F*ck You
Knox Academy - Term One
By Crystal North & Jaye Cox
Copyright © 2020 by Jaye Cox & Crystal North
ISBN:
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it on a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
Jaye Cox & Crystal North asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First Edition.
Cover art by Soxational Cover Art
Formatting by Formatting and Design by Jaye.
Editing by CB Editing Services
Dedication
To Baxter Branson, for bringing this story to life.
P.s Baxter is mine (Jaye). I touched him first.
WARNING
THIS BOOK CARRIES AN 18+ WARNING.
F*CK YOU IS A MEDIUM TO FAST BURN DARK ROMANCE. IT CONTAINS HOT GUYS, FOUL LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL SCENES, INCLUDING SOME GRAPHIC PHYSICAL BULLYING, AND SEXUAL ASSAULT TRIGGERS.
I WOULD LOVE FOR YOU TO READ THIS BOOK, BUT PLEASE BE AWARE THAT IT COMES WITH A WARNING.
Spotify Playlists
F*ck You #1
Slate’s CD
Onyx Jogging Mix
Chapter One
Peering out of the tinted windows as we pull up outside the campus, I take a breath and enjoy my last minute of freedom. I could open the door and make a run for it, but for the last half an hour there has been nothing but trees.
The old wrought iron gates open, reminding me of an opening scene from almost all vampire movies. The car pulls forward, cutting through the shadows of the trees dancing across the pebbled driveway.
Anger radiates from my pores, remembering the day my new fate was decided. I’m innocent – I told the judge as much – but with a rap sheet of misdemeanours like mine, the judge said I needed to realise I’m only a child for a few more days, and that it was time to grow up.
Then my mother walked in. Ha, what a joke! The absentee mother that up and left her family in the middle of the night. The woman who used to burn and torture her daughter over the slightest wrongdoing. Who spent days, if not weeks at a time, completely out of it on booze and pills. The woman who didn’t give us a reason, just vanished. You’d think I’d be glad to see the back of her and the abuse, but what eight-year-old understands that she’s better off without a mother like that? After that, she simply became the incubator to me. No familial connection necessary.
And yet, she still managed to influence my life. Here I am, after she managed to persuade the judge that the university her new partner runs for wayward children could help me with my behaviour and transform me into a respectable adult in their four-year program. Four years! Can you believe it? All I allegedly did was plant weed cookies in the teachers’ lounge of my high school, but apparently drugging people is frowned upon. How was I supposed to know Mr Jenkins would eat all the damn cookies? Had he never heard of self-control?
My father – the traitor – also agreed that this could be an opportunity to make something of my life, that adding 15,000 kms between my friends and I should keep me out of trouble. I refused to speak to the incubator, but in the end I told them I’d come willingly, as long as no one knew I was related to her. She’s nothing to me and that’s the way I plan on keeping it.
I’m not stupid. I’ll bide my time until I turn eighteen and then I’ll get myself kicked out. I didn’t really do anything bad enough to warrant jail time, so they’ll send me home, where I can go on with my life and forget the incubator even exists.
Why would she pop up now after all these years and start acting like she cares? More importantly, what’s her ulterior motive? There has to be one.
The driver slows to a stop. The building looks ancient, and moss grows between the sandstone bricks. If this is a school for rich pricks’ wayward children, then why haven’t they invested in an industrial gurney to clean the building up a bit?
The driver opens my door and I hesitate, taking a deep breath before stepping out of the limo. A girl about my age is standing in front of the black double doors with the school’s silver logo embossed on the front. She doesn’t look like a bad kid: Her golden hair is perfectly straight, not a hair out of place, and it’s all held in place by a thin material headband. I give her the once over, trying to find something wrong with her. The school uniform is pristine. The black pleated skirt is the perfect length, not showing off too much leg but short enough that it still looks trendy. Her white blouse is buttoned to the top, a black bow tie tucked between the collar. Even her frilly white ankle socks are perfect. There is no damn way this girl is anything less than an angel. A stunning, tall, slim angel at that too.
I managed to get my incubator’s height, but not much else. My curvy body comes from my Nonna, my breasts too large for my frame, my hips and thighs hold a little weight, just enough to make me look out of proportion for my height. I’m not the kind of girl who gets all hung up on her weight. It’s what I have to work with, and I like the skin I'm in, but damn blondie looks good.
She approaches me with a smile. “Hi, I’m Elsie, your student guide.” She holds out her hand. I look down at it and back to her. She retracts her hand but doesn’t seem offended.
“Amelie.” I at least offer her my name – it’s not like it’s her fault I’m stuck here.
“Come, I will show you around, and help to get you settled.” She turns and walks back up the stairs to the front doors, pushing one side wide open. I run to catch up. She is significantly taller than I am, and my short legs struggle to keep up with her.
It’s boring as fuck. As I traipse around after her, she spouts a load of shit about architecture and history. Seriously, what teenager gives a damn about buttresses and bargeboards? If the kids who go here are as anal about this crap as she is, I know I’ll never fit in. Not that I plan on staying long, anyway.
After the tour, Elsie leaves me to settle into my room, and we agree to meet in the dining hall for dinner. With a parting, “Make sure you read the rulebook on your desk”, she disappears off down the hall. We’re not allowed mobile phones here, they have to be earned as a privilege, but Elsie informed me that very few people manage it. Apparently, we can call home once a week on a Sunday using the landline in our rooms. Didn't they rip those out in the 90s? I bet the calls are monitored. I cross the room and try to dial out. Nothing.