Ava: A Dark Bully College Romance, page 1
Ava
Blackheath Academy book 1
Leslie Luckie
Copyright
Copyright © 2023 by Leslie Luckie
All rights reserved. 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.
AISN: B0BN8K6TG8
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited and Formatted by Melissa Smith – Homestead Book Services
rmitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Dedication
Trigger Warnings
Chapter One : Some Secrets Aren't Meant To Be Kept
Chapter Two : Tea And Cock
Chapter Three : An Asshole Is Still An Asshole, Regardless Of Class
Chapter Four : An Aston In The House
Chapter Five : Accommodation A Different Nature
Chapter Six : Excelling At Being A Class A Asshole
Chapter Seven : A Dance Of Epic Proportions
Chapter Eight : The Library Program
Chapter Nine : Refinement Keeps The Rage At Bay
Chapter Ten : Old Man de Trafford
Chapter Eleven : Lessons And Leering
Chapter Twelve : A Test
Chapter Thirteen : Freedom
Chapter Fourteen : Upping The Ante
Chapter Fifteen : Sweetening The Pot
Chapter Sixteen : The Beggar At The Gate
Chapter Seventeen : Cum-Drenched Knowledge
Chapter Eighteen : The Afterglow
Chapter Nineteen : The Yacht Club
Chapter Twenty : A Naked Battle Of Wits
Chapter Twenty-One : Submission
Chapter Twenty-Two : The Silent Treaty
Chapter Twenty-Three : A Summer Ball
Chapter Twenty-Four : The Summoning
Chapter Twenty-Five : The Different Shades Of Green
Chapter Twenty-Six : The Auction
Chapter Twenty-Seven : Buying Whores Is An Exhausting Business
Chapter Twenty-Eight : Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Bloody
Chapter Twenty-Nine : Home For The Festivities
Chapter Thirty : Businessman Class And Leather Don't Mix
Epilogue : Funeral For a Friend
Thank You
Other Works by Leslie Luckie
This book is dedicated to Nicci - the kind of friend that will talk you off of a cliff whilst simultaneously gutting the bastard for you. May we all have a Nicci in our lives.
Trigger Warnings
This book is a Dark Romance book, so it’s dark, all right? If you’re reading this because you simply want to support me, we can totally pretend like you read it and forgo the awkward looks you’re bound to give me after you’re done.
But if you’re like me and swim in the depths of dark romance, devouring that smut like Pringles, and read trigger warnings as if they’re a shopping list, then this is for you.
This is a dark bully romance, so there’s bullying in this series. It’s literally in the name. The characters deal with drugs, overdosing, public sex and humiliation, blood play, and they grapple with finding their identities in this very fucked up world.
Blackheath Academy is a second generation series and stands as a spin-off from the Hell Hounds MC series. It is not necessary for you to read the parent series, but if you like alpha-hole bikers and feisty women, then far be it for me to tell you where and when to pick your smut.
You still with me so far? Good. Have fun entering Blackheath Academy, may you be fortunate enough to be invited to The Library Program, where debauchery and mayhem co-exist.
Chapter One : Some Secrets Aren't Meant To Be Kept
Ava
We came here as a package deal - Grace, Gunner, Olivia, and myself. All Club brats - or Club royalty, depending how you looked at it. Although Olivia was something more - something complicated, but that didn’t make her any less than family. Of course, they split us up the minute we stepped foot on Blackheath soil. In fairness, the Academy probably thought they were being smart - dividing us into different houses. Such thinking was a mistake because all they had done is offered us more ground to play on. Of course, it may also have had to do with the fact that Cole and my dad had ensured that we received a personal escort to the Academy grounds by the Hell Hounds Alicante Chapter. Thanks, Dad. The woman at reception visibly blanched before she realized who we were - where we came from. But it had always been like that - problems with a school bully? The entire fucking Club arrived to show that no one messed with one of their own. It could be exhilarating at times, but it was also embarrassing.
Blackheath Academy was a finishing school nestled on the coast of Alicante. This part of Spain was magnificent pretty much all year round - which naturally excited Grace, with her never-ending bikini selection. The grounds were lush and green, on account of their extensive sprinkler system, with various two story homes splattered throughout. I knew from all the reading and research we had done that it boasted an indoor and an outdoor swimming pool, a golf course that was - at times - open to the public, a rose garden where tea was served daily, and a spa of sorts. The main building was an old villa, housing a dozen function rooms, including a ballroom. The place offered fencing lessons, horseback riding, a state of the art gym that overlooked the ocean, a gardening class, and various cooking and baking courses. But the thing that had intrigued both myself and Olivia was the library. The pictures on the website had looked magnificent - the dark mahogany staircase winding upwards, transporting you to floor after floor filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves that housed thousands of books. I wanted to get lost there, allow myself to dip in and out of the pages as I absorbed it all.
It was the equivalent of summer camp for newly turned adults. There were a host of activities we could partake in on the weekends - things I should feel excited about, but it was difficult to feel excitement with the remnants of my anger shuddering through me. Our rooms were assigned quickly, which was how I found myself in my own two story mansion. Gunner had tried to argue that we needed to stick together - that we were a family, which in turn caused the poor lady at reception to call for the principal.
Mrs. Holloway.
She was dainty, blonde, and beautiful, and even as Gunner’s voice raised higher with every explanation and disagreement, she didn’t get flustered. Instead, she simply smiled, offering her own explanation in a way that threw the questions and rationality back at us, until Gunner was forced to agree unless he wanted to look like an idiot. Gunner was a hothead, but his anger didn’t eat away at him - not like me. Olivia stood to the side, examining it all from a distance, while Grace cooed with delight and asked if she would be rooming with anyone delectable. Those were her fucking words.
And, still, even in the chaos of it all, Mrs. Holloway didn’t bat an eye. She simply smiled and reassured Grace that all students came from good families. It was probably what made me like her even more - what sold me on this whole thing. It was then that I stepped forward, thanking her for her assistance, assuring her that the housing arrangements wouldn’t be a problem.
Because if someone like Mrs. Holloway could tame us with a few words, I wanted to learn her secrets - wanted to boast that skillset.
High Tea was set to be served at five PM in the ballroom of the main villa. It was a mixer of sorts - one that she instructed we dress appropriately for before handing us each our separate house keys and bidding us a good stay.
As if it was a hotel - a vacation of sorts, but maybe it was - maybe that’s how we needed to look at this. Before I slipped away, Mrs. Holloway slid an envelope into the palm of my hand. “Seems you already have some mail.” The tightness of her smile made my stomach dip because I had no lover that would be writing me letters - no one that would pen me a romance novel. Maybe it was Mom - maybe she left me a note because she thought it would be whimsical. The more I thought about it, the more I nodded in agreement because it would be just like my mom to have a letter waiting for me upon arrival. I thanked Mrs. Holloway before catching up with the others.
“Keep your doors locked.” Gunner barked the command as we walked across the lawns in unison. “You don’t know who you’ll be housed with - stay on your guard, and if anything seems suspect, call me.” I tamped down the urge to roll my eyes. For as long as I could remember, Gunner had positioned himself as our protector. It didn’t matter that Olivia and I were both six months older than him, at some point - probably when he grew bigger than all of us - he served as our own personal barrier between us and the world. It was unnecessary - we all had the same upbringing, and while Gunner may be a better shot than I was, I was the best out of all of us when it came to using a knife. It was something he hated being reminded of.
“Oh, my God, Gunner!” Grace exploded next to him, “Can you just loosen up? We are in Spain - practically on vacation! No one is going to jump us here - no one is going to attack us - no one here cares about any of that stuff - all they care about is that we know how to drink our tea properly.” Gunner and Grace. They were two sides of the same coin. Where Gunner was reserved and cautious, Grace was wild chaos that couldn’t be contained. If there was trouble, chanc
I glanced over at Liv, her dark eyes, olive skin, and blonde hair made her look at home against the Spanish landscape. Her gaze locked onto my own, and I offered her a small smile. Here - behind these walls, her name didn’t hold the same weight as it did back home. Here, she didn’t have a guard trailing her - didn’t have her little brothers pestering her about her every move. This was probably the most freedom she had ever experienced, and for half a heartbeat, I panicked for her - until I remembered, she wasn’t alone - she was here with us.
We parted ways, Gunner taking the lead as he mapped the pathways, depositing us each on the doorstep of our respective homes for the next few months. Grace was so excited, she didn’t even fight him. My fingers brushed against the ivory paper of the letter I had slipped into my coat pocket. Suddenly, the beauty of the place didn’t matter - the intricately carved wooden and glass door of my own residence was inconsequential.
I didn’t take in the grandeur of the home - didn’t stop to admire the kitchen - didn’t halt my steps to see who I was staying with.
That was how I found myself seated at my desk, reading and re-reading the letter. Not that re-reading it would change anything - the subject matter was still the same - it hadn’t changed.
It had started off as an email - which I dutifully blocked. And then it moved on to a Facebook message. Blocked that one, too. Then an Instagram message. Blocked again. I diligently blocked each and every single one of her messages.
But this - this was an actual letter. As in she sat down and put pen to paper to write to me.
In another world, I may have been flattered - may have thought that it meant something. Perhaps if I had felt unloved - felt as if something was missing in my life, I would have caved - would have given in to her demands ages ago, but, now, as I sat here, I felt nothing but anger.
It was the kind of anger that crippled a person. It didn’t pulse and beat against my skin, there was no ebb and flow to it - no reason or rationality, it simply consumed me.
Because how fucking dare she.
I scanned the bottom once more, knowing full well what I would find.
Love, Mom. The words were scrawled, and I imagined I could have done a better job at writing this shit if I were in kindergarten. Worse was what she called herself - what she deemed herself in relation to me.
She was not my mother.
The old picture I had of her only served to highlight that I had her cheekbones and lips, but other than those features I was my father's child through and through.
I was lucky enough not only to have one loving mom but two. Mom and Nicci had raised me right, and even though Nicci objected to being called anything other than her name, she was still my mom. It was her I went to when I started my period. Nicci handled that shit calmly - because nothing ever truly shook her, whereas Mom would have been freaking out, or, worse, she would have started crying. It was an easy choice. Mom did teach me how to do my hair and makeup - she painstakingly taught me how to cook, bake, and clean, and I kind of felt like it was largely due to her that we all wound up here.
Manners were important to Mom - and on more than one occasion, her use of etiquette and general polite demeanor had saved the Club from war. Adding to that fact, Uncle Cole was as suave as they came, which meant he not only liked the idea of shipping us all off to learn the Queen’s etiquette, but fully sponsored the whole thing - running it through the Club as some sort of business expense.
The argument remained - we were their legacy, and, as such, we shouldn’t be limited to only mingling with Club brats - we were meant to go out in the world, spread our wings, rub shoulders with other kids of certain influence.
So, here we were. I had been here for a total of one afternoon, and already the woman who gave birth to me had tracked me down and sent me a goddamn letter. Only, she couldn’t have sent it today - no postal service worked that quickly, which meant that she knew I was going to be here, which ultimately meant that we had a rat reporting to Cheryl - the woman I received my DNA from.
It was the kind of information I should tell my dad - the kind he had trained me to spot - the kind of detail he expected relayed.
Only, I didn’t want to tell my dad - didn’t want to have to call Daddy to come and fix my problems for me. No. Cheryl was as much my problem - if not more - as she was his. I could jump onto our group chat and tell Grace, Gunner, and Olivia. But that would just lead to Gunner wanting to take control and fix this, and that wasn’t a solution either.
Nicci had once told me that the best vengeance came with the art of being patient. She was the parent who taught me how to throw knives and shoot pool. She was the one who dragged me to my first bike rally, while Dad was there clipping a helmet on me. It was exhausting.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew I was loved, and the fact that my birth mother never came back to pick me up from my dad’s ended up being the biggest blessing that life could have thrown my way. Sure, I could have gone on and waxed lyrically about how I was abandoned - gone to a therapist and opened up a can of mommy issues, but, the truth is, I got the better deal. I got two moms for the price of Cheryl. Two attentive, loving parents for the price of a drug addicted one that had no interest in me. Yeah, I counted myself lucky as fuck. It's all about perspective.
I sat there, scrunching the dirty piece of paper between my fingers as I systematically inhaled and exhaled, forcing myself to focus on what I could control - my surroundings, and the need to remain disciplined - to remain calm. It was the only way to manage the rage that lived within.
Dad dwelled in the same pit of darkness as I did. We didn't talk about it - didn't need to. Not after I came home from getting into one too many scraps at school. There wasn’t one thing that set me off - there was no rationality or reason, sometimes I just got angry - and that anger needed an outlet. Mom offered to take me to a therapist, but I declined. What good would it do? She would probably pick apart my life - criticize the fact that I was raised in a poly household, and then add her brand of psycho babble onto me, labeling me with mommy issues. No, thank you.
Nicci gave me an outlet and taught me to channel my anger by perfecting the art of knife throwing, while Mom handed me book after book on meditation and yoga techniques, until I eventually picked up one about stoicism. It was the only one that resonated - that stuck, and, even then, it was always a challenge.
I inhaled, and… exhaled. Measured breaths that I alone was in control of until, finally, the letter that lay before me seemed manageable.
The bitch wanted money.
I wasn’t hurt by it, and if I thought about it carefully, it wasn’t even that unexpected, I was simply annoyed. Annoyed at her audacity - annoyed that she still thought she had some sort of claim on me - annoyed that I hadn’t seen this coming.
I should have expected this, and the fact that I didn’t meant that I had grown complacent - relaxed - at ease in the life that had been created for me.
Therein lay the danger.
Wordlessly, I smoothed the paper out, ignoring her written words as I began to fold it neatly - meticulously, to store away. I wouldn’t reply - there was no need because she was not my mother, and I certainly wouldn’t be paying her a cent towards her and her druggie friends.
My room was small - small by our standards of living. The side of my bed was pressed against the wall in order to fit my desk in, my cupboards were a quarter of the size of my wardrobe back home, and the bathroom thankfully boasted both a shower and a bath - a full ensuite. It was a relief - I did a lot of meditation, soul searching - that sort of thing, in the tub.
Blackheath Academy was a stepping stone for kids like us - the place you were sent to after high school and before university or college life. It was the kind of place that aimed to polish kids and teach them all the various etiquettes of the world.
