BAD BOY JAX

Chapter 1

Jaxon

Adrenaline pulses through my veins as I try to shake off the sinking feeling in my Stomach This wasn't part of the plan. Our latest prank was meant to be a legendary tale, one that would be whispered in the hallowed halls of this prestigious boarding school for decades to come. Instead, I find myself standing shoulder to shoulder with five of my closest friends, staring down the wrath of Headmaster Beckham. For the past hour, he's been ranting about how our prank embarrassed not only him, but the entire faculty and trustees. As I listen to him go on, I can feel the weight of our mistake settling heavily on my shoulders.

“Anyone want to fess up?” Beckham asks.

Tom and Buck are freaking out. Elias, Cole, and Rich are trying to hold back their laughter. I’ve been called into the headmaster’s office more than a few times since I transferred here, so this is nothing new to me.

During finals week at Ironlakes Preparatory Academy in California, seniors pull a prank on juniors. It’s tradition. This year, the seniors managed to put blue dye in our showers and removed all the lightbulbs from the common areas of our dorm. It was only fair that we returned the favor, but on a bigger scale. The seniors had been waiting for us to raid their dorm, and you could tell they were on edge all week. They had lookouts posted at all hours, ready to defend their territory.

My roommate, Tom, came up with the brilliant idea of greasing three baby pigs from his uncle’s farm and letting them run loose in the senior dorm. Buck said we should let the pigs run loose during graduation instead. I admit it was my idea to number the pigs . . . 1, 3, and 4. It took six of us to pull it off. The processional music was our cue to set the pigs loose.

I thought we’d gotten away with it, too, until all of us got summoned into Beckham’s office an hour ago.

Beckham’s assistant, Martha, peeks her head into the office. “Mr. Beckham, number two still hasn’t been found.”

The headmaster growls in frustration. If Beckham weren’t such a d**k, I’d tell him to call off the search because there is no pig number 2—that’s part of the joke. But he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t give a s**t about the students. All Beckham cares about is making sure everyone knows he’s got the power to hand out detentions and fire teachers at his whim. I’ve seen him abuse that power more than once during the past year.

“I did it,” I blurt out, exaggerating my Texas drawl because I know Beckham cringes at the thought of a redneck attending his precious school. More than a few times he’s called me out for saying “reckon” and “y’all.” I reckon I did it just to annoy the guy.

Beckham stands in front of me. “Which of your buddies here helped you?”

“None of ’em, sir. I did it all on my own.”

He shakes his finger at me. “When your father hears about this he will most certainly be disappointed in you, Jaxon.”

My spine stiffens. My dad, otherwise known as Commander Drake Rivers, is on another tour of duty. He’s in a submarine for the next six months, completely cut off from the rest of the world.

I briefly wonder how my new stepmother, Whitney, is doing now that my dad is deployed. Our setup is perfect. I live here until I graduate, and my dad’s new wife lives in a rented house near the naval base with her five-year-old kid she had with some ex-boyfriend.

News of my pig stunt isn’t likely to reach my dad. And if Beckham thinks I’ll be disappointing Whitney, that’s a laugh.

Beckham hunches his shoulders and gives me one of his many practiced scowls that make him resemble an ogre on steroids. “You expect me to believe that you stole one of our school vans and transported four pigs to the graduation ceremony, greased them up, and set them loose all by yourself?”

I glance at my friends and signal for them to keep their mouths shut when I realize that more than a few of them are about to fess up. No reason all of us should get in trouble just because Beckham lacks a sense of humor.

I nod. “I acted alone, sir. But technically I didn’t steal the van. I borrowed it.” There were three pigs and it took all six of us to pull it off, but I’m keeping that info to myself. I wait for him to slap me with detention and order me to wash floors or bathrooms or something humiliating. Whatever. Detention during summer session will be a piece of cake since less than 20 percent of the school population stays on campus.

“The rest of you gentlemen are dismissed,” Beckham declares. He takes a seat in his big leather chair and picks up his phone as my friends file out. “Martha, call Mrs. Rivers and inform her that her stepson has been expelled.”

Wait! What?

“Expelled?” I practically choke on the word. What about a warning or detention or suspension? “It was a harmless prank.”

He carefully hangs up the phone. “Expelled. Actions have consequences, Mr. Rivers. Despite numerous warnings about your cheating, drug use, and pranks, you have again disobeyed our rules and proven yourself unworthy to be a student at Ironlakes Preparatory Academy. Obviously this also means you will not be invited to rejoin us for your senior year.”

I don’t move or say anything. This is not happening. I can count a dozen other students who’ve gotten caught pulling pranks and have escaped without so much as a warning. I accidentally left my notes on the floor during a test and Mr. Rappaport wrote me up for cheating. And the drug accusation . . . okay, so I went to a party with a few friends and came home wasted. I didn’t mean to puke on the statue of Ironlakes’ founder after I found out someone slipped XTC into my drink, and I sure as hell wasn’t the one to post pics of me puking on the school website. A certain senior on student council was responsible for that one, although he never got caught because nobody would accuse a guy whose dad donates a crapload of money to the school every year.

“Since you’ve already finished your finals, I’ll be lenient and allow you to receive full credit for your junior year. As a courtesy to your father, I’ll also grant you forty-eight hours to remove your belongings from campus.” He starts writing on a piece of paper, then glances up at me when he realizes I’m not moving. “That will be all, Mr. Rivers.”

Lenient?

I walk to the junior dorm as the absurdity of my situation sets in. I’m being kicked out of Ironlakes and have to move back home. With my stepmother, who lives in her own, clueless world. This is bullshit.

My roommate, Tom, is sitting on the edge of his bed, shaking his head. “I heard Beckham say you got expelled.”

“Yep.”

“Maybe if we all go back there and tell him the truth, he’ll rethink—”

“If your dad finds out, he’ll make your life a livin’ hell. The other guys’ll be in the Bucke boat.”

“You shouldn’t take the fall for this alone, Jaxon.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I say. “Beckham had it in for me. This just gave him the excuse he needed to kick me out.”

A half hour later Whitney calls. My stepmother’s heard the news from Beckham and will drive the three hours from San Diego to Ironlakes tomorrow. She doesn’t yell or lecture me or act like she’s my mom. Instead, she says she’d try to convince Beckham to change his mind about expelling me. As if that’s gonna work. I doubt Whitney was a member of her high school debate team. I don’t have much faith in her persuasion skills. To be honest, I’m not even sure she graduated from high school.

In the morning I’m still figuring out what the hell I’m gonna do when campus security knocks on my door. They have specific orders to escort me to the headmaster’s office immediately.

As I walk across the quad with campus security flanking me, I’m all too aware of whispers from students I pass. It’s not often someone gets expelled. I walk up the stairs to the front office, where photos of former students who became famous athletes, astronauts, congressmen, and business gurus are proudly displayed on the Wall of Fame. If it were two years ago, I might have imagined my own picture on the wall, but not anymore.

When the door opens to Beckham’s office, my eyes focus on the woman sitting in front of his desk. It’s Whitney, my dad’s wife of eight months. She’s fourteen years younger than my dad (which means she’s twenty-five, only eight years older than me). Her orange stilettos match her oversize orange earrings dangling down to her shoulders. Her dress looks two sizes too big, which is definitely out of character. Every time I’ve seen her she’s worn tight-fitting, low-cut outfits like she’s about to go clubbing. She looks out of place in this office full of mahogany and dark leather.

Whitney glances at me when I walk in, then returns all her attention to Beckham. “So what are our options?” she asks as she fiddles with her earring.

Beckham closes the folder on his desk. “I’m sorry, but I see no options. Heinous crimes involving animals are not tolerated at Ironlakes, Mrs. Rivers. Your son—”

“Stepson,” I correct him.