Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
A note from Nancy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Published by N.E. Henderson
P.O. Box 2214
Madison, MS 39130
Copyright © 2015 Nancy Henderson
http://www.nehenderson.com
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 any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used as fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Disclaimer: This novel contains sexual content.
First edition September 2015
Editor: Jessica Grover
Interior design by Nancy Henderson
Cover Designed by Cover It! Designs
Cover Photography by 123rf.com & Dollarphotoclub.com
Beth Ates did initial editing from the prologue through chapter seven.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9912444-7-8
ISBN-13: 978-0-9912444-6-1 (eBook)
FOR CHARISSE
Thank you for getting me to the end. Love you!
“Shane,” I call out as I run out the door of my bedroom, hauling butt down the stairs to find my brother. He is by far the coolest person I know and I want to be just like him when I grow up. He’s eleven years old, but he tells people all the time that he is six years older than I am, he’s not. I’m five and my birthday falls the month before his does, so he is really only five years older than me.
“Shane,” I shout a little louder as I land on the next to the last step. Steadying myself, I leap to the bottom. “Yesss, I made it,” I squeal when I realize I have finally jumped down without landing on my butt. This calls for another jump off the ground as I throw up my fist high into the air.
Dang, where’s Dad when I need to show off my moves?
Once all my excitement settles down I remember why I ran down into the living room in the first place. My brother!
Eyeing the room, my brown eyes land on the picture sitting on the end table next to the couch. It displays the face of a pretty woman with blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She looks happy in the photo. Mom says, this was her best friend since diapers or something like that. My mom gets sad when she stares at that picture. I don’t know why she keeps it around if it hurts her heart as she says it does. I’ve never met the lady. I don’t know why that is, if she and my Mom are such good friends.
I turn my head, looking away from the picture. Shane’s not in here, so I head into the kitchen where I find my Mom is pulling stuff out of our refrigerator. She’s always in the kitchen, or so it seems. At least when she isn’t at work, being a doctor. I’m not complaining though, because she makes the yummiest things in here. And by yummy, I mean, YUMMEE.
“Hey, baby,” she says with a broad smile turning around to speak to me. She’s wearing her pink apron with lots of flower on it over her dress. This has to be a good sign.
“I’m NOT a baby, mom.” I mean, really, I’m five. I’m not a darn baby anymore, but she doesn’t seem to get this even though I tell her daily, a bunch of times a day, in fact. And she claims I have a one-track mind, and can’t remember what I’ve been told from day to day. Pretty sure it’s the other way around, lady. Not that I’m going to tell her that. No freakin’ way! I’d get the back of my head smacked in a heartbeat and that stuff is not fun. Not that it hurts, because it doesn’t, but it’s embarrassing as heck and she always does it in front of my friends or my brother and his friends.
“Sweetheart, you will always be my baby for forever and ever. You know that, right?” Her voice is like an angel and when she’s baking, mom’s usually singing and going on and on about how this is her only time to relax and enjoy peace and quiet. Whatever that means. My mom is a confusing person for sure, but then, so is my grand-maw. I’m so glad I’m a boy.
“Where’s my brother?” I ask, purposely ignoring her question. I will not be a baby forever. I’m a big boy, who does big boy things, just like Shane. I peer up at her and wait. She’s smiling as she closes the fridge and now has a ton of stuff laid out on our countertop. I know she is about to bake something that I’m going to love. The baby calling will be forgiven. I so love this lady because she knows the way to my heart. Through chocolate!
“Out back. I think Shane’s—” I stop listening once she’s told me what I want to know. Now I’m opening the sliding glass door that leads to our big back yard. Our back yard rocks. We have a big wooden swing set with two slides and a sandbox underneath. Not to mention a ginormous pool. I’m not allowed near the pool unless mom or dad is outside, plus there’s a gate with a lock and I’m not tall enough to climb over it, yet. Swimming is my favorite thing to do. Too bad summer is not year round. I’d be in that sucker right now if it were. I mean, why do we need winter? Cold weather stinks, it’s freakin’ cold. Well, maybe for that one day a year when Santa visits, but other than that it should be summer all the friggin’ time.
Walking down the steps leading into the yard, I see my brother walking out of the gate toward the front yard so I pick up my pace and follow him.
“Shane, wait for me.” I call out.
He stops, turning to look in my direction as I run toward him. I see another boy walking up behind my brother. I’ve only seen him one other time. Shane told me his name is Trent, and he moved in a few blocks from our house not too long ago.
“Whaaat do you wannnt?” my brother drags out as he crosses his arms across his chest. “I’m busy, Shawn.” He’s been giving me this same speech for a month now and it’s as annoying as the first time I heard it. He’s been busy ever since he met that Trent kid. Now my brother never has time to build Legos or play with me in the backyard. He used to love swinging on the big tire swing with me while Dad swung us or even jumping on our trampoline. Now he’s always gone with the new kid or closed inside his bedroom playing the guitar he got for Christmas. And I don’t like either.
“I want to show you what I drew. It’s so coo—”
“I’ll check it out later. I’m going
to hang out with Trent, now.” He turns away from me.
“Hey, so what do you want to do, today?” Shane asks Trent, ignoring me.
I don’t hear Trent’s response to my brother because something small and purple catches my attention. It’s standing behind Shane’s new friend. The purple thing is moving. The deep, dark color reminds me of Donatello from The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Donny is no Raphael, but he’s still a Ninja Turtle, so he’s cool in my book. When the purpley thing slides from behind Trent, I see it’s a girl. She is staring back at me and smiling like she’s shy or something. The thought occurs to me that she is a very pretty girl.
Whoa dude...stop right there. Wrong! Girls are not pretty. They’re girls and that purple I saw was her dress, a gross, yucky dress. Again, thank you Jesus I am a boy.
I walk closer, standing next to my brother, so I can get a better look at this non-pretty girl. She has long wavy blonde hair that comes down to the middle of her back and her eyes are really dark. At first glance I think they’re black, my favorite color, but upon looking a little harder I see that they are the darkest shade of blue I’ve ever seen. Her eyes kind of remind me of the sky when it’s really dark outside. They’re big, round, dark blue globes that are staring back at me.
So NOT pretty.
“She can stay here with Shawn.”
I pause my train of thought about non-pretty girls and glance up to my brother’s face. Who can stay with me? Her? I wonder if she likes to play Legos. Do girls like Legos? Hmmm...I never thought about that before. I don’t have any friends who are girls. Does she want to be my friend? She looks about my age. What do girls do for fun? I draw and do a whole lot of other cool things.
“Naw, dude, Taralynn comes with me. You want me to go down to the creek, she comes too.”
“Taral—” Uhhh, I don’t need this now. Come on, dude, just say it. Taralynn. I can say it in my head, why can’t I say it out loud. “Taral—” It still doesn’t come out right. She’s still smiling at me though, but then goes back to hiding behind her brother shyly. Stupid “L” sounds, I’ll just call her Tara. It’s safer to stick with Tara. No need to look stupid in front of this girl or my brother for that matter.
“Can I come too?” I ask, with a little bit of hope in my voice. If Tara’s going, I should be able to go, too, right? My brother looks down at me, I can already tell before he speaks, he’s going to say no. I used to be his best friend. Now he never wants me around, or so it seems, and I don’t know why.
“Stay here. I won’t be gone long.” And with that he leaves me standing alone in the yard. When Tara doesn’t follow her own brother Trent tugs on her hand to pull her along. I see her smile fall from her face and soon they are all out of my sight.
What makes her so special?
Why does she get to go and I don’t?
She’s even a girl, a stupid girl, in a stupid purple dress.
And my brother ends up being gone all day, not returning until its time for dinner.
Stupid Tara with a stupid name I can’t even say.
17 YEARS LATER…
“What’s one word that best describes you? Don’t think about it. Just say the first thing that pops into your head.”
Is he for real?
I want to roll my eyes. Instead I smile and force my eyes to widen as I bring the glass of Pinot Grigio that I’m clutching to my lips. I’m attempting to buy myself more time to answer his annoying question. The cool liquid slides down my throat in a smooth swallow. I hate it. I’m not a wine girl. I’m a beer and tequila girl. This crap sucks and I’ll never acquire a taste for it.
Oh yeah, his question. Hmmm, let me think.
“Honest,” I respond making my voice sound soft and sweet.
Liar!
I don’t intend on telling this joke-of-a-date the truth. He would cringe. I am many things, but honest is not one of them. Lies spill out of my mouth quicker and smoother than the truth ever has. Most of the time I don’t realize I’ve told a fib until it’s already been said. I’ve been lying and keeping secrets since before I learned how to write my own name. It’s the only way to survive in my family. At least for me that is.
“What about you,” I ask, turning his question around on him. I don’t care what his answer is. I’m bored. I lost interest in him half an hour ago. There goes another lie. I never was interested in him. He should have kept his mouth shut and maybe I would have suggested sex in lieu of dinner. Okay, not really, after all that would certainly get back to my parents and the last thing I need them to think is their daughter is a whore. I’m not a whore.
That is not a lie. I mean, maybe in some people’s eyes I might be considered one. I’m sure if my mother knew I had casual sex every now and again I would be the worst daughter in the history of all daughters. I would be an actual embarrassment to her, instead of the one she runs her mouth about me being. I’m a twenty-one year old college senior, of course I’m going to have a little sex here and there. Sorry, but I don’t see that being so much of a big deal or even a sin. There are plenty of real bad people in this world to count as sinners.
Tonight, unfortunately, I will not be engaging in casual sex. Tonight I plan on being the good little girl everyone thinks I am, the girl everyone expects me to be. Well, everyone except Jared, and maybe even Mase. I’m not so sure my best friend, Matt, knows the real me anymore.
I have a sudden urge to puke. That goody-two-shoes role damn near everyone I know puts me in, is exhausting.
“Well, I can’t say honest. You’ve already stolen that one. Let me think.” He taps his index finger against his lips as I glance up to meet his blue-gray eyes. How long before this is over? “Athletic.”
I give him a once over again. Well, as much as I can. The lower half of his body is blocked by the tabletop. I guess his and my idea of athletic are totally different. Sure he’s slender and in shape. I doubt there is much fat on his body, if any, but he’s scrawny. I don’t do scrawny. I mean, he’d do for a Tuesday night romp in the sack, but that’s all it would be and if I’m honest with myself, which is rare in its self, I’m not into quickies. Quickies suck and don’t get me off.
My idea of athletic is a tall, muscular man with abs so cut they will make you lose count adding how many packs he’s sporting. Calf muscles so defined you’ll trip over your own feet as you walk behind him. And arms, God his damn arms are so big just the thought of those beasts wrapped around you will have you drooling. Tattoos, what woman doesn’t like an inked man? Shoot, just thinking about him has me all hot and bothered, not to mention wet. Yep, wet and there is zero I can do about it. Mr. Wannabe Lawyer guy here isn’t going to cut it tonight or any night.
Really, I’m not a whore, people. I promise.
“Hello,” I peer up to a set of fingers snapping rapidly in front of my face.
That’s not annoying at all.
“Did I lose you, Tara?”
“It’s Taralynn,” I say with a bit more bite than I normally do when people decide they have a right to shorten my name. “And I’m sorry,” I follow trying to be as apologetic as I possibly can in my bored, please stab me in the head with a dart, state.
“What? No one has ever nicknamed you, Tara?”
“Sure they have, but my name isn’t Tara, its Taralynn. It’s Taralynn on my driver’s license. It’s Taralynn on my birth certificate. It’s Taralynn on my social security card. It’—”
“I get it.” He so rudely interrupts me. “You don’t like being called Tara. So then I guess it’s my turn to apologize to you. I’m sorry, Taralynn.” He says my name in a patronizing way that make me want to ram the heel of my shoe into his balls. I wonder what mommy dearest would say if I ever did something like that?
“It’s fine.” It’s not, but whatever. No one calls me Tara. Well, no one except the one person that can’t stand me. “It’s a common mistake.” That’s the problem with having a double first name. People take it upon themselves to shorten it. It’s not that I don’t l
ike it, when in reality I’d prefer it. I mean, whose bright idea was it to start giving their children two, first names? A stupid person, obviously, insert, my parents.
“So I was saying, before you spaced out, your mother tells me you’re in school at Ole Miss. What are you studying? I graduated from there two years ago.”
Of course he did. Did he really think University of Mississippi Alumni, Jacob Evans, prestigious lawyer to the rich, would sanction his daughter going on a date with someone who graduated from State or even Southern Miss? Hell no. Effin snob. Don’t even bring up a junior college graduate and certainly not a man without a degree.
“English.” I’m certain I can predict the next thing he will say to me. You would be surprised how many people hear you’re going for a degree in English and assume you want to be a teacher. I am certainly not teacher material. It takes a certain person to do that job. I, for one, do not possess the skill to teach another person.
“A teacher? You plan to teach?” His eyes practically peak up and his ear hone inward.
Told ya!
Schmuck.
“Not at all.” I snort a laugh. “I’m a writer, actually. My mother didn’t mention it?”
“No, she did not,” he tells me, taken back. No, literally he leans back in his chair as if he wasn’t expecting this to be my choice of career, or attempts at a career. It’s more of dream at the moment.
It doesn’t surprise me, what he’s confirmed about my mother that is. Katherine Evans is the epitome of a southern lady or what she thinks a southern lady should be and act like.
“I’m sure it was an oversight.” It wasn’t. A daughter who’s a wannabe romance novelist doesn’t fit into her proper little world. In fact, it’s embarrassing to her. She has been vocal about that since I was in high school. Sharing my hopes and dreams with my parents was a big mistake on my part.
“Fiction or non-fiction? I personally love non-fiction. Give me an autobiography and I’ll be thoroughly entertained for hours.” Loser. Okay, I shouldn’t be so judgmental. Just because autobiographies, biographies, tell-all books and the like aren’t my cup of tea doesn’t mean they are crap. They are just crap to me. I couldn’t care less about some political figure that was in office 50 years ago. I don’t give two craps about the lives of the latest washed up celebrity.
More Than Lies Page 1