Bully Boys

  Bully Boys

  A Satirical Reverse Harem Short Story

  Marie Robinson

  Editing: Picky Cat Proofing

  Cover Design: Brianne Robinson

  Copyright © 2019 by Marie Robinson

  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.

  To Steff, Elaina, Katya, and Kit.

  This is all of your faults.

  Contents

  1. Sheila Baby

  2. Professor Sexy

  3. The Chrises

  4. French Lesson

  5. The Geologist

  6. Power of the Babe

  7. Study Hall for Awful People

  8. Redemption Saga

  9. Reality Bites

  Afterword

  About the Author

  House of Secrets: A Reverse Harem PNR

  Magical Kingdoms: A Reverse Harem Fantasy Series

  The Last Promethean

  1

  Sheila Baby

  It was my first day on the Falls City Junior College campus, and I felt both elated and apprehensive. People roamed the open courtyard, and I wondered how everyone was so beautiful. Like, really, was this the prep school for celebrities? Damn, I was glad I splurged on new clothes. I knew about the jokes seniors made, you know—the ones where you can tell who is new and whose an upperclassman by how much effort they put into outfits? Well, that wouldn’t work here.

  I pulled out the piece of paper my adviser had given me to check out my schedule. I had just graduated high school last year, but he’d put me in College Algebra II, French 201, Technical Writing 222 and . . . Aeronautics 101? I wasn’t even sure exactly what Aeronautics was.

  I was jarred out of my confusion when someone ran into me from behind—A pack of dudebros, all wearing the crimson red school colors, the Cocky Bulls logo emblazoned over the front. They were throwing a football between them, and everyone cheered as they ran by.

  I growled at them, picking my shit off the ground. Honestly, I didn’t know what they were so proud of—they were a team at a junior college. But by everyone else’s reaction, you’d think they were gods. I rolled my eyes and marched over to the campus map in the center of the courtyard, squinting against the sun’s glare as I tried to figure out my classroom locations. You’d think I would have remembered to ask for a map from my adviser, but honestly, I hardly remembered the meeting.

  And that’s where I was when I found myself suddenly in possession of a football and my textbooks slapping the concrete around me.

  “I got it!”

  It was like if time slowed and I felt my breath rush out of me as what felt like a five-ton Mack Truck wrapped steel rebar arms around my waist and tackled me to the ground. My vision was filled with that stupid crimson red, and dammit what the fuck is my life.

  Thank god the ground didn’t hurt as I was rolled onto my back by the brute of a football player who’d tackled me. I caught the faint whiff of sea breeze and clean laundry and blue eyes surrounded by deliciously shaggy blond hair before he was off of me and grabbing the ball from my hands.

  “What the fuck, dude,” I shouted as I scrambled to my feet. “You can’t just tackle people out of nowhere.”

  “If you can’t handle the game, sheila baby, get off the field,” the man replied, his voice with a thick Australian accent. I heard everyone laughing at me; literally. I looked around the courtyard, and literally everyone was laughing at me. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  “I wasn’t on the fucking field, asshole,” I muttered as I bent down to recollect my books from where they’d fallen from my opened bag. Just what I needed—making myself a laughing stock the very first day of class.

  What would’ve been great was if I could get that asshat’s voice out of my ear. I knew Australian accents were hot as fuck, but why was I wanting that dick bag to tell me to get off the field again? I shivered at the way he’d called me “sheila baby,” and dammit . . . assholes were off-limits, I told my lady bits. I swear my ovaries fucking grumbled and huffed, but a bell rang—huh, just like my old high school’s—and I had to book it to class. First up was College Algebra II. Great. Math. At least numbers should hopefully distract me from sportsball jerks with sexy accents.

  2

  Professor Sexy

  Math was . . . well, math. I didn’t love it, and I didn’t hate it. It was just a tedious hellscape I was forced to sit through if I wanted to be able to transfer to a real university. I found myself in the French 202 classroom, and the chairs were all set into groups of four. There was only one table empty, and all the other tables paired. Just great, another fucking way to be the outcast.

  I sat in the blue plastic chair and began mentally preparing myself to spend an entire term asking classmates to be my partner or having the teacher pair me as the third wheel. It was freshman year of high school all over again.

  I heard the bellowing laughter as it echoed down the hall and I suppressed a groan. I knew, instinctively, that it was the damn Cocky Bulls football squad, team, thing, whatever. Hopefully they’d pass on by and go to their Physical Education class and I could study in peace.

  Of course, I had no such luck. And I blinked at who I saw walk in through the open door.

  “What the actual fuck is my life?” I whispered to myself as the apparent clones of Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth, and Chris Pratt all walked into my French 202 class, wearing those damn Cocky Bulls jerseys. They were followed by, my fucking god, the clone of Chris Pine in a tweed blazer, who was rocking tweed in way I never thought would turn me on. His blazer had elbow patches for fuck’s sake.

  And of course, of fucking course, the Cocky Bulls sat at my table.

  “Hey, sheila baby,” the Australian sex model said, ruffling my hair as he threw himself into the chair beside me. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “Don’t touch my hair,” I grumbled. “Hey!” I tried to grab my opened spiral notebook from the Pratt-Attack-twin. He lifted it out of reach, holding a hand out to me like he was trying to tame a fucking velociraptor.

  “Whoa, friends share, and I forgot my notebook,” he said with a grin. “And I like your bed head. Makes me wonder what your sex hair looks like.”

  “Chris,” the sexy professor chided the man, who only winked at me. “Parle seulement en francais.”

  “Je suis désolé, Professeur,” the prat said, and I smirked at my own joke. The Evans twin raised an eyebrow, like he knew what I was thinking.

  The class zoomed by and I hated that I couldn’t take notes. But mostly, I was lost—staring into the dreamy professor’s eyes as he spoke smooth and sultry. I totally got why girls liked to listen to men speak in different languages but I was pretty sure I didn’t even have panties anymore. For reals, this man didn’t just melt my panties, I think they were flung into a fucking volcano in sacrifice to the French language to thank the universe for giving me this man.

  Suddenly the class was filing out and I reached for my notebook, but the dickhead just kept it with a waggle of his finger. “What will you give me for it?”

  “Gentlemen, my lady,” Professor Sexy said—seriously I didn’t even remember him saying his name but I didn’t actually care—“Since Emma was clearly so proficient”—I was? I literally didn’t say a single word unless I was growling at the sexy asshatters around me—“I think you three would do well if she were to tutor you. I know you need to get your GPA up before the big game this weekend.”

  Panic welled up in my throat. I couldn’t teach fucking French, let alone to these meatheads. I mean, they were really pretty. I mea
n, like really fucking sexy I would probably do them all so long as they didn’t open their mouths pretty. But they were also assholes. And I hated that it seemed to be doing something for me. Bad boys weren’t ever my type. Not that I had enough boyfriends to figure out a type other than “You have a body? I have a body! We should date.”

  “I really don’t—” I tried to say, but Professor Sexy raised his hand to cut me off. He jerked his head to the guys, telling them to get out. I shifted nervously, wondering what the hell was going on. Had I even taken French in high school? I thought I took Spanish like, basically everyone else? “I think there’s been a mistake,” I admitted when the door closed.

  Professor Sexy looked me up and down and welp, my bra threw itself into the volcano of sexy as an additional tribute to the universe.

  “Nothing could ever be a mistake with you, Emma,” he purred as he came around the desk. I felt my glasses slide down my nose and he pushed them back up for me with one elegant finger. I went fucking cross-eyed watching him.

  “I really don’t think I’ve got this down enough to tutor someone . . .” I said, distracted by Professor Sexy dragging his finger down over the bridge of my nose and over my lips and down the column of my throat. This was definitely not proper professor student etiquette, but I think etiquette went out the door along with my underwear.

  “I think you’ll pick it up quickly enough if I speak with my lips over yours,” he said, his voice husky and his blue eyes bright with arousal.

  “Uh. . .” was my elegant reply, because my brains were currently melting out of my ears. But I felt myself leaning forward, wanting his kiss. I was definitely as eager as a cat in heat and wanted to me-fucking-ow for this man. I swore I was developing a kink for tweed faster than an unladen African swallow. Or European, maybe. I couldn’t fucking remember. Just throw me over the cliff into orgasm, already.

  His hand trailed lower, over the buttons of my shirt before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, a salacious smirk on his face.

  “I meant these lips, Emma.”

  Oh hot damn.

  3

  The Chrises

  Oh my sugar plum fairy in a tutu, that just happened. I am now the girl who is DTF with her French professor.

  I stopped in the middle of the hall, my face red as an apple as I realized I was such a fucking cliché. I felt like I should expect to blow up like an apple, I was so red. Like that Violet girl who turned into a blueberry? How fucking embarrassing would it be to become a giant red ball of embarrassment and have the Cocky Bulls football team spill out from the classrooms around me, singing while rolling me away?

  Oompa loompa doompety doo, we’ve got the perfect floozy for you, Oompa loompa doompety doo, watch as this lady does us too.

  Record screech, say what? I do one scandalous act with Professor Sexy and now apparently my brain was in cahoots with my coochy and suggesting I just get the debauchery over with.

  Speaking of debauchery, the men in question came around the corner just as the halls filled with students searching for their next class.

  I was frozen in place, like winter had come and frozen my feet to the ground, as I watched them slow-motion walk towards me. It was like that old show, Baywatch, except they didn’t have boobs defying the laws of physics. But all I could think as I watched this delicious herd of beefcake walk towards me, the crowd parting like the Red Sea, was Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn.

  Of course, that’s when each one looked at me, and suddenly I was like a rabbit caught in the sights of an entire wolfpack. Did I just scream and run? Did I freeze and tremble? Did I melt into a puddle of water like that one kids show from the 90’s? Did anyone even remember The Secret World of Alex Mack? Why the fuck was I thinking of 90’s kids shows when I was about to be swarmed by men?

  “Hey, Sheila Baby,” Australia’s hottest expat said, ruffling my hair again.

  “I’ve got a name, you know?” I grumbled and tried to fix my hair. I really should have put it up after my . . . lesson with Professor Sexy.

  “Don’t be so sensitive,” the Evans one said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging. “You’ll never survive tutoring us if you can’t handle some teasing.”

  “I don’t know if she could handle us boys,” Pratt-Attack said, lewdly cupping his junk. I definitely did not think about how large it clearly was by the way he handled it.

  “I hope you don’t struggle to get your GPA up like you do your dick,” I snapped out without thought. I widened my eyes as Pratt-Attack grinned slowly.

  “So the little mouse has bite,” he said, and dammit my face was on fire again. And, unfortunately, so were my panties.

  “We’re the Chrises,” Evans Clone said, introducing the group, and I threw my hands up in the air.

  “Of course you fucking are,” I said. They looked at me as if they had no idea why I was exasperated, and I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. So, do you guys really need help with learning French, or what? Because I don’t know if I can actually help.”

  They all looked at each other, a secretive smile on their lips, as if they knew something I didn’t.

  “I think you are definitely the perfect woman to help us . . . learn French,” Evans drawled out. “I can’t even tell you how excited we are for our first study session.”

  “Oh,” I said, nonplussed. I wrung my hands nervously and, dammit, you weren’t supposed to show fear in front of a predator because they’d swoop down on you faster than a McLaren F1. And swoop they did. Australia’s Hottest Expat of the Year stepped in, brushing his knuckles down my cheek.

  “You’re adorable,” he teased. “It’s a shame you’re too much of a loser to really be seen with us in public.”

  I rolled my eyes, refusing to let my body feel turned on by his touch but my body betrayed me. My mouth was still cooperating though. “Then I suggest you boys skedaddle on to whatever semen-covered cave you call home so you aren’t seen with me.”

  Pratt-Attack slapped his hand forward, shoving my backpack off where I’d slung it over a shoulder and it clattered to the ground. He kicked it across the hall, ignoring my outraged scoff. “There. Our reputations remain unsullied.”

  “I’ll make you a fucking unsullied,” I shrieked. “No way in fuck am I helping you with your French.”

  I marched over to retrieve my bag; when I bent over, I yelped, feeling strong hands on my hips and . . . that was definitely not his book bag. I stood up and swung my bag around at the smirking Evans Impersonator. “Excuse you.”

  “What if we promise to behave?” he offered, going full on adorable puppy-eyed. Dude needed to sign a contract with the Department of Defense, because damn those were weapons of mass destruction, and my willpower went poof.

  “Fine,” I said with a sigh, reshouldering my bag. “Whatever, I guess.”

  They all high-fived at my successful surrender and turned to go off to wherever jerks like them hung out—probably the cafeteria or whatever. I bet they sat on the tables and not in chairs. Assholes.

  I walked away but turned back when I heard a sharp whistle. Evans Impersonator was smirking at me.

  “We’ll pick you up and take you back to our place,” he promised. “And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll be covered too.”

  Then he just turned the fucking corner like he hadn’t suggested they’d cover me in their cum. I groaned, because ew. But also . . . dammit, I actually felt myself get turned on at the idea of that happening.

  I was officially fucked in the head.

  4

  French Lesson

  You know how you go into Target with a plan to only get that ONE thing and you walk out, looking like you survived a tornado while pushing a cart full of shit you never even heard of? That’s definitely how I knew this fucking tutoring session was going to go, somehow.

  They’d picked me up, just like they said, and hustled me into Pratt-Attack’s Jeep Wrangler like I was a popstar princess they were protecting from a horde of reporters. Too bad it
felt more like I was their dirty little secret.

  I had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to the thunder from down under, and dammit he smelled like sunshine and that coconut-scented tanning lotion that was the epitome of summer. I let myself enjoy it as my knee bounced nervously. Evans Impersonator sat up front, fiddling with the radio, while Pratt-Attack apparently belted out whatever tune was in his head.

  “So,” Mr. Expat began, and I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

  “Yeah?” I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, I was too distracted by his tropical scent and beach wave shaggy hair. I wanted to run my hands through it like a villain runs their hands through loose diamonds.

  “Ever . . . tutor before?”

  I shrugged. “Not officially. But I know the general idea of it.” My face erupted into a blush faster than Pompeii. “I mean—”

  “Oh I’m sure you’re exactly what we need,” Evans Impersonator piped up. It sounded like he’d decided to just let Pratt-Attack serenade us.

  “Yeah.” Pratt-Attack met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Our esteemed professor wouldn’t have suggested you otherwise.”

  My tongue felt more tied than a hog caught by a farmer before being turned into bacon and Christmas dinner. I figured staying silent was a better course and they followed suit. Well, sort of. Pratt-Attack went back to singing, and Australian Gold started playing with my hair. Even when I’d try to scoot into the window, he just grinned at me. I swear the sides of the Jeep began compressing like a trash compactor in a galaxy far, far away until, suddenly, his thigh was up against mine.