The Bad Girl: Westbrook three, #2

By A.D. McCammon

Arwen Sullyvan is a real nightmare.

Callous. Cold. Calculating.

And the first girl I ever loved.

She's the bad girl of Westbrook High, and I'm their precious golden boy. For years, she's delighted in punishing me. All because I'd fallen for her. And, like a fool, I still want her.

Then a drunken confession slipped through those plump lips, and I saw fear swirling in her stormy eyes.

 

Aidan Shaw is the bane of my existence.

Charming. Gorgeous. Noble.

He's everything I never knew I wanted, and it scares the hell out of me. I've tried to keep my distance and bury those feelings.

But one stupid mistake—one moment of weakness in the face of temptation—was all it took to turn our flame into a fire.

He's intent on loving me, but not even his golden touch can change my black heart.

He thinks he can break me.

But a savage can't be tamed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.D. McCammon
• Release date: Jul 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201630928

A.D. McCammon

Amber McCammon is a daughter, sister, wife, mother, and avid reader who also happens to write contemporary romance/women's fiction. She currently has three self-published novels, In This Moment, Crushed, and In the Gray. All of which are part of a standalone series. The fourth is expected to release in late 2018.  Amber lives in Tennessee, born and raised, though she recently left her heart in the PNW. She's a Ravenclaw, fall is her favorite season, and she believes that music is food for the soul.

Book preview

PRESENT

AIDAN

I scan the crowd before I swipe a flute of champagne from the silver tray suspended in the air beside me, although no one at this shindig cares that I’m underage. Even if they did, everyone here is too wrapped up in themselves to notice. The large ballroom is packed full of rich, entitled people pretending to care about being charitable. This benefit is nothing more than an excuse for them to get all dressed up and mingle with their friends. As a bonus, they might even find new ways to get richer. Because that’s what everyone here needs—more money.

Groaning to myself, I chug the champagne then replace the empty one on the tray and reach for another. If I’m going to make it through this night, I’ll need as many of these as I can get my hands on.

The server snickers, drawing my attention. I find Cole Masterson, standing there smirking at me in his black vest, and anger bubbles in my gut. He’s been on my shit list for weeks now, ever since he walked away with my date at a friend’s party. My teammates had all silently judged me as I stood by and did nothing to stop him.

You might want to take it easy. I hear this stuff goes straight to your head, he mocks.

My jaw tics, but I don’t bother to acknowledge his comment before downing the second glass. There’s no point. No matter how badly I want to, I can’t tell him to fuck off. Cole might be the friendliest and most tolerable of the infamous Westbrook Three, but he still isn’t someone you want to piss off. There’s a lot of rage lurking behind his playful persona.

Besides, it’s not as if Cole forced my date to go with him. She went willingly. Violet isn’t my girlfriend. And it’s clear now that she never will be. I knew it was a long shot when I asked for her number. The rumors about her involvement with the most ruthless member of Cole’s pack—Thatcher Michaelson—were already swirling around the school. But I didn’t want to believe any of it. It didn’t make any sense that someone like Violet St. James could fall for someone like him.

But, looks like I’m the fool—again.

It seems as though I have a knack for going after the wrong girls. My relationship history is sad and depressing. I’ve been cheated on, lied to, and used more times than I care to admit.

On the bright side, I’ve only had my heart broken once. It just so happened to be the first girl I gave it to.

Yeah…you’re right, Cole goes on, a smug look on his face as I place the second empty glass back on the tray. It’s probably best you’re a little liquored up. Ari isn’t going to be happy you’re here.

My body stiffens with the wave of anxiety and anticipation coursing through me. It’s not like I didn’t suspect she’d be lurking around here somewhere. This is her father’s hotel and fundraiser, after all. They’re probably the only ones here who truly give a damn about the cause. This event is important to them, and I’m hoping she’ll let her little vendetta against me go. If only for tonight.

Cole chuckles when I walk away without a word, making my way through the sea of fancy dresses and tuxedos. My mother is chatting up a couple of old ladies who are dripping with diamonds; and she tries to wave me over, but I quickly dart out the door leading to the small balcony attached to the ballroom. I’m not in the mood to play my role of the perfect son right now.

The night air breezes around me as I walk to the edge of the terrace, letting myself get lost in the bright lights and noise of the city below. One more year of this place and these people. One more year of being known as Declan Shaw’s son and heir to the Shaw fortune. Then I’m getting far away from Tennessee. Anywhere that isn’t here. Anywhere I can just be Aidan. No more constant pressure from the heavy crown on my head. No more constant scrutiny from people who expect me to live up to a legacy I don’t even want.

Someone clears their throat from behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. As I turn around, I’m met with a familiar pair of stormy eyes, and my chest tightens.

Once upon a time, Arwen Sullyvan was my best friend. Back when she was the new girl in town.

Before she’d stolen my heart, only to break it.

Before she decided I was her enemy.

My gaze roams over her, my traitorous body humming with desire as I drink her in. She’s wearing an elegant purple gown—the color likely chosen in honor of her mother. The deep neckline accentuates her curvy chest, while one of her insanely lanky legs peeks out of the slit on the side. Her long, dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail, with wisps of wavy tendrils framing her flawless face. There’s a shiny gloss on her full lips, and a dark purple eyeshadow framing her intense eyes.

By the time I meet her glare again, it’s murderous. With a sigh and a shake of my head, I turn my attention back to the Nashville skyline.

What do you want? My voice sounds every bit as weary as I’m feeling.

She moves closer, her sweet scent engulfing me, and my heart thunders in my chest. When she first started acting as if I didn’t exist, it felt like torture. But I soon learned it was much better than the alternative.

The smack of her lips seems to echo around us, even with the bustle of the traffic on the street. For starters, I’d like to know what the hell you think you’re doing here?

For years, we’ve had an unspoken agreement to stay in our own corners and out of each other’s lives as much as possible. But when Arwen’s father decided to host a dinner to raise money for cancer research, he enlisted my parents to help him pad the guest list. There was no way they were going to let me sit out of an event they helped organize. It’s all about appearances for the wealthy. And my family is the wealthiest in attendance tonight.

It’s not like I had a choice, I grit. Trust me, I’d rather be doing just about anything than talking to you right now.

Oh, ouch. Arwen laughs before tsking her tongue. My, my, someone sure is feeling brave tonight. Does this newfound courage have anything to do with you being butt hurt over the Violet situation?

My eyes narrow as I cut them at her. Pretty sure I’m not the only one who was starting to fall for Violet. I’ve seen the way you look at your new bestie.

Arwen’s nostrils flare as she sucks in a deep breath, but her features are smooth and indifferent by the time she releases it. You do have impeccable taste in girls, I’ll give you that, she continues. Too bad you can’t manage to keep any of them.

Her eyebrows lift as she fights back a smile, and I run my restless hands through my hair before stuffing them in my pockets.

I should ignore her and hope she walks away before things get out of hand. But I’ve had my fill of other people pushing me around lately.

Maybe it’d be easier if someone stopped stealing them from me, I retort.

She laughs. You do realize you never stood a chance with her, right? She’s been Thatcher’s since the second they collided.

I wonder if even that would stop her—the third and prettiest member of the Westbrook Three—considering her close-knit ties with Thatcher.

Since Arwen decided I was enemy number one, she’s pilfered three of my girlfriends. Even though I was the one who got cheated on, I still felt sorry for them. Arwen has mastered the art of seduction. Her beauty is unparalleled, but her heart is black as night. She never had a real interest in any of them—each fling was merely to punish me.

She hmphs, her plump lips curling into a sultry smile. "And, I never stole anyone from you, she adds, and my body goes rigid as she slides her tiny frame between me and the banister, invading my space. They weren’t your property. You didn’t own them."

She relaxes into the railing, pushing her breasts forward as she rests her elbows on the ledge. There’s only a sliver of space left between us, making it harder for me to breathe. This is her favorite intimidation tactic, which is exactly why I refuse to back away. Not even as her stormy eyes pierce mine or when her painted fingertips trail down the lapel of my suit jacket.

And believe me, she purrs, "they were very willing participants when they came with me."

White hot jealousy and burning desire heat the blood in my veins. She’s delighted in torturing me for years. All because I’d fallen for her. You would think I’d have learned my lesson.

But I still want her.

It’s impossible for me to hate Arwen—no matter how much shit she throws at me. Our history and my feelings for her still linger.

My soul still yearns for the girl I fell in love with, but the one standing here now is merely a shadow of her.

What happened to you? I ask her. When did you become this person?

She stands tall, a storm of emotion swirling in her eyes as she grabs ahold of my jacket, yanking on it until my body is pressed to hers. "Don’t think for a second you know the first thing about me, Shaw."

She always throws my last name at me when she’s trying to be particularly cruel. Arwen is one of the few people who know how much it bothers me. I hate being attached to that name and all the baggage it comes with.

I did once. I knew you better than anyone.

She snorts. Don’t kid yourself. You were only someone to pass the time with. I found you amusing, until I didn’t. She releases her hold on my jacket and steps back, her features sharp with spite as she smooths out my lapels. You ended up being quite the disappointment, really. Given your pathetic track record, I’m betting you don’t even know how to properly kiss someone. You probably forgot everything I taught you. Such a waste.

I shake my head, grinding my molars as I suck in an agitated breath. We were clueless kids back then, both trying to figure things out. The first time we kissed, she acted like she was doing me a favor. But her trepidation had given her away. We learned what we were doing together, each kiss we shared better than the last.

Taught me? I say, her eyes flaring as I lean in, my hand now propped on the railing next to her. It’s a risky move, getting close to her like this. I’m tired of her always having the upper hand. Don’t flatter yourself. We were both clueless back then. I assure you I’m well versed in the art of kissing these days.

My gaze flickers to her mouth, and she wets her lips, taunting me. The simple act makes me desperate to see if she still tastes the same.

Arwen tilts her head, wearing a condescending smirk as she reaches up to run her fingers through my hair. Oh, poor, sweet Aidan. We both know that isn’t the case. If it were, your girls wouldn’t keep coming to me.

She shifts, connecting her body to mine as she wraps her arms around my neck. The intimate gesture causes my pulse to race. It’s meant to distract me while she goes in for the kill. I knowingly walk into her trap—too weak to put a stop to it.

I’ll tell you what… Her breath fans my face as she pulls me closer. It smells of peppermint with a hint of whiskey. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a small flask hidden on her body somewhere. "For old times’ sake, I’ll give you a quick lesson. All you have to do is promise not to waste it on someone like Samantha."

My forehead bunches with confusion. I have no intentions of ever kissing Samantha.

She’s the type of girl who looks at me with stars in her eyes, never really seeing the real me. But if I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d just heard a hint of jealousy in Arwen’s tone. No way am I going to correct her assumption.

Taking my silence as an agreement to her terms, she smiles and then leans in to whisper in my ear, It’s all about the buildup. Those moments leading up to the kiss. Her tongue darts out, teasing my earlobe before giving it a light nibble. It’s about making them want you more than they want their next breath.

God help me, that’s precisely how I’m feeling. Right now, my urge to devour her is stronger than my drive to survive. Her hand dives into my hair, tugging to gain better access. This time I feel the warmth of her tongue as it glides up my neck, stopping right below my ear where she places a light kiss.

This spot here, she says, her breath dancing over the wet flesh and leaving goosebumps in its wake, drives girls insane.

Every part of my being is dying to touch her, but I keep one hand in my pocket and the other tightly gripping the rail. Her mouth moves to my jawline, sucking and kissing as she trails her way to my lips. She loosens her hold on my hair, her hands cupping my face as she leans back to meet my gaze. Her pupils are larger, her face flushed. I’m not the only one feeling this.

Okay, young Jedi. She drops her hands to my chest, patting me dismissively. I think that’s enough for tonight.

When she tries to walk away, my other hand shoots out, boxing her in. Our little game has officially gone too far. I’m acting on impulse, not considering the consequences of my actions.

Have you lost your mind? Do you want me to kick your ass? she hisses.

Her words convey the normal contempt I’ve become accustomed to over the years, but her eyes are telling a different story entirely. I imagine it’s similar to what she’s seeing in mine. A glaze of lust, coupled with a frenzy of fear.

You promised me a lesson in kissing, not teasing, I tell her. You know what I think? I think you’re afraid. You’re scared that little black heart of yours might actually feel something for—

Her lips slam into mine with a punishing force, her tongue demanding as it tangles with my own. My hands move to her back, holding her in place to ensure she sees this through. This kiss is nothing like the kind we used to share. This one is skilled, concise, tantalizing. It’s years of resentment filtered into intense passion.

This isn’t forgiveness, it’s a battle.

She sucks my bottom lip in between her teeth as she ends the kiss, biting down until she breaks the skin.

Jesus! I yelp, pulling away and licking the blood from my lip. What the fuck was that?

That was me teaching you another valuable lesson. Her mouth curls into a wicked grin. The next time you try to cage in a wild animal, remember that they bite.

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