The Complete Rockstar Series

“Hey, Adaaaam.” I cringe when I hear a female voice sing my name out from the sea of students. My body immediately tenses up as Lucy Collins weaves through everyone, ending up uncomfortably close.

“Lucy,” I reply in an indifferent tone, not wanting to give her any sliver of hope that she has a chance. Christ, I gave in to my better judgment and hooked up with her once at the end of last term. Unfortunately, her obsession with me has only gotten worse. Silly me for hoping that the holidays were enough to make her forget about me and move on. I should have known better, the way she acts around me that she wasn’t going to let go that easily. Lucy knows I don’t get with the same girl twice and she’s already had her turn, so I haven’t a clue as to why she thinks she’s different, because she’s not.

Bastard that he is, Dax stifles a laugh and backs away. His shoulders shake in enjoyment at my predicament. As always, he’s amused by girls’ persistence, as if it’s some kind of game to him.

“After school, Reynolds. Practice, at our usual spot.” He points at me, spins on his heel, and takes off, leaving me stuck with a clingy Lucy.

Useless fucking twat of a mate he is!

Lucy flips her long brown hair and sticks out her lower lip, pouting and trying for sexy. As hot as she is, it’s not working, it never works.

“Adam, I was hoping we could meet after school.” She drags her nails up my arm and grips my bicep tightly, going for a display of ownership that only manages to piss me off.

I reach up to carefully pry her fingers off of me, resisting the urge to grimace. Gotta keep that happy, smiling façade for everyone so no one realizes what a fucking disaster my life is.

“Can’t, you heard Dax. I’ve got plans.” I duck into the classroom and leave her standing alone and infuriated.

Lucy knows I don’t do girlfriends. Most of the girls I’ve been with know that and seem to be okay with it. You get me once, that’s it. I don’t do attachments, that way there’s no attachments when they inevitably let you down. The problem is that I always stay friends with them afterwards. It’s my nature, I think, to be overly nice. Probably because I’m afraid of becoming my dad. A cold, violent, unfeeling bastard.

With a sigh, I drag my hand through my hair and make my way to the last row of desks. First period always seats us alphabetically for attendance, so you don’t get to choose your seat. I drop into the chair behind Jeffrey Owens, a weird kid that I’ve sat behind for the last two years, and throw my bag on the tiny desk.

Five minutes into the term and I’m already bored and twitchy. I yank out my notebook and begin sketching. It’s just a random design, sort of like tribal artwork, all black swirls and jagged edges. Ever since I saw some massive Samoan guy on the street covered in similar tattoos, I haven’t been able to get the design out of my head.

“That’s lovely. Are you an artist?”

Jesus! I jerk at the voice, slam the book closed, and shove it in my bag. I don’t show anyone certain drawings, not even Dax. They’re too personal.

Scowling and annoyed, I look up to see a gorgeous, pale girl with wavy blonde hair staring at me expectantly with her wide blue eyes. She’s literally breathtaking.

And I turn into the world’s biggest tosser.

“No,” I bark rudely, embarrassed to have been caught spacing out over my drawings.

The beautiful girl’s cheeks redden from my outburst, deep crimson slashes hiding the small freckles that dot her tiny nose.

“Sorry. I just… I think you’re sitting in my seat.” Her soft voice wavers, as if she’s about to cry. The girl starts chewing on her thumbnail nervously, staring at her shoes so she doesn’t have to look at me.

What a knob head I am, shouting at some random girl. Silently, I grab my backpack and stand up, looking around the room, unsure where I’m supposed to go. I always sit behind Owens and his manky brown hair.

“Mr. Reynolds, you’re behind Miss Palmer now.” Mr. Graham walks over with his clipboard and gestures to the seat behind the new girl. “Sharma, move back one,” he says to Prescott, an Indian kid who sits behind me.

Great. I trade nods with Prescott and drop into the newly vacated chair, stuck staring at the back of the new girl’s head. Her long golden hair brushes against the edge of my desk whenever she fidgets, which is often.

“Hello gorgeous.”

Ugh! I cringe at the sound of Callum Murray’s obnoxious voice. Sliding my eyes over, I watch as he leans out of his chair and across the aisle towards the new girl, a disgusting leer on his face. “I’m Callum, and you’re not from around here.”

It takes a lot to keep my expression calm and not show how furious his words make me, even though I’m an expert at controlling my features to hide my emotions.

No shit she’s not from around here stupid. Besides looking high class and polished, her accent is all public school proper and zero East End cockney.

“No, I’m not. I’m Ellie. Ellie Palmer.” She turns to face Callum and her hair swishes over my desk again, sending a wave of vanilla shampoo my way. The scent hits me hard, luscious and sweet, which makes my dick begin to fill in my jeans.

Jesus, I’m such a bastard. Getting a stiffy for the new girl right after almost making her cry.

Despite my best intentions to not be an arsehole, I’m dreaming up the many different ways to charm my way into Ellie’s knickers until I hear Callum speak again. “Well, I’d love to show you around. What’s your next subject? I can walk you there.”

He gives her a lecherous smile that makes me want to bash his teeth in with my history book. I’ve heard about his ‘walks’ and I know damn well that his idea of showing her around is to corner her somewhere alone and force her into things she might not be willing to do. Unfortunately, Ellie doesn’t. His victims are always too afraid to call the authorities, so he gets away with it time and time again.