Burn for Me (Spitfire Book 1), page 1
Burn for Me
Sara Cate
Contents
Caution
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Sara Cate
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 by Sara Cate
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.
* * *
Editing: Briggs Consulting and Rebecca’s Fairest Reviews
Proofreading: Rumi Khan
Cover model: Cole S.
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Caution
This is a dark, bully romance with explicit content that may be triggering to some readers, including dub-con, abuse, mention of suicide, human trafficking, and murder. Cullen Ayers is covered in red flags, and I do not in any way condone his behavior. He comes from a dark place, and in many ways represents the loss, rage, and helpless grief that so many of us experience. It doesn’t excuse the awful ways he treats people, but the bigger the bully, the better the redemption.
For Rachel
For being the best.
Prologue
Everly
Eight years ago
* * *
My hands are shaking in my lap. This is it. After months of research, and my life being turned upside down, I’m finally sitting here in the courtroom, my parents and friends behind me, waiting to watch the judge sentence the monster I helped put behind bars.
This all started out as a graduate project. As part of my internship at the Florence Times, I had to write an investigative piece on a local, someone from our city. I had no idea what I would find when I started digging into what I thought was only a little under the table tax fraud at the Ayers’ hotel chain.
What I actually uncovered was a major human-trafficking operation that spanned the globe. George Ayers was responsible for kidnapping, displacing, and harboring thousands of underage women. And he made millions off it. Once the FBI took the case after only a couple months, it was out of my hands, but as far as the world saw it, I was the one who brought this giant down. A real-life David and Goliath.
My best friend, Thomas, is sitting next to me, grasping my hands to hide the way they are trembling. I don’t know why I’m nervous. I’m not afraid of George Ayers, but something just isn’t settling right. I feel a strange sense of guilt, although I know that’s insane. I’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, I’ve done everything right, and yet, there's a dense weight on my heart, as if I’m the one on trial.
The courtroom doors suddenly open and a man in black ushers in a red-faced Mrs. Ayers. Bombshell blonde and about twenty-years younger than her husband, Valerie Ayers looks the part of a woman grieving the loss of her fortune far more than the loss of her husband, which is clearly shown in the way she clutches the pearls around her neck as she takes her seat.
Like a shadow, her ten-year-old son trails in with an almost smug grin. There’s something about that boy that sends chills down my spine. Throughout this entire case, and even before, he has appeared so incredibly confident and haughty, as if he somehow believed his father would win this case. By his expression alone, you can just tell Cullen Ayers believes he is superior to everyone. Maybe it’s those blue eyes beneath those dark brows and the jet-black hair that appears all wrong to me, but he just unsettles me.
As he sits next to his mother on the opposite side of the aisle from me, I can’t help but glance his way every few moments. It’s not lost on me how every time I look at them, the foreboding sense of guilt aches a little sharper.
The voice in my head tells me they are not innocent in this. I refuse to believe she had no idea what was going on. With their mansion and their money, they have reaped the benefits from the suffering of thousands. They don’t deserve the clothes on their backs, and I hope they suffer once that man is in prison. I realize he’s only ten and had absolutely no way of abetting in this crime, but there is just something about him that tells me he is just as evil as his father. I know it’s an awful thing to think, but that boy has spent his entire life knowing no hardship, no struggle, no pain.
I want Valerie and her son to know pain now.
Just then, Cullen’s ghostly blue eyes travel my way, and I freeze. It hits me at this moment that I’m not just bringing down George, but I’m bringing down Cullen too. He’s an heir to the throne of a monster, and if things hadn’t changed, he would be the next George Ayers, victimizing innocent people for his own personal gain. There is something sinister in his eyes, and I can’t take that away, but I can strip him of his power, which is what I’m doing today.
I know Cullen Ayers hates me, judging by the look in his eyes, but I don’t blame him. I’ve taken everything from him, and I regret nothing.
Chapter 1
Everly
A horde of students start filing into their seats about five minutes before the actual start of class. My hands are shaking as I open my laptop, trying to appear as natural as possible, even though I could literally throw up at any moment. In my smooth black dress, belted at the waist, and covered with a rich green cardigan, I attempt to look the professor-type.
This is my first class at Florence University, and with all of those faces peering down at me from the ten rows in the lecture hall, I’m starting to rethink this decision. I needed a fresh start, something other than a writing job at another publication. Instead of trying to constantly live up to the peak of my journalism career, I figured teaching at the local college would be the change I desperately needed.
After the big Ayers case, I thought my career would soar in journalism. Instead, it would seem the peak was behind me, and I was on a downhill slope. I spent the next eight years trying to attain that career high again only to fall flat on my face. Nothing ever compared, so my life became an endless cycle of seeking perfection only to find disappointment.
So, I took the professor job, a decision my parents who are both teachers were ecstatic about. But I can’t seem to shake the feeling that this career move was my way of accepting defeat.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and I quickly take a peek, seeing a message pop up from my dating app.
Devon: See you tonight!
Another wave of dread crashes over me. Why I chose the first day of class as the same day to have a first date, with a guy I have very lukewarm feelings about, I have no idea. Oh well, I’ll deal with that later. There’s still a chance this entire day could be a major win instead of a complete disaster—although I’m not holding my breath.
The seats fill up fast, and I make myself look busy by scanning through my updated roster list again. Last I checked, there was only one empty spot in my Journalism 101 class. But as I hit refresh again, I notice the number goes from 199 to 200 students. Looks like we had a late registration. I feel a sense of pride at having my first class fill up so quickly.
Running through the list of names again, a familiar one catches my attention. It’s a new name, definitely wasn’t on the roster when I checked it last night.
Ayers.
A chill runs down my spine. I’d know that name anywhere. Eight years ago, my first investigative article, a thesis for my master’s program, made headlines. My discovery for that piece contributed to a major federal investigation against George Ayers, a multi-millionaire hotel chain owner, who was convicted of running an underground, black-market, human-trafficking scheme.
It was huge news at the time. Not only did it launch a federal investigation, but it put my name on the map as far as up-and-comers in the industry were concerned—a high I’ve been chasing ever since.
Of course, I would have an Ayers in my first journalism class.
My curiosity gets the better of me and has me clicking on the name, just as class is supposed to begin. I wonder if I would recognize this specific Ayers or if there is any family connection. They were local to the area, so it wouldn’t be that surprising.
And at first, I assume it’s a distant cousin or something.
Ayers, Cullen.
It seems like time stops altogether as my eyes remain fixated on that name. Suddenly, blood rushes to the skin of my cheeks and my heart runs wildly in my chest, until all I can hear, aside from the white noise chatter of the two hundred students around me, is the acceleration of my breath.
The memory comes crashing to the forefront of my mind—a young boy with sable black hair, tan skin, and haunting c
Still staring at the screen, I feel the eyes of the crowd of students waiting for me to begin class, and suddenly I’ve lost all train of thought, all power to think of anything other than the fact that in this very classroom my past is colliding with my present.
Is Cullen here? Is he looking at me right now? Does he remember me?
It must be a coincidence. I guess he would be college-aged now, but in my mind, he’s still just a little kid. Most people have forgotten about that case by now. News dies as quickly as it arrives. And the whole point of taking this job was to move on from the past, but how can I move on when it’s sitting right here in my journalism class?
When I finally gather the courage to look up, I’m overwhelmed by the number of faces peering down at me. Sure, a lot of them are still glued to their phones or laptops, but about half of them seem to be waiting for me to start class. I scan the crowd for a moment, looking for his face, but none of them stand out. Eight years have gone by, and I assume he’s gone through puberty since I’ve seen him last, so there’s a chance I wouldn’t recognize him at all.
Knowing that I need to start class, I clear my throat and force a smile on my face. I lean back against my desk and say as clearly as I can, “Good morning, and welcome to Journalism 101. My name is Everly West, and I will be your instructor this semester. You can call me Miss West.”
The mic attached to the neckline of my dress picks up my voice, carrying it through the room. It also picks up the shake and erratic cadence of my breath, so everyone is keenly aware of how nervous I am. Perfect.
Moving around to the other side of my desk, I click the button on my computer that brings up the presentation, mirrored on the wall behind me for the class to see.
I quickly go through the whole class portal and the syllabus, trying hard not to bore them to death, but it’s not easy. This stuff isn’t exactly riveting. All the while, I keep my eyes on the crowd, waiting to find those familiar blue orbs I remember from eight years ago.
For the most part, my nerves soon subside, and I fall into an easy rhythm. A few students ask questions, there’s a little back and forth banter, and I even manage to crack a couple small jokes that have most of them chuckling. So far, it’s not terrible.
As I scroll through the PowerPoint presentation of what I’ve accomplished as a journalist, and what is expected of them in my course, my heart practically stops in my chest as the slide freezes on a photo of me holding the paper with the headline I wrote when I was just twenty-four: “Ayers Under Investigation for Trafficking Scandal, Faces Thirty Years.”
And right under the headline is a photo of him in handcuffs, while his family looks on in horror. I swallow the bundle of nerves that has manifested like concrete in my throat as I try to find the guts to keep talking.
“This was a photo taken with my first big article in the Florence Times,” I manage to stammer. “Being an investigative journalist is about more than just writing the story. You have to…find the story, and sometimes finding the story means uncovering secrets and crimes no one ever knew were even committed.”
“What a hero,” a dark voice mutters from the crowd. My eyes dart up to the rows of students, searching for the speaker, but there is no sign of where it came from. But that was him. It had to be, even though I still don’t see him, scanning each head for that mop of pitch-black hair.
I could respond to the remark, but I really don’t want to get into that argument here in front of everyone. So instead, I choose to ignore it.
After taking a deep breath, I continue, “You will be required in this course to write your own piece of investigative journalism after doing research and compiling it into an expository article. This will be in place of the final exam at the end of the semester. The rubric can be found in your syllabus.”
I hate how uncertain I sound. One kid has me completely unsettled. I feel the need to defend myself and my job, especially to my students—some of whom could actually be journalists someday. I was just doing my job. It’s not like I was the one committing the crime, so I’m not going to feel bad about it. Even though I still sort of do.
After the quick mental pep talk, I square my shoulders and finish my first lecture, without another ominous remark from the crowd. Before I know it, class time is up, and I dismiss them with their first assignment.
The room erupts in noise as all two hundred college students begin filing out of the lecture hall. With my back to the seats, I busy myself for the next few moments with making notes on my computer. After about ten minutes, I glance back and see one student’s still sitting in the corner of the top row. It’s a male with bleach-blond hair.
“I’ll be closing up the room in a moment,” I announce casually, spinning around to face him. At first, I thought he was asleep, but then I notice he’s just staring down at his phone. There is no backpack or laptop on his desk.
His head snaps up in my direction, and he’s so far away I can’t quite make out his face yet, but as he stands and walks slowly down the stairs toward me, my heart nearly stops in my chest.
Those baby blue eyes under dark brows make it hard to breathe.
It’s him.
He reaches the bottom of the stairs, standing just a few feet away from me in complete silence, so all I hear is the distant chatter of the crowd outside the room.
“Can I help you with something?” I say, keeping the tremor out of my voice. I’m just going to pretend I don’t know who he is. Maybe he’ll do the same, and we can both get through this semester unscathed and without any awkward confrontations.
It’s clear why I didn’t recognize him. For one, he’s not ten years old anymore. He’s tall with a lean frame, sculpted shoulders, and thick forearms. His once black hair is bleached to a stark white with dark roots, and there is a piercing on his lower lip and right brow. It’s a far cry from the rich, preppy schoolboy I saw all those years ago.
That little boy is now a man, and he’s standing just in front of me, feeling like less than a stranger, but far from a friend.
Part of me wonders if I should say something about the case or his father or the giant fucking elephant in the room, but I don’t. I can’t. What could I possibly say to him now?
Oh hey, I remember you. I put your father away for your entire life. How’s your mom? Oh yeah, I forgot—she overdosed on pain meds less than a year after that court case we were both at. So…how’ve ya been?
Hard pass on that conversation.
I keep waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He stalks toward me without a word and no sign of stopping until he’s finally crowding me, and I’m forced to move away from him. I stumble backward until I’m pinned between him and my desk, having to rear my head back to see the cocky expression on his face. I’m rendered speechless. Alarms are going off in my head. Should I alert security? Is this going to be an issue? Would he hurt me?
“What are you doing?” I whisper, once he’s standing so close that I can feel his breath on my face.
I’m about to die. My brain registers the danger, and my mouth goes dry. Then, because he’s standing so close, I can smell the clean aroma of the soap he used this morning. I also notice how long his lashes are and the perfect contrast of his lips against his warm, sun-kissed skin.
