King of Denial : An Academy Bully Romance (Boys of Almadale Book 3)

  King of Denial

  Jacie Lennon

  Copyright © 2021 by Jacie Lennon

  All rights reserved.

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  Visit my website at www.authorjacielennon.com

  Cover Designer: Cover Me Darling

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Photographer: Michelle Lancaster, Instagram: @lanefotograf

  Cover Model: Thomas Jamezz, Instagram: @revolutionary_badboy23

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7332751-5-6

  Contents

  1. Trixie

  2. Bodhi

  3. Trixie

  4. Trixie

  5. Bodhi

  6. Bodhi

  7. Trixie

  8. Trixie

  9. Bodhi

  10. Trixie

  11. Bodhi

  12. Trixie

  13. Trixie

  14. Sophomore Year

  15. Junior Year

  16. Bodhi

  17. Trixie

  18. Trixie

  19. Bodhi

  20. Trixie

  21. Bodhi

  22. Trixie

  23. Trixie

  24. Bodhi

  25. Trixie

  26. Trixie

  27. Bodhi

  28. Bodhi

  29. Trixie

  30. Trixie

  31. Bodhi

  32. Trixie

  33. Bodhi

  34. Trixie

  35. Trixie

  36. Trixie

  Epilogue

  To my wonderful readers

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Jacie Lennon

  1

  Trixie

  Freshman Year—August

  I pull my pencil-and-pen holder out of my bag, placing it at the top of my desk, lining it up with the edge to keep my fingers from shaking. It’s finally here. First day of freshman year at the prestigious Almadale Preparatory Academy, and I’m ready. I’m ready to finally be in high school, to get out from underneath my suffocating parents, and I’m definitely ready to make some of my own decisions. Freedom has never been so sweet.

  I clasp my hands on the desk and then unclasp them. I don’t want to appear uptight. I lean back in my seat, casual. Or as casual as I know how to be. I’ve been raised on strict regimens. My father is ex-military and expects a certain level of obedience and routine, of which I follow.

  I press up onto the balls of my feet underneath me, bringing them to rest even higher on the very tips of my toes before lowering back down. It’s calming.

  The door opens, catching my attention, and I stare at the boy framed between its wooden sides. His messy hair and devil-may-care attitude keep me captive, his icy blue-gray eyes scanning the room before he turns around to laugh at something one of the guys behind him said. He doesn’t look at me, but I’m not surprised.

  Why would he?

  My feet press up again, wrinkling the tops of my new shoes, but it’s steadying. Fortifying. I look back down at my hands, where they rest facedown on the top, a thin layer of sweat coating the palms and making them slick.

  A shadow looms over me, and my heart beats fast as I look up. My eyes snag on the back of the shaggy, dark hair as he sits in the chair right in front of me.

  Bodhi Montgomery.

  We know each other. Our families are in the same elite circles, so of course, we’ve grown up, seeing each other at different functions, but we didn’t attend the same elementary or middle schools. I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on him or his brother in over a year.

  What a difference a year makes.

  He’s starting to fill out, to transition from a boy to a man. A maturer look. His shoulders are getting broader, his voice deeper. Or I imagine it is. I haven’t heard him talk yet.

  I watch him shift in his seat, resting the top of one arm on the back as he swivels his body to the side, long legs spilling out into the aisle. I covertly look at his profile, noting his strong nose and the small crease in his cheek that appears when he’s sporting his signature smirk, like now.

  I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that smirk. As soon as I realized boys had more to offer than friendship, it’s taken up a fair amount of real estate in my mind. My breath catches as his head continues to turn. When his gaze is focused on me, I meet his eyes, unable to look away.

  The crease near his mouth grows deeper as he leans toward me, dipping his head a little.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  My eyes widen. “What?”

  “What’s your name?” His smirk grows, making his eyes sparkle.

  “Are you serious right now?” I can’t help it; the snark slips out as he bursts my fantasy bubble. I might have remembered him, but it’s clear he has no idea who I am.

  “As a heart attack.” His smirk starts to drop, and I sit back, embarrassment rising in my chest.

  “I’m Trixie. Nice to meet you,” I say, rolling my eyes and frowning. At his blank stare, I lean forward again, clenching my teeth. I’m not sure where all of my aggressiveness is coming from, but it probably has something to do with him not even recognizing me when I could pick him out of a lineup, blindfolded. “Trixie Northcutt,” I supply, glancing off.

  “Shit, Betty?” He leans forward, peering at me. “Little Beatrice?”

  “I go by Trixie. And I’m the same age as you. Hence the reason we are starting freshman year together.”

  “I didn’t recognize you,” he says, and I watch his eyes dip down, taking me in before focusing back on my face.

  “That’s obvious.” I look away.

  “You look different.”

  “It’s my hair. I cut it,” I say, fingering the short ends of my blonde bob.

  “No, that’s not it.” He shakes his head, eyes dipping again. “You have boobs.”

  “Astute observation, Montgomery.”

  “Oh, big words and last names. Are we friends again, Northcutt?” He leans even further forward, his head jutted out over my desk, and I want to reach out and touch his messy hair.

  “We were never friends to begin with,” I say and immediately want to punch myself in the face.

  Why am I trying to push him away?

  He dramatically clutches his heart and throws his head to the side. “You wound me.”

  “I’m sure you’ll recover.” I let a smile peek through, unable to stop it from gracing my face.

  “I’m not sure I want to,” he says, the smile dropping from his face as he stares at me.

  I stare back, not sure what is passing between us right now.

  “Welcome, students, to your first class at Almadale Preparatory Academy.” Our teacher’s voice cuts through the haze, and I straighten while Bodhi pulls his head back and turns around at a turtle’s speed, eyes locked on mine for as long as possible.

  How strange … and exhilarating.

  “I’m Mrs. Pitts, and this is English I, so I hope you are in the right class,” she says.

  Her kind smile
instantly warms me before I let my gaze drift back to stare at Bodhi in front of me without him knowing.

  I wonder if he can sense my eyes boring into his skin.

  “Perfect. You are seated alphabetically and will stay that way for the remainder of the semester. It doesn’t matter how any of your other teachers do it.”

  Bodhi looks over his shoulder, winking at me. My face flames, and I press my feet up again, my hands reaching out to grab a pencil from the top of my desk so that I have something to do.

  Mrs. Pitts continues talking, but I don’t retain anything she says, my thoughts betraying me with visions of the smirk of the human sitting in front of me.

  I think I blacked out during our entire conversation. I didn’t feel like myself, and I didn’t talk like myself. I’m not even sure what came out of my mouth, but I know it didn’t put him off any.

  “Do you have a pen?” Bodhi whispers, turning his head slightly.

  I grope for one from my container, shoving it over his shoulder, where it falls into his lap instead of the outstretched hand at his side.

  “Thanks,” he says, a slight chuckle shaking his shoulders.

  I cover my face for a moment and shake my head.

  Get it together, Trixie, I chastise myself.

  “Paper?” he whispers.

  I glance down, wondering if he brought anything in his backpack to class. I tear a sheet from my notebook, and this time, I place it directly in his hand, trying to remember how to function. This is the most he’s ever interacted with me, but I can’t fault him. Anytime we were in the same area, I stuck with my friends, and he stuck with his. And now, he’s only interacting with me because we are in close proximity and he isn’t prepared … for anything it seems.

  Bodhi hunches over his desk, his arm shaking as he scribbles something down on the paper I gave him. After a while of his arm moving, I convince myself he’s taking notes on what Mrs. Pitts is saying, and I return my attention to the front of the room.

  I try to focus on what she’s saying—I truly do—but my mind starts to wander again. I think about the practice room I saw yesterday as I explored the grounds, one with a smooth wooden floor and a surround sound system. I envisioned myself en pointe, twirling and gliding across the room, an audience in front of me and a partner at my back as I danced my debut as a prima ballerina.

  It’s always been a dream of mine, one that I’ve worked hard toward my entire life. My mom had me attending dance lessons along with a whole assortment of other lessons by the time I was three years old. But dance is the only one I’ve stuck with even though I am not the greatest at it. I try, and that’s what counts, right?

  There’s probably no prima ballerina spots in my future.

  A folded piece of paper floats in front of me, clutched between Bodhi’s index and middle finger along with the pen I loaned him. I’m graced with another wink as I pull both items from his hand. I want to open it slowly to savor the moment, but I tear into it, wanting to know what’s hidden in its depths.

  A caricature version of Mrs. Pitts stares back at me, and I press my lips together, keeping a stoic expression on my face. She’s holding a ruler, and the speech bubble above her head says, Stay in your assigned seats. Underneath the picture, Bodhi wrote in large block letters, Looks like you are stuck with me, Northcutt.

  He’s turned around by the time I look back up, and this time, I let myself smile. I fold the paper and place it between the pages of my notebook, my head light with happiness. I watch him lean over, unzipping his backpack, and pull a fresh piece of paper and a pencil from the depths, not saying another word to me.

  2

  Bodhi

  Freshman Year—September

  I drum my fingers on the top of my desk as I listen to Mrs. Pitts drone on about clauses and prepositions or some shit. I don’t know; I haven’t been paying attention. My mind has been focused on honey-blonde locks, large brown eyes, and a sassy personality.

  After that first day, I haven’t talked to Trixie much beyond asking class-related questions, but she hasn’t left my mind. She has a certain something that keeps me enthralled, and honestly, that terrifies me a little. Ever since I was small and my mom walked out on me, my twin brother, Brock, and I haven’t put a lot of trust in women.

  Sure, I’m a guy, and I notice them. Their curves and mannerisms. I won’t lie and say I’m not affected, but the way I notice Trixie is on a different level, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

  Or so I try to convince myself.

  I don’t know what came over me the first day of class, joking with her, drawing her a picture. Maybe it was the way she didn’t fall all over me or act like I was anything special. But I also don’t want to be anything special to her. I don’t want to let myself have those feelings or form those attachments. The one woman who was supposed to love me left. Who’s to say it can’t happen again?

  Finally, the bell rings, letting me out of this fresh hell that the first class of the morning is, and I grab my backpack, hiking it up on one shoulder, determined not to turn my head and look at Trixie behind me. I keep my face straight ahead and leave the room.

  “Hey,” Brock says as he falls in step beside me. “Wanna skip?”

  “And do what?” I ask, turning to look at him, eyes narrowed.

  He’s usually the straitlaced one of us two, so for him to want to skip is weird.

  “I don’t know. I’m over today.”

  “Me too.”

  We keep walking down the hallway until we get to the double doors, exiting out of them without a care in the world. We walk in companionable silence, the kind that comes from being with each other twenty-four/seven since the beginning of our time on earth. I guess I was without Brock for a few moments while I was waiting for him to be born, but other than that, we are attached at the hip and love each other unconditionally.

  We trek across the south lawn, finding the clearing where the sun is beating down, keeping it warm even though we are headed toward fall. Just last month, we jumped off the cliff and into the chilly water below in the time-honored freshman hazing that everyone here at Almadale goes through. Brock took a liking to it, and he jumps every so often, especially when he’s feeling anxious. He says it’s an adrenaline rush that helps him focus and forget small worries.

  I pull my backpack around, so I can unzip the small top compartment, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  “Fuck, where did you get those?” Brock asks, looking behind us like a teacher is going to bust through the trees and catch me with them.

  “Relax. Don’t worry about it. Haven’t you ever wanted to try them?”

  “No,” Brock says, glaring at me. “Okay, yes.”

  He puts his hand out, and I grin. I watch him stick one end in his mouth, and I hold the lighter up, flicking it on like I’ve practiced several times. He leans, placing the cigarette in the flame, and then sucks in.

  I watch his face turn red as he tries not to cough, the effect ruined when the cigarette goes flying from his mouth as he doubles over, hacking. I stomp on it, extinguishing the end as I double over myself but from laughing.

  “You should have seen your face,” I say between snorts.

  “That shit is nasty,” Brock says, wiping the tear leaking out of one eye from his coughing fit. “You try it.”

  I place one between my lips, determined to beat Brock’s record of point-five seconds, and light up. I take a small pull, testing it, and my mouth fills with smoke. It tickles my throat, burning it, and I pull the cigarette away, holding my mouth shut. Brock watches me, eyes narrowed, and I finally open, blowing the smoke back out.

  “You didn’t even inhale it, cheater,” he says.

  I protest, “I did too. I can’t help it that I’m better than you at everything.” I damn well didn’t inhale it, but I won’t admit it to him.

  “Fuck you,” Brock says, and I snort.

  I take another fake pull and blow it back out in his face, reveling in his i
rritation. He sits down in the grass, pulling his bag off and flinging it to the side before lying down, hands behind his head. I fling the “half-smoked” cig to the grass, stomping on it and joining him on the ground, staring up at the clouds meandering across the clear blue sky.

  “I thought it would be different here,” I say, placing my hands in the grass, feeling the blades beneath my fingertips.

  “What did you think it would be like?” Brock’s voice cuts through the birds chirping and wind blowing.

  “I don’t know. Fun?”

  “You aren’t having fun?” He pushes up onto his elbows, looking down at me.

  “Not like you are,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows at my twin.

  “Some of us aren’t celibate monks,” he says, laughing.

  “I know you aren’t doing it with anyone.”

  “You don’t know shit.” He glares at me, and I shrug. He would tell me the first time he got it in, and I haven’t heard anything from him.

  “Anyway, I’m not a monk.”

  “Waiting for the right girl?”

  “When you say it with a sarcastic tone, it makes me want to punch you in the face.”

  “Do it. I dare you,” he says.

  I push up and make a fist, throwing it toward his face and stopping right before I make contact with his nose.