand next to the bike rack outside the towering stone building of Willow Heights Preparatory Academy, ironically named since there’s not a spot in Faulkner, Arkansas, that could reasonably be called the heights of anything but degradation. I squeeze my hands into fists, reminding myself that I am stronger than anyone in this fucking place. I want out of this town, and this is my ticket, and I’ll be damned if a bunch of entitled pricks are going to take it from me.
Still, I can’t seem to get my feet to move, even when thunder grumbles in the dark clouds overhead, threatening to unleash cold drizzle in response to my cowardice. I’m frozen next to the expensive-ass bike one of those assholes got me, which I’m still riding because fuck if I’m not going to get something out of what they’ve done to me. Since I couldn’t stop the video from being leaked, a bike is all I’ve got.
I can do this. I know I’m strong enough.
I walked in the other day, after Royal Dolce the royal asshole fucked my face while his brothers stripped me naked and held me on my knees on the stone floor of the basement. I walked in the next day, not knowing everyone had seen the video of me blowing my old math teacher. I walked in the day after, thinking it would start to die down. But it’s gotten worse every day, and now it’s Friday, when all the football players will be treated even more like gods than usual, and their Dolce girls all wear little jerseys with their numbers like those boys wouldn’t do the exact same thing to them they did to me, and I just… Can’t.
The bell rings, a soft little chime that sounds so sweet you’d never know what monsters lurk in the halls of Willow Heights.
Yes, I’m strong enough. I could go in.
I just don’t want to. I want to turn and walk away.
No, I want to run.
I want to turn and run away from this fucking place and all the bitches in it—the girls who have made a point to make my life hell since I arrived wearing all the wrong clothes, the dangerous psychos who tell the teachers what to do and treat girls like dogs, and the asshole administration that does nothing to change it because those assholes’ daddies pay the salaries of everyone in this place.
I want to run back to Faulkner High, where being coerced into blowing a teacher was the worst thing that happened to me. Where I may not have had friends, but at least the entire school wasn’t full of enemies.
It doesn’t matter what I want, though.
As Gloria reminded me, I’m not a runner. I’m a fighter.
But all the fight seems to have been sucked out of me this week, and there’s no cheerleader to give me a pep talk today. I reach for the bike I put up when I still thought I could face the leering crowd.
“Skipping school already?” drawls a male voice behind me.
I nearly jump out of my skin, my heart pounding and my fists raising automatically as I spin around, light on the balls of my feet.
Colt Darling—tattooed rebel boy and the closest thing to a friend I’ve got—stops on the sidewalk, brow quirked as he takes in my fighting stance. At first glance, you’d think he fits right into the world of wealth and privilege inside these halls. Designer shades perch on top of his longish blond hair, his dress shirt probably costs more than all the clothes I own, and his left hand rests casually in the pocket of his Diesel jeans.
A critical eye picks up all the things you don’t see when you skim over him, assuming he fits in. Above the collar of his expensive shirt, his neck is tatted right up to the chin. The hand hidden in his pocket it tattooed as well, the ink covering burn scars that stretch across his hand and over his wrist to his forearm. A finger is missing. The first two fingers on his right hand are tinged with tobacco stains.
“Fuck,” I snap when I see his slightly amused smirk. “If you want to walk away with your balls intact, don’t sneak up on a girl like that.”
“Care for company?” he drawls in that refined Southern accent that’s so posh you’d think he stepped out of an Antebellum movie. Colt talks slow, strolls slow as he moves toward me, brow raised with bored indifference. But under the carefully cultivated blasé exterior, I know he cares about something. I’m just not sure that it’s me.
“What you got in mind?” I ask, dropping my fists and tossing my hair back. I stare him square in the eye, daring him to say something about the video the Dolces released.
“I said I’d give you some clothes,” he says, letting his gaze do a lazy sweep over me. “You can come to my house, and I’ll give you a makeover.”
I can’t help but laugh at the image of bad boy, fighting-ring coordinator Dynamo giving me a makeover like some chick in a bad 90s movie. “Are we going to braid each other’s hair, too?” I ask. “And paint our nails?”
“Maybe,” he says with a little shrug, cracking a smile back at me. “Do we get to have a naked pillow fight?”
“I don’t think pillow fights happen while naked,” I point out. “Too much would be flopping around.”
“I feel like I should be offended,” he says. “But I’ll settle for underwear and a T-shirt, no bra.”
I gesture to my chest. “Again, flopping.”
“Those tiny things won’t flop,” he says. “They bounce. I’ll show you.”
“No promises.”
“Then you can’t braid my hair,” he says, shaking his head solemnly.
“A real tragedy.”
Low, distant thunder sounds somewhere in the distance, and Colt jerks his chin toward the parking lot. “So, how ‘bout it, Appleteeny? You coming over? My parents aren’t home.”
He wiggles his brows, as if this should entice me. Sometimes I forget people have functioning parents and actually worry about that stuff. I only care about my mom being home if she and one of her tweaker boyfriends are going to be banging the headboard against the wall. But then, it’s not like I ever bring friends over, anyway.
I take one more look at the building and then turn away, tucking my thumbs into the straps on my backpack. It was one thing to walk back in after blowing Royal. Yeah, the Dolces made sure everyone saw them drag me down there, so I’d be publicly humiliated when I walked out. They wanted the audience, either to show me that no one would stop them or to show everyone else that no one is exempt from the royal treatment, as Duke called it. Even so, if half of what I’ve heard is to be believed, just about every girl at Willow Heights has had a Dolce dick in her mouth at some point. Hell, most of girls would drop to their knees and open wide if they got the chance to do it again.
But walking into a school where everyone has seen me sucking gross old, wrinkled dick? That’s different. There’s no way I’ll ever be invisible now. This week has proven it. I’ll always be the school slut, the scandal, a disgusting freak. It’s a weird sex thing, so everyone’s obsessively fascinated with it. It’s a miracle I lasted until Friday, since the video got leaked on Tuesday.
No, it didn’t get leaked. That makes it sound like no one is responsible.
The Dolces leaked it. On purpose.
By the time we reach the parking lot, I’m pissed again. Fat, cold drops of rain begin to pelt our shoulders as we hurry across.
“Hey, hold up,” I say, grabbing Colt’s elbow. I pluck the keys from his hand and make a little detour toward the primo parking spots at the very front of the lot where three black cars sit—a sleek little Tesla, a Range Rover, and a giant Hummer that I’d say was compensating for something if I hadn’t already seen Duke’s dick and could testify that he has nothing to compensate for.
“What the—” Colt protests, but I’m already winding one of the keys off his ring. I take the path between the Rover and the Tesla, a reckless thrill rising in my chest as I dig the keys into the paint on either side of me and stride down the length of the cars. I close my eyes for a second, holding onto the sheer satisfaction of the moment. That’s some ASMR level shit right there.
I step past the cars, wind the extra key back onto Colt’s keyring, and toss them back to him.
“Whoops,” I say, a spring in my step that wasn’t there a minute ago. I hop up into Colt’s Denali, barely registering the cold drops of rain running down my scalp, and toss my bag onto the back seat.
“You’re fucking crazy, Teeny,” he says, hopping up in the driver’s side. The wipers go on, and my heart does a little skip when I see someone standing outside the school. But it’s just someone buzzing in late, not a Dolce coming to murder me.
I turn on the radio, spinning the dial until I hear the aptly timed “November Rain.” I turn it up, but Colt jabs the button, shutting it off altogether. He frowns at me, resting one arm along the steering wheel. “Harper, the Dolces are dangerous. Not in some cute way that’s a game.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask, glaring back at him. “What am I supposed to do, Colt? Get on my knees and blow them every time they ask? Roll over and die? Look at me. I have nothing. I am nothing. I fight dirty not because it’s the only way to win, but because it’s the only way I can fight back, period.”
“You can’t fight them,” he says quietly. “Believe me, I know. You’re one girl. They took down my whole family—the most powerful family in town. And it wasn’t a small family, either. What do you think they’ll do to one person?”
“Here’s the thing, though,” I say. “You think I’m playing to win. I don’t care about winning. I care about surviving.”
“If you know you’ll lose either way, why make it worse on yourself by retaliating?” he asks. “If you do what they want, yeah, they’ll have their fun with you, but they’ll get bored if you don’t fight back, and they’ll leave you alone.”
“Like you?” I ask.
He just stares at me, his jaw hard, his lips sealed.
“After they took everything from you, they left you alone,” I say. “After they took your football career, your finger, your girlfriend, your friends…”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” His voice is hard, and I know I’m pissing him off.
“Tell me it’s worth it.”
We stare at each other a long moment, and then he shifts into drive, and we leave the parking lot, the wipers sluicing water from the windshield with each stroke.
“You’re making it worse for yourself,” he says after a minute.
“And you’re making it too easy for them,” I say. “If they’re going to kill me either way, why not give them a taste of their own poison before I go?”
He shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. I turn the radio back on, turning it up and singing along. After a few lines, Colt shakes his head and grins at my antics. Then, he joins in, belting out the dramatic anthem with me. A swell of exhilaration builds inside me as we share this moment, even though I know he’s right. They’re going to make me pay for that. But why shouldn’t I make them pay for what they did to me? They deserve it. I’m not just getting revenge for me. I’m getting it for Gloria, her sisters, Quinn, and all the other girls they’ve hurt.
Right now, I don’t want to think about the consequences. I don’t want to think about anything. I want to do what I did on Halloween night, when I drove away from a party with Royal. I understand my mother too well in this moment.
I understand the siren song of a bottle, like standing on the edge of a cliff and suddenly being filled with a rush of daring, an irresistible urge to leap. I know giving in would leave me right where Mom is, stuck in this hellhole town with a kid she doesn’t want. But god, what I wouldn’t give to get high as a kite and fuck my brains out just to forget for a moment, an hour, a day, with a boy who doesn’t matter.
We drive north out of town, further than the Dolces’ neighborhood, down a winding two-lane road and then a section of gravel, until at last we pull up in a gravel parking area beside a house. I can see the back deck from here, complete with what looks like an outdoor bar, and the front porch. As we stare out the windshield into the rain, a weird feeling of déjà vous runs through me like a shiver.
“We can sit here until the rain lets up,” Colt says. “I can think of a few ways to occupy our time.”
“Like smoking a joint?”
“Sure,” he says, lifting his hips to dig in his jeans pocket, which leave me staring right at his crotch. “Or you could give me a BJ.”
I glare at him. I heard that shit all week, an incessant, exhausting parade of guys leering at me and asking for head. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with that video.”
“Oh, I saw the video,” he says. “Everyone saw the video, Teeny. But nah. I wanted you to suck my dick way before I saw that.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help but smile. Gotta love the honesty.
He lights a one-hitter and inhales before handing it to me. “Smoke up,” he says, a cloud billowing out of his mouth as he speaks. “Maybe you’ll get horny and change your mind.”
“Never gonna happen,” I say, taking a hit and passing it back.
He reloads, and we smoke in companionable silence for a while. It’s still raining when we step out, but we’re too stoned to care much about the icy drops streaking down from the grey sky. I grab my bag, and we run across the gravel onto the front porch, where Colt unlocks the door and pulls me inside. We’re both breathless and laughing a little, and Colt’s sparkling blue eyes are so damn inviting, I want to jump in. I want to be my mother, do something stupid, something easy and uncomplicated, something that would mean nothing to either of us.
“Come on,” Colt says, taking my hand and tugging me up the stairs. “I’ll show you my sister’s stuff. You can take whatever you want.”
The house is big and a hell of a lot newer than mine, but it’s not outrageous, like something out of a TV show about celebrities flaunting their wealth.
“Are you sure she won’t mind you giving away her clothes?” I ask as we reach the top of the stairs.
“She never comes home,” he says, opening a door and pulling me inside the bedroom. It has a sterile smell, like no one has been in here for months. It looks like a guest room, with everything tidy and unused. There’s no bulletin board with pictures of Mabel Darling and her friends and family, no trophies or awards, though Dixie told me she was smart and involved in a lot of school activities. A digital picture frame lays flat on the dresser, as if it were taken down before the batteries even went dead. No posters of movies stars or athletes or Just 5 Guys adorn the walls. It looks like the room of a girl who left, never planning to return.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Colt, but he’s already strode past me into the room. He throws open the double doors of the closet, and my first thought is a less than grateful one—why the fuck would he think I want these clothes?
It’s not that they aren’t new or nice, it’s that they aren’t me.
But then, I guess that’s the point. I don’t fit in at Willow Heights. He’s trying to help me. This is why he called it a makeover. He’s not just giving me some new clothes that I’d choose for myself. He’s giving me a new look, the chance to start over. To be a girl who doesn’t give old men blowjobs in the back of cars.
The clothes hang in neatly organized, color-coded order. I think of my own dresser with the drawers pulled out at odd angles, t-shirts spilling from them; my closet with shirts hanging halfway off the hangers and old shoes kicked into the back corner to hide my stash of money.
I reach for the pants section, which contains several pairs of white pants, a handful of khakis, then a few tan, two shades of brown, a handful of navy, and a handful of black. Talk about a wardrobe of neutrals—or zero personality. Pulling out a pair of khakis, I hold them up against me and fight back the urge to laugh. Either these clothes are from a long-ass time ago, or Mabel Darling is built like a child. There’s no way my fat ass is fitting into these.
I put the khakis back and pull out a pair of black pants. Same straight cut.
“I don’t think these are going to fit me,” I admit. “Your sister was a lot thinner than I am.”
“She did like to complain about her lack of ass,” Colt muses. “And you’ve got that in spades. But I bet something in there will fit you. Try a top.”
He reaches past me, his other hand resting on my lower back, his body brushing against mine as he stretches an arm in to grab a shirt. I startle at the contact, and he chuckles before holding the shirt up against my front, still standing so close I can feel the heat of his body all up my back. It doesn’t make me crazy the way Royal’s touch does, but it’s not unwelcome, either. I like Colt, maybe not the way I like Royal, but he’s sexy and easy and I don’t feel like I’m drowning every time he’s near me. It’s nice to feel wanted, to feel sexy, instead of being told I’m a worthless whore by the guy touching me.
I take the shirt from his hand and step over to the mirror, holding it up and ignoring what he just did. My head is foggy from the pot, and I know I’m making terrible decisions today, but I can’t seem to stop. From leaving school, to keying the Dolces’ cars, to being here alone with a boy I hardly know… I’m on a real fucking roll today.
“Maybe,” I say doubtfully. Not because it won’t fit—I have no tits to speak of, so that’s not a problem—but because it looks like the exact opposite of something I’d wear. She’s got a few more colors of shirts to choose from—pastels as well as the neutral colors of her pants—but they’re all button-up dress shirts, with a few simple blouses at the end.
“Try it on,” Colt says, grinning at me.
“With you here?” I ask, cocking a brow at him.
“Dude, I’ve seen tits before.”
“Uh huh.”
“Seriously,” he says. “We used to be just like the Dolces. I’ve seen about ninety percent of the tits in the senior class.”
I bite back a smile. “I’m not in the senior class.”
“I’ve seen ninety percent of the junior tits, too,” he says. “Trust me, Teeny, yours are hardly something to write home about.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to show them to you.”
“You’re wearing a bra, aren’t you? It’s no different from me seeing you in a swimsuit. I’ll even sit on the bed like a good boy if you’re afraid I can’t keep my hands to myself. You need a second opinion on what looks good, anyway.”
I glare at him until he goes over to the bed and flops down with a grin, tucking his hands behind his head. “Showtime, baby,” he says, adjusting his hips on the bed like he wants to make sure I notice he has a hard-on.
“I’m not hooking up with you,” I say, swallowing and tearing my eyes away from his groin.
“Okay,” he says, a smug grin on his face.
“I mean it,” I warn. “If that’s why you brought me here, just take me back to school and forget it.”
“I know you’ve got a lady boner for Royal Dickwad,” he says. “But he got what he wanted from you, and now you’re fair game for everyone else.”
“Way to make a girl feel special,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I turn away and peel off my shirt, dropping it on the floor, keeping my back to Colt. The truth is, I don’t want to be special to Colt. That wouldn’t be fair. I like him, but not that way, and if he liked me that way, things would be awkward. I don’t want to hurt him. I like that his feelings don’t go deeper than friendship and lust.
“You’ve got more ink than I realized.”
“Yep,” I say, pulling my hair over my shoulder and turning the other way to show Colt the ink running up my side and onto my back, over my shoulder blade and shoulder. I flash him a smile over my shoulder, and he moans and grabs his dick.
“Fuck, Teeny, you’re such a tease.”
“I told you up front there would be no sex,” I say. “You’re the one who wanted to watch me undress.”
“I can’t decide if the torture is worth it.”
“Oh, it’s worth it,” I say, smiling where he can’t see it this time. I pull on a shirt from Mabel’s closet and start buttoning it.
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Colt drawls. “I’m at your service in case that weed made you horny, Queen Teeny. Teeny Queenie? I’ll have to think on that one.”
“You’re so fucking high right now,” I say, laughing as I reach for the skirt section, since they’re a little more forgiving than pants.
“Want to know the name of Royal’s oldest brother?” he asks. “King. His name is fucking King.”
I snort at that. “Seriously? Their family sure thought highly of their sons. Probably sucked being the only girl in that family. Surprised she wasn’t named Queen or Princess or something equally unfortunate.”
I find a skirt, undo my jeans, and slip out of them. Colt groans behind me. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. I’m not the type to usually care what guys think of me one way or another—I’m not dressing for them. But it’s still flattering when one does notice me or thinks I’m hot, especially when he looks like Colt Darling.
When I turn back around, he grins and runs a finger slowly along the ridge in his pants. “Wanna ride, cowgirl?”
I smile back and spread my arms wide. “Do I look like your sister?”
“Dude, that’s so wrong,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his palms into them. “You legit just killed my boner. It’s dying as we speak. A slow and painful death, I might add.”
“It’s your own fault. It was your idea to watch. I tried to warn you. You brought this on yourself, cowboy.”
He mimes plunging a knife into his chest and twisting. “Does your cruelty know no bounds?” he asks dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes.
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m going to try on a few more if that’s okay. You can go in the other room if it’s too much.”
“Can I jerk off it’s too much?”
I sink onto the bed beside him and pull my knee up. “Colt…”
He stares at my knee, then sits up and grabs my leg, pulling it up onto the bed. “God Lord, woman, don’t you ever shave your legs?” he asks, running his hand along the bristles on my shin.
“It’s winter,” I protest, slapping his hand away. “And I’ve had a lot of shit going on this week. Keeping my legs silky smooth was near the bottom of my list of priorities.”
“Okay, Sasquatch,” he says, giving me a little shove. “Go get some more clothes. If I start popping a boner, I’ll just picture the natural disaster that’s probably growing on your Congo Basin right now, and I’ll be fine.”
I’m laughing too hard to be embarrassed as I step back into Mabel’s closet, ready to unearth some skeletons. Colt is already giving me so much, but I can’t walk away without getting what I can from him. He’s one of the only people I know who was there the whole time, when it all went down, after the Dolces arrived in Faulkner. He knows shit, insider information that might be exactly what Mr. D needs to take down the Dolces. And it’s not just Mr. D who wants to take them down. For a while, I was torn, feeling like a snitch for airing their dirty laundry to whoever is on the other end of the messenger app. I don’t feel guilty anymore.
Whoever Mr. D is, I’m with him one hundred percent. It’s time for the Dolces to taste their own medicine.
*
The Royal
The royal waits
Atop his throne
For his Brutus to show his face
For his court to turn their daggers on him
But he is not afraid
Neither they nor their daggers
Can defeat the monster
That lurks under his disguise
Or pierce a heart
That’s harder than their steel blades.
