Next Stop Love, #1
Page 26
It took more than one long, hard conversation where Beatrice flat-out refused to back down before her parents started coming around to Julian. To their credit—once Mike gave Julian the most mortifying obligatory if-you-hurt-my-daughter speech Beatrice had ever heard—both Mike and Joyce seemed willing to see the good in him. Within a few weeks, they even seemed to like him.
Which was good, because Greyson’s defense team seemed to be taking a ‘they deserved it’ defense. They did their best to shred Beatrice’s character, making her out to be some kind of femme fatal. And Julian got it even worse. They painted him as a jealous, lowlife gangbanger, no better than Vito or his thugs.
But the recording Julian had made of Greyson’s confession was impossible for the jury to discard. And it was backed up by dozens of pieces of evidence. Vito had identified Greyson’s voice in a lineup as the person who’d called to inform him of Julian’s work address. Greyson was on camera buying the burner phone that call had come from. The prosecution had even acquired receipts and documentation from a private investigator Greyson had hired to determine Julian’s whereabouts, including an email Greyson had sent the night before the attack asking for Julian’s work address.
It took the jury only half a day to convict. Julian had slumped forward in his seat next to Beatrice, his face blank, like he couldn’t quite believe it. Greyson seemed shocked that the jury wouldn’t take his side, and furious to be taken out in handcuffs. He snarled at his attorneys under his breath, but didn’t so much as glance at the gallery, though Beatrice, holding Julian’s hand tightly, had one hell of a glare ready for him if he’d tried.
Julian operated in a stunned sort of haze for the next day or two, as though at any moment he expected to get news that the verdict had been overturned, or Greyson’s lawyers had found a last-minute loophole. But no such calls ever came. Greyson was sentenced to ten years in jail, at least seven of which had to be served before he could qualify for parole. And that was it. It was over. They could move on.
“Iced mocha for Bee?”
Beatrice stashed her neglected textbook in her bag and thanked the barista as she swiped her coffee from the counter. A moment later, she was on the sidewalk, the breeze playing with her hair, sun warming her shoulders, canary yellow canvas sneakers slapping against the pavement.
The day was warm, but her classrooms were always chilly, so she’d compromised by donning high-waisted jeans with a huge, messy slash in one knee which she’d scored at a thrift store last week, and a plain gray tank topped with an oversized, black-and-yellow plaid shirt she kept open, but tied at the waist.
It had taken a while for Beatrice to work up the nerve to tell her parents she was planning on transferring to the same college in Syracuse where Julian would be starting his art degree in the summer. She wanted to tell them she was changing majors first. They were somewhat confused at first, but took the news in stride. Beatrice hadn’t wanted to press her luck, so for a few weeks—while Julian was first waiting for applications to come back and then deciding between programs, and the two of them were working through the details—she’d let her parents believe she was going to keep commuting into the city for another two or three years.
When she finally broke the news of her transfer, their stunned silence at least gave her time to lay out all her reasoning, and get out in front of the you can’t change colleges as an excuse to be with your boyfriend, Beatrice Bauer, and I don’t care if you are twenty-one lectures. Syracuse had lower housing costs than New York City, cheaper tuition, and Beatrice could do away with the dead weight of long commutes every day. She’d miss taking classes with Kinsey and Sasha, but they were set to graduate at the end of the following spring semester anyway. Even if Julian hadn’t been a significant factor in her decision, there were plenty of good reasons to transfer.
“Beatrice!”
She spun around at the sound of that voice, a grin spreading across her face. Julian ran up to her and scooped her up, startling a happy squawk out of her.
“Hi, there, Simba,” Julian said, his eyes scrunched up under the force of his smile.
“Hey, handsome,” Beatrice said, locking her ankles around his hips. She pinched the brim of his ball cap and lifted it off his head, dropping it back on the wrong way around a moment later. One of his black curls stuck out adorably from the opening in the back. “There. Much better.”
“Why, because now I match the ’90s grunge thing you’re doing today?”
Beatrice snorted. He’d come straight from his shift at the burrito place near their apartment and was still wearing the teeshirt with their logo on the back. The only thing remotely grunge about him was the tattoo climbing up his arm and under his sleeve to touch his neck. “I don’t think backward baseball caps were ever grunge, dear,” she informed him, tracing one of the swirling lines of ink creeping from his collar with the tip of her finger.
“But they were very ’90s,” Julian said.
“True.” Beatrice raised her eyebrows. “Though I don’t care so much about our clothes matching decades. I was thinking more along the lines of how I’d rather not get a visor to the forehead when I kiss you.”
“Mmm,” Julian said, managing a sage expression for about half a second before the smile she loved so much crept back. “Sounds dangerous. You might put out an eye.” He cocked his head to one side. “An eye patch might be a cute look for you, though. Maybe in lime green?”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “You gonna shut up and kiss me or what?”
“Anything for you, Bee,” he said, the words brushing her skin.
His kiss was sweet and unhurried, and it filled her up with sunshine. She rested her forehead against his when their lips parted, basking in the steady rhythm of his breath.
“I love you,” Julian said.
Beatrice grinned, a blush warming her cheeks. No matter how many times he said it, her heart leapt in recognition. “I love you, too.”
Planting a light kiss on the end of her nose, Julian set her down. Hand in hand, they strolled down the warm, breezy street. It was a new semester and a new start. Beatrice didn’t know what that would bring with it—what obstacles would crop up, or what unexpected joy. But whatever happened, she had the man she loved beside her, holding her hand and reminding her to breathe.
And she knew they would figure it out. Together.
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About the Author
Rachel Stockbridge is an indie romance author based in central California. She’s a lifelong accidental nomad with a music degree in Electronic and Acoustic Composition (yes, really) and an ever-growing collection of books, Post-its, and art supplies. She believes everyone deserves a happy ending and a healthy dose of humor in their lives, and tries to write stories that provide both.
When she’s not writing, you can usually find her crafting, making art, dabbling in hand lettering, playing music, or running D&D campaigns.
If you enjoyed this novel, please consider writing a short review at your favorite retailer’s website. Honest reviews help other readers find me. Even a sentence or two helps me out immensely!
If you’re interested in finding out when my next book is released (and getting a few sneak peaks before anyone else!) you can sign up for my newsletter here. You can also follow me at @rachstockbridge on Twitter and @rachelstockbridge on Instagram.
Acknowledgments
First, thanks to my family, who are not only ridiculously supportive, but give excellent advice. My awesome dad let me ask him strange medical questions about the logistics of getting stabbed and gave me detailed answers and some knife-fight tips to boot. Any errors remaining in either the medical details or the alley fight are my own. Sorry I couldn’t use that idea about driving Vito and Greyson off a cliff to their watery doom, Dad. It was a good one.
My amazing mom lets me run random plot problems by her when I’m stuck, and is proof-reader extraordinaire. She’s also been the number-one encourager in my sudden re-direction from pursuing traditional p
ublishing to throwing myself headlong into self-publishing. Thanks for believing I can do this (even when I don’t) and cheering me on. I love you. And sorry about making you cry with that one scene.
My rad little sister lets me run even more plot problems by her and asks all the right questions to get me back on track. She also regularly tells me, “you said that about the last book, too,” whenever I start wailing about my inability to write, for which I am incredibly thankful, since I always seem to forget about that part a month later. AN: U rok!
Thanks to all the Scrib folks who read all or part of this book and made helpful suggestions. In particular, Shannon Murphy, who stayed with me from start to finish, even though she had to wait a crazy long time for me to finish the last section, and encouraged me with her comments; and Regenia Pillitteri, who marathoned the whole thing in record time, gave me lots of good notes to work with, and said lovely things about the book when she finished. Thank you both so much.
Extra-super-mega-thanks to Christa Bakker and Melinda Perzy, who never let me get away with anything, whether it was goofy typos or misplaced character beats, and who both gave me pep talks and virtual snacks when I needed them most. You’re two of the most nicest, encouragingest, bad-assest writers I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.
For my lovely proof readers, Brae, Kymberly, and Karen, I’ve composed a special poem:
Thank you, dear proofers,
for the help! Your hair looks great
and you are the best!
And last but not least, thank you, dear reader, for coming along for the ride. I hope you enjoyed spending time with Beatrice and Julian. I certainly enjoyed writing about them, even when it was a battle to get the words out. I hope to see some of you back for the next book!
Also by Rachel Stockbridge
Next Stop Love Series
Next Stop Love
Short Stories
How to Win Staring Contests and Intimidate People
Watch for more at Rachel Stockbridge's site
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