Vicious Love (Barrington Heights #1), page 1
Barrington Heights Book 1
Copyright © 2014 M.W. McFarland
All rights reserved.
Edited by Mickey Reed
Cover design by Josh Kampmeier
All rights reserved. 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 permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons or living or dead, events or locals are entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ Use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
Thanks for giving me a push in the right direction. Who knew that after you dedicated your debut book to Max & me last year I’d be able to return the favor this year?
I’m a psychopath. There, I said it. I understand I’m a psychopath, which means that I’m not one of the psychopaths that breaks the news with their acts of utter insanity. I’m not insane because I realize that I am a psychopath, while those people who are insane believe that everyone else is insane, not them.
Now that that’s over with, I want to move on to my problem at hand—love. Love is just a chemical mixture of serotonin and oxytocin in the brain. Chemically speaking, of course. Emotionally speaking, however, I believe that love is just a combination of three simple things: lust, comfort, and need.
Lust is want; you desperately want that person. Preferably, in many positions. Lust then leads to comfort; you can be who you really are with the other person and they won’t judge you—or you won’t care if they judge you. They don’t need to understand you. Understanding is a part of controlling, something entirely different. Comfort then leads to need. You need that person to be comfortable, which was caused by lust. Simple, right?
I certainly believed as much as I walked through the doors of my local high school, Barrington High—an insufferable place full of people acting like cattle being herded into the direction set for them, unknowingly being led to their own demise. Not a literal demise for the most part, but a theoretical demise. They’re just going to join society as another lawyer, doctor, author, politician, or labor worker. Nothing spectacular.
Let me continue with the introduction. If you didn’t notice, I already called myself a psychopath. My name is Christopher Wells III, son of Christopher Wells II and Alexandra Wells. We’re one of the wealthiest families in the world, yet we choose to stay in Middle America, and I have never fully realized why. I’m six foot one and rather attractive. I have black hair and nearly black eyes. I enjoy a tailored suit, good scotch and I always get what I want. I was actually trying to get what I wanted when this whole “love” mess started as I walked into school on the first day back from summer vacation.
Waking up at seven in the morning has never been fun, but it was especially miserable on a day like that one. Lying in bed, hearing your alarm go off, listening to your parents arguing downstairs, and never once opening your eyes. After a decent fit of yelling, I heard someone coming up the steps to my room. Probably my mom.
“Honey, it’s time to get up,” she whispered while cracking my door open.
“Okay, Mom. Just give me a second to wake up.”
She nodded and closed the door as she left. She was always good at doing that. After a bit of yawning and shifting in my king-sized bed, I finally got up. Looking around, I immediately noticed that something was missing—my small box that I kept next to the door.
On the first word, my west highland white terrier, Dodge, looked up at me. He was already up, like always, but he waited for me to acknowledge him. He jumped over the folds of blankets to get to me and proceeded to lick my face until I leaned up and petted him.
“Good morning, boy. Thanks for waking me up.” I smiled as he barked in response. I swear he understood English, but I would never be able to prove it.
“Chris! Are you up yet?” my mom yelled from the next room—the library—while fully knowing that I would be awake but still asking anyway.
“Yes, Mom! Thanks!” I heard her leave the room and go downstairs. My dad must’ve already left. Otherwise, she would’ve stayed upstairs.
After I knew she was downstairs, I got out of bed and moved to my closet—walk-in, of course.
“What to wear today… Hmm. What do you think, Dodge?” He barked back at me and I laughed. “Of course. Whatever’s in style. You’re right again, boy.” He wagged his tail at the acknowledgment. Such a good boy.
I picked out a navy-blue-and-white-striped button-up and a pair of jeans. Picked out a pair of unused Sperrys and got dressed. I paused for a second to admire myself in the mirror. Noticing that I was starting to lose definition in my abs, I made a mental note to work out after school.
After dressing, I headed downstairs, remembering that I hadn’t showered, checking my watch, and realizing that there wasn’t enough time. I was running late, but that was to be expected; it was the first day of school and I didn’t have a routine set up yet. Either way, I had late arrival the next day, so I would have more time then.
I sprinted down the stairs, my mom tossed me a granola bar and said, “Remember to have a good day. I know it’s hard, but at least try, okay?” She was always concerned about me, and I appreciated it.
I looked at her and smiled. I loved my mom, and she loved me. “Of course, Mom. I always try.” Then I gave her my signature half smile and wink to solidify the fact.
She just laughed and let me leave. I jumped into my car, a ‘77 remodeled Corvette Stingray, and rushed off.
Arriving at school, I picked out a teacher’s spot and parked there. They knew whose car it was, and they wouldn’t tow it. My family practically owned the town and made large donations to the school to ensure things like this. Walking in, I looked at my schedule:
Block 1: Calculus 229
Block 2: Debate 212
Block 3: Economics 158
Block 4: Free Period
Block 1: Late Arrival
Block 2: Government 171
Block 3: English 210
Block 4: Psychology 113
“Shit. I start with calculus,” The bell rang and I headed to class, fully knowing that this would be an awful way to start my day. I got to class late, but everyone was still getting situated, so I slipped in without the teacher, Mr. Polk, noticing.
“And…let’s see. Ah! Christopher Wells, you sit there,” said Mr. Polk while pointing to an open desk in the back of the class.
I walked over to my desk, threw my bag down, and slumped into the seat.
He continued to list off names and telling them where to sit. Some girl—Jenny, I thought her name was, sat down next to me and gave me a blushed look. We’d met at a party over the summer. That was how I recognized her. I winked at her and continued to zone out.
Mr. Polk was a little man, but he wasn’t too fat. He stood about five foot ten and had a gray mustache and a bald head. He looked like someone I could easily manipulate, and I fully intended on doing so. There was no way that I was actually going to participate.
Before I could continue that though
Before responding, I turned to inspect my female peer and was, honestly, impressed. Her eyes were ocean-foam green, her hair was dirty blond, and she had the cutest dimples on her cheeks. She was a beautiful young girl, but I could immediately tell that she was missing something I desired. From those fifteen words, I could tell who she was, who she wanted to be, and if she’d get there. Claire was a good-looking girl, but she was too insecure, which meant she was probably too young. Too young both in age and maturity.
I turned to her and said, “Hi, Claire. I’m Chris, but you already know that. What you might not know, which has nothing to do with the fact that you’re blond, is that you’re not my type. Don’t get me wrong. You’re beautiful and you really are stunning, but in order to get very far with me, you have to be interesting. I don’t think you will be very interesting.”
She looked stunned, like she thought I was the biggest asshole in the world, and she might be correct. But I was completely right and we both knew it.
From that, I went on to say, “You’re probably a straight-A student who works hard to appease Mommy and Daddy, you want to go into medicine, and you’re Christian. Not anything specific, but Christian. Am I wrong?” Once again, she just stared. I sighed. “Look, you think I’m a monumental ass, and I’m fine with that. I’m not going to try to change your mind because I simply don’t find it worth my time. However, I will ask you out to dinner because you are beautiful and you are intelligent. So, yes or no?”
She still looked dismayed. “Uhm, sure. Yeah, sure. Dinner.”
“Claire, I have to ask. Was I correct?” I gave her my sinister half smile.
“Correct about what?”
“You, of course.”
“Uhm, yes. Yes, you were. Part of me doesn’t want to admit it, but you were right. Now, I have to ask something.” She hadn’t lost her shocked look, but now her face showed an air of defensiveness. “Why were you such an asshole about that? You could’ve been nice, but you decided to be an ass.”
“Look, Claire. I could explain to you everything that I thought, felt, and cared about. But then I’d have to kill you.” I laughed and gave her a wink. After that, she looked absolutely furious.
“You know what? No! I will not go to dinner with you, asshole,” she hissed. I could tell she was trying so hard not to scream at me and completely disrupt the teacher, which was amusing.
Either I could make a smooth recovery and save this whole situation or I could make a sarcastic remark that had a fifty-fifty chance of working in my favor. I went with the latter.
“Claire, you do realize that’s a lie, right? Majority of the time, when someone lies, that includes lying to themselves. They don’t use contractions with their words. Guess what you did.”
She crossed her arms, leveling a glare my way. “Here’s a contraction for you: You’re a fuck. Don’t talk to me.”
She was right. I am a fuck, but to each their own, right? Life wouldn’t be fun if everyone, especially me, conformed. I’m just too damn interesting.
“If you say so, but can I get your number? Just in case you decide to talk to me,” I said as I handed her my phone. She’d probably text me by the end of the day.
She put her number in, I texted her, and then I turned to look out the window. It was sunny out.
Oh no, oh no, oh no. I’m late, I thought as I rushed into the school, barely able to hold everything I was carrying. Luckily for me, the school had opted to not give me any first hours this year as a new teacher at Barrington High. I’d told them that I could easily do the full eight classes, but I guessed they were right. At least for today.
When I tried to open the door, it wouldn’t move, and I just stood there puzzled. I tried again to no avail, but as I was trying for the third time, a person came in over the intercom.
“Show your ID please.”
I quickly rummaged through my overflowing purse, desperately trying to locate my ID. After about thirty seconds of searching, I realized, in horror, that I’d left it at home, which was nearly thirty minutes away.
My look must’ve been clear enough to the person on the other end of the intercom, because they said, “Ma’am, I believe your ID is around your neck.” I could hear a slight chuckle before they cut of the message.
I looked down and there it was. Plain as day. I picked it up in my hand and studied the foreign object that was before me. Sure enough, it was an ID, but was it the one I’d been looking for? Yes, of course it was. Is it my ID? It looked like me and it said my name, so it must have been my ID. Then how come it didn’t feel like my ID.? Because you’re a nimrod who forgot it was around your neck, and now you can’t admit, even to yourself, that you were wrong. Sometimes, my conscience was out to get me, but this time, it was right. I couldn’t admit when I was wrong, and it showed here. Even my fiancé, Barry, had told me so, and he was a smart guy. It made sense.
“Ma’am, your ID please.” Another chuckle at the end.
“Uhm, yes, sorry. Here it is.” I flashed my ID at the camera and heard the door click open. Then I pulled and entered into the school. It was a bit chilly inside, but it was summer, so the AC was on.
I paused to look down at my ID, which was still in my hand, and examined the person on it. She was attractive. Green eyes, long, red hair, plush lips—the whole “French girl allure” image. I remembered back to when this picture had been taken nearly six months ago, after I’d received the job and had been told that I would begin working next year. The girl had changed a lot. She’d become engaged, stood up to her mother, and moved here to Illinois form New York. With a last look, I realized that I was satisfied with my actions and how I’d changed over those six months. I was better now; I was Barry’s now. With a slight smile on my face, I continued walking.
“Ah, Mrs. Beaumont. Welcome back. I hope you had a good break.” This was the principal, Mrs. Nugent, a strong-looking woman. The type of woman who clearly dominated in her relationship.
I turned to look at her, and when I did, I was caught for a moment when I made eye contact. Her steel-colored eyes portrayed authority and demanded obedience.
“Thank you, Mrs. Nugent. But it’s just Miss Beaumont. For now. Soon-to-be Mrs. Bouldore, if he plays his cards right.”
She chuckled, and I felt some pressure lift off my shoulders. “Very true, very true. Your office is this way, and then I’ll show you to your classroom. You’re one of the lucky ones, Miss Beaumont. You have a stationary class all day, except for your last hour today. Tomorrow, you have the same classroom all day. A rare privilege, especially for a newbie.”
She must’ve noticed who my family was. That was why she was treating me so well. This happened everywhere I went—college, work, anywhere. Because my father was a celebrity chef involved in California politics, everyone treated me differently.
“Thank you, but are you sure another teacher doesn’t deserve it? I mean, this is my first year here.” I taught for two years in New York before moving to Illinois, but I was new to this school and didn’t expect preferential treatment.
“Nonsense. We already checked. Your name showed up and we gave it to you. Call it…luck of the draw.” She gave me a reassuring smile, the type you didn’t decline.
I smiled back, and we continued on our way.
Barrington High School wasn’t a large school, but it wasn’t small either. It had a complicated design with hallways twisting and turning in every direction. Easy for a new student—or teacher—to get lost in. We finally arrived at my office, and I put down my things.
She turned to me and said, “This is your office. It’s a part of the business academy of our school. We had these strange things called academies, where one academy teaches art while another teaches science. “And as such, you s
He was clearly in his sixties, but he had this aura about him that made him seem younger. Not his looks, mind you, but the way he held himself. I knew I’d like him from the start. He nodded back to us and continued to read his paper. We left the offices and returned to the hall, where she directed me to my classroom.
“Ah, here we are. Room 158. Go ahead and get situated in here. You still have thirty minutes until your next block—or class if that’s what you’re used to calling them.” She looked at her watch and proclaimed, “Oh my! I’m terribly sorry, dear, but I’m late to a meeting with the school board downtown. I have to leave, but your other classroom is room 212, on the second floor. I’m sure one of your students would be more than happy to show you where it is.” With that, she left, and I was alone, standing in a large classroom with no idea what I was doing or what I was going to do.
I turned on my computer and opened up my files for my first class. I read the rubric and studied up on my lesson plan for the first day. It was going to be rough, but I could do it. I knew I could. I pulled out a picture of Barry and me from my purse and put it on the desk facing towards me. Next thing I knew, the bell was ringing and the hallway filled with noise from the students. People start coming in, and I told them to choose any seat for today. The guys high-fived each other when they saw who their teacher was, and the girls looked me up and down.
I took out a makeup mirror from my purse and glanced at myself one more time to try to figure out what they see. A pair of green eyes—check. Red hair—check. A pair of lips—check. Nose—check. Ears—check. I was all there, but I didn’t understand what was so special. The bell for class to begin grabbed my attention, and I turned to address the class.