Resentment Read online

  RESENTMENT

  Nicole London

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Nicole London.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  Cover design by Najla Qambers of Najla Qambers Designs

  Editing by Evelyn Guy of IndieEdit Guy

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Resentment

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

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  Stay Connected to Nicole London:

  To Whitney,

  I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.

  Regret ** Resentment** Redemption

  REGRET (n:.) The feeling of disappointment after trusting Dean Collins, the asshole you knew would betray you.

  PROLOGUE

  MIA

  Smalltown, USA

  2004

  Dean Collins is the most irresistible asshole at Central High School.

  He’s your typical cliché, Mr. Popular. The “guy’s guy” who’s been voted “Homecoming King” two times in a row (minus my vote); the sexy star quarterback who’s capable of making grown women swoon from the sidelines (it really is sad), and the guy who can charm the hell out of any admiring girl with a simple smile, and a “Hey...What’s up?” in five seconds flat.

  His face is the stuff of sculptures—hard and strong jawline, deep and piercing green eyes, and dimples that show even when he’s not smiling. And as if that wasn’t enough for the gods to endow him with, he has a six pack of abs that he always shows off, with full and defined lips that sometimes even make me wonder what they would feel like.

  Nonetheless, I always do my best to avoid Dean Collins like the plague: I leave the four classes we take together early, never go to pep rallies to cheer on the team (Dean is the team), and the few times that he’s attempted that “Hey...What’s up?” thing on me, I’ve offered a blank stare and walked away.

  Today, my usual avoidance routine seems to be getting tested, though. Especially since he’s currently standing five feet away from me.

  “Yes?” I look up from my canvas and stare at him from across the classroom. “May I help you with something, Dean? You’re not in the art club.”

  “I’m aware.” He smirks, looking around the empty classroom. “But it doesn’t look like anyone is in art club...”

  That part is true. There’s actually no such thing as “art club” at Central High. It’s just me taking over whatever classroom I can find after school to paint for a few hours.

  “We’re currently accepting applications for membership,” I say, setting down my paintbrush in the easel tray. “What can I help you with?”

  “You know, I did come here for something.” He steps into the room and closes the door. “But, now that you claim that you’re accepting applications for your club, can I fill one out?”

  “We don’t accept douchebags,” I say flatly. “Your application wouldn’t make it past round one.”

  “Douchebag?”

  “Yes, douchebag. Would you like me to give you the definition?”

  Laughing, he tilts his head to the side. “I’m well versed on the definition, Mia Gray.” He stares at me for a long time, looking right into my eyes, giving me his usual infectious charm.

  I immediately break our gaze and clear my throat. “You said you came here for something? Can you hurry up and tell me what that ‘something’ is so I can get back to addressing my art club? Today is a very important day for us.”

  “I can see that...” He pulls his backpack off his shoulder and opens it, pulling out a black notebook. My black notebook.

  “I found your notebook this morning,” he says. “I wanted to find you and give it back. I tried to give it to you after Physics class but I couldn’t get your attention.”

  “Oh...” I reach for it, but then I stop. “Where exactly did you find it?”

  “It was in the ‘Lost and Found.’ I saw it on top of everything in there when I got here for practice earlier.”

  “You know, that’s funny,” I say, crossing my arms. “Because I’ve been checking’ Lost and Found’ every single day and in between every single class for weeks and it was never there.”

  “Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough.”

  “I even checked it this morning, and it wasn’t there. It. Was. Not. There.”

  He smiles and flips through the pages. “You have very pretty handwriting. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Where did you really find it, Dean?”

  “You take pretty detailed notes, too.”

  “Did you steal my fucking notebook?”

  “Maybe.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Depends on how you define stealing.”

  WHAT?! I nearly scream, knowing that that’s exactly what he’s done. “I had to rewrite the entire thing in one night! The night before our midterm!”

  Still smiling, he walks over and sets the notebook on the window sill. “Well, good thing you somehow managed to still get an A, right? If it wasn’t for me, you probably wouldn’t have known that you were capable of rewriting a whole notebook in a night. I helped you push your boundaries, so I think I deserve a thank you.”

  It takes everything in me not to pick up my canvas and hit him over the head with it, but I remain calm. Kind of. I stand up from my chair and push the easel against the window. Then I toss my “newly-found” notebook into my backpack and storm out of the room, biting my bottom lip to prevent myself from screaming.

  I make it to the parking lot and head straight for the after-school bus stop, muttering and cursing under my breath.

  “Mia?” Dean calls after me from behind. “Mia?”

  I say nothing. My mind is still stuck on the fact that he purposely stole my notebook; that he was in class the day I pleaded for everyone to keep a look out for it and let me know if they knew anything.

  Asshole...

  “Mia...” He suddenly grabs my shoulders from behind and spins me around to face him. “Mia, I know you can hear me.”

  “I really can’t. I’m completely deaf to assholes who steal things, assholes who steal things on purpose.”

  “Look. I tried to give your notebook back weeks ago, but you wouldn’t t
alk to me.”

  “So you stealing my notebook is my fault?”

  “It’s fifty percent your fault. I did try to give it back.”

  “The only thing you said to me was, ‘Hey, what’s up!’”

  “Exactly. If you would have answered, I could have told you.” He gives me that trademark gorgeous grin and I almost smile back—that’s how charming he is. I quickly come to my senses, though, and snatch my arm away from him.

  “Thank you so very much for stealing my notebook and having the decency to give it back,” I say. “Now, if you would please continue to leave me the hell alone for the rest of the day—No, the rest of the year, I’d really appreciate it.” I don’t give him a chance to respond. I rush to the bus stop and lean against one of the posts.

  A slight drizzle begins to fall and I look down the street, hoping that the headlights of a yellow bus will soon appear.

  I take out my earbuds and turn up my music. It’s going to take me a minute to return to my original happy mood.

  Just as I’m starting to calm down, I see a black Camaro pull in front of me. It’s Dean. Again.

  I turn around and give him a great view of my back. I turn my music up louder, just in case he tries to talk to me, but my headphones are the cheap, flimsy kind and they don’t have outside sound block.

  “Let me take you home to make up for stealing your notebook, Mia,” Dean says, actually sounding sincere.

  I ignore him and start nodding along to my music, hoping he’ll just go away.

  I knew I was right for hating him...

  “Mia...” He speaks again. “Mia, have you noticed that you’re the only one at the bus stop? The last one left ten minutes ago.”

  I glance at my watch and groan. I’ve forgotten that the new after-school bus schedule starts today.

  Shaking my head, I turn around and start walking. There’s a city bus stop six blocks down.

  I expect Dean to go away, but he doesn't. He stays on pace with me in his car, driving alongside me as I stride up the sidewalk.

  Whenever I speed up, he speeds up. Whenever I cross streets, he makes a U-turn and does the same. And when I reach a crosswalk with a pedestrian stoplight, he tries his luck again.

  “Look, Mia,” he says, leaning over the passenger seat. “Let me take you home.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Well, at least let me take you to the next bus stop.”

  “A four block ride? No thanks.”

  “So, you’re really going to walk all the way home in the rain?”

  I hesitate, now realizing that the slight drizzle has turned into actual rain, and from the look of the skies above, it’s about to get even worse.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I guess I really am going to walk all the way home in the rain. Thank you for your concern. Goodbye.”

  He parks his car and gets out, walking over to me. Without saying a single word, he puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me to his car, opening the passenger door.

  “Get in, Mia.”

  The pedestrian light turns green and I want to back away, but hatred of Dean or not, I know I’m not going to last four more blocks in the rain.

  I slip inside, and he shuts the door behind me. He returns to his place behind the wheel and drives through the light.

  “Where do you live?” he asks, looking over at me.

  “The corner of Seventh and Broadway.”

  “Okay.” He turns on the radio, and I’m surprised to hear my favorite band blasting through the speakers. I almost compliment him on his good taste, but then I remember he’s a thief.

  Thieves do not have good taste.

  Neither of us speaks as he drives through the suburbs and onto the backstreets, obviously taking the scenic route. I can feel the tension building between us; I can even feel butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. Every so often, I catch myself staring at him, admiring his profile. I can’t help but turn away every time he glances back in my direction; him being so close to me has my body at full attention.

  As we approach Seventh and Broadway, he slows the car’s speed. “Mia, you do not live here. This is just the entrance to your subdivision.”

  “So? Did you really think I would give you my real address? I’ll walk the rest of the way. The rain isn’t that bad now.”

  Smiling, he immediately speeds up—driving past the entrance, far down the street, and parks the car in an abandoned lot.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Go back. Go back right now.”

  “I need your help with AP English.”

  “I need your help with learning directions. My neighborhood is back there.”

  He ignores my comment. “AP English is the only class I don’t have an A in.”

  “What? You make A’s?”

  “Yes.” He smirks. “I make A’s, except for English. I have a C plus and I need at least an A minus if I’m going to look appealing to colleges.”

  “Wait a minute, what?” I temporarily put my annoyance aside. “You’re the star quarterback. You don’t need to make good grades to get an athletic scholarship. You just need to keep playing football. Isn’t that what you want?”

  He doesn’t answer that. Instead he sighs. “I need you to help me with the literature components and help me strengthen some of my essays.”

  “But why do you want me to help you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You have the best grade in the class and I’m pretty sure that being a smart ass, which you clearly are, requires quite a few brain cells, so I figure there’s no one better to ask.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not interested.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  I look at him for a second to see if he’s being serious. “Is that how you normally get what you want?”

  “No, that’s not my normal method, but I figured you wouldn’t go for that, so I’m not going to go down that road with you.” That stupid grin is on his face again.

  “My services don’t come cheap,” I say. “They’re very expensive.”

  “Honestly, I’d be disappointed if they weren’t.”

  “Then in that case, I’m sure you can’t afford me.”

  “Try me.” He cranks the engine and drives, heading toward my subdivision again.

  I contemplate for a moment, unsure of what tutors usually charge. Then I come up with a number I know he won’t agree to pay. “Twenty dollars an hour.”

  “Deal,” he says smoothly.

  “Deal? Just like that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s a lot of money.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be worth every penny.”

  “Fine. We’ll start in two weeks.” I wait for him to drop me off at the corner, where I told him I lived, but he drives into the neighborhood instead.

  Looking over at me, he warns, “I’m not letting you out of the car until you tell me which of these houses is yours. I need to make sure you get home safely.”

  “So, now you’re a gentleman?”

  “Only for some girls.” He smiles and I roll my eyes, deciding to give in so I can get this ride over with.

  “5632...Down a few more houses and on your left.”

  He nods and speeds up a bit, eventually pulling right in front of my mailbox.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I immediately unbuckle my seatbelt and collect my bag from the floor.

  “Wait a minute,” he says. “I need your phone number...For tutoring purposes, of course,” he adds with a sly smile.

  He hands me his phone and I reluctantly type in my number. I save it under “For Tutoring Purposes of Course” and give it back to him before rushing inside my house.

  As soon as I make it upstairs to my room, my cell phone buzzes with a text message notification. It’s an unknown number.

  This is Dean. Here’s my number, you can save it under “For ANY Purposes Of Course...”

  I should’ve known to stay away from him that very day...

  PART I.
br />   The Past

  (Don't worry...This won't take too long. It never takes a guy that long to fuck things up.)

  Chapter 1

  MIA

  A couple weeks later...

  I glance at the clock above the library’s door and groan for the umpteenth time.

  I told Dean to meet me here at four o’clock, told him exactly where I would be and how important it was for him to be on time. Yet, unsurprisingly, he’s late. And it’s not even a nice “It’s only five minutes” type of late.

  I’ve even texted him about his lateness three times: When he was fifteen minutes late, I messaged “Are you still coming?” and he said he was on his way. When he was thirty minutes late, I sent “Have you somehow gotten lost in the school you’ve been going to for the past four years?” And just now, at forty-five minutes past the hour, when I sent him an, “I think we need to try this another day” message, he didn’t even send me an apology. His response? “I don’t. I’m in the hallway.”

  Ugh! I should’ve known better than this....

  I pack up all my books and push my chair away from the table so I can leave. Just as I’m standing up, Mr. Popular strolls through the door looking unfazed as ever.

  “Hey,” he says, walking over to my table. “Why is all your stuff packed up? Where are you going?”

  “I’m off to see someone who respects my time.”

  “Who is that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re damn near an hour late.”

  “So?” He shrugs, looking genuinely confused.

  “So? No, not ‘so.’ We agreed to meet at four o’clock, Dean. You pay me twenty dollars an hour and I’ve just wasted one of those hours. I’m not going to waste anymore.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He finally offers. “I mean, don’t you have homework of your own? Maybe if you would’ve been working on that while you waited, it would have kept you distracted from looking at the time. Maybe you wouldn’t be so unnecessarily angry right now.”

  Is he SERIOUS?! “You know what?” I take a deep breath, refusing to let him get me riled up any further. “Thank you for that terrible half-hearted apology. I guess that makes up for everything, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” he says, reaching into his pocket, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “But this does.”