Ruthless Bishop: Dark New Adult High School Bully Romance (Sinners and Saints Book 3) Read online

  Ruthless Bishop

  Sinners and Saints Book 3

  Veronica Eden

  RUTHLESS BISHOP

  Copyright © 2020 Mara Townsend writing as Veronica Eden

  All rights reserved.

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at this website:

  www.veronicaedenauthor.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, companies, organizations, locales, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  About the Book

  Playlist

  1. Thea

  2. Connor

  3. Thea

  4. Connor

  5. Connor

  6. Thea

  7. Connor

  8. Connor

  9. Connor

  10. Thea

  11. Thea

  12. Connor

  13. Connor

  14. Thea

  15. Connor

  16. Connor

  17. Thea

  18. Thea

  19. Thea

  20. Connor

  21. Thea

  22. Connor

  23. Thea

  24. Connor

  25. Connor

  26. Thea

  27. Thea

  28. Connor

  29. Connor

  30. Thea

  31. Connor

  32. Thea

  33. Thea

  34. Thea

  35. Thea

  36. Connor

  37. Thea

  38. Connor

  39. Connor

  40. Thea

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Thank You + What’s Next?

  Acknowledgments

  Preview the Sinners and Saints Series

  About the Author

  Also by Veronica Eden

  Author’s Note

  Ruthless Bishop is a dark new adult high school bully romance with romantic suspense elements intended for mature readers. The Sinners and Saints series boys are all devilish bullies brought to their knees by a spitfire heroine, so if you love enemies-to-lovers type stories, you’re in the right place. This mature new adult romance contains crude language, dubious situations, a stalker/predator, and intense graphic sexual/violent content that some readers might find triggering or offensive. Please proceed with caution.

  If you like weak pushover heroines and nice guys this one ain’t for you, but if you dig strong females and smug antiheroes, then you’re in the right place! Hold onto your hearts, because these guys aren’t above stealing.

  Each book is part of a series but can be enjoyed as a standalone.

  Sinners and Saints series:

  #1 Wicked Saint

  #2 Tempting Devil

  #3 Ruthless Bishop

  #4 SW (Book 4)

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  About the Book

  THEA

  everyone has something to hide.

  I was invisible until I wasn’t.

  One mistyped number became the catalyst to my hell on earth when I accidentally sent a risqué photo to the blackmail king of Silver Lake High. Now Connor Bishop holds it as a bargaining chip over my head. I’ve become his doll, at his mercy in a corrupt castle.

  Better do as he says or else, or else, or else…

  His thumb is on the send button every time I try to buck his command. Can I survive a private photo going viral instead of living this life of torment?

  It’s not right. Maybe it’s time his castle burns down.

  CONNOR

  some lies are more dangerous than others.

  Meek. Shy. Wholesome.

  Thea Kennedy was picture-perfect innocence until she wasn’t. The unexpected photo is the juiciest secret to land in my lap in a while. Who knew she was hiding luscious curves under frumpy sweaters?

  With one racy selfie, Thea stepped into my world, where I control the board. I’ll trap the little mouse and won’t let her escape the depraved kingdom I built.

  But there are darker monsters than me lurking in the shadows. They want to take a bite out of my little mouse. I don’t like sharing what’s mine.

  Playlist

  (Spotify)

  Black Mirror—Sophie Simmons

  I Know Where the Bodies Are Buried—Adam Jensen

  In Cold Blood—alt-J

  Bad Kind of Butterflies—Camila Cabello

  I Will—Eminem, KXNG Crooked, Royce Da 5’9”, Joell Ortiz

  Play with Fire—Sam Tinnesz, Yacht Money

  Sorry Now—Crimson Apple

  Something Beautiful—Tori Kelly

  idfc—blackbear

  Bad For Me—LOWBORN

  Crown—Camila Cabello, Grey

  like that—Bea Miller

  The King—Conan Gray

  Dirty Little Secret—The All-American Rejects

  Bad Things—Machine Gun Kelly, Camila Cabello

  In the Dark—Camila Cabello

  Falling—Trevor Daniel

  Sweet Disaster—DREAMERS

  ain’t love—blackbear

  Dazed & Confused—Ruel

  Skin—Rihanna

  Watch Me Burn—Michele Morrone

  I Know Your Secrets—Tommee Profitt, Liv Ash

  Somebody—Crimson Apple

  Consequences—Camila Cabello

  Bury Me Face Down—grandson

  Depression & Obsession—XXXTENTACION

  Staring At The Sun—Post Malone, SZA

  death bed (coffee for your head)—Powfu, beabadoobee

  Sunflower—Post Palone, Swae Lee

  To the ones who tripped their way through feeling invisible, no matter how big our smiles, no matter how kind our hearts, no matter how big our friendship circles grew.

  You are not broken. You are seen. You are loved.

  One

  Thea

  Sexy selfie attempt number twenty and I still don’t have a winner I totally love on my phone’s camera roll.

  “Just do it,” I mutter, arguing with myself. “Spontaneity is a good thing. He’ll like it. Be cool.”

  I’ve been going in circles for five minutes, getting nowhere as I pace my bedroom.

  My school uniform hangs on the closet door from a funky sun-shaped brass hook, the plaid skirt in the school colors—evergreen and white—and the black blazer with the gold embroidered crest mocking me. At school I’m known by cruel names because I prefer wearing my uniform a couple of sizes too big to hide my body, unlike the girls who wear their skirts short enough their asses almost hang out and their blazers fitted to their petite waistlines. The other students are labelled cool because they break the uniform code with designer fashion, but I’m not because my rebellion isn’t worthy in their eyes.

  At least most of the time I’m
invisible to them.

  Narrowing my eyes at the uniform, I turn my back, where the riot of color on the other side of the room makes me smile. The wall is a pastel rainbow of baking-themed art with funny sayings like bake the world happy and happiness is homemade.

  “Okay, focus. Send the photo,” I coach.

  My stomach protests with a wave of butterflies. All of my positive thinking flees.

  I can’t believe I’m losing an argument against myself. I blow out harshly, deflating my ballooned cheeks along with my nerve. A wayward auburn curl ends up in my eyes. With an impatient flick, I brush it aside.

  It’s taken me weeks to work up the courage for this step with Wyatt, the cute lifeguard at the summer retreat my parents sent me to. We had a sort of fling. Well, okay. Not really.

  It was fling-like. Fling adjacent. We were on our way to flirting.

  At least, that's what my friend Maisy assured me between yoga class and gourmet s'mores by the campfire.

  The air hisses from my lungs in a soft, flat laugh that caves my chest.

  You? Dream on. He was only being polite. As a staff member, he was probably contracted to be whatever the guests needed. Even appearing interested romantically.

  I shake my head to dispel the depressing inner voice. Wyatt wasn’t only being a nice guy, and I am a damn goddess he would love to be with.

  Forget the short-girl-with-an-ass figure it’s difficult to find jeans for, the stretch marks on my hips and boobs from puberty growth spurts, and the memories of shopping for bras when my friends were still playing with toys.

  “A goddess,” I repeat, letting the affirmation give me the mental hug I need to restore my confidence.

  My tongue pokes out of the corner of my mouth as I hesitate to click on the message icon in his contact, where I saved his name with waves. As if I’d forget about how he looked in his red lifeguard trunks with a deep golden tan. Maybe I should go for a Facebook message or an Instagram DM first to double check I have his number saved correctly.

  I shake my head. “Be bold.”

  This is my chance to keep our tiny spark alive before it snuffs out. I have to act fast. I arrived back in Ridgeview the week before school at Silver Lake High started, and Wyatt went home to Colorado Springs. The drive down is under two hours if this works out—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

  First I have to buck the hell up and send the photo.

  I’ve decided. Senior year is my year. I’m eighteen and it’s time I stopped hiding myself from the world.

  Mom can spout her crap until she’s red in the face, but I’m not listening anymore.

  A whine sounds at the locked door, followed by a muffled scratch.

  “Not tonight, buddy. Go to your bed,” I tell my rottweiler. He’s an oversized lapdog that usually shadows me all over the house. He whines once more. “Bed, Constantine.”

  The dog makes a put out sound as his nails click down the hall.

  My grip tightens on my cell phone. The picture I took is all right. Not my best, but like the hundreds of photos in a secret folder, it’s the version of the girl I want to be.

  Confident, sexy, and owning my curvy body.

  Ah, the pipe dream.

  I pluck at the sunflower yellow chunky knit cardigan I tugged on over the lace-edged romper that barely contains my breasts. It’s designed to drape nicely on elegant bodies with long limbs and chests much flatter than mine. Instead, the romper fits to my big hips and rides up my thighs. Thank god for still photos where I can fake like I’m not trying to pick the material my ass is eating every two seconds.

  Mom doesn’t know I own the romper, or some of the other clothes hidden in the closet. I have to rotate my hiding spots because she is a notorious snooper.

  Photo-me looks up from the phone screen with bedroom eyes, my lashes fluttered low over my blue-green eyes. My dark red curls are tossed over strategically to give my hair that bombshell volume, spilling down my neck and over one shoulder as I lean forward to show off my cleavage. My plump lips are puckered into duck lips. I can’t help it, duck lips are my go to when I put myself on the spot in the hopes I’ll capture something natural and effortless. It’s me, and yet…not.

  My gaze slides to the mirror and my shoulders droop as soon as I eye my reflection critically.

  Mirrors and phone cameras must have a deal with the devil.

  Somehow the reflection and the pictures never match up. Maybe the girl I am in my secret folder of photos exists only in digital format.

  Squinting, I lean closer. Is that—? Yup. That’s flour in my hair. I sink my fingers into my curls with an aggravated sigh and shake them out as I check the photo. Fan-flipping-tastic.

  I thought I cleaned myself up after baking the rustic cranberry tarts I’ve been trying to perfect when I got home from school, but I must have missed some. What else is new? I’m almost always covered in some ingredient with my love of baking.

  Okay, attempt number twenty-one.

  This time I crop part of my face out of the frame and go for a coy smirk. Once I snap the photo, I drop out of the pose and perch on the arm of the floral print cushioned chair by the window, nudging one of my infinite recipe notebooks onto the seat.

  “Not bad.” I tilt my head and scrunch my lips to the side. The next dilemma occurs to me and my eyes widen. “Crap.”

  I’m already being bold with the photo, but should I say anything or just send the picture? What do people normally say when they send selfies revealing their thirst levels to their crush? Oh god, I’m going to screw this up. I’m so bad at this!

  The glow of headlights shining through the window distracts me from my momentary panic as a dark silver SUV pulls into the house next door. The Bishop’s place. I’m the lucky duck who not only has the school principal for a neighbor but also his vicious son, Connor Bishop. Most of the time he ignores my existence, but on days he doesn’t, he’s the champion of the crusade against me and my favorite sweaters.

  “Oh freaking great,” I mumble, ducking down in the chair so he doesn’t look up to my window and think I’m creeping on him.

  I’m not risking Connor seeing me in this romper, either. No free shows for that asshole.

  The headlights cut off as he parks outside of the garage. Their house looks like it belongs in the Hollywood Hills with its sprawling paved terraces, huge arched windows, and terracotta tiled roof. It stands out against the other houses, like mine, that resemble mountain lodges and chalets with stone columns and dark accents. Almost everything in our town matches the same mountain vibe. Our neighborhood is comfortably upscale as far as Ridgeview goes, but Connor’s is the biggest on the street.

  Curling my fingers over the back of the chair, I peek past the sheer lavender curtains and watch him slam the door of the Lexus GX with a bag of soccer balls hooked over his shoulder. It makes his bicep flex, stretching his green varsity soccer shirt taut.

  Why do mean boys always have to look like that? He’s an angel-faced demon in disguise with his striking gray eyes, floppy light brown hair, and a dangerous, dazzling smile he uses to melt the panties off of his adoring fangirls. Not that I know what his charm-up-to-eleven smile looks like up close. I only get the cruel smirks directed my way when I have the misfortune of catching his attention.

  Collapsing back into the chair, I bite my lip and push Connor Bishop from my mind. I’m a girl on a mission to flirt. He isn’t messing this up for me.

  As I tap my nails against my phone and tug my lips side to side in thought, different options scroll through my mind. Hey cutie? I shake my head. No, that’s too much. Hope you’re having a good day? I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face.

  “Why are words so hard?”

  The stuffed sea lion on the bed doesn’t answer. I’m terrible at this stuff. A 4.0 GPA and all my baking skills, yet I can’t flirt for shit. It’s like I’m defective, missing a social skill or two because I listened to all the things Mom has always warned me about boys, and ran in the other direction when
one spoke to me.

  Except for one. But that didn’t end well.

  I cock my head to the side as a thought occurs to me while I’m wallowing in self pity. What would Connor say in this situation if he was going to sweet talk a girl he wanted?

  My gaze flicks to the window where his bedroom light is on. I only know it’s his room because he refuses to change with the curtains closed, the self-obsessed exhibitionist. I may have caught sight of his bare chest—briefly—a time or two over the years. He has abs, and that’s just completely unfair.

  Dropping my voice into a lower register and pretending to be all macho, I shoot my stuffed sea lion a sly look and say, “Baby, you light up the sky with your pretty smile.”

  A beat of silence passes before I make a sound like a dying animal in my humiliation. I sink further into the seat, wishing for the ground to open up and swallow me. Thank god no one actually witnessed that train wreck.