Nemesis Read online

  Praise for Skye McDonald

  [Not Suitable for Work] charmed my socks off… A highly enjoyable read, steaming hot and a fantastic debut!

  Brenna Aubrey, Gaming the System

  Off The Record has a lot of depth to it. There's so much…about the trade-offs we're willing to make to reach what we think is our dream.

  Sarah Smith, Faker

  Nemesis

  Anti-Belle Book 3

  Skye McDonald

  Copyright © 2020 by Skye McDonald

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  “Inside every rude girl, there is a girl with a soft heart who trusted everyone once upon a time.”

  -Unknown

  This book is for her.

  Author’s Note:

  This book contains profanity, whiskey-drinking, and steamy scenes aplenty. You know, the good stuff. It also contains a m/f fight scene that may be intense for sensitive readers. As ever, this is a work of fiction. Read at your discretion, darlings.

  Contents

  1. Liv

  2. Will

  3. Liv

  4. Liv

  5. Will

  6. Liv

  7. Liv

  8. Will

  9. Liv

  10. Liv

  11. Liv

  12. Liv

  13. WIll

  14. Liv

  15. Liv

  16. Will

  17. Liv

  18. Liv

  19. Liv

  20. Will

  21. Liv

  22. Liv

  23. Will

  24. Liv

  25. Liv

  26. Liv

  27. Will

  28. Liv

  29. Liv

  30. Will

  31. Liv

  32. Liv

  33. Will

  34. Liv

  35. Liv

  36. Liv

  37. Will

  38. Liv

  39. Epilogue: Liv

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Skye McDonald

  1

  Liv

  “Hey gorgeous, are you from Tennessee? ‘Cause you’re the only ten I see.”

  “Wow, really, that’s the line you’re leading with?” I shimmied to the beat of the music and laughed at the dude. Corny or not, he was cute, and this was a hell of a party. It wasn’t every day that little old me got invited to a VIP event, but here I was at Jesse Storms’s house, celebrating his new album with Nashville’s elite. Pretty awesome way to kick off summer.

  The guy grinned and put his hands on my waist. We danced together, but I resisted when he tried to bring my hips against his.

  “Aw, come on baby, don’t be shy.”

  His white-capped teeth went well with the white silk shirt he wore, unbuttoned to show off hairless, bronzed pecs. A-list pretty boy or not, I had no interest in grinding his crotch. I flashed my usual “back off” face, a scrunched nose and cute smile while shaking my head.

  He pouted. “But if you don’t come closer, how am I going to put my hand under your skirt and get you off right here on the dance floor?”

  When he grabbed my wrist, I didn’t even think. I pivoted my arm at a hard angle to free from his grasp and slammed my fist down on his forearm. My ankle wobbled in the heels I wore as I stepped back, hands raised in guard stance before I realized the setting and dropped them.

  “What the fuck?” Dude rubbed his arm, his face winced in pain.

  Krav Maga, baby. Looks like that shit comes in handy after all. I’d taken the course over the winter with my friend Megan, never actually thinking it would be something I put into use. My reaction might have been a bit overdramatic, but hey. At least I knew it worked.

  I tossed my hair and scowled. “Who said anything about you molesting me on the dance floor? Did I ask for that? Did I say you could put your hands on me?”

  He’d rolled up his sleeve, I guess to check for bleeding. “Damn, girl, calm down. Molesting? Jesus, don’t get dramatic or anything. Just have a little fun. Don’t be that girl.”

  That girl. I refused to flinch.

  What a term. That Girl who can’t keep her mouth shut. That Girl you meet at a party, charm the hell out of, and then never call again. That Girl who your best friend dates for a few months before finding “the one.” That Girl who has a new obsession every few months but never commits for long.

  That Girl. Yeah, I knew the label well.

  But no girl, woman, or human should ever be touched without permission. And one perk—and sometimes curse—of being That Girl was that I didn’t dilute the truth. When an entitled douchebag needed to hear it, all the better.

  I curled my lip. “Damn, boy, why don’t you calm down? Maybe you’re from L.A. or something, all big shot with your rock-star friends, but in Tennessee we have manners. And we don’t take kindly to guys who don’t ask permission before putting their hands on a lady. Now, go on, get!” I stomped my foot and pointed across the room. My southern twang had grown with every syllable until I sounded like a caricature. Keeping a straight face at such a performance was difficult. Luckily, he gave me one more sneer and slithered away like the snake he was.

  I looked around for my friends, but all I could see were glitzy people grinding on each other and swallowing pills with champagne. Everyone wore clothes I could never afford. For a moment, I felt out of place among all these VIPs.

  Stop that. Are you going to let that slimeball ruin your night, or are you going to get a drink and resume dancing your ass off?

  Much better plan. I weaved through the crowd to the bar, only to bump into a very cute fella en route. His name was Seth, and he had a lot of swagger about the fact that he was one of the hosts. He also knew how to flirt without being a creep. I declined his invite to stay for the after-party, but he turned the night around.

  Moving on always was the best way to get rid of bad vibes.

  Two days after the party, I sat in my parents’ dining room for Sunday dinner and wished we could gather in the breakfast nook instead. In there, I could eat with one foot on the comfy Parsons chairs I’d picked out when Mom remodeled. In here, the rickety wooden seats with needlepoint cushions forced my posture rigid. Mom called it “being fancy.” I found the stiffness a little too fitting with the tone of the meal.

  “Did everyone have a good week?” Mom passed the peas as she spoke. “Olivia, what have you been up to?”

  We even have to use the fancy version of names, really Mom? Should I call you Claire in that case? I can’t be Liv with a linen napkin in my lap?

  But Mom was the sweetest, and so I swallowed a bite of a roll and played along. “I was at a party Friday. That was kind of cool. Did you hear that a local guy won on the show American Pop?” Only Mom nodded. “Well, it was his event. He’s recording here.”

  “That’s where you were?” Tom asked.

  I nodded at my brother. “Yeah, Nick’s doing his album.”

  Mom pounced. “And who is Nick?”

  “Oh, uh, Nick’s just a friend.”

  In a classic older brother move, Tom’s light brown eyes glinted at me being busted. I’d inherited Dad’s Italian genes with my dark hair and eyes, but Tom and Mom had fairer, softer features. Seated side by side and both assessing me, they made quite the picture of scrutiny.

  A large gulp of water dismissed the heat that threatened to creep up my cheeks. Nick and I had let the term “friend” get too flexible lately. Just a couple of silly make-out sessions, no big deal. Dating your ex’s best friend, one of your de
arest friends in the world, is not an option. Not like we’re heading that way or anything.

  God, we’ve got to cool it.

  Mom gave me the eye but spared more inquiry. “I’m glad you had fun. So, Will, how’s work?”

  Beside me, Tom’s best friend set his fork down. He scratched the weekend stubble on his square jaw as if about to give the World’s Most Interesting Reply. “Work is crazy since we expanded operations to Chicago. I’ve been up there more than I’ve been home in the past three months.”

  Mom and Dad stopped eating and nodded like bobbleheads while their surrogate son droned on. His position as a big-shot marketing director at one of America’s fastest growing cellular companies always got the ‘rents drooling with admiration. Even Tom’s stories from his nursing job were hardly competition to the glorious William Langer’s tales. Only Tom’s adorable daughter, Maddie, could compete in terms of entertainment, but that’s a grandchild’s privilege.

  I picked at my peas and wished the afternoon would shuffle along.

  Why hadn’t I told them about the other part of my weekend? Why had I defaulted to parties and “just a friend” stories when I had, in fact, done something more purposeful that day? Okay, purposeful might be a stretch, but giving up my summer Friday to volunteer at Maddie’s daycare had felt pretty good. They’d been short-staffed, and Rachel, Maddie’s teacher, had asked if I was free to lend a hand as a “parent chaperon”. I’d planned to hang with some friends that day, enjoying freedom from the drudgery of my corporate mailroom job. Instead, hours flew by as I monitored a coloring station, doled out snacks, and sang songs.

  And loved every minute of it.

  Maybe that’s why I hadn’t said anything. My parents were sweet to ask about my life, but we knew the score. Just like I had my place in my friend group, just like people who met me described me as cool, bold, or bitch depending on what they thought they knew, so too did my family look at me in a certain role.

  With them, I was still the baby. Mom and Tom especially had always doted on me. Having a protective big brother who supported every whim I’d ever had probably had a lot to do with why I was so comfortable being myself and speaking my mind. No one thought twice if I blurted out more details than I should—that slip about Nick being a great example. My latest obsessions, from piano lessons to axe throwing, were all about “finding myself.”

  So, volunteering at a daycare would’ve registered as deeply as dancing at a pop star’s party. Silly as it was, helping Rachel had meant more to me than my family would understand. Those basic activities had somehow equated to a deep sense of fulfillment that I rarely got from a day of work.

  By the time Mom brought out cake, I’d folded a napkin into an origami bird to keep myself entertained while Dad asked Will about statistical data as if he knew anything about it. I caught Tom trying not to laugh and grinned at him, momentarily blocking out Will’s voice.

  Maddie let out a wail from the bedroom as Mom cut the first slice, so I pushed my chair back and hustled to get her before anyone else could respond.

  “Hey little girl,” I cooed as I pushed the door open.

  My niece was sitting up, blinking blearily amid a fort of pillows on my parents’ bed. Her cries quieted when I crawled over and nuzzled my head against her belly.

  “Livi,” she murmured.

  “You hungry, Mads?”

  “Pink!” She grabbed a fistful of my hair and stared at the dip-dyed ends.

  “Yep, still pink honey. Same as it was before your nap. Let’s go find some food, okay?”

  “Airplane?”

  That big-eyed plea won every time. I rolled to my back and hoisted her onto my shins, laughing when she shrieked with delight.

  “Airplane! Airplane!” Her ecstatic squeals lasted until I lowered her down and lifted her off the bed.

  I grunted as her little arms circled my neck. “Ooh, you’re getting so big. Aunt Livi’s going to have start weightlifting to keep carrying you around.”

  “I want chicken.”

  “Very logical reply, my love. Chicken it shall be.”

  I bumped the cracked door open with my hip to find Will in the hallway, his hand on the bathroom doorknob.

  Our eyes met, and he sneered. “American Pop, really?”

  It took me a beat to realize that was a dig at my story earlier. Dammit, always be prepared with a comeback when he’s around. Recover, quick! “That shirt, really?”

  He shook his head and shut the door behind him. Maddie laughed when I rolled my eyes and poked out my tongue. We traded a shrug—a gesture she’d learned recently—and continued to the kitchen. That kind of exchange was a typical conversation for Will and me. I’d gotten used to his snark years ago and had no problem giving it back or ignoring him completely.

  Everyone drank iced tea on the back porch in the June warmth for another hour or so. When the glasses were empty and Mom couldn’t stuff us with anymore treats, I buckled my niece into the back of Tom’s SUV and jumped in the front seat. Since we lived together, carpooling to family dinner was usually a given.

  “Liv, we need to talk,” he said on the ride. I looked over, but he shook his head. “We’ll have a beer when we get home.”

  I itched with curiosity by the time Maddie was settled in with a coloring book and a cartoon. Tom and I went into the kitchen. He flipped the tops off two Jackalope IPAs and pushed one across the table to me. Straddling a chair backwards, he got right to the point. “You’re not going to like this, but Will needs a place to live this summer. They’re renovating his building, and he’s got to relocate until it’s done. I said I’d talk to you about him staying here.”

  I coughed on my beer. “What? Him? Here? How long?”

  Tom sighed. “Maybe until the end of August.”

  “You’re kidding, right? This is a joke.”

  “Look, I know you two don’t get along—”

  “Understatement much?”

  Tom scowled at my interruption. His voice had an edge when he continued. “Yeah, but he’s been my closest friend through everything. He’d do anything for me—for the family—and you know it.” He took a breath. “Besides that, he offered to pay me the cost of his rent for the two months. Liv, it would cover Maddie’s daycare for almost six months.”

  My mouth hung open. “Shit.”

  “But your name is on this lease, too, and I won’t say yes if you’re not okay with it.”

  “Will knows you waited to ask me?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Did that piss him off?”

  “No. He knew you wouldn’t like it, but, again: your house, too.”

  I puckered my lips and listened to Maddie sing to herself while I thought this over.

  Tom and I moved in together two years ago. Maddie was only a year old then, and Tom was a grieving widower. His wife Jenna had died from a blood clot, a complication post-pregnancy they said, but reasons didn’t matter when someone’s world crashed down. I was 24, on my last attempt at college, and had gotten the mailroom job. Moving in with the two of them was one of the greatest decisions I ever made. They gave me purpose and grounded me, and I adored the little family we had become.

  But Will Langer.

  Will and Tom had been friends since they shared a dorm freshmen year of college. Completely different majors didn’t diminish their friendship, and they lived together for all four years. Will was Tom’s best man at his wedding. To my parents, he was basically another son. He was from Texas if I remembered correctly, but he never mentioned his parents at all.

  Facts aside, the man got under my skin like no one else. Any complimentary description I could offer—he was intelligent, confident, dedicated—was eclipsed by the arrogant attitude and brooding quiet that made his presence a heavy weight in the room as far as I was concerned.

  That weight wasn’t helped by the almost palpable dislike he had for me. I made sure the animosity was a two-way street, but whenever I opened my mouth, I could count on hearing a deep sigh
. I’d have told him off years ago if it weren’t for how much he’d done for my brother over the years, especially how supportive he was when Jenna died. And he was great with my parents. Since I loved my family so much, I kept our little fire at a low simmer rather than letting it boil over, but it wasn’t easy.

  Being That Girl sucked, but it was a better title than useless. And Will had made it clear for years that that’s what he thought of me.

  I avoided the jerk as much as possible.

  That wasn’t always true. I used to avoid him because I had a massive, top-secret crush on him. I also used to be a silly, dreamy kid with her head in the clouds.

  But, money for Maddie’s daycare. I couldn’t say no to that. We never worried about making rent or eating or anything, but Tom and I weren’t rich by a long shot. Raising a child alone was expensive, and to deny him such a cash source just because Will and I didn’t get along would be colossally selfish.

  I sighed again and drained the beer in a few pulls. “You know I’m going to say yes, you douche.”

  He chuckled. “You don’t have to. Maddie can just, I don’t know, start staying at home during the day. She’s not too young, right?”

  “Three years old? I’d say so. Hell, why haven’t we gotten her a job yet?”

  “Pack her Dora suitcase. We’ll ship her to the salt mines tomorrow.”