A Novel
by Alyson Santos
Sometimes you need to let yourself fall…
This novel is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers. Events and persons depicted are of a fictional nature and use language, make choices, and face situations inappropriate for younger readers.
Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Young Love
Copyright ©2018
All Rights Reserved
www.alysonsantos.com
Cover design by L. Woods/Adam Shook
Young Love Contents
Prologue 0 - 0 = 0
Chapter 0 - 1 = -1
Chapter 0 - 2 = -2
Chapter 0 – 3 = -3
Chapter 0 – 4 = -4
Chapter 0 – 5 = -5
Chapter 0 – 6 = -6
Chapter 0 – 7 = -7
Chapter 0 – 8 = -8
Chapter 0 – 9 = -9
Chapter 0 – 10 = -10
Chapter 0 – 11 = -11
Chapter 0 – 12 = -12
Chapter 0 – 13 = -13
Chapter 0 – 14 = -14
Chapter 0 – 15 = -15
Chapter 0 – 16 = -16
Chapter 0 – 17 = -17
Chapter 0 – 18 = -18
Chapter 0 – 19 = -19
Chapter 0 – 20 = -20
Chapter 0 – 21 = -21
Chapter 0 – 22 = -22
Chapter 0 – 23 = -23
Chapter 0 – 24 = -24
Epilogue 0 + 1 = 1
Excerpt from Night Shifts Black
Acknowledgments
Prologue 0 - 0 = 0
I’ve always loved numbers.
It’s safer living in a world of blacks and whites, and numbers told the stories I could accept.
Eight: The number of friends I could make with the chocolates in my hand.
Four: The number of pounds that made Mom smile at my weight-loss weigh-ins.
Seventeen: The number I chose to become a woman by giving my virginity to Joe Morris.
If anything, numbers became more important the older I got, even transforming into a career. First, I handled small numbers. Six-hundred-thirty-three to pay the packaging vendor. Two-thousand-ninety-seven to deposit from the day’s receipts. From there, the numbers grew bigger and flaunted labels like Net Profit, Gross Revenue, Assets, and Liabilities. Important people relied on me to interpret such numbers in critical situations. They trusted me, respected me for my obsessive love. Numbers gave me purpose and value. Numbers never failed.
It didn’t take long for numbers to tell new kinds of stories. Business owners pay dearly for Potential Numbers called Projections, Budgets, and foundations for Strategic Planning. Numbers began to fill my bank account, stacking up security in a black and white world where they ruled my life.
Numbers were essential.
Critical.
Universal.
A useful map to navigate every stage of the day.
One: The minimum number of hours on the elliptical.
Twelve: The number of minutes required to prepare a simple meal for one.
Six: The number that triggers an alarm each morning, even on Sundays.
Numbers, the very foundation of my existence and the most important thing in my life.
Until one.
Thirty-eight.
The first number I hated.
The number that taught me it was all a lie.
Chapter 0 - 1 = -1
“Sienna!”
“In here.” I flex another pose for the full-length mirror. No change. I still look like a woman who shouldn’t be going to a club like Rosefire.
“Oh.” Karen stops short. Guess she agrees. “You don’t have anything less… you?”
“Hilarious. I barely know this guy.”
“So you dress like a funeral director for people you don’t know?”
I suppose she’s earned that opinion. Then again, if not for her I’d be having another peaceful evening on the elliptical, binge-watching crime dramas and racking up collars from my armchair detective’s desk. It’s fun breaking down the scriptwriters’ formula before the TV cops do. Let’s hope real detectives are better at their jobs.
She sighs and tugs at the sleeve of my pant suit. It’s a favorite of mine for client meetings and...
Oh.
“You can’t wear this to a club, Sienna. Hell, you shouldn’t wear it anywhere. Hang on.”
She assaults the racks in my closet for some miracle she won’t find.
Forty-two: the number of tops hanging in color-coded sections.
Seven: the number of dresses.
Zero: the amount of club-worthy ensembles in my collection.
Anyway, after the hell of this week, she’s lucky I’m not in yoga pants.
“Do you own anything that doesn’t belong in a courtroom?” she mumbles.
“There’s that dress I wore to my cousin’s wedding last year.”
“This?” She pulls out the offending fabric with a grimace.
“You said I looked nice.”
“Yeah? We’re not going for nice, hon. You like this guy, right? He’s cute?”
“Cute?” Can forty-three-year-old accountants be cute?
“Hot. Whatever.”
“I said he was attractive.”
“Okay, fine. Attractive. And he invited you to his party.”
“I told you, I barely know him.”
“Exactly! Which means he’s interested.”
“Which means he’s polite. He’s my contact at Kessler. He invited everyone he works with.”
“Oh my god.” She throws an exasperated hand in the air. “You’re thirty-eight, Sienna Porter. Stop acting like you’re in a nursing home.”
“I’m not! But I’m also not going to prance around like a hooker just because there’s a good-looking man in the room.”
“Judge much?”
Karen isn’t dressed like a hooker. More like a stripper? No, that’s not fair. A sorority girl. Also not fair. Maybe I’m more bitter than I thought. Joe Morris has a way of leaving resentment in his wake. As of Tuesday, I’ve officially earned the title of Ex-Wife and unofficial title of Greedy Bitch. Joe’s poetry, not mine.
“This is exactly what you need right now. Go out and celebrate the release from Joe Dick.”
I shake my head and stare back at the mirror. What’s the point? At thirty-eight, it’s a little late to decide to be someone else. To start over. Hell, to start. Besides, Karen tries twenty times harder than I ever will and she’s just as old and just as single.
The pant-suit woman in the mirror looks fine to me. She’s even wearing sexy black heels. Well, they’re heels and not the running shoes that would make everything so much easier. Do I have a pair of black ones?
“I can’t stay long anyway.” I’ll stick with dress shoes. “The contractors are coming tomorrow to begin on the house.”
“You’re still going through with the renovations?”
“What better reason for a fresh start?”
Her lips press into a pout like they do when she knows she’s lost. “At least tell me you’re wearing makeup.”
Rosefire is exactly what I expected and exactly what I hoped it wouldn’t be. Turns out I was wrong about one thing, though: this is not a college orgy club, but a loud gathering of middle-aged party-seekers looking to recapture their youth. Not judging, of course. After all, I’m here, eyeing the crowd, thinking this could’ve been my scene fifteen years ago. Okay, fine. This was never my scene.
Three: the number of clubs I’ve been to.
Thr
ee: the number I hated.
“A glass of pinot grigio,” I say to the bartender.
“White wine, really?” says the woman who orders a Cosmo.
“A Cosmo, really?” I retort.
Karen shrugs and turns to jut her breasts at the dance floor while scanning the possibilities. The flashing lights and loud thumping give me a headache more than trigger any primal urge to grind on sweaty strangers. Plus, my feet already hurt. Should’ve worn sneakers.
“So who’s the guy?” Karen asks, squinting from one dark silhouette to the next. I feel like I’m in a neon glitter lightning storm.
After a frustrating search, I point him out in the cluster of coworkers gathered around a cocktail table.
“Ooh, cute! Hope he has a friend. The one on the left maybe?” How she manages to assess those details from this vantage point is beyond me. Then again, somehow she’s able to sense her drink on the bar, pick it up, and raise the glass to her lips without averting her gaze from any potential prey. It’s impressive actually. The result of experience or a natural skill, I’m not sure.
Doesn’t bode well for Kyle if he’s lost my attention to an enchanted cocktail.
“You going to talk to him or what?” she asks. “I need that door op-en. Hot friend with the beard is waiting.”
I pull my gaze from her glass and find my own drink on the bar. “I don’t know. Probably not. It’s too early to date.”
“Please,” she says through a huff of fruity air. “You and Joe have been broken up forever. Besides, you’re not here to date. Rebound sex, hon. A tryst. A fling.”
“He works for a client.”
“So?”
“Consequences.”
Her expression wrinkles at the word I’ve introduced to her.
“See, this is your problem. You have a cute guy who’s interested—”
“Might be interested.”
“Might be interested in you, but you won’t take the risk because of the possibilities.” I even get one-handed air quotes—her other hand is still occupied with alcohol.
“I’m risk averse, you know that.”
“Ugh! We never should have gone to that stupid seminar.” She snaps to attention, and my head fills with images of those prairie dogs popping out of holes in the Great Plains. “Oh my god, he’s coming over!”
Crap.
I gulp—yes, gulp—my wine.
Tall, almost nerd-sexy, Kyle approaches with a polite smile bordering on enticing. “Hey, Sienna. You made it.”
I focus on the glow of his glasses, mostly to avoid the creepy grin of my friend behind him.
“Hi, Kyle. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. Not every day a guy turns forty-three.”
“No, it’s not.”
He clears his throat. I sip the remaining contents of my glass.
“Can I buy you another one?”
“Oh… um…”
“Yes!”
We both stare at the beaming third wheel. Kyle offers Karen an awkward smile before signaling the bartender for another round.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks, again so polite. Maybe too polite in the way he almost bows? Fairytale moments aren’t as fun in real life.
“What about—”
“Of course she does,” Karen interrupts. “I’ll watch your drinks.” Her grin has become downright disturbing. Kyle’s friend isn’t that good-looking. I think? He’s still just a flashing blob to me.
With a sigh, I force a twist of my lips and take his hand. He’s attractive. I’m single. We’re at a club. Music, booze, encouragement from friends. Everything about this moment is right, so why does it feel wrong?
He smiles when we arrive on the dance floor and tucks me close.
“Thank you again for coming tonight,” he says, gaze resting on mine.
“No problem.” Seriously, Sienna?
“I’ve been wanting to do this with you since you first started working with Kessler.”
I swallow the surge in my chest. It’s less excitement and more… regret? My eyes flicker back to the bar and the comfort of my wine glass.
I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
Thank you? Thing is, even with more reflection I’d still fail in the flirting department. I wasn’t exactly a social queen when I was young and single. Fast-forward twenty years and a failed marriage?
Cool air spreads over my skin as he puts more space between us. A glance at his face confirms he’s less than impressed with the reality of his dreams.
Four: the number of minutes it took to confirm I don’t belong here.
“Thanks for the wine and the invitation, but I should probably get going. Contractors, you know.”
His brow quirks up indicating he doesn’t know. Right. Because… geez, why did I even try?
“Oh. Okay.” He lets go of my waist, and I manage an awkward wave with my retreat.
See, Karen? Consequences.
Karen wasn’t happy about my evacuation. She was even less thrilled when I passed on plans to find another club in favor of a bath and a horror novel. We’re the kind of friends whose bond exists because it always has, otherwise I’m sure she would’ve given up a long time ago.
I pull a towel from my closet, hesitating in front of the empty rack on the far wall. Almost empty. A lone blue tie dangles from a wire hanger. Who even uses wire hangers anymore besides Joe Morris? No need to reinvent the wheel, he’d say. The sliver of fabric has looked about to slip for weeks, months maybe. But there it is, still clinging like a noose, as if it knows its future is oblivion in the recesses of my closet if it falls. I wonder if Joe’s missing tie haunts him as much as it does me. Probably not. I’m sure Marjorie has replaced it by now. Does he let her use plastic hangers?
I gasp at the sound of roaring water. Rushing to the bathroom, I lunge for the faucet to stop the flow just as a few drops begin to fleck the top edge of the tub. Crap. I hate wasting water. Images of draught-stricken landscapes sweep through my brain. Starving children and thirsty cattle. I frown at the wealth of water I’ll have to drain.
Must be nice to enjoy a warm bath when so many people don’t have clean drinking water. Now it’s my mother’s voice shouting in my ear. Her disapproval has been even louder since she relocated to Florida.
Starving children.
I sigh and pull out a bucket from under the sink. After filling it with excess bathwater, I carry it downstairs to water the plants. Three buckets later, my indoor palms are saturated, Rosie and June, my ragdoll cat sisters, have fresh drinking water, and the dishes are clean. The tub is still too full.
I retrieve another empty bucket from the garage and fill both. After placing them by the toilet for later, I allow my foot to slip into the water. Lukewarm, and I sink into it with disappointment. Still, what’s the slight inconvenience of temperature compared to the weight of hungry children on your conscience?
Mom is quiet.
Joe is gone.
Karen is occupied.
I close my eyes and lean back, enjoying rare freedom.
Chapter 0 - 2 = -2
Earning a point, the contractor shows up on time the next day. Losing a point, he’s alone. One man to renovate half a three-story Victorian? Is he planning on spending the entire summer here? Three weeks was the deal.
He smiles and holds out his hand.
“Ms. Porter?”
I take it and nod. “You’re Louis?” Just Louis? My voice contains more of my suspicion than I intended.
“I am.” He turns and shouts to his truck, “You comin’ or what?”
“The gate’s stuck,” another voice calls back.
Well, at least there are two of them. Two…
Every female hormone in my veins locks on the younger man appearing from behind the truck. Fixates. Fires shock waves that sear a column of heat through my body. Wavy dark hair, sharp ridges of muscle peeking through a thin t-shirt and loose cut jeans, he’s… young. God, so young.
Tiny butterfly wings ra
ge through my stomach as he strides toward us and fixes hypnotic aqua eyes on me.
“Ms. Porter, this is my son Jace.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he says, extending his hand.
Ma’am. That word never bothered me before. I accept his hand. Firm grip. I watch the muscle in his forearm constrict into taut lines. Does he hold our connection longer than necessary? Of course not.
Why are you acting like a middle-schooler? phantom-mom says.
“Come in.” I clear the remnants of my reaction from my throat and banish Mom back to her condo.
Louis and Jace follow me through the house as I show them around, answering questions in an authoritative tone that gives no hint of my visceral awareness of their presence. Their presence. Both of them. It’s because there hasn’t been a man in these rooms for over a year. Not since Joe moved out. Karen warned me I wasn’t giving the proper attention to “loneliness.” Louis is handsome. Late forties, maybe, with salt-and-pepper hair. Thick like his son’s.
His son. I draw in a deep breath to soothe the response of my body.
I read about pheromones once. There are certain people who just “do it” for your endocrine system. I read a lot. Too much, according to Karen. Joe. Especially Mom. Men like to feel superior, Sienna. You have to give them purpose. No one likes a know-it-all.
Jace does smell good. Just a fact, and probably not pheromone-related but a function of impeccable hygiene. Another thing I don’t care about. That’s for his girlfriend to judge, because he must have one. Or several. That’s what guys his age do, right? Date lots of beautiful women. Play the field.
Does Jace play? With a face and body like that he’d be lethal…
Pheromones. That’s just basic math. Biology. Physics, even, when you start factoring in force and…
What is wrong with you?
His lips turn up when I can’t tear my gaze away, and my neck catches fire. Great. He caught me gawking. He must get that a lot.
Cougar.
The word makes my stomach churn. I’d never thought about it before, at least not outside the realm of the retirees Karen likes to point out on the rare occasions she coaxes me out after work. I suppose that could be his label when he laughs with his friends about his dad’s client. The lonely cougar who couldn’t keep the drool in her mouth as she showed them around her cougar pad. Attraction shifts into anger.
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