When Gus Reed moves to Larkwood, a small town with too much money, nobody wants to be friends with him for a multitude of reasons, the most important one being that he doesn't have any. Money, that is. It's a tale as old as time, except apparently f...
A/N: This book was published on another website without my permission, and I'm fucking mad about it, because there's nothing I can do, but the whole thing is available FOR FREE on Lutionary.
Yes, the whole book, including the bonus chapters with all the nasty sex. There is literally nothing stopping you from reading everything on Lutionary, so please, create an account and read it. It costs nothing and it's so worth it. Please read it!!!
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The Sinclairs have been in Larkwood for five centuries. I've been here for five weeks. It's starting to feel like the same thing.
When a guy as tall as me walks through the door, it's hard enough for people not to look, but when he's almost as big in diameter and hairy and appears to have fished his clothes out of a dumpster, what are you gonna do? You're gonna stare, obviously. I get it, I do. It's just that I've had hundreds of eyes glued to my back, my front, and my sides since the day I walked into Larkwood High and I'm kind of over it. When I lived in St. Richard, I got my fair share of judgmental looks, but at least people didn't really know who I was. In a town with a dozen high schools with thousands of students, I was just another kid. Larkwood has the one high school and nothing else, so everyone notices when a new student comes in. Everyone. My only consolation is that they don't know why.
I've heard the rumors. They don't try to hide that they're talking about me. They'll say it right to my face: "Hey, Gus, did your house blow up, for real?" "Dude, I heard you were in jail. What were you in for?" "My dad said you're a thief. Is that true?" Or they'll actually make an effort to ask: "Why did you come to Larkwood, of all places?"
They wouldn't like the answer. I know they wouldn't, because I don't.
So I tell them they're right. Every single time. They laugh and ooh and ah, and the next time they come to me, I tell them a new story. It's the only reason worth going to school. They'll grow tired of it soon enough, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there.
At least I'm not the only one they gossip about. Being obscenely rich is just as bad as looking like a crossbreed between a neanderthal and a giant with empty pockets, and the Sinclairs practically own the town. If I am to believe anything I hear, Haley Sinclair has a kid, three STDs, and an addiction to anything he can put in his body through any possible orifice. Whether any of that is true is unclear. No one's got the balls to ask. I would, but I like my body parts attached to my body. The thing is, I can't really talk to somebody like Haley Sinclair. I might as well put a sign on my back that says, "Bully me!" I may not be the happiest person in the world, but I'm not suicidal, so I'm not gonna do that. Only speak when spoken to. That's the rule.
So when I'm walking home from work on a Friday night and find Haley Sinclair spraying paint on the inside of this badly lit, cold, hundred foot long tunnel near my home, I don't know what to do but freeze and stare. First of all, what the hell is he doing here? Secondly, are those dicks?
