(Ebook) Big Bad Academy by Sophie Stern [Stern, Sophie] ISBN B07Y9FSR7T download
https://ebooknice.com/product/big-bad-academy-32904544
Contents
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
Epilogue
Author Books
Hybrid Academy
“Five minutes, folks!” Jenna walks around the ballroom, smiling and giving last minute directions to authors. She points out crooked tablecloths, reminds us of how long we have to speak with readers, and lets us know that in just a few minutes, the doors to the space are going to open. We’re going to be swarmed with dozens of happy, excited, and curious readers who are here for one purpose: to buy books.
It’s my very first book signing as an author and I don’t know whether I’m feeling more excited or horrified. Maybe I’m feeling a little bit of both. My stomach churns, but I know it’s not hunger because I definitely ate this morning. Definitely. I made sure to.
I found this list online that had ten things every writer needs to know before their first signing. One of the first things on the list was to have a good breakfast and to bring snacks. My book signing is in the evening, but I definitely ate right on time all day long and even though it’s nearly seven now, I packed some snacks to tide me over in case I get hungry. Besides, the author at the table next to me is giving away donuts. If I need to, I can always sneak one.
“Are you ready?” The writer beside me, Sunflower Wilson, leans over and smiles.
I nod, jerking my head up and down. Somehow, I feel like a robot. Since when did normal interactions and gestures become so damn hard?
She doesn’t seem to mind.
“Don’t worry. It gets better. The first ten minutes are the hardest, anyway.”
I hope she’s right.
The doors to the ballroom open and anxious readers hurry in. I stand up straight and paste a smile on my face. I try not to let
everyone know just how nervous I am. I mean, it’s my first book signing. It’s supposed to be fun. Not a nightmare.
So why do I suddenly feel nervous?
My anxiety lasts only a few minutes. Readers start hurrying toward the tables of the authors they really love and want to have books signed by, but then someone arrives in front of my table. It’s a tall, slender redhead and she grins.
“Hi!” I say. “Do you like paranormal romance?”
She laughs and shoves a stack of my books at me.
“You could say that,” she says. “I’ve read the entire PolarBear ShiftersandTheirBelovedMatesseries three times, and Werewolves WhoLoveHumanswas my favorite!”
“Wow,” I blush, taking the books from her. “That’s so great to hear. I mean, thank you! Who should I make these out to?” I ask.
“Clarissa,” she tells me. She spells it out and I try really hard not to mess up the spelling. How embarrassing would it be to make a mistake like that at my first signing? Pushing the thought away, I finish writing a little greeting, I sign my name, and I hand the books back.
“Well, it’s so great to hear you enjoyed the books!” I tell her.
“My friend Missy is here, too,” Clarissa says. “So keep an eye out for her. She’s an even bigger fan than me!” She laughs and takes her books, grabs a couple of mints from my table, and takes off. As soon as she’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I did it.
I survived my first reader.
A feeling of satisfaction settles in my belly. That wasn’t so bad, after all. Was it? I might be a newer writer, but I have some real fans who make sitting down and working on my stories every day totally worth it.
A few minutes later, another woman comes by with her boyfriend in tow. He doesn’t look bored the way I assume boyfriends at these events would look. Instead, he’s carrying her stack of books and smiles as he hands over a few copies of books I’ve written.
“Can you sign these for us?” He asks. “We loved Anna and Thad in TheWerewolf’sHumanBaby.”
“They were perfect,” the girl nods. “Truly wonderful. The way Anna and Thad overcame all of their differences and reunited at the end,” she swoons and grabs her heart. “It was perfect.”
I grin.
“Thank you! And yes,” I take the books from them. “You know, figuring out how they were going to overcome her terrible family history wasn’t easy.”
“What was the hardest part about writing this book?” The girl asks me.
“Probably trying to find a good way for them to move past her childhood. I mean, she was raised in a society that totally hated werewolves, right?”
“And she was so shocked to discover that he wasone!” The man holding my books shakes his head. “I got so into those books that I stayed up until 4 in the morning reading them. I was almost late to work. Wasn’t I, Winnie?”
“It’s true,” Winnie nods. “Not me, though,” she laughs. “I started reading the second they arrived at the house and was finished before midnight.”
“That’s fantastic,” I grin. A feeling of satisfaction washes over me as we chat about my stories for a few more minutes. Being a writer can be a really lonely journey, but having people who read and enjoy my books makes me feel a little less alone. Besides, it also feels really, really good.
I finish signing the books, and then Winnifred and her boyfriend buy another two from me. I sign them and then the happy couple takes off to meet other authors. For a minute, I’m able to just chill and relax, so I take a chance to sip my water and look out over the room.
It’s crowded: more crowded than I thought it would be. The event I’m signing at is a three-day ordeal with writers from all over the country. Everyone flew in to get together for drinks, networking, and general information-sharing. A few of the more experienced writers even put on workshops, so I got to find out more about how to hire a graphic designer for my book covers and even how to start marketing on deeper levels.
know.
“Hey, is everything okay over here?” Sunflower is leaning over, looking at me and my strange visitor. “Are you two all right?” She looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, we’re fine.”
“You sure? Because I can call Jenna over here if this guy is bothering you.”
Jenna is the organizer of the event and she’s thought of everything. She’s got security and she’s got snacks and water bottles and she’s got absolutely everything else anyone could possibly want or need. She’s got it all.
Do I need her security guys?
The man in front of me waits. He doesn’t look at Sunflower Wilson. He just keeps staring at me like I’m the only person in this room he cares about. My panties are soaked, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. A guy like this could be very, very dangerous.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“You sure?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay, because I can-”
“She said she’s fine,” the man snaps. He finally looks over at Sunflower, and she juts her chin out.
“Fine, then,” she tells him. “But I’m not afraid of you.”
“Pity,” he says. “Perhaps you should be.”
Then the man turns and walks away. He slips into the crowd, and both Sunflower and I stare at him until he disappears from sight.
“What the hell was that about?” She asks. Her pink hair bounces as she shakes her head. I can’t tell if she’s scared or disgusted by that man’s appearance, but one thing is for sure: he’s not a reader.
Why did he come here to ask me about my ideas?
More importantly, why do I have the feeling that this won’t be the last time I see him?
By the time the book signing ends and I’ve finished packing up my leftover books and swag, it’s nearly midnight. I’m exhausted, practically dead on my feet, and I wave goodbye to the other writers as I head back to my hotel room. My plan is to get to my room, crash with my clothes on, and get up early to shower and drive back home. I live three hours from the hotel we’re holding the event at, which means I can easily be home by noon tomorrow if I leave early enough.
Pulling my roller-suitcase that’s filled to the brim with signing supplies, I head through the hotel lobby and to the elevators. The event went better than I thought it would. A feeling of relief washes over me as I press the upbutton and wait patiently. The lobby is almost completely silent. There’s not even someone at the front desk. I close my eyes for a second and just take a deep breath. This is it.
It’s over.
Everything went perfectly.
When I decided to become a paranormal romance writer, I wasn’t really sure what I was getting myself into. After all, most writers are people who love creating stories. The writers I met this weekend are all people who have known since they were kids that writing was in their blood, but me?
I’m a little different.
I went to school to become an ESL teacher. I wanted to teach English as a Second Language to kids who might not otherwise be able to learn English. After taking six years to get my bachelor’s degree, I started in the field only to discover that my nightmares were getting worse with age: not better. My therapist was the one who suggested I start writing my thoughts down and keeping a journal. I published them on a whim, my stories took off, and the rest is history.
Now I’m almost thirty and living my best life. I mean, I’m single and I have two cats as companions, but so what? People enjoy reading my stories, and even though I’m not a full-time teacher the
way I planned to be, I still tutor kids a few days a week. Only now I can do it for free, so I actuallyfeel like I’m giving back to my community.
The elevator doors ding and open. I grab my suitcase and tug, pulling it into the little box. I’ve never been the biggest fan of enclosed spaces, but this is fine. Totally fine. I push the button for the thirteenth floor and the doors close.
Only the elevator starts moving down instead of up.
“Shit,” I jab at the number 13 on the elevator buttons. I do not want to go down. Nope. The parking garage? Really? I mean, I’m not reallyparanoid, but I don’t think anything good is going to come from going down to the parking lot. It’s probably just a late night visitor who missed check-in earlier. Maybe they got stuck in traffic. Yep. That’s it.
I move to the back corner of the elevator and wait for the doors to open. This person will get in, we’ll go back up to the lobby, and then I’ll finallyget to go to my room and sleep. My feet hurt, I’m tired, and I’m ready to hurry home to my cats tomorrow morning.
But when the doors open, it’s not a weary traveler standing there.
It’s him.
The man from the book signing.
I’m instantly drawn to him. I should be terrified of him: he’s tall, he’s overbearing, and he’s blocking the only exit out of my little traveling box. He’s standing between me and any means of escape, and he’s looking quite menacing.
But all I can do is lick my lips and wonder what it would be like to push him back and climb him like a fucking a tree. Oh, I bet this guy fucks. He’s got to fuck. I mean, just lookat him. He’s damn delicious.
I shake my head.
I’ve definitely been reading too many romance novels.
“Well?” I finally say. “Are you getting in?”
He looks surprised to hear me asking him that. Why is he surprised? He stares at me for a minute and then he seems to actually sniff the air. Strange. Does something smell in here? I look
you. At least if he kills me in the parking lot, the hotel staff will find me later. Someone will know what happened to me.
He loosens his grip on my mouth for just a second, and I take the opportunity to jerk my head around as much as possible and then bite him on the finger.
He growls and slaps me. The shock surprises me, catching me off guard, and I’m momentarily dazed.
“Oh Heather,” he says. I feel the prick of a needle in my neck and I instantly start to feel drowsy. “I thought you would choose better than that.”
Then everything goes black.
Seeing her up close was like a punch in the gut because Heather Smith is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. My cock has been stiff as a board since the moment I saw her for the first time. It hasn’t calmed down since. She hasn’t seemed to notice that, but she’s noticed me.
I smelled how turned on she got when she saw me. Even being cornered in the elevator didn’t scare the little vixen. Nope. If anything, it just turned her on even more, and isn’t that curious?
I would have thought a girl like her would be shy and timid when it comes to men, but she’s not. She’s not anything like I expected her to be.
“She’s taller than I thought she’d be,” Gaston says, interrupting my thoughts.
“What?”
“The girl,” he jerks his head toward the back of the car, like I don’t know where she is.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
I don’t like the idea that he’s thinking about the way she looks.
“And prettier.”
I bristle, fisting my hands to keep from punching my best friend. If he notices, he’s smart enough not to say anything about my reaction. The idea that I’m attracted to a human is disgusting. I hate it. I hate the fact that she’s got me all riled up and I’ve only just met her.
Most of all, I hate the way she’s supposed to be this terrible villain that we’re apprehending, but I feel like I’m missing something. There’s some key to this puzzle that’s just out of reach. Heather Smith holds the secret to saving the Greystone Pack, but we have to convince her that our pack is worth saving.
After all, how can we convince the person we’re most scared of in this entire world that our pack is actually worth taking care of?
Gaston glances at the clock. We’re about six hours from home. He’s heading in the right direction, and I realize it’s time for me to get to work. I reach for her purse, which is at my feet. We went through her hotel room and cleared it out while she was at the signing. The last thing we want to do is make it look like she was
abducted. If everything goes according to plan, the other writers will simply think that Heather was overtired and rude and took off for her home without saying goodbye.
Writer seem to be pretty introverted as a whole, so I don’t actually think anyone is going to be missing her very much.
At least, that’s the goal.
“Anything in there?” He asks. I rifle through her things.
“Lip gloss. Lipstick. Lip balm. Lip moisturizer.”
“Okay, so she cares about her lips. What else is in there?”
“A couple of snacks. Oh, and a wallet.”
I reach for it, pulling out. Then I open the wallet, and I’m surprised by what I see there. Gaston instantly notices me tensing.
“What is it?”
“Fuck.”
I pull out her cards and ID. No wonder we couldn’t find her.
“Her name isn’t Heather Smith,” I say, surprised.
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Guess what’s why we had such a hard time finding her,” I grumble. It took us weeks to locate the girl, and the only reason we were finally able to was because she announced her first public appearance: a book signing this weekend. If she hadn’t come to this, we never would have been able to find her at all.
“What’s her name?”
“Heather Miracle.”
“Seriously?” Gaston chuckles. “What a weird name.”
“I guess that’s why she goes by a pen name, although I’m not sure why she’d choose something so…”
“Plain?”
“Pretty much.”
“Maybe she wants to blend in a little easier.”
“Perhaps.”
I keep going through her stuff. Sure enough, the name Heather Miracle appears on all of her credit cards, as well as her ID. More importantly, the ID card lists an address, and it’s on our way.
“We’ll want to stop by her house,” I say.
“To tie up loose ends,” Gaston nods.
“Well, we aren’t going to kill her roommates,” I point out.
“She doesn’t have any,” he says.
“What? How do you know? We only just learned her address a few minutes ago.”
“Lily’s a fan,” he chuckles.
“Your mate is a Heather Smith fan?”
“Oh yeah,” Gaston shakes his head. “She’s read all of her books. Her favorite is the one where the feisty werewolf falls in love with an unsuspecting human and the two of them go off on an adventure to save the werewolf’s father.”
“That’s literally the plot of all of her books,” I grumble.
“Have you read them?”
“Well, no.”
“Then how would you know?”
Brushing off his comment, I try to get back to what he said about Lily.
“How does Lily know that Heather doesn’t have a roommate?”
“Lily is in her reader group,” Gaston says. “That’s how we found out about the book signing, and Heather has Q&A sessions with her readers once a month.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where all of the fans get online at the same time and ask questions about the author’s life. Last month, someone asked about roommates. She lives alone.”
“I guess that makes our job a little easier.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“We’ll see when we get there.”
I don’t like the fact that Gaston is being kind of cryptic and I definitely don’t like the fact that I didn’t know Lily was a Heather Smith fan. That’s information that should have been shared with me, and I’m a bit put off by the fact that it wasn’t.
I know it doesn’t reallymatter.
“What does Lily think about this little mission?” I ask.
Gaston’s silence speaks louder than words.
“Didn’t tell her?”
Is Heather Smith, or Heather Miracle, the type of woman to leave a spare key outside?
She seemed pretty trusting when I met her. She seemed almost innocent when it came to dealing with the world, and I can’t help but think she just might be the type of person to hide a spare key she can give to guests when they come over.
I check the obvious places: under the mat, on top of the door frame, and under a potted plant. It’s not until I notice a little garden gnome off in one corner that I start chuckling. I reach for it and sure enough, there’s a key beneath it.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I toss the key up and catch it easily, proud of just how simple this is all turning out to be. Then I unlock the front door, turn the knob, and step inside.
Easy peasy.
Instantly, though, something hits me in the face. It’s loud and sharp and soft all at the same time. I screech, and I hear Gaston slam the car door and come running. I fight whatever is on me. Is it a pillow? Knives? I can’t tell.
“Fuck!” I cry out, and I try to push it away. The thing falls off my face just as Gaston steps inside and flips the lights on. Instantly, he starts laughing.
“Cats,” he laughs, kneeling over. “You got scared by cats!”
Not just any cats.
Nope.
Heather’s cats are practically guard cats. They’re both standing a few feet away from me and hissing and spitting at me like they hate me. I don’t believe in any sort of second sense or intuition type of stuff, but suddenly, I wonder if there’s any way these kittens can know what I’ve done.
Guilt washes over me, but I shake my head.
“Kill the lights,” I say to Gaston. “Someone will see.”
“We’re surrounded by forest,” he points out. “And this is at the end of a private drive. The nearest neighbor is half a mile away. No one’s going to see.”
He’s right, but I kind of hate that he’s right.
Why does Heather live all the way out here by herself?
Doesn’t she get lonely?
“She just lives here with her cats?”
It seems almost…sad.
But these cats don’t look neglected or evil. They look very well taken care of, and as I look around the little living room, I can see pictures of cats on the walls. There are paintings and drawings. I wonder if Heather made these pictures herself. There’s a big sofa in the center of the room, and once the cats realize that Gaston and I aren’t going anywhere, they scurry up to the sofa and jump up on it. They turn around a few times before sitting down.
Neither one of them goes to sleep.
They don’t close their eyes and they don’t turn their backs. They’re still wildly suspicious of us, but they wait patiently.
“Let’s search the house,” I say, warily eyeing the cats. “I don’t want to be here a minute longer than we have to.
“Understood,” he says.
“I’ll take the second floor.”
“I’ll start down here.”
I move toward the little staircase and head upstairs.
Let’s see what Heather Smith is hiding in her bedroom.
The sound of the door slamming wakes me up.
I’m groggy, and my entire body hurts, and everything is dark. I’m lying flat on a hard surface. Where the hell am I?
And then it hits me.
Everything comes rushing back in one swift, horrible wave of emotions and memories.
He took me.
The man from the book signing took me.
My hands are bound, but they’re in front of me, and my ankles are free. Crap. He tied me up and shoved me somewhere. I roll around. I’m in…a trunk, maybe? Yes, definitely. Fuck. I feel like I can’t breathe. Suddenly, the world around me starts to feel like it’s closing in. Is the trunk getting smaller?
It’s definitely got to be getting smaller, right?
“Think,” I mutter to myself. I know he drugged me somehow. I feel a little groggy still, but I’m otherwise okay. I don’t think he hit me on the head or anything serious, and my legs are free, so he didn’t bother taking the time to tie them up. Apparently, he didn’t think I’d try to get out of the car.
He was wrong.
We’re stopped. The sound of the car door slamming is what woke me up, so I have to act quickly. I can tell that there’s no way for me to get the actual trunk open, but what about the backseat? Can I break into the backseat?
Some cars have an emergency level that let you easily access the backseat. The way my hands are bound, I could probably grip one. The problem is that it’s just so dark, and I don’t have a lot of time for messing around. Still, I try, but I can’t seem to reach or find any suck lever.
No worries.
It’s time for plan B.
I roll around, adjusting my position so that my feet are against the backseat of the car. I shove my feet hard. Once, twice, and then a third time. The seat jerks a little, but doesn’t break free. It’s okay, I remind myself. It’s okay. I know that I don’t have a lot of time. I’m not sure if the kidnapper went to the bathroom at a gas station, but if he did, I can probably flag someone down for help. Screaming in public is a good way to be saved, right?
I kick again and again. It could be my imagination, but I think I felt the chair loosen a little. I kick again and again, feeling tired and sweaty, but then I give it one final kick, and the chair pops open. I’m free. I wiggle around and crawl out of the tiny opening. I pop my head into the backseat and look around.
All my crap is here: my suitcase and even stuff from my hotel room that I definitely hadn’t packed. Shit. This guy is a professional. He really wanted me, didn’t he? I don’t have time to wonder if he’s some sort of insane stalker or just a weirdo because I don’t know where he is or how much time I have.
Stumbling around, I manage to get into the backseat. I reach for my bathroom bag, which is sitting on the backseat. Pulling out a pair of nail clippers, I cut the plastic zip ties that were on my wrist. Everything hurts, but I have to get out of here and fast. I don’t see my phone. Maybe he took it. Either way, I’m out. I shove the nail clippers back in the bag, and then I open the door. I don’t close it. I don’t want him to hear the sound and come running.
I’m not at a gas station, though.
Once I’m out of the car, I realize that I’m in the woods, and not just any woods.
My woods.
Fuck.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I turn around in a blaze of fury and see that the lights in my house are on. He’s here. He’s at my house. Why the hell is this guy at my house?
For a second, I worry about Maple and Syrup. They’re in the house with the crazy guy, but I know my cats, and I know that they
I take a step forward, and then another. There.
That wasn’t so bad.
I take another step.
My cats are such good cats. Both of them hold perfectly still as I carefully begin moving again. I just have to get to my neighbor’s house, use their phone, and all of this will be over. Who knows? Maybe it’s all some sort of elaborate prank. Maybe it’s part of a joke I didn’t know about. Is that it? Am I just waiting for the punch line?
I doubt it.
Somehow, even though I don’t have an explanation for what’s going on, I can’t even lie to myself.
Much less anyone else.
I take another step. Carefully, I gingerly place my feet down one at a time. I point my toes, feeling around on the forest floor before dropping my full weight. I’m terrified that I’m going to step on a stick or a branch or something else that’s going to make noise.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
On the fourth step, I do it, anyway. I cringe as my shoe crunches down loudly on a stick. The sound seems to echo for what feels like miles. I stop and stand perfectly still, listening.
Maybe they didn’t hear.
And then I hear a stick crunching to my left, and I know that there’s no such luck.
They’ve found me.
Now I have to run.
I take off, not caring that it’s dark or that I’m making a ton of noise all of a sudden. I just move. I’ve got to book it to my neighbor’s place. If I can just getthere, then everything is going to be okay. I hear someone shouting from behind me, but I keep moving. I’m not giving these guys anything that they want. No thanks, no how.
It’s not going to happen.
Flynn doesn’t move his boot, though, and I get the distinct impression that I’ve somehow both pissed him off and offended him somehow. I’m not exactly sure how I’ve managed to do that, but there you go.
“You shouldn’t have made me chase you,” he says.
“Well excuse me,” I snap, completely pissed off. “In case you’ve forgotten, I didn’t exactly consent to being kidnapped or shoved in a trunk!”
His boot lifts from my back, but it’s replaced with his hand. Suddenly, he’s kneeling beside me. His hand presses between my shoulder blades and he holds me right where he wants me.
“Let’s get something straight, writer,” he says my career title like it’s some sort of insult. “You’re in my world now.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s fucking so.”
He grabs my hair, fisting it, and yanks it back so I’m looking him in the eye. Is it horrible that the movement makes me suddenly feel completely wet? Like, how long has it actually been since I had sex? Shit. I rub my legs together, trying to ignore the sensation, but that only makes things worse for me. I’m suddenly going from nothing to fully charged, and I roll over so suddenly that he lets go in surprise. Then I reach for the man – Flynn – and I pull his lips to mine.
I kiss him wildly, running my hands through his hair. I kiss him like I’ve never been kissed before: like I was made for this damn moment. He hesitates for only a second before kissing me back. He takes over the kiss, dominating our movements.
Flynn slides his hands under my back and lifts me, pulling me closer to his body. Why am I so turned on right now? Why does just the sound of his voice turn me on so very much? I groan, running my hands through his hair, and then suddenly, I realize what the hell I’m doing, and I pull away.
He’s the bad guy here.
The enemy.
He’s someone I need to hate: not someone I should be loving. I hear laughter and both Flynn and I turn to see his friend, still holding Maple and Syrup, laughing like crazy.