Truce?
Copyright © 2019 Amelia Kingston
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by JeraRS
Edited by Lawrence Editing
ISBN: 978-0-6486655-1-9
Title Page
Copyright
About This Book
Playlist
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Stay Connected
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by Amelia Kingston
For Harper Delaney, moving back to her claustrophobically small hometown is about as appealing as two week old sushi. But, the newly certified elementary school teacher has an empty bank account and mountain of student loan debt. The allure of free rent and a guaranteed summer job are undeniable.
On the hunt for her dream job in San Francisco, Harper just needs to survive the summer without murdering Elijah Monroe. He may have grown into a scorchingly hot fireman, but he’s still her nemesis. Harper gave Elijah her heart when she was sixteen, and never forgave the jerk for not wanting it. Probably for the best, since he's also her stepbrother.
Elijah still makes Harper’s blood boil and heart race. And he knows it. She’ll wipe that smug smirk off his gorgeous face before leaving town. The only question is if she wants to do it with a kiss or a slap.
“Sober Up”—AJR (feat. Rivers Cuomo)
“We Found Love”—Rihanna (feat. Calvin Harris)
“Genghis Khan”—Miike Snow
“White Flag”—Bishop Briggs
“Play With Fire”—Sam Tinnesz (feat. Yacht Money)
“Baby Outlaw”—Elle King
“Lonely Boy”—The Black Keys
“Rolling in the Deep”—Adele
“No Good”—KALEO
“Choke”—I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME
“Shake It Out”—Florence + The Machine
“Head to Head”—Gin Wigmore
It’s only three months. I can survive anything for three months.
Yes, I’m giving myself a pep talk. No, it’s not working.
I pass the time on my five-hour road trip to Nowhereville, California by counting the ways in which I don’t want to move back in with my dad.
1. Zero personal space.
2. Everything closes at the crack of 6:00 p.m.
3. Bumping into a dozen people you know at the grocery store, each asking a million overly personal questions.
4. No public transportation.
5. No good Thai takeout within a hundred miles.
6. No good takeout period!
It’s like singing ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, only way more depressing.
Reasons seven through seven thousand are all Elijah “Famine” Monroe. His smug smile. His obnoxious laugh. His tempting dimples. His disinterested glare. Those magnetic emerald eyes. I hate every single part of Elijah Monroe.
This is temporary, I remind myself for the millionth time since I left my beloved San Francisco in the rearview mirror. I’ll save enough money this summer to kick-start my new life. By September I’ll have a teaching job at a prestigious private school and a fancy new apartment with furniture made out of actual wood, not plastic or cardboard. I’ll be an adult. And, I’ll be back in the city where I belong.
Despite using my cheery teacher voice, my pep talk’s still not working. I’m better with optimistic six-year-olds.
My back is stiff and my butt is asleep when the telltale signs of civilization—or at least an approximation of it—appear on the horizon. On the side of the deserted two-lane highway, a familiar wooden sign stands out among the redwood trees. Its perpetually faded white lettering greets me with our depressing town slogan:
Welcome to Weaverton!
Where Time Stands Still.
Nostalgia in all its masochistic delight floods over me as I drive slowly down the center of town. All three blocks of it. Not much has changed in the six years since I left. Or the hundred and fifty years before that.
Five hours is all it takes to travel back in time.
Squat brick structures stand all in a row. Cute provincial buildings line both sides of the street, their flat-faced storefronts shadowed by second story porches. Hand-painted signs call out each one’s purpose. Johnson’s Family Market in large black block letters. Doris’ Crafting Corner in curly red scroll. California Credit Union embossed in gold.
Nothing changes, it just gets older.
I circle around Prospecting Pete, the bronze pickaxe-toting monument to the gold miners who settled our little hamlet, and drive on to the scene of my adolescent torture. Weaverton High School. The imposing building taunts me as I slowly roll through the parking lot, refusing to stop. This isn’t where I belong. This was a way station on my journey to something better. Somewhere better.
Two miles away, down the oak tree lined streets of Californian suburbia, is my dad’s house. Now I have no choice, I have to park. This is another way station, I remind myself. I trudge up the steps to the beautiful two-story colonial like a dead man walking to the gallows.
My dad’s voice comes barreling down the hallway before he does. “My baby girl is home!”
“Only for the summer. Take it down a notch.” My words are labored as I drag my hulking suitcase over the threshold.
“I know. I know. So you keep reminding me. I’m just glad to have you home.” Excited doesn’t seem a big enough word to capture the joy on his face. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, hugging me to his chest and giving me a quick kiss on the head. I feel five years old again in the best way possible.
A small twist of guilt for the years I’ve stayed away sours the sweetness of my homecoming. I escaped this one-horse town after high school and never looked back. Berkeley for undergrad plus USF for my teaching credential equals six wonderful years in San Francisco and a mountain of student loans that rivals the Rockies. As much as I love my dad, coming home is taking a huge—albeit financially necessary—step backward. Between tuition and living in the city, I don’t have a dime of savings. Not having to pay rent is mighty alluring.
On the other hand, my strategic avoidance of one Elijah Monroe is going to come to a quick and violent end. No way can I avoid my stepbrother long in this tiny town. My eyes dart around the house, afraid my thoughts might summon the devil himself.
“Elijah is working,” Beverly’s gentle voice calls from the kitchen. I let out an audible sigh of relief. Beverly greets me in the entryway wearing a smile and an apron as usual. She chuckles and pulls me into a hug. “I swear, I’ll never understand why the two of you can’t get along.�
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“You know I love you, Bev. But that son of yours fell very, very far from the tree.”
No matter what I say, the sun will always rise and set on Elijah in his mother’s eyes. He could murder a puppy while setting an elementary school on fire and she’d still sing his praises. That’s what mothers do.
“Plus, he starts it.”
Beverly humors me with a, “Sure, dear.”
Dad changes the subject as he lifts up my heavy suitcase and stomps down the hall. “Let me get this upstairs for you.”
“Thanks, Dad!”
“You must be tired from the drive,” Beverly says, walking back into the kitchen.
“I don’t think I’ve been in a car that long the whole rest of the year combined. I’m numb all the way to my tailbone. Not to mention, I haven’t eaten all day,” I reply, following her back into the kitchen like a dog begging for scraps. “Something sweet sure would hit the spot.”
Beverly slips around the island and I take my usual seat at the counter. My mouth waters when she holds up a beautiful devil’s food cake on a crystal pedestal. With a wide grin she asks, “How about some cake?”
“Beverly, you’re an angel.”
I reach out and wiggle my fingers in a gimme gesture, ready to consume the whole thing with my bare hands. She ignores me. Instead, she cuts a wedge of cake like an adult, even using that special triangle scooper thing, and places it on a plate in front of me with a fork and cloth napkin.
Taking a moment to admire the majesty of this fine dessert, I tell her, “This looks amazing.”
“Mmmhhhmmm. I’d make it more often if you ever came home,” she admonishes in the gentle way that crushes me.
It’s not like I haven’t seen them. They came to visit me regularly in the city. I’ve just refused to come home after high school, despite their near constant pleading. See reasons seven through seven thousand. I take a massive bite of cake, not letting guilt taint its rich deliciousness.
After inhaling a second slice of cake—don’t judge, Beverly’s cake is epic—I decide to drag my tired body up to my room. “Well, guess I should go unpack and shower some of this road trip off of me.”
“Sounds good, sweetie. Dinner is at six thirty, like usual,” Beverly chirps.
Other than the sugary pink walls I never got around to repainting fading to a soft peach, my room is exactly how I remember it. A Giants poster is hanging over my desk. My softball trophies are spotless, courtesy of Beverly no doubt. My old wooden bat is still leaning up in the corner. The image of Elijah’s hand holding mine pops unbidden into my head. I smile in spite of myself.
My phone rings in my pocket. A picture of half-drunk Alisha flashes on the screen, eyes crossed and tongue sticking out. It’s from our first year in college and one of my absolute favorites. She begged me to delete it. Not for all the tea in Chinatown, my friend. Besides, she looks beautiful anyway. With her heart-shaped face, powder blue eyes, and golden hair, she could be a Reese Witherspoon lookalike if she weren’t five foot seven. I’d hate her if I didn’t love her so much.
“Hey.”
“Is it weird that I miss you already?” Her pouting makes me smile. She’s been my best friend and partner in crime since forever. We’ve survived countless bad breakups, horrible professors, boring jobs, and crazy nights. She’s also my future roommate when I start my adult life back in the city.
“I miss you too,” I reply with a wistful sigh, collapsing onto the bed next to my overstuffed bag.
“Why did you have to move again?”
“We’ve been over this a million times. Until I’m sure I’ll have a teaching job in the fall, I need to save money. Plus, Beverly got me a job running a summer program at the elementary school.” I try to sound optimistic. I’m as excited to be home as a vampire is to watch the sunrise.
“What’s it like being back home?”
“It’s weird. Everything is the same”—I pop up on my elbow and take a look around my teenage room—“but different. You know?”
“No idea.”
“Right. You’ve never left the Bay Area.”
“I did. Once. It was awful. Ughhhh.” I hear her shudder and laugh. “So, have you had to face El Diablo yet?” Alisha asks, using our old nickname for Elijah.
“Not yet. Beverly said he’s working.” I look over at the far wall. The other side of that wall is where the devil sleeps. Or used to. Beverly says he moved out right after I did. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her I’m not interested in what Elijah’s up to, she can’t help herself from bragging about him. No wonder he’s got an ego the size of Texas.
“That’s something anyway.”
“Small miracles. I should unpack. I’ve got orientation first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Already?” Alisha asks, surprised.
“Yep. Some crazy woman made me promise not to leave a minute earlier than I needed to,” I tease.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a strong, independent woman. Who’s going to go eat a pint of ice cream in your honor.”
We share a laugh because she’s not kidding.
“Love you, babe.”
“Love you too.”
I know it’s been too long since I’ve had a date when my first thought at seeing a firetruck pull up outside the school isn’t Oh, no. Where’s the fire? but Oh, yes. Where are the firemen! I’m practically drooling when I see him step out of the truck. His tall frame is broad and solid. This guy is cut. Ripped. Hot. If I faint, will he give me mouth to mouth?
My heart drops into my stomach and a weird little squeak leaves my throat when he turns around and I realize who it is. I might legit need CPR. He was cute as a boy, but he’s drop dead gorgeous as a man.
He’s not a man. He’s the devil. The bane of my adolescent existence. My stepbrother.
I drag my eyes up to Elijah’s face. He looks put together and mature in a way that I’m not prepared for. His hair is the same warm brown, but now it’s cut short and tidy. He’s clean shaven, making those full lips pop. Lips which are curved up into a familiar smug smirk as his bright green eyes sparkle with devious satisfaction. He caught me checking him out and he wants me to know it. He struts across the parking lot, shoulders back and chest puffed up. He’s the same pompous jerk I remember from high school, breaking hearts and causing trouble.
Around the school yard, everyone has turned to watch the spectacle. The kids ogle the firetruck. The teachers and assistants ogle Elijah. A groan escapes my lips. I cross my arms and scowl at him.
He’s a few feet away when I snap, “What are you doing here?” I’m loud enough half the playground can hear me. My happy teacher persona is a distant memory. I’m an angry, frustrated sixteen-year-old, fighting his magnetic pull. Was it always this strong? Doesn’t matter. I’ll never give in to it.
“Nice to see you too, Short Stack,” he quips, crossing his arms to match me.
“Enough with that stupid nickname already. It’s been almost a decade. Grow up, Elijah,” I fume. “Plus, it doesn’t even make sense.”
He looks down at the ground, trying to hide his smile. He loves winding me up. And I fell for it. Now I’m more annoyed than ever.
“Well, what do you want?”
Managing to wipe the smile off his full lips, he says, “My mom wants to know if you’re coming to dinner.”
“Coming to dinner? I live there now. Where else would I be?”
There’s a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “So it’s true? I heard you were moving back home, but couldn’t quite believe it.”
His smugness is insufferable. I will not stand here and let Elijah Monroe think I’ve come crawling back home after being beaten down by the big bad world.
“I’m staying for the summer. That’s it.”
“Sure, Short Stack.” He pats me on the shoulder. Lowering his voice to a mock whisper, he adds, “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
I take a step in
to him, poking his hard chest. He doesn’t budge an inch. “I’ll be teaching at one of the most prestigious schools in San Francisco in three months.”
“Nothing says success like moving back in with your dad at twenty-four.”
Rage surges through me in the way only Elijah Monroe can elicit. “Says the guy who never left at all? You know high school is over, right? Why don’t you grow up, Peter Pan?”
“You still afraid of the dark?”
“I hate you so much.” I reach up to wrap my hands around his thick throat without thinking. I catch myself just in time to keep my job and not ruin any chance of having a career as an elementary school teacher. Elijah laughs.
“Right back at ya. So, dinner?”
“Yes,” I grit out. “And tell Beverly to call me next time instead of sending her little errand boy. I’m sure there’s a kitten in a tree that needs saving.”
“Good one. Never heard that before. She did call. You didn’t answer.”
I grab my phone out of my pocket. Sure enough, two missed calls from Beverly. I didn’t hear it over the deafening buzz of a classroom with thirty six-year-olds.
“Fine. But unless there’s an emergency—a real emergency, not a dinner-related emergency—don’t come here again. It’s disruptive.”
He looks around the chaotic playground, unimpressed.
“I can see you run a tight ship, Ms. Delaney.” He cocks his eyebrow, twisting one side of his lips in a sinister half-smile.
I’m about to berate him, enumerating my many qualifications and achievements as an educator when a small hand clutching mine derails me.
“Ms. D, is that your firetruck?”
“No—” I don’t get far before Elijah jumps in.
“That’s mine. Do you like it?” Elijah asks as he bends down onto one knee and leans forward, making him almost eye level with the little boy.
The boy nods and asks, “Can I have a ride?”
Elijah lets out a soft chuckle that kicks over a hornets’ nest in my stomach.
“What’s your name?”
“Tyler.”
Truce?: Hating Elijah Monroe Page 1