Page 1 of Hot For Her Bully

CHAPTER 1

Weston

The tie around my neck feels like a noose as I stand outside of the campus coffee shop waiting for my appointment. A career fair for all the seniors has a bunch of 20-somethings fidgeting in their most professional attire. However, there are a few of us who don't fidget, who don't buckle under the pressure.

I don't care about the fair so much as the man I have an appointment with. Harland Adams is a name etched on several halls and a library. We have a rough history from an over-exaggerated mistake in my freshman year. But this appointment is going to set us right. The stamp of approval from a mogul like Harland is what I need to get any job, but more importantly, to get the most coveted job in his firm.

"Hey, cut it out." The whining voice screeching through the air is like nails on a chalkboard to me because of the person it's coming from. She's the reason Harland thinks I'm unworthy of his co-sign. Fucking goody-two-shoe twat.

Whitney Downing's hazel eyes are nearly the same color as her hair, but they're welling with tears. Two girls watch her with gleams of mischief dancing in their eyes. They glance at me, seemingly for my approval. I give them what they want, a nod to continue their torture of my fellow upperclassman.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you, Shit-ney." One girl cackles and bumps Whitney, forcing her to drop the portfolio in her arms.

Pages scatter and one floats toward me. I pick it up to see it's her resume.

"Here, let me help you," the other girl says. She bends over and purposely lets her scalding hot coffee pour over the pages and portfolio, leaving the only clean one in my hand.

"Please, Weston. Don't do this." Whitney's pleas fall on deaf ears, and I tear the resume in half and let the pieces fall into the puddle of coffee. Her bottom lip trembles as she fights back tears. "I don't have time to go print out more copies."

I kneel in front of her, making sure her eyes meet mine while I delight in her misery. "You should really come better prepared, Shit-ney. Don't worry. I'll let your fuck-buddy, Mr. Adams, know you're running behind."

"He's not—" she begins to protest but quickly stops herself from saying anything else.

I rub the top of her head like a puppy before heading into the building next door for my appointment. There are dozens of tables with companies, recruiters, and other schools looking to scoop up the best of our senior class. I make a beeline to Mr. Adams, who's sitting in an armchair away from the hustle and bustle of people presenting reasons why students should apply to their companies.

"Mr. Adams, I'm Weston Whitlock. We have a ten o'clock."

"Ah yes, the plagiarizer. Have a seat." He extends his hand, only to gesture for me to sit, to my dismay.

"I was hoping to get a fresh start with you, sir. When I took the information from your industry reports for my project, it was never intended to pass it off as my own words."

Harland adjusts his tie, his cufflinks, and then glances at his watch, which costs more than a year's tuition. "They say that imitation is a form of flattery, but to me, it's laziness. I don't need lazy anywhere around me. Thanks for your time, Mr. Whitlock."

The dismissal in his tone tells me everything I need to know. This meeting's going nowhere. Anger plumes from every pore, making me hot and uncomfortable as I loosen my tie before snatching it off completely.

Whitney rushes past me with the two halves of her resume, wrinkled with coffee stains. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Adams. There was an incident at the coffee shop, and I don't have a hard copy of my resume."

"That's fine with me, Miss Downing. Email it to me. Have a seat. Let's talk about your future with Redline International," Harland says, standing to greet her with a handshake and a smile.

That fucking bitch is going to pay. She has to be poisoning him against me. No one holds grudges this long. Wait a minute. Fuck. I do.

The hatred I have toward Whitney battles with my physical attraction to her. It drives me crazy that I want to punch her in the face but also fuck the shit out of her. I have to get out of here.

The entire ordeal makes me skip my classes for the rest of the day. Out of my navy blue slacks and white dress shirt, I feel better in cargo pants with a tank top. There's a party already kicking off at a frat house. Music blares and the parade of chicks drinking out of red cups leads everybody to the front door.

It's the perfect scene to drown my frustrations in beer and jungle juice. The corner of the living room is the best spot for me to stand away from the crowd of swaying bodies. My mind drowns itself in questions about what to do after graduation. This is bullshit.

That bitch gets to waltz into the career fair, and boom, her fuck buddy makes her life that much easier. Whit-shit has the nerve to take the job meant for me all because she can't keep her legs closed. Speaking of the cunt, when Whitney steps over the threshold of the frat house, I can see the glaze over her eyes. She's already drunk and looking for someone.

"Has anyone seen Quinn?" she asks someone, who shrugs her hand off them.

This feels like the perfect opportunity. A little revenge goes a long way. I can't take my eyes off her. The guy she's looking for is an asshole, but he's just like any other guy trying to score on campus. When she finds Quinn, a jock with fewer brains than muscle, I follow them into the kitchen.

Neither of them pays attention to me, and Whitney's not paying attention to him. He's not even sly about it when he dumps a small baggie of powder into a cup and sprays beer from the keg over it. He swirls it with his disgusting finger and hands it to Whitney. She laughs and chugs it, cheering loudly when she's done.

It takes seconds for her to feel it as she stumbles back and forth before spotting me.

"You." She drunkenly points her finger at me. "My nemesis. Fuck you. No wait, you'd enjoy that. Un-fuck you, shithead."

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