Page 1 of Burned By Sin
Chapter One
People confuse me. Their emotions. Their reactions. Even now, as I repeatedly flick a coin high in the air and catch it, coming up heads every time, I can’t wrap my head around it.
Clayton took my money and ran. Chasing whatever miserable existence he might find beyond the sunset. Still, it’s not far enough. His memory lurks around campus, his name whispered too often, even after I threatened to start cutting out tongues. I just can’t seem to snuff him out.
Flicking the coin in the air again, my fingers slip. The tiny disc clatters to the ground, rolling towards the lockers which held thick layers of paint a few weeks ago. Remnants of paint thinner linger in the air, a colossal effort needed to erase the damage. But despite the lockers gleaming in all their mundane glory, the stain remains in my memory. The onesheblamed me for.
The coin wobbles to a stop, heads up once again. Always heads up, as if that’s the only fate I can control. The only one that is predictable enough. Dragging my hands down my face, I brace my elbows on my knees, a layer of sweat drying on my skin. It won’t be long before muffled voices sound down the hallway, the team begrudgingly arrivingfor their five am drill. I’ve been heading out in the middle of the night as a freaking courtesy to the rest of the world. If I encounter a single person, I’ll end up in a jail cell.
Swooping low, I grab my coin and my bag, before heading out the back way. The hallway’s still dark, shadows stretching long across the tile. I keep my head down, slipping past the trophy cases and posters for a fundraiser next weekend that I’m absolutely no way in hell showing up to, no matter what my father says. He’s furious with me, after the Board came down on him like a horde with pitchforks for losing Clayton’s scholarship funding. So furious, that he wouldn’t even entertain the idea of whisking me out of here. He’d rather leave me to suffer in a mess I didn’t create, but didn’t fix either. I let Harper and Clayton walk away from me that day without a second thought for my own preservation.
By the time I push out the door, the cold air slaps me across the face. Thank fuck. I need anything sharp enough to cut through the numbing ache in my chest. I can’t stand the weight of it, hoping each lone basketball session or day spent high or sleeping will help to carve it from my system. It doesn’t. Only one thing might, my fingers tingling to reach for my cigarettes and lighter. There’s an empty spot on my ribs, begging to be filled with a scar. But, as pointless as it is now, I made Harper a promise once. If she wants to cut me open, burn me to ash, and crush out the rest of my pathetic presence, she’ll have to do it herself.
Campus is blissfully quiet this time of morning, the rest of campus tucked up in bed, unaware of the fiend stalking close to the buildings and avoiding the streetlamps. With my hood up and bag slung low, I reach my frat house in record time, my shoes crunching over the crisp grass. As opposed to a few weeks ago, before I kicked everyone out, there’s no light on in the kitchen. No pre-practice protein shake being whipped up, no lackey completing my coursework.
The hallway echoes with a grand silence I’m becoming accustomed to. I can’t let anyone see me like this. Brooding, wallowing,thinking. Iwalk through the empty shell, kicking aside the crushed beer cans I’ve tossed aside and not bothered to pick up. The only room I’m wasting my time to keep clean is my bedroom, my lone sanctuary in this world. Throwing my bag aside, I leave the blackout curtains drawn tight and head into the bathroom.
This is my routine now. Work myself raw on the court or in the gym until my muscles scream. Shower, grab a pre-packaged snack and collapse into bed, letting the hours bleed together until I can’t tell whether it’s day or night. If I wake up, it’s always too early. If I sleep, it’s rarely dreamless.
Resting my hands on the counter, I stare into the cold, blue eyes in my reflection. The dark circles surrounding my eyes are getting worse, my hair a mess of sweaty cowlicks. My muscles are pumped from the workout, yet my frame is leaner due to the terrible diet I’ve adopted. Snack when needed, get takeout when remembered. Even my tattoos appear duller. No wonder not even my own mother came back for me.
I stand a little straighter at the unusual thought. Now there’s a sign that my mental state is slipping. I point blank refuse to think of my mother. The only person in the entire world who knows the extent of my father’s cruelty. I don’t begrudge her for taking the chance to escape and never looking back. I inherited the selfish bastard trait from both of my parents.
Running the faucet, I splash water up the mirror so I can no longer look at the sorry excuse of a man I’ve become. I can alter my exterior, I can throw on a mask of indifference, but I can’t pretend Harper hasn’t permanently altered me. She’s the other woman I’m fighting against thinking of, although it’s proving near damn impossible.
Aside from the gif that went viral, smearing my last name in the eyes of the students and the press, I’ve only seen Harper once since that afternoon. I was heading to a meeting in the Dean’s office, and she was exiting the library. If she saw me, she didn’t show it. Her eyes were vacant, no doubt from refusing to wear her receivers and completely tuning out the world around her. Her solemn expression caught me offguard, rendering me frozen in place to watch her lifelessly wander back to her dorm like she was running on autopilot. Quite frankly, she looked more broken than I felt, and I don’t understand why.
Why would she be so cut up over Clayton Michaels? He had nothing to offer her. His baggage was a burden he could barely carry. I thought perhaps, given time, Harper might have twisted the truth, turning me into the hero who freed Clayton of his financial burdens. I’ve given him more of a second shot than this shithole ever could. But that hasn’t happened. She hasn’t come knocking, hasn’t come searching. It would appear, from the moment Clayton left, he took all of the color with him and in this monotone reality, Harper can’t see the good in me like she did before.
Ugh, I’m particularly dismal today. Foregoing the shower, I flop onto my mattress and throw my arm over my eyes. I try to think of anything other than those large green eyes glistening with tears, those perfect cupid lips forming the words that have become my prison. Rhys Waversea is nothing. Not a bully, not an asshole, not even that guy who stole my soup once.Nothing.
When my mind conjures her love-heart face anyway, I don’t even fight it. What’s the use? No one’s coming to tell me to snap out of it. No one’s coming to see if I woke up this morning. No one’s coming.
Her hips buck and rise, eager to meet my every thrust. I stare up at her beautiful face, the trickle of her hair over her pierced nipples. I’d forgotten how well she can ride me, her thighs spread wide over my hips, her body in tune to my every whim. Lifting my hand from where it’s cradling her hip, I beckon for her face and pull her down to me. As always, she responds so well.
“Go slow. I want to savor this,” I breathe across her lips. They brush mine,the faintest touch before she rolls her hips over my cock again. The guttural moan that bursts from me is jarring, slamming me back into reality.
I gasp and shoot upright, scanning my empty bedroom. I’m alone, painfully so, my chest heaving. Sweat beads my brow and when I peer down, it’s my own hand I find gripping my cock within an inch of its life. The poor fucker is purple and straining against the loss of blood flow. I slowly uncurl my fist a finger at a time, hissing as I nudge each of my pierced rungs. Damn, I went too hard. No,shewent too hard in fucking up my brain.
Not bothering to look outside or at the time, I shower until the stench of desperation is wiped clean away. Rhys Waversea doesn’t fantasize. He doesn’tpine. He just takes what he’s owed and leaves the clean up for someone else. Except this time, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to deny the cold, hard truth. I’m going to have to clean up my own mess, quite literally.
With a towel slung around my hips, I dig my phone out of my sports bag, finding it on low battery. I avoid looking at the thing at all costs these days, deciding a bit of self preservation is in order. I can’t spiral into a chasm of unending fury about a gif if I don’t see or read about it. Especially when the hacker I paid an extortionate amount to came up blank.
Any surveillance near the gym was wiped, the hack into the school laptop was encoded in a way that when tampered with, it threw up a screen filled with my name running on repeat. There’s no mistaking there were multiple intended victims of the locker vandalism, a scheme carefully conjured to strike with three arrows in one blow. It stings worse to imagine it was someone clever, someone patient enough to wait until my attention slipped, someone who knew exactly which nerve to strike to unravel me.
It takes a moment to realise the hand holding my phone is shaking. I’m a mess of pent-up anger, pointless misery and a solid case of blue balls. I need to snap out of it. Searching for the service I need, I shoot amessage to the first page that loads with the instruction to get over here ASAP. And now we wait. And not think.
Except this morning’s dream is adamant on haunting me. It’s not the first time Harper has been lurking on the fringe of my mind. In fact, she never truly leaves, but her presence is more tangible than usual today. The silky caress of her skin brushing against mine, her breathy moans swallowed by the thundering of my shower, her giggle echoing around the basketball court, sending an arrow of lust straight to my cock.
Only to wake with the desire to hate-fuck my own hand as the treacherous bastard refuses to go down until I give him what he wants. I have a feeling Palm-ala and the images behind my eyelids aren’t going to work for much longer, and then what? I might as well use the pierced fucker as a hat stand since he refuses to even consider joining inside anyone else. It’s only her now. The girl who ruined me without my consent. The girl who cracked me open, convincing me I had more to give, and then called me worthless in front of the entire world.
I may be cruel, but Harper Addams is a savage. And yet I want her more than ever.
The doorbell sounds, driving me to the bedroom window to look outside. A white van is parked at the end of the pathway, ‘The McLean Machine’ printed across the sliding door.Damn, that really was fast. Across the street, a group of easily fifty people have gathered to see if I’ll leave my domain today. Looks of hope catch my gaze through the glass, a few girls dropping to their knees to beg me to let them come back in. I turn away on a scowl, thumping across the wooden floorboards to quickly dress and jog down the stairs.
Might as well get this over with.
Throwing the door open, I grip the white polo top of the man standing on my porch and yank him inside before slamming the door closed again. With the material still in my hand, I push him against the nearest wall, causing the plastic caddy of cleaning products in his handto crash to the floor. ‘Eddy McLean’ has been embroidered into his shirt above khaki shorts and embarrassingly tall socks.
