Spoilsport

SPOILSPORT A DARK HIGH SCHOOL ROMANCE LAYLA SIMON Copyright © 2023 by Layla Simon All rights reserved. Developmental Editing: Nicole at Emerald Edits www.emeraldedits.com Cover Photograph: Katie Cadwallader Photography www.kcpclients.com Cover Model: Daniel Hughes Cover Design: Katherine Hayton No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Preface 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 Also by Layla Simon About the Author PREFACE Trigger Warning: dub/non-con, stealthing, degradation, physical assault, choking, self-harm, plus references to child sexual assault, sex trafficking, drug overdose, bullying… …and some lovely, lovely hate sex. CHAPTER ONE ESME Joseph looks so damn good. Loose blond curls, wide mouth, eyes that must have sucked the colour out of the ocean, they’re that blue. So good I can’t believe I feel nothing when he touches me. Even now, standing in front of him, three minutes into a break-up speech that he’s just not getting, I’m gobsmacked by how little I care. It must have been different at the start. When we met six months ago, surely I craved those thick fingers; wanted them to grab me, run through my hair, take handfuls of my arse and squeeze until I begged for mercy. Why else would I have continued to see him when he thinks the only use for his tongue is waggling inside his mouth? When his whispered words of praise turn my vagina into sand. Something must be the fuck wrong with me. Apart from the known list of wrong things my counsellor keeps scolding me about. Not that it matters here, at the end. Right now, all I want is for comprehension to dawn in those sea-blue eyes. For him to acknowledge I’m breaking up with him, and—for the sake of my self-respect—for the smile to leave his face. I try again. “This final year is just proving to be so much more full-on than I thought it was going to be, you know? Much more nose to the grindstone than I expected. There’s really not a lot of time spare for a relationship.” Senior year is also an experience I don’t want anyone to spoil. I want to go to parties and dance without this golden god of a boy glowering at me from the shadows. Now I’m past my eighteenth birthday, I want to drink with such abandon that I wake in the morning wishing I were dead. A drink would certainly come in helpful right about now. Despite not giving a toss if Joseph ever touches me again, my body flinches from confrontation. Oh, the irony. I have no reaction when he kisses me but mid break-up I have a hammering heartbeat, a tremble in my knees, a trickle of sweat down the back of my collar on this feels-like-winter-two-months-early day. Mid break-up, my body reacts like it’s in the first flushes of love. “Oh, for sure,” he says, nodding like we’re on the same page when I don’t even know which book he’s reading. “I’ve been trialling this new productivity system and I’ll have to take you through it, maybe tonight? I swear, it’s done so well at keeping me organised. It’s like I have too much free time.” Too much for me, definitely. And did he just set up a date? Mid break-up? Oh, no. This is not going well. “Remember last year when we discussed—” “Seeing other people?” he interrupts, chuckling. “Yeah. But don’t worry. I’ve seen the competition around here and there’s no one with a patch on you.” The “here” of his sentence is Kingswood College, the most expensive private boarding school in Christchurch, maybe all New Zealand. Time for a reset. I close my eyes. Last month, I thought Joseph was going to do me a favour and take the burden of breaking up off my shoulders. He’d told me in the most serious of his serious voices that he wanted to talk to me after class. I’d been so relieved, I skipped to his room on the lightest feet ever. He presented me with a panel of clean test results and a request to start fluid bonding as the next obvious step in our relationship. Just… no. Right then, it became clear I needed to cut him off and I needed to do it sharply. And after a short four-week postponement while I worked out where I left my courage, here I am, doing it. Or not doing it if Joseph’s current comprehension levels are anything to judge by. Ah, fuck it. Bring the big guns. “It’s not you, it’s me.” Joseph glances up from his phone, mildly startled. “Sorry, missed the joke there. You’ll have to tell it to me later. Gotta go.” “Wait!” He turns back, eyebrow raised. “We’re just not compatible.” Meaning, you don’t turn me on. “I think we make more sense as friends.” Meaning, you can’t follow simple oral instructions. “There’s so much going on for both of us right now.” Meaning, I’d rather stay in my room with my glass of wine, book of smut, and the liberal application of my fingers than ever go anywhere near a bed with you ever again. “It’s nothing to do with you.” Ha! “You’re a great guy.” Double ha! “I’m just not ready to commit to a serious relationship.” Meaning when I said, ‘it’s not you it’s me,’ it is one hundred and ten percent you. Joseph’s expression turns faintly puzzled. I’d take it as an indicator of success, but I’ve been fooled before, so I wait for another sign before