The Darkest Note: Dark High School Bully Romance, page 1
THE DARKEST NOTE
REDWOOD KINGS BOOK ONE
NELIA ALARCON
CONTENTS
Written By Nelia Alarcon
Prologue
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
A Word From The Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, locations and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing and email without the prior written permission of Nelia Alarcon.
Copyright © 2022 Nelia Alarcon
All rights reserved.
WRITTEN BY NELIA ALARCON
The Plutonian Warrior’s Series
The Alien Warrior’s Mate
The Alien Warrior’s Woman
The Alien Warrior’s Heart
The Alien Warrior’s Vow
Mates Of The Plutonians
Made For The Alien Warrior
ABOUT THIS BOOK
This cruel king won’t stop until he breaks me.
Dutch Cross, lead singer of The Kings, is a monster.
Don’t let his amber eyes, chiseled jaw line, and crooning voice fool you.
He prowls the hallways of Redwood Prep like he owns every inch.
Brutal.
Untouchable.
Beast.
And when his golden eyes meet mine, I know I’m his next prey.
The monster wants me out of Redwood.
But the fancy private school is my last chance at a better life for my sister.
No one has ever dared to go against Dutch and his equally gorgeous brothers.
I’m honored to be the first.
See, the thing about kings and monsters is they always have a weakness.
And for Dutch, his weakness… is me.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
PROLOGUE
I don’t cry when I get the call from the police.
I don’t cry when I identify the body, when I see the dark hair and bloated skin.
I don’t cry when they hand me the note my mother left behind.
To my sweet Cadey,
When I sat down to write this, my fingers kept trembling and I bawled like a baby all over the page. You don’t know how many papers I’ve used up trying to find the right words.
There’s no perfect way to say this, so I’ll get to the point.
It’s over for me.
But it’s not because of you or Vi.
Sweetheart, you are everything a mother could possibly ask for. Smart, strong, perfect.
I remember when I first heard you play piano. You had no idea what you were doing, but you managed to pick out a melody. It was raining that day. And my heart was dragging on the floor, but the minute you started playing, the sun came out.
That’s who you are to me, Cadey. You are my sunshine. It’s just that I’ve been battling this dark cloud way before you and your sister were born. I don’t have the strength left to fight it anymore.
I’m sorry I’m not good enough.
I’m sorry I have to leave you behind in this cold, cruel world, but I know that you’re going to take good care of your sister. And I know you’re going to be strong.
Don’t worry. I’m not leaving you completely alone. I’ve contacted your brother to come and take care of you both.
I’m aware that might come as a shock. I never told you about him. Mostly because I was too ashamed to admit that I’d given up a child.
Surprised? There’s a lot that you don’t know about me, Cadey. And that’s for your own good. Please don’t resent me too much. It’s my dear wish that you never see the full extent of what I’ve done.
It’s almost time for me to go. I’m starting to get teary again. There’s still so much I want to say.
You and Vi can stay in the apartment so you don’t have to change schools. I’ve already worked it out with the bank.
I wish I had more to leave for you, but that’s all I can manage for now. Your brother will take care of the rest. Try not to aggravate him too much. He isn’t all that excited about meeting you two, but it’s not personal. Trust me.
I have to go now. Remember that I love you and Vi more than anything in the world. I’ll meet you on the other side.
- Mom
I don’t shed a single tear as I crumple her note and hand it back to the cops.
I certainly don’t cry when I tell the mortician to burn her body to a crisp.
CHAPTER ONE
— AUGUST, FOUR MONTHS LATER—
CADENCE
The saddest key in music is Dmajor.
It’s the key that rings through my head whenever I think of my mother, fingers trembling, arms dotted with pucker marks, body stretching far beyond the empty cupboard to the stash she keeps in the jar.
Some mothers store cookies in those potted tubs shaped like bears or seashells or flowers.
My mother stored weed.
She’d puff it in my face and laugh, low and haunting. It was always that tone.
D#major.
Like a vampire coughing up blood.
I love you and Vi more than anything in the world.
The line from her suicide letter plays on a loop in my mind.
I thought if I burned the words they’d disappear, but the ashes rose from the dead and started haunting me.
I love you and Vi more than anything.
Mom had nothing but audacity.
Love? Her twisted version of love was a descent straight into the darkest chords, full of brokenness and black keys.
I always saw the chaos in her, but I never let it stain me. I created a space inside my head where the music would die. Because if I couldn’t hear music at all, then I wouldn’t hear her notes either.
But now that she’s gone, music has tiptoed its way back into my life. Or more like it slammed into me at a hundred miles an hour and now I find myself on a ride with no idea how I got there and no clue how to get off.
“Like a wreeeecking ball!” A soulless, upbeat version of Miley Cyrus’s hit blasts from the speakers on the stage.
I’d descended into my thoughts to escape the noisy cover, but it seems like the music’s gotten even louder.
Three girls wearing dressed-up versions of bras and booty shorts gyrate to the rhythm.
The girl in the center suddenly rises in the air, propelled by a thin harness. Her legs spread wide as she flies over the crowd, flashing everyone in attendance.
Heads tip back in adoration. Roars erupt from the audience like they’re all her worshipers and this is some kind of cultish mating ritual.
I wonder if it’s too late for me to rip my wig off and run.
“I thought you’d dipped, you skank!”
A hand grabs me before I can make my escape.
I force a smile on my face and ease around.
“Me? Run from this,” I gesture to the blonde performer who’s soaking in the ‘woof, woof, woof’ erupting from the guys in attendance, “lavish display of musical prowess?” I blink innocently at my best friend. “Never.”
“You’re such a music snob, Cadey. Now bend down so I can unbutton your shirt. You’re not showing enough cleavage.”
I swat her hands away. Breeze tilts her head up and gives me a scolding look.
“Don’t you dare undress me,” I murmur.
“Do you see the act you’re following?” she whisper-shouts. “More of your clothes need to come off. Stat.”
I look down at the leather jacket, white shirt and unreasonably short skater skirt that Breeze forced on me. Black heels, giant hoop earrings, green eye contacts and heavy makeup complete the look. It’s all a part of my best friend’s fool proof plan to rid me of stage fright—a plan we came up with when I scored the role of Mary in our school’s Christmas play.
Six years later, I still need the wig to perform in front of crowds, but at least I’m performing. I guess you can call it a rousing success.
“Maybe this is proof that I don’t belong at Redwood Prep,” I murmur.
“It’s too late. You already accepted the scholarship.” She fixes the red bob that’s covering my long, brunette hair from view. Blue eyes focused, she fusses until the strands meet her approval. “And you know why you can’t turn this down.”
She’s right. My entire future is at stake, but is it worth spending senior year as the ‘new girl’ at Redwood Prep, home to the elite and stupidly wealthy? Girls from the wrong side
As if summoned, the trio who just performed glide off the stage in their sparkles and glamor. They look left, catch sight of me and then laugh rudely as they walk away.
Breeze whirls around, nostrils flaring. She’s already on the defensive. “What’s so funny?”
“Breeze.” I grab her arm to keep her at my side. The only thing shorter than my pint-sized best friend is her fuse. “Don’t engage. I don’t want to get on their radar.”
“You can’t spend your entire year being invisible,” she argues, eyebrows tightening to punctuate her point.
Actually, that’s my sole plan. Starting next week, I’ll be a ghost floating through the halls of Redwood Prep. On the weekends, I’ll trade the sprawling lawns and elegant fountains for chain-link fences, graffiti and garbage. Once I’m on my turf, I’ll come alive long enough to get my bearings and do it all again the next week.
The curtains on stage wheel closed and the backstage crew frantically sweep all the glitter and confetti from the floor. There’s dedicated staff for the task. I’ve never seen a high school production this size and it just goes to show how seriously Redwood Prep takes their music program.
“Focus. It’s almost time,” I tell Breeze when I see she’s still evil-eyeing the Mean Girls trio.
Breeze huffs and adjusts the collar of her funky quilted shirt. “At least you have actual talent!” she yells loud enough for the entire backstage to hear.
“That’s yet to be determined,” I murmur.
She flicks me with her French-tipped nails. “Shut up. We are not allowing self-doubt to have a seat at the table.”
“Self-doubt is the only one at the table,” I grumble.
“What was that?” Breeze frowns and leans in. Then she quickly jumps back. “In fact, I don’t want to know. It was probably something self-deprecating and not true.” She flaps her hands. “Let me repeat myself, Cadence Cooper. You are going to kill it out there.”
Even with my stomach twisted into knots, her words lure a smile from me.
A member of the crew approaches at that moment. “Hey, are you Sonata Jones?”
He squints at the clipboard as if he’s not sure he’s saying that right.
Breeze snorts and covers her mouth with one hand. I pretend not to notice. Creating new stage names for every performance is a thing I do. It helps me pretend that I’m someone else while I’m playing.
I nod. “Yes, that’s me.”
He gives me another weird look before saying, “Our final act isn’t here yet, so we’re going to intermission. You’ll be up as soon as they arrive.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He gives me a blank look.
“What act is so important that you’d go into intermission rather than cut them from the lineup?” I demand. “Isn’t this supposed to be a student showcase?”
It’s not that I want to perform for the students at Redwood Prep tonight, but I’m halfway through my next-on-stage jitters. The thought of prolonging the torture makes me physically ill.
Clipboard Guy purses his lips. “Look, it’s already unprecedented to have an act we’ve never heard of open for The Kings.” His stare turns icy. “Feel free to bow out if you have an issue.”
“You’d kick me out rather than the ones who couldn’t be bothered to show up on—”
The rest of my words die a flailing death as my best friend bumps me out of the way with her hip and shrieks, “The Kings are playing tonight?”
I give Breeze a bewildered look. “You know them?”
“Of course I know them. How do you not know them?” she accuses.
Clipboard Guy stalks away as if he can’t be bothered.
My phone chirps, drawing both our eyes to the device in my hand.
Breeze leans forward nosily. “Your brother?”
There’s a painful scratch against my heart when I shake my head. Trying not to let Breeze see how much it affects me, I shrug it off. “As if he would care enough to call me before I performed.”
If he did call, it probably wouldn’t be to say anything encouraging.
Her eyes turn wide. “It says ‘unknown number’. Maybe it’s a scammer.” She flicks her wrist. “Hand it over. I’ll deal with it for you.”
“It’s not a scammer.” I shut the phone off because I don’t want to think about anything other than the performance.
“Who is it then?” Breeze insists.
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t know, how are you so sure it’s not a scammer?” She plants her hands on her hips, causing her bangles to dance.
Yup. Definitely not a conversation I want to have right now.
I lift my head and point to the stage. “Look, they’re bringing out the piano.”
Breeze looks that way and her eyes brighten. “I’m going to check it out. You stay here and try not to hyperventilate.”
I eye her suspiciously as she crosses the stage. When I see her chatting it up with one of the guys in the crew, I realize why she was so eager to leave my side.
Typical.
I’ve known her since we were in diapers. Breeze will never give up an opportunity to flirt.
With her effusive presence gone, I’m back to being stuck in my own head.
I glance towards the exits one last time, wondering if I should back out now rather than step into this new and frightening chapter.
But those thoughts skitter away when the door bursts open. The air backstage shifts and something deep inside, some primal part of me, warns me not to look directly at whatever caused the disturbance.
I force my gaze up anyway because I never listen to that voice.
Three deities stalk backstage, all broad shoulders and brooding eyes. They move as one, like a pride of lions about to close in for the kill, bodies knifing effortlessly through the crowd that parts for them.
Predators. And proud of it. Their presence sets off a chorus of squealing from the people backstage.
They ignore the noise. Unbothered. As if this clamoring, this worship, is only right.
I can’t look away even if I want to. A steady thrumming fills my head. The perfect background music to their gait. A diminished chord progression.
A# D# G
Wild and dramatic. The sound of a hurricane at its peak, winds strong enough to uproot a tree and send it lashing into a building.
They draw closer. The music in my head swells as I notice the finer details of their faces. Hard jaws and cheekbones chiseled by the gods. Straight noses. Full, pursed lips.
The two at the front look exactly alike although one is blonde and the other is raven-haired. The third has thick brown hair and almond-shaped eyes.
They’re all wearing faded shirts that stretch across their large, barrel chests and taper down to narrow hips. Blue jeans cling to long legs that go on forever. Their incredible height sets them above everyone else and their gait is better than any model on any catwalk. Ever.
I’ve never seen people who look as hauntingly beautiful and effortlessly intimidating in real life.
Are these The Kings? The boys who were powerful enough to shut down the entire show?
The two brunettes at the ends break off. One is twirling drumsticks while the other clutches a guitar bag. The blond in the middle gets flocked by two girls who edge up under his armpits for a selfie.
Clipboard Guy huffs toward me.
I rip my eyes away from the three guys, realizing that I’m flushed and a little breathless.
“Okay, Soprana,” Clipboard Guy says.
“Uh, it’s Sonata.”
He waves away the correction. His eyes jump from the three newcomers and back to my pale face. “Curtains go up in three.”
