Lake Redstone
Copyright © 2019 J.D. Hollyfield
Cover Design: All By Design
Photo: Adobe Stock
Editor: Word Nerd Editing
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
More from J.D. Hollyfield
About this book
Pickleball
Epigraph
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Love Not Included Series
Life in a Rut, Love not Included
Life Next Door
My So Called Life
Life as We Know It
Standalones
Faking It
Love Broken
Sundays are for Hangovers
Paranormal/Fantasy
Sinful Instincts
Unlocking Adeline
#HotCom Series
Passing Peter Parker
Creed’s Expectations
Exquisite Taste
2 Lovers Series
Text 2 Lovers
Hate 2 Lovers
Thieves 2 Lovers
Four Father Series
Blackstone
Four Sons Series
Hayden
Elite Seven Series
Pride
Casey doesn’t have much luck in the dating department, so when her girlfriends ditch their girls only weekend for a couple’s retreat, she’s forced to take desperate measures.
Refusing to be the only single one, she does what any quick-thinking girl would do:
She lies.
It was almost too easy hiring a stranger to pretend to be her hot, rich, successful boyfriend. What she didn’t plan on was him being hot, successful, and way too much trouble for her liking.
Jim was in a slump in his everyday life. He was bored and needed something to spice up his life. Accepting a gig to play the perfect boy toy was not what he had in mind, but it was too good to turn down.
What he didn’t plan for was the smokin’ little spitfire who hired him. It’s a con, a job, a fraud. But the more she’s in his presence, the more he realizes she may be more than just a ruse.
Three days at a lake house.
Two strangers who cause a lot of mayhem.
One little lie.
What could go wrong?
pick·le·ball
/ˈpik(ə)lˌbôl/
noun
noun: pickleball; noun: pickle ball
Google
A game resembling tennis in which players use paddles to hit a perforated plastic ball over a net.
Wikipedia
Pickleball is a paddle sport (similar to a racquet sport) that combines elements of badminton, tennis, and table tennis. Two or four players use solid paddles made of wood or composite materials to hit a perforated polymer ball, similar to a whiffle ball, over a net. The sport shares features of other racquet sports, the dimensions and layout of a badminton court, and a net and rules somewhat similar to tennis, with several modifications. Pickleball was invented in the mid-1960s as a children’s backyard game.
Urban Dictionary
Combination of tennis and ping pong, legit Olympic sport, way to determine friend status or sponge-worthiness.
The greatest game of all time. Played typically in gym class. Oversized table tennis or miniature tennis, played with a wooden paddle and whiffle balls. Those who are skilled in pickleball are considered the shit.
When you’re at the lake, it’s all puppies and daisies.
—Gary Rodgers
To the Lake Redstone crew:
Beware…
What happens at the lake, ends up in a book.
Dreams are awesome.
Especially the one I’m having right now—dirty sex with 1980’s version of Axl Rose, the lead singer of Guns N’ Roses. “Paradise City” is playing in the background while I ride the hell out of him…in my parents’ bedroom, my childhood dog, Muffy, staring at me while a pair of wings unfurl on my back.
What the heck?
Okay, I take that back. Dreams are plain ol’ weird.
The song gets louder, and I begin to lose my focus on the good part. I yell, “Ride ’em, cowboy!” and move faster, because…well, dreams can end at any time. If the only time I get action is while I’m unconscious, I gotta get movin’ with this.
Sadly, the song continues to get louder while the dreamy schlong gets softer.
No, no, no…
I need this! Don’t go away, wet dream! Come back!
The lyrics from Paradise City blares from my phone as my eyes begin to blink awake. My phone continues to ring, and Axl fades out of existence.
Go figure.
Even in my dreams, I can’t keep a guy. I roll over to my phone and see a Facetime call coming through from Poppy. Shoot. What time is it? My bloodshot eyes search out my clock. It’s way past ten in the morning.
With the most dramatic sigh, I reach for my phone and accept the call. I see her smiling face, along with three other of my best girlfriends.
I was supposed to meet them for breakfast to discuss our annual girls’ trip.
Shoot!
“Jesus, you look like hell.” That’s Poppy, my best friend since grade school. The one I had my first tea party with, sleepover, and first real cry over a boy where we spent all night eating ice cream like they do in the movies, only to spend the rest of it vomiting from stomach aches. Typical Poppy, she doesn’t bother to coddle me or my sensitive emotions. Normally I would tell her to buzz off, but I bet looking like hell is putting it nicely.
“Casey, girl, you get yourself into a little bit of some trouble last night?” That’s Katie, third in charge. Katie and I met at a Girl Scout retreat when we were thirteen. Neither of us wanted to be girl scouts, but our moms thought it was our legacy to follow in their footsteps. We ended up ditching our tribe, and a few hops and a skip later, found the pot of gold: the boys’ cabin. The rest is history. “Come on, girl, don’t hold out!” Katie says, popping her bubble gum.
A little bit of trouble would probably be an understatement of what I accidently got myself into last night. And I say accidently, because no one actually plans to go out and get so drunk they end up at a strip club with a random guy, getting a massage from a stripper and the random guy. The déjà vu where I promised myself I’d never drink again is hitting real strong right now. “Let’s just say I let Jesus take the wheel and he definitely crashed and burned.”
Poppy rolls her eyes, while Katie laughs hysterically. We’re exactly the same. Or should I say used to be—until Katie got married and knock
ed up. Now, she’s all strapped down by kids, being a second-grade teacher to even more kids, and expects me to be disaster enough for us both. Tough shoes to fill.
“Oh, girl, start talking. I want every single detail.” Last, but not least, that’s June. The innocent—the friend who married right out of college and started changing diapers and planning dinner menus fresh off the alter.
“No can do, my little June-Bug,” I say, scraping some dry drool off my cheek. “I’d have to remember the night to tell.” Not that I don’t remember taking body shots off the stripper, or offering my random date a lap dance, but I’m still trying to forget the whole barfing and slipping off the stage part.
Poppy straightens in her chair and leans forward, taking up most of the screen. “Well, hangover or not, it’s time for us to plan our annual trip.”
Yeah it is! I love these trips. Every year, we pick one weekend out of our busy lives and get together for three whole days of fun and destruction. When I say busy, though, I’m clearly not referring to my own. Out of the four of us, I pulled the short straw. You know, the girlfriend who isn’t married with kids and can’t hold down a man or a job to save her life. That’s me. Casey Kasem—not the reincarnated radio jockey, to be clear. My parents didn’t think about the lifelong jokes they were opening up for people before they wrote on my birth certificate. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
While all my friends were finding love, happiness, spitting out kids, and being successful, I was refusing to be attached to a man, settle down, or grow up. And, at thirty, I’m never growing up, holding down a job, or spitting out kids. Because I’m the short straw.
“So, I found this lake house,” Poppy starts, and I sit up, ready to hear her wild plans. She may be a cop by day, but when it comes to planning these wild, inappropriate weekends, she’s always on point. “And I think it would be a great place for the seven of us to relax and get some sun.”
Okay.
Hold the phone.
I might be lacking a really good job or maturity, but I passed math in college. Well…what I attended of it, and I’m pretty sure four girls does not add up to seven. “Yeah, you mean four.” There’s a bit of silence. Unfortunate thing about Facetime is you can’t hide expressions. And why are my friends sporting pity faces?
I’m not that bad at math…
Am I?
Three girls, plus myself, equals—
“So…we were thinking the guys could join us…”
No.
No!
I drop my phone, then scramble to pick it up. “Sorry, I could have sworn I heard you say the G word. Okay, so what is this lake you speak of?” Man, is my headache kicking in.
“Case, I did say the G word. I know! It’s always us girls, but we were thinking maybe we could invite the guys this one time.”
I’m still drunk. There’s no way they would—
“Case…”
“Guys…as in strippers?” What do they not understand about girls’ weekend? Why would they want their husbands on girls’ weekend!
“I know, it’s not our norm, but Mick’s agent found this location and—”
“Then have Mick go to this lake house. Let’s go to Vegas. Oh! Wait! How about Tahoe again?”
June grumbles. Maybe she didn’t enjoy Tahoe as much as I did. But how was I supposed to know you can get poison ivy in the desert? “Okay, fine, no Tahoe, what about New York again? Or Mexico! I hear they’re having major deals due to all the crime out there.”
That earns me a snort from Katie. I know she’s on my side. She lives and breathes these girls’ trips as much as I do. She has two wild boys. And by wild, I’m talking about the amount of time she spends in the ER because her children attempt jumping off the roof into baby pools, bonfires in the living room, and competitions of who can eat more dirt and not throw up.
“I know this isn’t our usual, but it’s a great deal. Mick’s agent wants to book a modeling shoot up there, so he’s gonna hook us up on this beautiful summer house on the lake. Every amenity you can think of—and it’s all free!”
Free schmree.
No husbands.
Girls weekend dammit! What do they not understand about girls weekend!
“Casey, it’s kinda a good deal. We can still do all the girl stuff. The guys can go off on their own. We’ll lay out, drink, and talk crap about everyone who’s turned into a total loser since high school—”
“Heyyy!” I let out a loud whine. I’ve totally turned into a complete loser since high school.
“You’re a cool loser, though,” Katie pipes up, trying to save Poppy from my tongue lashing.
I don’t like where this is going. It’s like, all of a sudden, my friends don’t know the meaning of just girls. And also forgot I’m as single as single gets. Party of one. Numeral Uno. A-L-O-N-E.
“I know this isn’t ideal, but it could be a great time! What ever happened to that guy you were seeing? Invite him along!” Pfft. What guy? “You two seemed really into each other the last time we all hung out.”
My brain is trying to search for who in God’s name she’s referring to. When you have all married friends, no one really pays attention to the single one. Which is a good and bad thing. Good because they spend less time judging your actions, but bad because they always think you need saving. Let me hook you up with my boss’s brother. I know a guy from the grocery store. I met a bum on the street and he’s willing to date you…
It never ends.
“Who was that cute guy you brought to June’s anniversary dinner?” Katie asks.
I have no idea. Because that’s the problem. There are so many ifs, possiblys, and failed one-nighters coming in and out of my life, I have no idea who I took to that dinner. I also don’t want to admit I have no idea, but I have to act like I have some class. And maturity. And respect…
“Oh, yeah…you mean Bob?”
Stupid Bob…
“Sure, he was nice. Why don’t you ask if he wants to come with us for the weekend? He seemed like a keeper!”
He did? Good to know.
“Case,” Poppy starts in again, “I know. This is not ideal. But it’s free. And it’s in a great location.”
So is Vegas, Tahoe, the Bermuda Triangle…when you don’t have your husbands trailing along…
“Call Bob. Never know. Maybe some nice lake time will help you realize he may be the one!”
Yeah.
Not today, Satan.
Two weeks later…
I’m sitting at the local coffee shop, having a long go-around of sending out my resume. Once upon a time, I used to have a pretty solid job…until I got laid off. Nothing I did, just bad timing, but what’s even worse is the economy and trying to get back on that horse. I’ve worked odd and end jobs since—coffee barista, daycare, receptionist—but nothing has really sparked my interest. I obviously need to get back out in the real world, but since I’ve been a victim of corporate America, I struggle with trust. Who really deserves my time? My dedication? I can’t simply work for anyone, ya know?
Okay, so maybe I struggle with working in general. It’s not that I don’t have the drive to move up the corporate ladder, it’s just that my drive tends to lean more toward “live free and semi-buzzed.”
It’s been two weeks since our disastrous girls weekend call, and nothing I said was going to get me to convince them bringing their husbands was a major red flag—horrible idea—total girls weekend game changer!
They also wouldn’t let go of who I was going to bring. Being single sucked sometimes. I guess when you’re married and trapped in a relationship you willingly signed off on and can’t get out of, you spend way too much time focusing on other’s relationships—especially your single friends. Who is Bob? What does he look like again? What does he do? After all the questions, I found myself lying through my teeth about Bob, this amazing guy I wasn’t sure was even worthy of coming on this trip because he was just so worthy!
The question still remained: who the heck i
s Bob?
I hung up the phone wondering what the hell I’d just gotten myself into. Why didn’t I speak up and say I made Bob up? I’m so single, my plant won’t even stay alive long enough to hang out with me.
One thing’s for certain: I lost at having a girls’ weekend.
The second thing: I have to find a Bob.
It’s only noon and even though I’m bathing in the mist of free air conditioning, the sun outside looks hotter than the devil’s sweaty balls. Living in Chicago sounded like a good idea, until I realized it’s expensive and I’m poor—and trying to land a job is impossible. Personally, I think my skillset in problem solving, multi-tasking, and communications is on point. But apparently when they ask, “Define what makes you the right candidate,” a reply of, “I’m always the life of the party and can speak to a group of people while dominating a game of twister” is not the right answer.
I finish applying for a CEO of a makeup company position, since I practically own stock in Sephora and would make a super cute CEO, and call it quits for today. Right when I start to shut down my computer, I get a text from Poppy.
Poppalicious: Have you heard back from Bob? Trying to get a final count for the pontoon boat party.
If I took a shot for every time one of them sent me a text about good ol’ Bob and whether he’s gonna make it…
I’d be dead.
Me: Oh yeah, took me to the fanciest steak house last night. Wined and dined me. Can’t say much more. Not a kiss and tell kinda girl…
I laugh at myself. The only steak I ate last night was inside a burrito from a local taco truck at one in the morning.
Poppalicious: Glad he’s feeding you. But is he coming? Have you even asked him? The trip is in three weeks!
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