Jessa James - Bad Behavior

Bad Behavior: Copyright © 2020 by Jessa James

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, digital or mechanical including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning or by any type of data storage and retrieval system without express, written permission from the author.

Published by Jessa James

James, Jessa

Bad Behavior

Cover design copyright 2020 by Jessa James, Author

Images/Photo Credit: Design Credit: BookCoverForYou

Publisher’s Note:

This book was written for an adult audience. The book may contain explicit sexual content. Sexual activities included in this book are strictly fantasies intended for adults and any activities or risks taken by fictional characters within the story are neither endorsed nor encouraged by the author or publisher.

This book has been previously published.

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1. Prologue 1 1

2. Prologue 2 2

3. Prologue 3 3

4. Jameson 4

5. Emma

6. Jameson

7. Emma

8. Jameson

9. Jameson

10. Emma

11. Jameson

12. Emma

13. Emma

14. Jameson

15. Jameson

16. Emma

17. Emma

18. Emma

19. Jameson

20. Emma

21. Jameson

22. Emma

23. Jameson

24. Jameson

25. Emma

26. Jameson

27. Emma

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1

1997, Redemption Beach High School

I’m walking along the cement breezeway between classes, examining the scuff marks on my ancient black Converse and listening to my friend Asher as he rattles on.

“The thing about my parents, is that they have a lot of money, but they’re so stingy!” Asher says. “They wouldn’t even let me go on that debate trip, because they said it wasn’t a good use of money.”

He rolls his eyes. I just nod. I’ve heard this story before, but I don’t feel the need to stop him or tell him that. Besides, we’re only a few minutes away from Ms. Harper’s math class

Asher’s always complaining about his parents, which makes sense, I guess. I mean, it’s kind of hard to hear, since my parents ditched me and my two little brothers ages ago. Now we live with my Grandma Jane. She’s nice and she means well, but she’s also really old .

Three years ago, I attempted to have my first sleep over at Asher’s place. Asher and I were only eleven, practically babies.

Asher’s parents took one look at me and decided that I’m a bad influence. No amount of arguing or pleading on Asher’s part would change their minds. They canceled the sleep over, and try to discourage us from hanging out anytime they can.

It’s hard not to hate them for that.

I glance at Asher. With his ironed blue dress shirt and carefully pressed Chinos, he’s pretty much the opposite of me. I’m wearing baggy jeans and a holey Nirvana t-shirt.

We are different in looks too, Asher with his blond hair smoothed back, me with my dark hair spiked up. I’ve always looked like a rebel, Asher has always looked like a choir boy.

That’s how we became friends, actually. Asher was the new kid in school, and he was a prime target for the playground bullies. I looked dark and edgy. That was enough for most of the kids at school. They didn’t want to mess with me.

I stepped in and kept him from getting his head dunked in the toilet. We’ve been friends ever since.

Asher elbows me in the side. “Don’t you think?”

“Err… yeah. Totally,” I say, even though I have no idea what he was talking about. I zoned out there, hard.

“I’m telling you, Zoe Waters got totally stacked over the summer break,” Asher says.

I roll my eyes. The only thing Zoe Waters has done is to start wearing a bra. Other than that, she’s as flat-chested as the rest of our ninth grade class. Believe me, I’ve looked.

We come up to the next building, the clear glass door only partially offsetting the fact that the ugly brown brick building practically eats all the sunlight. I swing the door open, holding it for Asher. Asher walks through, stopping just inside the door.

“Oof,” I say, running into him. “Watch it, dude.”

But Asher just gestures down the long hall, lined on both sides with lockers and classroom doors. At the other end Mr. Smith and Mrs. Song, the principal and school counselor, are walking straight toward us.

I glance around, wondering who is in trouble. I get nervous, even though I don’t think there’s anything I’ve done recently enough to worry.

“Hey, we better get going,” I whisper to Asher. “Come on. Ms. Harper will count us as absent, for sure.”

We start down the hall, but Mr. Smith spots us. An thin older man in black slacks and a pink and grey striped shirt, he looks at me with an intense expression. Ms. Song is a tiny, pretty blonde. She clasps her hands as we grow closer.

That can’t be a good sign.

I glance at Asher, and see the same look on his face as is on my own. He’s trying to figure out which one of us is in trouble with the principal.

“Mr. Hart?” Ms. Song says, her voice squeaky and chipmunk-like. “Could you come with me? I want to talk to you.”

My stomach sinks. What did I do wrong this time? I wrack my brain, but come up empty.

Asher looks at me, conflicted. He’s probably mentally wiping his brow, because it could’ve been either one of us that was in trouble.

“I should go to class, I guess,” Asher says.

“Yeah. I’ll catch up.” I shift my back pack on my shoulder as Asher darts to the side of Mr. Smith and Ms. Song.

“Let’s go,” Ms. Song says. I think I hear a note of sadness in her voice, but I’m not sure. “Come to my office, please.”

She turns and leads the way, her heels clicking on the tiled floor with each step. I am trying to think what this could be about. I’ve been hauled into the principal’s office plenty of times, but never Ms. Song’s office.

When we reach her office, not much bigger than a closet, she directs me to sit down in one of the orange bucket seats in front of her desk.

Mr. Smith closes the door behind us, then actually pats me on the shoulder, which makes me jump. I look up at him, startled.

“We have some hard news, son,” he says, looking woeful. “Your grandmother has passed on. She’s no longer with us.”

My jaw drops open. I feel… odd. Mostly I’m thinking, of all the things that he could’ve said, I was just not expecting that.

“You mean… she’s dead?” I manage.

Mr. Smith shoots Ms. Song a look, then nods to me. “I’m afraid so, yes. One of your neighbors found her. It looks like a heart attack.”