ruin me
A High School Bully Romance
Mae Doyle
Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
This is a work of art/fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events, or places is purely coincidental. Any persons appearing on the cover image for this book are models and do not have any connection to the contents of this story.
All characters depicted in this work are unrelated consenting adults. This author assumes no responsibility for the use/misuse of this material.
© 2020 Mae Doyle
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Chapter One
You want to know what makes you feel like an imposter?
Walking into a new school for your first day when everyone else has already been there for three years. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants to switch schools halfway through their senior year, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.
It’s not that I don’t want to be here, and I know that my parents probably think that I’m ungrateful, and that everyone in the school will be wondering why I’m here now, instead of three years ago, but some of us just take longer to find our skills than others.
Who knew that I was interested in art before high school? It’s not like my parents had the money needed to give me private art lessons, so it wasn’t until my sweet art teacher my freshman year spent some time on me that I realized that 1 – I like art and 2 – I’m actually pretty good at it.
Well, maybe saying that I’m pretty good is an understatement. Mrs. Polly, my art teacher, kept telling me that I wasn’t taking my seriously enough or giving myself enough credit. I mean, my paintings were good enough for me to get accept into Trinity Prep my senior year, which is saying something.
Even though knowing that I’m good enough to get in when everyone else had been busting their asses for three years should make me feel good, I’m struggling to find any comfort in that fact just right now. As much as I loved being admired for my art, I’m not a huge fan of sticking out in social situations. Like this one.
“Abigail Williams?” The secretary is taking her sweet time clicking through folders on the computer. “You know, we don’t get a lot of transfers, especially in the middle of the year, so it’s just a little weird for me to have to do this today. Sorry for the delay.”
“Yeah, it’s Abby. But…no problem.” Sighing, I turn around and lean against her desk, watching students walk by in the halls. Trinity Prep doesn’t look anything like my old high school. For one, it’s decorated with art from current and past students. Some of the kids who studied here went on to the best art schools in the world, while others simply bypassed those and went straight into internships.
I’m gunning for an internship, no doubt about it. School is great and all, but just…not for me.
Another thing that sets Trinity Prep apart from any other school I’d ever seen is the fact that the students all looked like they walked straight out of fashion or art magazines. The kids studying fashion were dressed to kill, even when they were headed to 8 am classes after going out partying the night before. Art students, on the other hand, were obvious thanks to the paint on their clothes and the clay in their hair.
Those are my people. I can’t count how many times I had to carefully wash paint out of my hair so that it didn’t dry and ruin my long blonde locks.
“Oh, here you are!” Finally, the secretary figured out how to work her computer. I turned around to the sound of a printer and she handed me my schedule, her eyes bright. “Please tell me that the porters already took your things.”
“Yeah, they did, thanks.” I skimmed my schedule, vaguely interested in the academic classes I had to take to keep my grades up. What I needed social studies and accounting for, I had no idea, but I had to suffer through them if I was going to keep painting.
“Oh, I’m not interested in accounting. Is there any way that I could substitute it with another math class?” I grin at her, trying to win her over, but she just shakes her head.
“No, no, all of the other classes are full. You have to have a morning class, and this is the last one available. For some reason, it’s just not as popular as some of the other classes, so it often ends up as a last choice for students.” Leaning forward like she was telling me a juicy secret, she whispers, “but I think that you’ll find that the teacher is eye candy, so maybe your 8 am class won’t be so bad.”
Ugh. That’s the last thing that I wanted to think about at 8 am. I didn’t come here for eye candy, I came here to paint.
Before I can turn away, she reaches out and slaps a key into my hand. “That’s for your room. Don’t lose it, because we don’t keep a copy down here, so we’d have to call a locksmith out to open your door for you, and nobody wants that hassle, okay?” Grabbing my schedule from my hand, she flips it over. “Back here is your room information. I’ll call ahead to your first class and let them know that you’ll be a bit late, okay?”
Shaking my head, I smile at her. “Oh, I’m not going to be late, don’t worry.” But as I speak,
