The Bad Boy’s Tutor: Hidden Masks Book 1 Read online

  The Bad Boy’s Tutor

  Hidden Masks Book 1

  Nia Arthurs

  First published in Belize, C.A. 2019

  Copyright © Nia Arthurs

  Cover Design: Oliviaprodesign

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be circulated in any writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Something About Her

  2. Bad Boys Are Trending

  3. Who The Masks Are

  4. Mess With Her, Mess With Me

  5. Why Do You Hate Me?

  6. Apology Dinner

  7. Air Kisses and Fake Smiles

  8. I Am English, English Don’t Care

  9. Pineapples On Pizza?

  10. Should I Fall

  11. The Lies We Tell

  12. Remember His Face

  13. It’s A Date

  14. A New Addition

  15. The Baby Blindside

  16. Wish Them Dead

  17. Do It Yourself

  18. Heathcliff Has Friends

  19. It’s Okay, It’s Not Love

  20. Bruises On My Heart

  21. Pay Or Die

  22. Maybe I Love You

  23. Dia De Los Muertos

  24. Take No Prisoners

  25. When Love Lies

  26. Stamped With A Kiss

  A Word From The Author

  Other Books by this Author

  Sneak Peek

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter 1

  Prologue

  A SILENT UNDERSTANDING

  Monique

  Sometimes I wished I were an orphan.

  Tonight, I’d stormed into The Greasy Monkey, searching for my father. Cheap perfume clashed with cigarette smoke. The air reeked of dirty money and broken families. Shouts of anger and victory blared louder than the wild music tearing through the speakers.

  When it came to vices, The Greasy Monkey was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Everything from gambling to prostitution was offered here.

  My dad didn’t mess with other women so I knew he wouldn’t be in the backrooms getting a potential STD. Instead, I’d found him panting in front of the roulette table, half our rent and grocery money gone.

  Why is he so stupid?

  There was a saying about insanity—doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Pretty much summed up my father. The past ten years, Dad had been clamoring after his dream of winning big. Hope held him captive, but it never paid.

  Except when it did. Then Dad would honor the victory and ignore the sea of losses.

  It was the thrill of it, he once said, the danger of losing, teetering on the edge and pulling back in the nick of time.

  His thirst for excitement was what kept him playing. What kept us poor. What made us miserable.

  “One more, Momo!” Dad set the few chips he had left on the table. His ‘secret weapon’ of choice was instincts, of which—by his losing streak—he had none. “This is the lucky one. I can feel it.”

  I shuffled from one foot to the other. “You said that twice already.”

  “Three’s a charm.”

  I stepped closer and grabbed the sleeve of his T-shirt, tugging lightly. “My graduation’s in fifteen minutes.”

  “That tonight?”

  I jerked my chin down.

  “You graduating middle school, baby?” The man to Dad’s right raked my body with his gaze. I resisted the urge to shudder, knowing instinctually that it would only please him.

  Tito Dominguez, who insisted that all women call him ‘Dom’, was my father’s gambling buddy. Ten years younger than my father at thirty-five, Tito could blend in with the over-forty crowd. He was short and balding. An earring twinkled from the flab of his right ear.

  Dad met Tito last year. They became fast friends and he frequently invited him over to play cards and dominoes. Dad even let him crash in the guest room when Tito’s apartment was being bug-sprayed.

  The night Tito stayed over, I had an intense feeling that I should lock my door and, a little after midnight when I heard the knob rattling, I was glad I did.

  Since then, I’ve tried to steer clear of Tito and he’s ignored me.

  Until now.

  “No wonder you look so pretty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress, baby.” Tito gazed at my cleavage and licked his thick lips.

  I pulled the collar of my dress higher and stared at Dad. “Please. We need to go.”

  “After this one.” Dad pressed a finger to his cheek. “Come give me a kiss for good luck.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was kiss him, but I bent over and placed a peck on his cheek. He laughed and smacked the table. “Now I’m ready.”

  “Me too.” Tito tapped his jaw.

  A snarl crept over my face.

  Dad noticed my expression and chuckled again. “That’s enough. Let’s finish the game. I have somewhere to be.”

  Tito conceded, probably because people were around and even in a hellhole like The Greasy Monkey, hitting on a minor was frowned upon. He placed his bet and the others around the table quickly followed suit.

  The wheel spun. Everyone watched the ball dance along the ridges. No one spoke. No one moved. The wheel was the puppet master, my father and his friends were the slaves.

  I glanced away from the table, desperate for something else to focus on. Watching my father gamble our money away always made me sick.

  My eyes skittered around the room. There were seven other tables in this area. To the right, the bar. To the left, the exits. Far ahead, heavy drapes led to the private entertainment section. The curtains were red.

  Like blood.

  Like passion.

  Like pain.

  I sometimes wondered why the women in those rooms took up this work. Did they enjoy it? Dread it? Tolerate it? I wondered where their families were and if they even had any. I wondered if they would leave if they had a better option.

  Maybe someday, I’d gather the courage to ask.

  Suddenly, the red curtains fluttered, soaring into the air like graceful claws. Two figures stumbled through and landed in the gambling hall.

  Both men were tall with broad shoulders and black hair, but one was shorter and leaner than the other. He wore a black jacket, blue jeans and sneakers. His chest heaved with every breath. He was glaring. I was all the way across the room, but I felt the heat of it.

  “Dad!” Black Jacket yelled.

  Smack!

  I registered the sound and Black Jacket’s head flinging to the side first. My hand crawled to my cheek and I gasped as if I’d been slapped. The father’s hand was still in the air, tilted slightly as if waiting to deliver another blow.

  Black Jacket was looking my way now, though he probably didn’t see me. His black hair fringed his forehead. His body was twisted from the force of the slap. It must hurt, but he didn’t flinch or fight back.

&nbs
p; Something about him seemed familiar. He was younger than I thought. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Did he go to the high school in town?

  Then it hit me. James Sawyer. Arch-nemesis of my best friend, Harley. James was in high school. Popular. Handsome. Rich. Harley said girls threw themselves at him like he was some sort of celebrity.

  I’d cursed James so much this past year that I figured I would hate him on sight.

  But I didn’t.

  Sympathy surged through my chest. For all my father’s flaws, he had never put his hands on my mother or me. My life was rough, but who was I to complain? Some people had it worse.

  A shout of triumph tore my gaze away from James and his father. Dad grabbed my hand and thrust it high in the air. “We did it, Momo! We won! I’ll buy you a feast tonight.”

  “Dad,” I groaned

  Every eye in the hall bore into us. I peeked to the side. My pulse skittered when I found James Sawyer looking right at me. His father said something, but I couldn’t hear it above Dad’s noise.

  “Wish me congratulations, baby!” Tito yelled in my ear. He tried to hug me and I scrambled out of his reach, temporarily losing sight of James.

  When I swung that way again, I found James and his dad walking toward the door. For a second, I thought he had forgotten me. Then he looked up again. Our eyes caught. Held.

  I knew I should look away, but I couldn’t.

  So we just stared at each other.

  Me and James Sawyer.

  Then he disappeared through the door and, like the ghosts of the night, he was gone.

  1

  Something About Her

  Six Months Later

  James

  I drew my fingers over the guitar strings. It was a Gibson ES-335. Exquisitely crafted. Twenty-two frets. Insane pickup coverage. Cost just under five grand, but it was worth every penny.

  I stopped, rested my palm against the neck of the guitar and fiddled with the knobs on the amp beneath my feet. The speaker shrieked, but I quickly turned the dial and killed the feedback. After I increased the volume a little, I played a chord and listened to it ring.

  Beautiful.

  The very tone that I wanted.

  Footsteps clattered over the wooden podium. I glanced up. A smile grew when I noticed Baz Amudo striding toward me.

  He wore a black beanie, a white T-shirt, and torn up jeans. His skin was a few shades lighter than the hat. Paired with his big eyes and plump lips, Baz had a unique face the girls either hated or loved.

  Most of the time, Baz got the love.

  It helped that he was as cool and chill as a weed head.

  Not that he smoked. If Baz even thought of doing something illegal, his traditional African parents would bundle him up and send him packing.

  “You’re late,” I said, setting my guitar on the stand. It took concentration to climb out of the tangle of mike and instrument wires without tripping. “The rest of the guys already tested their stuff.”

  “Sorry. Your fangirls are crowding the doors to the gym. I had to fight them off to get here.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I think I got whacked with a sign.”

  I laughed. “Half of those girls are there for you.”

  “Half? Maybe an eighth.”

  “A quarter.”

  “You’re being generous.”

  “I’m being honest.” I watched as Baz slung the straps of his bag off and set his case on the floor. He unzipped it carefully and tugged a heavy blue bass from the depths. I handed him a plug.

  He accepted it with a nod of his head. “You know, I’m pretty sure some of those girls don’t even go to our school.”

  “Our band’s getting more popular.”

  “No, you’re getting more popular. I don’t know how Eric sleeps at night. He must be burning with jealousy.”

  Eric was the lead vocal of our group. He was also the name of our act. When he proposed his idea to start a band, we signed on for the love of music and not for the fame.

  That’s still the case for me, but I know it’s a blow to Eric when most of our school calls us ‘James’s Band’ instead of ‘Eric Monglow’.

  “Eric has a fragile ego, but he’s got nothing to worry about. I won’t commit mutiny. If I wanted to be the front man, I would have bailed a while ago.”

  “Same here.” Baz thumped a funky rhythm on the bass. The sound resonated through the gym and sent the wires over the snare drum into a frenzy. I lowered the volume so the bass didn’t shatter the walls and bobbed my head as Baz did his thing.

  His fingers stretched over the frets, dancing on the strings like a drunken spider. I stared in awe. If he put his mind to it, Baz could be a one-man show.

  “Sick.” I slapped his palm when he was done. “You’ve got to teach me how to do that.”

  “Please. Like there’s an instrument you can’t play.”

  “The only one I play well is guitar. I’m not that good on the bass yet.”

  “It’s a matter of time,” Baz said. “Could you mute this for me?” I pressed a button to kill the volume and he yanked the plug out. Moving carefully, he set his bass back in the case and sighed. “I need to get me a stand.”

  “I’ve got an extra one at home.”

  “That’s alright.”

  “I insist.” I jumped off the stage and slapped his back. “They’ll open the doors soon. Let’s find Eric and Duncan.”

  We headed behind the stage where seniors were rushing back and forth preparing for the rest of the rally. Since we were lowly sophomores, most of them didn’t pay us any attention.

  But one girl shirked the status quo.

  “James!” A high-pitched cry pierced the air. A fluff of red and white hurtled toward me. Marissa Stevenson. Cheerleader. Easy lay. General nuisance. “Were you the one playing the bass just now?”

  “No, that was me.” Baz raised his hand.

  “Oh.” For a second, irritation flickered in her green eyes. Then she brightened. “I can’t wait for you guys to play today. Thank you so much for filling in at the last minute.”

  “No problem.”

  “Have you seen Eric?” Baz asked.

  “He was somewhere around here.” She whirled around. Baz and I skittered back to avoid getting whipped by her long, blonde ponytail. “I think he was talking to someone from the school paper.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded at her and strode forward.

  Marissa wrapped her thin fingers around my arm and hauled me back. “Can I… talk to you?”

  “Right now?” I checked my watch.

  “It’s important.”

  I sighed and turned to Baz. “Go on without me. I’ll catch up.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly. With one last look at me and Marissa, he trotted away.

  I shook Marissa’s hand free. “What?”

  “You haven’t called in a while.”

  And you’ve been calling non-stop. “Because I’ve been busy. We’re almost at mid-terms and my dad will kill me if I fail again.”

  She ran a hand down my arm. Her eyes glittered as she said, “I’ll tutor you.”

  Yeah, right. Even though she was annoying, Marissa was hot. We end up in a room alone together and bam, somehow I’d find myself naked and on top of her.

  As much as I enjoyed hooking up with Marissa, I could sense that she was starting to develop feelings for me.

  Which was a problem.

  I’d promised myself that I would never treat women the way my dad did. Marissa chased me first and she knew from the start that I wasn’t interested in commitment. Still, she insisted. And I gave in because I’m only human.

  Every time we had sex, she probably thought she had changed my mind.

  But she didn’t.

  And she can’t.

  No one can.

  “James?” She let her arm drop. “We can start today? You can come to my place?”

  I wanted to cut things off before they got complicated, but I didn’t want to hurt her. “Later. Let’s talk later,
okay?”

  “Sure.” She beamed a cheerful smile that, I was sure, was for my sake. “Great. Yeah, I’m super busy so... I’ll check my schedule.”

  My phone buzzed. I tapped the screen and saw an unread message.

  BAZ: We’re by the lockers.

  I pocketed my phone. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Bye! Maybe we can meet up after the rally!”

  I didn’t answer.

  As I strode down the hall, my head ached. I realized I was annoyed. With Marissa, yeah. But mostly with myself. I should have held it in, showed some control. Told her to put her bikini back on when she cornered me at the pool party two months ago.

  There was no way I could end things with Marissa without it getting messy. Not when she was being so transparent with her feelings.

  You’re just like your father.

  It was the worst insult anyone could hurl at me, and one I liberally used to berate myself.

  I was seething with self-hatred by the time I spotted Baz, Eric and Duncan huddled around a girl near the lockers. Since she was so short, I couldn’t see her over their shoulders, but I could tell they were transfixed.

  I drew closer. The sound of my footsteps caused Baz to turn around. He waved me over, wearing a big grin. I’d known Baz for almost two years and it was the first time I’d seen the guy that excited.

  Curious now, I sprinted toward them and stopped short when I saw the girl that held their attention.