The Hatesick Diaries (St. Mary's Rebels Book 5), page 1
THE HATESICK DIARIES
ST. MARY’S REBELS
BOOK 5
SAFFRON A. KENT
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely
coincidental.
The Hatesick Diaries © 2023 by Saffron A. Kent
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover Art by Najla Qamber Designs
Editing by Olivia Kalb & Leanne Rabesa
Proofreading by Virginia Tesi Carey
Jan 2023 Edition
Published in the United States of America
CONTENTS
St. Mary’s Rebels Series
Also by Saffron A. Kent
Dedication
Reader’s Extras
St. Mary’s Crest
Lipstick Guide
Lovesick & Hatesick
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Free Book
Soccer Nation
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ST. MARY’S REBELS SERIES
Bad Boy Blues (SMR book 0.5)
My Darling Arrow (SMR book 1)
The Wild Mustang & The Dancing Fairy (SMR book 1.5)
A Gorgeous Villain (SMR book 2)
These Thorn Kisses (SMR book 3)
Hey, Mister Marshall (SMR book 4)
ALSO BY SAFFRON A. KENT
The Unrequited
Gods & Monsters
Medicine Man (Heartstone Series 1)
Dreams of 18 (Heartstone Series 2)
California Dreamin’ (Heartstone Series 3)
BLURB
Echo Adler hates Reign Davidson. He’s the reason the love of her life left her all alone and broken-hearted two years ago.
So it should be easy to stay away.
It should be easy not to dream about his dark, mean eyes, or his cruel but sexy smirks.
It should be easy not to think about the guy who ruined her happily ever after.
Only it’s not.
Sometimes his intense stares make her heart race, and those smirks of his make her breathless.
But it needs to stop.
Because she has a mission: to get back together with her ex-boyfriend. And Echo will be damned if she keeps dreaming about Reign.
The guy who not only makes her sick with hate, but who also happens to be her ex’s best friend.
NOTE: This is a standalone set in the world of St. Mary’s.
DEDICATION
For every good girl who’s dreamed of her happily ever after with a bad boy. And written about it in her diary.
For my husband, now and always. The only guy I’ve ever written about in my diary.
READER’S EXTRAS
Official Spotify playlist
Pinterest Boards
Reign & Echo
St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers
Lovesick (n.):
In love with someone. Or loving someone to the point of obsession. To the point of sickness.
Hatesick (n.):
In hate with someone. And as a result, being obsessed and possessed; being sick and consumed by them. Much like its antonym, lovesick.
CHAPTER ONE
Six years ago. Bardstown
He’s a criminal.
He has to be.
First, he’s wearing all black: black jeans and a black hoodie with the hood up. In summer, no less.
And second, he’s very carefully and cautiously laying out a string on the ground.
It’s a very long string too.
It at least circles around the thick bushes that border this massive back yard, and goes well into the woods behind that back yard. Where I’m currently standing behind the thick trunk of a tree and watching him secretly.
Or more like watching his back, because he’s facing away from me, walking backward.
When he’s come far enough I guess, he stops and kneels on the ground, completely blocking my view.
I can’t see what he’s doing.
Why he’s bent over that string.
Whatever it is though, it can’t be good.
It might even be dangerous.
The prudent thing to do — prudent means practical; also known as feasible, realistic, sensible, matter of fact — is to turn around and run. To get away from him. Especially when no one knows that I’m here, wandering around the woods in the middle of the night, and not up in my bedroom, sleeping like I should be.
In my defense, tonight is special.
Plus I couldn’t sleep in my new bed, in the new house, in a new place.
We — my parents and I — only arrived here last week, see.
Both of them got a new job and so we packed up and left our old apartment in Brooklyn and came to Bardstown to start a new life. As opposed to Brooklyn, everything is super open here: our big two-story house; these woods that I’m taking an impromptu walk in; the back yard beyond it, the giant manor beyond the back yard.
But I’m not going to lie, I miss Brooklyn. I miss my friends, my old school, even our old rundown apartment that had more leaks and squeaky floorboards than not. But it’s okay. My mom always says that you make sacrifices for people you love. That this is what love is.
To compromise. To make adjustments and to be good to the people you love.
So I’m happy as long as my parents are happy.
Except for this.
I’m not happy about this, whatever it is that this boy is doing.
I mean, if he’s really doing something bad then shouldn’t I confront him? Shouldn’t I stop him? I’m new here, yes, but these are my woods now. This is my house, my property and estate.
Well, not technically.
We only live here, but…
“I know you’re there.”
My thoughts come to a screeching halt at those words.
His words.
He said them, right?
Yes, he did.
Even though he hasn’t turned around or stopped doing whatever it is that he’s doing.
What is he doing though?
“I can hear you fucking thinking from over there.”
This time, I have no confusion as to who spoke because his shoulders tense up and his arms jerk, as if his entire body is speaking along with his lips.
Or more like snapping at me.
Which gets my back up and I dig my fingers into the trunk. “I’m not fucking thinking.”
At this, he finally stops and straightens up, cocking his head to the side slightly as if paying attention to me. The only thing he doesn’t do is turn around as he says, “What?”
I know he can’t see me but still I lift my chin as I reply, “I’m just thinking. Period. No fucking.”
Okay, that sounded so much better and smarter in my head, I swear.
Also, not funny.
But apparently it is because it makes him chuckle in response, his shoulders moving again.
And this time I notice that they’re broad.
Probably because he’s straightened up now and isn’t hunched over that string of his. In fact, his shoulders are broader than any guy’s shoulders in my class, either at my old school or the new.
“No fucking, huh,” he drawls. “Well, there’s a lot to unpack there, in that statement. But I don’t think you wanna go there.” I frown as to what he means but he keeps going. “So instead, why don’t you tell me what you’re just thinking about?”
His tone makes me narrow my eyes.
Actually everything about him is making me narrow my eyes.
The fact that he sounds so amused, his voice thick and raspy — something else that I’ve come across for the first time ever; no boys at my old school or new sound like him — and that he still hasn’t turned around to face me while speaking, like he doesn’t think I’m worthy of being looked in the eye while talking.
The sheer arrogance.
The sheer conceit, haughtiness, hubris.
The egotism!
It makes me come out of hiding — it wasn’t a very good hiding spot anyway, since he’d already spotted me — and put my hands on my hips as I say, “I’m just thinking how rude it is that you’re talking to me and yet you haven’t turned around and shown me your face.”
This time I don’t think I’ve said anything remotely funny, but he still chuckles.
It’s almost a laugh, actually, and I breathe out sharply, ready to say something else, something even more stern, but he springs up to his feet so quickly and so suddenly turning around that I snap my mouth closed.
And simply stare.
And gaze, gape, goggle and gawp at his face for the first time.
A face that looks like… summer.
That’s my first and very nonsensical thought. How can anyone look like a season?
He does though.
Despite his all-black clothing, he looks like my favorite season.
Probably because his skin is so tanned.
It’s so beachy and bronzed. Like he’s been out in the sun for a long time. And that he could potentially stay out there for even longer and never ever get burned. Plus all that hair.
That I can see now that his hood has fallen off.
And even though his hair’s dark, as dark as his clothing, I still think that it’s a surfer’s look.
Probably because it’s on the long side, falling over his brows and the side of his face, skimming the neck of his hoodie, all loose, slightly wavy and messy.
So yeah, summer.
Despite being all dark and… dangerous.
“You done staring, Bubblegum?”
Startled, my eyes snap up to his.
They’re dark too.
Probably black or a very dark shade of brown; I can’t tell right now.
All I can tell is that they have a glint in them.
“I wasn’t…” I say, my hands coming off my hips and simply falling limp at my sides now. “Staring.”
Liar.
You’re a liar, Echo.
He knows that too, and so again he finds my words amusing.
But this time, he doesn’t chuckle.
He simply lets his mouth quirk up in a lopsided smile. And I think it’s worse because his smile isn’t just a smile. It’s a smirk, and it makes him look even more arrogant.
“Good,” he says. “Because then I’d have to tell you what I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His eyes glint some more. “About how rude it is that you’re staring at me and yet you haven’t told me your name.”
Your name…
His words, again all arrogant sounding, catch me up to the fact that he called me something just now, didn’t he?
Bubblegum.
He called me Bubblegum.
Just the thought of it makes things zoom and whoosh around in my belly.
Ignoring it, I ask, “What did you just call me?”
His lips stay quirked up as he shrugs. “I had two choices: bubblegum or strawberry.” Then, “I don’t like strawberries, so I picked bubblegum.”
Why would he call me that? What does that…
You know what, I don’t care.
Folding my arms across my chest, I fire back, “Well, I don’t like bubblegum.”
“Then you should tell me your name.”
“I’m never telling you my name.”
“Never is a long time, Bubblegum.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Can’t.” He shakes his head slowly. “You’re a little too pink.”
“What?”
“Pink…” he repeats before trailing off and moving his eyes away from my face, letting them go down my body.
My belly whooshes again as I follow his gaze, looking down at myself.
Which is when I finally figure it out.
What he’s saying and why he called me Bubblegum in the first place.
“You,” he finishes his statement and my eyes spring back to his.
It’s glowing even more, his gaze.
And it makes my belly whoosh harder. Which is not helped by the fact that he’s correct.
As in, I am pink.
Or rather, my dress is.
My brand new dress with a lace overlay — the first thing my parents bought for me in celebration of their new jobs and tonight’s special occasion — that I absolutely adore.
“I’m not pink,” I tell him. “My dress is pink.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he adds, “And your toes. Your sandals.” He jerks his chin up. “Plus that ribbon in your hair. All pink. Like bubblegum.”
Okay, it’s official now.
I don’t think I like him very much.
Whoever he is.
“So I’m wearing all pink. So what? It’s not like I wear it every day. It’s a special occasion today, okay?”
“Yeah, what’s the special occasion?”
I purse my lips. “I’m not going to tell you.”
His eyes flash as he drawls, “You’re starting to break my heart a little bit, Bubblegum.”
At his low words, all the air gets sucked out of my lungs.
Not to mention, at his actions too.
At the fact that he puts a hand on his chest and rubs the spot just above his heart, like I’m really breaking it.
God, who is this guy?
I’ve never ever met anyone like him before.
I didn’t even know guys like him existed.
I force myself to breathe though and ask, “What are you doing out here, in the woods?”
My question doesn’t faze him in the least. In fact, he’s all ready with an answer. “Getting interrogated by some bubblegum.”
My nostrils flare and his lips twitch at my displeasure.
“Why do you have that string?” I look at it, lying on the ground just by his side. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Magic.”
“Is it something bad?”
“Define bad.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Are you afraid?”
“No.”
I don’t sound very convincing, even to myself. And he smiles. As if he likes it. As if the prospect of scaring me sounds fun to him. Then, “Because if you were, I’d tell you then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“But someone else… does?”
“Not you.” He shakes his head slowly. “That’s all you need to know.”
“I don’t think —”
“Besides, it’s none of your business,” he cuts me off, raising an arrogant eyebrow. “Is it?”
“Actually it is my business.”
“And how is that?”
“Because these are my woods.”
“Your woods.”
“Yes, I live here.”
Finally, freaking finally, all amusement and arrogance get wiped off his face.
I’m so happy that it’s a struggle to not smile and maintain my own arrogant expression but I do it.
