Cruel Intentions : A High School Bully Romance (Eastern High Series Book 1)

The second I see Noah and Reece sprawled against the school wall, my stomach twists into a knot so tight I can barely breathe. Noah’s been avoiding me like the plague since that day in the bathroom—since I told him to back off and refused to talk.

And now? Now he’s sitting there like nothing happened, like the distance he’s put between us isn’t driving me insane.

I keep my eyes locked on them. My chest tightens when Noah finally glances up. His eyes meet mine, and for a brief second, everything I’ve been trying to bury surges to the surface. But I don’t let it show. I turn my head away, pretending I didn’t see him, like he doesn’t fucking matter. Even though he does.

“So, you’re still coming to the party tonight, right?” Sam asks, cutting through my thoughts.

She’s been on me all week about it, wearing me down until I finally said yes. I didn’t want to go. I still don’t. But Sam’s relentless, and honestly, I’m too drained to fight her off anymore.

We head up the steps and into the building, but before we get far, Lola comes flying out of nowhere, stopping us in our tracks.

“Oh my God, where have you two been? I’ve been waiting forever.” She wedges herself between us, looping her arms through mine and Sam’s like we have all the time in the world.

I smirk. Lola’s different now, more confident. She’s come out of her shell since Tia shifted all her bullshit onto me. Maybe not being under constant attack is letting her breathe, letting her be herself.

But then her voice drops, and the look on her face wipes the smirk right off mine.

“Aubrey, there’s something you need to know before you get to your locker,” she says, her tone sharp, urgent.

My stomach sinks. I glance down the corridor, bracing myself. Whatever it is, it’s bad. I can feel it.

Up ahead, there’s a crowd gathered by the lockers, their whispers swelling into a hum that gets on my nerves. My heart starts pounding as Lola pulls me forward.

“Alright, let us through!” Sam shouts, forcing the crowd to part.

And then I see it.

Red spray paint, dripping down the metal like blood, scrawled in jagged letters across my locker.

SLUT. WHORE.

Fury claws its way up my throat as I stare at the vandalized locker, the meaning sinking in.

Tia.

Of course, it’s fucking Tia.

I turn around, my eyes scanning the crowd, looking for her smug face. But all I see are her minions—the spineless little shadows who do her dirty work and giggle behind bathroom doors.

I force my feet to move toward my locker like I don’t give a fuck, even though my insides are twisted and my hands are itching to hit something. If Tia had been here when I walked up, I wouldn’t have thought twice about ripping her apart in front of everyone, showing them just how much of a pathetic bitch she really is.

But she’s not here.

Of course she isn’t. So I swallow the anger, shove it down deep, and focus. The words on my locker are just another one of her weak attempts to get to me.

I open my locker, ignoring the burning weight of every pair of eyes glued to me. I drop my bag, pull out my books, every movement deliberate, controlled. Cool. Collected. Unbothered.

Then I hear it. That grating, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice that gets my blood boiling.

“Wow,” Tia says, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Guess your locker finally tells the truth about you, huh?”

FUCK. THIS. BITCH

I slam the locker door so hard it echoes down the hall, silencing the murmurs around us. Turning slowly, I lock eyes with her.

She’s standing there, her hair pulled so tight it looks painful, makeup layered on like war paint, and that stupid pout she thinks makes her look hot but just screams desperation.

I step closer, my voice steady, sharp. “Here’s the thing, Tia—you can spray-paint whatever bullshit you want on my locker, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re the saddest bitch in this hallway. And let’s be real: no amount of daddy’s money or knockoff designer bags is ever gonna fill that black hole where your personality should be.”

Her smile flickers—just for a second—but I catch it. So I keep going, leaning in just enough to make sure she hears every word. “Calling me a slut? Babe, I’m not the one throwing myself at anything with a dick and a credit card.”

I turn to walk away, tossing a final glance over my shoulder. “Oh, by the way, you might want to fix your tan. Your neck looks real patchy today.”

The crowd laughs softly, the sound breaking the tense silence. Tia’s jaw tightens, her mask slipping as the attention pins her in place.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” she snaps, her voice shrill, teetering on the edge of losing control.

I stop mid-step, spin back around, and stalk toward her, my voice razor-sharp. “You heard me, Tia.”

Her smirk falters, her confidence wobbling as the crowd presses closer, watching like this is their front-row seat to a showdown. Her eyes dart around, but no one’s stepping in. No one’s coming to save her.

I close the gap between us, my eyes boring into hers.

“You think this shit makes you powerful? Spray-painting my locker and running your mouth like a bitch makes you the queen of this school? Let me tell you something—power isn’t tearing people down because you can’t face yourself in the mirror. And you, Tia? You’re the most terrified little bitch I’ve ever met.”

I take another step closer, and she instinctively retreats, her back slamming against the lockers with a hollow clang.

The sound ripples through the crowd, stirring murmurs, but I don’t stop.

I keep my voice low and sharp. “You don’t hate me. You hate that I’m not scared of you. You hate that no matter what you do, you can’t break me. And that eats you alive, doesn’t it?” I tilt my head, letting my gaze rake over her.

Her pout falters, her too-thick eyeliner smudged just enough to show the cracks in her perfect mask. Her lips part like she wants to retort, but I cut her off before she can even breathe.

Leaning in slightly, I make sure every word lands.

“Spraying paint and running your mouth, that’s not power, Tia. That’s desperation. You’re not a queen—you’re just a bitter little girl, clinging to whatever scraps of relevance you can find. Keep pulling your stunts, keep talking your shit, but spoiler alert: I don’t break. Not for you. Not for anyone. Every time you try, you’re just proving to everyone here that you’re nothing but a jealous, washed-up bitched who peaked way too early.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows, her bravado slipping. I don’t wait for a response. I turn on my heels, heading back to my locker, my heart pounding with satisfaction.

I yank the locker open, trying to shake off the tension, when her voice pierces through the air like a dagger.

Fuck me. When will this bitch learn to shut her mouth?

“You can say whatever you want in those pathetic clothes. We all know your family background. A drunken father who—”

The rest of her sentence doesn’t register. The world narrows to her voice, her smug tone, and the mention of him. My father. My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms as my chest tightens.

I spin around, faster than I can think, my vision red-hot and tunneled.

Tia’s standing too close, that infuriating grin still plastered on her face.

Without hesitation, without a second thought, I pull back and slam my fist into her nose.

She can call me names all day long. Trash my clothes, my hair, my fucking existence—fine. But dragging my life into this? Acting like she knows a goddamn thing about the hell I’ve been through? That’s the fucking line.

Tia’s so clueless it’s almost laughable. She wouldn’t last a second in my shoes, in the chaos of my shitty life. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be a pawn to parents who stopped giving a shit about you. She doesn’t know what it feels like to question if you’re enough, if you’ll ever be enough.

The impact reverberates through my arm, the sound of bone crunching under my knuckles slicing through the stunned silence of the hallway. Her head snaps back, blood blooming across her face, a vivid red against her pale skin.

The crowd freezes, the chatter dropping to a deafening quiet as everyone processes what just happened.

Phones lower.

Eyes widen.

Adrenaline surges through me like wildfire, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I stare at her crumpled form for a second that feels like an eternity, watching her clutch her bleeding nose, tears streaming down her face as she gasps in shock.

And then it hits me.

Shit.

My hand throbs, the sting grounding me as reality crashes down.

What the fuck did I just do?

Blood spills through her fingers like my rage had slashed its own vivid signature across her pale, pristine world. The crimson stains bloom, raw and undeniable, marring the perfection she’s spent her life trying to maintain.

The hallway seems to hold its breath. Blood drips to the floor in uneven splatters, each drop punctuating the stunned silence. Tia’s muffled cries rise like a siren, shrill and slicing through the air, but all I can focus on is the realization: I did this.

I’ve never been the type to choose violence. I’ve always thought I was better than that. But now, standing here amidst the aftermath, I’m not sure who I am anymore.

The weight of every pair of eyes watching me presses down like a boulder, pinning me to this moment I can’t escape.

Tia’s minions hover around her, their mouths agape as they scramble into action. Some kneel beside her, murmuring in frantic tones, while others raise their phones, the glowing screens capturing my humiliation from every angle. The whispers snake through the crowd, growing louder, feeding on my mistake.

I watch as her friends help her to her feet, their movements deliberate and theatrical, as though staging a scene for maximum sympathy. Blood streaks her face, a stark contrast to the carefully cultivated mask she wears every day.

As they guide her down the hallway, their harsh glares stab at me.

My breath turns shallow and ragged as the walls close in. The stares, the whispers, the relentless buzz of phones capturing my failure—it’s too much. I glance around, desperate for something solid, something that will stop me from collapsing under the weight of it all.

And then I see him.

Noah.

He’s leaning casually against the far wall, arms crossed, his body language untouched by the chaos. His eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching, cutting through the noise like a lifeline. There’s no smug grin, no judgment, just a calm that feels like an anchor in the storm.

For a moment, the world narrows to him. The noise dims, the stares blur, and the ground beneath me feels steady again. Noah doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even move, but his presence speaks louder than the accusations swirling around me.

You’ve got this. Let them watch.

I take a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the tension melt away from my clenched fists. My heart still pounds, but the panic threatening to suffocate me begins to recede, curling into something I can control.

The storm hasn’t passed, not by a long shot. Whatever comes next—the fallout, the judgment, the consequences—I’ll face it.

But the truth cuts deep than I want to admit: I’ve fucked up. Tia, the girl who used to be my friend, is the one I’ve hurt. The guilt digs in like nails under my skin, sharp and relentless.

I tear my eyes from Noah and face the crowd.

Their stares are suffocating, like a hundred invisible hands clawing at me, ripping me open to expose every raw, ugly piece of me for judgment. My chest tightens, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.

Elbowing through the swarm of students, I shove past them, their whispers slicing into me like glass. I don’t look back.

I can’t.

The bathroom door looms ahead like salvation. I don’t think—I just move, my heart pounding in my chest like it’s trying to escape. I yank the door open and stumble inside, the muted chaos of the hallway replaced by an almost eerie quiet. But the storm inside me doesn’t fade.

I rush to the sink, twisting the faucet so hard it protests with a groan. Cold water gushes out, and I splash it over my face, the icy bite shocking against my flushed skin. My breath is jagged, uneven, as if I’m trying to outrun the fire raging through my veins. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, distorted by droplets clinging to the glass.

My mind spins in a whirlwind of guilt, adrenaline, and dread. My old man’s been keeping his distance lately—like he’s done for years, dodging the wreckage of our relationship like two cars swerving to avoid a head on collision. But this?

This is different.

I can already hear the principal’s call, dragging him into the mess I’ve made. Last time he got one of those calls, it was a disaster—doors slammed, walls shook, and his voice roared like a thunderstorm. This time, it will be a fucking nightmare.

I grip the sink, my knuckles white, and force myself to look in the mirror again. My face is flushed, my hair sticking to my damp forehead. But it’s my eyes that stop me—anger, regret, disbelief all swirling together.

What the fuck were you thinking?

The question echoes in my head, bitter and sharp. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, as if I can rattle the regret loose. How did I let Tia drag me down to her level? But no matter how much I want to shove it aside, the truth stares back at me in the glass. I see it clear as day—the same temper, the same reckless anger. The same goddamn thing I swore I’d never inherit from him.

The bathroom door creaks open, and Sam, Liz, and Lola shuffle in, their voices breaking the silence.

“Oh my God, there you are,” Sam breathes, relief in her voice as she spots me.

Lola rushes to my side. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice softer than I deserve.

I grip the edge of the sink tighter, grounding myself. “I shouldn’t have let her get to me,” I admit, the shame crawling up my throat.

Liz leans against the sink beside me, her arms crossed. “You’re like the talk of the school right now,” she says, with a grin. “Guys are losing their shit about how badass that was. And honestly? Watching Tia get what she deserves was pretty satisfying.”

I shake my head, the bitterness of regret coating my words. “I don’t know. I really hurt her.”

Lola places a hand on my arm, her touch gentle. “You’re not a bad person, okay? She pushed you, and you snapped. It doesn’t mean this is who you are.”

Her words hang in the air, but I’m not sure I believe them. Because the person I saw in the mirror? That person looked a hell of a lot like my father.

Sam steps into my line of sight, her arms crossed as she gives me a pointed look. “Yeah, well, after all the shit Tia’s pulled over the years, maybe she had it coming.”

I shake my head, the weight of it all pressing down on me. “Even if she did, I didn’t handle it right. I lost control.”

Lola raises an eyebrow, leaning against the wall. “You’re seriously beating yourself up over this? Tia’s been a bitch forever. Half the school’s probably cheering you on right now. Don’t let her make you feel guilty for finally standing your ground.”

Before I can respond, the bell blares, shrill and relentless, yanking me back to reality. Great. Just what I need. Now I get to walk through the halls, surrounded by stares, whispers, and judgment that’ll crawl all over me like spiders under my skin. My books are in my locker, and there’s no avoiding it. I’ll have to face the storm head-on.

“Come on,” Sam says, cutting through my spiral. She grabs my arm, her grip firm as she pulls me toward the door. “You can’t hide out in here all day. Tonight’s the party—you can blow off steam there.”

“You’re still coming, right?” Liz chimes in.

“Of course she’s going,” Sam says, answering for me.

I nod automatically, but it’s not the party that has my chest tightening and my heart hammering. It’s the waiting.

The loudspeaker. The inevitable crackle of static followed by the principal’s voice, calling me to the office. My name, broadcast for everyone to hear, confirming what they all already suspect—that I’ve officially fucked up.