Bully: Winchester Academy Book 5

  Bully

  Winchester Academy, Book 5

  Madison Faye

  Contents

  Bully

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2019 Madison Faye

  Cover: Coverlüv Book Design

  Photography: James Critchley

  Model: Daniel Chiorean

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  Bully

  This is a story of lust.

  This is a story of playing with fire.

  But mostly, it’s just the story of us.

  …buckle up.

  Forbidden. Tempting. Magnetic. Illicit. Jamison Scott is many things, including my tormentor, my nemesis, and my sworn enemy. Unfortunately, he’s also the only man I’ve ever wanted.

  Oh, right, he’s also about to be my new stepbrother.

  Years ago, it was pulling my hair and putting frogs in my lunch box. But now, the little boy from down the street is all grown up. Big, strong, gorgeous, and undeniably captivating.

  Now he’s living down the hall, smirking at me across the breakfast table, and invading my every dark, toe-curlingly forbidden thought.

  I want to hate him, and I should hate him. But instead, I just want him. Horribly so. Achingly so.

  His illicit touch makes me scream, and his forbidden, filthy words in my ears take my breath away. I shouldn’t crave him like this. I shouldn’t get all tingly whenever he growls my name.

  He’s the firestorm I never saw coming, and if we’re not careful, we’ll both get burned. I can do without the frogs in my lunch, but thirteen years later?

  …Well, something tells me I might just like it if Jamison Scott pulled my hair this time.

  Each of the Winchester Academy books are completely standalone stories, with no cliffhangers.

  As with all my books, this one is safe, with no cheating, and a HEA guaranteed.

  1

  Ramona

  I flick the light switch on in my room, and instantly, I shriek.

  Dicks. Dicks as in penises, and they’re everywhere. The gym bag with my stuff from cheer practice drops to my feet as my jaw about hits the floor. My hand is basically stuck to the light switch as I just stand there in the doorway, my eyes scanning the room.

  The full-color printouts are seriously all-fucking-over the place—taped to my walls, hanging from strings tied to the goddamn light fixtures. They’re taped to the curtains and posts of my canopy bed, covering my freaking windows, and scattered like x-rated confetti across the floor. There’s even a damn chain of them, like Tibetan prayer flags, strung from one wall to the opposite one—like a perverted Buddhist shrine to male anatomy.

  I purse my lips as my face goes hot, my hands closing to fists as my brows knit. There’s only one person who could do this, of course.

  Jamison.

  That prick. I mutter swears to myself as I whirl, my pulse racing as I march down the hall to one of the back staircases. I’m not new to Jamison Scott’s juvenile bullshit, or his incessant need to tease me, or taunt me, or bully me around in that smug-smiled, infuriating way that he’s done since we were fucking five. What I am new to, is it happening in my fucking house.

  A shadow hangs over my face as I storm down the stairs and then down the hallway towards the other staircase that will take me down to the garage, where I’m sure he’s working on his stupid car.

  No, I’m not used to him being in my freaking house—living here, being around me always, smirking at me across the breakfast table and being there when I get home from school or practice. Because this is all new.

  When we were five, it was a matter of trying to ignore him and going on with my day, at the end of which, I could go home and leave Jamison Scott and his teasing and taunting in the kindergarten room, or later elementary school, or junior high. And then at the very beginning of sophomore year, the Scott brothers and their dad moved seven-hundred-and-fifty-eight miles away to South Carolina, and I was free of Jamison and his incessant antics.

  …Or so I thought. Because nine months ago, my mother decided to casually drop that she’d been seeing Bobby Scott long-distance for a number of months. And then six months ago, over dinner, she dropped the little bombshell that he’d be moving into our house.

  Why?

  Oh, because my mother is going to be marrying the father of my childhood tormentor. Right, and it goes without saying, Bobby Scott moving into our home meant Jamison was going to come too.

  Infuriatingly cocky, obnoxiously charming, unfairly hot Jamison Scott.

  …My soon-to-be stepbrother.

  I scowl, shoving those thoughts away as I thunder down the last staircase and slam open the side door to the five-car garage.

  “Jamison!”

  I plant my hands on my hips, a scowl on my face as I glance around the room, my eyes narrowing as I look for him.

  Where the fuck is—

  “Moaner.”

  I gasp, and in spite of everything—in spite of the years of teasing, an taunting, and going out of his fucking way to be a royal dick to me every goddamn chance he got, I shiver at the sound of Jamison’s voice in my ear, from behind me.

  And therein, as they say, lies the rub. There’s the worst fucking part of all of it. It’s not that Jamison Scott is a prick. It’s not that him moving back to Southworth totally fucks with my senior year. And it’s not even that is father marrying my mom is going to mean we’re stuck together for pretty much forever. It’s that deep down, underneath the scowls I throw his way, and the flippant way I tell him off, or the prim way I ignore him when he’s trying to get under my skin, or the way I tell myself how much I hate him?

  …Deep down, I know I don’t hate him at all.

  Deep down, part of me—a very sick, very shameful part of me—wants him.

  I shiver at the sound of his voice in my ear, even if he’s calling me by that nickname that I hate. I whirl, every intention of telling him off, but when I do, my breath catches, and my words fail me.

  He’s shirtless. Goddamnit, why is he shirtless? And yeah, this would be one of the reasons that despite my total disdain for Jamison, that dark, secret part of me aches for him in this fucked up way. Because Jamison Scott is freaking gorgeous.

  He was hot when he moved away those years before. He came back downright sinful. He came back as sex on a fucking stick. He left a cute guy, and he came back a stupid-hot man. Muscles for days, and tattoo ink swirling up and down both arms and across his chest. Dark hair, piercing dark eyes, and that infuriatingly
cocky grin that does all sorts of things to a girl. I swallow, telling myself on repeat to stop staring at his abs before I finally manage to drag my eyes up to his and force myself to scowl.

  He grins.

  “Something wrong, Moaner?”

  I glare at him. “Stop fucking calling me that.”

  Jamison just keeps grinning, his fierce dark eyes burning right into mine.

  “What can I do you for.”

  I swallow thickly, clearing my throat as I purse my lips.

  “My room?” I say primly.

  “That an invitation?”

  I blush, biting my lip before I scowl at him.

  “No, it most certainly is not. I mean what you did to my room.”

  A smile creeps over his perfectly chiseled jaw.

  “Oh, you noticed, huh?”

  My mouth tightens.

  “I’d have to be blind to miss pictures of a bunch of big dicks all over my room.”

  He laughs, throwing his head back, his muscles rippling as he chuckles before looking back down at me.

  “Oh, Moaner, Moaner, Moaner. Big?”

  He winks.

  “Nah, those were just regular dicks. I wouldn’t shock your delicate sensitives with big dicks.”

  I glare at him, “Just hundreds of normal ones.”

  “Exactly! You’re welcome, by the way.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Why are you a child?”

  “So what do you think?” he shrugs. “I’m thinking about getting into interior design.”

  “With dicks.”

  “Gotta set yourself apart from the herd somehow.”

  “With dicks.”

  His grin widens. “You seem to like saying that a lot.”

  I blush.

  “You can also just call them cocks, you know.”

  The blush on my face burns fiercely, and Jamison’s grin grows seen wider. He knows damn well he’s making me squirm, and he’s enjoying every freaking second of it.

  “Say it with me now, Moaner. Caaaaawwwkk—”

  “You’re absurd.”

  I swallow the heat from my face as I push past him back out of the garage.

  “I try. Also, that’s really adorable, you know.”

  “What is,” I spit, turning to him.

  “That you thought those were big.”

  He steps towards me, and I swallow thickly, the heat creeping over my body traitorously, my skin tingling even as I scowl as hard as I can at him.

  God, why is he not wearing a shirt?

  “I—I have to go,” I mutter.

  “Right,” he grins, leaning against the door frame, his muscled, inked arms crossing over his bare chest. “I mean, you’ve got a room full of cocks waiting for you. I imagine you’ve got plenty to do.”

  I groan, and I’m a second away from flipping him off and storming off, when he brings two fingers up between us. He raises his other hand, and suddenly he’s using a finger from that other hand to make this crude little flicking motion at the apex of his two other fingers. My face goes bright red, instantly, at the disgusting little display.

  “And what exactly is that supposed to be?” I toss at him; even though it’s clearly supposed to be a crude pantomime of female masturbation.

  Jamison makes a sad face. “Aww, man, Moaner, I’m so sorry. Have you not discovered self-love yet? I mean, with your complete lack of a social life, to say the least of a sex life, I’d hoped you were at least taking care of yourself?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “You know what, Jamison? My ‘self-love’ is none of your concern. But more importantly?” I grin at him, wagging my brows. “I mean, I’m just impressed that you even had a vague sense of where the clit is.”

  He grins, his eyes flashing as he steps closer to me, making my breath catch.

  “Oh, Moaner, believe me.”

  He steps closer, and I shiver, my skin pricking and forbidden heat pooling between my thighs.

  “If you ever need to me show you, I’d have zero problem finding your clit for you.”

  The blush blooms across my face, and I stammer, looking for some sort of retort. But it’s impossible with the way he’s got my whole body burning and melting horribly for him. So instead, I just flip him off, which is such a lame response, and the triumphant grin on his face tells me he’s very much aware of that too.

  I whirl in a huff, heat blooming across my face and my body clenched tight and shivering as I storm off.

  “Have fun, Moaner!” he calls back to me, to which I only flip him off again over my shoulder, not even daring myself to open my mouth.

  Thirteen years ago, Jamison Scott pulled my pigtail and called me a fart-licker. Thirteen years later, we’ve graduated to crude hand gestures and pictures of genitals taped to my walls. And as terrible as it is—as shameful, and awful, and confusing, and self-hating as it is?

  …Thirteen years later, I’m still as hopelessly and horribly in love with Jamison Scott as I was when I was five.

  2

  Jamison

  There’s a tightness in my jaw, a growl in my throat as I watch her march away in a huff.

  Fuck.

  I almost want to congratulate myself. I mean, for one, Ramona keeps her door locked, and picking locks is kind of more of my brother Ethan’s gig not mine. But I pulled it off. Secondly, let’s appreciate the fortitude it takes a straight dude to print off two-hundred pictures of dicks from the internet. My browsing history is fucked because of this, by the way, and I’ve been getting Facebook ads for gay singles websites all damn week. But, totally worth it.

  Or, maybe not.

  Because maybe—just maybe—the jokes are getting stale.

  Teasing Ramona Weiss was my all time, top favorite thing to do before we moved away those years ago. Back then, I wasn’t living in Weiss Manor, of course. And dad was still married to Ethan and I’s mom, Patricia, at the height of her bullshit of running around and drinking. We lived across town, my dad working his ass off trying to build the construction business he’d leveraged everything for into something huge.

  Southworth is primarily known for its ludicrously expensive, highly connected, and college resume-gilding boarding school, Winchester Academy, which serves grades nine through twelve. But aside from that, Southworth is also a crazy rich own on its own and crazy rich towns have fantastic schools. That’s why our dad scraped together everything he had to move us here, so Ethan an I could go to the best elementary school possible. Ethan’s my twin, by the way, though we’re not identical. And technically, I’m a minute older. A technicality I never let him forget.

  Ethan and I were both always the black sheep of Southworth Elementary, of course. We lived here, but back then, before dad’s business skyrocketed, we didn’t “deserve” to be here like some of the ultra-rich kids whose families could trace their money back to pilgrims and tobacco plantations and shit like that. We were posers—not rich, we just happened to live in the same geographic boundary, and they rarely, rarely let us forget that.

  I guess I adjusted better than Ethan, because while we both got in plenty of trouble, my hijinks were fun pranks. Ethan’s were more breaking and entering and stealing shit. That crap landed him at Lenox Hill for a few years—this hardcore military school style place for guys like Ethan who just needed some shaping up. The threat was there for me, but I stayed under the radar. Or maybe it was that Ethan’s shit was so much more outlandish than mine that he stole the spotlight.

  But in any case, my pranks were all about Ramona, because it was too damn fun. “Kick me” signs taped to her back. A frog in her class cubby. Cat poop in her show and tell diorama. My ability to tease, bully, torment and torture Ramona knew no bounds. Why’d I do it? Back then, I told myself it was because her reactions were just too good. She never cried, she’d just get this sour little look on her face, which was actually pretty adorable. It looked like in the cartoons when steam comes out of the coyote’s ears or something. But, as we got older, and I j
ust kept teasing her, I knew deep down, there was another reason.

  Now, after three years away when dad and I moved down to South Caroline after mom’s drunk ass finally disappeared on us, and while Ethan was at Lenox Hill, we’re back. Dad’s construction business, Scott Contracting, kept jobs going up here, and through that he met Celia. As in Celia Weiss.

  As in, Ramona’s mom.

  Sparks flew, and suddenly, weeks before my senior year of high school, we picked up roots and moved back up here to Southworth and right into Weiss Manor. Because dad and Celia are getting married, and soon. And that makes my favorite teasing target something more.

  That makes Ramona Weiss my new stepsister.

  …This is a problem.

  Not because I used to bully her, and to a certain degree, still do. Not because the Weiss’s are crazy rich and cultured, and here I am living here with my sleeves of tattoos, and my decidedly un-cultured appearance. No, it’s problem, because deep down, I know exactly why I tormented Ramona. It’s why I still do, and it’s taken me years to admit it to myself.

  I bully and tease Ramona because I want her.

  Realizing that before would have been problematic. Realizing it now is goddamn cataclysmic.

  Because the pursed-mouth, pouty lipped, dark haired, blue-eyed, over-achieving, class valedictorian, first chair clarinet, debate team captain, varsity cheerleading, seething little one-hundred-and-ten-pound package storming away from me up to her room full of full-color printouts of cocks is my undoing.

  My very confusing, head-twisting, jaw-clenching, pulse thundering little problem. And I have no idea what to do about it.

  3

  Ramona

  Finally, all the damn pictures are down, thank God. I look down at the huge pile of them—the huge pile of dicks—on my bed, and I blush as I roll my eyes.