Rescue Me: Dark High School Reverse Harem Bully Romance (Sapphire Bay High Book 2) Read online

  Rescue Me

  Dark High School Reverse Harem Bully Romance

  Sapphire Bay High Series

  Book 2

  Naomi Martin

  Have you met Winter yet…?

  Download Book 1 for by clicking here!

  (Free on KU!)

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  The methods/actions described within this eBook are the author’s personal thoughts, as no characters, places, or events are based on anything considered “real.”

  Chapter One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter One

  “God, this sucks,” I say, flopping down on my bed. “Might as well have moved to the dark side of the moon.”

  “If you’re going to keep being this dramatic, I might just send you there.”

  I sit up on the bed and glare at my father, who leans against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest. He gives me what he obviously hopes is a smile that will win me over. Yeah, fat friggin’ chance.

  “It’d be better than being stuck here.” I grumble.

  He sighs and pushes his glasses up, then scratches at his beard—which is a new look for him. I guess he thinks it makes him look more distinguished or something, but I think it makes him look more like a nerdy teacher than anything.

  “Honey, you know why we moved here,” he says.

  “Because you wanted to make my life utterly miserable?”

  He sighs again. “Come on, Tatum,” he groans. “Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”

  I look at him, anger rising up within me. “Harder than it has to be?” I growl. “Are you kidding me? You’re not the one who got uprooted and taken from all of his friends right before his senior year!”

  He slides his hands into his pockets and looks down at the ground. He genuinely seems upset and hurt by my words. But this is an argument we’ve had for the last six months—ever since he told me we were moving. It just isn’t fair. It’s not fair at all.

  My mom is in the military and because of that, we moved around a lot when I was younger. This new posting is no different than the ten million other places we’ve had to live. But we moved to Norfolk the summer before my sophomore year and my parents promised we’d be there until the end of high school. For the first time in my life, I’d felt like I had some stability. I made friends. I felt settled and I was happy. My friends and I talked about college and getting an apartment together—we were planning our lives.

  And then my mom was deployed, and we learned that when her tour was up, she was going to be stationed at some crappy base in Northern California. So, rather than wait for her to retire from the military—or at least wait for me to graduate—my father in his infinite wisdom, had scooped me up and, voilà. Here we are, in some small town I don’t know and where I have no friends. And he thinks I’m being dramatic.

  “Just give this place a chance, Tatum,” he says. “You’ll make friends.”

  “Hardly the point,” I spit. “I already had friends. I had a good life. I was planning for my future, Dad.”

  A small frown pulls the corners of his mouth down. “You can still—”

  “Not the same future. I’m not there and my friends will forget about me.” Anger makes my voice sharp. Shrill. “Without my friends, it’ll never be the same.”

  “If they move on from you that easily, are they really your friends?”

  I glare at him, feeling my dark, abiding rage building. His eyes are locked on mine and I can see they’re filled with compassion, but I’m not really in the mood to be coddled right now. Besides, there really isn’t much he can say that will mollify me, anyway.

  “Look, kiddo, I know you’re pissed. I get it,” he says softly. “But your mom is going to be stationed out here for a while, and—”

  “Until she re-ups. Again.”

  He sighs. “Look at it this way: if she does re-up—and she might—you’ll be out of high school and free to make your own decisions. If you want to stay here, you can. If you want to go back to Virginia, you can do that, too.”

  I roll my eyes, feeding the fires of my anger, but I feel that familiar needle of pain lance my heart. A year is as good as forever in high school terms and by the time this year is up and I’m free to do as I please, most of my friends will have moved on. They’ll have made other plans and gone in different directions. And I won’t be there for any of it. As usual, I’ll be left behind.

  “Like always, we end up sacrificing for the good of Mom’s career.”

  “Tatum, that’s not fair.”

  “No, what isn’t fair is that the one time in my life I finally felt settled, like I had a home, you guys decided to pull the rug out from under me. Again.”

  They don’t seem to care that having to move around all the time and never being able to settle in one place has been so hard on me. They don’t understand that when we lived in Norfolk, I’d finally started to think about making plans for the future. It was the first time I felt settled enough to make friends—friends I thought I would have for my entire life.

  But now, having been yanked out of yet another place and pulled away from the friends I made, I’m totally and utterly alone. Again. But all that seems to matter to my family is my mom’s career. We have to sacrifice so that she can advance. We have to adjust so that she can do what she wants, and neither of them give a damn about me. They don’t care what this life of constant uncertainty and loneliness has done to me—continues to do to me.

  “We weren’t trying to pull the rug out from under you, honey,” Dad says softly. “We really weren’t. It’s just that your mom has a great opportunity here.”

  “Did you even bother asking what I wanted?” I spit. “Oh wait, we don’t do that. It’s all about what’s in Mom’s best interest, right? I mean, what about you, Dad? Can you really say you enjoy traipsing across the goddamn country and constantly having to start over again?”

  “I’m adjusting to it, honey. I’m adapting,” he says. “This is a great opportunity in front of me, so I’m going to make the best of it. I’m choosing to see the good in this chance we have out here instead of focusing on the negative.”

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nbsp; “Oh, great, so I’m just being an unreasonable asshole,” I growl. “Okay, I got it. Thanks, Dad. Good talk.”

  My dad opens his mouth to reply but I wave him off, neither wanting nor caring to hear anymore. It isn’t like I’m going to hear anything now that I haven’t heard a million times before.

  “You know what? Forget it,” I snap. “I’d like to be alone.”

  “Tatum, I—”

  “Dad, leave me alone.” My voice is shrill. “Please.”

  His shoulders slump and he looks down at the floor again, letting out a soft breath. When he looks back up at me, he gives me a tight smile, his lips a thin slash in his thick beard. He nods and closes the door softly behind him, plunging me into silence. I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, the anger flowing so thick in my veins that it makes my head hurt.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to calm myself down and stop the throbbing in my brain. Somewhere, deep down, I know my dad isn’t evil. By moving us out here, my parents weren’t intentionally trying to hurt me. Logically, I know that. But it hurts to think that they don’t seem to care that I feel so alone. They don’t even try to understand what being uprooted over and over has done to me. My dad keeps talking about a family sacrificing for each other, but I seem to be the only one having to sacrifice anything.

  I sit up and perch on the edge of the bed, looking around at the boxes cluttering my room. I walk to the window on the far side of the room, across from my bed, and drop down onto the window seat, staring out at the world beyond. Past the fence, tall trees soar into the sky, the forest thick and dense. It’s beautiful, I can’t deny that. But it’s not my home.

  Not that moving around so much when I was younger ever gave me a proper sense of a home. Norfolk was as close as it got for me. I’d loved it there. I loved my friends, the places we used to hang out—hell, I even loved my school. I was comfortable in Norfolk. I was happy. It was home.

  And this place, though picturesque and charming in its own way, is not it.

  Chapter Two

  The one thing Sapphire Bay has going for it that Norfolk didn’t is that summertime is cool here. Sapphire Bay doesn’t have the oppressive heat and humidity that we suffered through in Norfolk, and I don’t feel like I need to shower every five minutes. In my book, that’s a plus.

  The breeze is thick with the scent of the ocean mixed with the earthy musk of the forest that surrounds the town, and the wind flows through my hair as I ride my bike along the quiet residential street. Both sides of the small road are lined with trees and bushes flowering in a riot of colors, their blooms adding to the thick aroma saturating the air around me.

  It’s such a beautiful day that I can’t help but smile. With the sun shining down on me and the breeze cooling my skin, I almost feel content for the first time since we got here. All of my anger and irritation with my parents has receded. At least temporarily.

  I cut down another residential street that looks a lot like mine and find my way down to the main road that cuts through the middle of town. I get off my bike and walk it down the sidewalk, taking it all in.

  Sapphire Bay—at least, the main artery of town—is quaint. It’s cute. With mom-and-pop shops all up and down the block, it looks like something out of a movie set in Smalltown, USA. I have to admit, even with as much as I don’t want to be here and never wanted to come, I find the place charming as hell—not that I’ll ever tell my dad that.

  I lock my bike to a rack outside of a sweet shop I will most definitely be visiting on my way back and walk the street, taking it all in. The streets are more crowded than I would have expected for a Tuesday afternoon. But, then, it’s mostly kids my age and it’s summer, so I guess it shouldn’t be all that surprising. I peek in the windows of the shops I pass, getting myself acquainted. Since I’m stuck here, I might as well figure out where everything is.

  I pause in front of the window of a bookstore and smile. No matter where they moved me and what city I found myself in, a bookstore was always a place I felt at home. Whenever I found myself in a new city with no friends, I turned to books for comfort. And they never let me down.

  An electronic sound chimes as I step through the door. A girl who looks to be a couple of years older than me with black hair streaked with pink is behind the counter, ringing up somebody’s purchase. She flashes me a smile as I pass by. Moving through the stacks of books, I inhale deeply, letting the scent of the shop fill my nose. I know some people think it’s weird, but I have always loved the smell of books and bookstores.

  As I walk further along the row, I see that most everything is non-fiction. Travel books, history books, biographies. Nothing that really interests me. It’s then that I catch the aroma of coffee and grin. Coming around the corner, I see a coffee shop situated at the rear of the store. The only thing that smells better to me than a bookstore is a bookstore with a coffee house in it. I can sit in a place like this for hours on end—and have.

  Walking to the counter, I order an iced blended mocha from a friendly older man. He hands over my drink with a smile and I drop a dollar tip into his jar before taking the plastic cup and walking around the store a bit more. Off in the corner, I see a staircase that leads to a second floor. When I climb the stairs, I find myself in my element—fiction. I make a beeline for the science fiction and fantasy stacks and as I approach, I hear the voices of a couple of girls giggling to themselves.

  My stomach roils and I turn down an aisle devoted to anime and manga, not wanting to bump into people I don’t know. Even at eighteen years old, I still feel awkward when confronted with new people. I blame my social awkwardness on moving around so much when I was young—it never let me properly develop my social skills, or something.

  As I run my fingers along the spines of the books on the shelves, I eavesdrop on the conversation and it doesn’t take me long to figure out there are two girls picking on somebody. Their tone is too sharp and the things they’re saying are far too ugly to be anything else. As I listen to them teasing and hurling cutting insults, I feel my blood begin to boil. If there is one thing I hate in this world, it’s bullies.

  Socially awkward or not, when somebody pisses me off, I tend to speak my mind. I can’t help it, really, it’s just that when I see somebody being bullied, I try to put a stop to it. I think that’s my mom’s doing. She’s always been big on standing up for the little guy and defending the helpless. It’s something she ingrained in me from an early age.

  I step around the row of books to see a girl with sandy brown hair and dark eyes framed behind dark-rimmed glasses sitting at a table with her head down. Her hair is long and straight and she’s doing her best to use it as a screen to hide behind. Two other girls, both tall, blonde, and thin, hover over her table like a pair of harpies, dishing out heaps of abuse on the poor girl who’s doing her level best to ignore them. Hard to do when she’s being harangued by the pair of bimbo cheerleaders from hell.

  “Don’t you two have something better to do?” I sneer. “Like waxing each other’s mustaches or something?”

  The two blondes round on me, their faces a mask of outrage—though both seem to unconsciously raise a hand to their top lips nervously. It draws a giggle from the brunette, which earns her a sharp glare from the taller of the two blondes.

  “Shut it, piggy,” she snaps.

  The mousy-haired girl quickly looks down at the book on the table in front of her, seeming to be doing her best to turn invisible. The Barbie clones turn and give me the elevator eyes, the look of distaste on their faces more than clear. They cross their arms over their chests and jut their hips to the side in near unison, as if it’s a choreographed act, and I can barely keep myself from erupting into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” the taller blonde asks.

  “And who the hell are you?” the other chimes in.

  “Somebody who doesn’t like seeing bitchy bottle-blondes picking on people.”

  Their eyes narrow and an identical look of anger washes over
their faces as they glare at me. A small grin plays across my lips as I set my coffee cup down on a shelf beside me. They both loom over my five-foot-four frame by a few inches and as they step closer, they try to use that height disparity to intimidate me. I’m not built like Ronda Rousey or anything, but I’ve taken enough self-defense classes that I’m not even close to being afraid of these two. I’m pretty sure the closest they’ve been to a fight is one that involved pillows.

  “I do not bleach my hair,” asserts the taller of the two blondes, her tone acidic.

  I roll my eyes. “Right. And I’m Scarlett Johansson’s body double.”

  The shorter blonde looks at her friend. “Can you believe this bitch?”

  “Gingers are always jealous of blondes.” The taller girl grins. “Hashtag fact.”

  I pointedly flip my rich, red locks over my shoulder. “Please,” I say. “Like either of you has anything worth being jealous of. Bitches like you are a dime a dozen—and I’m not talking about how much you usually charge to blow somebody in the back alley.”

  The taller blonde steps forward, a snarl on her face as she swings an open palm aimed at my face. I expected it and am ready for her, easily blocking her feeble attempt at a slap. It takes her off-guard and gives me the opening I need to deliver one of my own. The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh is loud in the otherwise silent bookstore. Her head rocks to the side and she holds a hand over her cheek, a look of absolute disbelief on her face. Obviously, nobody has ever taught this girl there are consequences to being a bully and an all-around bitch. Pity for her.

  “You bitch! I can’t believe you slapped me!”

  “And I’ll do it again if I ever see you bullying anybody else,” I snap. “And I’ll do it twice as hard, too.”

  A feral grin touches my lips as she moves toward me again, but her friend grabs her by the hand and pulls her back.

  “Let it go,” the shorter blonde tells her. “Just—leave it. She’s not worth it.”