Crazy Ex-Fangirl Read online

  Crazy Ex Fangirl

  KITTY BRIGHT

  Crazy Ex Fangirl

  Copyright © 2020 by KITTY BRIGHT

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into 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 author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Published: KITTY BRIGHT 2020

  Editor: Isaac Mitchel

  Cover Design: Little Paint Box Designs

  Cover model: Patrick O’Hara

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue Part I

  Epilogue Part II

  Epilogue Part III

  Epilogue Part IV

  Author Bio

  Outtake I

  Outtake II

  DEDICATION

  In memory of my father. Thank you for introducing me to the secrets of humming.

  PROLOGUE

  LENIC REEVUS

  “FRESH MEAT TO THE SLAUGHTER?”

  LENIC

  “YOU TOLD ME you did make-up tutorials and shit,” I hiss.

  “I like to broaden my horizons,” Felicity replies. “I’ll try anything once.”

  This is bullshit.

  What kind of girl humiliates a man who saved her life only three days ago? If this is payback because of what happened between us…

  “Your fans love it,” she goes on, baiting me. “There are loads of comments expressing how much they love you. Love ‘The Tempest’. Is it really all that bad?”

  I look at her, all peaches and cream. She is playing innocence. She is anything but innocent. My mind is telling me not to take the bait; other body parts are screaming something else.

  “That’s not an angle you wanna see yourself doing. Nobody should see that. I don’t even wanna see me do that. And I definitely don’t want five million people watching me do that.”

  “It’s amazing ... You wouldn’t think a man the size of a mountain could be that … flexible ... It’s impressive. You’re a real inspiration to the big guys.”

  The smirk on her face is enough for me to blow my fuse, but I don’t short circuit. It’s what she wants. It’s why she did this.

  Instead … I’ve got a better way to handle her.

  “I’ve got no problem with nudity, Felicity.” My voice is like a serpent’s just before it strikes.

  If she thinks she can humiliate me with her little stint, uploading an embarrassing video of me online — she’s got another thing coming. And I’m definitely coming hard for her.

  I unbutton my jeans, and throwing it down to the floor I leave myself bare, giving her the full gun show. I don’t blink. And by the way she’s staring at me, I know I’ll walk out of her door as King.

  I wrap my large hands around her tight tiny body. “This. Is. Me,” I tell her. “You can't take me down, Felicity. Because if anyone is doing the taking…” I pull her closer. “…it will be me.”

  I’m like a shooting bullet from a gun. Fast. Powerful. Deadly. She’ll get her shot. But right now, I want her to know just who is bigger, who is stronger.

  “Now, is there anything you want to say to me?”

  “I…” she says weakly, finally speaking up. It’s a blunt contrast from her usual smartarse mouth. “I—”

  She gasps suddenly, covering her mouth in shock, then snaps around to face the computer behind her. I hear the mouse click. I hear her swear.

  Well, that’s a little strange… What the hell’s going on?

  I watch her turn back around. Slowly. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Grabbing my jeans, I put them on. I leave my chest exposed, riding high. “Now you know who’s in control, so don’t think you can humiliate me and get away—” I start to say, but she damn well cuts me off.

  “I was live-streaming.”

  What the hell’s she going on about?

  I grunt, meet her eyes defiantly. “What do you mean ‘live-streaming’?”

  “I mean … this whole love affair … was recorded live.” She hauls her thumb in the direction of a camera. “I was doing a live-streaming event when you broke through my door ... and … I thought it would be … entertaining …. to record us...”

  What.

  The.

  Hell?

  I pause, let the words sink in. “Is this some sick joke?” She shakes her head, and looks ready to provide some sympathy, some remorse, like a normal goddamn person. But then she laughs, like it’s the most hilarious thing to her. Like I am…

  “Fresh meat to the slaughter?”

  “Isn’t it always… between us? she replies, almost sinfully.

  Looking at her, I feel my heart pound harder against my ribcage, but it isn’t anger fuelling it. Twenty-nine’s not that old, but joining the Army at sixteen, spending my teenage years learning to blow shit up … and after what happened … all those years ago … after what I … the reasons I’ve been living a bitter, twisted life … it’s made me feel older than my actual years. But since meeting her, I feel young, dumb and full of … yeah … I feel alive.

  I’m known to rip heads off for the slightest error, so what I do next surprises the hell out of me. My eyes meet the warm brown eyes of the girl who is my Achilles’ heel.

  Felicity Saint James.

  Ah, hell.

  I’m all hers.

  1

  FELICITY SAINT JAMES

  Three days earlier…

  “YOU BAT FOR THE OTHER TEAM AND I DON’T MEAN THE TERRORISTS.”

  FELICITY

  TODAY, I WILL finally nail the moody bastard.

  The Blue Coliseum is packed, the air ventilation system inadequate in midst of a summer heatwave, and heat permeates the place. A film of condensation gathers on the ceiling and drips down the walls from the mass of bodies jammed into the arena.

  It’s Box Fest — a chance to meet your favourite fighters and watch the matches. I am standing in line with my friend, waiting to get an autograph from Lenic “The Tempest” Reevus. The ex-Royal Marine — now a heavyweight champion in bare-knuckle boxing — is built like a Spartan warrior. His pretty-boy face and hard-muscled body screams, ‘Hello girls,’ but his eyes are always permanently set in a deep frown.
It’s like he would rather be shot dead than be caught red-handed with a smile. Most of his shots in the tabloids are of him giving the finger to the camera. Rumoured to have a hot temperament, he’s been known to smash a few paparazzi’s cameras.

  “I think you need to buy official merchandise to get an autograph,” Delphine says, standing behind me. “The board by the entrance states it.”

  “I’ve got merchandise,” I reply. “I just didn’t get it from here.”

  “Your boobs aren’t official WBC merchandise.”

  I look farther down the line and find I am about halfway to the table where he sits. “They’re official. As in real. It should count for something.”

  A distant roar of a crowd rises and falls, rises again. The boxing match is swinging in full force in the main room of the large amphitheatre. “They’ll turn you away. You won’t get his autograph.”

  “I’m not here for his signature, Del.”

  Time and time again, as each fan greets him, Lenic Reevus will use and reuse the same hand gesture that transfers his name to authentic sports memorabilia, and offer a quick fake smile. Not fake, as such. Forced, maybe, or that it’s slightly hellish and uncomfortable for him. Unnatural.

  I don’t need him to smile for what I’ve got planned.

  He appears tired and completely overworked. Despite the fact that he’s been sitting for hours, I can feel the fatigue over his body, enveloping him with darkness, taunting him over the how many hours he still has ahead of him.

  He needs something new, something to look forward to at the end of the evening. The sameness of signings, the desperate women and men, practically begging for his attention is probably getting old. He needs excitement. He needs someone to say something fresh.

  He needs … seven minutes of heaven with me.

  “I’m going to pass him my phone number to hook up. A quickie backstage in his private changing room.”

  “Flick, you can’t,” my friend condemns, her piercing blue eyes on me.

  “Life’s about living in the moment. I’m not going to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. He is everything a woman wants — perfection. A man who dominates with confidence. A man who chases the woman. A man with swagger and drop-dead gorgeous good looks. A man who has a terrifying sexual appetite and a staggering range of sexual technique. That’s Lenic Reevus, I guarantee it.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “In my dreams he is.”

  “Exactly. It’s your twisted reality. It’s just a dream. Men like that don’t exist. Not in the real world. Not for mere mortals like us.”

  “I disagree. I think we should dream big. Why not? Who says we don’t deserve to go get what we want? Men do it all the time going way beyond their league, so why can’t we? Just the other day you were quoting Ghandi: ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’”

  “Are you saying Ghandi is the reason the world needs you to have sex with Lenic Reevus?”

  As the line moves closer, I smile. “Yes. It’s a matter of world affairs that I have sex with him. I need to be that change. If I must have mind-altering orgasms to do it, then so be it.”

  “OK. You’re twenty-four. You don’t need my advice on the proper etiquette on how to get laid. But why are you choosing to hit on him now? You’ve had plenty of opportunities.”

  Lenic Reevus’ gym is just a pebble’s throw away from my house in Stonebrook, but I’ve never had the nerve to walk up to him. Today is different, however. It marks a time I want to forget. My grandpa supported me against the hardship of this day, but he sadly passed away this year. I guess I'm looking for a distraction. Looking to do something wild and reckless to banish the bad memories. A dirty one-night stand with my celebrity crush is the perfect antidote.

  I shrug. “It just feels right. All the sweat, blood and testosterone of the venue will steam things up for us. Filthy sex is the best kind.” I look at her. “It’s not a big deal. I’m seeking a one-time encounter. Not a marriage proposal.”

  She chuckles softly. “Go for it. I think it’ll be amusing to watch you try and catch him. Everyone in my yoga class has asked him out and he’s snubbed every single one of them.”

  “Gay?”

  “God, I hope not. Not after you caught him in the shower last month.” She fans herself with the baseball cap she just purchased from the venue. “It would be such a waste.”

  “Mmmm,” I moan, biting my lip, remembering. “How can I forget the video of the century?”

  A month ago, when the church bells woke me up at five a.m., again, I caught Lenic Reevus running across Old Marsden’s private land. My house and attic bedroom are situated just perfectly to see across Marsden’s land — with an expensive camera and 83x zoom lens attached. I struck gold when he decided to use the private outside shower by the boat sheds.

  My phone buzzes in my purse. I dig it out and raise it to my ear. “Hey, West. Where are you?”

  West is my brother — technically, not my real brother, but you don’t have to be blood-related to be family. He is set to fight against Lenic Reevus in the bare-knuckle boxing semi-finals at the end of the year. I suppose that makes my crush the enemy.

  “Still held up with my manager, babe,” West says. “Just wanted to see how you were holding up. I remembered what day it is.”

  I don’t want to remember that today is the anniversary of my parents’ death. Even though it was the day Grandpa Joe took me in, I don’t like to be reminded of what he was taking me away from. “I’m fine, honestly.”

  “OK, good. Look, change of plans. Meet backstage in my changing room in say … two hours? You still got those backstage passes I gave you?”

  “Yes. Delphine says many thanks.”

  “No problem. Anything for you, Flick. You know that.” I hear static through the line and then muffled voices. Stepping forwards in the line, I wait. “Sorry, my manager wants me to meet with WBC’s coordinator. Might not see me tonight, at all, which means hanging out at our old hang-out will have to wait for another time. But go on ahead backstage without me. I’ve made sure they’ve put your favourite cocktails by the bar. Just give them my name — they’re expecting you.”

  “You are the loveliest man I know, West.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grins down the phone.

  “Don’t worry if you can’t come back to Stonebrook tonight. I’m still taking Delphine along with me to revisit our childhood years by the sea.”

  “I’ll do my best. I really do want to be with you tonight. If I can’t get free, you still up for me coming to yours on Monday?”

  “Sure—”

  “Sorry, Flick. Gotta go.”

  The line goes dead and I slip my phone back into my purse, turning to Delphine. “West is going to try and meet up with us backstage in about two hours.”

  “Backstage partying — can’t wait,” she says, flicking her shoulder-length blonde hair over her head.

  “Neither can I,” I reply, looking at Lenic. “As for Lenic being gay,” I add, continuing our conversation from earlier, “you’re being narrow-minded. I’d buy front-row tickets to that show. There is nothing steamier than two hot men kissing each other.”

  “Only you could be turned on by gay men.”

  “They wouldn’t be gay. They’d be two curious straight men that are really horny one night, and one of them would be Lenic Reevus. He’d be the instigator. The predator.”

  “By any chance, are you drunk?”

  “I might have consumed four glasses of wine at the bar for Dutch courage.”

  “Was that before or after the several shots of Tequila?”

  I ignore her, distracted by Lenic’s large form bent over the table, signing a book, then handing it to the woman in front of him with a quick smile.

  I lick my lips a little. What would it be like to be kissed by those lips as he takes me up against a wall?

  “You’ll need more than Dutch courage — good luck.”

  I realise that as I have
been mulling over my dirty thoughts, the line has moved to the point where I am next in line. A metre away from the table I still for a moment, locking heated eyes with Lenic’s, and brush a hand seductively through my long dark hair. His expression is blank, soon turning into one of impatience.

  I start walking slowly towards him, my five-inch heels clicking against the stone floor. From all the attention I’ve received from the opposite sex this evening, I know I look striking in my skin-tight red dress. I feel confident. I feel ready.

  I hold my breath as his dark gaze holds mine, and smile coyly. It doesn’t draw one from him. I wink. His face doesn’t change, doesn’t budge.

  He sits tall in his chair, waiting for me to reach out with something for him to sign. I pause for a moment. What takes me by surprise is how he looks me in the eye, directly in the eye. It is sad his beautiful face never lights up. Dark. Ominous.

  I can see he is hurting; there is a big hole of missing love, covered by concrete walls, enforced with steel bars. I want to help, need to help. The harsh flash of his dark eyes tells me to leave him be, and listen to my friend’s advice, but I can’t ignore instinct.

  "Hey," he says. I freeze at the sound of his deep, raspy voice, my eyes fixated on his thick, prominent Adam’s apple.

  He said, ‘Hey?’ All his other fans got a ‘hi,’ not a ‘hey.’ ‘Hey’ is more … intimate.

  “Got something for me to sign?”

  “Hey…" I reply, a large smile splitting my face. “I don’t.” I fake a blush. “But I was hoping you could sign something else.” I bat my eyelashes as I grip the edge of the table with my hands and lean forwards, spotlighting my cleavage. I am aware I’m not being subtle at my attempts at flirting. Maybe I should have foregone that double shot of vodka on an empty stomach.

  His eyes roam over me, sizing me up. “Rules clearly state I only sign official WBC goods.” He stabs a finger in the direction of the stalls on the far side of the room. “Buy something, line up, and I’ll be happy to sign.” His voice is toneless. “I wouldn’t want to be charged for sexual assault.”