A Gorgeous Villain Read online

  I wanted to go to him.

  And apologize.

  Yeah, I wanted to apologize. How silly. For destroying his Mustang.

  The only thing that he loved.

  Then I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hit him and punch him and demand to know why he did what he did.

  Why did he break my heart? Why was he so cruel?

  Why did he betray me for a sport, for soccer?

  Why wouldn’t this hurt go away?

  Why, why, why?

  I wanted to ask him all that.

  But before I could go to him, a group of his friends descended on him, taking away the opportunity, and I ran away. Thank God for that.

  I took a detour to get to Ledger’s truck and that was that.

  That was the last time I saw him; he never showed up to his graduation and I never saw him around town.

  That was the last time I saw the guy who broke my heart and whose car I stole in order to get back at him.

  And who pressed charges against me and wanted me to go to jail for it.

  For doing that. For stealing his car.

  But never mind that right now.

  I have bigger problems.

  Problems like he’s here.

  What is he doing here?

  What the fuck is he doing here?

  Great, Callie. Just great.

  One sight of him and I’m cursing again.

  One sight of him and my whole world is off-kilter.

  My whole world is shaken.

  Shouldn’t he be in New York City? Living the life of a soccer star, being fought over by agents and recruits? And what about college? Doesn’t he go to college?

  It’s September! People go to classes in September!

  I take a gulp of my whiskey, trying to calm myself down.

  I can’t believe I’m drinking, whiskey no less.

  I’m not much of a drinker and I hate whiskey.

  But I needed something.

  Something strong.

  Something punchy, and whiskey is the only strong stuff I know; I have four brothers whose drink of choice is whiskey.

  As soon as I saw Reed and he saw me, I took off and made a beeline for the bar because I needed alcohol and also because I needed to get away from my friends.

  Who had also seen him and were asking all kinds of questions.

  I never told them anything, see.

  About what happened in the past. About how I ended up here.

  I mean, except for the fact that I stole a car from a guy named Reed Jackson and drowned it in the lake.

  They don’t know that he was Roman to me once.

  They don’t know that I loved him and that he broke my heart. And that I was supposed to end up in a juvenile detention center instead of at a girl’s reform school.

  And neither do they know that I sneak out every week on Thursdays to practice ballet, to chase my dream.

  Not that they would object. In fact, I think they’d be super supportive about it.

  But all of this is so ingrained in my past, so ingrained in him that I never had the courage to tell them.

  And now suddenly, he’s here and oh my God, I can’t handle this.

  I can’t.

  That asshole.

  That fucking asshole. That fucking asshole bastard. That motherfucking…

  A long shadow falls on me then.

  A black shadow.

  I’m standing outside the bar, propped up against the brick wall, drinking my whiskey. I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. I couldn’t stand to dance.

  Not where he could watch.

  So I stole my whiskey from Will and ran outside to calm myself.

  But of course he’s here as well.

  Of course he’s chased me down. Like he used to two years ago.

  Nothing has changed.

  Nothing.

  And he’s walking toward me.

  His boots are thudding on the ground and I feel those thuds in my chest. I feel them in my heart. Like he’s stomping on it with every step that he takes.

  And all I can do is stand here, stuck to this spot, letting him do that.

  Letting him stomp on my heart with those boots.

  Black with a shiny metallic buckle on the side.

  When he stops, I’m somewhat surprised to see that there isn’t any blood on the ground, rivering from under his killer boots. The boots that just crushed and broke my heart all over again.

  Okay.

  Okay, I need to relax.

  I need to calm down.

  I need to take a deep breath and I need to look away from his boots.

  I need to look at him. So that I appear strong and calm.

  Even so, I can’t.

  I can’t look at him. Not yet.

  So I look at other things.

  Things over his shoulders, his leather-jacket-wearing shoulders.

  The jacket that I’m seeing after two years and it takes my breath away for a second.

  Because he was wearing it that night.

  The night he told me the truth for the first time. The night he told me that everything else up until that point had been a lie.

  I’ve had dreams about that jacket in which he breaks my heart over and over again.

  I almost wish he was wearing his hoodie.

  His sweet-smelling, soft and cozy, white hoodie. The thing that takes some edge off his sharpness.

  But a second later, I’m not even thinking about his hoodie.

  I’m thinking about something else. Because my eyes fall on a different bright white thing.

  His Mustang.

  His baby.

  Oh, it’s back.

  His baby is back and she looks good.

  She looks exactly like she did before I tried to destroy her.

  And oh my God, I’m so relieved that I can’t help but say, “Your baby looks good.”

  I said that, didn’t I?

  I did, yeah, and I would be embarrassed about how breathless I sound about a car but this could be good.

  In the sense that I said the first words now and all the break-up movies that I’ve seen — not that we had a break-up because we never had a relationship to begin with — always teach you to say the first words.

  To get control of the situation.

  To sound breezy.

  “She does.”

  Two words.

  Two words spoken in his smooth, deep voice after two years.

  And the momentary upper hand I thought I’d gotten vanishes.

  It just goes away and I start trembling.

  And then I have to look at him because I can’t not.

  I can’t not look at him and so I swivel my gaze and after two years I get to see him.

  I get to see him from this close.

  I get to see his stubble that makes me wonder if he hates it still. I get to see his thick eyelashes — I’d forgotten how thick they are, like a forest of dark curls. I get to see his plush, red mouth. The mouth that always sported a smirk and a cut or a bruise from getting into fights with my brother.

  And his wolf eyes.

  Gosh, his eyes.

  Gunmetal gray and smoky and on me.

  I was right.

  Nothing has changed. Nothing.

  He still has that same rugged beauty.

  He still is so heartbreakingly gorgeous.

  In fact, he’s more gorgeous now, more tempting and dashing even. And I think it’s his hair.

  His rich, dark hair that’s longer now.

  It brushes the collar of his jacket and something about that makes my stomach clench.

  Something about that makes me think of vintage movie heroes and villains with their leather jackets and long hair. With their devil-may-care attitude.

  A cigar-smoking villain…

  I shake my head and say, “Are you sure she’s safe though? Your baby. In this neighbor
hood. People can be very dangerous.”

  People like me.

  Not that I’d ever touch his Mustang again, but still. He doesn’t know that and I’d like to keep it that way.

  Although he doesn’t seem to think that I’m much of a threat, because his ruby red lips stretch up and morph into his typical smirk. “Can they?”

  That smirk makes my heart go boom, boom, boom before I find my voice and say, “Yeah.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?”

  Drown it in the lake again.

  But I don’t say it.

  Because I don’t want to drown it in the lake again and I don’t want to joke about that.

  But I do want to scare him a little so I tilt my head to the side and clench my fingers around the bottle. “I don’t know, steal it? Again. Slash your tires. Steal your rims. Spray-paint your hood. Smash your windows. Douse the whole thing with liquor and burn it down once and for all.”

  His amusement only grows. “That’s… quite a creative list.”

  “I’m creative.”

  “And definitely dangerous.”

  “Oh, you’re in for such a surprise, trust me.”

  “Does it come with a little bow tied around it? Your surprise.”

  What?

  What is he…

  My whiskey-doused brain finally catches up when I notice where his wolf eyes are.

  They are on my stomach, my waist, and I finally get what he’s talking about.

  My dress has a bow wrapped around the waist and in his usual style, he’s commenting on it. Because that’s what he does. He comments on my dresses.

  And holy crap.

  I realize something else too.

  I’m wearing white, his favorite color.

  And he’s looking at it like it’s his favorite thing ever. Especially that green bow and the lacy ruffled hem that’s grazing my bare thighs.

  “No, it comes with long nails and sharp teeth,” I tell him with a sweet smile and a chirpy voice.

  He lifts his eyes then. “Well then, I’ll be over here, sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting to unwrap it.”

  Ugh.

  Of course.

  Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d twist my words and turn them into something dirty and seductive. Something that would make me blush and squirm.

  And like the idiot I am, I am blushing.

  What is wrong with me?

  “As much as I’m enjoying talking to you,” I say with my chin raised, “I don’t have time for this. So let’s do it.”

  He looks at me for a few beats before repeating my words flatly. “Let’s do it.”

  I widen my stance, shift on my feet like a fighter, getting ready to throw punches. “Yeah. Let’s do this thing so you can leave me alone.”

  The sooner he does what he came here to do – which if history is any indication, is probably to ruffle my feathers and make me uncomfortable with dirty innuendos – the sooner I can move on from this awful, terrible coincidence of seeing him again.

  Because it is a coincidence, isn’t it?

  Him being here, at the same bar, at the same time.

  Reed notices my stance and asks in a low voice, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Come on. I’m ready.”

  “Okay.” He nods, his eyes hooded. “Where do you want it?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, where do you want it?” He gestures toward the wall that I’m standing against. “Here, up against the wall? Or in the back seat of my car.” He doesn’t give me the time to respond to his statement. “It’s been two years, but I remember how much you seemed to love writhing on my leather seats. And if I’m being honest, I’d love to see that again. But lady’s choice, of course.”

  “What… I…”

  As I sputter out confused syllables, I understand his meaning.

  His stupid meaning.

  He’s talking about all the times I danced and writhed on his leather seats while he took me out on those rides. While he put on the music and I danced for him even when I was sitting down.

  Because I loved dancing for him. Because I was an idiot.

  I loved writhing on his lap too. That one time in the rain…

  But I don’t want to think about that right now.

  Not in front of him.

  “You’re funny,” I tell him and his wolf eyes sparkle with humor. “And delusional. If you think I’m letting you touch me ever again, you need your head examined.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” I grit my teeth at his condescending tone, at the tone that has the power to make me feel all young and naïve. “Because it’s never happening. So say what you came here to say and leave.”

  He looks at me thoughtfully. “Hmm. I’m not so sure you want me to leave though. Because this feels like a dare, and you know how much I like those.”

  I know.

  I do know.

  He likes dares. He likes provocation. He likes to rile people up and ruffle their feathers like he used to do with Ledger on the field. When they played together back at Bardstown High. When they were rivals.

  As I debate throwing this bottle at him, I say, “It’s not a dare, it’s reality. Touch me and lose your teeth. So you really need to leave now.”

  Instead, he takes a step toward me and I press myself into the wall even more.

  “You’re not making it easy though,” he drawls. “Leaving.”

  “Get away from me or I’ll punch you, okay? I’m not kidding.”

  Of course he thinks I’m kidding and does the opposite of what I’m asking him to do.

  He takes another step toward me and I swear to God, it’s such a big step that he’s almost here. He’s almost where I am and I have to hold my breath because I don’t want to breathe the same air as him.

  I don’t want to find out if his scent, his delicious scent, has remained the same after two years or not.

  “If you keep talking like that,” he dips his face toward me, reminding me of how short I am compared to him, “I’ll start getting ideas.”

  “What ideas?” I squeak, wondering how it is possible that I forgot the difference in our sizes.

  When I lived for those differences back then.

  I lived for how tall he was, how strong, how he could pick me up while I danced on my toes for him.

  “That you’re flirting with me,” he says in a husky tone.

  I ignore the pounding of my heart and the rush under my skin. “Oh my God, you are delusional.”

  “You know you don’t have to try so hard with me,” he goes on like I haven’t spoken. “You want me to touch you, Fae, just say the word.”

  Fae.

  I breathe out.

  I blink.

  I didn’t want him to say that. Because I didn’t want to find out.

  I didn’t want to find out if it sounds the same.

  My name. The name that he gave me two years ago.

  It does.

  It sounds exactly like it did two years ago.

  Intense and intimate. Like it belongs to me. Like I was made to be called that.

  Blonde and tiny with the limbs of a dancer, his dancer.

  His fairy.

  But I was never his and that is not my name.

  “Hey, Reed.” I stare into his wolf eyes and throw him a false smile. “I know it’s been two years and all, but my name is Calliope Thorne. People also call me Callie. And if I’m being honest, I’d rather you not call me anything at all. But asshole’s choice, of course.”

  Those eyes of his become intense as he murmurs, “Calliope Juliet Thorne. I know what your name is, Fae. I also know what my name is. Do you?”

  Yes.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  I do.

  I do know his name.

  I know his name like I know how to breathe.

  Like I know how to cry in my pillow at night, biting down on it
so I don’t make a noise.

  I know his name like I know how to hurt when I see someone wearing a white hoodie on the street. When I see a girl so in love with a guy that she only has eyes for him and no one else.

  I know his name, yes.

  Reed Roman Jackson.

  My Roman.

  Or so I thought.

  “You said that our names made us Shakespearean, star-crossed lovers,” he says, bringing me back to the moment. “A teenage tragedy. And I told you that they didn’t. Because what did fucking Shakespeare know? To me, you’ll always be Fae. And to you, I’ll always be Roman.”

  I did say those things to him. I did tell him about our names and I did warn him to stay away from me.

  It was a warning for me too.

  If only I had listened to it myself.

  If only I’d stayed away.

  “I remember,” I tell him, staring into the face of the villain I fell in love with. “I remember everything. I remember everything I said to you and everything you said to me. And that’s why I know that we are a teenage tragedy. Because you made sure of that, didn’t you? So get away from me because I wasn’t kidding about you losing your teeth. Reed.”

  But again, instead of moving away he gets even closer, and I find out the answer to another question that I didn’t want to know.

  His scent.

  It’s still the same.

  He still smells of wildflowers and woods. He still smells of open roads and freedom.

  The freedom that I don’t have anymore.

  The freedom I lost the night I stole his Mustang and tried to destroy it.

  The Mustang that he built himself.

  He did, yes.

  I didn’t know that, see.

  I had no idea that the thing I was destroying, the thing that he loved the most in the world, was also a thing that he had made himself.

  Reed Roman Jackson, the richest boy at Bardstown High, in Bardstown, had built his Mustang with his own two hands.

  I found that out later.

  Much, much later.

  After all the damage was done.

  I don’t even blame him for calling the cops on me. I never blamed him for calling them.

  I’ve only ever blamed him for breaking my heart.

  I only blame him now, for smelling the same even after two years.

  And while I’m so busy smelling him and remembering the past, he’s doing something else. I don’t realize that the reason he’s so close to me is because he’s stealing from me.

  My whiskey bottle.