A Reputation Dark & Deadly (A Dark & Deadly Series Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  A Reputation Dark & Deadly

  Book 2 in The Dark & Deadly Series

  Heather C. Myers

  Contents

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Did You Like A Reputation Dark & Deadly?

  Newsletter

  Also by Heather C. Myers

  Also by Heather C. Myers

  Also by Heather C. Myers

  Also by Heather C. Myers

  Also by Heather C. Myers

  Also by Heather C. Myers

  Also by Heather C. Myers

  To the forbidden loves that never came to fruition, except in our darkest of fantasies

  Chapter 1

  Logan Jeffrey had a reputation. He was gruff, deliriously handsome, and domineering. As a tenured criminology professor at the University of Newport in Southern California, he could practically say whatever he wanted and wouldn't have to worry about the repercussions of his attitude. He was known for calling students out, making them feel like idiots in front of the entire lecture hall, but pushing them to their truest potential. Every student who passed with an A somehow ended up with a full-time job by the time they graduated. Rumors swirled that he had a habit of sleeping with his teaching assistants and breaking their hearts. For those who didn't know his reputation, he tended to scare the piss out of students and TA's, causing them to drop the class, sometimes even switching majors completely if they couldn't avoid taking a class with him, or dropping the notion of making some money as a grad student by TA'ing.

  Peyton Hart knew all of this as she stepped into her Miscarriages of Justice class early Monday morning. There was a heavy fog that permeated the grey sky. It was late September, and even though it typically was warmer for Southern California, it almost felt like a warning sign. Despite spending her entire four years at Newport thanks to her hard work and a generous scholarship, she had decided to get her Masters. She wasn't looking for a law degree and she didn't want to be a police officer. If she was being honest, she wanted to teach law. She wanted to understand it so she could articulate it to people who might not completely understand it. And in order to understand it, she needed to study it even more thoroughly than she had during her undergraduate time.

  Peyton knew all there was to know about Logan Jeffrey. She also knew that she couldn't avoid him forever, especially since she had been accepted into Newport's prestigious graduate program. He was one of the three main professors that would also advise the graduate students on their futures, help them shape up their thesis, and assist with developing their research. Involved was a nice way to describe it.

  Each professor got one set of grad students based on their last name. There was roughly forty people in Peyton's rotation with meant there was a little over a third of a chance she would end up with him as an advisor. She wouldn't say she was dreading the results, exactly, but she highly doubted her luck would continue.

  The room resembled a high school classroom, except instead of individual desks, there were six long tables that could house up to seven seats each, with three tables on each side of the room.

  Everything in the classroom looked neutral. There weren't telltale posters of a preferred footballs team, there wasn't a poster of a favorite musician or movie. The walls were the ugly grey color every other classroom was and Peyton wasn't sure if that should be reassuring or not. Logan Jeffrey didn't seem like the type to decorate but she wasn't sure if his oozing masculinity meant that he was compelled to reveal what sports team he followed or what eighties rock band he still listened to. To be honest, the twinge in her gut let her know that the bare walls were a bad sign, that this setup reeked of Logan Jeffrey even though she had no idea who he was as a person and as a professor. Besides that infamous reputation, of course.

  There were a couple of other students already in the room, each with their laptops out. They were probably on some form of social media, posting their last words before their professor was revealed and heads rolled.

  Peyton hadn't brought her laptop. The less she had to worry about lugging around campus, the better. Instead, she pulled out a notebook and the book that had been assigned as reading before class even started. She started flipping through the pages, trying to refresh her memory of what she read over the summer. Her notebook had correlating notes, thoughts, and questions on each story she read.

  Because this class was Miscarriages of Justice, the professor had assigned Journey to Release, a compilation of eight tales where a person was wrongly imprisoned based on some injustice, why the criminal justice system failed, and whether their conviction got overturned or not. Some, Peyton was sad to say, were still in prison, serving out a prison sentence they should never have been punished with at all.

  Her heart was hammering in her chest like a jackhammer. She had no idea what to expect, which meant all of her control was out the window. She was at the mercy of the unknown professor and she hated it. It made her feel anxious.

  More students trickled in. Peyton tried to read their faces, tried to tell if anyone knew anything. Most seemed casual and nonchalant, like it didn't quite matter who their professor was. A lot of the students she recognized from undergrad. It was weird; a bachelor's degree made everyone seem older and more mature. More serious about the field they were studying.

  Her eyes drifted to the clock. 7:58AM. Class was supposed to start in two minutes. Usually, professors were early so they could set up and start class on time. This one, not so much.

  Peyton's stomach sunk. This behavior seemed to align with Logan Jeffrey's reputation. Stroll in whenever he wanted. No need to rush. He was the epitome of the bad boy, tight leather jacket and slicked back hair and all.

  She had seen him walking across the quad every now and then, even grabbing coffee (black, she remembered) from the CC. When she hadn't known who he was, she could admit that she had thought he was gorgeous. Captivating in the darkest of ways, like he was some kind of predator waiting for his naive victims to fall into his trap. He always wore that jacket and he always wore some kind of jeans. Depending on his mood, he would wear boots or high top Chucks, black and white. His hair was always slicked back. He never had a beard but always had whiskers on the lower half of his face. He was dangerous, intimidating, and while he was pretty to look at, Peyton was glad she never had to deal with him as her professor.

  "All right, assholes, welcome to the beginning of the end."

  Peyton's heart sunk. She knew. Goddamnit, she knew.

  She refused to turn around even though everyone else did. She refused to acknowledge him, refused to give him that respect. The crazy thing was, he hadn't done anything personally to her to deserve her ignoring him save for the fact that he happened to be her advisor, and that was not his fault. It wasn't hers, either.

  "This is not a grad rotat
ion for a bunch of pussies so if you can't handle the fucking fire, get out of the fucking kitchen."

  Peyton rolled her eyes as he made his way through the space between tables, having made his entrance through the doors in the back. From the corner of her eyes, she could make out his domineering presence. He had to be a broad six foot two with a muscled lean body. She caught a flash of his slicked back jet black hair, his broad shoulders under a black leather jacket, dusty grey jeans that fit him in all the right places, motorcycle boots that seemed to match his jacket.

  "Which brings out another point," he continued. "If you couldn't already fucking tell, I like to say bad words because it makes me feel good inside. If you have a problem with that, ask for a fucking transfer and, after you tell them I'm your advisor, they'll fucking give it to you without question. I won't bother learning fucking names until two fucking weeks from now when you can't drop anymore."

  When he reached the front of the class, he spun around so Peyton was forced to confront the fact that this man really was her new advisor. He was smiling, causing the corner of his eyes to crinkle and his cheeks to pop with dimples.

  God, he was beautiful. A monster, yes, but beautiful nonetheless.

  "Ah, look at you assholes," he continued. He made eye contact with each one of the tthirteen students in the room. "You look like a rowdy group. I might enjoy the next couple of years."

  When his eyes rested on Peyton, her entire skin began to crawl. Or was it just because he penetrated her to her very core? His eyes - she thought they looked hazel with sparks of green in the gold irises - sculpted her face, took in her person. He wasn't being gross about it, just intent. She let him look at her without squirming, without blushing. In fact, she looked right back. She wouldn't let him know he was getting to her. It might have been her imagination but he looked at her for a second too long, at least compared to the other students. He licked his top lip through the smile and finally shifted his eyes away so Peyton could breathe again.

  "Some of you assholes I recognize," he continued. "Sucks for you, don't it? And before you jump on me about my improper grammar, let me remind you that I expect fucking good writing, minus the swearing unless it's truly warranted." He began to pace up and down the front of the class, his movements slow and deliberate. He had that big, cheeky grin on his face, his dimples popping and making him look younger than he really was. "For those of you that know me from undergrad, know that my expectations don't fucking change just because you're fucking older. Get your shit done and turned in on time. If something prohibits you from doing that, don't fucking come crying to me about it. I don't give a shit. Your dog eat your homework, your boyfriend fucking cheats on you, your grandma dies, I don't give a shit. Get your work done. That's all I fucking care about."

  Someone's hand shot in the air. "Bow tie," he said, the smile still on his face. "Let me ask you a fucking question because I can't wrap my head around the fact that people still wear fucking bow ties. Is it a fashion statement? I don't fucking get it."

  Peyton pressed her lips together, her face flushing in shame for the poor guy who dared raise his hand to ask Logan Jeffrey a question. She wanted to say something, she wanted to defend him, but she couldn't find it in herself to do so. Because she was a goddamn coward.

  "So," Logan said, cocking his head to the side. "What's your fucking question? And before you even start, it better not be a But what if question. Like, what if I'm fucking in the hospital or what if there's a fucking family emergency. I'm going to make this as fucking black and white as possible." He perked his brow. "Does that answer your question?"

  Peyton watched as Bow Tie - she really needed to learn his name because she refused to call him that, even in her head - nodded his head and looked away in shame.

  "There will be no homework," Logan continued. "I don't have time to fucking babysit you. Just do the fucking readings each week and when I use the beauty that is the Socratic Method to call on you, answer the question right. You will have a midterm. You will have a final. Both will be multiple choice because I don't have time to read every goddamn paper and opinion. There will be short answers. Be concise. The less fucking words you can use while getting the answer correctly gets you more fucking points. Don't fucking bullshit me, got it?"

  No one responded. Peyton had to guess people were afraid to get called out. She couldn't blame them.

  "Now, guess I'm your fucking advisor on top of all the other bullshit we have to do together," Logan continued. "Prepare to be fucking wrecked, let me tell you that much. You come to me with a boring ass research topic and I will send you away until you find a fucking good one, you understand? Don't waste your time and don't fucking waste my time.

  "Now," he finished, stepping right back in the middle of the pathway. "Do we have any questions?"

  Nobody said anything. Nobody even shook their head. She watched as his smile broadened and he licked his upper lip, keeping his eyes focused on everyone.

  "Good," he said. "So we had some reading over the summer, didn't we? Let's jump right in, shall we? Now" - he crossed his arms over his chest, causing his leather jacket to crinkle - "who's going to step up to the plate? Who's our first victim? Let's see." He began to stare at each individual student. Most looked away. Some squirmed under his gaze.

  When he reached Peyton, she felt her breath leave her. She was instantly fixated on his face, on his eyes, a beautiful golden hazel color, and she couldn't look away. She was like a deer caught in headlights because she knew danger was coming towards her but she had an inability to avoid it. He smiled as he looked at her, his eyes developing laugh lines and his dimples even more prominent. It wasn't a nice smile, though. It was more a smile that said a hunter just found his prey and he was about to go in for the kill. Perhaps she should have looked away. Perhaps she should have squirmed. Maybe then he would have passed over her like everyone else in class. But she didn't. She held his gaze, not to fight for dominance but just to prove that she didn't cower easily.

  "What about you, sweetheart?" he said, nodding at her once. Like he just accepted a challenge she didn't even know she had issued. "Why don't you give the class a refresher, for all the assholes sighing in relief? Remind them what they were supposed to do."

  Peyton swallowed. She had done the reading. She had even reviewed it just now.

  "Michelle Carter, white teenage girl" -

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he began, interrupting her by dropping an arm and flexing his fingers. "Hold up. White female? What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

  "It has everything to do with it," Peyton said, more defensive than she initially planned. Logan's brows shot up so they nearly touched his thick hairline.

  "Really?" he asked. "Do tell."

  "Considering that she accused three black teenage boys, all seniors with scholarships, of raping her at a party, it's important to point out that race could definitely cloud the issue," Peyton said.

  "In what way?" Logan asked.

  "This is rural Alabama," Peyton said. "Racism is still prevalent there."

  "Racism is present everywhere, sweetheart," Logan pointed out. "You probably don't realize it because racism doesn't apply to you." His grin turned cheeky. "Carry on."

  "High school student," Peyton went on. She hoped her voice wasn't actually as shaky as it sounded. She didn't want him to think he was getting to her even though he was. "She wasn't very popular but she wasn't hated, either. She was average in everything - looks, school work, personality. There was a Christmas party one night, the last day of school before break. Someone's parents were out on vacation, leaving their kid by themselves. Carter crashed the party with some of her friends."

  "Let me interject here, sweetheart," Logan said, pushing his palm up. "You talk too damn much. Has your boyfriend ever told you that?"

  Peyton knew he was waiting for some kind of response. She wasn't sure if he was waiting for a denial or a correction that she even had a boyfriend in the first place. Either way, sh
e pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes into his, meeting his amazed gaze with a glare of her own. She refused to respond to him, going so far as to clench her teeth together to keep herself from saying something to fill the silence. He seemed amused by her response, at least judging by the twinkle in his hazel eyes and the defined dimples in his cheeks.

  "Stick to the pertinent details," he continued when he realized she wasn't going to respond to him. "What happened and why. Fuck the foreplay. Get to the good part. Leave me satisfied. Leave me wanting more."

  Peyton wished her face didn't react without her permission. She wished she could reach out and slap that smug grin off of his perfectly chiseled face. Instead, she pressed her lips so tightly together, her teeth caught on one of them and she was sure she would have a small sore that would bother her every time she ate something salty for the next week.

  "Are you fucking blushing?" Logan continued, his eyes dropping to her cheeks. "I really like you now. What's your name?"

  She wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to snarl at him. She wanted to remind him that he didn't learn names for another two weeks. Instead, she swallowed the rock currently lodged in her throat and said, "Peyton Hart."

  "Peyton," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. All traces of amusement vanished from his face as he got to down to business. "Do you think these boys raped the victim?"

  "I don't," she said.

  "Their semen was in her vagina," he pointed out.

  "So?" Peyton said. His eyes shot up at her tone and question and her blush got even darker. "How do you know she didn't consent to having sex with them?"

  "So, let me get this straight," Logan said as he began to pace, releasing his arms so he could gesture as he spoke. "You think that this poor fucking pathetic girl was so desperate for attention, she accused these three popular basketball players, all with scholarships to universities to start for their respective teams, of gang raping her in a guest bedroom at some hick mansion in the middle of nowhere?"