by Beth Michele
“Hey, Dylan!” she yells, glancing over surfer boy’s shoulder. “Heading to work?” And the moment she flashes me that killer smile, even from a fifty-yard distance, my heart decides it’s running a fucking marathon and I have to find a way to slow it down so I can respond.
“Yeah. You coming by later?” I shout back, pulling open the door to my truck.
“Yup. I’ll be in. Get the ice cream ready,” she calls out, before resuming her chat with wonder boy.
She comes in almost every day for her chocolate milkshake and every day I try to think of a way to tell her how I feel. I sit and watch her from afar, the way she swirls the straw in a circular motion before her lips curve around it and she sucks. It’s exquisite torture. I have to walk around with a hard-on for almost an hour after she leaves, but it’s totally worth it. Sometimes I get off at home just thinking about those full lips wrapped around my cock, sucking on me the way she does that straw.
“Great, I’ll see you later, then.” I climb in the truck and rev the engine, eager to get the hell out of here, but not before I flip Harrington off from underneath the dashboard.
THE DINER IS jam packed when I arrive and I hurry through the side entrance so I can get to work. This place has been in my family for a long time but things went downhill after my mom died seven years ago. My father lasted all of a year, before his twice a week evening whiskey turned into daily drinking binges. He couldn’t handle her death, the diner, or apparently his two sons, so he left.
Jordan stepped up, just like he always did, and dropped out during his second year of college so he could take over the diner and look after me. But the signs of destruction were everywhere.
In the aftermath, we were pretty fucked up and drowning in grief, albeit for different reasons. Jordan, for losing parents who loved him. Me, well, I had my anger and chose to rebel with drugs and a side of alcohol. At age fourteen, that didn’t bode well for me or my future.
I no longer gave a shit about getting good grades, nor did I have to worry about vying for attention anymore, and I was too young to know where to draw the line.
The irony? I still wanted it. After all, my father taught me that negative attention was better than no attention at all. So I acted out, started spending time with twenty-year-olds who were getting high and doing lines of cocaine. There I was, stupid enough and so messed up in the head that even drug-induced hallucinations seemed like a better choice than my reality.
When Jordan finally caught on to what I was up to, he pulled me out of there so fast it made my head spin. I was embarrassed and pissed off, but truth be told, he saved my ass.
Of course, it didn’t end there. When I realized drugs were too dangerous, I turned to alcohol—the lesser of two evils. I should have known better, especially given my father’s plight. But I didn’t give a shit. Carrying a small bottle around in a paper bag seemed discreet, until I got busted with one during school.
Being suspended by Principal Dixwell was a walk in the park compared to what happened next, though. My fists became my only outlet. I used them to take out my anger and aggression on anyone who pissed me off.
That was the last straw. Jordan forced me to go to an after-school program at a nearby center for troubled kids. Grandma Molly, our closest relative from my mother’s side, came to stay with us for a while. Between the two of them, they made sure I had plenty to do when I got home: yard work, laundry, even cleaning toilets. There was never any down time for me to stop and think, and while I was angry as hell back then, I get it now. He probably saved my life, and that’s exactly what I owe him.
So when Jordan decided he wanted to honor our parents and keep the diner, I knew I had no choice but to help him. Except it wasn’t without sacrifice. He gave up his dream of being an engineer, and I decided not to go to college last year. It just wasn’t an option. Especially after everything he’s done for me.
“You’re late.” He tosses me a knowing smirk as I enter the kitchen, the smell of burgers hitting my nose with a fury. “Let me guess. Chatting it up with Evie?”
“Damn straight, but just for a few, she was making time with Harrington. I can’t stand that asshole,” I reply, and without realizing it, I’m gritting my teeth, trying to figure out forty different ways to annihilate him.
“Dylan,” he stops flipping burgers and turns to face me, “why don’t you tell her how you feel? I just don’t understand you. Life is too short and I think we’ve learned that the hard way.”
“Yeah, I know you’re right. It’s just that she looks at me like the brother she never had and I know I’m setting myself up for disappointment.” I can’t tell him the real reason—I’m inadequate. So, instead, I get to work. I throw on an apron and knot it around the back before washing my hands in the large sink behind the grill. Preparation for our not-so-world-famous French fries has begun.
“Well, you’ll never know unless you say something. What have you got to lose? You know,” he waves a greasy spatula in my direction, “you crack me up. You’re outspoken in every other aspect of your life… except with her.” He’s right. My ability to form complete sentences disappears whenever she’s around. “If you can’t say it, why don’t you draw her a picture.”
Something about the way he says that sends me back in time—and I’m nine years old again. The truth is, I love to draw. It was a dream of mine when I was young to go to art school and become a graphic designer. But that’s on the back burner. Just like everything else.
“Order’s up for table two,” I yell, after loading two plates with burgers, fries, and a side of pickles.
Wanda, a waitress who has been with us for fifteen years, comes to stand in front of me. With her dark hair lined in gray, weathered, brown eyes that crinkle at the corners, and petite five-foot-four frame, she looks like she could be my mother—until she opens her mouth.
“Hey, doll. You’re looking H-O-T today! What say after work, you and I?” She winks and elbows me in the ribs.
“Wanda, Wanda, Wanda,” I scold, “you look so matronly until you open that mouth of yours.” I laugh and hand her the plates of food.
“Matronly?” she scoffs. “Who the hell wants to be matronly?” She scrunches her face in disgust and marches off, but not before shooting me a hard stare over her shoulder. “Our date’s off.”
Damn.
A few more hours go by and I glance at my watch. Evie usually comes in around three o’clock and it’s two forty-five now. I figure I’ll get a head start on preparing her milkshake. After all, I want it to be just right.
I finish blending the milk and the ice cream as Wanda walks through the kitchen doors. “Your sweet young thing is here,” she says flatly and I grab her arm.
“I’m sorry if I wounded you earlier, Wanda. You know I love you.” I offer an apologetic smile, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“You’re forgiven.” She grins, touching her thin fingers to her hair. Still, as she walks away I hear her mumble something about being twenty years younger.
I wash my hands again in the sink and dry them on a clean towel, take my apron off, and run my hands through my hair a couple of times. Picking the milkshake up off the counter, I throw a couple of cherries on top and head out to find Evie. She’s hard to miss and I take a moment to soak her in like a bright ray of sunshine. She’s such a rare beauty. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, but she doesn’t need to. In fact, I can’t stand girls that have layers of shit on their face so thick they look like a Barbie Doll. It’s such a turn off.
But Evie, she’s naturally pretty. She has high cheekbones, creamy skin, and a pink flush to her cheeks. Her eyes are a deep shade of blue and I lose myself in that bottomless ocean every time she glances my way.
I watch intently as she eyes the menu, her long hair falling around her face in waves, and let out a sigh as I approach. “Hey, Evie,” I greet, and she drops the menu on the table.
“Hey, Dills!” That smile of hers spreads clear across her face, and hearing my nicknam
e—from the only person allowed to use it—makes my lips turn up as well. She’s been calling me that since we were kids. It actually started out as dill pickle, but it was annoying so she changed it to please me. I just wish she wanted to please me now. My distorted mind can count the ways.
“One chocolate milkshake, made just how you like it. Oh, and with extra cherries.”
“Thanks.” Her bright eyes rise to meet mine and I can’t help but smile. Damn, she’s insanely cute. She waggles her finger at me to come closer and of course I don’t hesitate. “Your hair is too long. You need a haircut.” She smoothes the hair away from my temple, my skin tingling at her feathery touch.
I suck in a breath and hope she doesn’t notice before clearing my throat in an attempt to get my bearings. Jesus, she’s barely touching me. I’d probably spontaneously combust if she had more than her fingers on me.
God, I want her.
“Really, you think so?” The pitch of my voice changes and I suddenly sound like a teenage boy going through puberty.
“Oh, I know so. Why don’t you stop by after work and I’ll cut it for you? Even though I’m still an assistant at the salon, I do Zoey’s hair and you know I’ve done Wanda’s as well.” She takes a drink of the shake and my eyes are immediately drawn to her lips. I love how her cheeks pull in when she sucks. It’s like my own secret wet dream yet I’m wide-awake.
“Yeah. You’re right, I do need a haircut. But… I also seem to remember you massacring the hair on that doll you had in fourth grade. What was her name?” My eyes wander upward. “Abigail, I think.”
Her gaze narrows and she teasingly flicks my arm. “Well, that was practice, and I was ten. I’ve come a long way since then.”
I smile on an exhale of breath. “Okay, I… guess I’ll let you cut my hair. I’ll stop by… later.” I drag out the words, trying not to sound too eager. But any opportunity to have her hands on me, I’ll take. My whole body is alert now, knowing I have that to look forward to at the end of the day.
Maybe I’ll dig deep for courage and finally tell her how I feel.
For the Love of Raindrops is available now in ebook and print.
Love, Love
Lovely
Scarred Beautiful
Finding Autumn
Rex
For the Love of Raindrops
Life in Reverse
First and foremost, to my husband, Richard, and my kids, Isabella and Richie for putting up with me while I was writing this book. For the days I was glued to my computer for hours at a time, when I needed to type just one more sentence. To my daughter for bringing me paper and a pen when inspiration hit in the shower, which it often did. Thank you for being so incredibly patient with me. Here’s to believing in signs, and thank you for believing in me. I love you.
To Nikki Groom for your friendship. I can hardly believe it’s only been three years. It seems like an eternity, and I mean that in the best way. Two crazy souls that were meant to be friends. I cherish you.
To Cheryl McIntyre and Dawn McIntyre for just about everything. For dropping whatever you’re doing to help, for responding to my gazillion emails, for all of your support and feedback with my novel. But most of all for your friendship. Lots of love.
To AJ Warner. You’re the biscuit to my raisin. I love you to the moon and back.
To Cristin Ebright, Rachel Cressin, and Kimberley Barrois (TBM). Thank you ladies for making me smile and laugh every day. Smitty would be proud. Love you lots!
To all of my author pals, and I’m talking to you Cheryl McIntyre, Sunniva Dee, Monica James, Vi Keeland, Liv Morris, Kasia Bacon-Buczkowska, and Isobel Starling. Thank you for being a constant source of inspiration, and for your friendship, support and encouragement. I love you guys!
To Isobel Starling for coming up with the fabulous bar name, Blue Monday. It was absolutely perfect for this story.
To Natalie and the ladies at Love Between the Sheets for sticking by my side along this path, for your friendship, and for always helping me manage my book life.
To Sommer Stein, for designing a cover that is so perfect for my story. While it took a while to get to it, I think the end result was worth all the aggravation I put you through. I appreciate your talent and your patience.
To Angela McLaurin, this is number seven, baby! You always know the way to make my novel sparkle and shine, and I thank you. Love you!
To Lea Burn, for all your helpful comments and suggestions, for being available when I have a million questions and need to talk something out. I’m thankful that we’re on the same page and that we both strive for perfection. I appreciate you so much.
To all of the bloggers, the ones who have been with me since I started this amazing journey, and the ones who have joined along the way. Thank you for your willingness to read, review, and share my work. For taking time out of your hectic lives to support me in my endeavors. I do not take that for granted and I know you are an integral part of the world learning about my books.
To Erika Gutermuth, Andromeda Jewls, Cheri Grand Anderman, Caroline Hattrich, Heather Reddy Andres, Barb Johnson, Cristina Arpin, Kizzy Williams, Emily Proffitt Plice, and Colleen Albert. Thank you for your passion about my books, for standing by me as I navigate this journey of writing, and for your love of the written word that rivals mine. I’m very grateful for your friendship and send you lots of love.
Finally, to my readers. I hope you enjoy this novel and these characters, and that in some way this story resonates with you. I am incredibly grateful for all of your support and enthusiasm about my work. Thank you for allowing me to live out my dream.
Beth Michele is the author of Love Love, Lovely, Scarred Beautiful, Finding Autumn, Rex, For the Love of Raindrops, and Life in Reverse. She is a Connecticut native who loves spending time with her husband and two children. If you can’t find her, though, she’s probably hiding out with her laptop or her kindle somewhere quiet, preferably a spot overlooking the ocean. She has an affinity for Twizzlers, is a hopeless romantic, and a happily ever after fanatic.
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