Kat Alexander's Blog
June 2, 2018
Dares, Lies & Geminis Release Day Event & Giveaway!!!
First, thank you to everyone who participated in Dares, Lies & Geminis' release into the world!!! I can't say enough how much it means to me that people reached out just to tell me how much that book affected them. That just makes my heart soar!
Okay, now on to the winners.
The $10 Amazon gift card goes to ...
Lynda Dickson!!!
And the signed paperbacks of Dares, Lies & Geminis go to ... Linda Romer and Krystal Pena!!!
Congratulations!!!
I will contact winners via Goodreads message.
Thank you again to everyone who participated!
Kat Alexander
P.S. I dare you to read Dares, Lies & Geminis. ;)
May 3, 2018
Pre-order Available for Dares, Lies & Geminis
This book is one of those "darker writings to come" that I mentioned in my bio. There are warning labels attached. Regardless, it's a story that needed to be told. Seraphina, the female protagonist, insisted on it. In fact, she hijacked the story and told it the way she wanted it.
Add to your TBR list: Dares, Lies and Geminis
Synopsis:
Two women, different as night and day.
Tristana likes to keep to herself, devotedly working all day so she doesn’t think about all she is missing in life.
Seraphina, shrouded in mystery, hunts at night, surreptitiously looking for someone good, noble, and honest, while proving to herself they don’t exist.
Two men who won’t succumb to failure.
After his brother’s death, Peter spends his days trying to build a life as far away from the accusatory eyes of his hometown.
Nathan has a nightly obsession—Seraphina.
The truth that everyone is afraid to whisper.
As Peter starts to chip away at Tristana’s walls, one dare unknowingly releases something he thought he lost long ago.
And as Nathan moves in on Seraphina, one lie breaks apart the foundation of everything he thought he knew.
Meet the Geminis.
Pre-order/Buy links:
Amazon: http://a.co/fbqfEvs
iTunes: https://tinyurl.com/yc6rkam2
B&N: https://tinyurl.com/yaqc3hvx
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/dare...
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
February 28, 2017
NOW LIVE! And Giveaways!
Day late, but yesterday, I finally released Looking Back on Forever. Yay!
I want to thank everyone who helped with the release, who critiqued the book, and those who took the time to read it before its release. Thank you.
A release is nerve-racking. In prior releases, I never hit publish. My husband did it for me, because I felt like I would puke if I did it. This time, all I had to hit was pre-order, knowing I wasn’t immediately sending it off into the world. That made the experience so many times better.
I hope everyone who reads Looking Back on Forever will feel what Claire and Noah feel: cry when they cry, laugh when they laugh. That’s all I want out of this book. Like Claire, I just want to give emotions. I hope to give you a respite to everyday life and let you escape into a life that is full of hopes and dreams. However, I will admit that Claire and Noah’s story isn’t filled with good times. Part 2 is a rollercoaster ride that will (hopefully) crush you and piss you off. If it does, then my work here is done. You’re welcome. ;)
Amazon: http://a.co/3iRbH7B
Kobo: https://tinyurl.com/jcmqlxj
iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/look...
B&N: https://tinyurl.com/hjqao7g
There is a giveaway on Goodreads: Looking Back on Forever
And a rafflecopter: https://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/dis...
I want to thank everyone who helped with the release, who critiqued the book, and those who took the time to read it before its release. Thank you.
A release is nerve-racking. In prior releases, I never hit publish. My husband did it for me, because I felt like I would puke if I did it. This time, all I had to hit was pre-order, knowing I wasn’t immediately sending it off into the world. That made the experience so many times better.
I hope everyone who reads Looking Back on Forever will feel what Claire and Noah feel: cry when they cry, laugh when they laugh. That’s all I want out of this book. Like Claire, I just want to give emotions. I hope to give you a respite to everyday life and let you escape into a life that is full of hopes and dreams. However, I will admit that Claire and Noah’s story isn’t filled with good times. Part 2 is a rollercoaster ride that will (hopefully) crush you and piss you off. If it does, then my work here is done. You’re welcome. ;)
Amazon: http://a.co/3iRbH7B
Kobo: https://tinyurl.com/jcmqlxj
iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/look...
B&N: https://tinyurl.com/hjqao7g
There is a giveaway on Goodreads: Looking Back on Forever
And a rafflecopter: https://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/dis...
February 8, 2017
Looking for bloggers!
I would like to invite you to participate in the promo/sale blitz for Looking Back on Forever, running March 6-12, 2017.
Please follow the
link to join! Thank you so much!
https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FA...
Please follow the
link to join! Thank you so much!https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FA...
December 14, 2016
Teaser for Looking Back on Forever
Chapter 1 of Looking Back on Forever
For My Sanity
(Noah)
“Dude, this is going to be great,” Kyle goes on and on as he helps carry my belongings to the guest room, my new room for the next ten months—senior year of high school. “My popularity status is going to skyrocket this year! Cousin to the big, bad city boy. Oh, yeah, girls are going to flock to us. Just wait.”
I let Kyle drone on about using me for personal gain as I settle the last box on top of the blue covered bed. My aunt and uncle—Kyle’s parents—decorated this room in anticipation of my arrival; I can tell. The room used to have white walls with faint pink décor: bed spread, curtains, some fancy lace shit all over the place. Now the room looks like something Picasso would be proud of: blue comforter, blue walls, blue curtains, blue rug, blue, blue, blue. What the hell were they thinking?
What makes it worse? I hate blue. As a kid, I loved blue. What little boy didn’t? But in second grade, as we were making our spring time crafts, the teacher ran out of blue fingerpaint. I looked around the room and noticed everyone had made blue skies and blue water and the boys, of course, painted blue bicycles, blue T-shirts, blue, blue, blue. It was then, right there, that I made a statement. I would hate blue. Why? Probably because there wasn’t enough for me.
So, how do you think I finished my painting? That’s right. I was the smart kid. I painted a sunset with fall toned leaves and red, fiery waters. Did my teacher appreciate my artwork? No. She mistook it for fall, not spring, even though I pointed out that there are still sunsets in the spring time. Stupid bitch.
“So … what do you want to do tonight?” Kyle pulls my attention away from the blue nightmare of the room.
I shrug. “What is there to do?”
“Well, I know this isn’t the New York, but there is always a party or two on the weekends. Chelsea Winds is having one tonight. I thought we could stop in for a few beers. If you don’t want to stay, then we can go down to the pool hall or something.”
“I can do that. Who’s Chelsea?”
Kyle rolls his eyes back with a deep sigh. “She is every guy’s wet dream. We’re talking blonde, big tits, nice ass, legs that go on for miles.” He starts humping the side of my bed. “She gives out, too. I know a lot of guys who lost their v-card to her.”
“You hit that?” I ask, thinking I don’t want to have sex the entire town by tapping one chick. That’s not kosher.
“Nah, man. She won’t give me the time of day,” he admits before slapping me in the back and putting his arm around my shoulder. “But I’m sure she’ll do about anything to get some info on you, pretty boy.” He laughs as we head out the bedroom door. “So, what do you say? Wanna play hard to get so you can help me out some? Give her the cold shoulder for a night, so she’s begging me, on her knees, to tell her about you.”
I grin at his antics. “What makes you think she’ll want to know anything about me?”
Kyle stops and moves to stand in front of me with his hands holding my shoulders back like he’s about to teach his son a valuable life lesson. “Uh, Noah, your reputation precedes you. Enough said.” With that, he turns back around and walks down the stairs at a light jog with a bounce in his step.
Enough said. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
*
This girl, Chelsea, is the all-American cheerleader stereotype, which is not my type at all. She’s gorgeous; don’t get me wrong. Kyle’s description of her was spot on. However, I like brunettes. What I wouldn’t want to do with her body, though …
As she follows me around like a puppy dog, I give her the cold shoulder. And no, I don’t do it just because Kyle asked it of me. The girl’s voice pierces my ears like nothing else. She’s got that high-pitched voice that sounds like she’s screaming when she talks, like she wants everyone to hear her and thinks everyone does (most do). Not I, though. I want to drink my beer and scope out the scene; see who I will be going to high school with in a couple more days.
Kyle’s friends are nicer than I expected. Must be the small-town personality. It helps that I’m the “city boy” and everyone wants to know what the city is like. Most of these kids have never been farther than fifty miles from here. Subsequently, I stand wherever I am stopped and answer their questions as politely as I can while Chelsea clings to me like some type of chimpanzee, squeezing my arm from time to time like I’m a new mare she wants to buy. It’s degrading—and this is coming from a guy.
Mostly, everyone wants to know about the typical city sights. Have I been to Central Park? What is it like? What is the Statue of Liberty like? Do I like Chinatown? Greenwich Village? What is New York like? You have to see for yourself some time. What are the clubs like? Which ones, I ask. On and on and on, they continue. And that’s how my night goes—harassed from all sides of me with a girl mauling my flesh, not taking the hint every time I pull a limb free.
I miss my friends. My home.
It sucks to finish out the last year of high school in a new town. My friends and I back at home had plans. Our band grew quite the fan club. Most of our senior calls and some in the lower grades were following us around from club to club, gaining us lots of attention. We had those “big dreams” to be found before we graduated. Now, I am stuck out in Small Town, USA. Breckinridge, Colorado. Population: Forty-six hundred.
Parents suck. My mom and dad are both history buffs. Mom is a professor of historical studies. She took a year sabbatical to tour some archeological digs around the world. Something about some connection between the cuneiforms. Dad, a researcher, of course had to go with her on their quest for knowledge, leaving me to my dad’s brother’s care, which was the ultimatum: go with them or be sent here.
Everyone thinks I’m crazy not to go with them and finish school online, but what they fail to realize is that I always had to go with them growing up, which made me struggle throughout school. A five-year-old in kindergarten turned into an eight-year-old in second grade when my mom took another sabbatical to the jungles of Congo—I must input here that the hippopotamus is the scariest creature on earth, and that internet and tutors do not exist in the Congo. To this day, I am not a fan of the zoo.
Chelsea grabs my arm again, with both of her claws this time as she laughs at something Kyle says, bringing me back to the present.
I pull my arm out of her clutches and hand her my drink so that she has something else to hold on to. “Why don’t you finish that. I need to step outside for some air.” I give Kyle the look before stepping away.
“I can come with you,” Chelsea eagerly calls out as she stays in step behind me.
I turn back around to face her. “Just stay here and keep Kyle company. I’ll be right back.”
She pouts, which would look adorable if she wasn’t such a clingy slut. “All right,” she relents with a smile.
Finally free, I make my getaway.
Kyle and I already planned this. I sneak out from the backyard, drive away in Kyle’s car, and wait for him to seal the deal. I already gave him the look that told him I am not getting anywhere near her. If Kyle wants to chance that, who am I to stop him? He knows what he is in for.
At seventeen, Kyle has a lot of growing up to do in the woman’s department. Just from hearing him and his friends talk, I know his maturity level isn’t that high yet. They still talk about lifting skirts with a baseball bat or pretending to fall so they can grab onto a breast “accidentally.” I might only be a year older than him, but that kind of stuff was child’s play when I was twelve, not seventeen.
I step outside and circle around a group of kids sharing a joint. One of them, who was one of the kids asking me about the city early, tries to offer me the joint, but I decline. I’m not in the mood for pot tonight. I already downed a few beers and have a nice buzz. If I smoke that stuff, I will be gone. The rule with drinking and smoking pot is a lot like mixing beer with liquor. You want to smoke first, then drink. Too many times I have been completely drunk out of my mind and then smoked some grass. Lesson learned when minutes later the room spins like the UFO ride at the carnival and I’m puking everything I drank and ate for the past month. After the third time, I finally drilled it into my head that alcohol and weed do not mix well with me. Good on everyone else who can handle it, though. I respect that kind of stamina.
I make it to the side yard to find a couple loving it up against the side of the house. The girl, another blonde cheerleader type, has her legs wrapped around some guy’s waist. The guy’s pants have fallen around his ankles as he thrusts into the girl, probably too drunk to realize his hairy ass is on display.
I quickly look away before the guy comes after me with his pants pulled down. The dude is built like a linebacker, looks to be about six-foot-five, maybe two hundred fifty pounds. He definitely doesn’t look like he belongs at a high school party. I could probably still take him at my six-foot-two, one hundred eighty pounds. I might be half his size, but I’m fast and have a mean punch, and I never hold back. However, I don’t need to get into a fight with a half-naked guy tonight, though it would be interesting to see.
Already forgetting the scene of fornication, I’m lost in thought, staring down at the blades of grass that are already forming their nightly dew as I walk toward Kyle’s car, wondering where I’m going to go to kill time before Kyle calls me to pick him up. We should have ridden separately. I should have brought my bike. That way, I wouldn’t have to wait around.
I get into the driver’s seat of Kyle’s piece of crap Honda and lean my head back on the seat, reclining the chair. I’m tired and want to go straight to bed. I don’t even care to unpack tonight. I can take care of that tomorrow.
There is still three more days before school starts. Maybe I will drive around town to scope out the stores. I need to stock up on some school supplies; grab a notebook or two, some pens, pencils. That’s all I should really need. I also need to buy some toiletries. I didn’t pack those. Most of my stuff was shipped here with my motorcycle, a present from my dad for my eighteenth birthday last May. I only had a carry-on bag at the airport and my guitar. There was no way was I going to ship that. It was bad enough I had to ship my bike and be without it for a week. I still need to check it for scratches. Kyle didn’t give me a chance to do anything. My aunt and uncle picked me up from the airport, Kyle helped me carry my shit from the car, and then we were leaving to come to this shitty party.
I shoot a text to Kyle to tell him I’m waiting and to text me back when he is ready to leave.
Damn, I’m tired.
A pounding noise jerks me awake. It sounds like a stampede of elephants, and the world is shaking with its thunderous footfalls. I look over to see a grinning Kyle staring back at me from the other side of the car’s window. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of my chest. I press a hand to my chest, like I can hold my heart in. I’m going to kill Kyle for putting the fear of the Congo back into me. Never take a child to the jungle. They will be traumatized for life.
“Move over, dude. I’m driving.” Bastard is grinning like a moron.
I have half a mind to punch that smirk off his face. I need to get him to stop using “dude.” That shit gets on my nerves. This isn’t some sunny beach escape where surfers are dudeing it up. This is Small Town, America.
I open the car door and get out before walking around the back then sliding into the passenger seat. No way am I “moving over” the console like some kid.
I’m being an asshole. I know I am, but shit, am I tired. I want to sleep for a day. Start over after I wake up. Play Mr. Nice Guy then. Not right now. Too tired right now.
Kyle is oblivious to my tired, pissed off state of mind, bouncing around as he gets into the car and starts the engine.
“Dude—”
“No more dude! Got it?” I say harshly. “Call me Noah or cousin or man or something. Just knock it off with the surfer talk. And no brah. I hate that shit.”
“What the hell crawled up your ass?” Kyle retorts, happy persona now gone, and I feel bad for that, but not bad enough not to snip this dude shit in the bud now.
“I’m tired, and I hate the dude shit. Please, for my sanity and our family”—I motion between us—“bonding shit, just stop with the dude.” I take a deep breath to calm myself down as Kyle pulls out from in front of Chelsea’s house. “I’m sorry, Kyle. I’m tired.” I slap myself in the face to wake my ass up then turn toward him. “I take it that it went well with the blonde.”
Kyle’s face lights up, and I know our little snapping bit is over and forgotten.
“Hell yeah, she was all over me the minute she realized you weren’t coming back. At first, she was determined to find you. She scoured the house and outside looking for you. Then, when you shot me that text, I told her you said you took off. After that, she was more than eager to drag me to her room. Of course she asked questions about you the whole time she was riding my dick, but I couldn’t complain. I don’t even know what she asked or what I said. That chick knows how to—”
“I don’t need details. Thanks, though,” I mutter as my eyes start to close. I let out a yawn, telling him, “Glad you had fun. I hope you wrapped that shit up. I’d hate to think of it falling off.”
Kyle reaches over and punches me in the arm, laughing like I made a joke. I didn’t.
*
(Claire)
“Dad!” I call out. “I’m home. What do you want for dinner?”
It’s surprising when my dad is actually home before me. He’s the District Attorney for our small town and works sometimes twelve to fourteen hours a day. I usually eat alone, so for him to be home makes it a special occasion, and I want to cook him whatever he wants.
I hear him shuffle around his office before he comes into view. I’m already striding toward his office when he reaches the doorway. He reaches out to me and wraps me in the warm embrace only a dad can give.
Even though he works a lot, he’s still the best, most caring dad in the world. I know he loves me; he tells me that every day and shows me by being so supportive. He never lets me give up my dreams. He pushes me to be the best at everything I do. He listens to me when I need to talk. He’s both my father and the mother I can’t remember.
Dad pulls away and kisses me on the forehead. “I have a craving for your chicken parmesan. Can we do that?” His smile lights up his face. We both love chicken parmesan. It’s kind of “our dinner,” a favorite we have frequently.
I return his smile. “I think we can do that.”
We always talk in we’s. Dad says it’s a sign that we put up a united front. Even though only one of us may be doing something, the other is supportive, so it feels like we are doing it together.
Dad gives my arm a squeeze. “Wonderful.” He turns away before stopping and turns back. “Need any help? I have a few more interrogations to read through, but I can wait—”
I hold up my hands. “I got this, Dad. I’m just glad you’re home early for once,” I call over my shoulder as I head toward the kitchen. “You won’t hear any complaints from me.”
I hurry through the process of making dinner since it’s already past six o’clock. I bread the chicken before putting it in the oven, heat the water to boil, and make my special marinara sauce. As the noodles soften, I pull out some French bread, buttering it before shaking some powdered garlic onto it, and then sprinkling some cheese. After that, I toss a quick salad together before putting the bread into the toaster oven. When everything is all ready, I call Dad into eat.
The table is set, and I have laid out all the food in our special serving dishes. It’s extremely rare that we get a chance to eat together, so I go all out when we do, making the dinner as special as I can in our formal dining room, which I will point out is rarely used. The linens are placed on the table and cloth napkins are strategically placed with our silverware. Grandma’s fine china is laid out on the table and candles are lit. This is our norm. A time we make special for us.
Sometimes Dad has special guests over, but those nights I don’t cook. He usually calls in a caterer for those dinners and events. The mayor comes to our home several times a year with his family, the governor once or twice, senators, and congressmen. My dad knows people everywhere and all those people look up to my dad, telling him he should run for state senate or governor. They all take his advice, hanging on to his every word.
Instead of bloating his ego, Dad stays humble. He has considered running for office, but prefers staying in the background, encouraging and giving advice whenever asked. He doesn’t feel the need to make a difference in such a big way when he can do that while still being the DA and offering guidance when needs be. He says as long as things are running as they are, which in his opinion is as good as it gets, then he doesn’t need to step in. Plus, he loves his job, even though he works too hard, and he’s afraid the next person will mess up his office. I laugh at how pretentious he is about his workspace. It’s nothing like the man himself. Such an oxymoron.
“This smells great, sweetheart,” Dad says as he walks into the room, then takes his seat at the head of the table.
I finish lighting the last candle before sitting to his right. “Thanks, Dad.” I start dishing out a helping of spaghetti onto my plate.
Dad makes a show of looking around the room. “Where’s Troy? I thought he would be here with you.”
Troy is my best friend, the mayor’s son, and my wanna-be bodyguard/thinks he’s my boyfriend. He is not my boyfriend, but he thinks he fills that role. I have never kissed him, but he sometimes holds my hand. I have told him on more than several occasions I don’t think of him that way, but he brushes off my words like I’m silly and don’t know what I’m talking about. He thinks because he supports me with my dream, which I’ve told him, on several occasions, that though his support is great, I don’t need a bossy friend dictating my lessons.
Though I have no interest whatsoever in relationships, a date would be nice every now and then. However, Troy is bound and determined to threaten any guy who even looks at me. The girls all love him and scorn me for “taking all of his attention,” not that I care to. I have been called frigid, yet a whore by scornful girls in the school. The guys became tired of not being able to talk to me, so they call me a bitch, or a stuck-up snob, not understanding it’s my domineering friend who pushes them away.
Once, when a guy was brave enough to approach me, Troy stormed in and beat him. I had to pull Troy off the poor kid. Needless to say, I didn’t talk to Troy for a week. I finally relented to the silent treatment when he showed up at our door, crying big, old, fat tears, and then endured a lesson from my dad about forgiveness and virtue. Our friendship continues, but I lost a bit of respect for him after that.
“I don’t know,” I answer my dad.
I feel my eyebrows pull together in thought. Troy said he was going to meet me at the auditorium, but he never showed and never called with an excuse. I assume he had to do something with his family. That’s usually the only reason he’s not at my side. The man won’t go a day without seeing me. It’s unnerving.
“How did practice go?”
I smile up at my dad. “It was amazing. I was spot-on today. Madame Gelardi barely criticized me.” We both laugh at that statement.
Madame Gelardi is my singing tutor. She came from Italy about twenty years ago when her children moved to the States. She taught music in my elementary school back then. Previously from that, she was a Prima Donna, but her career was short-lived when she became pregnant with her first child. After that, she played small roles until she eventually settled down to raise her family and became a teacher.
She’s retired from teaching now but still took me on as her pupil. She has connections everywhere and gave me an amazing recommendation to the Manhattan School of Music in New York City after requesting some acquaintances to fly all the way here to hear me perform at the governor’s ball. It was, by far, the most nerve-racking night of my life. It paid off, though, and next year I will be in the city, starting my education and hopefully working toward my dream career to be a Prima Donna.
My dad and I have a great meal together, with me telling him about my classes this upcoming school year, how my tutoring has been coming along, and him telling me about the case he is working on right now.
We are interrupted from cleaning up after dinner by the doorbell ringing. Dad is putting the last of the dishware into the dishwasher as I am taking the linens into the laundry room.
“I’ll get it,” I tell him as I drop the linens on top of the drier, and then turn around to head toward the front door.
It’s Troy. He looks a bit disheveled and reeks of alcohol and something else. His eyes are bloodshot, his pants and shirt are wrinkled, and there appears to be a hickey on his neck. I raise my eyebrows at that.
“Are you insane?” I ask him as I push him back and step outside, shutting the door behind me. “You come over to the district attorney’s house after you’ve been drinking?” I shake my head at him. “I’ll be right back,” I tell him before he can speak a word.
I go back inside the house to grab my purse and keys, calling out to my dad, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go for a drive with Troy really quick.”
“ ’Kay, sweetie. Be careful. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, hurrying back out the door.
I give Troy a disappointed look as I start down the front stairs, stopping when I realize his car isn’t here. I turn back to see he has his head down and his hands shoved into his pockets.
“Where is your car?”
He shrugs. “Chelsea’s house, I guess. I walked here.”
Chelsea lives up the street. Her family owns a couple businesses in town. Dad and her parents are friends, but never me and Chelsea. We have been enemies since for as long as I can remember. She always needed to destroy my toys and such when we were still in diapers. That girl is evil. Really evil.
“Chelsea’s house? What were you doing over there?” I’m incredulous. They hate each other. Well, she hates us. Always has. Always will.
“She had a party, and I thought I would go to, you know …”
No, I don’t know, but whatever.
I have never been to a house party, though I have seen what they are like on TV, and from what I’ve seen, I’m not missing anything. I don’t feel that rebellious urge everyone else does to let loose, get drunk, stoned, sleep around—whatever. I like to stay focused. Concentrate on goals.
I slowly look him over again. “Why do you look so guilty?” He looks defeated, like he did something terribly wrong and will never be forgiven for it. “Did you get into another fight? Get kicked out? Tore her house apart? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t look like he was fighting. I mean, he is disheveled like he could have been, but when he fights, there is blood, and I don’t see any blood on him.
I pull one of his hands out of his pocket and look at his knuckles. Nope, no cuts, no bruises, no blood. Just old scars from past brawls and slamming fists into walls. The man has a temper, a bad one. I have been thankful on more than several occasions that his temper hasn’t been directed at me. I trust him with my life.
He pulls his hand out of mine so quickly that I feel offended and a bit hurt. What’s wrong with him?
“Sorry,” he says when he sees my look. “I, uh … I got really wasted, really fast and sleptwithNikki.” He says the last part so fast and so low I almost miss it.
“Ew.” The distaste is out of my mouth so fast that I can’t stop myself. No wonder he didn’t want me to touch his hand, knowing where that hand has been.
I rub my hands across the back of my jean shorts without him noticing.
“Come on,” I tell him, heading toward my car. “I’ll take you home and pick you up tomorrow so you can get your car, ’kay?”
He nods solemnly as follows behind me. For such a big guy, he always looks like such a lost puppy when he’s like this. That’s one of the reasons I love him so much. He makes mistakes a lot, but I honestly feel like he can’t help himself. He beats himself up for it for so long. I think it’s the pressure of being the mayor’s son. So many people hold him in high expectations. He has to watch everything he says and does. He can’t make any mistakes. So, every once in a while, that pressure builds up in him and he explodes—getting into fights, sleeping with random girls, getting drunk.
Two years ago, his dad got him into boxing to relieve some steam. At his height and build, there aren’t many guys who would go up against him, at least not after they already have. Troy is ruthless. He’s a weapon all on his own.
“I feel like I cheated on you. Why do I feel so guilty? Why do I feel like I did something wrong?” he says as he buckles his seatbelt. He looks over at me through his lashes, his head still bent down like a dog who had his nose tapped for peeing on the carpet.
That thought makes me giggle. Then I sigh at his statement and questions. We have been through this so many times before that I should just record my responses.
I turn the key in the ignition, then drive down the long driveway. “You didn’t cheat on me because we’re not together. We’ve never been together, and we won’t ever be together. You are my best friend and I love you, but like a brother, Troy. You’re the big, little brother I’ve never had.
“You feel guilty because you did do something wrong. You need to control your actions better. I know you’re always under a lot of pressure, but so am I, and you don’t see me getting drunk and sleeping with random guys.”
He growls at that statement, and I roll my eyes.
“With your repeated slip-ups,” I continue, “we should have another couple of months before you feel the urge to slip again.” I smile and grab his knee, giving it a little shake.
He gives me a small smile in return, something rare, and grabs my hand before quickly releasing it. Oh, yeah. Dirty sex hands. Yuck again.
“We need to find something else for you to preoccupy your … unguarded times.”
“You.”
“Hmm?” I hum, not understanding what he’s referring to.
“I need you.”
“I’m always here for you. Obviously that’s not working. The one day I haven’t seen you practically all summer and you are at a house party—”
“No. Why can’t you see that you are perfect for me? You calm me. You make me a better person. Why can’t we try us? We’re already best friends. Just think about how it would be to be best friends that kiss each other, hold hands, sleep together …”
“I’m not getting into this with you again. I don’t see you that way. I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You’re my best friend. I don’t want to ruin that. And besides, we already hold hands,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
It doesn’t work. He looks more forlorn as I pull up to his house.
Troy takes his seatbelt off before turning to face me, reaching out like he is about to brush my hair out of my face, but then he hesitates when he remembers not to touch me. “I’ll always be here for you. You’ll see. One day we will be together. We’re made for each other. Just, right now you are so concentrated on Manhattan School of Music… Once you get there, you’ll see that we’ve belonged together all along.” With that, he gets out of the car, blows me a kiss, and then walks around to the back of the house, probably not wanting a confrontation with his dad.
I sit there, watching until he is out of sight. Then I whisper to myself, “I’m sorry, Troy. You aren’t the one for me.”
For 2nd chapter, buy Lunangelique Series Boxed Set
For My Sanity
(Noah)
“Dude, this is going to be great,” Kyle goes on and on as he helps carry my belongings to the guest room, my new room for the next ten months—senior year of high school. “My popularity status is going to skyrocket this year! Cousin to the big, bad city boy. Oh, yeah, girls are going to flock to us. Just wait.”
I let Kyle drone on about using me for personal gain as I settle the last box on top of the blue covered bed. My aunt and uncle—Kyle’s parents—decorated this room in anticipation of my arrival; I can tell. The room used to have white walls with faint pink décor: bed spread, curtains, some fancy lace shit all over the place. Now the room looks like something Picasso would be proud of: blue comforter, blue walls, blue curtains, blue rug, blue, blue, blue. What the hell were they thinking?
What makes it worse? I hate blue. As a kid, I loved blue. What little boy didn’t? But in second grade, as we were making our spring time crafts, the teacher ran out of blue fingerpaint. I looked around the room and noticed everyone had made blue skies and blue water and the boys, of course, painted blue bicycles, blue T-shirts, blue, blue, blue. It was then, right there, that I made a statement. I would hate blue. Why? Probably because there wasn’t enough for me.
So, how do you think I finished my painting? That’s right. I was the smart kid. I painted a sunset with fall toned leaves and red, fiery waters. Did my teacher appreciate my artwork? No. She mistook it for fall, not spring, even though I pointed out that there are still sunsets in the spring time. Stupid bitch.
“So … what do you want to do tonight?” Kyle pulls my attention away from the blue nightmare of the room.
I shrug. “What is there to do?”
“Well, I know this isn’t the New York, but there is always a party or two on the weekends. Chelsea Winds is having one tonight. I thought we could stop in for a few beers. If you don’t want to stay, then we can go down to the pool hall or something.”
“I can do that. Who’s Chelsea?”
Kyle rolls his eyes back with a deep sigh. “She is every guy’s wet dream. We’re talking blonde, big tits, nice ass, legs that go on for miles.” He starts humping the side of my bed. “She gives out, too. I know a lot of guys who lost their v-card to her.”
“You hit that?” I ask, thinking I don’t want to have sex the entire town by tapping one chick. That’s not kosher.
“Nah, man. She won’t give me the time of day,” he admits before slapping me in the back and putting his arm around my shoulder. “But I’m sure she’ll do about anything to get some info on you, pretty boy.” He laughs as we head out the bedroom door. “So, what do you say? Wanna play hard to get so you can help me out some? Give her the cold shoulder for a night, so she’s begging me, on her knees, to tell her about you.”
I grin at his antics. “What makes you think she’ll want to know anything about me?”
Kyle stops and moves to stand in front of me with his hands holding my shoulders back like he’s about to teach his son a valuable life lesson. “Uh, Noah, your reputation precedes you. Enough said.” With that, he turns back around and walks down the stairs at a light jog with a bounce in his step.
Enough said. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
*
This girl, Chelsea, is the all-American cheerleader stereotype, which is not my type at all. She’s gorgeous; don’t get me wrong. Kyle’s description of her was spot on. However, I like brunettes. What I wouldn’t want to do with her body, though …
As she follows me around like a puppy dog, I give her the cold shoulder. And no, I don’t do it just because Kyle asked it of me. The girl’s voice pierces my ears like nothing else. She’s got that high-pitched voice that sounds like she’s screaming when she talks, like she wants everyone to hear her and thinks everyone does (most do). Not I, though. I want to drink my beer and scope out the scene; see who I will be going to high school with in a couple more days.
Kyle’s friends are nicer than I expected. Must be the small-town personality. It helps that I’m the “city boy” and everyone wants to know what the city is like. Most of these kids have never been farther than fifty miles from here. Subsequently, I stand wherever I am stopped and answer their questions as politely as I can while Chelsea clings to me like some type of chimpanzee, squeezing my arm from time to time like I’m a new mare she wants to buy. It’s degrading—and this is coming from a guy.
Mostly, everyone wants to know about the typical city sights. Have I been to Central Park? What is it like? What is the Statue of Liberty like? Do I like Chinatown? Greenwich Village? What is New York like? You have to see for yourself some time. What are the clubs like? Which ones, I ask. On and on and on, they continue. And that’s how my night goes—harassed from all sides of me with a girl mauling my flesh, not taking the hint every time I pull a limb free.
I miss my friends. My home.
It sucks to finish out the last year of high school in a new town. My friends and I back at home had plans. Our band grew quite the fan club. Most of our senior calls and some in the lower grades were following us around from club to club, gaining us lots of attention. We had those “big dreams” to be found before we graduated. Now, I am stuck out in Small Town, USA. Breckinridge, Colorado. Population: Forty-six hundred.
Parents suck. My mom and dad are both history buffs. Mom is a professor of historical studies. She took a year sabbatical to tour some archeological digs around the world. Something about some connection between the cuneiforms. Dad, a researcher, of course had to go with her on their quest for knowledge, leaving me to my dad’s brother’s care, which was the ultimatum: go with them or be sent here.
Everyone thinks I’m crazy not to go with them and finish school online, but what they fail to realize is that I always had to go with them growing up, which made me struggle throughout school. A five-year-old in kindergarten turned into an eight-year-old in second grade when my mom took another sabbatical to the jungles of Congo—I must input here that the hippopotamus is the scariest creature on earth, and that internet and tutors do not exist in the Congo. To this day, I am not a fan of the zoo.
Chelsea grabs my arm again, with both of her claws this time as she laughs at something Kyle says, bringing me back to the present.
I pull my arm out of her clutches and hand her my drink so that she has something else to hold on to. “Why don’t you finish that. I need to step outside for some air.” I give Kyle the look before stepping away.
“I can come with you,” Chelsea eagerly calls out as she stays in step behind me.
I turn back around to face her. “Just stay here and keep Kyle company. I’ll be right back.”
She pouts, which would look adorable if she wasn’t such a clingy slut. “All right,” she relents with a smile.
Finally free, I make my getaway.
Kyle and I already planned this. I sneak out from the backyard, drive away in Kyle’s car, and wait for him to seal the deal. I already gave him the look that told him I am not getting anywhere near her. If Kyle wants to chance that, who am I to stop him? He knows what he is in for.
At seventeen, Kyle has a lot of growing up to do in the woman’s department. Just from hearing him and his friends talk, I know his maturity level isn’t that high yet. They still talk about lifting skirts with a baseball bat or pretending to fall so they can grab onto a breast “accidentally.” I might only be a year older than him, but that kind of stuff was child’s play when I was twelve, not seventeen.
I step outside and circle around a group of kids sharing a joint. One of them, who was one of the kids asking me about the city early, tries to offer me the joint, but I decline. I’m not in the mood for pot tonight. I already downed a few beers and have a nice buzz. If I smoke that stuff, I will be gone. The rule with drinking and smoking pot is a lot like mixing beer with liquor. You want to smoke first, then drink. Too many times I have been completely drunk out of my mind and then smoked some grass. Lesson learned when minutes later the room spins like the UFO ride at the carnival and I’m puking everything I drank and ate for the past month. After the third time, I finally drilled it into my head that alcohol and weed do not mix well with me. Good on everyone else who can handle it, though. I respect that kind of stamina.
I make it to the side yard to find a couple loving it up against the side of the house. The girl, another blonde cheerleader type, has her legs wrapped around some guy’s waist. The guy’s pants have fallen around his ankles as he thrusts into the girl, probably too drunk to realize his hairy ass is on display.
I quickly look away before the guy comes after me with his pants pulled down. The dude is built like a linebacker, looks to be about six-foot-five, maybe two hundred fifty pounds. He definitely doesn’t look like he belongs at a high school party. I could probably still take him at my six-foot-two, one hundred eighty pounds. I might be half his size, but I’m fast and have a mean punch, and I never hold back. However, I don’t need to get into a fight with a half-naked guy tonight, though it would be interesting to see.
Already forgetting the scene of fornication, I’m lost in thought, staring down at the blades of grass that are already forming their nightly dew as I walk toward Kyle’s car, wondering where I’m going to go to kill time before Kyle calls me to pick him up. We should have ridden separately. I should have brought my bike. That way, I wouldn’t have to wait around.
I get into the driver’s seat of Kyle’s piece of crap Honda and lean my head back on the seat, reclining the chair. I’m tired and want to go straight to bed. I don’t even care to unpack tonight. I can take care of that tomorrow.
There is still three more days before school starts. Maybe I will drive around town to scope out the stores. I need to stock up on some school supplies; grab a notebook or two, some pens, pencils. That’s all I should really need. I also need to buy some toiletries. I didn’t pack those. Most of my stuff was shipped here with my motorcycle, a present from my dad for my eighteenth birthday last May. I only had a carry-on bag at the airport and my guitar. There was no way was I going to ship that. It was bad enough I had to ship my bike and be without it for a week. I still need to check it for scratches. Kyle didn’t give me a chance to do anything. My aunt and uncle picked me up from the airport, Kyle helped me carry my shit from the car, and then we were leaving to come to this shitty party.
I shoot a text to Kyle to tell him I’m waiting and to text me back when he is ready to leave.
Damn, I’m tired.
A pounding noise jerks me awake. It sounds like a stampede of elephants, and the world is shaking with its thunderous footfalls. I look over to see a grinning Kyle staring back at me from the other side of the car’s window. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of my chest. I press a hand to my chest, like I can hold my heart in. I’m going to kill Kyle for putting the fear of the Congo back into me. Never take a child to the jungle. They will be traumatized for life.
“Move over, dude. I’m driving.” Bastard is grinning like a moron.
I have half a mind to punch that smirk off his face. I need to get him to stop using “dude.” That shit gets on my nerves. This isn’t some sunny beach escape where surfers are dudeing it up. This is Small Town, America.
I open the car door and get out before walking around the back then sliding into the passenger seat. No way am I “moving over” the console like some kid.
I’m being an asshole. I know I am, but shit, am I tired. I want to sleep for a day. Start over after I wake up. Play Mr. Nice Guy then. Not right now. Too tired right now.
Kyle is oblivious to my tired, pissed off state of mind, bouncing around as he gets into the car and starts the engine.
“Dude—”
“No more dude! Got it?” I say harshly. “Call me Noah or cousin or man or something. Just knock it off with the surfer talk. And no brah. I hate that shit.”
“What the hell crawled up your ass?” Kyle retorts, happy persona now gone, and I feel bad for that, but not bad enough not to snip this dude shit in the bud now.
“I’m tired, and I hate the dude shit. Please, for my sanity and our family”—I motion between us—“bonding shit, just stop with the dude.” I take a deep breath to calm myself down as Kyle pulls out from in front of Chelsea’s house. “I’m sorry, Kyle. I’m tired.” I slap myself in the face to wake my ass up then turn toward him. “I take it that it went well with the blonde.”
Kyle’s face lights up, and I know our little snapping bit is over and forgotten.
“Hell yeah, she was all over me the minute she realized you weren’t coming back. At first, she was determined to find you. She scoured the house and outside looking for you. Then, when you shot me that text, I told her you said you took off. After that, she was more than eager to drag me to her room. Of course she asked questions about you the whole time she was riding my dick, but I couldn’t complain. I don’t even know what she asked or what I said. That chick knows how to—”
“I don’t need details. Thanks, though,” I mutter as my eyes start to close. I let out a yawn, telling him, “Glad you had fun. I hope you wrapped that shit up. I’d hate to think of it falling off.”
Kyle reaches over and punches me in the arm, laughing like I made a joke. I didn’t.
*
(Claire)
“Dad!” I call out. “I’m home. What do you want for dinner?”
It’s surprising when my dad is actually home before me. He’s the District Attorney for our small town and works sometimes twelve to fourteen hours a day. I usually eat alone, so for him to be home makes it a special occasion, and I want to cook him whatever he wants.
I hear him shuffle around his office before he comes into view. I’m already striding toward his office when he reaches the doorway. He reaches out to me and wraps me in the warm embrace only a dad can give.
Even though he works a lot, he’s still the best, most caring dad in the world. I know he loves me; he tells me that every day and shows me by being so supportive. He never lets me give up my dreams. He pushes me to be the best at everything I do. He listens to me when I need to talk. He’s both my father and the mother I can’t remember.
Dad pulls away and kisses me on the forehead. “I have a craving for your chicken parmesan. Can we do that?” His smile lights up his face. We both love chicken parmesan. It’s kind of “our dinner,” a favorite we have frequently.
I return his smile. “I think we can do that.”
We always talk in we’s. Dad says it’s a sign that we put up a united front. Even though only one of us may be doing something, the other is supportive, so it feels like we are doing it together.
Dad gives my arm a squeeze. “Wonderful.” He turns away before stopping and turns back. “Need any help? I have a few more interrogations to read through, but I can wait—”
I hold up my hands. “I got this, Dad. I’m just glad you’re home early for once,” I call over my shoulder as I head toward the kitchen. “You won’t hear any complaints from me.”
I hurry through the process of making dinner since it’s already past six o’clock. I bread the chicken before putting it in the oven, heat the water to boil, and make my special marinara sauce. As the noodles soften, I pull out some French bread, buttering it before shaking some powdered garlic onto it, and then sprinkling some cheese. After that, I toss a quick salad together before putting the bread into the toaster oven. When everything is all ready, I call Dad into eat.
The table is set, and I have laid out all the food in our special serving dishes. It’s extremely rare that we get a chance to eat together, so I go all out when we do, making the dinner as special as I can in our formal dining room, which I will point out is rarely used. The linens are placed on the table and cloth napkins are strategically placed with our silverware. Grandma’s fine china is laid out on the table and candles are lit. This is our norm. A time we make special for us.
Sometimes Dad has special guests over, but those nights I don’t cook. He usually calls in a caterer for those dinners and events. The mayor comes to our home several times a year with his family, the governor once or twice, senators, and congressmen. My dad knows people everywhere and all those people look up to my dad, telling him he should run for state senate or governor. They all take his advice, hanging on to his every word.
Instead of bloating his ego, Dad stays humble. He has considered running for office, but prefers staying in the background, encouraging and giving advice whenever asked. He doesn’t feel the need to make a difference in such a big way when he can do that while still being the DA and offering guidance when needs be. He says as long as things are running as they are, which in his opinion is as good as it gets, then he doesn’t need to step in. Plus, he loves his job, even though he works too hard, and he’s afraid the next person will mess up his office. I laugh at how pretentious he is about his workspace. It’s nothing like the man himself. Such an oxymoron.
“This smells great, sweetheart,” Dad says as he walks into the room, then takes his seat at the head of the table.
I finish lighting the last candle before sitting to his right. “Thanks, Dad.” I start dishing out a helping of spaghetti onto my plate.
Dad makes a show of looking around the room. “Where’s Troy? I thought he would be here with you.”
Troy is my best friend, the mayor’s son, and my wanna-be bodyguard/thinks he’s my boyfriend. He is not my boyfriend, but he thinks he fills that role. I have never kissed him, but he sometimes holds my hand. I have told him on more than several occasions I don’t think of him that way, but he brushes off my words like I’m silly and don’t know what I’m talking about. He thinks because he supports me with my dream, which I’ve told him, on several occasions, that though his support is great, I don’t need a bossy friend dictating my lessons.
Though I have no interest whatsoever in relationships, a date would be nice every now and then. However, Troy is bound and determined to threaten any guy who even looks at me. The girls all love him and scorn me for “taking all of his attention,” not that I care to. I have been called frigid, yet a whore by scornful girls in the school. The guys became tired of not being able to talk to me, so they call me a bitch, or a stuck-up snob, not understanding it’s my domineering friend who pushes them away.
Once, when a guy was brave enough to approach me, Troy stormed in and beat him. I had to pull Troy off the poor kid. Needless to say, I didn’t talk to Troy for a week. I finally relented to the silent treatment when he showed up at our door, crying big, old, fat tears, and then endured a lesson from my dad about forgiveness and virtue. Our friendship continues, but I lost a bit of respect for him after that.
“I don’t know,” I answer my dad.
I feel my eyebrows pull together in thought. Troy said he was going to meet me at the auditorium, but he never showed and never called with an excuse. I assume he had to do something with his family. That’s usually the only reason he’s not at my side. The man won’t go a day without seeing me. It’s unnerving.
“How did practice go?”
I smile up at my dad. “It was amazing. I was spot-on today. Madame Gelardi barely criticized me.” We both laugh at that statement.
Madame Gelardi is my singing tutor. She came from Italy about twenty years ago when her children moved to the States. She taught music in my elementary school back then. Previously from that, she was a Prima Donna, but her career was short-lived when she became pregnant with her first child. After that, she played small roles until she eventually settled down to raise her family and became a teacher.
She’s retired from teaching now but still took me on as her pupil. She has connections everywhere and gave me an amazing recommendation to the Manhattan School of Music in New York City after requesting some acquaintances to fly all the way here to hear me perform at the governor’s ball. It was, by far, the most nerve-racking night of my life. It paid off, though, and next year I will be in the city, starting my education and hopefully working toward my dream career to be a Prima Donna.
My dad and I have a great meal together, with me telling him about my classes this upcoming school year, how my tutoring has been coming along, and him telling me about the case he is working on right now.
We are interrupted from cleaning up after dinner by the doorbell ringing. Dad is putting the last of the dishware into the dishwasher as I am taking the linens into the laundry room.
“I’ll get it,” I tell him as I drop the linens on top of the drier, and then turn around to head toward the front door.
It’s Troy. He looks a bit disheveled and reeks of alcohol and something else. His eyes are bloodshot, his pants and shirt are wrinkled, and there appears to be a hickey on his neck. I raise my eyebrows at that.
“Are you insane?” I ask him as I push him back and step outside, shutting the door behind me. “You come over to the district attorney’s house after you’ve been drinking?” I shake my head at him. “I’ll be right back,” I tell him before he can speak a word.
I go back inside the house to grab my purse and keys, calling out to my dad, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go for a drive with Troy really quick.”
“ ’Kay, sweetie. Be careful. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, hurrying back out the door.
I give Troy a disappointed look as I start down the front stairs, stopping when I realize his car isn’t here. I turn back to see he has his head down and his hands shoved into his pockets.
“Where is your car?”
He shrugs. “Chelsea’s house, I guess. I walked here.”
Chelsea lives up the street. Her family owns a couple businesses in town. Dad and her parents are friends, but never me and Chelsea. We have been enemies since for as long as I can remember. She always needed to destroy my toys and such when we were still in diapers. That girl is evil. Really evil.
“Chelsea’s house? What were you doing over there?” I’m incredulous. They hate each other. Well, she hates us. Always has. Always will.
“She had a party, and I thought I would go to, you know …”
No, I don’t know, but whatever.
I have never been to a house party, though I have seen what they are like on TV, and from what I’ve seen, I’m not missing anything. I don’t feel that rebellious urge everyone else does to let loose, get drunk, stoned, sleep around—whatever. I like to stay focused. Concentrate on goals.
I slowly look him over again. “Why do you look so guilty?” He looks defeated, like he did something terribly wrong and will never be forgiven for it. “Did you get into another fight? Get kicked out? Tore her house apart? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t look like he was fighting. I mean, he is disheveled like he could have been, but when he fights, there is blood, and I don’t see any blood on him.
I pull one of his hands out of his pocket and look at his knuckles. Nope, no cuts, no bruises, no blood. Just old scars from past brawls and slamming fists into walls. The man has a temper, a bad one. I have been thankful on more than several occasions that his temper hasn’t been directed at me. I trust him with my life.
He pulls his hand out of mine so quickly that I feel offended and a bit hurt. What’s wrong with him?
“Sorry,” he says when he sees my look. “I, uh … I got really wasted, really fast and sleptwithNikki.” He says the last part so fast and so low I almost miss it.
“Ew.” The distaste is out of my mouth so fast that I can’t stop myself. No wonder he didn’t want me to touch his hand, knowing where that hand has been.
I rub my hands across the back of my jean shorts without him noticing.
“Come on,” I tell him, heading toward my car. “I’ll take you home and pick you up tomorrow so you can get your car, ’kay?”
He nods solemnly as follows behind me. For such a big guy, he always looks like such a lost puppy when he’s like this. That’s one of the reasons I love him so much. He makes mistakes a lot, but I honestly feel like he can’t help himself. He beats himself up for it for so long. I think it’s the pressure of being the mayor’s son. So many people hold him in high expectations. He has to watch everything he says and does. He can’t make any mistakes. So, every once in a while, that pressure builds up in him and he explodes—getting into fights, sleeping with random girls, getting drunk.
Two years ago, his dad got him into boxing to relieve some steam. At his height and build, there aren’t many guys who would go up against him, at least not after they already have. Troy is ruthless. He’s a weapon all on his own.
“I feel like I cheated on you. Why do I feel so guilty? Why do I feel like I did something wrong?” he says as he buckles his seatbelt. He looks over at me through his lashes, his head still bent down like a dog who had his nose tapped for peeing on the carpet.
That thought makes me giggle. Then I sigh at his statement and questions. We have been through this so many times before that I should just record my responses.
I turn the key in the ignition, then drive down the long driveway. “You didn’t cheat on me because we’re not together. We’ve never been together, and we won’t ever be together. You are my best friend and I love you, but like a brother, Troy. You’re the big, little brother I’ve never had.
“You feel guilty because you did do something wrong. You need to control your actions better. I know you’re always under a lot of pressure, but so am I, and you don’t see me getting drunk and sleeping with random guys.”
He growls at that statement, and I roll my eyes.
“With your repeated slip-ups,” I continue, “we should have another couple of months before you feel the urge to slip again.” I smile and grab his knee, giving it a little shake.
He gives me a small smile in return, something rare, and grabs my hand before quickly releasing it. Oh, yeah. Dirty sex hands. Yuck again.
“We need to find something else for you to preoccupy your … unguarded times.”
“You.”
“Hmm?” I hum, not understanding what he’s referring to.
“I need you.”
“I’m always here for you. Obviously that’s not working. The one day I haven’t seen you practically all summer and you are at a house party—”
“No. Why can’t you see that you are perfect for me? You calm me. You make me a better person. Why can’t we try us? We’re already best friends. Just think about how it would be to be best friends that kiss each other, hold hands, sleep together …”
“I’m not getting into this with you again. I don’t see you that way. I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You’re my best friend. I don’t want to ruin that. And besides, we already hold hands,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
It doesn’t work. He looks more forlorn as I pull up to his house.
Troy takes his seatbelt off before turning to face me, reaching out like he is about to brush my hair out of my face, but then he hesitates when he remembers not to touch me. “I’ll always be here for you. You’ll see. One day we will be together. We’re made for each other. Just, right now you are so concentrated on Manhattan School of Music… Once you get there, you’ll see that we’ve belonged together all along.” With that, he gets out of the car, blows me a kiss, and then walks around to the back of the house, probably not wanting a confrontation with his dad.
I sit there, watching until he is out of sight. Then I whisper to myself, “I’m sorry, Troy. You aren’t the one for me.”
For 2nd chapter, buy Lunangelique Series Boxed Set
