RESENTMENT
Nicole London
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Nicole London.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover design by Najla Qambers of Najla Qambers Designs
Editing by Evelyn Guy of IndieEdit Guy
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Resentment
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
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgments
To stay up to date on future releases, sign up for my MAILING LIST!
Stay Connected to Nicole London:
To Whitney,
I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.
Regret ** Resentment** Redemption
REGRET (n:.) The feeling of disappointment after trusting Dean Collins, the asshole you knew would betray you.
PROLOGUE
MIA
Smalltown, USA
2004
Dean Collins is the most irresistible asshole at Central High School.
He’s your typical cliché, Mr. Popular. The “guy’s guy” who’s been voted “Homecoming King” two times in a row (minus my vote); the sexy star quarterback who’s capable of making grown women swoon from the sidelines (it really is sad), and the guy who can charm the hell out of any admiring girl with a simple smile, and a “Hey...What’s up?” in five seconds flat.
His face is the stuff of sculptures—hard and strong jawline, deep and piercing green eyes, and dimples that show even when he’s not smiling. And as if that wasn’t enough for the gods to endow him with, he has a six pack of abs that he always shows off, with full and defined lips that sometimes even make me wonder what they would feel like.
Nonetheless, I always do my best to avoid Dean Collins like the plague: I leave the four classes we take together early, never go to pep rallies to cheer on the team (Dean is the team), and the few times that he’s attempted that “Hey...What’s up?” thing on me, I’ve offered a blank stare and walked away.
Today, my usual avoidance routine seems to be getting tested, though. Especially since he’s currently standing five feet away from me.
“Yes?” I look up from my canvas and stare at him from across the classroom. “May I help you with something, Dean? You’re not in the art club.”
“I’m aware.” He smirks, looking around the empty classroom. “But it doesn’t look like anyone is in art club...”
That part is true. There’s actually no such thing as “art club” at Central High. It’s just me taking over whatever classroom I can find after school to paint for a few hours.
“We’re currently accepting applications for membership,” I say, setting down my paintbrush in the easel tray. “What can I help you with?”
“You know, I did come here for something.” He steps into the room and closes the door. “But, now that you claim that you’re accepting applications for your club, can I fill one out?”
“We don’t accept douchebags,” I say flatly. “Your application wouldn’t make it past round one.”
“Douchebag?”
“Yes, douchebag. Would you like me to give you the definition?”
Laughing, he tilts his head to the side. “I’m well versed on the definition, Mia Gray.” He stares at me for a long time, looking right into my eyes, giving me his usual infectious charm.
I immediately break our gaze and clear my throat. “You said you came here for something? Can you hurry up and tell me what that ‘something’ is so I can get back to addressing my art club? Today is a very important day for us.”
“I can see that...” He pulls his backpack off his shoulder and opens it, pulling out a black notebook. My black notebook.
“I found your notebook this morning,” he says. “I wanted to find you and give it back. I tried to give it to you after Physics class but I couldn’t get your attention.”
“Oh...” I reach for it, but then I stop. “Where exactly did you find it?”
“It was in the ‘Lost and Found.’ I saw it on top of everything in there when I got here for practice earlier.”
“You know, that’s funny,” I say, crossing my arms. “Because I’ve been checking’ Lost and Found’ every single day and in between every single class for weeks and it was never there.”
“Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough.”
“I even checked it this morning, and it wasn’t there. It. Was. Not. There.”
He smiles and flips through the pages. “You have very pretty handwriting. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Where did you really find it, Dean?”
“You take pretty detailed notes, too.”
“Did you steal my fucking notebook?”
“Maybe.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Depends on how you define stealing.”
WHAT?! I nearly scream, knowing that that’s exactly what he’s done. “I had to rewrite the entire thing in one night! The night before our midterm!”
Still smiling, he walks over and sets the notebook on the window sill. “Well, good thing you somehow managed to still get an A, right? If it wasn’t for me, you probably wouldn’t have known that you were capable of rewriting a whole notebook in a night. I helped you push your boundaries, so I think I deserve a thank you.”
It takes everything in me not to pick up my canvas and hit him over the head with it, but I remain calm. Kind of. I stand up from my chair and push the easel against the window. Then I toss my “newly-found” notebook into my backpack and storm out of the room, biting my bottom lip to prevent myself from screaming.
I make it to the parking lot and head straight for the after-school bus stop, muttering and cursing under my breath.
“Mia?” Dean calls after me from behind. “Mia?”
I say nothing. My mind is still stuck on the fact that he purposely stole my notebook; that he was in class the day I pleaded for everyone to keep a look out for it and let me know if they knew anything.
Asshole...
“Mia...” He suddenly grabs my shoulders from behind and spins me around to face him. “Mia, I know you can hear me.”
“I really can’t. I’m completely deaf to assholes who steal things, assholes who steal things on purpose.”
“Look. I tried to give your notebook back weeks ago, but you wouldn’t talk to me.”
“So you stealing my notebook is my fault?”
“It’s fifty percent your fault. I did try to give it back.”
“The only thing you said to me was, ‘Hey, what’s up!’”
“Exactly. If you would have answered, I could have told you.” He gives me that trademark gorgeous grin and I almost smile back—that’s how charming he is. I quickly come to my senses, though, and snatch my arm away from him.