Fighting Heart: Fighting Heart Erotic Bad Boy Romance Series Book 1

Fighting Heart

Erotic Bad Boy Romance Series book 1

NicoleHamiltonBooks.com

Fighting Heart – Fighting Heart 1

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by NicoleHamiltonBooks.com in association with Great Leap

Digital Edition June 2015

Copyright © Nicole Hamilton 2015

Edited by OnlineBookServices.com

Nicole Hamilton has asserted her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this e-book publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review, without the prior written permission of the author.

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The Fighting Heart series by Nicole Hamilton

Series list - in reading order

Fighting Heart 1: Fighting Heart

Fighting Heart 2: Questing Heart

Fighting Heart 3: Vengeful Heart

Fighting Heart 4: Burning Heart

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Fighting Heart 1

Excerpt from Fighting Heart 2

Nicole’s Original Character Notes

My nerves were straining so hard I could barely stay in my seat. It was Monday morning, already the worst day of the week, and I was waiting for news I really didn’t want to hear. The other younger students were streaming past me on their way to lectures or to the canteen for coffee and gossip. As they passed me by I listened to their laughter, their chit-chat about music, cussing about their housemates and talking about the impossible books on their reading list. Jeez, I wished that was all I had to worry about. Right then I would have killed to swap places with those green little eighteen year olds on their first week at big school. I was never going to get the chance to be an innocent like them. I never did have that chance. I was twenty-three, a mature student, an oldie by the average age of the kids rushing past along the corridor. It might sound conceited, but most of those fresh little faces wouldn’t have known a problem if it had bitten them on their pampered little butts. The University Dean was making me wait, punishing me ahead of time. What a guy. He was an important academic, and here was I, a chick from the sticks, daring to face severe financial embarrassment in his domain. Right before the summer I had the princely sum of twelve grand in the bank, all this mature student would ever need to pay their way through college fees and living costs for one semester. It had taken me two hard years to save that cash. But after the dirty stunt my beloved brother Regan pulled, there was only ever one way that the drug dealers would leave his legs intact. And that was via The Bank of Ashley.
My college fund.
  Mum thought the sun shone out of Regan’s ass. She always did, even when we were kids, he never did any wrong, even though there was always a trail of victims in his wake. Her Regan-blindness continued when we got to senior school and he started smoking cigarettes and then rolling joints in the school field. So it was only natural that she blamed other people when he started getting home visits from the police. Before he turned twenty, my delightful brother suddenly became more popular than Mickey Mouse. Queues formed outside our door from Thursday night through to Sunday morning. The penny dropped in my mind pretty early on, but I knew my mother would never see it. Regan, the light of her life was a drug-dealer. Everyone in the street knew it. My friends knew it. I think the police already knew by then. But the flame retardant, non-stick parental love part of my mother’s brain would never accept her little boy had fallen from grace to become an entrepreneur of the dark side. I don’t know why it happened, because Regan was a good kid until he was thirteen. Sometimes there are no negative upbringings to cause a fall from grace. Sometimes it isn’t the parents fault and it’s not in the genes. Sometimes people like my brother Regan simply become grown-up and turn into pricks. And dear Regan, he turned into a big one. It took nine thousand pounds of my hard earned money to save Regan’s legs from getting crippled. Regan even told me they might have killed him. Sometimes - when I’m feeling really angry - I’m not so sure he was worth it.

Come on, Dean. It was ten-eleven. Now the Dean was pushing it. I looked around, imagining I might soon be missing this place – the University I had only just arrived in. The old white-washed walls were decorated with tatty posters and handwritten notes advertising rooms for students. They were tacked up guerilla-style in places they were not allowed to be. This, all of this, even the messy part, and the course work, and the London buses, and the toxic city air – all of this had been my dream. And now it looked like Regan was about to destroy my dream as well as his own.

The big oak door finally opened with a horror-flick style creak of the door hinges. Nice touch. But when the door opened, I saw the Dean wasn’t so much Frankenstein’s monster as a small but perfectly formed handsome man. There was something quirky about his face. The wheels of my brain went to work on what I was seeing. Yeah, somehow the Dean looked a lot like Ben Stiller. But I had already heard he was a bad-ass, a snooty academic with a hardline reputation, in spite of his Stiller-ness. At least that’s what all the second year student girls were saying down the pub last Friday night. As he stood aside and gestured to his plush red and purple coloured office, I wondered whether those girls were having me on. I was twenty three years old. I was fit and healthy and in good order. I mostly ate healthily and I worked out sometimes. With my feathered shoulder length blonde hair and fashion sense learned from two years in a clothes store, I knew I had a good chance of sweet-talking most guys who had an eye for a cute girl. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not usually the flirt-to-get-my-way type, but sometimes needs must. To get this far I had worked and saved for two years to do my English degree, my chosen gateway to new prospects and a better future.  Outside the Dean’s office I had decided I would do whatever it took to keep my new life on course. Falling at the first hurdle was never going to be an option. But there were problems, of course there were.

Problem 1. He didn’t smile. He ushered me to my seat. “Ashley Pearson? Yes?”

“Last time I checked,” I said, battling my edgy nerves to deliver a smidgen of charm. His Stiller-ness didn’t smile whatsoever. Perhaps I had forgotten that the Dean wasn’t really Ben Stiller. Maybe he didn’t like crass laden ice-breakers. The Dean had one of those name things on his desk – a little metallic plaque mounted on a small piece of wood. It said Jonathan Mayhew, Dean. When he spoke, all resemblance to Ben Stiller faded away. He spoke more like one of Darth Vader’s uniformed underlings on than a Rom-Com star.

“Please take a seat.”

I did, and so did he. I arranged myself so that my hair fell on either side of my face. I’ve been told I’m pretty. I have a thin nose and big eyes flecked brown and green. I mostly like what I see in the mirror, though I didn’t used to once. I have a wide mouth with full lips, and they look pretty good in a baby pink lipstick. Today I wore my natural soft pink lippy, with my smart and serious jacket open to reveal a halter-neck top with the little daisy print on it, with a selection pack of cleavage just visible above it. The Dean looked at me with unreadable eyes. Maybe he thought I was the hottest dish this side of Mexico. Maybe he was gay. It was pretty hard to tell from reading his unblinking eyes. So I opted for Mexico and tried to look sweet with a toothsome smile. Dean Jonathan started as he meant to go on.

“You know why I’ve called this meeting, don’t you?”

“Your letter mentions tuition fees.”

“That’s right. And the small matter of the University’s deadlines for those fees. Do you recall the deadline?”

He was sounding less and less like Ben Stiller with every syllable that dropped out of his patronising mouth. I sat upright. I folded my arms… but I knew the body language drill. I now looked defensive. Instead I forced myself to sit back and meet his eyes. There was something there. A momentary glint, but I couldn’t read him well at all.

“Late November, right?”

“Mid-November. The fifteenth to be precise. In order to keep your place at this University, we will need to collect a minimum payment of three thousand pounds by the fifteenth of November and then receive another payment in March, and the third and final payment no later than May. That’s a total of nine thousand pounds.”

I nodded and smiled and didn’t tell him I could count. Of course it was nine thousand pounds.

“Can you make a payment?”

“Can I make a payment now, or can I make a payment by the deadline?”

“Well… can you?”

“Because those are two different things.”

“By the deadline then. Is that realistic? I see here that you didn’t apply for the student loan and you’ve now missed the window for applications. So there’ll be no way to get a loan at this late juncture.”

I never wanted a loan. I had never needed a loan. I was going to do this my way. Then Regan happened.

“If you can’t make a commitment to pay the three instalments on those dates, Ashley, then you’ve wasted your time in starting on the academic programme. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but we need to be quite frank at this point. Now, can you afford to make those payments?”

His plummy voice was really taking the edge off those Hollywood good looks. At this point my stomach was burning and my cheeks were hot like they always are when I get angry.  What I heard was snobbery. Any effort at flirtation was now forgotten.

“Can I afford to make those payments? I’m not sure that’s an appropriate question, Dean.”

“Of course it’s appropriate. If you can’t pay for the course, how can you do it?”

“I haven’t wasted any of my time. I’ve started this course and I’m going to finish it.”

“Good. Now can you pay those fees?”

“Do you attend the graduation ceremony? As University Dean, I mean.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And do you hand out the degree certificates?”

“I am present when they are given out in the Great Hall and…”

“Then mark my words: You will see me on graduation day.”

“Ashley. This is not about your ambition or your spirit. This is about the bare facts. If you cannot meet the fees as set out by this University, we will have no choice but to withdraw you from the English programme. It’s as simple as that.”

“You asked whether I can afford it.”

The Dean nodded, and opened his hands in admission.

“Right now, I have three thousand pounds in my account.”

“Then you can pay.”

“But I need that to live.”

I saw the Dean look impatient, his own cheeks flushed. His eyes crept up to the clock in the corner of his office, above the stack of books and clip-framed photographs of man-hugs and people shaking hands.

“Ashley…”

“I am going to pay you on the deadline set out in your letter. You’re not going to close my place in advance of the deadline, now, are you, because that would not be…
appropriate,
would it?”

“What you’ve said, Ashley, indicates that you pose a financial risk to the University. You haven’t been awarded a bursary, and you didn’t come here on a scholarship. If you cannot pay the fees, I see no reason in dragging out the unfortunate situation you find yourself in.”

“Dean, please. This unfortunate situation is my life. And guess what. Right now I have the money to pay those fees, but I need it more than this University. But come mid-November I will hand in the grand sum of three thousand pounds for my place at this University. I have the time I need unless you take that time away from me.”

“And how are you going to manage that, Ashley?”             

“That’s my business. So, is my place on the English programme open?”

“Until the 15
th
of November. Then if you pay your fees, it will be extended.”

“Do you have anything else you need to say to me, Dean?”

The man shifted left and right in his chair and his shoulders made a barely perceptible shrug.

“I know. How about good luck in your studies?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard. You almost said it.”

I couldn’t help it. I hate snobbishness and I hate authority, and I’ve always paid my way. No one was going to tell me I couldn’t fulfil my ambition on account of money. I stood and walked to the door. I made a little dramatic spin to grab the door, giving just enough of a turn that the middle-aged Dean could check out my curves in those tight jeans. I took one look back and gave him a thin smile. And yes, I think I caught him checking me out. He looked up so quickly, I knew he had hidden a peek.

“One last thing, Ashley.”

I held the door and waited. He wanted to have the last word, like these kind of authority guys always do.

“If you can’t make that payment by the fifteenth, and you’ve used college resources and teaching time, filling a college place which could have gone to someone else… the University will be forced to collect payment whether you can afford it or not.”

Afford. That word again.

“The good news, Dean is that’s my problem, not yours.” I almost slammed the door. I took a deep lungful of air in the noisy white corridor. I was right. Paying those huge fees was my problem but as of that moment I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do about it. It was week two of my college career and I already had to find some money really quickly, or I was in deep trouble. How was I going to get that kind of money together and stay on the course? It was mission impossible. Thanks again, brother Regan.