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BERKLEY
NEW ADULT
FREE SAMPLER
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Published by Berkley, NAL Books, and InterMix divisions of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
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Excerpt from Gabriel’s Redemption
© Sylvain Reynard, 2013
Excerpt from On Dublin Street
© Samantha Young, 2013
Excerpt from True
© Erin McCarthy, 2013
Excerpt from The Lair
© Emily McKay, 2013
Excerpt from Easy
© Tammara Webber, 2013
Excerpt from The Wild Ones
© M. Leighton, 2013
Excerpt from Viral Nation
© Shaunta Grimes, 2013
First published by Berkley, NAL, and InterMix Books,
divisions of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, 2013
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright 2013
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BERKLEY
NEW ADULT SAMPLER
GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION
by Sylvain Reynard
1
ON DUBLIN STREET
by Samantha Young25
TRUE
by Erin McCarthy
67
THE LAIR
by Emily McKay
99
EASY
by Tammara Webber
117
THE WILD ONES
by M. Leighton143
VIRAL NATION
by Shaunta Grimes179
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION
Sylvain Reynard
Professor Gabriel Emerson has left his position at
the University of Toronto to embark on a new life
with his beloved Julianne. Together, he’s confident
that they can face any challenge. And he’s eager to
become a father.
But Julianne’s graduate program threatens Gabriel’s
plans, as the pressures of being a student become
all consuming. When she is given the honor of
presenting an academic lecture at Oxford, Gabriel is
forced to confront her about the subject of her
presentation—­research that conflicts with his own.
And in Oxford, several individuals from their past
appear, including an old nemesis intent on
humiliating Julia and exposing one of Gabriel’s
darkest secrets. . . .
AVAILABLE IN DECEMBER 2013
FROM BERKLEY TRADE PAPERBACK
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Chapter One
Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania
June 2011
P
rofessor Gabriel Emerson stood in the doorway of his study,
hands in his pockets, gazing on his wife with no little heat. His
tall, athletic form was striking, as were his rugged features and sapphire eyes.
He’d met her when she was seventeen (ten years his junior),
and fallen in love with her. They’d been separated by time and
circumstances, not least of which was his indulgent lifestyle.
Yet, heaven smiled on them. She became his graduate student
in Toronto six years later and they’d rekindled their affection, marrying a year and a half after that. Almost six months into their
marriage he loved her even more than before. He envied the very
air she breathed.
He’d waited long enough for what he was about to do. It was
possible she’d need to be seduced, but Gabriel prided himself in
his expertise at seduction.
The strains of Bruce Cockburn’s song Mango floated in the air,
casting his memory back to their trip to Belize, before they were
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Sylvain Reynard
married. They’d made love outside in a variety of places, including the beach.
Julia sat at a desk, oblivious to the music and his scrutiny. She
was typing on her laptop, surrounded by books, file folders, and
two boxes of papers Gabriel had dutifully carried from the downstairs of what had been his parents’ house.
They’d been resident in Selinsgrove a week—­a respite from
their busy lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Gabriel was a professor at Boston University while Julia had just finished her first
year of a Ph.D. at Harvard, under the supervision of a brilliant
scholar, formerly of Oxford. The house had been renovated prior
to their arrival and much of the furniture that had been left behind by Richard, Gabriel’s adoptive father, had been placed in
storage.
Julia chose new furniture and curtains, and persuaded Gabriel
to help her paint the walls. Where his aesthetic ran to dark wood
and rich, brown leather, Julia preferred the light colors of a seaside
cottage, with whitewashed walls and furniture, accented with various shades of blue.
In the study, she’d hung reproductions of paintings that were
displayed in their house in Harvard Square—­
Henry Holiday’s
Dante meets Beatrice at Ponte Santa Trinita, Botticelli’s Primavera, and Madonna and Child with Angels by Fra Filippo Lippi.
Gabriel found himself staring at the latter painting intently.
It could be said that the paintings illustrated the stages of their
relationship. The first figured their meeting and his increasing
obsession. The second represented Cupid’s arrow, striking Julia
when he no longer remembered her, and also their courtship and
subsequent marriage. Finally, the painting of the Madonna represented what Gabriel hoped might be.
This was the third evening Julia had spent at her desk, writing
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION5
her first public lecture, which she would deliver at Oxford next
month. Four days ago, they’d made love on the bedroom floor
covered in paint, before the furniture had been delivered.
(Julia decided that body painting with Gabriel was her new favorite sport.)
With memories of their physical connection in mind, and the
music increasing its tempo, Gabriel’s patience came to an end.
They were newlyweds. He had no intention of allowing her to
ignore him for another evening in favor of her research.
He prowled over to her, his footfalls sure and steady. Grasping
her shoulder-­length hair with one hand, he pulled it aside, exposing her neck. The slight stubble of his unshaved face rasped
against her skin, intensifying his kisses.
“Come,” he whispered.
Goose-­pimples rose on her skin. His long, thin fingers traced
the arch of her neck as he waited.
“My lecture isn’t finished.” She lifted her pretty face to look at
him. “I don’t want to embarrass Professor Picton, especially when
she invited me. I’m the youngest scholar on the program.”
“You won’t embarrass her. And you’ll have plenty of time to
finish the lecture.”
“I need to get the house ready for your family. They’re arriving
in two days.”
“They aren’t my family.” Gabriel gave her a blazing look.
“They’re our family. And I’ll hire a maid.
“Come. Bring the blanket.”
Julia turned and saw a familiar looking plaid blanket resting on
the white, overstuffed chair that sat under the window. She peered
out into the woods that bordered the backyard. “It’s dark.”
“I’ll protect you.” He helped her to her feet, clasping his arms
momentarily around her waist and bringing their chests together.
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Sylvain Reynard
She felt his warmth through the thin material of her sundress,
the temperature comforting and alluring.
“Why do you want to visit the orchard in the dark?” she
teased, pulling his glasses from his face and placing them on her
desk.
Gabriel fixed her with a look that would have melted snow.
Then he brought his lips to her ear. “I want to see your naked skin
glow in the moonlight while I’m inside you.”
He drew part of her earlobe into his mouth, nibbling it gently.
He began to explore her neck, kissing and nipping as her heart rate
increased.
“A declaration of desire,” he whispered.
Julia gave herself over to the sensations, finally becoming conscious of the music in the air. Gabriel’s scent, a mixture of peppermint and Aramis, filled her nostrils.
He released her, watching her as a cat watches a mouse, as she
picked up the blanket.
“I suppose Guido da Montefeltro can wait.” She glanced at her
notes.
“He hasn’t moved in seven hundred years. I’d say he’s practiced
at waiting.”
Julia closed her laptop, returning his smile. She took his hand
and walked with him downstairs.
As they journeyed across the yard and into the woods, his expression grew even more playful.
“Have you ever made love in an orchard before?”
She shook her head.
“Then I’m glad I’m your first.”
“You’re my last, Gabriel. My only.”
“Thank God for that.”
He quickened his pace, shining a flashlight over the backyard
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION7
and into the surrounding woods. He held her hand, navigating
their way over roots and uneven ground.
It was June in Pennsylvania and very warm. The woods were
thick and the canopy of leaves blocked much of the light from the
moon and stars. The air was alive with the evening song of birds
and the sounds of katydids.
Gabriel drew her closer as they entered the clearing. Wildflowers littered the expanse of green. At the far edge of the area stood
several aged apple trees. Extending back into the remains of the
old orchard, the new trees that Gabriel had planted were spreading
their boughs toward the sky.
As they walked to the center of the clearing, his body relaxed.
Something about this space, sacred or otherwise, soothed him.
Julia watched as he spread the blanket carefully over the thick
grass, then turned off the flashlight. Darkness wrapped around
them like a velvet cloak.
Overhead, the full moon shone, its pale face occasionally
muted by wisps of cloud. A clutch of stars twinkled above them.
Gabriel brushed his hands up and down her arms, before tracing the modest neckline of her sundress.
“I like this,” he murmured.
He admired his wife’s beauty, visible even in the shadows; the
arch of her cheekbones, the pout of her mouth. He lifted her chin.
It was the kiss of an ardent lover, communicating with his
mouth that he desired her. Gabriel pressed his tall body against
her petite one, his fingers tangling in her soft brown hair.
“What if someone sees us?” she panted, before slipping her
tongue inside his mouth.
She explored him earnestly until he retreated.
“These woods are private. And as you mentioned, it’s dark.”
His hands found her waist, spanning her lower back.
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Sylvain Reynard
He traced the space where her dimples lay, as if they were landmarks that pleased him, before sliding up to her shoulders. Without ceremony, he tugged the dress over her head and tossed it to
the blanket. Then he unfastened her bra with a mere flick of his
fingers.
She laughed at his practiced move, while holding the bra up to
cover herself. It was made of black lace, very attractive, and hopelessly transparent.
“You’re very good at that.”
“At what?”
“At removing bras in the dark.”
Gabriel frowned, his silence echoing around them. He didn’t
like being reminded of his past.
She reached up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his angular jaw.
“I’m not complaining. After all, I’m the beneficiary of your
skill,” she whispered.
Gabriel’s mouth relaxed.
“While I appreciate your lingerie, Julianne, I prefer you
naked.”
“Yes. But I’m not sure.” Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the
clearing. “I keep expecting someone to interrupt us.”
“Look at me,” he said.
Her eyes met his.
“Nothing will come between us. I swear it. There’s no one
here but us. And what I see is breathtaking.”
He traced the hills and valleys of her spine, one by one, before
resting his hands on her hips. His thumbs passed over her skin
comfortingly. “I’ll cover you.”
“With what? The blanket?”
“With my body. Even if someone were to stumble upon us, I
won’t let anyone see you.”
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION9
The edges of her lips turned up.
“You think of everything.”
“I simply think of you. You are everything.”
Gabriel took her offered lips then, and with great restraint, he
slowly removed the lace bra from between them. Cupping her
breasts, he kissed her more deeply, before moving to tug her panties down.
She kissed him as he undressed, throwing clothes down, before
lowering her to the blanket. When he arched his naked body over
hers, he covered her with his very skin.
His blue eyes bore into hers as he placed a hand on either side
of her face.
“’To the Nuptial Bowre I led her blushing like the Morn: all
Heav’n,
And happie Constellations on that houre.’”
“Paradise Lost,” she whispered, stroking the faint stubble at his
chin.
“We should have been married here. We should have made
love here for the first time.”
She lifted her hand, running her fingers through his hair.
“We’re here now.”
“This is where I discovered true beauty.”
He kissed her again, his hands gently exploring. Julia reciprocated, and their passion kindled and burned.
In the months since their marriage, their desire had not abated,
nor had the sweetness of their coupling. All speech melted into
motion and touch and the bliss of physical love.
Gabriel knew his wife—­he knew her arousal and excitement,
her impatience and release. They made love in the night air, surrounded by darkness and the greenness of life.
At the edge of the clearing, the old apple trees that had observed their chaste love in the past politely averted their gaze.
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Sylvain Reynard
When they’d caught their breaths, Julia lay weightless on her
back, admiring the stars.
“I have something for you,” he whispered. He rolled over to
find his trousers.
He returned to her side and took her hand, slipping something
cool around her neck. He used the flashlight to illuminate his gift.
Julia glanced down to see a sterling silver necklace made of
individual rings. Three charms hung from the rings—­
a silver
heart, a gold apple, and a silver book.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, fingering the charms one by one.
“It came from London. The apple represents when we met and
the heart, of course, is mine.”
“And the book?”
“It’s too dark to read, but Dante is engraved on the cover. I
wanted to commemorate your first public lecture.”
Julia kissed him deeply and he moved her to her back, once
again putting the flashlight aside.
When they separated, he placed his palm against her flat stomach and brought his lips to the indentation that lay just beyond his
thumb.
“I want to plant my child here.”
Julia froze.
“So soon?” she managed.
“We never know how much time we have.”
Julia thought of Grace, his adoptive mother, and of her biological mother, Sharon. Both died at younger ages, but under very
different circumstances.
“Dante lost Beatrice when she was twenty-­four,” he continued.
“Losing you would be devastating.”
“No morbid talk. Not here, after we’ve celebrated life and
love.” Julia traced her fingers over the charms once again.
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION11
He spread repentant kisses up to her shoulder before reclining
on his side.
“I’ve almost outlived Beatrice and I’m healthy.” She placed her
hand on his chest, over his tattoo, and touched the name on the
bleeding heart. “Is your anxiety because of her?”
Gabriel’s features tightened. “No.”
“It’s all right if it is.” She pushed an errant curl back from his
forehead.
“I know she’s happy.”
“I believe that too.” Julia hesitated, as if she were going to say
something more.
“What?” He brought the backs of his fingers to her neck, gliding across the curve.
“I was thinking about Sharon.”
“Go on.”
“I didn’t have a good role model for a mother.”
He leaned forward to brush his lips against hers.
“You’d be an excellent mother. You’re loving, patient, and
kind.”
“I wouldn’t know what I was doing,” she whispered.
“We’d figure it out together. I’m the one who should be worried. My biological parents were the definition of dysfunctional
and I haven’t exactly lived a sterling moral life.”
Julia shook her head and kissed him. “You’re very good with
Tammy’s little boy. Even your brother says so.
“But it’s too soon for a baby, Gabriel. We only got married in
January. And I want to finish my Ph.D. first.”
“I agreed, if you remember.” He traced the arch of her ribs,
with a single finger.
“Married life is wonderful, but it’s been an adjustment. For
both of us.”
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“Of course. We’re still learning to live with one another. But
we can still talk about the future.
“And Julianne, it would be best if I began having conversations
with my doctor sooner rather than later. It’s been so long since my
vasectomy, a reversal might not be possible.”
“There’s more than one way to make a family. We can discuss
other medical options. We could adopt a child from the Franciscan orphanage in Florence.” Her expression grew hopeful. “When
the time is right.”
“We can do all those things. I intend to take you to Umbria
after the conference, before we go to the exhibition in Florence.
But when we get back from Europe, I’d like to speak to my doctor.”
Julia kissed him and he pulled her on top of him. A strange
charge seemed to jump between their skin, and he gripped her
hips.
“When you’re ready, we’ll start trying.”
“We should probably practice a lot in preparation.”
“Absolutely,” he breathed, placing his arms about her.
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Chapter Two
J
ulia startled awake very early the next morning, the remnants of
her nightmare choking her. Dawn had yet to break and the
bedroom was dark and quiet, the silence broken only by the sound
of Gabriel’s rhythmic breathing.
She clutched the sheet to her naked chest and closed her eyes,
forcing her heart rate to slow. But the act only brought the scenes
from her nightmare into stark relief.
She’d been back at Harvard, running across campus to find the
location of her general exam for her Ph.D. She asked person after
person for help, but no one seemed to know where the exam was
being held.
She heard the sounds of crying and was shocked to find an infant in her arms. The baby was hungry but she didn’t have a bottle.
She clutched the child to her chest, trying to shush him, but he
wouldn’t stop crying.
Suddenly, she was standing in front of Professor Matthews, the
chair of her Department. He knew where the exam was being
held, but told her she wouldn’t be allowed to take it. He pointed
to the baby and said that children weren’t allowed. Then he turned
away and walked down the hall.
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Sylvain Reynard
She ran after him. She promised she’d keep the baby from crying. She begged him to give her a chance. All her hopes and
dreams of completing her Ph.D. and becoming a Dante specialist
rested on the exam. Without it, she’d be dismissed from the program.
She hugged the child, shushing him, but he began to scream.
Julia wrapped her arms around her chest. Even now, the nightmare seemed real. She was close to a full blown anxiety attack, her
body trembling.
Somehow, she stumbled to the bathroom and was able to turn
on the shower. The hot water would comfort and soothe her. The
lights of the bathroom certainly helped dispel some the darkness.
As she stood under the spray, she tried to forget the nightmare
and the other worries that were trying to breach the surface of her
consciousness—­her lecture, their family’s impending visit, Gabriel’s sudden urge to have a baby . . .
She focused on the silver necklace clasped around her throat,
fingering the three charms. She knew that Gabriel wanted children. They’d discussed it prior to their engagement last year. But
they’d agreed to wait until she graduated before they started a family. Graduation was still a good five or six years away.
Why is he bringing up the topic of children now?
She was anxious enough over her studies. Come September,
she’d be completing her coursework and preparing for her general
exam, which would have to be completed the following year.
Even more pressing was her lecture, which was to be delivered
at a prestigious conference at Oxford in a few weeks. Julia had
completed a paper on Guido da Montefeltro in Professor Marinelli’s graduate seminar that past semester. The Professor had
liked the paper so much, she’d mentioned it to Professor Picton,
who encouraged Julia to submit an abstract to the conference.
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION15
Julia had been overjoyed when her paper proposal was accepted. But the thought of standing in front of a room of Dante
specialists and lecturing them on topics they were far more expert
in, was daunting in the extreme.
Now Gabriel was talking about having his vasectomy reversed
when they returned from Europe in August.
What if the vasectomy reversal is successful?
Guilt washed over her for even formulating the question. Of
course she wanted to have a child with him. And she knew that
undoing the vasectomy was more than just a physical procedure.
It would be a symbolic gesture—­that he’d finally forgiven himself
for what happened with Paulina and Maia. That he’d finally begun
to believe that he was worthy of fathering and parenting children.
They’d prayed for children. After their wedding, they’d approached the tomb of St. Francis and said spontaneous, private
prayers, asking for God’s blessing on their marriage and the gift of
children.
If God wants to answer our prayers, how can I say ‘wait’?
Julia worried she was being selfish. Maybe she should prioritize having a child over her education and aspirations. Harvard
wasn’t going anywhere. And lots of people went back to university
after starting a family.
What if Gabriel doesn’t want to wait?
He was correct to point out that life was short. The loss of
Grace was testament to that fact. Once Gabriel knew he was able
to father a child, he’d probably want to do so. Immediately. How
could she say no?
Gabriel was a consuming fire. His passion, his desires, all
seemed to overtake the desires of those around him. He’d told her
once that she was the only woman who’d ever said no to him. He
was probably correct.
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Julia worried about her ability to say no to his deepest longing.
She’d be overwhelmed with the desire to please him, to make him
happy, and in so doing would be giving up her own happiness.
She hadn’t had much growing up. She’d been poor and neglected when she lived with Sharon in St. Louis. But she’d distinguished herself in school. Her intelligence and discipline had
served her well through Saint Joseph’s University and the University of Toronto. Her first year at Harvard had been successful. Now
was not the time to quit or drop out. Now was not the time to have
a child.
Julia covered her face with her hands and prayed for strength.
­
A few hours later, Gabriel walked into the kitchen, carrying his
running shoes and socks. He was clad in a Harvard t-­shirt and
shorts and was about to retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge,
when he saw Julia sitting at the kitchen island, her head in her
hands.
“There you are.” He dropped his shoes and socks to the floor
and greeted her with an insistent kiss. “I wondered where you’d
gone.”
He remarked her tired eyes and the purple smudges below
them. She looked distressed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just finished cleaning the kitchen and the fridge,
and now I’m making a list for the grocery store.” She pointed to a
large piece of paper that was covered in her flowing script. It sat
next to a cup of coffee that was stone cold and half empty, along
with another equally long list of to do items.
Gabriel looked around at the kitchen, which was sparkling
within an inch of its life. Even the floors were immaculate.
“It’s seven o’clock. Isn’t it a bit early for housekeeping?”
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION17
“I have a lot to do.” She didn’t sound enthusiastic.
Gabriel took her hand, stroking his thumb across her palm.
“You look tired. Didn’t you sleep well?”
“I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. I need to make
up the rooms upstairs and clean the bathrooms. Then I need to go
shopping and plan the meals. And . . .” She heaved a shuddering
sigh. She knew there was more to do but somehow she couldn’t
remember the rest.
“And?” he prompted, lowering his head so he could meet her
eyes, which had moved to the long to-­do list.
“I need to keep moving. I’m not even dressed.” She tugged the
edges of her bathrobe together and moved to stand.
Gabriel stopped her.
“You don’t need to do anything. I said I’d find someone to
come in and clean the house, and I will.” He gestured to the grocery list. “I’ll go to the store after my run.”
He cupped her cheek with his hand. “Go back to bed. You look
exhausted.”
“There’s too much to do,” she whispered.
“I have this, darling. I was expecting you’d need to work on
your lecture today, and that’s precisely what I want you to do. But
catch up on your sleep first.” He offered her a half-­smile. “A tired
mind doesn’t work very well.”
He kissed her once again and led her upstairs. He pulled the covers back on their bed and watched her settle, before tucking her in.
“I know this is the first time we’ve had houseguests together.
But I don’t expect you to be the maid. And I certainly don’t want
our relatives to keep you from meeting your deadline.
“You can work in the study for the rest of the day. Forget about
everything else.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and turned
out the light, leaving Julia to her slumber.
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* * *
Gabriel usually listened to music while he jogged, but on this
morning his mind was distracted enough. Julianne was overwhelmed; it was obvious. She wasn’t usually an early riser and
from the looks of her this morning, she’d been awake for hours.
They probably shouldn’t have invited their relatives to visit. But
since they were going to Italy for most of the summer, this was the
only time everyone could be together.
He’d forgotten how time consuming it was to have company.
He’d never entertained more than one or two people at a time, and
then only with the support of a housekeeper and a bank account
that permitted him to take his guests out for meals.
Poor Julianne. Gabriel recalled his own years at Harvard; how
vacations were never truly holidays since there was always more
work to be done, languages to learn, reading to do, and exams to
prepare for.
He was relieved to be tenured at Boston University. He wouldn’t
trade places with Julia for anything. Especially since he’d coped with
the pressures of grad school by drinking, doing cocaine and P-­
Gabriel stumbled, pitching forward as the toe of his shoe
caught on the sidewalk. He righted himself quickly and regained
his stride, forcing himself to concentrate on his steps.
He didn’t like to think about his years at Harvard, when he’d
allowed Paulina to enable his addictions. Since his move back to
Cambridge, he’d experienced drug flashbacks so vivid, he would
swear he could feel the cocaine entering his nostrils. He’d drive
down a street, or enter a building on the Harvard campus and he’d
feel a craving that was so sharp it was painful.
Thus far, with the grace of God, he’d resisted. Certainly, his
weekly Narcotics Anonymous meetings had helped, as had his
monthly appointments with his therapist.
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION19
And then, of course, there was Julianne.
If Gabriel had found his higher power in Assisi last year, Julianne was his guardian angel. She loved him, inspired him, made
his house a home. But he could not shake the fear that heaven had
smiled on him only to bide its time before snatching her away.
Gabriel had changed in myriad ways since Julianne was his
student back in Toronto. But he had yet to abandon his belief that
he was not worthy of sustained happiness. And as his therapist had
warned, Gabriel had a pattern of self-­sabotage.
His adoptive mother, Grace, had died of cancer almost two
years previous. Her untimely death symbolized the shortness and
uncertainty of life. If he were to lose Julianne . . .
If you had a child with her, you’d never lose her. A still, small
voice spoke in his ear.
Gabriel quickened his pace. The voice was right, but it didn’t
express his primary motivation for wanting a baby with Julianne.
He wanted a family that included children—­a life filled with
laughter, and the knowledge that he could right the wrongs done
by his own parents.
He’d kept his internal struggles from his wife. She was burdened with her own concerns and he was loath to add to them.
She’d worry about his addictions and his fears and he’d already
given her too much anguish.
While Gabriel jogged the familiar circuit of his old neighborhood, he began to wonder why she’d been so dispirited this morning. They’d spent an incredible night together, celebrating their
love in the orchard and later, in their bed. He racked his brain,
trying to figure out if he’d done something to hurt her. But their
lovemaking had been, as usual, both passionate and tender.
There was at least one other possibility and Gabriel cursed
himself for not having thought of it sooner. Julianne always car-
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Sylvain Reynard
ried with her a degree of anxiety about being back in Selinsgrove.
A year and a half ago, her ex-­boyfriend, Simon, had broken into
her father’s home and assaulted her. Subsequently, his current
girlfriend, Natalie, had confronted Julia at a local diner, threatening to release lewd pictures of her if she didn’t withdraw her assault
complaint.
Julianne had convinced Natalie that it was not in her interest
to release the pictures, since they’d implicate Simon, as well. His
father was a U.S. Senator who was running for President and
Natalie was working for his campaign.
Gabriel had kept his doubts about Julia’s success to himself.
He knew that once a person acquired a taste for blackmail, he or
she would keep trying to draw from that well.
Gabriel cursed again, now running at a punishing rate of speed.
He’d never told Julia what he’d done. He didn’t want to do so now.
But if she was worrying about Simon and Natalie, then perhaps it
was time to tell her the truth . . .
When Gabriel returned from his run, Julia was sleeping. He
chuckled, noticing that her bare feet were sticking out from under
the covers. Julia didn’t like it when her feet grew hot and so she’d
bare them to the air, while snuggled under several blankets.
Leaning over, he tucked the covers around her feet, and walked
to the shower. After he dressed he checked on her, but she was still
asleep. He hurried down the stairs, grabbing her lists from the
kitchen and heading out to the Range Rover. With any luck, he’d
be able to complete the shopping and make a head start on her to
do list before she awoke.
At eleven o’clock that evening, Julia finally descended the stairs
from the second floor. She found Gabriel seated in the living
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION21
room, reading. He was in his favorite leather club chair, his feet
resting on a footstool, his eyes moving behind his glasses.
“Why, hello there.” He greeted her with a smile, closing his
book.
“What are you reading?”
He showed her the cover. The Way of a Pilgrim.
“Is it good?”
“Very. Did you ever read J.D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey?”
“A long time ago. Why?”
“Zooey reads this book and it troubles her. That’s where I first
heard about it.”
“What’s it about?” She picked up the book, glancing at the
back cover.
“It’s about a Russian Orthodox man who tries to learn what it
means to pray without ceasing.”
Julia arched an eyebrow. “And?”
“And I’m reading it to discover what he learned.”
She looked at the book again. “I suppose we’re all on our own
spiritual journeys.”
“Some of us are further along than others.” He smiled.
She put the book down and climbed into his lap. “I don’t think
of myself that way. I think we chase God until He catches us.”
Gabriel chuckled. “Like The Hound of Heaven?”
“Exactly.”
“One of the things I admire most about you is your compassion
for human frailty.”
She kissed him lightly. “I have my own vices, Gabriel. They’re
just hidden.”
She looked around the room, noting the vacuum marks in the
carpet and the freshly dusted furniture. The air smelled of lemon
and pine.
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Sylvain Reynard
“The house looks great. Thank you. I was able to get a lot of
work done today.”
“Good.” He looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “How
are you feeling?”
“Much better. Thanks for making dinner.” She rested her head
on his shoulder.
“You weren’t hungry when I brought it up to you.” He ran his
fingers through her hair.
“I finished it eventually. I ran into a problem with my paper,
so I had trouble leaving it in order to eat.”
“Is it something I can help with?” He removed his glasses, placing them on top of his book.
“No. I don’t want people thinking that you’re the brains behind
my research.”
“That wasn’t what I was offering.” Gabriel sounded offended.
“I need to do this myself.”
He sniffed. “I think you worry a little too much about what
other people think.”
“I have to,” she said sharply. “If I present a paper that sounds
like you wrote it, people will notice. Christa Peterson has already
been telling stories about us. Paul told me.”
“Christa is a jealous bitch. She’s going backward in her career,
not forward. Columbia made her enrol in the M.Phil program in
Italian. They wouldn’t admit her directly into their Ph.D.
“I’ve already spoken to the head of her department at Columbia. She slanders us at her peril.” He shifted in his chair. “And
when were you speaking to Paul?”
“He emailed me after the conference he went to at UCLA. That’s
when he saw Christa and heard the rumors she was spreading.”
“You haven’t even let me read your paper. Although, we’ve
discussed Guido so much I’m sure I know what you’ll say.”
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GABRIEL’S REDEMPTION23
Julia chewed on the edge of her thumbnail, but said nothing.
He hugged her more closely.
“Has my book been helpful?”
“Yes, but I’m taking a different tack,” she hedged.
“That can be a double-­edged sword, Julianne. Originality is
admired, but sometimes established methods are established for a
reason.”
“I’ll let you read it tomorrow, if you have time.”
“Of course I’ll have time.” He began rubbing her back, up and
down. “In fact, I’m looking forward to it. My goal is to help, not
hurt. You know that, right?”
“Of course. Thank you.” She kissed him again, before burrowing against his chest. “I just worry about what you’ll think.”
“I’ll be honest, but supportive. I promise.”
“That’s the best I can hope for.” She smiled up at him. “Now
I need you to take me to bed and cheer me up.”
He laughed. “What would cheering you up entail?”
“Taking my mind off my troubles by tantalizing me with your
naked body.”
“What if I’m not ready for bed?”
“Then I guess I’ll have to go to bed by myself. And maybe cheer
myself up.” She stood and stretched, glancing at him out of the
corner of her eye.
In a flash he was behind her, scooping her into his arms and
racing for the stairs.
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ON DUBLIN STREET
Samantha Young
Jocelyn Butler left her tragic past behind in the
States and started over in Edinburgh. Forging ahead
without any real attachments has worked well—­but
when Joss moves into an apartment on Dublin
Street, her carefully guarded world is shaken to its
core by her roommate’s sexy older brother.
Braden Carmichael is a man who always gets what
he wants. And what he wants is Jocelyn. Knowing
how skittish she is concerning relationships, Braden
proposes a purely sexual arrangement that should
satisfy the intense attraction between them without
it developing into anything “more.” An intrigued
Jocelyn agrees, completely unprepared for the
Scotsman’s single-­minded determination to strip the
stubborn young woman bare . . . to her very soul.
AVAILABLE NOW FROM
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
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Chapter One
I
t was a beautiful day to find a new home. And a new roommate.
I stepped out of the damp, old stairwell of my Georgian
apartment building into a stunningly hot day in Edinburgh. I
glanced down at the cute white-­and-­green-­striped denim shorts I’d
purchased a few weeks ago from Topshop. It had been raining
nonstop since then, and I’d despaired of ever getting to wear them.
But the sun was out, peeking over the top of the cornered tower of
the Bruntsfield Evangelical Church, burning away my melancholy
and giving me back a little bit of hope. For someone who had
packed up her entire life in the US and taken off for her motherland when she was only eighteen years old, I wasn’t really good
with change. Not anymore, anyway. I’d gotten used to my huge
apartment with its never-­ending mice problem. I missed my best
friend, Rhian, whom I’d lived with since freshman year at the University of Edinburgh. We’d met in the dorms and hit it off. We were
both very private people and were comfortable around each other
for the mere fact that we never pushed each other to talk about the
past. We’d stuck pretty close freshman year and decided to get an
apartment (or “flat” as Rhian called it) in second year. Now that we
were graduates, Rhian had left for London to start her PhD and I
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Samantha Young
was left roommateless. The icing on the cake was the loss of my
other closest friend, James, Rhian’s boyfriend. He’d run off to London (a place he detested, I might add) to be with her. And the
cherry on top? My landlord was getting a divorce and needed the
apartment back.
I’d spent the last two weeks answering ads from young women
looking for a female roommate. It had been a bust so far. One girl
didn’t want to room with an American. Cue my What the fuck?
face. Three of the apartments were just . . . nasty. I’m pretty sure
one girl was a crack dealer, and the last girl’s apartment sounded
like it got more use than a brothel. I was really hoping my appointment today with Ellie Carmichael was going to go my way. It was
the most expensive apartment I’d scheduled to see, and it was on
the other side of the city center.
I was frugal when it came to my inheritance, as if spending as
little of it as possible would somehow lessen the bitterness of my
“good” fortune. But I was getting desperate.
If I wanted to be a writer, I needed the right apartment and the
right roommate.
Living alone was an option, of course. I could afford it. However, the God’s honest truth was that I didn’t like the idea of complete solitude. Despite my tendency to keep eighty percent of
myself to myself, I liked being surrounded by people. When they
talked to me about things I didn’t understand personally, it allowed
me to see things from their point of view, and I believed all the best
writers needed a wide-­
open scope of perspective. Despite not
needing to, I worked at a bar on George Street on Thursday and
Friday nights. The old cliché was true: Bartenders overhear all the
best stories.
I was friends with two of my colleagues, Jo and Craig, but we
only really hung out when we were working. If I wanted a little life
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ON DUBLIN STREET29
around me, I needed to get a roommate. On the plus side, this
apartment was mere streets away from my job.
As I tried to shove down the anxiety of finding a new place, I
kept my eye open for a cab with its light on. I eyed the ice cream
parlor, wishing I had time to stop in and indulge, and almost
missed the cab coming toward me on the opposite side of the
street. Throwing my hand out and checking my side for traffic, I
was gratified that the driver had seen me and pulled up to the
curb. I tore across the wide road, managing not to get squashed
like a green and white bug against some poor person’s windshield,
and rushed toward the cab with a single-­minded determination to
grab the door handle.
Instead of the door handle, I grabbed a hand.
Bemused, I followed the tan masculine hand up a long arm to
broad shoulders and a face obscured by the sun beaming down
behind his head. Tall, over six feet, the guy towered above me. I
was a smallish five foot five.
I took in his expensive suit, wondering why this guy had his
hand on my cab.
A sigh escaped from his shadowed face. “Which way are you
headed?” he asked me in a rumbling, gravelly voice. Four years I’d
been living here and still a smooth Scots accent could send a
shiver down my spine. And his definitely did, despite the terse
question.
“Dublin Street,” I answered automatically, hoping I had a longer distance to travel so that he’d give me the cab.
“Good.” He pulled the door open. “I’m heading in that direction, and since I’m already running late, might I suggest we share
the taxi instead of wasting ten minutes deciding who needs it
more.”
A warm hand touched my lower back and pressed me gently
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Samantha Young
forward. Dazed, I somehow let myself be manhandled into the
cab, sliding across the seat and buckling up as I silently questioned
whether I’d nodded my agreement to this. I didn’t think I had.
Hearing the Suit clip out Dublin Street as the destination to
the cab driver, I frowned and muttered, “Thanks. I guess.”
“You’re an American?”
At the soft question, I finally looked over at the passenger beside me. Oh, okay.
Wow.
Perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, the Suit wasn’t classically handsome, but there was a twinkle in his eyes and a curl to
the corner of his sensual mouth that, together with the rest of the
package, oozed sex appeal. I could tell from the lines of the extremely well-­tailored expensive silver-­gray suit that he wore, that
he worked out. He sat with the ease of a fit guy, his stomach iron
flat under the waistcoat and white shirt. His pale-­blue eyes seemed
bemused beneath their long lashes, and for the life of me I couldn’t
get over the fact that he had dark hair.
I preferred blonds. Always had.
Yet none of them had ever made my lower belly squeeze with
lust at first sight. A strong, masculine face stared into mine—­sharp
jawline, a cleft chin, wide cheekbones, and a Roman nose. Dark
stubble shadowed his cheeks, and his hair was kind of messy. Altogether, his rugged unkemptness seemed at odds with the stylish
designer suit.
The Suit raised an eyebrow at my blatant perusal and the lust I
was feeling quadrupled, taking me completely by surprise. I never
felt instant attraction to men. And since my wild years as a teen, I
hadn’t even contemplated taking a guy up on a sexual offer.
Although, I’m not sure I could walk away from an offer from him.
As soon as the thought flashed through my head I stiffened,
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ON DUBLIN STREET31
surprised and unnerved. My defenses immediately rose, and I
cleared my expression into blank politeness.
“Yeah, I’m American,” I answered, finally remembering the
Suit had asked me a question. I looked away from his knowing
smirk, pretending boredom and thanking the heavens that my olive skin kept the blushing internal.
“Just visiting?” he murmured.
As irritated as I was by my reaction to the Suit, I decided the
less conversation between us the better. Who knew what idiotic
thing I might do or say? “Nope.”
“Then you’re a student.”
I took issue with the tone. Then you’re a student. It was said with
a metaphorical eye-­roll. Like students were bottom-­feeding bums
with no real purpose in life. I snapped my head around to give him
a scathing set-­down, only to catch him eyeing my legs with interest. This time, I raised my eyebrow at him and waited for him to
unglue those gorgeous eyes of his from my bare skin. Sensing my
gaze, the Suit looked up at my face and noted my expression. I
expected him to pretend he hadn’t been ogling me or to look
quickly away or something. I didn’t expect him to just shrug and
then offer me the slowest, wickedest, sexiest smile that had ever
been bestowed upon me.
I rolled me eyes, fighting the flush of heat between my legs. “I
was a student,” I answered, with just a touch of snark. “I live here.
Dual citizenship.” Why was I explaining myself?
“You’re part Scottish?”
I barely nodded, secretly loving the way he said “Scottish” with
his hard “t”s.
“What do you do now that you’ve graduated?”
Why did he want to know? I shot him a look out of the corner
of my eye. The cost of the three-­piece suit he was wearing could
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Samantha Young
have fed me and Rhian on crappy student food for our entire four
years of college. “What do you do? I mean, when you’re not manhandling women into cabs?”
His small smirk was his only reaction to my jibe. “What do you
think I do?”
“I’m thinking lawyer. Answering questions with questions,
manhandling, smirking . . .”
He laughed a rich, deep laugh that vibrated through my chest.
His eyes glittered at me. “I’m not a lawyer. But you could be. I
seem to recall a question answered with a question. And that”—­he
gestured to my mouth, his eyes turning a shade darker as they visually caressed the curve of my lips—­“that’s a definite smirk.” His
voice had grown huskier.
My pulse took off as our eyes locked, our gazes holding for far
longer than two polite strangers’ should. My cheeks felt warm . . .
as did other places. I was growing more and more turned on by
him and the silent conversation between our bodies. When my
nipples tightened beneath my T-­shirt bra, I was shocked enough to
be plunged back into reality. Pulling my eyes from his, I glanced
out at the passing traffic and prayed for this cab ride to be over
yesterday.
As we approached Princes Street and another diversion caused
by the tram project the council was heading up, I began to wonder
if I was going to escape the cab without having to talk to him again.
“Are you shy?” the Suit asked, blowing my hopes to smithereens.
I couldn’t help it. His question made me turn to him with a
confused smile. “Excuse me?”
He tilted his head, peering down at me through the narrowed
slits of his eyes. He looked like a lazy tiger, eyeing me carefully as
if deciding whether or not I was a meal worth chasing. I shivered
as he repeated, “Are you shy?”
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ON DUBLIN STREET33
Was I shy? No. Not shy. Just usually blissfully indifferent. I liked
it that way. It was safer. “Why would you think that?” I didn’t give
off shy vibes, right? I grimaced at the thought.
The Suit shrugged again. “Most women would be taking advantage of my imprisonment in the taxi with them—­chew my ear
off, shove their phone number in my face . . . as well as other
things.” His eyes flicked down to my chest before quickly returning
to my face. The blood beneath my cheeks felt hot. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had managed to embarrass me.
Unaccustomed to feeling intimidated, I attempted to mentally
shrug it off.
Amazed by his overconfidence, I grinned at him, surprised by
the pleasure that rippled over me when his eyes widened slightly
at the sight of my smile. “Wow, you really think a lot of yourself.”
He grinned back at me, his teeth white but imperfect, and his
crooked smile sent an unfamiliar shot of feeling across my chest.
“I’m just speaking from experience.”
“Well, I’m not the kind of girl who hands out her number to a
guy she just met.”
“Ahh.” He nodded as if coming to some kind of realization
about me, his smile slipping, his features seeming to tighten and
close off from me. “You’re a no-­sex-­until-­the-­third-­date, marriage-­
and-­babies kind of woman.”
I made a face at his snap judgment. “No, no, and no.” Marriage
and babies? I shuddered at the thought, the fears that rode my
shoulders day in and day out slipping around to squeeze my chest
too tight.
The Suit looked back at me now, and whatever he had caught
in my face made him relax. “Interesting,” he murmured.
No. Not interesting. I didn’t want to be interesting to this guy.
“I’m not giving you my number.”
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Samantha Young
He grinned again. “I didn’t ask for it. And even if I wanted it, I
wouldn’t ask for it. I have a girlfriend.”
I ignored the disappointed flip of my stomach—­and apparently
the filter between my brain and my mouth. “Then stop looking at
me like that.”
The Suit seemed amused. “I have a girlfriend, but I’m not
blind. Just because I can’t do anything doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to look.”
I was not excited by this guy’s attention. I am a strong, independent woman. Glancing out the window, I noted with relief that we
were at Queen Street Gardens. Dublin Street was right around the
corner.
“Here’s good, thanks,” I called to the cab.
“Whereabouts?” the cab driver called back to me.
“Here,” I replied a little more sharply than I meant to. I
breathed a sigh of relief when the cab driver’s turn signal started
ticking and the car pulled over to a stop. Without another look or
word to the Suit, I handed the driver some money and slid a hand
along the door handle.
“Wait.”
I froze and shot the Suit a wary look over my shoulder. “What?”
“Do you have a name?”
I smiled, feeling relief now that I was getting away from him
and the bizarre attraction between us. “Actually, I have two.”
I jumped out of the cab, ignoring the traitorous thrill of pleasure that cascaded over me at the sound of his answering chuckle.
As soon as the door swung open and I first saw Ellie Carmichael, I
knew I was probably going to like her. The tall blonde was wearing
a trendy playsuit, a blue trilby, a monocle, and a fake mustache.
She blinked at me with wide, pale-­blue eyes.
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Bemused, I had to ask, “Is this . . . a bad time?”
Ellie stared at me a moment as if confused by my very reasonable question considering her outfit. As if it suddenly occurred to
her that she was in possession of a fake mustache, she pointed at it.
“You’re early. I was tidying up.”
Tidying up a trilby, monocle, and a mustache? I glanced behind her into a bright, airy reception hall. A bike with no front
wheel was propped against the far wall; photographs and an assortment of post cards and other random clippings were attached to a
board braced against a walnut cabinet. Two pairs of boots and a
pair of black pumps were scattered haphazardly under a row of
pegs overflowing with jackets and coats. The floors were hardwood.
Very nice. I looked back at Ellie with a huge grin on my face,
feeling good about the entire situation. “Are you on the run from
the mafia?”
“Pardon?”
“The disguise.”
“Oh.” She laughed and stepped back from the door, gesturing
me into the apartment. “No, no. I had friends over last night, and
we had a little bit too much to drink. All my old Halloween costumes were dragged out.”
I smiled again. That sounded fun. I missed Rhian and James.
“You’re Jocelyn, right?”
“Yeah. Joss,” I corrected her. I hadn’t been Jocelyn since before
my parents died.
“Joss,” she repeated, grinning at me as I took my first steps inside the ground-­floor apartment. It smelled great—­fresh and clean.
Like the apartment I was leaving, this one was also Georgian,
except it had once been an entire town house. Now it was split into
two apartments. Well, actually, next door was a boutique, and the
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Samantha Young
rooms above us belonged to it. I didn’t know about the rooms, but
the boutique itself was very nice, with handmade, one-­of-­a-­kind
clothes. This apartment . . .
Wow.
The walls were so smooth, I knew they had to have been plastered recently, and whoever had restored the place had done wonders. It had tall baseboards and thick coving to complement the
period property. The ceilings went on forever, as they did in my old
apartment. The walls were a cool white, but were broken up by
colorful and eclectic pieces of art. The white should have been
harsh, but the contrast of it against the dark walnut doors and hardwood flooring gave the apartment an air of simple elegance.
I was in love already, and I hadn’t even seen the rest of the
place.
Ellie hurriedly took off the hat and mustache, spinning around
to say something to me, only to stop and grin sheepishly as she tore
off the monocle she was still wearing. Shoving it aside on the walnut sideboard, she beamed brightly. She was a cheerful person.
Usually I avoided cheerful people, but there was something about
Ellie. She was kind of charming.
“I’ll give you a tour first, shall I?
“Sounds good.”
Striding to the door on the left nearest me, Ellie pushed it
open. “Bathroom. It’s in an unconventional place, I know, right
near the front door, but it’s got everything you need.”
Uh . . . I’ll say, I thought, tentatively stepping inside.
My flip-­flops echoed off the shiny cream tiles on the floor, tiles
that covered every inch of the bathroom except for the ceiling,
which was painted a buttery color and inset with warm spotlights.
The bathroom was huge.
Running my hand along the bathtub with its gold claw feet, I
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immediately envisioned myself in there: music playing, candles
flickering, a glass of red wine in my hand as I soaked in the tub and
numbed my mind to . . . everything. The tub sat in the center of
the room. In the back righthand corner was a double shower stall
with the biggest showerhead I’d ever seen. To my left was a modern
glass bowl situated atop a white ceramic shelf. That was a sink?
I tabulated everything quickly in my head. Gold taps, huge
mirror, heated towel rail . . .
The bathroom in my old apartment didn’t even have a towel
rail.
“Wow.” I threw Ellie a smile over my shoulder. “This is gorgeous.”
Practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, Ellie nodded, her
blue eyes smiling brightly at me. “I know. I don’t get to use it much
because I have an en suite in my room. That’s a plus for my prospective roommate, though. They’ll get this room pretty much to
themselves.”
Hmm, I mused at the lure of the bathroom. I was beginning to
see why the rent on this place was so astronomical. If you had the
money to live there, though, why would you leave?
As I followed Ellie across the hall and into the huge sitting
room, I asked politely, “Did your roommate move away?” I made
it sound like I was just curious, but really I was scoping Ellie out.
If the apartment was this stunning, then maybe Ellie had been the
problem. Before Ellie could answer, I stopped short, turning
around slowly to take in the room. Like all these old buildings, the
ceilings in each room were pretty high. The windows were tall and
wide, so tons of light from the busy street outside spilled into the
lovely room. On the center of the far wall was a huge fireplace,
clearly used only as a feature and not for a real fire, but it pulled
the casually chic room together. Sure, it’s a little more cluttered
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than I like, I thought, eyeing the piles of books that were scattered
here and there along with silly little items . . . like a toy Buzz Lightyear.
I wasn’t even going to ask.
Eyeing Ellie, the cluttered room began to make sense. Her
blond hair was pulled back in a messy bun, she was wearing mismatched flip flops, and there was a price sticker on her elbow.
“Roommate?” Ellie asked, turning around to meet my gaze.
Before I could repeat the question, the furrow between her pale
eyebrows cleared and she nodded, as if understanding. Good. It
hadn’t been that hard a question. “Oh, no.” She shook her head.
“I didn’t have a roommate. My brother bought this place as an
investment and had it all done up. Then he decided he didn’t
want me struggling to pay rent while I do my PhD, so he just
gave it to me.”
Nice brother.
Even though I didn’t comment, she must have seen the reaction in my eyes. Ellie grinned, a fond look softening her gaze.
“Braden is a little over the top. A present from him is never simple.
And how could I say no to this place? Only thing is, I’ve been living here for a month and it’s just too big and lonely, even with my
friends hanging out here on the weekends. So I said to Braden that
I was getting a roommate. He wasn’t keen on the idea, but I told
him how much rent this place takes in and that changed his mind.
Forever the businessman.”
I knew instinctually that Ellie loved her (obviously quite well-­
off) brother and that the two were close. It was there in her eyes
when she talked about him, and I knew that look. I’d studied it
over the years, facing it head on and developing a shield against
the pain it brought me to see that kind of love on other people’s
faces—­other people who still had family in their lives.
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“He sounds very generous,” I replied diplomatically, unused to
people spilling their private feelings all over me when we’d only
just met.
Ellie didn’t seem bothered by my response, which wasn’t exactly warm with tell me mores. She just kept smiling and led me
out of the sitting room and down the hall into a long kitchen. It
was kind of narrow, but the far end opened up into a semicircle
where a dining table and chairs were arranged. The kitchen itself
was as expensively finished as everywhere else in the apartment.
All the appliances were top of the line and there was a huge modern range in the middle of the dark wood units.
“Very generous,” I repeated.
Ellie grunted at my observation. “Braden’s too generous. I
didn’t need all this, but he insisted. He’s just like that. Take for
instance his girlfriend—­he indulges her in everything. I’m just
waiting for him to get bored with her like he does with the rest of
them, because she’s one of the worst he’s been with. It’s so obvious
she’s more interested in his cash than in him. Even he knows it.
He says the arrangement suits him. Arrangement? Who talks like
that?”
Who talks this much?
I hid a smile as she showed me the master bedroom. Like Ellie,
it was cluttered. She prattled on a little more about her brother’s
obviously vapid girlfriend, and I wondered how this Braden guy
would feel if he knew his sister was divulging his private life to a
complete stranger.
“And this could be your room.”
We were standing in the doorway of a room at the very back of
the apartment. A massive bay window with a window seat and jacquard floor-­length curtains; gorgeous French Rococo bed, and a
walnut library desk and leather chair. Somewhere for me to write.
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I was in love.
“It’s beautiful.”
I wanted to live there. To hell with the cost. To hell with a
chatty roommate. I’d lived frugally for long enough. I was alone in
a country I’d adopted. I deserved a little comfort.
I’d get used to Ellie. She talked a lot but was sweet and charming, and there was something innately kind in her eyes.
“Why don’t we have a cup of tea and see how we get on from
there?” Ellie was grinning again.
Seconds later, I found myself alone in the sitting room as Ellie
made tea in the kitchen. It suddenly occurred to me that it didn’t
matter if I liked Ellie. Ellie had to like me if she was going to offer
me that room. I felt worry gnaw at my gut. I wasn’t the most forthcoming person on the planet, and Ellie seemed like the most
open. Maybe she wouldn’t “get” me.
“It’s been difficult,” Ellie announced upon her reentrance into
the room. She was carrying a tray of tea and some snacks. “Finding
a roommate, I mean. Very few people our age can afford somewhere like this.”
I had inherited a lot of money. “My family is well-­off.”
“Oh?” She pushed a mug of hot tea toward me as well as a
chocolate muffin.
I cleared my throat, my fingers trembling around the mug.
Cold sweat had broken out across my skin and blood was rushing
in my ears. That’s how I always reacted when I was on the verge of
having to tell someone the truth. My parents and little sister died
in a car accident when I was fourteen. The only other family I have
is an uncle who lives in Australia. He didn’t want custody of me, so
I lived in foster care. My parents had a lot of money. My dad’s
grandfather was an oil man from Louisiana, and my father had been
exceptionally careful with his own inheritance. It all went to me
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when I turned eighteen. My heart slowed and the trembling ceased
as I remembered Ellie didn’t really need to know my tale of woe.
“My family on my dad’s side originally came from Louisiana. My
great-­grandfather made a lot of money in oil.”
“Oh, how interesting.” She sounded sincere. “Did your family
move from Louisiana?”
I nodded. “To Virginia. But my mom was originally from Scotland.”
“So you’re part Scottish. How cool.” She threw me a secret
smile. “I’m only part Scottish as well. My mum is French, but her
family moved to St. Andrews when she was five. Shockingly, I
don’t even speak French.” Ellie snorted and waited on my expected commentary.
“Does your brother speak French?”
“Oh no.” Ellie waved my question off. “Braden and I are half
siblings. We share the same dad. Our mums are both alive, but our
dad died five years ago. He was a very well-­known businessman.
Have you heard of Douglas Carmichael and Co.? It’s one of the
oldest estate agencies in the area. Dad took it over from his dad
when he was really young and started up a property development
company. He also owned a few restaurants and even a few of the
tourist shops here. It’s a little mini-­empire. When he died, Braden
took it all on. Now it’s Braden everyone around here panders to—­
everyone trying to get a piece of him. And they all know how close
we are, so they’ve tried using me, too.” Her pretty mouth twisted
bitterly, an expression that seemed completely foreign to her face.
“I’m sorry.” I meant it. I understood what that was like. It was
one of the reasons I had decided to leave Virginia behind and start
over in Scotland.
As if sensing my utter sincerity, Ellie relaxed. I would never
understand how someone could lay themselves out like that to a
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Samantha Young
friend, never mind a stranger, but for once I wasn’t scared of Ellie’s
openness. Yeah, it might cause her to expect me to reciprocate in
the sharing, but once she got to know me, I’m sure she’d understand that wasn’t going to happen.
To my surprise, an extremely comfortable silence had fallen
between us. As if just realizing that too, Ellie smiled softly at me.
“What are you doing in Edinburgh?”
“I live here now. Dual citizenship. It feels more like home
here.”
She liked that answer.
“Are you a student?”
I shook my head. “I just graduated. I work Thursday and Friday
nights at Club 39 on George Street. But I’m really just trying to
focus on my writing at the moment.”
Ellie seemed thrilled by my confession. “That’s brilliant! I’ve
always wanted to be friends with a writer. And that’s so brave to go
for what you really want. My brother thinks being a PhD student
is a waste of my time because I could work for him, but I love it.
I’m a tutor at the university as well. It’s just . . . well, it makes me
happy. And I’m one of these awful people who can get away with
doing what they enjoy even if it doesn’t pay much.” She grimaced.
“That sounds terrible, doesn’t it?”
I wasn’t really the judging kind. “It’s your life, Ellie. You’ve
been blessed financially. That doesn’t make you a terrible person.”
I’d had a therapist in high school, and I could hear her nasally
voice in my head: “Now why can’t you apply the same thought
process to yourself, Joss. Accepting your inheritance doesn’t make
you a terrible person. It’s what your parents wanted for you.”
From the ages of fourteen to eighteen, I’d lived with two foster
families in my hometown in Virginia. Neither family had a lot of
money, and I went from a big, fancy house and expensive food and
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clothes to eating a lot of SpaghettiO’s and sharing clothes with a
younger foster “sister” who happened to be the same height. With
the approach of my eighteenth year, and the public knowledge
that I would be receiving a substantial inheritance, I’d been approached by a number of businesspeople in our town looking to
take advantage of what they assumed was a naive kid and secure
an investment, as well as a classmate who wanted me to invest in
his Web site. I guess living how the other half lived during my
formative years and then being sucked up to by fake people more
interested in my deep pockets than in me were two of the reasons
I was reluctant to touch the money I had.
Sitting there with Ellie, someone in a similar financial situation who was dealing with guilt (although a different kind), I felt a
surprising connection to her.
“The room is yours,” Ellie suddenly announced.
Her abrupt bubbliness brought laughter to my lips. “Just like
that?”
Seeming serious all of a sudden, Ellie nodded. “I have a good
feeling about you.”
I have a good feeling about you, too. I gave her a relieved smile.
“Then I’d love to move in.”
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Chapter Two
A
week later I’d moved into the luxury apartment on Dublin
Street.
Unlike Ellie and her clutter, I liked everything to be organized
around me just so, and that meant immediately diving into unpacking.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit and have a cup of tea with
me?” Ellie asked from the doorway as I stood in my room surrounded by boxes and a couple of suitcases.
“I really want to get this all unpacked so I can just relax.” I
smiled reassuringly so she wouldn’t think I was blowing her off. I
always hated this part of a burgeoning friendship—­the exhausting
hedging of each other’s personality, trying to work out how a person would react to a certain tone or attitude.
Ellie just nodded her understanding. “Okay. Well, I’ve got to
tutor in an hour, so I think I’ll walk instead of grabbing a cab,
which means heading off now. That’ll give you some space, some
time to get to know the place.”
I’m liking you more already. “Have a fun class.”
“Have fun unpacking.”
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Samantha Young
I grunted and waved her away as she flashed me a pretty smile
and headed out.
As soon as the front door slammed shut, I flopped down on my
incredibly comfortable new bed. “Welcome to Dublin Street,” I
murmured, staring up at the ceiling.
Kings of Leon sang “your sex is on fire” really loudly at me. I
grumbled at the fact that my solitude was being so quickly intruded upon. With a tilt of my hip, I slipped my phone out of my
pocket and smiled at the caller ID.
“Hey, you,” I answered warmly.
“So have you moved into your exorbitantly, overindulgent,
pretentious new flat yet?” Rhian asked without preamble.
“Is that bitter envy I hear?”
“You’ve got that right, you lucky cow. I was almost ill in my
cereal this morning at the pictures you sent me. Is that place for
real?”
“I take it the apartment in London isn’t living up to your expectations?”
“Expectations? I’m paying through the nose for a bloody glorified cardboard box!”
I snorted.
“Fuck off,” Rhian grumbled half-­heartedly. “I miss you and our
mice-­riddled palace.”
“I miss you and our mice-­riddled palace, too.”
“Are you saying that as you stare at your claw-­footed bath tub
with its gold-­plated taps?”
“Nope . . . as I lie on my five-­thousand-­dollar bed.”
“What’s that in pounds?”
“I don’t know. Three thousand?”
“Jesus, you’re sleeping on six weeks’ rent.”
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Groaning, I sat up to pull open the nearest box. “I wish I hadn’t
told you how much my rent is.”
“Well, I’d give you a lecture on how you’re pissing that money
of yours away on rent when you could have bought a house, but
who am I to talk?”
“Yeah, and I don’t need any lectures. That’s the sweetest part of
being an orphan. No concerned lectures.”
I don’t know why I said that.
There was no sweet part to being an orphan.
Or having no one be concerned.
Rhian was silent on the other end of the line. We never talked
about my parents or hers. It was our no-­go area. “Anyway”—­I
cleared my throat—­“I better get back to unpacking.”
“Is your new roommate there?” Rhian picked up the conversation as though I hadn’t said anything about my parentless status.
“She just went out.”
“Have you met any of her friends yet? Any of them guys? Hot
guys? Hot enough to haul you out of your four-­year dry spell?”
The skeptical laughter on my lips died when an image of the
Suit popped into my mind. Feeling my skin prickle at the thought
of him, I found myself grow quiet. It wasn’t the first time he’d
flashed across my thoughts in the last seven days.
“What’s this?” Rhian asked in answer to my silence. “Is one of
them a hottie?”
“No.” I brushed her off as I shoveled the Suit out of my
thoughts. “I haven’t met any of Ellie’s friends yet.”
“Bummer.”
Not really. The last thing I need in my life is a guy. “Listen, I’ve
got to get this done. Talk to you later?”
“Sure, hon. Talk later.”
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Samantha Young
We hung up and I sighed, gazing at all my boxes. All I really
wanted to do was flop back down on the bed and take a long nap.
“Ugh, let’s do this.”
A few hours later, I was completely unpacked. All of my boxes were
folded up neatly and stored in the hall closet. My clothes were hung
up and put away. My books were lined up on the bookshelf and my
laptop was open on the desk, ready for my words. A photograph of
my parents sat on my bedside table, another of Rhian and me at a
Halloween party graced the bookshelf, and by my laptop on the desk
sat my favorite photo. It was a picture of me holding Beth, my parents standing behind me. We were sitting out in the backyard at a
barbecue the summer before they died. My neighbor had taken the
shot.
I knew photos usually invited questions, but I couldn’t bring
myself to put those photographs away. They were a painful reminder that loving people only led to heartbreak . . . but I couldn’t
bear to part with them.
I kissed my fingertips and placed them gently against the photo
of my parents.
I miss you.
After a moment, a bead of sweat rolling down my nape drew
me out of my melancholic fog, and I wrinkled my nose. It was a
hot day, and I had blasted through the unpacking like the Terminator after John Connor.
Time to try out that gorgeous bathtub.
Pouring in some bubble bath and running the hot water, I
immediately began to relax at the rich smell of lotus blossoms.
Back in my bedroom, I peeled off my sweaty shirt and shorts and
felt a smug liberation as I walked down the hall, naked in my new
apartment.
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I smiled, gazing around at it, still not quite believing all the
prettiness was mine for at least the next six months.
With music blasting from my smartphone, I sank deep into the
tub and began to doze. It was only the growing chill of the water
that nudged me to wakefulness. Feeling soothed and as content as
I could be, I clambered inelegantly out of the tub and reached for
my phone. As soon as silence reigned around me, I glanced over
at the towel rail and froze.
Crap.
There were no towels. I scowled at the towel rail as if it was its
fault. I could have sworn Ellie had towels on there last week. Now
I was going to have to drip water all down the hall.
Grumbling under my breath, I wrenched the bathroom door
open and stepped out into the airy hallway.
“Uh . . . hullo,” a deep voice choked out, and my eyes snapped
up from the puddle I was making on the hardwood floor.
A squeal of shock got crushed in my windpipe as I gazed into
the eyes of the Suit.
What was he doing here? In my house? Stalker!
My mouth hung open as I tried to work out what the hell was
going on; it took me a moment to realize his eyes weren’t on my
face. They were running all over my very naked body.
With a garbled noise of distress I clamped an arm over my
breasts. Pale-­blue eyes met my horrified gray gaze. “What are you
doing in my apartment?” I glanced hurriedly around for a weapon.
Umbrella? It had a metal point. . . . That might work.
Another choking noise wrenched my eyes back to his, and a
flush of unwanted and totally inappropriate heat hit me between
the legs. He had that look again. That dark, sexually avaricious
look. I hated that my body responded so instantly to that look considering the guy might be a serial killer.
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Samantha Young
“Turn around!” I yelled, trying to cover up how vulnerable I
felt.
Immediately the Suit held up his hands in surrender and spun
slowly around, his back to me. My eyes narrowed at the sight of his
shaking shoulders. The bastard was laughing at me.
Heart racing, I moved to rush toward my room to grab some
clothes—­and possibly a baseball bat—­when my eyes snagged on a
photo on Ellie’s memo board. It was a picture of Ellie . . . and the Suit.
What the hell?
Why had I not noticed this? Oh yeah. Because I don’t like to ask
questions. Disgruntled at my own crappy observational skills, I
threw a quick look over my shoulder. I was gratified to find that the
Suit wasn’t peeking. Skittering off to my room, his deep voice followed me, rumbling down the hall to my ears. “I’m Braden Carmichael. Ellie’s brother.”
Of course he was, I thought grumpily, patting myself dry with
a towel before shoving my angry limbs through a pair of shorts and
a tank top.
With my dark-­blond, brownish hair piled in a wet mess atop my
head, I stormed back out into the hall to face him.
Braden had turned around; his lips quirked up at the corner
now as he ran his eyes over me. The fact that I was dressed didn’t
matter. He was still seeing me naked. I could tell.
My hands flew to my hips in belligerent humiliation. “And you
just walk in here without knocking?”
A dark eyebrow rose at my tone. “It is my flat.”
“It’s common courtesy to freaking knock,” I argued.
His reply consisted of him shrugging and then jamming his
hands casually into his suit pants. He’d taken his jacket off somewhere and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing strong, thick-­veined forearms.
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A knot of need tightened in my gut at the sight of those sexy
forearms.
Shit.
Fuckity shit fuck.
I flushed inwardly. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”
Braden gifted me a roguish smile. “I never apologize unless I
mean it. And I’m not apologizing for this. It’s been the highlight of
my week. Possibly my year.” His grin was so easygoing, coaxing me
to smile back at him. I wouldn’t.
Braden was Ellie’s brother. He had a girlfriend.
And I was way too attracted to this stranger for it to be healthy.
“Wow, what a boring life you must lead,” I replied haughtily
and weakly as I walked by him. You try being witty after flashing
your girl pieces to some guy you barely know. I couldn’t really give
him much of a wide berth and had to ignore the flutter of butterflies in my stomach as I caught a whiff of the delicious cologne he
was wearing.
Grunting at my observation, Braden followed me. I could feel
the heat of him at my back as I entered the sitting room.
His jacket was tossed across an armchair and a near-­empty mug
of coffee was sitting beside an open newspaper on the coffee table.
He’d just made himself at home while I was soaking in the tub,
completely oblivious.
Annoyed, I shot him a dirty look over my shoulder.
His boyish grin hit me in the chest and I looked away quickly,
perching on the arm of the couch as Braden sank casually into the
armchair. The grin was gone now. He stared up at me with just a
small smile playing on his lips, like he was thinking of a private
joke. Or of me naked.
Despite my resistance to him, I didn’t want him to think that
my nakedness was funny.
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Samantha Young
“So, you’re Jocelyn Butler.”
“Joss,” I corrected automatically.
He nodded and relaxed into his seat, his arm sliding along the
back of the chair. He had gorgeous hands. Elegant but masculine.
Large. Strong. An image of that hand sliding up my inner thigh
crossed my mind before I could stop it.
Fuck.
I unglued my eyes from his hands to look at his face. He appeared comfortable and yet totally authoritative. It suddenly occurred to me that this was the Braden with all the money and
responsibilities, a vainglorious girlfriend, and a little sister he was
undoubtedly overprotective of.
“Ellie likes you.”
Ellie doesn’t know me. “I like Ellie. I’m not so sure about her
brother. He seems kind of rude.”
Braden flashed me those white, slightly crooked teeth. “He’s
not sure of you either.”
That’s not what your eyes are saying. “Oh?”
“I’m not sure how I feel about my wee sister living with an exhibitionist.”
I made a face at him, only just resisting sticking my tongue out
at him. He really brought out my mature side. “Exhibitionists get
naked in public. As far as I was aware, there was no one else in the
apartment, and I’d forgotten a towel.”
“Thank God for small mercies.”
He was doing it again. Looking at me that way. Did he know
he was being so blatant about it?
“Seriously,” he continued, his eyes falling to my chest before
climbing back up to my face. “You should walk around naked all
the time.”
The compliment got to me. I couldn’t help it. The touch of a
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smile curled the corner of my lips, and I shook my head at him like
he was a naughty school boy.
Pleased, Braden laughed softly. A weird, unexpected fullness
formed in my chest, and I knew I had to break whatever weird
instant attraction was going on between us. This had never happened to me before, so I was going to have to wing it.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re an ass.”
Braden sat up with a snort. “Usually a woman calls me that
after I’ve fucked her and called her a taxi.”
I blinked rapidly at his blunt language. Really? We were using
that word already in our short acquaintance?
He noticed. “Don’t tell me you hate that word.”
No. I imagine that word can be a total turn on in the right moment. “No. I just don’t think we should be talking about fucking
when we’ve just met.”
Okay. That came out all wrong.
Braden’s eyes brightened with silent laughter. “I didn’t know
that’s what we were doing.”
Abruptly, I changed the subject. “If you’re here for Ellie, she’s
tutoring.”
“I came to meet you, actually. Only I didn’t know I was meeting you. Quite the coincidence. I’ve thought about you quite a bit
since last week in the taxi.”
“Was that while you were out having dinner with your girlfriend?” I asked snidely, feeling like I was swimming against the tide
with this guy. I wanted us out of this flirty, sexual place we’d landed
in and into a normal just-­my-­roommate’s-­brother kind of place.
“Holly is down south visiting her parents this week. She’s from
Southampton.”
Like I give a crap. “I see. Well . . .” I stood up, hoping the gesture would usher him out. “I would say it was nice to meet you,
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Samantha Young
but I was naked, so . . . it wasn’t. I have a lot to do. I’ll tell Ellie you
dropped by.”
Laughing, Braden shook his head and stood up to pull on his
suit jacket. “You’re a hard nut to crack.”
Okay, clearly I had to lay it out clear and simple for this guy.
“Hey, there will be no cracking of this nut. Now or ever.”
He was choking on laughter now as he stepped toward me,
making me back into the couch. “Really, Jocelyn . . . why do you
have to make everything sound so dirty?”
My mouth fell open in outrage as he turned and left . . . having
had the last word.
I hated him.
I really did.
Pity that my body did not.
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Chapter Three
C
lub 39 was less a club and more a bar with a small square
dance floor beyond the alcove at the back. On the basement
level on George Street, the ceilings were low, the circular sofas and
square cubes that acted as seats were low, and the bar area was
actually built a few levels lower, meaning drunken people had to
walk down three steps to get to us. Whoever added that little design
to the architect’s draft had clearly been smoking something.
Thursday nights usually found the low-­lit bar crowded with
students, but with the semester over and the Scottish summer
upon us, the night was quiet and the music was turned down as
there was no one on the dance floor.
I handed the guy standing across the bar his drinks, and he gave
me a ten-­pound note. “Keep the change.” He winked at me.
I ignored the wink but stuck the tip in the tip jar. We divided
the money at the end of the night even though Jo argued that she
and I pulled the most tips in because of the low-­cut white tank tops
we wore with black skinny jeans as a uniform. The tank had Club
39 scrawled across the right breast in black French script. Simple
but effective. Especially when you were as blessed in the boob
department as I was.
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Craig was on break, so Jo and I were dealing with the small
crowd of customers at the bar, a crowd that was dwindling by the
minute. Bored, I glanced down to the other end of the bar to see
if Jo needed my help.
She did.
Just not in a bartending kind of way.
Reaching out to hand the customer she was serving his change,
the guy grabbed Jo’s wrist and tugged her over the bar so she was
inches from his face. I frowned and bided my time to see how Jo
would react; her pale skin grew flush and she wrenched on her
arm to try to break his hold. His friends stood behind him laughing. Nice.
“Let me go, please,” Jo said between gritted teeth, pulling
harder.
With no Craig around and Jo’s wrist so skinny it might break,
the situation was left up to me. I headed down the bar toward
them, pressing the button under the bar for the security guys at the
door.
“Oh, come on, sweetheart, it’s my birthday. Just one kiss.”
My hand clamped down around the guy’s, and I dug my nails
into his skin. “Let go of her, asshole, before I tear the flesh from
your hand and nail it to your balls.”
He hissed in pain and jerked back from me, consequently letting go of Jo. “American bitch.” He groaned, cradling the hand
that was now covered in deep crescent-­shaped marks. “I’m complaining to management.”
Why did my nationality always come into play in a negative
situation? And what? Were we in some ’80s brat-­pack movie? I
snorted at him, unimpressed.
Brian, our huge security guy, appeared behind him. He did not
look amused. “Problem, Joss?”
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“Yeah. Can you please remove this guy and his friends from the
bar?”
He didn’t even ask why. There had only been a few occasions
where we’d had people tossed out, so Brian trusted my assessment
of the situation. “Come on, fellas, move it,” he growled, and like
the cowards they were, pale faced and drunk off their asses, the
three of them lumbered out of the bar with Brian behind them.
Feeling Jo tremble beside me, I placed a comforting hand on
her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Aye.” She gave me a weak smile. “Bad night all around. Steven dumped me earlier.”
I winced, knowing how much that had to hurt Jo and her little
brother. They lived together in a small apartment on London Road
where they took turns taking care of their mom, who had chronic
fatigue syndrome. To make the rent, Jo—­who was gorgeous—­used
her looks to get herself “sugar daddies” to help take care of them
financially. No matter how often people told her she was smart
enough to do something more with her life, she was just full of
insecurities. The only confidence she did have was in her good
looks and their ability to snag a guy who would take care of her and
her family. But looking after her mom always trumped her beauty,
and sooner or later the men all dumped her.
“I’m sorry, Jo. You know if you need help with rent or anything,
all you’ve got to do is ask.”
I’d offered more times that I could count. She always said no.
“Nah.” She shook her head and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek.
“I’ll find someone new. I always do.”
She wandered away with a slump to her shoulders, and I found
myself worrying about her when I really didn’t want to. Jo was one
of the misunderstood. She could grate on your nerves with her
materialism, but humble you with her loyalty to her family. She
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might love pretty shoes, but they took a backburner when it came
to making sure her kid brother and mom were okay. Unfortunately
that loyalty also meant she’d trample over anyone who got in her
way, and be trampled over by anyone willing to use her situation
against her.
“I’m going on my break. I’ll send Craig out.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me, wondering who
her next victim would be. Or was that whose victim she would next
become?
“It’s quiet tonight.” Craig ambled toward me two minutes later
with a can of soda in hand. Tall, dark-­haired, and good-­looking,
Craig probably pulled in just as many tips as Jo and I did. He was
a perennial flirt. And he was good at it.
“It’s summer,” I mused, casting an eye around the club before
turning my back to lean on the bar. “It’ll pick up weekdays again
when August comes around.” I didn’t have to explain I meant it
would pick up because of the Edinburgh Festival. In August, the
entire city was taken over: Tourists descended on the city, stealing
all the best tables in all the best restaurants, and there was always
so many of them that they made walking five steps into a five-­
minute journey.
The tips were great, though.
Craig groaned and leaned closer to me. “I’m bored.” He flicked
his eyes over my body with lazy perusal. “Want to shag me in the
men’s toilets?”
He asked me this every shift.
I always said no, and then told him to shag Jo instead. His reply:
“Been there, done that.” I was a friendly challenge, and I think he
honestly had deluded himself into thinking he’d one day conquer
me.
“Well? Do you?” A familiar soft voice asked from behind me.
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I whirled around, blinking in surprise to find Ellie on the other
side of the bar. Behind her was a guy I didn’t recognize and . . .
Braden.
Blanching instantly, still mortified from yesterday, I barely
noted the carefully blank expression in his eyes as he watched
Craig.
Wrenching my own gaze from him, I smiled weakly at Ellie.
“Um . . . what are you doing here?”
Ellie and I had had dinner together the night before. I’d told
her Braden had stopped by, but I hadn’t told her about the whole
naked thing. She’d told me about her class, and I could understand why she’d make such a great tutor. Her passion for art history
was infectious, and I found myself listening to her with genuine
interest.
All and all, it had been a pleasant first dinner. Ellie had asked
me a couple of personal questions that I had managed to deflect
back onto her. I now knew that she was a big sister to half siblings:
Hannah, fourteen, and Declan, ten. Her mom, Elodie Nichols,
lived in the Stockbridge area of Edinburgh with her husband,
Clark. Elodie was a part-­time manager at the Sheraton Grand
Hotel, and Clark was a professor of classical history at the university. It was clear from the way she talked that Ellie adored them all,
and I got the impression that Braden spent more time with this
family than with his own mother.
At lunch today, Ellie and I had taken a break from our own
work and met in the sitting room for food and a little bit of television. We’d sniggered our way through an episode of the classic
British comedy Are You Being Served? and bonded in the comfortable silence. I’d felt as though I were gaining surprisingly fast but
steady ground with my new roommate.
But turning up at my work with her brother? Well, that was not
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cool. Not that she knew about my incident yesterday with
Braden . . .
“We’re meeting up with some friends for a drink in Tigerlily.
We thought we’d stop by to say hi.” She grinned at me, her eyes
dancing with mischief in a seventh-­grader kind of way before she
slanted them questioningly in Craig’s direction.
Tigerlily, huh? That was a nice place. I noted Ellie’s pretty sequin dress. It looked like something from the 1920s and screamed
designer. It was the first time I’d seen her so put together, and with
Braden standing next to her wearing another dapper suit, as well
as their companion’s polished look, I felt a little out of sorts. Despite all my money, I wasn’t used to the obviously stylish cocktails-­
and-­
crème-­
brulee kind of lifestyle these guys were. Somehow
disappointed, I realized I did not fit in with this crowd.
“Oh,” I answered dumbly, ignoring her questioning eyebrows.
“This is Adam.” Ellie turned to the guy behind her as soon as
she realized I wasn’t going to answer her silent query. Ellie’s pale
eyes turned dark with deep warmth as she looked up at Adam, and
I wondered if this guy was her boyfriend. Not that she’d mentioned
a boyfriend. The dark-­haired hottie was just a little shorter than
Braden, with broad shoulders that filled out his suit nicely.
His warm, dark eyes glittered at me under the bar lights as he
smiled. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
“Adam is Braden’s best friend,” Ellie explained and then
turned to her brother. As soon as she looked at him she burst out
laughing, her giggles filling the bar like fairy bubbles as she
glanced back at me over her shoulder. “I would introduce you to
Braden, but I believe you’ve already . . . met.” I barely heard the
word “met” over her choked laughter.
I stiffened.
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She knew.
Eyes narrowed, I shot Braden a disgusted look. “You told her.”
“Told her what?” Adam asked, bemused, looking at the still-­
chortling Ellie as though she’d gone mad.
Braden’s mouth turned up in amusement as he answered
Adam without taking his eyes off me. “That I walked in on Jocelyn
when she was wandering around the flat naked.”
Adam eyed me curiously.
“No,” I retorted with a bite in my tone. “I was coming out of
the bathroom looking for a towel.”
“He saw you naked?” Craig interrupted, a scowl marring his
forehead.
“Braden Carmichael.” Braden stuck a hand across the bar for
Craig to shake. “Nice to meet you.”
Craig took it, seeming a little dazed. Great. Even men were
charmed by him. While Braden smiled at Craig, his cheerful expression disappeared when his eyes fell on me again. I detected a
slight chill in them and frowned. What had I done now?
“I have a girlfriend,” Braden assured Craig. “I wasn’t putting
the moves on yours.”
“Oh, Joss isn’t my girlfriend.” Craig shook his head, with a
cocky grin down at me. “Not for my lack of trying.”
“Customer.” I pointed to the girl at the other end of the bar,
glad for an excuse to get rid of him.
As soon as he was gone, Ellie was leaning against the bar. “Not
your boyfriend? Really? Why not? He’s cute. And he certainly
thinks you’re hot.”
“He’s a walking sexually transmitted disease,” I answered
grumpily, running a dishrag over an invisible spot on the bar, desperately trying to avoid Braden’s gaze.
“Does he always talk to you like that?”
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Braden’s question brought my head up reluctantly, and I immediately felt the need to reassure him and defend Craig when I
saw his cool, lethal eyes narrowed in my colleague’s direction. “He
doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Oh, man, that break surely wasn’t ten minutes,” Jo complained as she wandered slowly behind the bar. She reeked of
cigarette smoke. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would put up
with a habit that made them stink so badly. I wrinkled my nose at
her, and Jo instantly understood. Not taking it to heart, she just
shrugged and blew me a teasing kiss as she stopped to lean against
the bar across from Braden. Her big green eyes drank him in as
though he were a cigarette she was trying to quit. “And who do we
have here?”
“I’m Ellie.” She waved at Jo as though she was a cute fifteen
year old. I smiled at her. She was kind of adorable. “I’m Joss’s new
flatmate.”
“Hi.” Jo offered her a polite smile before looking back at
Braden expectantly.
I wasn’t at all annoyed by her blatant interest in him.
“Braden.” He nodded at her, his eyes quickly returning to my
face.
Okay. Really?
I was stunned.
If I were being honest, I would admit that I had been bracing
myself to watch Braden turn the flirtatiousness up a notch for Jo.
She was tall, model thin, and had long thick poker-­
straight
strawberry-­blond hair. If Braden Carmichael transformed into a
smoldering flirt around me, then I had totally been expecting him
to melt Jo into the floor with his charm.
Instead he’d been kind of cool toward her.
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That did not make me happy in any way.
Hmm. I’d always been good at lying to myself.
“Braden Carmichael?” Jo asked, oblivious to his disinterest.
“Oh my God. You own Fire.”
Damn my curiosity over this guy. “Fire?”
“The club on Victoria Street. You know, just off the Grassmarket.” Jo’s eyelashes were batting a mile a minute at him now.
He owns a nightclub. Of course he does.
“I do,” he muttered and then checked his watch.
I knew that move. I used that move whenever I was uncomfortable. In that moment I really wanted to slap Jo for gushing all over
him. Braden was not replacing Steven. No way.
“I love that place,” Jo continued, leaning farther over the bar to
give him an eagle-­eye view of her small, inconsequential chest.
Meow. Where did that come from?
“Maybe we could go together some time? I’m Jo, by the way.”
Ugh. She was giggling like a five-­year-­old. For some reason that
giggle, which I heard every Thursday and Friday night, was suddenly very irritating.
Braden nudged Ellie as if to say Let’s go, his expression impatient now. But Ellie was too busy murmuring to Adam to notice
her brother’s quiet desperation.
“What do you say?” Jo persisted.
Braden shot me a searching look that I didn’t quite understand
before shrugging at her. “I have a girlfriend.”
Jo snorted, fluffing her hair over her shoulder. “So leave her at
home.”
Oh, Jesus Chri—­“Ellie, didn’t you say you guys were meeting
someone?” I asked loudly enough to drag her away from Adam.
She needed to rescue her brother pronto.
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Samantha Young
“What?”
I gave her a pointed look and repeated the question with gritted
teeth.
Finally recognizing the look on Jo’s face and the one on her
brother’s, Ellie nodded. “Oh, yes. We better leave.”
Jo sulked. “Don’t you—­”
“Jo!” Craig called for assistance from the bottom end of the bar,
where more customers had started congregating. I sort of loved
him in that moment.
Grumbling, Jo shot Braden a childish pout and hurried over to
Craig.
“Sorry.” Ellie bit her lip, casting Braden an apologetic look.
He waved her apology off and stepped back, gesturing like a
gentleman for her to take the lead out of the bar.
“Bye, Joss.” She waved, beaming at me. “I’ll see you in the
morning.”
“Yeah. Have a good night.”
I observed the proprietary hand Adam placed on Ellie’s lower
back as he nodded a polite good-­bye my way and led her out. Was
there something going on there? Possibly. Not that I would ask her
about it. She’d only turn my curiosity back on me with questions
about my nonexistent love life, and then she’d want to know why
my love life was nonexistent. That was not a conversation I wanted
to have with anyone.
My skin prickled and reluctantly I let my gaze travel back to
Braden, who’d taken a step toward the bar, the polite coolness
from earlier replaced with a heat that was all too familiar.
“Thanks for the rescue.” I swear his low voice vibrated all the
way into my panties.
Squirming inwardly, I tried for nonchalance. “No problem. Jo’s
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a sweetheart, and she doesn’t mean any harm . . . but she’s a blatant gold digger.”
Braden just nodded, seemingly uninterested in anything Jo-­
related.
Silence quickly fell between us, our eyes catching, staying,
locking. I didn’t even realize my mouth had fallen open until his
eyes dipped to stare at it.
What the hell was this?
I snapped back from him, feeling my skin flush as I glanced
around to see if anyone else had caught the moment between us.
No one was watching.
Why wasn’t he leaving?
Looking back at him, I tried not to seem unnerved, when in
actuality I was so out of my depth. I attempted unsuccessfully to
ignore his slow, heated perusal of my body. He had to stop doing
that!
When his eyes eventually crawled their way back up to mine, I
made a face at him. I couldn’t believe him. He’d pretty much ignored Jo, but for me he’d turn on “the sex.” Did he get some sick
satisfaction out of tormenting me?
Stepping back from the bar with a quick grin, Braden shook his
head at me.
“What?” I scowled at him.
He smirked at me. I hated when guys smirked at me. Even sexy
smirks like his. “I don’t know what I like better . . .” he mused,
stroking his chin in teasing contemplation, “the naked you or you
in that tank top. Ds, right?”
What? I frowned, totally confused.
And then it hit me.
Jerk!
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Samantha Young
The asshole had just—­correctly—­guessed my cup size. He was
never going to let me live down yesterday. I could see that now.
I threw my dishrag at him, and he laughed, dodging it. “I’ll take
that as a yes.”
Then he was gone before I could summon up an epic retort
that would knock him on his ass.
I swear to God, the next time we met, I’d get the last word in.
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Erin McCarthy
Rory Macintosh has nothing in common with Tyler
Mann. Innocent, studious, awkward, she wouldn’t
know where to even begin a conversation with the
confident, tattooed bad boy. Until the night he
becomes her savior.
Tyler knows he’s not good enough for Rory. She’s
smart—­doctor smart—­and from a good family while
he’s barely scraping by at his EMT program in the
hopes of pulling his younger brothers out of the hell
their druggy mother has left them in. But there’s
something about her he just can’t keep away from.
As Rory enters Tyler’s world, she realizes that she
might be out of her depth. If first love is supposed
to be easy, then maybe this isn’t the real thing. Or,
maybe, their struggles just mean they’ve found
something real to fight for. . . .
AVAILABLE as an ebook ONLY
MAY 2013 FROM INTERMIX
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Chapter One
G
etting drunk was not in my plans for Friday night.
Neither was admitting to my roommates, Jessica and Kylie, that I was a virgin.
But they left me alone with Grant.
I knew what Jessica and Tyler, Kylie and Nathan were going to
do in the guys’ respective bedrooms. Well, it’s not like I actually
knew from personal experience what they were doing—­
but I
hoped their sex fest wouldn’t take that long. I had studying to do
for an inorganic chemistry exam on Monday. Plus, I had to read
six chapters of Hemingway about boozy, washed-­up writers and
their cheating wives, which was always a challenge for me, since I
preferred the facts of math and science. Puzzling out literature and
the social dynamics of characters struck me as a waste of time, especially given their activities.
Alcohol and sex. Ironic, really.
But Jessica was my ride. It was too far to walk back to the dorms,
and it was the kind of off-­campus neighborhood that had my dad
raising his eyebrows and suggesting I go to college in some cow
town like Bowling Green, where there were no dirty couches on
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Erin McCarthy
sagging front porches and no residents’ smoking crack in full view
of the street.
So walking back was not happening, because I didn’t smoke
crack and I was no risk-­taker. At all. Yet sitting there alone with
Grant while my roommates were off having a good time almost
seemed riskier than strolling through the ghetto. Because it was
sort of like perching over a public toilet seat without actually
touching anything. It was difficult. Awkward.
Plus, it was very, very quiet. He didn’t speak. And I didn’t either,
so there was a lot of sitting and a lot of awkwardness and a lot of
trying to be entirely motionless so I wouldn’t be moving more than
him. Since he was barely breathing, this was a hard thing to do.
I actually felt sorry for Grant, which was just crazy because I
wasn’t exactly the Girl Everyone Wants to Be. But Grant was cute,
with long hair that dropped into his eyes, long cheekbones, and
thick, girlish eyelashes. He was too thin, his black T-­shirts, always
tight and wrinkled, with various rude expressions like Bite Me and
What the F Are You Looking At? His dirty jeans hung off nonexistent hips that rivaled Mary Kate Olsen’s, and not because he was
looking to be fashionable. I don’t think he ate enough, honestly.
Nathan had told me Grant’s father was a drunk, and his mother
was a freak who stabbed her coworker at Taco Bell with a pen and
was in some psych ward downtown. No one was shopping for vegetables at Kroger in Grant’s house.
So I had kind of an awkward girl crush on Grant because it
smelled of Possibility. Like it was not totally out of the realm of
possibility that he could actually want to be with me, in some sort
of male-­female capacity.
“Smoke?” Grant asked, holding his pack of Marlboro Reds out
to me, gaze shooting around to avoid the connection with mine, as
we sat in the main room of Nathan’s apartment.
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“No, thanks.” It was the eyes that made me understand that
here was someone I didn’t have to be afraid of, didn’t have to feel
threatened or intimidated by. Because even though his eyes never
met mine, Grant had haunted eyes. Aching, vulnerable, gray eyes.
I wanted him to kiss me. Even as I took a huge swig out of the
beer he had given me five minutes before, I was thinking that if
only he would recognize what I saw, everything would be awesome. We were absolutely perfect for each other. Two totally sensitive, pale, quiet people. I’d never shove him around the way Tyler
did, under the guise of bro wrestling. I’d never embarrass him or
set his clothes on fire for fun like his alleged best friend, Nathan,
did.
His hand shook a little as he flicked his Bic on to light the
cigarette he’d stuffed in his mouth. There was an oak end table
between us, each perched in a plaid easy chair, a movie playing on
the TV screen in front of us. Some sort of bad Tom Cruise drama.
I’ve never liked Tom Cruise. He always reminded me of someone’s
creepy cousin, who smiles too big before he touches your butt and
whispers something gross in your ear with hot whiskey breath.
Grant was studying the TV, though, very seriously, his smoke
floating out into nice, sexy ovals. He could make smoke rings.
I thought my only talent was converting oxygen to carbon dioxide, though to give myself credit, I did really well in school—­I always have. I was in the Honors Scholar program, and I was on
track for magna cum laude, which made my rooming with Jessica
and Kylie even more ironic than reading Hemingway. They were
social superstars, while if there were a subject called Casual Conversation and Flirting 101, I would have been flunking it.
I’d never had a boyfriend. No sweaty, handholding, note-­
passing middle school boyfriend. No guy in high school who had
me wear his football jersey to pep rallies. No TA in college who
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Erin McCarthy
suddenly recognized the value of a quality brain and spent coffee-­
shop nights studying with me. None of the above.
I wasn’t exactly sure why, because I didn’t consider myself ugly
with a capital U. Maybe slightly plain, definitely quiet, but not
repulsive in any way. No body odor, bad breath, or strange growths
in obvious places, no bald spots or facial tics. I did have a few guys
who wanted to make out and attempt to shove their hands down
my pants, but no one wanted to date me.
Which is why I knew I should make a move on Grant somehow. Because here was my chance to score a boyfriend. To have
make-­out sessions and share popcorn at the movies, to text each
other on a minute-­by-­minute basis using sickly sweet nicknames.
Just to see what it was like, a relationship, to try it on for size like a
great pair of sexy heels.
Maybe it would even result in having my name tattooed on
Grant’s bicep. It was a short name, Rory, so it would fit on his
skinny arm. Something permanent that said that someone else in
this world thought enough of me to ink me into infinity.
In reality, Grant and I had remained completely silent for fifteen, twenty minutes. He’d even stopped asking me if I wanted
another beer. He had the uncanny ability to sense when I’d
drained one without even looking over at me, and he immediately
offered another by just holding out the can. I didn’t really want this
many, but I couldn’t bring myself to say no. His silent offer was the
only thing connecting us at all, besides the fact that we were both
human and happened to be sitting in the same room.
I was starting to feel a serious buzz from the three back-­to-­
back beers I’d had, and I was wondering how much longer until
my supposedly large brain managed to put forth a flirtatious comment for me to sling at Grant, with an artful hair flip. A lot of girls
I knew talked more as they drank, but so far, my tongue still
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seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my ears were
ringing.
“Do you think . . . ?” Grant started to say, his whole body suddenly turning to me.
Startled, I choked a little, beer going up my nose. I didn’t know
he was going to look at me. Not prepared. No coy smile in place.
I blinked at him, hoping that just maybe he’d say something that
could lead to something, and I would have a turn at this strange
mating game we all seemed to want to play.
“Do you think Tyler and Jessica are serious about each other or
are they just hooking up? Or could I, you know . . .”
I sank back into burgundy plaid. My turn was not today. I was
stupid to think it ever would be.
“No,” I managed to say. “They’re definitely serious.” Even
though I knew it wasn’t true, that Jessica wasn’t serious about anything right now. But I was feeling mean and a little sick, and drunk
in a not-­so-­good way. It was rare for me to get angry, but I suddenly
felt just that.
Because even Grant, who was like a terrified grasshopper clinging to the windshield of a speeding car, was too good for me.
I lifted my beer to my mouth and sucked hard, eyes focusing
on Tom on the TV and his cheesy grin.
“She says she adores him,” I added, to emphasize my point,
driven to speak by an itchy humiliation that prickled over my skin.
It wasn’t a lie—­she had said that. But Jessica adored her Hello
Kitty slippers, and her iPhone, and Greek yogurt. It was her catchall word for anything that was pleasing her at that very moment.
Tyler had been pleasing her half an hour ago. Whether he still was
now was anyone’s guess.
Grant looked down the hallway, toward the bedroom. He didn’t
say anything, but I could see it. That pathetic, hopeless wanting.
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The desire for what you want but can’t have. The need for someone to like you.
I recognized it because I saw it in my own face every day.
So I drained my fourth beer completely, my teeth starting to
numb, my breathing sounding loud and labored to my ears. I knew
I should slow down, drink water, stand up, but it was easier to feel
sorry for myself, hidden behind a beer can, deep in the recesses of
the plaid chair, my new best friend.
When Grant leaned over and suddenly covered my mouth with
his, I was so shocked I made a startled yelp and dropped the nearly
empty can in my lap, dribbles of cold beer spilling onto my jeans.
Grant had eaten up the distance between the two chairs and was
leaning on the oak table with one hand, grabbing the back of my
head with the other. Confused, I sat there unresponsive for a second, my beer brain chugging along slowly, processing. Grant was
kissing me.
I kissed back. Because, well, this is what I wanted, right? Grant
to kiss me.
But then I remembered Grant wasn’t really interested in me.
He was into Jessica. I knew that. And his mouth was hard, his
tongue thrusting and swollen. I started to pull back, desperate for
air. He tasted like stale cigarettes, and he smelled like he did laps
in a swimming pool of Axe body spray.
“Pass that on to Jessica,” he said, panting hard, tossing his hair
out of his eyes.
I blinked. I may have been the awkward girl, but I didn’t want
to be second-­best. A sexual stand-­in for my hot roommate. Humiliation flooded over me, drenching my skin in heat from head
to toe as I flushed with embarrassment and anger. When he started
to move in again for another kiss, I put my hand on his chest to
stop him.
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“Tell her yourself,” I spat out, standing up, the beer can tumbling to the dirty carpet. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but away
from him.
Only Grant grabbed me by the arm as I walked past and pulled
me down onto his lap. Before I could react, he had his arms completely around me, his warm lips on my neck, the hard nudge of
what I figured had to be his erection at the back of my thighs. Fear
flooded my mouth. He didn’t look this strong. He didn’t look
strong at all, yet his grip on me was tight, his sloppy, wet kisses
trailing lower down my chest, under my T-­shirt.
When I tried to stand, his hands held my arms so tightly it felt
like my wristbones were being snapped, and I was too out of it from
the beer to have great coordination. Trying to back up, I ended up
sliding down his lap, between his legs and to the floor.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, loosening his hold
on me to take down his zipper. “Good girl.”
When he pulled out his erection, a mere foot from my face, I
couldn’t believe what I was looking at, all smooth skin and dark
hair, just out there, all casual. Right in front of my face. I realized
he thought I was going to give him a blow job. That I was actually
offering to give him oral sex, for no reason, with no conversation
or lead-­in, just a few shitty kisses when he referenced my roommate. That somehow, he was insane enough to think that I would
willingly go down on him. Nauseated, I turned my head, so I didn’t
have to look at his junk.
The beer was going to come back up. I drank it too fast and it
was sloshing around in my gut, ready to rush up my throat in a Bud
Light tsunami, crashing out over my teeth onto his lap if I didn’t
get some fresh air, didn’t get away from him.
“Let me go,” I said, trying to get my feet on the floor so I could
stand.
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But he had my hair at the back of my head, and I realized the
only way out was to go low, not try to stand. But if I fell to the floor
completely, then he could fall on me, which meant that if I didn’t
get out of this in the next sixty seconds, I might wind up having sex
on the hard, filthy carpet of this crappy rental apartment. I’d rather
give oral sex than lose my virginity to this douche bag, who I had
thought was nice, who I had thought would never victimize anyone because he’d been the victim.
Neither was a good choice.
But if I faked oral, I could bite him instead. Sink my teeth
down into his most sensitive spot and get away. Call a cab. I was
just panicked enough that I figured I could actually do it, get away
or at least go down fighting.
So I tried to stand instead of falling down, and he yanked my
hair so hard tears came to my eyes. I had long, dark-­red hair, which
made it easy for him to entwine his fingers to control my head and
my neck, holding me so I couldn’t move.
“Stop! I’m serious.” I braced my knee on the bottom of the
chair, my hand on his chest to keep my head as far from him as
possible. “I’m going to be sick,” I added, because it was true, and I
figured no guy wanted to be puked on.
But he ignored me and said, “Open your mouth.”
So I punched his wrist, trying to break his hold, desperate, panicked, my vision blurred from tears and too many beers, my stomach churning violently. “No! Please, don’t!”
“Let her go, Grant. Now.”
He did, and I fell to the ground, gasping, scrambling backward,
my floral rain boots giving me traction to butt-­scoot out of his
reach. Tyler was standing in the hallway, not wearing a shirt, a beer
in his hand. He had clearly been to the kitchen, clearly seen what
had been happening, clearly planned to stop it.
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Relief had my hands shaking and I zipped up my hoodie, wanting my T-­shirt covered, wanting all of me covered, gone.
“Mind your own fucking business,” Grant said.
“No. I won’t. She said no.” Tyler was tall, broad-­shouldered, his
chest and biceps covered in tattoos. He looked at me, and I shrank
back a little. His eyes looked angry in the fluorescent glow of the
stove light. “Did you say no, Rory?”
“Yes. I said no,” I added, wanting to clarify.
Grant’s foot came out, and he kicked my arm, hard. “You did
not, you dick tease.”
He kicked me. I couldn’t believe that he just kicked me. I
yelped, and before I could respond, Tyler was between me and
Grant, pulling him to his feet.
“I heard her say no. Now get the hell out of here. Go home.
What is wrong with you? You don’t treat a chick like that.”
They scuffled a little, Grant shoving Tyler’s arms off him as he
made his way to the door. “Man, I was doing her a favor. No one
else wants her.”
Tyler’s response to that was to punch Grant in the face, knocking him into the wall. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll beat your ass into
tomorrow.”
Grant peeled himself off the wall, shot me a look of hatred,
then left, the door slamming hard behind him. The tears were rolling down my face, whether I liked it or not. The realization that I
was almost raped settled over me, and his hateful words lay on top
of that, a final insult. He was right. No one wanted me. But that
didn’t mean I could be treated like shit. It didn’t mean I wasn’t a
person, that I should toss over my dignity and accept whatever attention I got, no matter how selfish and crude it was.
“You okay?” Tyler asked, popping open his beer and holding it
in front of me.
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I shook my head. Because I didn’t want the beer. And because
I wasn’t okay.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would do something like that. I feel
really bad.” He set his beer down on the end table. “Do you want
me to give you a ride home? Jessica’s asleep.”
Great. All I wanted to do was retreat to our dorm and cry in my
bed, but Jessica was taking a post-­coital nap. It was bold for me, but
I decided to accept his offer, even though I knew I was putting him
out. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, no problem. Just let me get my keys.” He made a face.
“And a shirt. It’s cold out there for October.”
He went back into the bedroom and when he came out, Jessica
was actually with him. “Rory, are you okay?” She rushed over to
me, blond hair flying behind her, dressed in men’s pajama pants
and a huge sweatshirt. “Tyler told me what happened.”
Her arms wrapped around me and I let her hug me, grateful for
the contact and her concern.
“What an asshole. If I see him, I’m going to cut his dick off and
shove it down his throat. Let’s see how he likes cock crammed in
his mouth.”
Her vehemence made me feel better. “I should have . . .” I
started—­but then stopped myself. I should have what? I shouldn’t
have done anything differently. I was just sitting in my chair and
he made a world of assumptions and I said no, and that was the
truth of it. I wasn’t going to blame myself that he’d taken a fist to
the face.
“No, screw that,” Jessica said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.
And I’m sorry I left you alone with that prick.”
“I’ll be right back,” Tyler said, his phone buzzing in his hand.
He retreated into the bedroom as Kylie came out, her hair a hot
mess, makeup streaked.
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“What’s going on?”
“Grant tried to rape Rory,” Jessica said in such a loud, matter-­
of-­fact voice I couldn’t help but wince.
“What? Are you effing kidding me?” Kylie could have been Jessica’s twin. They were both tall, blond, tan, toned. They were getting vague degrees in Gen Ed and would probably wind up
wedding planners and golf wives, while I was intending to go to
med school to be a coroner. I was more comfortable with dead
people than living ones. But for whatever reason, they liked me.
And I liked them. Their reaction cemented that feeling. They both
looked like if they had had a baseball bat and five minutes alone
with Grant, he’d wish he’d never been born.
I didn’t want to fight Grant. I just wanted to forget it had ever
happened. “I did kiss him,” I said, because I felt guilty for that.
That was leading him on, a little.
“So? A kiss is not a promise of pussy,” Kylie said.
She was right. “I know,” I said, miserable, confused, stomach
upset. I sat down on the end table, looking at my boots. “But I
mean, it’s not like I haven’t thought about being with Grant. I
have. But he was so . . . and I don’t want it, my first time, to be like
this . . . and I should have done . . . something.”
So much for telling myself I wasn’t going to do that. There I
was, worried, feeling like I’d had some part in what had happened.
“Your first time? Wait a minute, are you saying you’re a virgin?”
Jessica was staring at me blankly. “For real?”
Oops. I hadn’t really meant to share that. It wasn’t exactly a
deep, dark secret, and it really couldn’t have been that much of a
shock to her, but it wasn’t necessarily something I wanted to go
around talking about. “Um. Yes. I just haven’t . . .”
Had the opportunity.
“There hasn’t been anyone . . .” I reached for the beer Tyler
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had abandoned and took a sip. I was drunk, but not nearly enough
to not suddenly feel completely and totally middle school mortified.
“Oh.” Kylie looked bewildered. “Well, that’s cool. Lots of girls
make that choice.”
“It hasn’t been a choice. Not exactly. I mean, if I could, I think
I would.” I did. I was twenty, and I had all the same physical feelings as other people. Just no one to explore them with. In a way
that wasn’t a quickie on the stained carpet.
“Well, why can’t you?” Jessica asked.
“Because no one is offering. I guess technically Grant offered,
but I don’t want it like that.” I was sorry I’d brought it up at all. It
wasn’t a discussion I wanted to have with Tyler and Nathan a few
feet away.
“So you want, like, romance?”
Was that what we called it? “I guess.”
Tyler came back into the room, pushing his cell phone into his
front pocket. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” I found my crossbody bag on the floor and put it over
my head.
“Tyler, Rory wants romance,” Jessica told him. “What do you
think of that?”
My face burned with embarrassment. I didn’t want to be the
subject of discussion. I didn’t want Tyler to stare at me the way he
was, dark eyes scrutinizing mine. He was the typical bad-­
boy
type—­which was why Jessica liked him—­and I was the kind of girl
he would never notice. And he hadn’t ever noticed me, not really.
I was the quiet friend of Jessica and Kylie whose presence he tolerated. But now his eyes were sweeping over me, assessing, and I
couldn’t read his expression.
“I think she should have whatever she wants.” He reached out
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and took the beer can from my hand, his fingers brushing mine.
“But nothing says romance like a six-­pack. I need to pick up more
beer.”
I shivered from his touch and from the inscrutable look he was
giving me.
“I’m staying here,” Jessica stated. “It’s too cold outside to go
home. See you tomorrow, Rory.”
Kylie was already curled up on the couch, in a praying position,
half-­asleep as she gave a weak wave. “Bye, sweetie.”
“Okay, bye,” I said, shoving my hands in the front pockets of my
jeans, wishing I had worn a thicker coat. I was cold and I wanted
a hot shower to wash away the beer and the fear and the feel of
Grant’s wet lips on me. But first I had to sit in the car alone with
Tyler. A perfect ending to a crap night. Awkward small talk with
my roommate’s Friend with Benefits, who had punched his own
friend on my behalf.
As I followed Tyler down the metal stairs, the smell of fried
foods strong in the hallway, I thought that was the end of any talk
about my virginity.
I didn’t know it was just the beginning.
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Chapter Two
N
athan’s apartment was on McMicken Street, off-­street parking only. Tyler’s car was a rusted-­out sedan, at least twenty
years old, with a maroon door that stood out in stark contrast
against the car’s white body.
“It’s unlocked,” he told me as he stepped into the street.
So I pried open the passenger side and climbed in, shivering,
crossing my arms over my chest. I checked for a seat belt, but there
didn’t seem to be one, and so I just sat there, stiff, my rain boots
shuffling through a pile of discarded fast-­food bags and Coke cans.
I didn’t know what to say to Tyler. I wanted to thank him for rescuing me. Because that’s what he had done. I wasn’t sure I could
have gotten away from Grant on my own.
I forced myself to glance at him, but he was just looking back
over his shoulder as he pulled out of the spot. He had a strong jaw
and a little bump in the center of his nose that I had never noticed
before. With his sweatshirt swallowing him, and in profile, somehow he looked younger, less intimidating than when his tattoos
were on full display, and his dark eyes were staring at me. It gave
me the courage to say, “Thanks.”
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My voice came out like a hoarse whisper and I cleared my
throat, embarrassed.
“No problem,” he said. “You can’t walk through this neighborhood by yourself at night. This fucking hill alone would kill you if
the ghetto rats didn’t.”
Whether or not Straight Street got its name from the fact that
it was virtually a ninety-­degree incline or not, I didn’t know. It was
definitely unwalkable, even during the day. But I wasn’t talking
about his giving me a ride, though I was grateful for that. “Yeah,
but thanks for . . . Grant.” I didn’t want to get more specific than
that.
He turned now, and I was sorry he did when he gave me a look
that I couldn’t read. “Sure. If you find yourself in that situation
again, punch him in the nuts. But you can do better than Grant,
trust me.”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t sure if it were true or not, but I did know that
I would much rather be alone than have those wet, narrow lips
anywhere on me, and that demanding grip on my arm, the back of
my head.
“I mean, you’ve waited this long to have sex, you shouldn’t
waste your virginity on an Oxy junkie.”
So he had heard me talking to Jessica and Kylie. I gripped my
purse tighter in my lap, that churning sensation in my stomach
starting again. The car was heaving and bucking as it struggled to
make it up the steep hill, and the engine whined as Tyler gave it
more gas. The street was empty, most of the houses darkened because it was after two, and I suddenly felt as trapped in the car as I
had in the apartment. I didn’t want to talk about this with Tyler.
Or anyone.
“Oxy?” I asked, to buy time. Dodge and weave when the subject was uncomfortable. But I’d never been particularly good at
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dodging anything. I was the girl in grade school gym who didn’t
move fast enough and took a rubber ball in the nose.
“OxyContin. Grant likes to snort it. When he can’t get his
hands on any for a while, he gets a little edgy. I told Nathan he
shouldn’t let him come around anymore, but Nathan is loyal.”
So Grant did drugs. I guess I wasn’t surprised, not really. He
had the requisite dysfunctional family, the nervous twitch. It made
sense. I was disappointed, though, because it meant that I had inaccurately assessed Grant. I had seen him as a male version of
myself, quiet from a lack of social skills, nervous. But it wasn’t that
at all, and I had projected what I wanted onto him.
The thought made me want to cry again.
“So you’re not?” I said, then immediately regretted it. It
sounded almost accusatory, when the truth was, the silence was
stretching out, a long rubber band that snapped with my unintentionally harsh words.
“Not when you’re doing drugs and kicking girls.”
That made sense to me.
I didn’t really know Tyler at all, other than he was Jessica and
Kylie’s party buddy, and on occasion, he and Jessica hooked up.
He almost never came to our dorm room, and I had only been
around him a few times at parties and at the apartment. We didn’t
share any classes, and he’d never made much of an effort to talk to
me.
But suddenly I liked him a whole lot better.
Unsure what to say, as usual, I tucked my hair behind my ear,
but I was spared from having to answer by his phone ringing. He
glanced at the screen and swore.
“Yeah?” he said, after tapping the screen, turning the steering
wheel with his left elbow, heading toward campus.
I wondered if it were Jessica. But I realized that it couldn’t be
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Jessica, because she wouldn’t have called him. She was a texter
and she always used an absurd shorthand with acronyms that no
one but she understood, like LULB, which she insisted stood for
Love You Little Bitch. Or my personal favorite, W? Jessica sometimes meant it as a general question, as in she didn’t understand
what was happening, which most people would assume, or sometimes as What Time? though no one but her ever knew which one
she intended.
“No. In the kitchen. No,” he said into his phone, more emphatically. “I didn’t take it. The cat probably ate it.”
The woman talking to him was so loud that I could hear her,
though the words were garbled.
“Well, stop leaving your shit laying around,” he said, and with
a sound of disgust pulled the phone from his ear and dropped it
into a dirty change compartment next to the gear shift.. “Moms are
a complete pain in the ass.”
If I hadn’t been drunk, I probably wouldn’t have said anything
at all. I would have just agreed or most likely, just nodded. But my
mouth seemed to move faster than my brain. “I don’t remember
my mom being a pain in the ass at all. She was always smiling.”
Tyler glanced at me. “Remember? She run out on you or
what?”
I wondered what the statistical odds were that someone would
assume abandonment over death. “No. She died. Of cancer.
When I was eight.” The beer was working overtime. I never told
anyone that unless they really pressed me, because the C word
immediately brought both sympathy and fear to people’s faces.
They felt instantly bad for me, yet at the same time they were momentarily afraid that it would touch their life like it had mine, and
they had to whisper the word. Cancer. Like if they spoke it too
loudly it would be conjured up in their bodies like a destructive
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demon straight from hell. People had told me that straight out, that
cancer was from the devil, a horrible affliction of otherworldly
implications, unstoppable.
Others had told me that the government most likely had a vaccination for cancer but was keeping a lid on it, to drive the medical
economy. This seemed unlikely to me for more than a dozen reasons, not the least of which was that it didn’t make sense on a cellular level. It wasn’t a virus but a mutation. Yet I understood people
wanted an answer for the randomness of why it struck, why it
killed.
I had stopped asking why a long time ago.
Tyler seemed to get that. His response wasn’t an uncomfortable
apology. He said, “Well that’s about as fucking unfair as it gets, isn’t
it? My mom is a selfish bitch and she’ll probably live to be ninety,
and yet yours died.”
It was kind of nice not to get the same pat response of sympathy,
the one where everyone was sorry, but at the same time so damn
glad it wasn’t them. I appreciated his matter-­of-­fact attitude. “You
don’t get along with your mom?”
“Nope.” Tyler pulled into the driveway that led to my dorm.
“She’s not all bad, though. She did give birth to me.” He turned
and shot me a grin.
It was so unexpected that, for a second, I blinked, then I let out
a startled laugh. The sound was foreign and awkward to my ears,
but Tyler didn’t seem to notice. His face changed when he smiled,
and his eyes warmed. In the dark, they still looked like deep, black
holes, but with his lips upturned and the corners of his eyes crinkling, he wasn’t so intense, so remote.
That was when I realized why I’d always been slightly nervous
around Tyler. He was what people always accused me of being—­
there but not present. Easygoing, but distant. Smiling, but intense.
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Maybe it was the alcohol, my ears still buzzing, my insides hot, my
skin cold and clammy, but for the first time I didn’t feel uncomfortable around him.
“So are you really a virgin?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Or were you just saying that?”
No longer comfortable. It went away faster than you could say
Awkward Moment.
Why he thought I would want to talk about that made no sense
to me at all. I was drunk, but I wasn’t insane. If I hadn’t even told
my roommates until that night, why the hell would I sit in Tyler’s
car and spill my guts? I wasn’t the confessional type. I never had
been.
So I just looked at him.
“I’m going to take that as a yes.”
I wanted to tell him to mind his own goddamn business. To
stop pressing a girl he didn’t know for intimate details about her
sexual experience. That it was rude. But I remembered that he
had, in fact, saved the very virginity he was questioning, so I didn’t
want to be a bitch. I just shrugged. Really, what difference did it
make? I was already a collegiate abnormality. Likes to study! Hates
to talk! Won’t go tanning! See this freak-­show exhibit in her natural dorm habitat . . .
But I actually surprised myself by opening my mouth and saying, “Yes, I am.”
My admission silenced him for a second, but then he drummed
his thumbs on the steering wheel as he put the car in Park in front
of my dorm, a seventies-­built tower of glass and steel. Light from
the lamppost was flooding into his car, showing even more clearly
how dirty and ancient it was with a slot for a cassette player
crammed full of what looked like parking tickets.
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“Do you have a purity ring or whatever?”
Now that I was in, and the beer had loosened my lips, I said the
first thing that came into my head. “I prefer to call it my hymen.”
Tyler let out a laugh. “No, I mean one of those rings you wear
on your finger . . .” He looked at me, understanding dawning. “Oh,
wait, you’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
Which made him laugh harder. “Rory, you are an interesting
chick.”
Interesting wasn’t exactly a riveting compliment, but he hadn’t
called me a freak, which was how I felt sometimes. As if I had been
assembled in a different way altogether than everyone around me,
and while I liked the end result, everyone else was confused about
how to interpret my very existence. They watched me, suspicious,
as if I were a Transformer and they were waiting for metal arms to
spring out from my chest cavity.
I didn’t think that I’d ever seen him laugh before, or maybe I
had just never noticed, my attention focused on Grant, who I had
thought was more likely to fall in with my plan of exploring human
mating and relationships. But then again, Jessica and Kylie tended
to dominate all conversation in a group setting, so maybe their own
perfectly affected laughter had drowned out Tyler’s.
But for some stupid reason, I liked to think that he was laughing just for me.
Which was when I knew I was even more drunk than I realized
and I needed to get away from him before I sat there blinking at
him like a baby owl indefinitely. Before I put some sort of hero
worship onto him that he might deserve, but didn’t mean a damn
thing. Before I substituted one pointless crush for another.
I shoved open the door, half falling out, clinging to the handle
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and the remnants of my dignity, like he could hear my stupid
thoughts. “Thanks,” I said over my shoulder, barely glancing back
as I exited the car, clutching my bag.
There was no response, and when I struggled to slam the heavy
door, which seemed to weigh a million pounds and required more
coordination than my icy fingers had, I realized that he was just
staring at me. There was a cigarette in his mouth, and he was lifting the car lighter up to it, his hand guiding it to his destination
without thought. As he sucked on it to catch the paper and tobacco
on fire, his eyes never left mine.
The smile was gone. There was nothing but a cool scrutiny.
I shivered.
Then I walked as fast as I could to my dorm, digging in my bag
for my swipe card.
Once inside, I paused at the front desk to check in and I
glanced out the front doors.
His car was still there, and I could see the shadow of his outline, the tiny red glow of his cigarette.
* * *
“How are you feeling?” Kylie asked, coming into our room with
more noise than could possibly be necessary.
I pried my eyes open and gave a mumbled, “Like shit,” before
crawling back under my blanket. I had woken up at five in the
morning and had gone into the bathroom we shared with the room
next door to throw up. It had shot out like a garden hose on high,
and I had slid down onto the cool tiles, regretting my lack of dinner, regretting those stupid beers that I’d only had because I was
nervous being around a guy who had turned out to be a douche
bag.
None of it was logical. I didn’t do stupid things, as a rule.
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I was paying for this one. And after crawling back to my bed,
soaked in sweat, I had slept restlessly off and on for hours. I had no
idea what time it was when Kylie and Jessica came back, and I
didn’t give a shit. I wanted to die. I would dedicate my body to science, and they could study the effects of cheap beer on socially
awkward college sophomores.
“Do you want anything?” Jessica asked.
“A gun to shoot myself.” My head felt like someone was repeatedly taking a sledgehammer to it, and my stomach felt like the
lining had been manually torn out by werewolves, and replaced
with maggots crawling up my throat. And I wasn’t being overdramatic. I felt like ass. Like two-­day-­old roadkill. Like chewing gum
on the bottom of a chicken’s foot. Who’d been hit by a car.
My bed creaked and sank as one of them sat down by my feet.
Even that small motion had me gagging.
“We’re going to lunch. Do you want to come with us?” Kylie
asked.
I didn’t even bother to answer that. It hurt to move my mouth,
and that was possibly the stupidest question I’d ever heard in my
life. I wouldn’t go to lunch if a million dollars were offered along
with a guaranteed Liam Hemsworth make-­out session.
“Then we’re going to zumba class.”
The Gross National Product direct-­deposited into my bank account couldn’t get me to a Latin dance class. I grunted, wondering
why they were so clearly not hungover. Then I remembered that
they had spent the bulk of their night getting laid, not getting plastered.
Feeling bitter, I drifted back into a sweaty sleep.
When I woke up, the room was dark and I was disoriented, but
the pounding in my skull had abated slightly. The TV was flickering in the corner of our cramped room, and I sensed that Jess or
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Kylie was still sitting at the foot of my bed, back against the cinder
block wall.
“What time is it?” I croaked, my voice hoarse.
“Seven. How are you feeling?”
Holy shit. That was a guy’s voice, not one of my roommates. I
half sat up, heart suddenly racing. It was hard to see in the dark,
and the sudden motion made my stomach roil, my hair in damp
clumps on my forehead.
Oh my God. It was Tyler, just propped up casually, legs
sprawled out, his feet dangling over the side in nothing but socks.
My tongue felt thick, and I was suddenly aware that I wasn’t
wearing pants. I had collapsed into bed in all my clothes except for
the rain boats, and when I had gotten up to be sick, I had peeled
off my jacket, abandoning it in the bathroom. Then in bed, I had
clawed my way out of my jeans with shaky hands, so that now I was
in a tight, wrinkled, wet T-­shirt and panties.
With Tyler sitting on my bed watching Family Guy like nothing about this was abnormal. A quick glance around showed we
were alone.
“Drink this,” he said, reaching over and pulling a bottle off my
desk. The flashing colors from the TV played across his frame,
showing the pull and strain of his bicep muscles as he reached.
The black of his tattoo caught my attention, but it was too dark to
see what it was.
Propped on my elbow, I was totally embarrassed at how shitty I
knew I had to look, but I didn’t have the physical strength to jump
out of bed and fix it. I didn’t have a functioning brain, either, it
seemed. When he held some kind of power drink up to my lips, I
swallowed a sip. The cool, sweet liquid felt fantastic and cut
through the thick phlegm that seemed to have been spray-­coated
over every inch of my tongue and mouth. “Thanks.”
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TRUE93
“Sure.” He set the bottle back down. “You’re dehydrated. You’ll
feel better once you can keep some liquid down.”
This was so weird. Like off-­the-­charts weird. Why the hell was
he hanging out in my room while I slept the restless, sweaty sleep
of the hungover? The beer seemed to be leeching out of my pores,
and I smelled like leftover Chinese food.
“Where are Jess and Kylie?” I asked.
“At dinner.” He shifted and the bed creaked. “I’m going to turn
the light on so cover your eyes for a second.”
I fought the urge to hiss when he flicked on my desk lamp, and
my dry eyes dilated. I couldn’t prevent a little moan, though. “I’m
never drinking again,” I said as I fell back onto my pillow.
“Everyone says that. Few live up to the vow.” There was more
rustling, and then suddenly he produced a saltine-­cracker pack.
“You should eat a cracker.”
I wasn’t used to having someone take care of me, and the fact
that it was a hot guy who was having sex with my roommate was
just creepy. I did take the pack, though, and tore open the plastic
so I could nibble on a corner of the cracker. It tasted like shredded
cardboard, and I gagged a little. Tyler was right there with the
drink again, and having a bad boy as a nursemaid made me start
to wonder if I was actually hallucinating. Maybe this was some sort
of elaborate roofie-­inspired fantasy.
I dribbled the red liquid all down the front of me.
Nope. Not a fantasy.
Just me, rocking the awk.
I wiped my chin.
He stood up, and I was torn between not wanting him to leave
because I wanted to know why he was there, and being so relieved
that he might leave me in pathetic peace, that I said breathlessly,
“Are you leaving?”
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“No. Unless you want me to. Do you?” That question came
directly at me over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable.
I shook my head, because I couldn’t tell him to leave. That was
too rude. And at the same time, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to
leave.
I took math and science courses because they were easy for me,
they made sense. There was logic to them, with a right and wrong
answer. Literature could never provide me those absolutes, because you could never really predict what someone was thinking
,or what they would say. At least I couldn’t.
Yet the mystery of words, of people, was fascinating to me. I
wanted to understand, yet I never seemed to be able to assemble
the puzzle pieces of behavior in the correct order.
“Is this your dresser?” he asked, tapping his knuckles on the
chest of drawers.
See? Never in a thousand years could I have predicted he was
going to say that.
“Yes.” I watched him yank the first drawer open and root
around among my socks. “Um . . .” Thank God he hadn’t picked
my bra-­and-­panty drawer.
“Where are your T-­shirts? I’ll get you a clean one.”
For real? This was the guy Jessica had described as so hard-­
core? Who worked out with weights and came from a bad part of
town and had his penis pierced? He wanted to get me a clean shirt.
“Second drawer.”
He dug around for a minute, then emerged with one of a kitty
daydreaming about math equations. “Cute.”
Whether or not that was sarcasm, I wasn’t sure. If I had had to
guess, he would have made a comment about liking pussy, which
I imagined eight out of ten males would have done under these
circumstances.
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TRUE95
But instead, as he brought it to me, he tapped it and said,
“Though this one is wrong. The answer is 27.”
Sitting up, I took the shirt, blinking. I studied the equation his
finger was pointing to and did the quick calculation in my head.
“You’re right,” I said, not fully able to keep the surprise from my
voice.
“I’m smarter than I look,” he said.
Apparently he was. I was mumbling an embarrassed protest
when the door to my room flew open and Jessica and Kylie came
in, giant mugs of coffee in their hands.
“Look who’s up!” Jessica called out. “Yay! Glad you’re feeling
better.”
I wasn’t sure that was an entirely accurate assessment of the
situation, but I knew from experience she didn’t really expect a
response anyway.
“Alright, I’m taking off,” Tyler said, already heading toward the
door. “Talk to you guys later.”
“Bye, bitch,” Jessica told him.
Kylie gave him a wave.
Then he was gone and I was just sitting there, clutching my
kitty T-­shirt. “Why was he here?” I asked.
“Because he likes you,” Kylie said in a singsong voice, stripping
off her shirt and rooting around in the closet in her bra and sweats.
“Are you going to the club with us tonight?”
As if. I totally ignored her question and pushed my hair back
off my head, my fingers shaking a little. I reached for the drink
Tyler had left sitting on the desk and took a sip, formulating my
protest so I didn’t sound too reactionary. “Whatever. Seriously, why
was he here?”
“He didn’t want to go to dinner with us. And I am being serious.
I totally think he likes you. He has been asking a ton of questions
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about you to me and Jess. We were wishing we had like a bio on
you so we could just hand it to him so he’d quit bugging us.” There
was a thump as she fell into the back of the closet. “Ow. Shit. I
can’t find my cowboy boots.”
Yanking off my dirty shirt, I pulled the clean kitty one on over
my head, hoping it would cover the burn I felt in my cheeks.
There was no way Tyler Mann was interested in me. He wasn’t. He
wouldn’t be. He might be curious about who the mute brunette
was, but in the same way that you’re curious as to why Donald
Trump has a chinchilla on his head.
“He doesn’t like me,” I insisted when my head reemerged.
“He’s with Jessica.” Who I was afraid to look at. I didn’t want to
turn and see her shooting me murderous glares.
But Jessica laughed. “He’s not with me. He’s just been with me.
Huge difference. Huge. I so don’t like him that way.”
I watched her moving around her desk, swallowed by a giant
UC sweatshirt, bear paws stamped on the butt of her yoga pants.
She was peering in a hand mirror, inspecting her teeth and looking very unconcerned that Tyler had been hanging out in our
room while I slept. I seemed to be the only one who thought it was
ludicrous.
“But you’ve . . .” I started to say, then wasn’t sure how to finish
my sentence.
“Fucked him?” she asked cheerfully, shooting me a grin. “Yep.
He’s a good time, and he knows how to use that piercing to my
advantage, if you know what I mean.”
Actually, I had no idea what she meant. In theory, sure, I could
imagine the clitoral stimulation that might occur from a tiny metal
ring, but I couldn’t actually envision what that felt like. Too far out
of my reality. “No, I don’t know.”
“Oh, shit, I guess not.”
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TRUE97
The look of sympathy she gave me was so heartfelt, I almost
laughed. At the same time, it made me feel a deep sense of longing
for all the experiences I had missed out on.
Kylie emerged from the closet, triumphantly holding her coveted boots. “Found them,” she said breathlessly, flipping her hair
back. “You should totally go for it with Tyler.”
“No!” The thought was horrifying. First of all, because I
couldn’t imagine spending time with a guy who my roommate had
had sex with. Second, because I was convinced there was no way
in hell Tyler was actually interested in me. Third, because I wasn’t
sure I was interested in him. He didn’t seem like my type. While I
may not have dated, I certainly had crushed on plenty of guys,
both fictional and living, and they tended to be the underdogs,
with soulful eyes and a moodiness driven by insecurity. Hello,
Grant.
Tyler was too confident to fit into that box of Broken Boy.
Then again, pining for passionate musician types hadn’t really
played out well for me.
“Why not?” Jessica asked. “If it’s me, God, don’t worry about
that.”
“It’s just . . . no. The answer is just no.”
Kylie had dropped her sweatpants as well, and she stood in her
pink bra and thong, hands on her hips. “This could be good for
you. Now get dressed, we’re going out.”
“And the answer to that is no, too.” I pulled the covers more
firmly up to my chest. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was going to lie
in bed until Sunday morning.
She gave a cluck of disapproval. “Lame.”
“Yep.” I ate my crackers and watched them move around the
room getting ready, transforming from zumba enthusiasts to sexy
partyers, cleavage out, miniskirts on. When Jessica pulled out the
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false eyelashes, I knew they weren’t playing. This was a commitment. They were in the mood for an all-­nighter—­strobe-­lights-­
flashing, vodka-­flowing, booty-­grinding kind of adventure, and I
wasn’t going to see them until after a post-­partying Denny’s chow
down on ham and eggs at five a.m. Guys would be flirted with but
not allowed to touch, and it would be a girl-­power night out on the
town.
Then I said something stupid. “Is Tyler going with you?”
“See!” Kylie said in total rapture. “You do like him!” She
spritzed a cloud of perfume in my direction.
Coughing, I sputtered, not even sure why I had asked. “I’m just
worried that he might come back here and camp out at my feet
again.”
“Uh-­huh.” She rolled her eyes.
Then they air-­kissed me, waved, and were off, the door slamming behind them, leaving me alone in a dorm room littered with
discarded boobie tops and hair products. The feathered mirror
above Jessica’s bed fluttered from the draft, and I was left alone
with my thoughts and the pretentiousness of Hemingway and Tennessee Williams awaiting me.
Plus a strange yearning for something I didn’t understand and
wanted to ignore.
Resolutely, I got up to shower and tried not to listen for a knock
at the door.
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THE LAIR
Emily McKay
The sequel to the powerful
Young Adult novel The Farm
In the battle against the vampiric undead, humanity
was slowly but certainly headed for extinction. For
months, twin sisters Lily and Mel had been
“quarantined” with thousands of other young people
being harvested for their blood. Finally escaping,
the twins were separated—­and now they must
continue the fight on their own.
But when a monstrous betrayal places Lily in mortal
danger, Mel must set out to find her, save her, and
begin to unravel the empire of destruction that the
vampires have built.
AVAILABLE IN NOVEMBER 2013
FROM BERKLEY TRADE PAPERBACK
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Prologue
Mel
I
wake to a hunger unlike any I’ve ever known. My body is a violin
string plucked by need. I throb with it. Pulse with it. Vibrate
with. Sing with it.
I am a Slinky knotted over on myself. My beautiful coils twisted
out of shape. The song my body sings is of agony and anguish.
Then the breeze shifts and my nose pricks. Food is nearby. Not
garden fresh like Nanna’s. Not garden grown. But food.
Flash like, my body isn’t a Slinky it’s a spring. I poise and
pounce. I fly through the air on the thrum of hunger.
I land beside the body of a Tick. The food I smelled.
My mind recoils as my body lunges. I can’t feed on that. I can’t
not feed on that either. My hunger is louder than my revulsion.
Louder than bombs. Smarter than Smart, but weeping by the train
station never is and hunger had unhitched my mind from my
body. I must feed. Feed or die.
Before I can think my way out of doing the unthinkable, something slams into me knocking me, not off my rocker but away from
my temptation. I am flat on my back and pressed into the pave-
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Emily McKay
ment. Flat like a flower pressed between the pages of the annotated dictionary. Not a pretty poesy, but a beastly belladonna.
The force knocks me breathless. It’s him. The silent shark to
my pilot fish. Sebastian. My murderer. My maker. My mentor.
“Don’t,” he growls. If sharks can growl. Maybe only tiger sharks
can.
But he’s all iron muscles, instead of limber cartilage. All gruff
anger, instead of lithe irony.
I thrash against him, a pilot fish drowning in air. Drowning in
hunger.
“I can’t let you feed on a Tick,” the tiger shark growls in my ear.
I know there’s a logic there. A reason he’s letting me drown.
But stomach trumps brain and I fight him. Unfortunately, shark
trumps fish. All I know is hunger. All I feel is pain.
I thrash and buck and cry, but the weight of him weighs me
down.
“I’ll let you up, but you must swear to obey my every command.”
I snap and bite. I growl.
His hand jambs up under my jaw snapping it closed.
“Swear it and I’ll feed you.”
I recoil and I fight. I can’t swear to obey him. I won’t.
It’s not in my makeup to obey. Girls are supposed to be sugar
and spice and everything nice, but I’m not some malleable sugar
cookie dough, to be rolled flat and cut to shreds.
Even Mary, Mary wasn’t this contrary.
“Swear it.”
The breeze shifts again and I smell it again. Food. Hunger roars
through me. Flood waters sweeping away the last of me. Of who I
was. The girl who can’t obey is gone. All that’s left is hunger. Need.
Anger.
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THE LAIR103
I nod.
I am free.
Free from the small tight skin of the pilot fish.
Slowly the weight of the tiger shark lifts from my body. Testing
my obedience by increments. I’m too hungry to hate his caution
like I should. I can’t breathe past the hunger eating me.
Then I am up and Sebastian thrusts something at me. Now
more nurse than tiger, he puts a straw between my lips and I drink.
The first drop of it on my lips hits my hunger like water on an oil-­
hot pan. It sparks and fizzles on my tongue. It is hot and sweet and
heady. The cocoa Nanna made for us on icy Nebraska days.
I drink and drink. I gulp and consume and devour until the fire
of my hunger is extinguished and all that’s left is the red coals. Still
hot enough to flame, but banked to embers.
And Sebastian brings me more to drink.
The world is shifting back into focus. Silent and still around
me. Silent as night. Still as death. Noiseless. Music-­less. Sated
now, I feel that loss keenly.
How can I live in a world without music? But I know this is no
proper life and my drink is no warm cocoa. Nurse or not, this is
nothing Nanna would feed me.
I look up at Sebastian, who stands ready with another straw,
another steaming mug of silent death.
He is talking again. Maybe he never stopped. Maybe I couldn’t
hear him past my roaring hunger.
“You can’t feed from Ticks. Ever. You can drink their blood,
but you can’t drink directly from them. They all have the regenerative gene. If you pass the vampire virus to them, they’ll regenerate. Do you understand?”
I do. But genetics has never been my strong suit.
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Chapter One
Carter
“G
ood and evil are just words with no real meaning. Numbers are concrete. Even then you can always manipulate
them to make things look however you want them to.”
My father used to say that back in the Before. Before a ravenous
horde of mutated humans swept across the country destroying
civilization in what has come to be called the Tick-­pocalypse. But
before that as well. Before my father had me arrested for borrowing
his car and thrown into an all-­boys school for delinquents called
The Elite Military Academy.
Yeah, I had a long history of ignoring my father’s advice, about
numbers and pretty much everything else.
The way I saw it, we didn’t have a lot in common. He’d been
the CFO of huge multinational conglomerate. I was just the unwanted product of his third trophy wife. I didn’t take it personally.
He had other kids from other families and he didn’t care any more
about them than he did me.
But every once in a while, I’d think of something he’d said—­
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Emily McKay
from one of the rare occasions when he actually talked to me. I
kept trying to make that thing about the numbers work.
There’s a lot of stuff I don’t know about how the Tick virus
destroyed the world I’d grown up in. But I do know this. Fear did
as much damage as the virus itself. Fear that your family, your
friends, your neighbors might get the virus and pass it on to you.
Fear that if you are exposed, you could die within seventy-­two
hours. Fear that you wouldn’t die.
According to the CDC, roughly ninety percent of the people
infected with the virus are killed by it. Some small percentage,
maybe eight or nine percent, recover. A much smaller percentage,
less than one percent, have a gene that allows them to regenerate
into something else. Something not human. Something we’ve all
taken to calling Ticks. Unstoppable monsters with a thirst for human blood and the mental capacity of a Chihuahua.
That’s what people fear most. That their family members might
turn into Ticks. That they might turn into Ticks themselves.
For most people, that fear is abstract. Not for me. Of all the girls
in the world, I had the crappy luck to fall in love with one with the
Tick gene.
How do I know she has it? Because her twin sister—­her identical
twin—­died and was reborn as a vampire. The gene that turns someone into a vampire is the same damn gene that turns them into a Tick.
Which means that if Lily is ever exposed to the Tick virus, she’s
a goner. There’s no doubt. No room for error. I’m one hundred
percent sure.
Another thing I’m sure of, if she is exposed, I’ll have to kill her
myself. It’s what she would want. It’s what she’s made me promise
to do. And because I love her, it’s what I will do.
No matter how I try to manipulate the odds, I can’t make those
numbers work for me.
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THE LAIR107
So my dad was wrong. No big surprise there. He was wrong
about me too.
He’d also said if I’d be lucky if I ever amounted to anything
other than a drug-­addicted drain on American resources. Turned
out, I’d “amounted” to the leader of the human rebellion against
the Ticks—­which had to be better than what my father predicted.
But I never once felt lucky about it.
The truth was, being the leader of the rebellion effing terrified
me.
I was no smarter or braver than anyone else at base camp. Hell,
I wasn’t even any older, since most of us were about eighteen.
All I had was a couple of years training at the Elite Military
Academy. I wasn’t a real soldier. I wasn’t a real military leader. I
was a fraud.
But somehow, I was the fraud that everyone expected to lead
the whole damn group. And so I did. Not because I was any better
at it. Not because I thought I deserved the position. But simply
because no one else had stepped up. And the alternative was letting humanity just roll over. And that was unacceptable.
So I stepped up and I led. When it seemed impossible. When
I didn’t want to. When even I wanted to give up. I kept going.
Because, like my dad had said, numbers are concrete. As far as I
knew, we were the last two hundred or so free humans. Two hundred wasn’t a big number, but it was bigger than zero.
But I still didn’t feel lucky when Lily cornered me just as I was
about to patrol the area around base camp. In the Before, base
camp had been an underground storage facility dug out of the side
of a mountain. Before that, even, it had been some kind of mine.
The mining had left catacombs big enough to drive a semi
through. United Underground had stored everything from boats
and RVs to acres and acres of document storage. Plus, the storage
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Emily McKay
facility had had pretty good security. So we had a massive gate we
could close each night to lock ourselves in.
The only downside to our location was visibility. The entrance
to the storage facility was in the middle of the friggin’ woods. We
were surrounded by hundreds of miles of national park. The isolation was great, but even though we’d cleared out the trees within
a hundred yards of the fence, something could get damn close to
us before we saw it.
So every morning, a pair of us went out in the Jeep to drive the
old park ranger’s trail through the woods and look for signs of Tick
activity.
I was surprised to see Lily waiting for me by the Jeep when I
came out with the keys. I slowed down as I walked up to her.
“Merc was on the roster for patrol duty today.”
“I asked him if I could come with you instead.”
“And he agreed?” Patrol duty was a job everyone wanted just
because it got you out of the damn mountain for an hour or so.
Base camp was great, but it was claustrophobic as hell.
“Yeah.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans and
rolled up onto her toes. “I promised I’d cover his KP duty for the
next couple of days.”
“And he bought that you were willing to do all that extra work
in the kitchen just to get out of the cave for an hour?”
She flashed me a smile. “He bought I wanted to be alone with
you for an hour.”
That was one of the things about base camp. It was underground, but there were a lot of open spaces, so you were never
really alone. Up at the front, there was a warren of tiny offices, all
with thin walls. Most people lived in RV’s that we’d dragged up
from the depths of the mountain. Those all had thin walls too. So
basically, you could be almost alone a lot, but it was hard to be
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THE LAIR109
completely alone. If you wanted to have a private conversation—­if
you wanted to be sure no one over heard you—­you had to leave
base camp to do it.
“Lily, I don’t like—­”
“I know, I know. You don’t like me leaving base camp. But it’s
a simple patrol. I won’t even get out the Jeep if you don’t want.”
She kicked at the dirt with the toe of her shoe. “We need to talk.”
Shit. That didn’t sound good.
It also didn’t sound like something I could avoid. I reached past
her and opened the door on the passenger side and held it open
for her.
A few minutes later, one of the guys up by the gate waved us
through. I waved as we drove past and tried not to think about the
things Lily could want to talk about.
Things were complicated between Lily and I, for a lot of reasons. We were sort of together. Sort of not. Living at base camp,
with two hundred plus other kids made the whole romance thing
kind of tricky. Then there was the fact that I was the leader of the
human rebellion, which meant someone needed me—­my opinion, my advice, something—­pretty much twenty-­four hours a day.
And then there was the fact that six weeks ago, I’d told her I loved
her and she hadn’t believed me. Like everything between Lily and
I, it was complicated.
So, sure, when she’d bargained with Danny Mercado to trade
KP duties for patrol duty, he’d probably thought she wanted to be
alone with me so we could get some. I wasn’t that optimistic.
A mile away from base camp, I turned off the paved road onto
a single lane dirt road that snaked through the woods around the
base of the mountain. I slowed to about ten miles an hour, partly
because the road was too bumpy to go any faster and partly because I couldn’t go any faster and still look for signs of Ticks.
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The Ticks were largely nocturnal. Despite being huge and
dumb, they moved with a grace and agility that would have made
a human parkour athlete look clumsy. Still, they traveled in packs
of five or more. It would be impossible for a large group of Ticks
to move through the woods near base camp without leaving some
kind of trail.
Lily didn’t say anything while I drove. She just stared out the
window. Finally I asked, “Is everyone treating you okay?”
She shot me a surprised looked. “At base camp? Yeah. Everyone’s great. Super friendly. Super helpful. Super . . . just, super.”
Her tone sounded miserable, so I tried to joke, “Yeah. Sorry
about that. Real bummer.”
Her lips twitched, like she didn’t want to smile, but couldn’t
help it. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound annoyed. It’s just . . .” She
twisted in her seat to look at me. “I mean, don’t you think it’s odd,
how much everyone likes me?”
I glanced at her and then back at the road. I had first met Lily
more than two years when we’d both been freshman back in Texas.
She’d been smart and a little geeky and crazy protective of her
sister, even then. I’d found her utterly irresistible.
So much so that when society collapsed, I’d moved heaven and
earth to find her and make sure she was safe. When I’d finally
found her at the Farm in Texas, I’d fallen for her all over again.
She was fearless and loyal and strong in ways that left me in awe of
her. Just having her near me made me believe that maybe I could
lead this rag tag group of fighters. That maybe I could actually
help save the human race. That’s how strong and fierce she was.
She made me stronger just being around her. She made me believe I might actually be able to lead these people. That we might
have hope.
So did I think it was strange that people liked her? No. Not at all.
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She seemed completely unaware that people were drawn to her
strength and her courage. That in a time like this, when fear and
paranoia ruled everyone’s lives, her conviction, her refusal to bow
down, gave everyone hope.
“I don’t suppose it would occur to you to just accept that people like you and be okay with that?” I asked wryly.
“But can’t you see that it’s more than that? People like me because they think that you . . .” She broke off, feigning sudden fascination with something outside the window.
“That I . . .” I gave her a prod, curious what she’d say.
We never talked about the fact that I’d told her I loved her. She
ignored it like it had never happened. It was damn hard, but I tried
not to pressure her. Christ, she’d just lost her sister. I didn’t want
to be the kind of guy who just ignored that kind of thing.
“People think we’re together,” she blurted out. “They like you,
so they like me. And the Elites? We both know what they think.”
“You know I don’t like that term,” I muttered.
“Fine. The guys you went to Elite Military Academy with.
They know that abducturae exist. They know you thought I was
one and that’s why you searched so hard to find me and rescue me
from the farm. Obviously they’re so nice to me because they think
I have the power to turn the tide against the Ticks. When they find
out I’m not—­”
“Who says they have to find out?”
“They’re going to figure it out!”
“They haven’t yet,” I countered.
“But they will. So far, everyone’s been tip-­toeing around me
because they think my sister just died. No one expects anything
from me. Much less anything extraordinary. Everyone has been
giving me a buy. But that won’t last forever. Sooner or later, the
Elites are going to expect to start leading this rebellion and they’re
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going to figure out that I’m not an abductura. That I don’t have the
ability to control the emotions of other people. And that—­”
I slammed on the brakes. She cut off whatever she was going to
say. Finally, I looked at her. She was frowning. Looking surprised,
but determined.
“They’re going to figure out I was wrong. That’s what you were
going to say, isn’t it?”
Her frown deepened. Shifted a little so that she looked more sad
than angry. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you were wrong.”
“If it was just a question of owning my mistake. Sure. My bad.
No harm no foul.” I looked at her and again felt the weight of all
those expectations. Every instinct I had struggled against that
weight. I wasn’t meant to be a leader. But if it wasn’t me, then
who? “It’s not that. I’m not afraid to be wrong. It’s just . . .” I slapped
my palm against the steering wheel. “You think I haven’t thought
about what would happen if they knew you weren’t an abductura?
I have. If they lose faith in you, if they lose faith in me, what do
you think is going to happen?”
Lily looked miserably out the front window. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah. Me neither. But sometimes, I think the only thing holding base camp together is the hope that we can fight the Ticks.
That we’ll be able to get more and more kids out of farms and that
someday we’ll be able to fight back. I think the Greens believe it
because the Elites believe it. Because every Green at base camp
was rescued by an Elite. The Elites believe it because I’ve told
them we could. Because I believed you would be able to lead us.”
Lily nodded without saying anything. She looked small suddenly, sitting there in the Jeep, practically huddled against the door.
This wasn’t like her. This quiet resignation.
Lily was a fighter. She defended the people she cared about.
She never gave up.
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“I’m sorry,” I said, but didn’t add what I was sorry for. Sorry
covered a multitude of sins, right?
I was sorry that her sister had gotten injured by a Tick. I was
sorry that the only way to save Mel had been for Sebastian to bite
her and turn her into a full vampire. I was even sorry that Lily
wasn’t the abductura I’d thought she was. But mostly, I was sorry
that I’d ever thought she had that power.
“So you’re afraid if you tell the Elites I’m not an abductura,
then the whole system unravels and the rebellion is dead.”
“Yeah. Every man for themselves.”
“So you want me to keep pretending?”
I expected her to protest. To argue. Something.
Lily didn’t like deception much. Just wasn’t her thing. Still, she
nodded. “Okay. Sure. I’ll do it. I’m not happy about it, but I’ll do
it.” I started to speak, but she held up her hand. “People aren’t going to believe you forever. The truth will come out eventually. Are
you ready for that?”
Was I ready? I didn’t feel ready for anything.
“A hell of a lot can happen between now and then.”
“Yeah,” she said softly and I knew we were both thinking about
all the things that had gone wrong when I’d helped her and Mel
escape from the farm six weeks ago. After a minute she added, “I
still need more to do at base camp.”
“What?” I swiveled to look at her.
“If you want the Elites to think I’m an abductura, fine. But I
still need more to do.”
“You do plenty,” I said.
“Yeah. Sure. I do KP duty and cleaning. All the normal little
stuff. But I need to be doing something bigger than that. I need
this for me.”
“Lily, you know you can’t—­”
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“I know what you’re going to say. That’s it not worth the risk.
But I won’t be in any more danger than anyone else. It’s been six
weeks,” Lily said. “And, yeah, I’ve been kind of in shock after losing Mel.”
That was the phrasing we’d been using. That we’d “lost” her.
All those Greens, they knew all about the mutated human monsters. Most of them didn’t know there were also real vampires out
there. As fast, as strong, and as difficult to kill as Ticks, but way
more dangerous because they were also smart. We weren’t about
to tell them about the vampires. People had enough to worry about
with the Ticks.
“But let’s face it, everyone has lost someone. Everyone has lost
nearly everyone they’ve ever loved. I need to start pulling my own
weight.”
“Lily—­”
“I can’t just coast by on being your girlfriend. I have to be doing
something to make a difference. I absolutely have to be.”
“There are tons of things you’re doing right now. I know how
you work around base camp. That’s enough.”
“No. It’s not. The most important thing any of us can do is
search for supplies. If we play this right, I can convince more
Greens to go out. Our biggest obstacle right now isn’t the Ticks.
It’s starvation. We need every person we can get going out on food
raids. You know I’m right.”
“It’s too dangerous,” I said automatically.
“It’s not. You know I have more Tick experience than most of
the people who go on raids. I’ve actually killed Ticks, which is way
more than most Greens have. Which is a moot point anyway, because it’s been months since anyone has even seen a Tick in this
area.”
“You know as well as I do that means nothing. We don’t know
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why we haven’t seen Ticks in the area. They could come back
anytime.”
I didn’t want Lily hurt. I didn’t want her in danger. End of discussion.
Except, that it wasn’t. Because, even though I loved Lily, I
didn’t control her. Love didn’t work like that. Even I knew that.
“One food raid,” I said, putting the Jeep back in gear and pulling out onto the road. “Just one. We’ll see how it goes.”
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EASY
Tammara Webber
Rescued by a stranger.
Haunted by a secret.
Sometimes, love isn’t easy…
He watched her, but never knew her. Until thanks to
a chance encounter, he became her savior…
The attraction between them was undeniable. Yet
the past he’d worked so hard to overcome, and the
future she’d put so much faith into, threatened to
tear them apart.
Only together could they fight the pain and guilt,
face the truth—and find the unexpected power
of love.
A groundbreaking novel in the New Adult genre,
Easy faces one girl’s struggle to regain the trust
she’s lost, find the inner strength to fight back
against an attacker, and accept the peace she
finds in the arms of a secretive boy.
AVAILABLE NOW FROM
BERKLEY TRADE PAPERBACK
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Chapter One
I
had never noticed Lucas before that night. It was as though he
didn’t exist, and then suddenly, he was everywhere.
I’d just bailed on the Halloween party still in full swing behind
me. Weaving between the cars crammed into the parking lot behind my ex’s frat house, I tapped out a text to my roommate. The
night was beautiful and warm—­a typical Southern-­style Indian
summer. From the wide-­open windows of the house, music blared
across the pavement, punctuated with occasional bursts of laughter, drunken challenges, and calls for more shots.
As tonight’s designated driver, it was my responsibility to get
Erin back to our dorm across campus in one unmangled piece,
whether or not I could stand another minute of the party. My
message told her to call or text when she was ready to go. The
way she and her boyfriend, Chaz, had been tequila-­soaked dirty
dancing before they linked hands and tripped up the stairs to his
room, she might not be calling me until tomorrow. I chuckled
over the thought of the short walk of shame she’d endure from
the front porch to my truck, if so.
I hit Send as I dug in my bag for my keys. The moon was too
cloud-­obscured and the fully lit windows of the house were too far
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Tammara Webber
away to provide any light at the far end of the lot. I had to go by
feel. Swearing when a mechanical pencil jabbed a fingertip, I
stomped one stiletto-­clad foot, almost certain I’d drawn blood.
Once the keys were in my hand I sucked on the finger; the slight
metallic taste told me I’d punctured the skin.
“Figures,” I muttered, unlocking the truck door.
In the initial seconds that followed, I was too disoriented to
comprehend what was happening. One moment I was pulling the
truck door open, and the next I was lying flat on my face across
the seat, breathless and immobile. I struggled to rise but couldn’t,
because the weight on top of me was too heavy.
“The little devil costume suits you, Jackie.” The voice was
slurred but familiar.
My first thought was Don’t call me that, but that objection was
quickly dismissed in favor of terror as I felt a hand pushing my
already short skirt higher. My right arm was useless, trapped
between my body and the seat. I clawed my left hand into the seat
next to my face, trying again to push myself upright, and the hand
on the bare skin of my thigh whipped up and grabbed my wrist. I
cried out when he wrenched my arm behind my back, clamping it
firmly in his other hand. His forearm pressed into my upper back. I
couldn’t move.
“Buck, get off me. Let go.” My voice quavered, but I tried to
deliver the command with as much authority as possible. I could
smell the beer on his breath and something stronger in his sweat,
and a wave of nausea rose and fell in my stomach.
His free hand was back on my left thigh, his weight settled
onto my right side, covering me. My feet dangled outside the
truck, the door still open. I tried to pull my knee up to get it under
me, and he laughed at my pathetic efforts.When he shoved his
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hand between my open legs, I cried out, snapping my leg back
down too late. I heaved and squirmed, first thinking to dislodge
him and then, realizing I was no match for his size, I started to
beg.
“Buck, stop. Please—­you’re just drunk and you’ll regret this
tomorrow. Oh my God—­”
He wedged his knee between my legs and air hit my bare hip.
I heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper and he laughed in my
ear when I went from rationally imploring to crying. “No-­no-­no-­no
. . .” Under his weight, I couldn’t get enough breath together to
scream, and my mouth was mashed against the seat, muffling any
protest I made. Struggling uselessly, I couldn’t believe that this
guy I’d known for over a year, who’d not once treated me with
disrespect the entire time I’d dated Kennedy, was attacking me in
my own truck at the back of the frat house parking lot.
He ripped my panties down to my knees, and between his
efforts to push them down and my renewed effort to escape, I
heard the fragile fabric tear. “Jesus, Jackie, I always knew you had a
great ass, but Christ, girl.” His hand thrust between my legs again
and the weight lifted for a split second—­just long enough for me
to suck in a lungful of air and scream. Releasing my wrist, he
slapped his hand over the back of my head and turned my face into
the leather seat until I was silent, almost unable to breathe.
Even freed, my left arm was useless. I leveraged my hand
against the floor of the cab and pushed, but my wrenched and
aching muscles wouldn’t obey. I sobbed into the cushion, tears
and saliva mixing under my cheek. “Please don’t, please don’t, oh
God stop-­stop-­stop . . .” I hated the weedy sound of my powerless
voice.
His weight lifted from me for a split second—­he’d changed
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his mind or he was repositioning, I didn’t wait to find out which.
Twisting and pulling my legs up, I felt the spiky heels of my shoes
tear into the pliant leather as I propelled myself to the far side of
the bench seat and scrambled for the handle. Blood rushed in my
ears as my body rallied for all-­
out fight or flight. And then I
stopped, because Buck was no longer in the truck at all.
At first, I couldn’t figure out why he was standing there, just
past the door, facing away from me. And then his head snapped
back. Twice. He swung wildly at something but his fists hit
nothing. Not until he stumbled back against my truck did I see
what—­or who—­he was fighting.
The guy never took his eyes off Buck as he delivered two more
sharp jabs to his face, bobbing to the side as they circled and Buck
threw futile punches of his own, blood streaming from his nose.
Finally, Buck ducked his head and rushed forward with bull-­like
intent, but that effort was his undoing as the stranger swung an
easy uppercut to his jaw. When Buck’s head snapped up, an elbow
cracked into his temple with a sickening thud. He collided with
the side of the truck again, pushing off and rushing the stranger
a second time. As though the entire fight was choreographed, he
grabbed Buck’s shoulders and pulled him forward, hard, kneeing
him under the chin. Buck crumpled to the ground, moaning and
cringing.
The stranger stared down, fists balled, elbows slightly bent,
poised to deliver another blow if necessary. There was no need.
Buck was nearly unconscious. I cowered against the far door,
panting and curling into a ball as shock replaced the panic. I must
have whimpered, because his eyes snapped up to mine. He rolled
Buck aside with one booted foot and stepped up to the door,
peering in.
“You okay?” His tone was low, careful. I wanted to say yes. I
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wanted to nod. But I couldn’t. I was so not okay. “I’m gonna call
911. Do you need medical assistance, or just the police?”
I envisioned the campus police arriving at the scene, the
partygoers who would spill from the house when the sirens came.
Erin and Chaz were only two of the many friends I had in there,
more than half of them underage and drinking. It would be my
fault if the party became the focus of the police. I would be a
pariah.
I shook my head. “Don’t call.” My voice was gravelly. “Don’t call
an ambulance?”
I cleared my throat and shook my head. “Don’t call anyone.
Don’t call the police.”
His jaw hung ajar and he stared across the expanse of seat.
“Am I wrong, or did this guy just try to rape you”—­I flinched at
the ugly word—­“and you’re telling me not to call the police?” He
snapped his mouth closed, shook his head once, and peered at me
again. “Or did I interrupt something I shouldn’t have?”
I gasped, my eyes welling up. “N-­no. But I just want to go
home.”
Buck groaned and rolled onto his back. “Fuuuuuck,” he said,
not opening his eyes, one of which was probably swollen shut
anyway.
My savior stared down at him, his jaw working. He rocked his
neck to one side and then back, rolled his shoulders. “Fine. I’ll
drive you.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t about to escape one attack just to
do something as stupid as get into a stranger’s car. “I can drive
myself,” I rasped. My eyes flicked to my bag, wedged against the
console, its contents spilled across the floor of the driver’s side. He
glanced down, leaned to pick out my keys from the bits and pieces
of my personal effects.
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“I believe you were looking for these, before.” He dangled
them from his fingers as I realized that I still hadn’t moved any
closer to him.
I licked my lip and tasted blood for the second time that night.
Scooting forward into the faint illumination shed by the tiny
overhead light, I was careful to keep my skirt pulled down. A
wave of dizziness crashed over me as I became fully conscious of
what had almost happened, and my hand trembled when I
reached out for my keys.
Frowning, he clamped his fist around them and dropped
his arm back to his side. “I can’t let you drive.” Judging by his
expression, my face was a disaster.
I blinked, my hand still extended for the keys he’d just
confiscated. “What? Why?”
He ticked three reasons off on his fingers. “You’re shaking,
probably an aftereffect of the assault. I have no idea if you’re
actually uninjured. And you’ve probably been drinking.”
“I have not,” I snapped. “I’m the designated driver.”
He raised one brow and glanced around. “Who exactly are
you designated for? If anyone had been with you, by the way,
you might have been safe tonight. Instead, you walked out into a
dark parking lot alone, paying absolutely no attention to your surroundings. Real responsible.”
Suddenly I was beyond angry. Angry at Kennedy for breaking
my heart two weeks ago and not being with me tonight, seeing
me to the safety of my truck. Angry at Erin for talking me into
coming to this stupid party, and even angrier with myself for
agreeing. Furious at the barely conscious asswipe drooling and
bleeding on the concrete a few feet away. And seething at the
stranger who was holding my keys hostage while accusing me of
being brainless and careless.
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“So it’s my fault he attacked me?” My throat was raw, but I
pushed past the pain. “It’s my fault I can’t walk from a house to
my truck without one of you trying to rape me?” I threw the word
back at him to let him see I could bear it.
“‘ One of you’? You’re gonna lump me in with that piece of shit?”
He pointed at Buck, but his eyes never left mine. “I am nothing like
him.” That was when I noticed the thin silver ring through the left
side of his lower lip.
Great. I was in a parking lot, alone, with an insulted, facially
pierced stranger who still had my keys. I couldn’t take any more of
this night. A sob came from my throat as I tried to remain composed. “May I have my keys, please?” I held my hand out, willing
the tremors to subside.
He swallowed, looking at me, and I stared back into his clear
eyes. I couldn’t tell their color in the dim light, but they contrasted
compellingly with his dark hair. His voice was softer, less hostile.
“Do you live on campus? Let me drive you. I can walk back over
here and get my ride after.”
No more fight in me, I nodded, reaching over to get my bag
out of his way. He helped gather the lip gloss, wallet, tampons,
hair ties, pens, and pencils strewn across the floor and return
them to my bag.The last item he picked up was a condom packet.
He cleared his throat and held it out to me. “That’s not mine,” I
said, recoiling.
He frowned. “You sure?”
I clamped my jaw, trying not to be furious all over again.
“Positive.”
He glanced back at Buck. “Bastard. He was probably gonna . . .”
He glanced into my eyes and back at Buck, scowling. “Uh . . .
conceal the evidence.”
I couldn’t even contemplate that. He shoved the square
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package into his front jeans pocket. “I’ll throw it away—­he’s sure as
hell not getting it back.” Brow still furrowed, he swung his gaze to
me again as he climbed in and started the truck. “Are you sure you
don’t want me to call the police?”
Laughter sounded from the back door of the house and I
nodded. Framed exactly within the center window, Kennedy
danced with his arms around a girl dressed in a gauzy, low-­cut
white outfit, wings, and a halo. Perfect. Just perfect.
At some point during my battle with Buck, I’d lost the devil-­
horned headband Erin had stuffed onto my head while I sat on the
bed whining that I didn’t want to go to a stupid costume party.
Without the accessory, I was just a girl in a skimpy red-­sequined
dress that I’d refuse to be caught dead wearing otherwise.
“I’m sure.”
The headlights illuminated Buck as we backed out of the
parking spot. Throwing a hand in front of his eyes, he attempted
to roll to a sitting position. I could see his split lip, misshapen
nose, and swollen eye even from that distance.
It was just as well I wasn’t the one behind the wheel. I probably
would have run him over.
I gave the name of my dorm when asked, and stared out the
passenger window, unable to speak another word as we meandered
across campus. With a straightjacket hug, I gripped myself, trying
to conceal the shudders wracking through me every five seconds. I
didn’t want him to see, but I couldn’t make them stop.
The dorm lot was nearly full; spots near the door were all
taken. He angled the truck into a back space and hopped out,
coming around to meet me as I slid from the passenger side of my
own truck. Teetering on the edge of breaking down and losing it, I
took the keys after he activated the door locks and followed him to
the building.
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“Your ID?” he asked when we reached the door.
My hands shook as I unsnapped the front flap on my bag and
withdrew the card. When he took it from my fingers, I noted the
blood on his knuckles and gasped. “Oh my God. You’re bleeding.”
He glanced at his hand and shook his head, once. “Nah. Mostly
his blood.” His lips pressed flat and he turned away to swipe the
card through the door access reader, and I wondered if he meant
to follow me inside. I didn’t think I could hold myself together
for much longer.
After opening the door, he handed me the card. In the light
from the entry vestibule, I could see his eyes more clearly—­they
were a clear gray blue under his lowered brows. “You sure you’re
okay?” he asked for the second time, and I felt my face crumple.
Chin down, I shoved the card into my bag and nodded uselessly.
“Yes. Fine,” I lied.
He huffed a disbelieving sigh, running a hand through his hair.
“Can I call someone for you?”
I shook my head. I had to get to my room so I could fall apart.
“Thank you, but no.” I slipped past him, careful not to brush
against any part of him, and headed for the stairs.
“Jackie?” he called softly, unmoving from the doorway. I looked
back, gripping the handrail, and our eyes met. “It wasn’t your
fault.”
I bit my lip, hard, nodding once before I turned and ran up the
stairs, my shoes rapping against the concrete steps. At the second
floor landing, I stopped abruptly and turned to look back at the
door. He was gone.
I didn’t know his name, and couldn’t remember ever seeing
him before, let alone meeting him. I’d have remembered those
unusually clear eyes. I had no idea who he was . . . and he’d just
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called me by name. Not the name on my ID—­Jacqueline—­but
Jackie, the nickname I’d gone by ever since Kennedy renamed
me, our junior year of high school.
Two weeks ago
“Wanna come up? Or stay over? Erin is staying at Chaz’s this
weekend . . .” My voice was playful, singsongy. “His roommate’s out
of town. Which means I’ll be all alone . . .”
Kennedy and I were a month from our three-­year anniversary.
There was no need to be coy. Erin had taken to calling us an old
married couple lately. To which I’d reply, “Jealous.” And then she’d
flip me off.
“Um, yeah. I’ll come up for a little while.” He kneaded the back
of his neck as he pulled into the dorm parking lot and searched
for a parking space, his expression inscrutable.
Prickles of apprehension arose in my chest, and I swallowed uneasily. “Are you all right?” The neck rubbing was a known stress signal.
He flicked a glance in my direction. “Yeah. Sure.” He pulled
into the first open spot, wedging his BMW between two pickups.
He never, ever wedged his prized import into constricted spots.
Door dings drove him insane. Something was up. I knew he
was worried over upcoming midterms, especially precalc. His
fraternity was hosting a mixer the next night, too, which was
plain stupid the weekend before midterms.
I swiped us into the building and we entered the back stairwell
that always creeped me out when I was alone. With Kennedy
behind me, all I noticed was dingy, gum-­adorned walls and the
stale, almost sour smell. I jogged up the last flight and we emerged
into the hallway.
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Glancing back at him while unlocking my door, I shook my
head over the charming portrayal of a penis someone had doodled
onto the whiteboard Erin and I used for notes to each other and
from our suitemates. Coed dorms were less mature than depicted
on college websites. Sometimes it was like living with a bunch of
twelve year olds.
“You could call in sick tomorrow night, you know.” I laid a
palm on his arm. “Stay here with me—­we’ll hide out and spend
the weekend studying and ordering takeout . . . and other stress-­
reducing activities . . .” I grinned naughtily. He stared at his shoes.
My heart sped up and I suddenly felt warm all over. Something
was definitely wrong. I wanted him to spit it out, whatever it
was, because my mind was conjuring nothing but alarming possibilities. It had been so long since we’d had a problem or a real
conflict that I felt blindsided.
He moved into my room and sat on my desk chair, not my bed.
I walked up to him, our knees bumping, wanting him to tell me
he was just in a bad mood, or worried about his upcoming exams. My heart thudding heavily, I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Kennedy?”
“Jackie, we need to talk.”
The drumming pulse in my ears grew louder, and my hand
dropped from his shoulder. I grabbed it up in my other hand
and sat on the bed, three feet from him. My mouth was so dry I
couldn’t swallow, let alone speak.
He was silent, avoiding my eyes for a couple of minutes that
felt like forever. Finally, he lifted his gaze to me. He looked sad.
Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod.
“I’ve been having some . . . trouble . . . lately.With other girls.”
I blinked, glad I was sitting down. My legs would have buckled
and sent me to the floor if I’d have been standing. “What do you
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mean?” I croaked out. “What do you mean, ‘trouble’ and ‘other
girls’?”
He sighed heavily. “Not like that, not really. I mean, I haven’t
done anything.” He looked away and sighed again. “But I think I
want to.”
The hell?
“I don’t understand.” My mind worked frantically to make
the best possible situation out of this, but every single remotely
possible alternative sucked.
He got up and paced the room twice before planting himself
on the edge of the chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and
hands clasped. “You know how important it is to me to pursue a
career in law and politics.”
I nodded, still stunned to silence and pedaling hard to keep up.
“You know our sister sorority?”
I nodded again, acknowledging the very thing I’d worried
about when he moved into the frat house. Apparently, I hadn’t
worried enough.
“There’s a girl—­a couple of girls, actually, that . . . well.”
I tried to keep my voice rational and level. “Kennedy, this
doesn’t make sense.You aren’t saying you’ve acted on this, or that
you want to—­”
He stared into my eyes, so there’d be no mistake. “I want to.”
Really, he could have just punched me in the stomach, because my
brain refused to comprehend the words he was saying. A physical assault, it might have understood. “You want to? What the hell
do you mean, you want to?”
He bolted out of the chair, walked to the door and back—­a
distance of a dozen feet. “What do you think I mean? Jesus. Don’t
make me say it.”
I gaped. “Why not? Why not say it—­if you can imagine doing
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it—­then why the fuck not say it? And what does this have to do
with your career plans—­”
“I was getting to that. Look, everyone knows that one of the
worst things a political candidate or elected representative can
do is to become embroiled in some sexual scandal.” His eyes
locked on mine in what I recognized as his debate face. “I’m only
human, Jackie, and if I have these desires to sow my wild oats or
whatever and I repress it, I’ll probably have the same desire later,
even worse. But acting on it then would be a career killer.” He
spread his hands helplessly. “I have no choice but to get it out of
my system while I can do it without annihilating my future professional standing.”
I told myself, This isn’t happening. My boyfriend of three
years was not breaking up with me so he could bang coeds with
shameless abandon. I blinked hard and tried to take a deep breath,
but I couldn’t. There was no oxygen in the room. I glared at him,
silent.
His jaw clenched. “Okay, so I guess trying to let you down easy
was a bad idea—­”
“This is your idea of letting me down easy? Breaking up with
me so you can screw other girls? Without feeling guilty? Are you
serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
The last thing I thought before I picked up my econ textbook
and hurled it at him: How can he use such a piece-­of-­shit cliché in
a moment like this?
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Chapter Two
E
rin’s voice woke me. “Jacqueline Wallace, get your ass out of that
bed and go save your GPA. For chrissake, if I’d let a guy throw
off my academic mojo like this, I’d never hear the end of it.”
I made a dismissive sound from under the comforter before
peeking out at her. “What academic mojo?”
Her hands on her hips, she was wrapped in a towel, fresh from a
shower. “Ha. Ha. Very funny. Get up.”
I sniffed, but didn’t budge. “I’m doing fine in all of my other
classes. Can’t I just fail this one?”
Her mouth dropped open. “Are you even listening to
yourself?”
I was listening to myself. And I was every bit as disgusted with
my cowardly sentiments as Erin—­if not more so. But the thought of
sitting next to Kennedy for an hour-­long class three days a week
was unbearable. I couldn’t be sure what his newfound single status
would mean in terms of open flirtations or hookups, but whatever
it meant, I didn’t want to stare it in the face. Imagining the details
was bad enough.
If only I hadn’t pressed him to take a class with me this
semester. When we registered for fall classes, he questioned why I
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wanted to take economics—­not a required course for my music
education degree. I wondered if he had sensed, even then, that
this was where we’d end up. Or if he’d known.
“I can’t.”
“You can and you will.” She ripped the comforter off. “Now
get up and get in that shower. I have to get to French on time or
Monsieur Bidot will question me mercilessly en passé composé.
I can barely do past tense in English. God knows I can’t do it en
français at ass o’clock in the morning.”
I dragged myself out of bed and arrived outside the classroom
at straight-­
up nine o’clock, knowing that Kennedy, habitually
punctual, would already be there. The classroom was large and
sloped. Slipping through the back door, I spotted him, sixth row
center. The seat to his right was empty—­my seat. Dr. Heller had
passed around a seating chart the second week of class, and he
used it to take attendance and give credit for class participation. I
would have to talk with him after class, because there was no way I
was sitting there again.
My eyes scanned the back rows. There were two empty seats.
One was three rows down between a guy leaning on his hand,
mostly asleep, and a girl drinking aVenti something and chattering
nonstop to her neighbor. The other open seat was on the back
row, next to a guy who appeared to be doodling something into
the margin of his textbook. I turned in that direction at the same
time the professor entered a side door below, and the artist raised his
head to scan the front of the classroom. I froze, recognizing my
savior from two nights ago. If I could’ve moved, I would have
turned and fled the classroom.
The attack came flooding back. The helplessness. The terror.
The humiliation. I’d curled into a ball on my bed and cried all
night, thankful for Erin’s text that she was staying with Chaz. I
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hadn’t told her what Buck had done—­partly because I knew she’d
feel responsible for making me go to the party and for letting me
leave alone. Partly because I wanted to forget it had happened at all.
“If everyone will be seated, we’ll begin.” The professor’s
statement shook me from my stupor—­I was the only student
standing. I bolted to the empty chair between the chatty girl and
the sleepy guy.
She glanced at me, never pausing in her weekend confession
of how trashed she’d been and where and with whom. The guy
unsquinted his eyes just enough to notice when I slid into the
bolted-­down chair between them, but he didn’t otherwise move.
“Is this seat taken?” I whispered to him.
He shook his head and mumbled, “It was. But she dropped. Or
stopped coming. Whatever.”
I pulled a spiral from my bag, relieved. I tried not to look at
Kennedy, but the angled seating made that effort challenging.
His perfectly styled dirty blond hair and the familiar uncreased
button-­down shirt drew my eyes every time he moved. I knew the
effect of that green plaid next to his striking green eyes. I’d known
him since ninth grade. I’d watched him alter his style from a boy
who wore mesh shorts and sneakers every day to the guy who sent
his fitted shirts out to be pressed, kept his shoes scuff-­free, and
always looked as though he’d just stepped from the cover of a
magazine. I’d seen more than one teacher turn her head as he
passed before snapping her gaze away from his perfect, off-­limit
body.
Junior year, we had pre-­AP English together. He focused on
me from the first day of class, flashing his dimpled smile in my
direction before taking his seat, inviting me to join his study
group, inquiring about my weekend plans—­and finally making
himself a part of them. I’d never been so confidently pursued. As
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our class president, he was familiar to everyone, and he made a
concerted effort to become familiar with everyone. As an athlete,
he was a credit to the baseball team. As a student, his academic
standing was in the top 10 percent. As a member of the debate
team, he was known for conclusive arguments and an unbeaten
record.
As a boyfriend, he was patient and attentive, never pushing me
too far or too fast. Never forgetting a birthday or an anniversary.
Never making me doubt his intentions for us. Once we were
official, he changed my name—­and everyone followed suit,
including me. “You’re my Jackie,” he told me, referencing the
wife of John F. Kennedy, his namesake and personal idol.
He wasn’t related. His parents were just weirdly political—­
and also at odds with each other. He had a sister named Reagan
and a brother named Carter.
Three years had passed since I’d gone by Jacqueline, and I
fought daily to regain that one original part of myself that I’d put
aside for him. It wasn’t the only thing I’d given up, or the most
important. It was just the only one I could get back.
••••••••••
Between trying to avoid staring at Kennedy for fifty minutes
straight and having skipped the class for two weeks, my brain was
sluggish and uncooperative. When class ended, I realized I’d absorbed little of the lecture.
I followed Dr. Heller to his office, running through various
appeals in my head to induce him to give me a chance to catch up.
Until that moment, I hadn’t cared that I was failing. Now that the
possibility had become a probability, I was terrified. I had never
failed a class.What would I tell my parents and my advisor? This F
would be on my transcript for the rest of my life.
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“All right, Ms. Wallace.” Dr. Heller removed a textbook and a
stack of disorderly notes from his battered attaché and moved
around his office as though I wasn’t standing there. “State your
case.”
I cleared my throat. “My case?”
Tiredly, he peered at me over his glasses. “You missed two
straight weeks of class—­including the midterm—­and you missed
today. I assume you’re standing here in my office in order to make
some sort of case for why you should not fail macroeconomics.
I’m waiting with bated breath for that explanation.” He sighed,
shelving the textbook. “I always think I’ve heard them all, but I’ve
been known to be surprised. So go ahead. I don’t have all day, and I
presume you don’t either.”
I swallowed. “I was in class today. I just sat in a different seat.”
He nodded. “I’ll take your word for that, since you approached me
at the end of the lecture. That’s one day of participation back in
your favor—­amounting to about a quarter of a grade point. You
still have six missed class days and a zero on a major exam.”
Oh, God. As if a plug had been pulled, the jumbled excuses
and realizations came pouring out. “My boyfriend broke up with
me, and he’s in the class, and I can’t stand to see him, let alone
sit next to him . . . Oh my God, I missed the midterm. I’m going to
fail. I’ve never failed a class in my life.” As if that speech wasn’t
mortifying enough, my eyes watered and spilled over. I bit my lip to
keep from sobbing outright, staring at his desk, unable to meet the
repulsed expression I imagined him wearing.
I heard his sigh in the same moment a tissue appeared in my
line of vision. “It’s your lucky day, Ms. Wallace.”
I took the tissue and pressed it to my wet cheeks, eyeing him
cautiously.
“As it happens, I have a daughter just a bit younger than you.
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Tammara Webber
She recently endured a nasty little breakup. My whip-­
smart,
straight-­A student turned into an emotional wreck who did
nothing but cry, sleep, and cry some more—­for about two weeks.
And then she came to her senses and decided that no boy was
going to ruin her scholastic record. For the sake of my daughter,
I’ll give you one chance. One. If you blow it, you will receive the
grade you’ve earned at the end of the semester. Do we understand
each other?”
I nodded, more tears spilling.
“Good.” My professor shifted uncomfortably and handed me
another tissue. “Oh, for Pete’s sake—­as I told my daughter, there’s
not a boy on the planet worth this amount of angst. I know; I used
to be one.” He scribbled on a slip of paper and handed it to me.
“Here’s the email address of my class tutor, Landon Maxfield. If you
aren’t familiar with his supplemental instruction sessions, I suggest
you get familiar with them. You’ll no doubt need some one-­on-­one
tutoring as well. He was an excellent student in my class two years
ago, and he’s been tutoring for me since then. I’ll give him the details of the project I expect you to do to replace the midterm grade.”
Another sob escaped me when I thanked him, and I thought
he might explode from discomfort. “Well, well, yes, of course,
you’re welcome.” He pulled out the seating chart. “Show me
where you’ll be sitting from now on, so you can earn those
quarter points for attendance.” I pointed to my new seat, and he
wrote my name in the square.
I had my shot. All I had to do was get in touch with this Landon
person and turn in a project. How hard could it be?
••••••••••
The Starbucks line in the student union was ridiculously long, but
it was raining and I wasn’t in the mood to get soaked crossing the
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street to the indie coffee shop just off campus to get my fix before
my afternoon class. In unrelated reasoning, that was also where
Kennedy was most likely to be—­we went there almost daily after
lunch. On principle, he tended to shun “corporate monstrosities”
like Starbucks, even if the coffee was better.
“There’s no way I’m making it across campus on time if I wait
in this line.” Erin growled her annoyance, leaning to check out
how many people were ahead of us. “Nine people. Nine! And five
waiting for drinks! Who the hell are all of these people?” The guy
in front of us glanced over his shoulder with a scowl. She scowled
back at him and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.
“Caffeine addicts like us?” I suggested.
“Ugh,” she huffed and then grabbed my arm. “I almost forgot—­
did you hear what happened to Buck Saturday night?”
My stomach dropped. The night I just wanted to forget
wouldn’t leave me alone. I shook my head.
“He got jumped in the parking lot behind the house. A couple
of guys wanted his wallet. Probably homeless people, he said—­
that’s what we get with a campus right in the middle of a big city.
They didn’t get anything, the bastards, but damn, Buck’s face is
busted up.” She leaned closer. “He actually looks a little hotter like
that. Rowr, if you know what I mean.”
I felt ill, standing there mute and feigning interest instead of
refuting Buck’s explanation of the events leading to his pummeled
face.
“Well, crap. I’m gonna have to chug a Rockstar to keep from
zoning out during poli-­sci. I can’t be late—­we’ve got a quiz. I’ll see
you after work.” She gave me a quick hug and scurried off.
I scooted forward with the line, my mind going over Saturday
night for the thousandth time. I couldn’t shake how vulnerable I
felt still. I’d never been blind to the fact that guys are stronger.
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Kennedy had scooped me into his arms more times than I could
count, one time tossing me over his shoulder and running up a
flight of stairs as I clung to his back, upside down and laughing.
He’d easily opened jars I couldn’t open, moved furniture I could
hardly budge. His superior strength had been evident when he’d
braced himself above me, biceps hard under my hands.
Two weeks ago, he’d torn out my heart, and I’d never felt so
hurt, so empty.
But he’d never used his physical strength against me.
No, that was all Buck. Buck, a campus hottie who didn’t have
a problem getting girls. A guy who’d never given any indication
that he could or would hurt me, or that he was aware of me at
all, except as Kennedy’s girlfriend. I could blame the alcohol . . .
but no. Alcohol removes inhibitions. It doesn’t trigger criminal
violence where there was none before.
“Next.”
I shook off my reverie and looked across the counter, prepared
to give my usual order, and there stood the guy from Saturday
night. The guy I’d avoided sitting next to this morning in econ.
My mouth hung open but nothing came out. And once again,
Saturday night came flooding back. My face heated, remembering
the position I’d been in, what he must have witnessed before he’d
intervened, how foolish he must consider me.
But then, he’d said it wasn’t my fault.
And he’d called me by my name. The name I no longer used,
as of sixteen days ago.
My split-­second wish that he wouldn’t recall who I was
went ungranted. I returned his penetrating gaze and could see
he remembered all of it, clearly. Every mortifying bit. My face
burned.
“Are you ready to order?” His question pulled me from my
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disorientation. His voice was calm, but I felt the exasperation of
the restless customers behind me.
“Grande caffè americano. Please.” My words were so mumbled
that I half expected him to ask me to repeat myself.
But he marked the cup, which was when I noted the two or
three layers of thin white gauze wrapped around his knuckles. He
passed the cup to the barista and rang up the drink as I handed
over my card.
“Doing okay today?” he asked, his words so seemingly casual,
yet so full of meaning between us. He swiped my card and handed
it back with the receipt.
“I’m fine.” The knuckles of his left hand were scuffed but not
severely abraded. As I took the card and receipt, his fingers grazed
over mine. I snatched my hand away. “Thanks.”
His eyes widened, but he said nothing else.
“I’ll have a Venti caramel macchiato—­skinny, no whip.” The
impatient girl behind me gave her order over my shoulder, not
touching me, but pressing too far into my personal space for
comfort.
His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly when he shifted his gaze
to her. Marking the cup, he gave her the total in clipped tones, his
eyes flicking to me once more as I stepped away. I don’t know if he
looked at me after that. I waited for my coffee at the other end of
the bar, then hurried away without adding my usual dribble of milk
and three packets of sugar.
Macroeconomics was a survey course, and as such the roster
was huge—­
probably two hundred students. I could avoid eye
contact with two boys in the midst of that many people for the
remaining six weeks of fall semester, couldn’t I?
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THE WILD ONES
by New York Times bestselling author
M. Leighton
“Hands down one of the hottest books I’ve read all
summer…”
—The Bookish Brunette
The darling daughter of a champion Thoroughbred
breeder, Camille “Cami” Hines has a pedigree that
rivals some of her father’s best horses. Other than
feeling a little suffocated at times, Cami thought she
was happy with her boyfriend, her life, and her
future—until she met Patrick Henley.
“Trick” blurs the lines between what Cami wants
and what is expected of her—and he just happens
to be so sexy she can’t keep her hands off him.
While they both know that Trick would lose his
much-needed job on the ranch if anyone finds out,
they can’t resist the lure of their scorchingly hot
encounters.
AVAILABLE NOW FROM
BERKLEY TRADE PAPERBACK
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Chapter One
Cami
S
ipping my beer, I look around at the familiar scene. If the
honky-­tonk music blaring from the speakers in the ceiling
hadn’t been enough to scream COUNTRY BAR, the sea of cowboy hats would have been. I smile as I adjust the black one that sits
atop my own head. I love being incognito. Even if, by chance,
someone I know stumbles into the smoke-­filled dive, they’d never
believe it was me looking out from beneath the brim.
Something hits the back of my bar stool—­hard—­just as I put
the glass to my lips. Ice-­cold beer pours down my chin and straight
into my cleavage. I suck in a breath.
“’Scuse me,” a deep voice rumbles in my ear. Two hands grip
my upper arms and pull me back, keeping me from tipping right
out of my seat. I’m looking down at my soggy jeans and T-­shirt
when I feel the hands disappear. Half a second later, a face appears
in my line of sight. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
My fingers stop plucking wet cotton away from my chest and I
stare. Quite rudely, I might add. I’m speechless. Literally. And
that, like, never happens to me.
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M. Leighton
The most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen are staring back at me.
They are pale greenish-­gray, rimmed in sooty lashes and filled with
concern.
A sharp jab to my shin makes me let out the breath I hadn’t
been aware of holding. I see my best friend Jenna’s head poke out
from behind the mystery face. I know she kicked me and I know
she’s trying to get my attention, but I can’t look away from these
eyes long enough to glare at her.
God, his eyes! I’ve never seen eyes that make me want to gasp
and giggle and do a striptease all at once. But these do.
They flicker down, letting me go just long enough to collect
my wits. I find very few of them. They are well and truly scattered.
When he looks back up at me, his eyes are wrinkled at the corners.
He’s smiling. And holy hell, what a smile it is!
“Does it make me a bad person for liking your shirt better this
way?”
I glance down at myself. My dark pink bra is plainly visible
through the now-­wet paper-­thin material of my pale pink shirt. So
are my very erect nipples. I blush, mortified.
Why, oh why did I wear a light pink T-­shirt with a dark pink bra?
Because you can’t see your bra through it when it’s dry, dumbass.
A thumb brushes my right cheek. “God, that’s sexy,” he whispers. Against my will, my eyes fly to his face. His smile has died to
a lopsided grin that is devastation in its purest form. “I’ve never
made a girl blush before.”
I laugh nervously, struggling to find my voice, to find my dignity. “Somehow I doubt that,” I say softly.
“Wow! The hair of a devil, the face of an angel, and the voice
of a phone sex operator. You really are the perfect woman.”
To my utter humiliation, my cheeks burn even hotter. Curse
my fair skin!
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THE WILD ONES147
Reaching into his pocket, Hot Stranger pulls out a couple of
bills and slides them across the bar. “Another of whatever . . .” He
trails off, looking at me in question, waiting for me to fill in the
blank.
“Cami,” I say, trying to hold back my grin.
Smooth way of getting my name. Chalk one up for Hot Stranger.
“Another of whatever Cami is having.” He turns back to me, a
wicked gleam in his smoky eyes. “Sorry about your drink. Not so
much about your shirt, though,” he admits candidly.
Willing myself not to blush again, I tilt my head. “So, do
clumsy strangers have names in this place? Or are you just called
Bull in China Shop?”
The lopsided grin comes back. “Patrick, but my friends call me
Trick.”
“Trick? As in trick or treat? That kind of trick?”
He laughs and my stomach flutters. It actually flutters. “Yep.
That kind of trick.” He sobers and leans in close to me. “Cami, can
I ask a favor?”
I’m breathless again. He’s so close I can count every hair in the
stubble that dusts his tanned cheeks. For just a second, his clean
manly scent overrides the cigarette smoke and stale beer smell of
the bar.
I lose my voice—­again—­so I nod.
“Pick ‘treat.’ Please, for the love of God, pick ‘treat.’”
Like an idiot, I say nothing. I do nothing. I simply stare. Like
a . . . a . . . well, like an idiot.
He makes a disappointed noise with his lips, then starts shaking
his head. “Too bad. Woulda made my night.”
He straightens, takes a step back, and smiles at me again. “Nice
to meet you, Cami,” he says, and then he turns and melts into the
crowd.
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M. Leighton
********
“Earth to Cami!”
Tearing my gaze away from the broad-­shouldered, slim-­hipped
view of Trick walking away, I turn to Jenna. “What?”
“Is that all you have to say? ‘What?’” She’s grinning.
“What would you like me to say?” I’m still a little addled. Or is
it bedazzled?
“Um, I’d like to hear your plan for getting your lame ass off that
stool and going over there to collect on that treat!”
“Eavesdrop much?”
“He was practically sitting in my lap while he hit on you. What
was I supposed to do?”
“Uh, move!”
Jenna snorts. Not a great sound, but somehow she makes it
seem cute and girly. “And miss that view? I was all but catatonic
just looking at him. He is seven kinds of hot, Cam!”
I giggle. “Listen to you. You’ve got a boyfriend. Or have you
conveniently forgotten that we are meeting people here?”
“I haven’t forgotten. Have you?”
I nod at her. “Touché, pussycat.”
In truth, I had. From the time I’d looked up into Trick’s eyes, I
hadn’t thought of Brent one time. And that can’t be a good sign.
Brent has never made me feel what this guy has in three minutes.
“Meh,” she says, waving her hand dismissively as she sips her
own beer. “Don’t give it a second thought. Looking at him is kinda
like staring at the sun. You see spots and you’re dizzy for a while,
but then it goes away.”
I wonder to myself if I really want it to go away. I can’t ever
remember a guy making me feel this way.
I can’t stop myself from looking into the crowd again. I scan the
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THE WILD ONES149
endless ocean of hats until my gaze stops on one dark head. The
hair is longish and has a slight wave to it. I know without having to
see his face that it’s Trick. It just seems right that he’d be the only
guy in the place not wearing a cowboy hat.
Almost like he can feel my eyes or my thoughts on him, Trick
turns around. His gaze locks with mine like there isn’t a room full
of people between us. We stare at each other for a few seconds, and
then, real slow, he grins.
Good God, he has dimples! I might die!
Right on cue, my cheeks get hot. Here we go again.
His grin widens into a smile, and he winks at me. I’m pretty
sure my toes are numb. I watch him turn away. Before his head
completely disappears, I consider what Jenna said. Maybe I should
go and ask for the treat . . .
I jump when I feel fingers at my neck, brushing my hair back.
“You looking for me?”
I recognize the voice. It’s Brent. I sigh. It’s not right that I
should feel a little disappointed. But I do. The time for me to be
reckless has past. The door of opportunity has officially been
closed. By Brent.
I turn on my stool. I smile up into the face of Brent Thomason,
my boyfriend. He’s everything a girl should want in a guy and certainly everything my father wants in one for me. But he’s never really
set my world on fire. And I’ve never really noticed. Until now.
Brent is no slob in the looks department. His sandy hair has
that purposefully messy look and his dark brown eyes have an exotic tilt I’ve always found very appealing. But even as I stare into
them, I’m picturing smoky greenish-­gray ones.
“Were you looking for me?” he asks again.
I dodge the question, playfully poking him in the chest. “You’re
late!”
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“I can’t be too perfect. Gotta keep a girl like you on her toes.”
He kisses the tip of my nose and then brushes my lips with his.
“Did you get the ’Vette running?” I ask, leaning back.
“No. That’s why I’m late. I just talked to the guy who was supposed to take a look at it for me. Since I couldn’t even get it here,
he agreed to look at it tomorrow night instead. I’ll get it out there
even if I have to have it towed,” he growls in determination.
As usual, I find Brent’s passion about his car a little bit of a turn­on. One of my father’s obsessions is vintage cars. We have a garage
full of them, and I know enough about them to talk like I’ve got
some sense.
“Out where?”
He shrugs. “Eh, some sort of field thing. You know how country
people are.”
I feel my frown but can’t stop it. I know Brent doesn’t really
mean anything by the comment, but it still bothers me. Unlike
most of my friends, I know what life without money looks like,
feels like. Granted, it was a long time ago, but some things a girl
never forgets.
Sexy eyes drift through my mind . . .
“I want to get that thing running so I can drive you around and
show you off. I mean, drive it around and show it off.” He grins at
me. I grin back. The sad thing is, I think he had it right the first
time.
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Chapter Two
Trick
T
iny hands tap on the bare skin of my back. I feel the thump
of them echo through my throbbing head.
“Uuuuuuuugh,” I groan into the pillow.
I hear a giggle. “You sound like a monster when you do that.”
I groan again, louder this time. Another giggle. Grace loves it
when I sleep in. She gets a kick out of waking me up.
“I neeeeed foooood,” I growl in my best monster voice. Then,
as fast as I can manage to move first thing in the morning with a
hangover, I turn over and loop my arm around her tiny waist and
throw her onto the bed.
I grab her foot and start tickling it relentlessly. She jerks and
wiggles, rolling around on the bed, giggling the whole time.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! That tickles,” she cries breathlessly.
“You know this is what happens when you wake the sleeping
giant.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
I let her foot go and throw my legs over the side of the bed. “I’m
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letting you off easy this time, but only because you remembered
the magic word.”
“I’m sorry?” she asks as she sits up and pushes her dark brown
bangs out of her eyes.
“No, that’s two words. The magic word is hippopotamus.”
She grins. “I didn’t say hippopotamus, silly.”
“You didn’t? Well then . . .” I lunge at her and she scoots off the
bed, squealing all the way out the door.
I sit back down on the bed, my head pounding painfully. Not
having a ten-­year-­old sister in the house and having a bedroom
door that locked were two of the major benefits of college life.
Don’t go there. Too little, too late.
Pushing myself off the bed, I head for the bathroom.
At least it has a functioning lock. Thank God!
After a couple splashes of cold water to my face, the night before
comes back in a rush. Amazing near-­violet eyes come to mind and,
right after that, a blush that makes me hard just thinking about it.
Cami. She was gorgeous!
Damn!
Not that it matters. Girls like that always have boyfriends. Possessive ones who know what they’ve got and are willing to throw down
for it. I certainly would. She’s the kind of girl you fight to the death
for.
Damn.
“Hurry up, slowpoke. Breakfast is almost ready.”
I hear Grace’s little feet scampering away from the door, no
doubt thinking I might come charging out after her. I smile into
the mirror above the sink. Even though she can annoy the daylights out of me, I still love her. Hell, I practically raised her. I’m
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the only man in her life, the only father figure she’s ever really had.
Or at least the only one she can remember.
My thoughts turn bitter and angry, so I splash a little more cold
water on my face before I head for the kitchen. Big, homemade
breakfasts are one of the benefits of not being at college.
“Mornin’, hon,” Mom says with a bright smile.
“Mornin’,” I return, sitting in front of the place she has set for
me, the place that used to be my father’s. “I told you, you don’t
have to do this, Mom. I can make myself breakfast.”
“Not like this, you can’t.”
I grin. “Good point.”
Her smile fades as she sits down with her own plate. She looks
at me from the corner of her eye. “You out drinking again last
night?”
I sigh. “Yeah. Why?”
“I’m not fussin’. It just seems like you’ve been doing an awful
lot of that since you had to come home.”
“Mom, I didn’t have to come home. I chose to come home.”
We both glance at Grace, who is pretending not to pay us any
attention.
“I know it’s not what you wanted and I feel—­”
“Well, don’t. Don’t feel that way. I wanted to do it, Mom. You
and Grace are all I’ve got. It just makes sense.”
Her smile returns. “I knew all along you’d grow up to be this
kind of man. I’m so proud of you, Patrick. I just wish . . .”
“Mom, college isn’t going anywhere. I can finish up later. Right
now, this is more important.”
Her smile turns sad, and she nods. I know she feels guilty, like
she ruined my life by telling me the insurance money had run out.
For the first part of the last year, I felt that way, too. But I meant
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what I said; she and Grace are the only family I’ve got. If I don’t
take care of them, who will?
“Just promise me if it all gets to be too much, you’ll say something. I don’t want to see you drink yourself—­”
“Mom!” I interrupt sternly. I soften it with a grin. “I’m fine.
Really. It’s just some fun with the boys. No big deal. There’s nothing else to do around here, remember?”
She shrugs one shoulder and shoots my line back to me. “Good
point.”
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Chapter Three
Cami
T
he smell of bacon pulls me out of my dream with both hands.
My first thought? Where am I? Once I realize the canopy
above me was mine from childhood, my second thought comes in.
Drogheda’s making me breakfast.
I smile. One of the best things about spending the summer at
home is Drogheda, the housekeeper and my oldest confidante,
and her wonderful cooking.
As I lie in bed, enjoying the familiar smells, my third thought
rushes in, disturbing the peace of the morning. It comes in a
vision—­two twinkling greenish-­gray eyes and a sexy grin.
Trick.
I should not be thinking about him. Still. But somehow that
boy got under my skin. Big-­time.
Pick “treat.” Please, for the love of God, pick “treat.”
Just remembering those words makes my stomach do a flip.
What is it about him?
I hear a loud clank come from the kitchen. I smile. Whenever
I sleep longer than I should, Drogheda “accidentally” drops things
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in the kitchen. A lot. And very loudly. Eventually it wakes me up
and I go down for breakfast. She’s devious like that.
Throwing back the covers, I stretch before tiptoeing across the
room to quietly open the door. Ever since I was twelve years old,
Drogheda and I have played a game of cat and mouse the first day
I’m back from school, before she gets used to me being home for
the summer. I make a point to pop up unexpectedly and scare her
at some point during that first day.
We did it all the way through prep school, and we’ve done it
since I’ve been in college. It’s one of those traditions that, no matter how childish it is, I’ll always continue. And I’ll always treasure.
This morning, I’m getting started early. I creep in through the
back entrance of the kitchen, making my way silently through the
butler’s pantry. I peek around the corner and see Drogheda standing
at the stove, her back to me. She’s humming softly as she so often does
when she cooks. She has a spatula in one hand, flipping pancakes.
I wait until she flips the last of the four and moves to set her
spatula aside before I pounce. In three long strides, I wrap my arms
around her.
“Drogheda!” I cry, squeezing her tightly and kissing her
rounded caramel cheek.
Drogheda screeches and reaches around to smack my butt with
her palm. She lets out a string of words in her native language
before she says something in her thick accent that I can understand. “Chica, you scare an old woman half to death!”
“Oh, you love it and you know it.” I reach around her and take
a piece of bacon that’s draining on a paper towel. “Aren’t you
happy to see me?”
Drogheda turns to me, one hand holding the spatula and the
other on her hip. “Of course I’m happy to see you. The house is so
empty without my picaro, my poco diabla.”
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I stop chewing, pointing my half-­
eaten strip of bacon at
Drogheda. “My Spanish is a little rusty, but didn’t you just call me
a little devil?”
“Me?” Drogheda asks, feigning innocence. “No, chica. You
must’ve misunderstood. Why, I would never call such a sweet, innocent child a name like that.”
I snort. She snatches the bacon from my fingers and pops it in
her mouth, then points her spatula at me.
“Ladies don’t snort.”
I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, you go sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”
As Drogheda fixes herself a cup of coffee and carries it to the
table to sit with me while I eat, I think back to the days when Mom
used to do all these things for me—­cook for me, talk to me, listen
to me, participate in my life. Since Daddy became the Jack Hines,
Mom had to become Cherlynn Hines, the wife of the Jack Hines.
And that entails much more time spent at the country club than it
does sharing breakfast with me. I would be bitter if I didn’t feel
sorry for her most of the time. It’s not always easy being a part of
my father’s immediate family.
“So, tell me about your plans for the summer,” Drogheda urges.
“You mean besides attending every party within a hundred-­
mile radius and working on my tan?”
She swats at me. “Oh no! Mi Camille isn’t going to grow up to
be one of those useless rich women. Tell me what you’re really
going to do.”
I smile. Drogheda knows me well.
“Actually, I’d like to learn a little more about the business. I
mean, I’ve always loved horses, and somebody’s gonna have to take
over once Daddy gets too old to oversee it all.”
“Ha,” Drogheda laughs. “Your papi will never be too old. You
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will have to prove to him that you can be his partner first. And
then, maybe one day . . .”
“That’s some awfully sage advice from a pretty young thing like
you, Drogheda. When did you get so smart?” At fifty-­two, while she
certainly isn’t young, Drogheda definitely doesn’t look her age.
Her rich golden skin is still smooth and soft.
“What about that boy? Do you still see him?”
I smile. “Drogheda, his name is Brent, which you know. You
are so ornery!”
She curls up her lip. “I don’t care. I don’t trust that boy. He is
after something.”
I grin devilishly. “I can tell you exactly what he’s after.”
Drogheda’s face gets all stern, and she points a finger at me.
“Don’t you dare let him spoil you, chica! He’s not worth it. Save
that for someone who loves you.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve had the lecture
a thousand times, Drogheda. You do realize that I can’t stay a virgin forever, right?”
She’d kill me if she knew it was a moot point.
“I’m not saying stay a virgin forever. I’m saying wait. Just wait.”
“For what?”
“Not for what, for who.”
“But I told you. Brent loves me.”
“No, he doesn’t. Not like he should. He loves your beautiful
face and your young body and your father’s company.”
“What else is there?”
“One day, someone will love you with or without all those
things. You just have to find him. You’ll know when the time is
right, mi Camille, when the boy is right. And trust an old woman,
that boy is not the right one.”
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Chapter Four
Trick
I
move out from underneath the hood of the Hemi ’Cuda and
reach for a bottle of water.
“Damn, it’s hot under there!”
“Six months at the new job and already you’re a pansy,” Jeff ribs
good-­naturedly.
“Pansy, my ass! Stables are just a lot bigger and cooler than this
rinky-­dink garage.”
“I guess the next time you need to work on your Mustang,
you’ll just have to find a fancy garage to work in, then, won’t you?”
“Who are you kidding? That car is cherry, man! She doesn’t
need any more work.”
“It looks cherry, but I happen to know the guy that restored it.
Freakin’ pansy. Hell, that thing could fall apart on the road somewhere in BFE.”
“Not gonna happen. I hear he’s brilliant.”
“A brilliant pansy?”
“Yep.”
“And humble, too. Or so I hear.”
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“Seriously, Rusty,” I begin. I’ve called my best friend, Jeff
Catron, “Rusty” ever since his freckles started coming in
around the third grade. Even though he’d long since outgrown
them, the nickname stuck. “I just don’t know if a fuel injection
system is gonna work with this model. I don’t think it’s gonna
fit, bro.”
Rusty growls and runs a hand through his dark red hair. “Seriously?”
“You’re the expert. You should know. I mean, I could be wrong,
but I just don’t see it happening.”
He sighs. “I thought it was worth a shot. But I think you’re right.
I knew if there was anybody that could make it work, though, it’d
be you.”
“The brilliant pansy?”
Rusty grins. “The humble brilliant pansy.” He wipes his hands
on a towel and comes around to lean up against the grill of the
’Cuda. “I gotta check out a car for a guy tonight. Out in the field.
You coming?”
I shake my head. “You’re not talking me into this again.”
“I’m just asking in case I run into trouble with it. It’d be nice
if you could at least be there. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need you,
man. This could be a big deal for future restorations, though.
This kid comes from money. I helped out a friend of his, and
now he’s willing to give me a shot. Who knows where it could
lead?”
Rusty’s dream since we were kids has been to be a world-­class
muscle car restoration expert. I know his garage makes good
money, more than enough to pay the bills, but he has dreams.
Just like I had dreams.
“If I let you sucker me into this, you owe me, Rus. Big-­time.”
Rusty nods. “Done. Anything.”
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I sigh. “All right. What time?”
“Nine thirty.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
His face breaks into a huge smile.
How do I let him talk me into this shit?
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Chapter Five
Cami
“J
enna, you should totally get that, especially if you want to
make a little extra money,” I say as she twirls in front of me.
She stops spinning and stares at me, confused. “Make a little
extra money? Huh?”
“Sure. If I had some singles, I’d be trying to stuff a couple in
your G-­string right this minute.”
“Oh. Ha. Ha,” she says caustically, turning toward the bank of
mirrors behind her. “Is it that bad?”
“Good Lord, Jenna! That skirt is so short I can see London,
Paris, and France from right here.”
Her lip pooches out in a pout. “Well, what about the shirt?”
“Shirt? Is that what you’re calling it?” Although I do like the soft
pink color and the lettuce edge, the top needs at least two more
inches of material to not be considered one half of a bikini.
“God, when did you become my mother?”
“When you started dressing like a stripper,” I tease with a wink.
Jenna’s shoulders slump. “Is it really that bad?”
She isn’t finding my teasing funny, which isn’t like her at all.
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She usually gives as good as she gets. “You know I’m just picking
on you. It’s just . . . different. That’s all. I love the color and the
trim. And the skirt is really cute, it’s just a little shorter than stuff
you usually wear. That’s all. Who are you trying to impress, anyway?”
She comes over and sits in the chair beside me. “Trevor and I
have dated since our freshman year in high school. I know he loves
me, but lately, I can’t help but feel like I’m losing him a little.”
“And this is how you plan to win him back?”
“Of course! What hot-­blooded American guy doesn’t love a
stripper?”
“For the night, maybe. But for longer?” I look at her skeptically.
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t try to spice things up?”
“Spice things up?”
“Yeah. You know, spread my sexual wings a little.”
“Exactly where are your wings located?” I kid as I look down at
her short skirt.
She flips me the bird.
“Jenna, I’m not saying that at all. You know I, of all people,
have zero advice to give. I’m just saying if it’s a temporary thing,
fine. But if you feel like you’re losing him, like if it’s an emotional
thing, I don’t think this is gonna help. At least not long term.”
She screws up her face and sticks her tongue out at me. That’s
the Jenna equivalent of Cami, you’re right.
“You’re so smart it makes me sick.” She shoves her shoulder
against mine in that gentle way that friends do.
“Have you talked to Trevor about any of this?”
Jenna wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.
“You should, you know.”
“I know, but it’s not that easy.”
“Well, find a way. He’s a nice guy. Maybe it’s fixable.”
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“I hope you’re right,” she says, sighing. Jenna stays slumped in
her chair like Eeyore for a few more seconds before she perks up.
She looks at me. “You totally get me, you know?”
“I know. And it scares me.”
She grins, which is always a good sign. “So, stripper or no?”
I laugh. “Maybe one night as a stripper wouldn’t hurt anything.”
“And it might be fun.” She waggles her eyebrows comically.
“All right, all right. Settle down. I think we’re about to go into
territory that makes my brain bleed.” I have a strict policy about
Jenna grossing me out with her TMI tendencies.
“You shouldn’t think of it that way, Cam. You should look at my
life as your own personal ‘What Not to Do’ manual.” She turns to
me with a wicked smile in place. “Of course, it more often serves
as the ‘What to Do’ manual.”
I roll my eyes as she struts back to the dressing room.
“It looks gorgeous,” Jenna says from the edge of my bed as she watches
me curl my hair. “If you keep messing with it, you’ll ruin it.”
I push the handle to release the last curl. It falls into a gentle
spiral. My hair has a natural wave. It’s not curly in that enviable
loose-­
curl way and it’s not straight in that enviable poker-­
straight way. It’s just wavy, wavy in that has-­a-­mind-­of-­its-­own
way. Basically, I have two options in life: a curling iron or a flat
iron.
“Why are you so worried about it, anyway? You never go to this
much trouble for Brent.”
“What? I can’t spice things up, too?”
“Since when does your relationship with Brent need spicing up?”
“It’s not that it needs spicing up. I just thought it could use a
little . . .” Greenish-­gray eyes flash at me from my memory. It could
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use some of that, some of what Trick made me feel in less than five
minutes.
“Since when?” Jenna’s perceptive stare pins me from across the
room. “Unless this isn’t about Brent at all.”
I look away from her eyes. “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.” But I do. I know exactly what she means. And
she’s right.
“Camille Elizabeth Hines, are you still thinking about that guy
from last night?”
“No! What guy?”
Jenna’s mouth drops open and her eyes get wide. “You are!”
She slides off the bed and walks toward me, her hands on her hips.
“You’re still thinking about that hot guy from the bar.”
“You’re crazy. I have—­”
“You are such a liar! I know you too well, Cami. Tell the truth.”
I turn toward her and lean against my vanity. “Okay, so what if I
am? It’s not like I’m ever gonna see him again. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that you finally found a guy who really does it
for you. Good God, I’ve been waiting for years for this to happen.”
Jenna steeples her fingers in front of her mouth, her forehead
wrinkled dramatically. “My baby’s growing up.”
I throw my brush at her. “Oh, stop!”
Her expression turns serious. “Listen to me. You’re my best
friend and I love you. I’m not saying that you need to chase after
some guy you met once in a bar. But you should give this some
thought, Cami. If Brent doesn’t make you feel all that and more,
something’s wrong. I’m just sayin’.”
Deep down, I know she’s right. I love Brent, but he doesn’t turn
my insides to mush or fill my thoughts day and night. But he’s a
great guy who treats me well and has my father’s approval. And he’s
hot. Who doesn’t like to have a hot date to kiss?
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“Well,” I begin, straightening. “None of this affects our plans
for the night. How do I look?”
Jenna scans me from the top of my dark red curls to my black
shorts and cowboy boots.
“Hot enough to go trick-­or-­treating,” she responds with a wink.
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Chapter Six
Trick
E
ven in the dark, with only the glow from the lights around the
makeshift stage that used to be the floor of a barn, I see her.
The instant she walks through the gate, she draws my eye like
honey draws a bee.
Her hair is all wild around her face, making me want to run my
fingers through it. She’s wearing a skintight shirt and a pair of
shorts that show off the longest legs I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but
get lost in the thought of what those legs would feel like wrapped
around me. And the best part is, she’s with another girl. The same
girl she was with at the bar. Not a guy.
“Hey, Leo,” I call to the guy setting up the keyboard. He plays
for the cover band that’s entertaining in the field tonight. “If Rusty
comes looking for me, tell him I’ll be right back.”
I make my way around the edge of the crowd, back to where
Cami and her friend have stopped to watch the band set up. As I
come up to her left side, she turns to look at me.
Now, I’ve got an ego just like any other guy, but I also know
when a girl is attracted to me. And this girl is attracted to me.
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Her eyes light up and her lips spread into the most beautiful
smile this side of heaven.
“You really should stop following me,” I say with a grin.
“Apparently I can’t seem to help myself,” she replies, her eyes
twinkling.
“I’m unfortunate in that way. So much animal magnetism, the
ladies just lose all control.”
She laughs, a deep, husky sound that makes me want to groan.
“And so humble, too.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that today. I’m not sure what
it means.”
“That you know two delusional people?”
“Most likely.”
She smiles. I smile. I could just look at her all night long.
“So, what brings you to a field party? I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I’d seen you here before.”
“Oh, really? Come to a lot of field parties, do you?”
I shrug. “Not anymore, but if I’d ever seen you at one, I would
remember. Trust me.”
The glow of the stage lights is enough for me to see her blush.
“You’re really gonna have to quit doing that.”
“Doing what?” she asks coyly.
“Blushing like that.”
“I assure you, if I could avoid it, I would.”
“But then I’d just have to make it my mission in life to make
you blush. By whatever means necessary.”
Her smile falters a little and her eyes dart to my mouth.
God help me!
“So, what did you say you were doing here?”
“I didn’t.”
“But you were going to.”
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“Was I?”
“Well, it’s either that or you were going to take me up on my
offer.”
I hear her soft gasp, even above the noise of the crowd around
us. It squirms in my stomach and makes my palms itch to touch
her.
She clears her throat. “Actually, I’m here with my boyfriend.”
“Damn. I knew you were too beautiful to be unattached. It’s
just a shame you’re dating an idiot.”
“An idiot? Why is that?”
“Any guy would have to be out of his mind to leave you alone
at a party for one second.”
“I’m not alone.”
She turns around to her friend, but she’s gone. “Well, I wasn’t
alone.”
“But now you are.”
She nods but doesn’t try to make any excuses to leave. She just
watches me. And I watch her.
This might be the only chance you get, Trick.
I take a step closer. She doesn’t move away. “There is one thing
I should’ve told you last night,” I say, taking one more step toward
her. I reach out and loop one long fiery curl around my finger and
bring it to my mouth. It feels like silk and smells like strawberries.
“What’s that?” she asks, her voice a little breathless.
“I don’t mind a little competition.”
“You don’t?”
“No, but I hate to lose.”
“Do you lose often?”
I lean down, my face only inches away from hers. I watch those
incredible eyes as they flit between my mouth and my eyes over
and over again.
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“Never,” I whisper.
And then I press my lips to hers. They’re soft and warm and just
as lush as they look. I keep expecting her to pull away, but she
doesn’t.
Deciding to make the most of my one shot, I slide my fingers
into her heavy hair and tilt her head to the side. Her lips part and
I slip my tongue right between them.
The inside of her mouth tastes like sugar and mint. I tease the
tip of her tongue and it flirts back a little with mine. What really
surprises me is when I feel her hand at my waist. Her fingers fist in
my shirt. She’s holding on for dear life.
I wind my arm around her tiny waist and pull her body in close
to mine. I feel her melt against me. It’s all I can do not to throw
her over my shoulder and carry her off into the dark. But a throat
being cleared behind me ruins my fantasy.
She tenses in my arms and I know without opening my eyes
that it’s her boyfriend. I ease my head back, breaking the contact
with her lips, missing it immediately, and I smile down into her
eyes.
“That was worth what’s about to happen next.”
I turn slowly around to face my aggressor. His face is red with
fury.
I preempt him. “All right, you get one freebie. Make it count.”
I tuck my hands behind my back and I stand there and wait.
The guy looks like he has no idea what to do.
Hell, if that was my girl, I’d be on you like stink on shit.
Finally, after looking behind me at Cami, he balls up his fist
and makes a passable attempt at a punch. It’s so slow, I turn my
head and his knuckles glance off the side of my face. Probably
won’t even leave a mark.
“Fair enough. Now, you go your way and I’ll go mine.”
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THE WILD ONES173
I pull my hands out from behind my back and start to walk off.
From the corner of my eye, I see him lunge at me. I sidestep him
and he nearly loses his balance and falls on his face. When he
turns around, I know it’s more about pride now, which means he’s
getting ready to get stupid.
“Look, man, I gave you a free shot for kissing your girlfriend.
Don’t push it.”
The guy comes at me swinging this time. I block his first
punch, duck his second, and then put my fist in the center of his
gut. He doubles over and I lean down to speak quietly to him.
“Stay down. If you don’t, this won’t end well for you.”
With that, I nod to the guy’s slack-­jawed friend, wink at Cami,
and walk casually away.
Smart guy. He stayed down.
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Chapter Seven
Cami
I
t takes me a second to recover after Trick winked at me. It
doesn’t help when I hear Jenna mumble behind me, “Mother of
hell! That was effin’ hot.” Finally, I snap back to my senses and go
to Brent.
“Are you all right?”
I put my hand on his arm, but he jerks it back. “What do you
think you were doing?”
In the face of the emotional hurricane that’s blowing around
inside me—­guilt over thinking about Trick, guilt over wanting
him to kiss me, pleasure over being in his arms, disappointment
that Brent doesn’t make me feel that way, shame for cheating on
my boyfriend—­I latch on to the one defensive thing I can find—­
indignation. I would call it righteous indignation, but the way I’m
still trembling after Trick’s kiss, I think righteous might be a stretch.
Indignation will just have to do.
“You’re mad at me because someone else kissed me? I had absolutely nothing to do with it! It’s not like I sought him out. I suppose it’d be my fault if I got hit by lightning, right?”
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And that’s kind of what it felt like, like I’d been struck by lightning. Delicious, toe-­curling, hair-­raising, belly-­stirring lightning.
“Well, it didn’t look like you were fighting very hard.”
“Did you ever consider that it might’ve taken me by surprise? I
mean, it’s not like I came expecting some random guy to come up
and kiss me.”
But if I’d known Trick would be here, I would’ve wished for it.
“I’m sorry,” Brent said, hanging his head a little. “You’re right.
I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Guilt stabs at my conscience again. “Can we just forget about
all this and enjoy the band?”
Brent sighs. “Yeah. I don’t want this to ruin your whole night.”
“Good,” I say with a smile, winding my arm through his. “Let’s
get a drink and go watch the band.”
“Where’s Trevor?” Jenna asks, as we turn to make our way to
the keg.
“He’s still talking cars with that guy out front. He’ll be here
shortly.”
A few minutes later, each of us armed with a red Solo cup full
of beer, we make our way toward the stage. The band is getting
ready to go on.
They’re a local group called Saltwater Creek. I happen to know
of them because they played a couple of college gigs that I attended. They’re a really good cover band with a few original songs
that aren’t half bad.
The lead singer and guitar player, Collin, walks to the microphone. “All right, all right, all right,” he says in his best Matthew
McConaughey drawl. “We’re one man short, but I think we could
go ahead and get started if y’all can help me talk our friend, Trick,
into coming up and filling in for a song or two. Come on up,
Trick.”
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THE WILD ONES177
Every eye in the crowd turns toward the foot of the stage. Trick
is there. He starts shaking his head and backing away from the
stage, his hands held up in a stop gesture.
“Aw, come on, man. Do it for the people. They’re here to rock
and roll. Let’s give ’em what they want.”
He’s still shaking his head, even though several guys around
him are pushing him toward the stage.
“Let’s hear it for Trick, everybody!” Collin shouts. “Trick!
Trick! Trick!”
The crowd joins the chant and Trick looks around, a slow smile
curving his lips. For just a moment, his eyes meet mine. I look
away before Brent notices.
“Yeah!” Collin yells as the crowd starts clapping.
I look back toward the front. Trick is walking onto the stage.
Someone hands him a bass guitar and he puts the strap around his
neck. He takes the pick and starts testing the tune of the instrument. The crowd quiets until they hear the familiar chords of “Cat
Scratch Fever” begin to emerge. Then they go wild.
Walking to the front of the stage, Trick picks the notes effortlessly. When his solo riff is over, the rest of the band chimes in,
beginning with the heavy beat of the drum. Girls start screaming,
guys start hollering, and I can’t help but smile.
I’m really beginning to enjoy myself when, all the way across
the throng of partiers, Trick looks up and his eyes meet mine. I am
a deer caught in the headlights. I am a girl charmed by the cobra.
I am breathless and mesmerized.
And then he grins.
Just like that, I’m his. Whether he knows it or not.
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VIRAL NATION
Shaunta Grimes
After a virus claimed nearly the entire population,
the world changed. The Company, which ended the
plague by bringing a life-­saving vaccine back from
the future, controls everything. But when brilliant
and autistic sixteen-­year-­old Clover Donovan
discovers her brother’s life is in danger, she sets out
to save him by taking on the mysterious
Company . . . and incites a revolution that will
change their destinies forever.
AVAILABLE IN JULY 2013 FROM
BERKLEY TRADE PAPERBACK
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I do not look upon these United States as a finished product.
We are still in the making.
—­Franklin D. Roosevelt, radio address on
Brotherhood Day, February 23, 1936.
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Prologue
“K
eep her away from me.”
James walked toward his wife with their newborn
daughter sleeping against his chest, her body a warm spot through
a shirt he hadn’t changed in three days. “You don’t mean that,
Janie.”
“I don’t want her near me.” Jane’s features were swollen almost
beyond recognition. Sores, seeping and open, covered skin that
was a source of vanity—­more his, than hers-­-­only a week ago. Talking caused the corners of her mouth to crack.
His own skin ached to the muscle in sympathy with hers. Like they
shared the same body. And he was so angry. So goddamned bent.
They were supposed to be safe here, in the mountains where
the fleas that carried the virus couldn’t live. The president told
them so.
Told the whole country, so that desperate and already sick
people stampeded to higher elevations. Nothing could hold them
back. They came like a revival of the Gold Rush, blinded by the
need to move westward and upward into the Sierras.
“Hold her, Jane. It’s too . . .” late anyway. He couldn’t bring
himself to say it. He wished to God it wasn’t true.
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Shaunta Grimes
His wife brought the virus home from the hospital along with
their new baby. Clover, they’d named her. Jane said it was a good
name for a baby born in spring.
It was nothing more than bad luck that the virus came to the
hospital at the same time their Clover did, but Jane blamed herself
all the same.
She’d rear ended a pick-­up truck on the way to the supermarket. Her water broke and Clover was born two weeks early. If the
baby had come on time, in the first part of May instead of middle
April, they would have known better than to go to the hospital.
Ten days ago the virus was something that happened somewhere else. Obscene but distant, like reading in the Reno Gazette-­
Journal about a hurricane in Florida or a tornado in Kansas.
Closer than an earthquake in Haiti, but still not their worry.
Not something that could touch them beyond a general grief
for the suffering of fellow human beings and an uptick in gasoline
or food costs.
Now it was everywhere. It was in their living room, on the narrow bed he’d moved down from their son’s room for Jane when she
couldn’t climb the stairs anymore.
Their son West, only three years old, was already feverish, his
lymph nodes swollen and hot. It would come for Clover next. And
James, too. Maybe even tonight.
Except Jane’s body filled Clover’s with immunities that could
keep her healthy longer than him.
The thought that he might die before Clover did made it difficult for James to breathe. It made him want to do something reckless and unthinkable. He had to be healthy enough to care for his
baby or she’d be left to die alone.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
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VIRAL NATION183
Jane moaned, low in her throat. Her skin decomposed, even as
he watched.
His wife didn’t deserve this shredding of her body while her
mind refused to blunt. She’d find no relief, not even in dementia,
until she was dead.
For the first time since they were seventeen, there was nothing
he could do to protect her.
The world had collapsed around them while they told each
other everything would be okay. The virus was only the icing on a
cake with layers of energy crisis, climate change, recession, xenophobia, and a short, but vicious civil war between the Midwestern
and Southwestern states over the need for illegal migrant workers
in the farms and the desire to keep them out of the border states.
The media called that cake the Bad Times.
Until Jane got sick—­was it just three days ago? Yes, just three
days ago, when the air wasn’t thick with the scent of her dying
flesh. Until the first sores came, James, like everyone he knew, assumed that a return to good times was coming.
“Please, take her out, James. It’s not too late. It’s not.”
But it was. Jane would die tonight, if there was any mercy left
in the universe. His boy had maybe two days. By morning, West
would be wracked with pain, just like his mother. Within a week,
it would be over for all four of them, one way or another.
James kissed the top of Clover’s head, felt her feathery dark
wisps of hair against his lips. She smelled new, when the rest of the
house stank of a B-­grade slasher movie.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” he whispered to Jane.
Her eyes, wildly green in her ravaged face, filled with tears.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault, baby. It’s not your fault.” He lay Clover against
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Jane’s body. His wife was too weak to fight, so she wrapped a fragile
arm around the tiny bundle and curled protectively against the
baby, like an oyster around a pearl.
How could Jane have lost so much weight so quickly? Under a
worn nightgown, her rib bones felt like splintery artifacts against
the back of his hand.
The doctor who told them that Jane had the virus, wore a full-­
body hazmat suit and something that looked like a cross between
an astronaut’s helmet and the gas mask James had been issued in
Iraq before West was born. She sent them home from the clinic
with what she called a ‘pain kit.’
Prescription pain killers, and a bottle of liquid narcotics for the
children. And a box of pre-­filled syringes.
“For when the pills stop working,” she said.
She had a case full of the kits, and a box of red plastic quarantine ribbons on the floor of her examination room.
They went home, stunned, with one of each and no follow-­up
appointment. Everyone knew, no one survived the virus.
All that remained was managing the pain and praying for a
miracle. They were left to take care of each other because no one
would risk infection to care for them.
Jane had not stopped praying, the words falling off her lips, and
as far as James could tell, on deaf ears. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from doing it now. God, give me the strength to do this.
He shook a dozen small white pills from the bottle. She
wouldn’t be able to swallow them, her throat hardly let sips of water through. So he crushed the pills into a fine powder with a gray
stone mortar and pestle that they’d bought on their honeymoon in
Cuernavaca.
They’d ridden horses there. Jane learned to balance on her
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VIRAL NATION185
knees across a pony’s bare back, arms thrown wide to the wind. She
had no fear then. She wanted to do everything, try everything.
James found applesauce to stir the powder into.
Jane held the sleeping baby and murmured to her between bitter spoonfuls. After taking the last bite, her throat still worked,
maybe trying to speak to him or say goodbye to Clover. Maybe just
reacting to the agony of so much swallowing.
Somehow, he’d expected an instant end to her pain. It didn’t
happen that way. Her breaths started to come in hitching hiccups,
so far apart that between each he was sure she was gone. Her body
rattled as her blood pressure plummeted. Her system was nearly
empty, but released anyway, adding to the sick-­house stench.
But she didn’t die. He’d made her pain worse.
He fumbled for the box that held the syringes, his heart pounding and hands shaking. The needle went through the skin of her
upper arm before he could think about what he was doing.
He didn’t even know what he’d given her. Morphine, maybe.
Some stronger relief than the pills. Did she need more? He picked
up another syringe, noticing for the first time that the doctor had
given him four.
Enough for a quick, semi-­sanctioned death for his wife and
children. For him. Law and Order reruns called a man who did
what James could see no way around doing a family annihilator.
Jane gasped another breath, then one more.
And then her eyes closed, the green dulling before they did,
and James panicked. “Jane!”
The quiet in the house was shattered by a pounding on their
front door that made his heart thud hard enough to send a wave of
nausea over him. Clover screamed as she was startled out of sleep.
He put the used needle down and grabbed the baby, because
he didn’t want her disturbing Jane.
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She’s dead. I killed my wife.
She might wake at any moment, maybe from the pain caused
by the sores, or because her swollen throat wouldn’t let her take a
breath.
She’s dead. Oh, God. Forgive me.
He’d lost his mind, sometime in the past minute. Was that all
it took? One minute?
“Who is it?” He called, unwilling to look through the peep hole
and see someone he knew covered in open sores.
“Dr. Hamilton.”
He opened the door just as the doctor jerked away the plastic
quarantine ribbon from the jamb and let it bounce down the front
steps. When she turned back to him, he saw an oozing bandage in
the hollow of her right cheek. She wore blue jeans and a pink t-­
shirt, instead of a hazmat suit. Without her mask, she looked ill
and exhausted.
Beyond the doorway, the street teemed with people, and noise
he’d somehow missed until now. Car horns honked. Children
banged wooden spoons into pots and pans, like they were scaring
off evil spirits on New Year’s Eve.
“What’s happening?” He felt dim. Like he’d already half followed his wife to where ever she’d gone when her eyes closed.
Somehow he’d completely forgotten there was a world outside this
house.
Jane believed in heaven. Said God believed in him, even if he
wasn’t sure he believed in God. He wanted to go to her.
No.
Not before the children. Them, and then him, and they’d all be
together again.
The doctor came into the house when James took a step back.
“You can’t be here,” he said.
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The doctor reached into her bag and pulled out a hypodermic
needle. “It’s over. It’s finally all over.”
She removed the plastic cover from the point and walked to the
bed where Jane lay. The applesauce dish and used needle sat on
the table next to her.
It didn’t take long for the doctor to realize it was too late. James
couldn’t make his throat work to get out a confession before the
doctor felt for a pulse and let out a sad sigh.
“Oh, James,” she said.
He was going to prison. He knew it immediately. But, whatever
was in that syringe might help West. It looked like the kind of implement a cartoon doctor might wield: oversized and filled with an
icy blue substance. “West is sick.”
James, still holding his daughter, started up the stairs to where
West lay listless in his bed. The boy’s sweet, small face already
marked with sores on his fever-­flushed cheeks.
The doctor swabbed West’s arm with antiseptic and pushed the
sharp point of the wicked-­looking needle into his skin. The boy
didn’t even whimper, a sign of how deeply the virus had invaded
his body already.
“It’ll take a while,” the doctor said. “And he’ll need a shot every
day. You all will. I’ll leave enough for you to inject until he’s well
enough to come to the clinic. Let’s call it a week, okay?”
“And then he’ll be better?”
The doctor had lost her glimmer of joy. She’d meant to save the
life of a young mother. James felt numb.
“The drug is a suppressant. It’ll keep the symptoms away and
stop healthy people from contracting the virus. But everyone needs
a shot everyday. Forever.”
The doctor stuck James in the hip. The suppressant burned
like hot tar as it worked it’s way through his veins. “Oh, my God.”
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“You’ll get used to it.” The doctor rubbed the spot she’d injected, encouraging the medicine to move more quickly, and then
used a third needle on Clover’s fat little thigh. The thick substance
formed a bubble under the baby’s skin, too viscous to move easily.
Clover startled, her arms and legs opening wide, and her
mouth twisted in a silent screech before sound finally escaped in
a high-­pitched wail.
“I’ll send someone for Jane,” the doctor said quietly. “I’m so
sorry.”
* * *
“No, Daddy,” West moaned when James sat on his bed two days
later to administer the boy’s third shot. The sores were in the
creases of West’s groin now and one had started in the crook of his
right elbow in the night.
James tortured his dying son with jelly-­thick medicine that
seared as it pushed through a needle as thick as a juice box straw.
Before Dr. Hamilton showed up, James was ready to move West
and Clover on to whatever came next in order to save them from
pain.
Now he shoved needles and medicine that burned like acid
into them, all because someone had given him a glimmer of hope.
“It’s making you better, buddy. I know it hurts, but you need it.”
West’s thin arms were bruised where the first two shots had
gone in. Like a miniature junkie. Would the treatments be less
painful in the boy’s thigh? Maybe James should try his hip?
In the end, he was afraid to deviate from what the doctor had
shown him.
How could West’s little body endure this day after day? James
gave his son a stuffed koala bear to squeeze, then pushed the needle into his skin and depressed the plunger.
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West cried and James reminded himself that the first night his
son had been too ill to notice how unpleasant the suppressant was.
* * *
By the end of the week, West’s skin was healing, his lymph nodes
were smaller, and he began to have a spark of energy again.
For the next month, James and his children spent hours every
day in line at the clinic for their suppressant doses. And James
prepared himself for his inevitable arrest. He’d murdered Jane with
his inability to withstand her pain. He deserved to be punished.
There was no one else to take care of West and Clover. He and
Jane were both only children. Their parents were all gone, either
dead or, in the case of Jane’s father who had walked away when his
daughter was twelve, deserted. Probably all dead, now.
Most of every day was spent trying to figure out how to take his
next breath without his wife. He didn’t go to work. He didn’t even
bother to find out if he still had a job.
Day after day, no one came to arrest him. Maybe there were too
many dead to focus on the actual cause of death for virus victims.
Too many changes happening all at once to spend any time noticing one mercy killing.
Maybe there had been so many mercy killings that arresting all
the guilty survivors was impractical.
Whatever the reason, no one came, and he couldn’t find the
courage to turn himself in.
His children needed him, he told himself. There was no one else.
News trickled in over the radio. Two scientists, Ned Waverly
and Jon Stead, had developed the suppressant. In order to administer it to those who had survived the virus, each state gathered its
residents into a central city.
In Nevada, that city was Reno, where James, West, and Clover al-
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ready lived, so they weren’t uprooted the way the survivors who traveled in caravans from the southern and eastern parts of the state were.
They didn’t have to move into the home of a dead family. Sleep
in their beds, eat their food at their tables. The process of bringing
in the displaced was quick and efficient. There were so few left,
less than twenty thousand in Nevada, and nearly half of those
younger than twelve. The virus had scared both the fight and the
flight out of all of those old enough to think about either one.
“We had it better than most states,” his only surviving neighbor
said as she cooed over Clover. His daughter didn’t like to be held,
she stiffened like a hard-­limbed baby doll, but Mrs. Finch didn’t
seem to care. “The mountain states all had it better.”
She was right. The drought-­devastated plains states, which had
already badly lost their war, had been nearly depopulated. The
states where staple crops were easily grown were hit the hardest,
the radio announcers said. Not just by the virus, but by the fall out
of the war fought on the country’s best soil.
James heard, six weeks after Jane died, that crews were picking
through Reno, removing dead bodies, sanitizing houses, making a
place for the surviving Nevadans who’d stayed in the state. Five
thousand left the state, according to the radio. They went back to
where they came from. Mostly, that meant California, since a decade’s worth of floods, courtesy of melting glaciers in Greenland
and Antarctica, had sent people streaming east over the mountains
to Nevada. Some were shuttled to the states that didn’t have
enough people left even to populate one city.
“A recruiter came yesterday,” James said to his neighbor. “They
want me to join the crews.”
Alba Finch had lost her husband, her children, and all but one
grandchild to the virus. Isaiah was West’s age. The two boys played
in the place on the living room floor where Jane had died.
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“I’ll mind the children,” Mrs. Finch said without looking at him.
Not for the first time, James wondered if she had her own secrets.
The government was building a wall around part of the city.
The better to monitor daily suppressant dosing, the mayor said.
The better to ensure that no one went out and brought back the
virus. Martial law, the president said. Just until things settled down.
“I can’t stand to think of them in the foster houses,” James said.
The government commandeered a gated community built just
as the housing bubble was bursting. Rows of houses no one had
ever moved in to. A ghost neighborhood. Each 3000-­square-­foot
micro-­mansion with granite counter tops and renewable bamboo
floors would be filled with orphans and the children of people who
were needed to work rebuilding society.
“No,” Mrs. Finch said. She kissed Clover’s forehead and the
baby arched back, her face red with an impending squeal. “I
wouldn’t have that.”
Two months ago, the world had made sense. Now there weren’t
enough people to manage the farms and ranches that fed the country. There were whispers that even if there were, the land wasn’t
producing. Those who had survived were prostrate with grief and
largely unskilled in the tasks of making a first world nation run.
The United States of America was no longer a first world nation, anyway. The virus had leveled the playing field.
There was talk about some kind of portal under Lake Tahoe.
Submarines and time travel, a science-­fiction fantasy reported by
breathless radio voices that captured the imagination the way that
Seabiscuit and James J. Braddock had during the Great Depression.
Two months ago, most everyone believed the Bad Times were
temporary. Hard, scary, but not lasting. Not forever.
James didn’t think anyone believed that any more.
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So far as the colleges go, the sideshows are swallowing
up the circus.
–-Woodrow Wilson, June 3, 1909,
Presidential Address at St. Paul’s School
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Chapter One
Sixteen Years Later
Walled City of Reno, Nevada
C
lover centered the envelope, which was the first personal
mail she had ever received, against the bottom edge of a
worn, woven place mat that was centered against the edge of the
kitchen table.
Rectangle on rectangle on rectangle.
Delivery stamp on the right, the Waverly-­Stead Reno Academy’s
return address on the left. Her own name and address front and
center, written with thick blue ink in a sharply slanted script. Miss
Clover Jane Donovan. She liked that. It made her feel important.
It was a skinny letter, feather light in her hand. Whatever the
Reno Academy had to say to her could be said on a single sheet of
paper. She was pretty sure whatever it said, what it meant was that
she had tested well enough to qualify for higher education.
Waverly-­Stead, the Company that was the center of every aspect of
life in Reno and all of the 50 walled American cities, wanted to
train her for some useful profession beyond farming or learning to
work a sewing machine in the clothing factory.
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Shaunta Grimes
Maybe learn to be a researcher in the massive downtown library that was the center of everything good that happened in her
life. She touched the edge of the envelope. It felt substantial. Expensive. Like the shoe box filled with her mother’s old letters, worn
smooth and soft with a thousand readings, stashed in the trunk at
the foot of her bed.
Not at all like the flimsy recycled paper West sometimes
brought home from the Bazaar. They rationed that paper like it
was dipped in gold.
She liked the way the envelope felt almost like cloth as she ran
her finger from the top left corner to the right, again and again.
She closed her eyes and rocked as her fingerprint rasped
against the grain of the paper.
“Aren’t you going to open that?”
Clover’s heart lurched once, then settled as she took a breath
out of order and it caught in her throat. She ignored the question.
West tossed his pack to the floor and sat in a chair across from
her, already dressed for the day in blue jeans and a light-­blue shirt
that buttoned down the front, the collar of a white t-­shirt peeked
out at the neck.
Every other day of the week, he wore brown. For the dirt slingers, he’d said before his first day of work at the cantaloupe farm
nearly three years ago.
She started to rock again, to bring herself back into balance,
humming this time.
“Clover,” West said. And then, when she opened her eyes,
“Don’t glare at me.”
She reached back and yanked her collar inside out, abruptly
ending an angry exchange between the back of her neck and a stiff,
itchy tag. “I need the scissors.”
Who came up with the bright idea to put tags in clothing any-
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VIRAL NATION195
way? Sock seams, too. How hard could seamless socks be to make?
She wiggled her toes and rocked a little faster.
“Scissors,” she said again, holding out her other hand to her
brother.
West pushed his chair back, the metal legs scrapping across the
tile floor, and across her ear drums, too. She twitched against the
sensation and held the tag further from her skin as West cut it off.
Something soft and heavy pressed itself against her shins under
the table. Clover reached down to pat Mango on his cream-­
colored head. The bull dog rubbed his broad forehead against her
jeans, and then propped his jowly chin on her knee.
Her rocking slowed and then stopped.
West reached for the letter. “Do you want me to read it first?”
Clover put her palm down on it. “Not likely.”
She lifted the envelope and tapped one end against the table,
then tore away the edge and shook the letter out.
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to
the Waverly-­Stead Reno Academy’s fall term. We have reserved a
bed for you in the Girls’ Dormitory. An orientation and registration interview are scheduled for Monday, August third, at eleven
in the morning. Please attend.
The letter was signed Adam Kingston, Head Master.
Scrawled across the bottom was a handwritten note. Your entrance exam scores were extraordinary, Miss Donovan. I look forward to
having such a bright student enrolled in the upcoming semester. Signed
with the initials A.K.
Clover read the letter through twice. It didn’t surprise her. She
graduated primary school at the top of her class. Adam Kingston
would have been an idiot not to accept her.
It was good to know he wasn’t an idiot.
“I’m sorry, Clover,” West said.
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“Sorry about what?” She pet Mango’s head. The dog lapped his
broad, slobbery tongue over the top of her hand and pressed his
weight more firmly against her legs. That was part of his job. The
pressure helped her focus.
West sat in the chair next to hers. “I know how much you
wanted this.”
She handed him the letter. “I got in.”
“Are you kidding me?” He grabbed the paper and read it. “You
even got accepted into the boarding program. Come on, Clover.
Smile at least!”
“I’m happy.” She showed her teeth to prove it.
Most everyone graduated from primary school and went to
work for the government. They worked on the farms, like West, or
at the Bazaar handing out rations. They preserved food for the
winter, or so it could be sent to the other cities that couldn’t produce enough to feed themselves. Or they worked for the Company
doing menial labor like guarding the gate or rocking babies in the
Company nurseries.
Now that the children who’d survived the virus were older,
there were far more babies than there used to be.
The Academy was for people whose tests showed an aptitude for
research or medicine or leadership. Engineers that worked with
water treatment and electricity were Academy trained. Travelers—­
Time Mariners and Messengers—­did as well. That was the most
coveted, and most elusive, track. Doctors and other scientists were
Academy trained, too. Even artists came through the academy, although Clover was pretty sure she’d flunked that part of the exams.
“Do you know how hard it is to get into the Academy?”
“They didn’t take you,” she said. West’s face fell, and Clover
wished she could take the words back. Not because they weren’t
true, though. “No one is good at everything.”
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“No, they aren’t.” He looked for a minute like he wanted to
strangle her, and then like he wanted to hug her. She was happy
when he just leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m
proud of you.”
“I know.” She pushed her chair back. “I need to go to the library today.”
Maybe she really would be a librarian when she left the Academy. She loved the library more than any other place in the city.
West studied her for another long moment. “Come on, then.”
When Clover stood next to West, she came up to his shoulder,
same as she did their father. West had the same habit James Donovan did of yanking his hand through his dark brown hair until it
stood up like a porcupine asleep on his head.
Would their father ever find out she’d been accepted into the
academy?
Clover grabbed her pack, already full of books, and followed
West to the back door.
“You need to comb your hair.”
West shot her a quick salute and opened the door for her.
She clipped Mango’s lead to his harness with her freehand and
went out into the heat.
* * *
“There you are!”
West stopped and made a low chucking noise with his teeth
and tongue so that Mango would notice and stop Clover, too.
She’d say she could go alone to the library, but West needed to see
her turn down the road toward the big building on Center Street.
In three weeks his little sister would be in boarding school, and
he wasn’t sure what he’d do with all that freedom. Swim in it,
maybe.
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Their next door neighbor, Mrs. Finch, was in her seventies.
She had looked after West and Clover since their father was recruited to the crews, soon after the virus took their mother. Her
grandson was West’s best friend. Isaiah was denied entrance to the
Academy and joined Waverly-­Stead’s guard training program at
sixteen. His grandmother had a stroke a week after he moved into
the training barracks. Now West looked after Mrs. Finch.
She reached a palsied, soil-­covered hand into the pocket of the
kind of front-­snapped cotton dress that old women had worn forever. Her small stack of ration coupons were bent and tattered
paper rectangles the city used and reused until their print was
worn completely off. Each was worth a pound of produce or meat
or grain. She also had one for the tiny bit of oil, sugar and salt she’d
be allotted for the week.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming this morning,
West.” Her face screwed up to the right when she spoke. At least
she could speak now. And the nearly constant drooling from the
first year had passed. West was relieved when she started to look
like their Mrs. Finch again. He knew Clover was, too. Mrs. Finch
was the only mother his sister had ever known.
Every Wednesday since he turned 18 and was old enough to get
into the Bazaar, West picked up Mrs. Finch’s rations with his own.
He wasn’t late this morning. He’d never been late, but Mrs. Finch
still acted like he was going to let her starve every week.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Finch,” he said as he took her coupons and
slipped them into his own pocket. “I’ll be around with your rations
this afternoon.”
She knelt back on a small cushion, lurching to the right and
then finding her balance, in front of a bed of lettuce. “I’ll have
some cabbage soup for you and Clover. Maybe some bread, too, if
I get myself inside to get it rising.”
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Even though she’d had a stroke, Mrs. Finch’s front yard was a
jungle of produce. Pumpkin vines twined around stalks of corn
and bean poles, sunflowers lined one side of her house. She fed
the seed-­filled heads to the chickens that pecked in a fenced area
under an apple tree. It was too early for ripe apples, but West and
Clover would eat themselves sick on them in the fall.
Her garden made the neglected patch in West and Clover’s
backyard look pathetic. Her contributions to their food stocks kept
them from being more than skin and bones.
“Let’s go,” Clover said from beside him.
“Good morning, Miss Clover,” Mrs. Finch said to her. Loud
and slow. “And how are we today?”
Clover was easily three times as smart and ten times as well
read as anyone West knew. Mrs. Finch included. Maybe Mrs.
Finch especially, since she still greeted Clover the same way, every
time she saw her.
Clover said, just as loud and slow, “We’re fine.”
Mrs. Finch blinked at her, then looked at West who shrugged
one shoulder. The old woman practically raised Clover. If she
didn’t know the girl by now, she never would.
“I was just telling West I’ll have cabbage soup for the two of you
this afternoon.”
“My brother doesn’t like cabbage soup.” Clover shifted her
weight from one foot to the other and flapped her free hand two or
three times. “I’m late for the library.”
“Clover.” West looked at Mrs. Finch, whose nearly-­black eyes
bulged out of her coffee-­colored face enough to look painful.
“Thank you, Mrs. Finch.”
He took Mango by the collar and walked away, knowing Clover
would follow. Hopefully before she made some comment about
how Mrs. Finch’s eyeballs looked like boiled eggs.
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“Slow down,” Clover called, practically running to keep up.
“Let go of my dog!”
West let Mango go and shortened his steps. They walked together for a while in silence.
Their street was lined with brick houses, each sitting on about
an acre of land. This neighborhood had once been more densely
populated. The crews, in the old days, tore down houses to give
more land to those that remained. Before the reconstruction there
were two neighbors between them and the Finches. With something like fifteen thousand people living in a city built for ten or
twelve times as many, there was room to spread out.
And need for the room, because the government rations alone
weren’t enough to feed a person. Everyone grew some produce.
Some people kept backyard chickens and even dairy goats, if they
were lucky enough to win a pair in the Bazaar. West and Clover
had two laying hens in a pen in their backyard.
“Are you going to the Bazaar while I’m at the library?” She
asked every week. The answer was always the same, but she still
asked.
“Just to pick up our rations and Mrs. Finch’s.”
“We need candles,” she said.
He had thirty-­five chances each week to win extras. Twenty-­one
he earned working at the cantaloupe farm, plus Clover’s minor
ration of fourteen. Each ticket was traded for a token that he
gambled for candles, toilet paper, soap, a butchered chicken.
Maybe if he was lucky, some extra energy for the week. Anything
above and beyond their bare-­bones food rations. On Wednesday’s,
he pulled for Mrs. Finch’s fourteen elder ration extras, too.
“Reading by candlelight isn’t good for your eyes, you know,” he
said.
“Just, get some, okay?”
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He didn’t answer. He had exactly zero control over what the
machines gave him. Some weeks he came home with so much he
could barely carry it, others with nothing more than their basic
rations.
Clover waved over her shoulder as she turned with Mango toward the library. From behind, she looked more like twelve than
sixteen. Her black hair was cut short, in chunky layers. She had a
habit of hacking at it with scissors when it started to bother her.
She wore their mother’s red Converse high-­tops and blue jeans
cuffed at the ankle with a standard-­issue white t-­shirt.
She was so thin. He hoped for some meat, instead of the candles she wanted. The virus, which many expected to affect the
chicken population, had jumped from humans to cows instead.
They were endangered now and pampered like pets on dairy
farms. It was hard for West to imagine that once upon a time
people ate them. A pound of lamb or pork would go a long way,
though.
West watched until his sister was out of sight, and then walked
the other way, toward the Bazaar.
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