by L.J. Shen
Seeing as we already live together in the apartment Daria’s parents purchased for her, and we’ve been declared as the ‘it’ couple on campus by every Tom, Dick, and Harry, I am trying to tell myself that it should not freak her out. But Daria takes a step back, cupping her mouth.
“Is this a proposal?”
“Nope”—I grin—“but it’s a promise you’ll be getting one before we graduate. Sound good?”
She nods. “Sounds…the best.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Okay. Good. Fuck.
Notre Dame, Junior Year
I pour out of class and hug my psychology textbooks close to my chest. After much discussion with my mom, I finally decided what I want to do when I grow up. Become a school counselor and help little future Darias. My backpack with my MacBook, phone, purse, and the rest of my belongings is strapped on my shoulders, feeling light as a feather. I can’t wait to see my superstar boyfriend playing against Navy tonight. Penn is all over political science. I think he wants to go back and make a difference in the neighborhoods that spat him and Gus and Via out into the world.
A smile hovers over my lips when I think about last night. About making love to him so long and hard he complained that he’d never have any strength for the game today. How, seemingly impossibly, our sex becomes even more intense and desperate and meaningful as time passes.
I’m about to exit Lyons Hall on campus, walking under the darkened arch on this autumn day, when a hand snakes behind me and tugs me to the corner of the arch. My back slams against the wall, and I let out a hysterical moan.
No. This is not happening. No.
A hand cups my mouth, and I’m thinking I should scream or bite it off when the man it belongs to stares at me from a few inches away. My boyfriend.
My soon-to-be dead boyfriend.
He removes his palm from my mouth with a cocky grin.
“What in the good heavens do you think you’re—”
He shuts me up with a hard kiss, his lips grinding on mine roughly, and I melt and clasp the lapels of his tracksuit. I’m a fool for this guy. Stupid in love and embarrassingly hot for him. When we finally come up for air, he rears his head back, staring at me, dead calm and serious.
“I have something for you.”
I bat my eyelashes as he produces a red apple from his duffel bag and tosses it into my hands. My eyes widen at the realization of what it is.
“Game over. You win. You conquered me even though it was me who marched into your territory unannounced.”
I’m at a loss for words. So I choose to do the stupidest thing in the moment. I take a bite of the apple, press my lips to his, and we both bite it in the middle.
The Lady and the Tramp style.
“Victories are sweeter when you celebrate them together,” I whisper.
“All right. Take two. This time, I hope like hell that you’ll get the hint because there’s so much more on the line. According to traditional folklore around this neck of the woods, if two people of the opposite sex kiss under the Lyons Arch, it leads to marriage. You following this, Miss Followhill?”
I blink at him, biting down on my lip so I don’t laugh hysterically. What does he mean, take two? When the hell was take one? My mouth drops into an O shape as the penny drops.
“You mean…?”
He gives me a sharp nod, closing his eyes.
“Had it in my pocket last year. Have it in my pocket now. I can’t afford a diamond just yet, so it has a…”
“Orange sea glass instead,” I finish for him, my heart rioting in my chest. He grins.
“Please, for the love of G…Marx, put me out of my fucking misery and tell me you’ll be my wife. I’m not asking you to make the commitment this year. Or next year. Or maybe not even the next one. I’m asking you to make the commitment to make the commitment, and yes, I know how Dr. Phil that sounds.”
I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him so hard I think our lips might fall off. He lifts me off the ground and into the air, kissing my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, then finally, my chin.
“Shiiiiit,” he hisses. “You’re still not giving me words, Skull Eyes.”
His shirts are so perfectly whole these days. Mine, too.
“Yes, Penn Scully. It would be an honor to be your wife.”
“Thank fuck, I thought I was going to grow old and die behind this thing,” I hear from the corner of the arch and cock my head. It’s our entire football team, cheer team, Mom, Dad, Bailey, Via, Knight, Luna, Vaughn, and a girl I don’t know but have heard all about. Adriana is there, too, with Harper on her hip. Camilo has his arm wrapped around her shoulder, and they’re smiling. Not just at us, but also at each other.
Mom and Dad clap. Bailey jumps up and down. Knight gives us a thumbs-up, and Vaughn rolls his eyes but smiles. Luna, Addy, Harper, and Camilo look at us like they’ve won something. Happy in our happiness.
And that’s what good friends and families do.
They pick you up and pull you out of the mud of your own mistakes.
And when you’re not the best version of yourself? Well, they’re still there, waiting, because we’re all fucking human.
THE END
I always rewrite my books, but this one took three drafts to get right. No. Wait…four. Yes. Four, completely different versions of Daria’s story. And all of them were read by Charleigh Rose and Tijuana Turner, so suffice to say, they should be the first to get acknowledged for this book.
Also, to Lana Kart, Melissa Panio-Petersen, Sarah Grim Sentz, Amy Halter and Ava Harrison. Thanks for not hating me. I appreciate it.
To Angela Marshall Smith, Paige Smith, and Jenny Sims, my wonderful editors—I cannot thank you for not hating me, for I do not know it to be true, but thank you for always being patient with me. I appreciate it, too.
To Letitia Hasser and Stacey Blake, who always make my books pretty. Thank you for being so incredibly talented. And to Lin Tahel Cohen, my PA, for doing everything short of breathing for me. I am so awfully dependent on you.
To Helena Hunting—thanks for holding my hand. Jenn Watson—thanks for existing. And my agent, Kimberly Brower, who made this series happen even before I started writing it. You’re wow. All of you.
Special thanks to the Sassy Sparrows group, my favorite group in the universe, and to my wonderful street team, that is continuously growing, so I simply decided to start dedicating my books to them to show my appreciation, two people at a time.
Huge thanks to Social Butterfly for the wonderful PR services. Jenn, you are truly a rock and one of my favorite people in the industry. Brooke, Sarah, Nina—you ladies rock!
I would also like to thank the bloggers who took the time to read this book for no other reason than their love for the written word, and to you, the reader, for allowing me to do what I love. Please consider leaving a brief, honest review if you have time.
Always grateful,
L.J. Shen
Tyed
Sparrow
Blood to Dust
Vicious
Defy
Ruckus
Scandalous
Bane
The End Zone
Midnight Blue
Dirty Headlines
Coming Soon:
Broken Knight
Angry God
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Want to know how Jaime and Melody have met? You can read their story in Defy. Here is the first chapter of the novella, for your enjoyment.
I snailed my way out of the principal’s office toward the blistering heat of SoCal. Anger, humiliation and self-loathing coated every inch of my soul, creating a clay of desperation I was desperate to itch away.
Rock. Meet. Bottom.
&n
bsp; I’d just found out All Saints High was not going to renew my contract as a teacher next year, unless I pulled my shit together and performed some magic that’d transform my students into attentive human beings. Principal Followhill said that I showed zero authority and that the literature classes I was teaching were falling behind. To add fuel to the fire, I found out that day that I was getting kicked out of my apartment at the end of the month. The owner had decided to remodel and move back in.
Also, the blind date I bagged through a questionable dating site just fired me a message saying he wouldn’t be able to make it because his mom wouldn’t give him her car tonight.
He was 26.
So was I.
But being picky was a luxury a woman who hadn’t seen a real-life cock in four years didn’t really have.
When did it all go wrong?
I’ll tell you when—the summer of 2009. I got accepted to Juilliard and was about to fulfill my dream and become a professional ballerina. See, this is what I worked for my whole life. My parents had to take out a loan to pay my way through dancing competitions. Boyfriends were deemed an unwelcome distraction, and my only focus was on becoming a prima ballerina, to join the Bolshoi.
Dancing was my oxygen.
When I said my goodbyes to my family and waved at them from the security point at the airport, they told me to break a leg. Three weeks into my first semester at Julliard, I literally did. Broke it in a freakish escalator accident on the subway.
It not only killed my career, dreams, and lifelong plan, but also sent me packing and back to SoCal. After a year of sulking, feeling sorry for myself and developing a steady relationship with my first (and last) boyfriend—a dude named Jack Daniels—my parents convinced me to pursue a career in teaching. My mom was a teacher. My dad was a teacher. My older brother was a teacher. They loved teaching.
I hated teaching.
This was my first—and judging by my performance, only—year at All Saints High in Todos Santos, California. Principal Followhill was one of the most influential women in town. Her polished bitchery was formidable. And she absolutely despised me from the get-go. My days under her rein were numbered.
As I approached my twelve-year-old Ford Focus, tucked between Principal Followhill’s Lexus and her son’s monstrous Range Rover (Yeah. She bought her son, a senior, a fucking luxury SUV. Why would an 18-year-old need a car so big? Maybe so it can accommodate his giant-ass ego.), I realized my situation couldn’t possibly get any worse.
But I was wrong.
Sliding into my car, I adjusted the rearview mirror, took a deep breath and started backing up, slipping from between the two pricey, small dick symbols. At the exact same moment, Mr. Living With His Mom had texted me again. The green bubble flashed with “GOT THE CAR, R8DY TO SEX IT UP?” accompanied with approximately three thousand question marks.
I got distracted.
I got annoyed.
I bumped straight into Principal Followhill’s son’s SUV.
Choking the steering wheel and gasping in horror, I slapped my hand over my heart to make sure it didn’t shoot out of my ribcage. Shit. Shit. Shit! The thud that filled my ears didn’t leave room for doubt. I did to his SUV what Keenu Reeves did to the movie Dracula.
I fucking ruined it.
My fight or flight adrenalin kicked in, and I briefly contemplated whether I should use an alias and run out of the country to hide in a cave somewhere in the Afghan mountains.
How was I going to pay for the damage? Principal Followhill was going to kill me. Technically speaking, her son wasn’t supposed to park in the teachers’ lot. Then again, Jaime Followhill got a lot of free shit he wasn’t supposed to get due to his looks, social status and powerful parents.
I mustered the courage to peel my sorry ass off my seat and examine the destruction I’d caused to Jaime’s precious black Rover. I crawled out of my car and circled around to find my cheap car’s ass kissing the Range Rover’s backdoor, leaving a dent the size of Africa.
Bending down, I squinted at the white scratches, not giving a damn about the fact that my brown knee-length summer dress danced in the air, exposing my new laced panties. People may as well see them, as I wasn’t going to flaunt them in front of Mr. Living With His Mom tonight, even though, in the end, his damn car wasn’t even supposed to be here. Suffice to say, now things couldn’t get any worse.
But I was wrong. Again.
“Oh, no. No. No…” I chanted breathlessly before I heard a guttural growl.
“Next time you bend over like this, Ms. G, make sure I’m not behind you, or this’ll end up on National Geographic: ‘When Predators Strike.’”
I slowly turned around, pushing my reading glasses up the bridge of my nose and scowling at Jaime Followhill as I took him in.
Jaime looked like Channing Tatum and Ryan Gosling’s lovechild, and I’m not making this shit up (side note: here’s an idea for a great M/M book. I’d totally read it, anyway.) Sandy-blond hair tied into a messy man-bun, indigo eyes and the body of a male stripper. Seriously, the kid was so ripped, his guns were the size of fucking bowling balls. He was a walking, talking cliché of the prom king you see in 90’s movies. A baller who had every girl’s attention at All Saints High…
And his eyes were now on me, as he strode to his very smashed ride.
He wore a gray, tight Henley shirt that made his biceps and pecs stand out, slim dark denim and high-top shoes that looked so expensive and tasteless, you just knew Kanye West ought to be behind that design. He had a few bruises on his arms and a fading black eye. I knew where he got them. He and his stupid friends had a game called DEFY. It wasn’t just any fight club. The snotty fuckers used weapons, too. I guess Pretty Boy was not too posh to be pushed.
Wait, did he ask me a question about my hamster? Or was it my hamstrings?
“Well, fuck me to the moon and back.” He stopped a few inches from our cars, releasing a wicked grin. It looked like they melted together. Like his SUV gave birth to my ugly car through its rear end and now the SUV’s significant other (Principal Followhill’s Lexus) demands a paternity test.
I taught Jaime, and he was one of the few kids who wouldn’t yell/scream/throw crap at people in English Lit. He wasn’t a good student by any stretch of the imagination, but he was too busy with his cell phone to make trouble in my class.
“Sorry.” I released a pained breath, my shoulders sagging in defeat.
He lifted the hem of his shirt and rubbed his perfect six-pack, stretching lazily and yawning at the same time.
“Seems to me like I fucked your car up, Ms. Greene.”
Wait…what?
“You…” I cleared my throat, looking around to make sure it wasn’t a prank. “You fuck—I mean, you damaged my car?”
“Yeah. Bumped right into your ass. Pun intended, obvs.” He kneeled down, frowning at the space where our two vehicles met. He brushed his tan palm over the shiny metal of his SUV. Jaime made it sound like he was the one who crashed his car into mine. I had no idea why. Maybe he wanted to blackmail me. I considered myself a respectable teacher with a moral compass. But I also considered myself someone who would bathe in the ocean and sleep in her car. If I admitted to doing this to Jaime’s car, that was exactly what I would’ve been doing to survive the financial blow.
“James,” I sighed, clutching onto my golden anchor necklace. He shook his head and raised his hand in the air.
“So I screwed up your ride. Shit happens. Let me make it up to you.”
What. The. Heck?
I didn’t know what game he was playing. I just knew that he was probably better at it than I was. So, in true Melody Greene fashion, I turned around and walked straight back to the car, essentially running away from the situation like the little pussy that I was.
“Whoa, not so fast,” he chuckled, grabbing me by the elbow and spinning me around. I turned, my eyes darting to his palm on my flesh. He withdrew it, but it was too late. Butterflies somersaulted in my stomach,
and my skin prickled with need. I got hot and bothered by one of my pupils. Only Jaime Followhill wasn’t just a pupil.
He was also a sex god.
There were stories the length of the fucking Bible running around the hallways in All Saints High to prove it.
And they weren’t the only things that were long and impressive about the guy, if the rumor was true.
“I said I scratched your car.” His blue eyes shimmered with unrestrained intensity. Why was he doing this? And why the fuck did I care? This kid received more pocket money than I had in all my saving accounts combined. If he wanted to shoulder this, I should’ve just accepted. Was it decent grades he was after? Doubt it, as Jaime had fantastic scores to begin with (See: Mommy Dearest), and I heard his rich ass had already landed a spot in a Texan university, where he’d play football and probably fuck his way into some kind of a man-whore Guinness record.
“You did,” I swallowed. “And right now, I’m running late. Please step out of my way.”
We mentally shook hands on that lie, our eyes hard on one another. I had a feeling I was digging up a hole. A hole in which I was about to dump a ton of dark shit that’d land me in hot trouble. I was striking a deal with the son of the devil. Even though I had a good eight years on him, I knew who he was.
One of The Four Hotholes.
A ruthless, privileged criminal who ruled this town.
Jaime took another step my way, his body flush with mine. His breath skated over my face. Mint gum, aftershave and sour male scent made me eerily heady. I wasn’t prepared for that, which is why my face twitched uncomfortably.
I took a step back.
He took a step forward.
Bending his head down, his lips murmured into mine. To my horror, I noticed my knees buckled, and I knew exactly why.
“I owe you,” he said darkly. “And I’ll make sure you get to cash in on that debt. Soon. Very soon.”