Misfit (Prep Book 1), page 1
Praise for Elle Kennedy
“You won’t regret taking a risk on Elle Kennedy.”
— Hypable
“With all the heart, witty banter, and toe-curling romance that you’d expect from an Elle Kennedy novel, The Play is a fantastic addition to one of my all-time favorite series!”
— #1 New York Times bestselling author Sarah J. Maas
“An opposites-attract romance with plenty of laugh-out-loud humor, steamy love scenes and swoony, heartfelt romance…a phenomenal reading experience.”
— USA Today, about The Chase
“Kennedy fans and newcomers will relish the well-crafted plot, witty dialogue, and engaging characters.”
— Publishers Weekly, about Hotter Than Ever
“A steamy, glitzy, and tender tale of college intrigue.”
— Kirkus Reviews, about The Chase
“Another addictive read from Elle Kennedy! The Play is a steamy, swoon-worthy romance you won’t want to put down!”
— #1 New York Times bestselling author Vi Keeland
“When I pick up an Elle Kennedy book, I know I’m not putting it down until I’m done.”
— International bestselling author K.A. Tucker
Misfit
Welcome to Sandover Prep, where the delinquents roam…and you can’t trust a soul.
Finding out your mom is marrying some rich dude you’ve never met is enough to make any eighteen-year-old guy’s head spin. But for RJ SHAW, it only gets worse: he’s being sent to Sandover Prep for senior year. If there’s one place a misfit hacker like RJ doesn’t belong, it’s an ivy-covered all-boys boarding school for rich delinquents.
RJ knows his stay at Sandover will be temporary. Which means there’s no point making friends or trying to fit in. But the plan to remain antisocial goes awry when he meets a gorgeous girl in the woods on campus. SLOANE TRESSCOTT is pure temptation, with a sharp tongue and an ice princess attitude RJ’s determined to crack. Except there’s a catch. Sloane is the one girl he is forbidden from touching.
The headmaster’s daughter.
Good thing RJ doesn’t believe in rules. Sure, Sloane insists she’s swearing off guys this year, but their connection is impossible to deny. He wants her bad, and he’s going to win her over if it kills him.
Unless her ex-boyfriend kills him first.
The ruling king of Sandover will stop at nothing to get rid of his competition. Luckily, RJ’s unwittingly made some friends—his new stepbrother FENN, a pretty boy with a self-destructive streak; LAWSON, self-proclaimed agent of chaos; and SILAS, the All-American Good Guy who can’t actually be as nice as he seems.
If RJ wants to survive prep school and win Sloane’s heart, he’ll need to adapt—and fast.
Contents
1. RJ
2. Sloane
3. RJ
4. Fenn
5. RJ
6. RJ
7. Sloane
8. Silas
9. RJ
10. Sloane
11. RJ
12. Fenn
13. Sloane
14. RJ
15. Lawson
16. Sloane
17. RJ
18. Sloane
19. RJ
20. RJ
21. Silas
22. Sloane
23. RJ
24. Sloane
25. RJ
26. RJ
27. RJ
28. Sloane
29. Sloane
30. Lawson
31. RJ
32. RJ
33. Sloane
34. RJ
35. Lawson
36. RJ
37. Fenn
38. RJ
39. Sloane
40. Sloane
41. RJ
42. Lawson
43. Sloane
44. Silas
45. Sloane
46. RJ
47. Fenn
48. Sloane
49. Lawson
50. RJ
51. Sloane
52. RJ
53. RJ
54. Lawson
55. RJ
56. Sloane
57. Fenn
EPILOGUE
Sneak Peek: Rogue
Other Titles by Elle Kennedy
About the Author
Chapter 1
RJ
“Eat up, bud. I’m getting married.”
Those were the first words to exit Mom’s mouth when I walked into the kitchen this morning. Naturally, I assumed I was still dreaming. That wasn’t really my mother making pancakes at the stove, casually talking about her spontaneous marriage. Clearly I was embroiled in one of those off-kilter dreams where nothing made any sense.
But nope, I was awake. Awake and apparently in the midst of Mom’s midlife crisis. I knew she was dating some new guy these past few months, but it’s not like I gave it much thought. My mother’s relationships never last.
And yet here I am, barely eight hours later, pressed into an ill-fitting tux and pushing lumps of salmon around my plate beside a similarly blindsided stranger I’m supposed to call my stepbrother.
Meanwhile, our respective and alleged adults grope each other around the dance floor, creating nightmare fuel to some graphic ’90s R&B slow jam.
Fuck me with a sledgehammer.
“Maybe it was the fish,” Fennelly says next to me, looking a little green, “but I’m starting to feel like something crawled in my stomach and died.”
Or maybe it’s his dad getting handsy all over my mother in front of a roomful of minimum-wage waiters who aren’t getting tipped enough for this shit.
“When the apocalypse comes,” I mutter at my own slow, painful torture, “and some dude with a baseball bat is standing over me asking if I have any last words for my maker, I’ll tell him I’ve stared into the face of darkness and fear has no power over me.”
Fenn grins and knocks back another glass of champagne like he was raised on the stuff straight out of his mother’s tits. They ought to get him a hose. Or an IV.
I haven’t decided what I think of him yet. We met for the first time at the altar only an hour ago, standing on either side of the aisle while our parents made their vows to an otherwise empty room. I’m still trying to get a read on this blond pretty boy with the outline of a flask protruding through his pocket.
His name is Fennelly Bishop, which is a fucking stupid name, but then again I’m not one to talk. Like me, he rebels against the name, and told me to call him Fenn. I suspect he’s an athlete, or at least good at sports, because he’s got that tall, muscled build that doesn’t look like it came from a gym. Although I guess he could have a super-expensive personal trainer on retainer, some burly dude who shows up at his huge mansion and gets paid two hundred K a year to keep this blue-eyed rich boy in peak shape. They’re money people, Fenn and his dad. It wafts off them. The way he sticks his pinky out and leans back in his chair, legs splayed, as though we’re all here to serve and amuse him with our quaint peasant talents.
“When I write my memoirs,” he says, unraveling the bowtie around his neck, “I’ll remember this as the day I learned what the opposite of porn is.”
I snicker quietly. Dude’s funny, I’ll give him that.
Fenn barely has to raise his empty glass in order to get a refill from one of the half-dozen waiters in tuxedos skulking in the shadows of this swanky country club ballroom. It’s the kind of place where the silverware is made from actual silver. Someone rushes over and offers to pour, but Fenn swipes the bottle instead. Part of me wonders if I’ll have to leave here through a metal detector. The country club is in Greenwich, apparently not too far from David’s mansion, which I assume is a palace, based on this club’s sizable membership fee. We’re worlds away from the lower-middle-class suburbs where Mom and I live on the other side of the state.
“Chick over there? She’s looking at you.” Fenn nods past my shoulder.
Nobody ever said I was polite, so I turn around to follow his gaze. A short brunette in a server’s outfit flashes me a coy smile before raising one brow.
I turn back. “Nah, I’m good,” I tell him.
“I don’t know, dude.” Fenn cocks his head in appraisal. “She’s kinda cute. I don’t think anyone would notice if you took her into the cart house or something.”
The last thing on my mind is hooking up. It’ll take weeks for me to be able to unsee the display of parental vertical sex currently assaulting my eyes. Fenn must read the notion on my face because he chuckles and pushes a stray glass of something at me.
“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Neither the time nor place. Sorta like having a wank when I know my dad’s in the next room. Can’t get hard. Doesn’t seem right, you know?”
The guy’s too into sharing.
“Lucky for me,” he adds with a shrug, “he’s not around much.”
From the dance floor, my mom waves at us. Then she promptly forgets our existence again when Fenn’s father cups her ass over her white satin gown. He gives it a hearty squeeze, and I almost hurl. As far as weddings go, this one is an understated affair. There are more staff at this thing than guests. Just the four of us, all dressed up for this cozy little exercise in psychological warfare.
“This is painful,” I groan into the glass of whatever I don’t taste as I swallow. “It’s like watching a sex scene on TV next to your parents.”
“Nah, like watching your parents in a sex scene on TV next to your parents.” Clearly disgusted but oddly entranced, Fenn can’t look away. He washes the thought down with a gulp of champagne.
“I’m both ashamed and disgusted with myself.”
As an act of mercy, Fenn shoves the bottle at me. “Here, man. Never too early to develop problematic coping mechanisms.”
I tip the heavy bottle to my lips. “Cheers.”
The thing about expensive champagne, it drinks fast. I barely notice Fenn pass off the empty bottle for a second. Our parents continue rubbing against each other in slow motion to a soundtrack of retro cringe. Meanwhile, the sadistic DJ is on his phone checking Twitter, oblivious to our pain.
“This is weird, right?” Fenn is now busy making deformed origami from an embroidered cloth napkin. “I mean if the two of them died right now. Let’s say a chandelier mercifully falls on their heads while we’re sitting here. And a shard of glass flies across the room to slit my aorta and I nearly bleed out before slipping into a coma—you would legally have to decide when they unplugged me.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
The guy chugs a bottle of champagne and thinks he’s Nietzsche.
“I’m saying, that’s a lot of responsibility. Being family. What do we even know about each other?” He pauses, puzzling over my face so long I get uncomfortable and lean away. Drunks are known for sudden outbursts. “I’ve already forgotten your name,” he says to his own astonishment. “Shit, I actually forgot it.”
I can’t help but grin. “RJ,” I supply, just as another slow jam fills the ballroom. Christ. Enough. I want to murder this DJ. He must be doing this on purpose.
“Is that short for something?” Fenn asks.
“Like did my parents just pick their favorite letters of the alphabet while the doctor was dangling me upside down by my foot?”
“Did they?”
“Nah. It’s short for Remington John.” I pull out my phone, shielding the screen slightly as I find a MacBook on the Wi-Fi network. Call it an educated guess, but I surmise the machine going by “Grandmaster Gash” belongs to the tool in the headphones who’s running the music.
“Remington John?” Fenn snorts loudly. “How blue collar,” he remarks, an undercurrent of rich-boy prick bubbling to the surface.
Distracted, I open Spotify in the background and try to remember what we’re talking about. “My dad had a thing for David Carradine in the ’80s. I don’t know. What the hell kind of Sound of Music name is Fennelly?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “My dad would probably say it was an old family name. But I’m pretty sure my mom got it off a baby blog.”
In the middle of an especially torrid display to Chris Isaac’s “Wicked Game,” Weird Al suddenly comes blaring through the audio system.
The DJ throws off his headphones and nearly falls over on his stool trying to figure out why he can’t get control of his playback.
“The hell just happened?” Fenn glances at me, then at my phone. “Did you do that?”
I roll my eyes. “I wish. I’m just checking texts over here.”
I drop the Wi-Fi connection and pocket my phone, allowing the DJ to take back control as Mom and David saunter over. Sweaty, smiling, and with no remorse for their actions.
“Time to cut the cake, don’t you think?” Mom’s smile is sincere and joyful, which cracks through a sliver of my bitter cynicism at this spontaneous upending of both our lives. Then she notes the two empty bottles of champagne and raises an eyebrow at me.
I give her a what-can-ya-do shrug. Sorry not sorry. I mean, shit, they should have handed out Vicodin party favors. That dance floor routine alone was like KGB waterboarding torture.
“You were right.” David, my mother’s new fully articulated checkbook, accepts the scotch on the rocks deposited into his hand by a dutiful waiter. He takes a quick sip. “We would have done better to spring for a band.”
“Not too late to throw this shindig in the back of the jet and head to Vegas,” Fenn says, a mocking note to his voice.
It doesn’t escape me that he says the jet. Not “a” jet, as in any old jet. But THE jet, implying the Bishops are in possession of their own private plane. Fuck me. What world is this and how did I end up here?
When Fenn lifts his empty bottle to signal for another, his dad waves off the waiter. Fenn narrows his eyes. “What, aren’t we celebrating?”
David spares a brief look at his son. “I think maybe you’ve celebrated enough.”
“I’m going to pop over to the restroom,” Mom says. She steps closer to brush lint off the lapel of my tux, lingering over me too long with glassy eyes. I hate it when she gets sentimental. Not my vibe. Especially when I’m being subjected to her fleeting whims of self-indulgent calamity. “You boys behave yourselves while I’m gone.”
Nope. I put my fucking foot down at being referred to collectively as her boys.
Once she’s gone, David hovers awkwardly, first checking his watch and then glancing at his phone. He scans the room as if searching for something requiring his urgent attention, but no such luck. He’s stuck with us, these two disenchanted youths waiting for him to walk away so we can get to the bottom of another bottle of champagne.
“So…” Man, he’s drowning. This is becoming embarrassing for all of us. “You two getting along? Getting to know each other?”
“You two getting to know each other?” Fenn shoots back.
I damn near do a double-take at the venom in his voice. For the past couple hours, Fenn’s been laid-back, easy to talk to. But maybe that easygoing attitude and quick grins are only reserved for people who aren’t his father.
His dad coughs and adjusts the buttons on his tux. “Yes, well. I know this was sudden—”
“Explosive diarrhea is sudden,” Fenn cuts in, his pale blue eyes going glacial. “You had time to order flower arrangements. Which means you had time to come to your senses.” He glances at me. “No offense.”
I just shrug. Hey, man. I’m a hapless bystander to this tornado.
“Listen, Fennelly. I understand—”
“I’m here, okay?” Fenn ices his dad out with a flat expression and dismissive tone and now I feel like I’m intruding in whatever bullshit they’ve got between them. “Let’s not pretend this whole thing isn’t a clusterfuck of selfishness.”
Every line and muscle on David’s face becomes strained. His resemblance to his son is striking. They’ve got the same build, the same ice-blue eyes and sandy hair. And David’s one of those dudes who barely ages. He could probably pass for Fenn’s older brother. Same way people always mistake my mom, with her long dark hair and flawless skin, for my older sister.
“Fennelly.” David sighs at his son. “Could you try, huh? Just a little? For a couple more hours.”
Fenn pulls out his phone to scroll through his texts. “Whatever.”
David’s attention shifts to me. I don’t know if he’s looking for sympathy or solidarity, but when I don’t offer either, he sets his jaw and disappears to check on the cake.
I don’t know what I think of David Bishop yet. As far as first impressions go, this isn’t a stellar start. Until a few hours ago, I didn’t think of him much at all. He was just the new random dude my mother was seeing who I didn’t ever expect to meet. Before Mom was suddenly dropping a set of department store cufflinks in my hand, I had no reason to believe this guy would be any different from the litany of other brief but intense relationships Mom cultivated and lost in quick succession. I stopped trying to connect or even remember their names a long time ago.
