Eligible Receiver: A Second Chance Romance Novella

by Haley Pierce

  “Though I could drive you home, at least,” Chuckie says.

  I smile and point at my Bug. “Thanks. I’m good though.”

  He comes up close to me and squints, sniffing for alcohol on my breath. “You okay to be driving?”

  I nod, though my head is swimming. Probably not. I’ve had four beers. But I can’t stay here and pine for Silas. I did a bad job of it when he was a hundred miles away, and I sure as hell can’t do it now.

  “All right, Wilson,” he says to me, giving me a brotherly punch on the shoulder. “See you around.”

  He pulls open the door to the Roll-A-Rama and disappears inside, leaving me alone in the parking lot. I wander toward the side of the building, not really wanting to go home. Not really wanting to stay here, either. I’d always felt like this town was too small, and now I feel it more than ever. I suck in air, feeling like I’m suffocating.

  “Genevieve?” a voice says behind me.

  Silas. I know his voice, saying my name, like I know my own heartbeat.

  I whirl around to him, and he’s standing at the edge of the parking lot, underneath the spotlight, hands in his jean pockets.

  He limps up to me, and I can’t help feeling like the old Silas has left the building. Because the old Silas was a force. He used to do backflips and round-offs all over the field, right along with the cheerleaders. Better than the cheerleaders. Me? I couldn’t even manage a cartwheel. When he gets close to me, he holds out his hand. “Give ‘em.”

  I scowl at him. “What?”

  “The keys. You ain’t driving, drunk girl.”

  If I didn’t know Silas as well as I do, I’d think he cared about me, but really, he’s just hyper-sensitive to drunkenness, since his mother died in a drunk-driving accident across town the year before we got together. I cross my arms. “If you want my keys, you’re going to have to pry them out of my jeans pocket when I’m cold and dead.”

  I know Silas loves the challenge, because I see the gleam in his eye a second before he lunges for me. I whirl around to run but he gets me in a bear hug. I can feel the muscles of his pectorals and arms working, rising in all the right places, even under the fabric of his thick sweatshirt. Yes, he’d always had a rather drool-worthy physique, but holy hell, when did he turn into such a wall of muscle?

  Doubling over, I try to pull away and shriek in a combination of ticklish laughter and anger as his warm hands skirt over the exposed skin over my ribs. I feel his fingers trying to squeeze into the tight pocket of my jeans, right over my hip bone, then rear up, kicking him with the heel of my boot, in the shin of his good leg.

  “Fuck!” he growls, letting go.

  I spin in time to see him fall to his knees, and at the same time, I remember that he has a bad ankle, and I’ve just left him without a leg to stand on. I cover my mouth with my hand, but not before a gasp escapes.

  “Oh, my god, I’m sorry,” I say, bending close to him. “Silas, I’m sorry.”

  “Still like to fight, huh, girl?” I loop an arm under his warm sweatshirt, and damned if he doesn’t smell just like I remember, a uniquely Silas aroma that is everything good about my teen years—sweat, soap, and a woodsy aftershave. Getting a hold of him, I try to help him to his feet.

  Just then, I feel something being pulled from the front pocket of my jeans. With the relative ease with which he does everything, he lifts the keys in front of me and grins. “Still gullible, too, I see.”

  My jaw drops. Scowling deeper, I lunge for them, but even with a bum leg, he’s too quick. He easily pulls them away, then holds them in the air. Since he has a good eight inches on me, it’s well out of arm’s reach.

  “I’m driving you,” he says to me, walking toward my Bug. It isn’t a question, and Silas doesn’t change his mind. If I want the keys back, I’ll have to do what he says.

  I follow after him, feeling like a recalcitrant child. He opens the passenger side door, letting me in.

  Of course, memories flood into my head. Silas and me, making out, in this very car, in this very parking lot. Skating.

  When he slides into the driver’s seat, he grins at me. “Bring back memories?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, hoping my mind isn’t that much like an open book. “No clue what you’re talking about.”

  Starting the VW, he inspects my closed-off posture and nods. “That’s familiar.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He starts to pull out of the lot. “It means that you were not the most . . .” he pauses, searching for the correct word. “Physical of girls. That changed?”

  Now, I’m practically fuming. So the only thing that he remembers about me was that I wanted to wait to have sex. Truth be told, we were very physical, or at least, as physical as I wanted to get at seventeen years old. We’d rounded at least two of the bases together, but I’m sure with all the porn star experience he’s had to cloud his memory, it must all be a big blur. “Not with you. Just drive.”

  He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Next stop. Endicott Circle.”

  I sigh. It’s probably dangerous to have him know where I live, but what can I do? I say, “I don’t live there anymore.”

  He gives me a look. “Your parents sold the house?”

  “Yes, we sold the house,” I say, not wanting to go too much into it. “I live on Main and Park Ave. Over the restaurant.”

  He thinks for a moment. “Over Peking Dragon? Seriously?”

  I glare at him. Peking Dragon is one of those establishments that no one can understand how it stays in business. The windows are all very high on the brick walls, and there is nothing but darkness beyond, with a dim red glow, so it looks like illegal things are going on inside. The parking lot is always empty, no one ever goes in or out, and yet it goes right on chugging along. There were rumors someone once got an egg roll with an entire chicken beak in it. We used to make jokes that there was a reason there were no stray cats in the neighborhood.

  But other than the 24/7 scent of Chinese food wafting up to greet me, making me hungry for Lo Mein at odd times of the night, I like it. It’s my first apartment, and I’d been proud of it. Of course, it isn’t the Endicott Circle mansion I’d grown up in, and it isn’t a house in Key West. The nursing home bills ensure I’ll never be able to afford anything like that, ever.

  So when he quips, “Seen any cats around lately?” I cut him off.

  “Stop. All right?” I say. “Just stop. I’m happy there. And I’m satisfied with my life. Even if it isn’t as glamorous as yours.”

  Amazingly, he shuts up. He keeps his eyes on the road, his hands at ten-and-two on the wheel as we drive down the pitch blackness of Old Fork Road, through Scabbers woods, a popular hunting area. He doesn’t speak again until he pulls onto the main drag in Bradys Bend, where Chuckie’s run-down Sheetz mini-mart and gas station is. “Would you really have fucked Magee in the parking lot?”

  Hell, no. Chuckie is loud, has a knack for saying shit-stupid things at the worst times, and treats farting as an Olympic sport. Knowing what he knows of me, did he really think Chuckie and I could be a couple? I’m insulted.

  Maybe I imagine it, but I could swear his voice was tinged with something. . . jealousy? Yeah, right. Not likely.

  “I’m not answering that.” I point at his injured foot. “What happened to you?”

  He shrugs. “Just a scratch.”

  I snort. “Right. I saw you crying on TV, like a wittle baby.”

  He grins. “So you watched the game?”

  “Reluctantly. I was on shift at Billy’s. I had no choice.”

  He pats his leg. “It ain’t too bad. Gotta have some surgery but I should be fine.”

  “So you’re only here for a few days, right?”

  He ventures a glance at me, raising an eyebrow. “Why do I sense you can’t wait to see me leave?”

  I hitch a shoulder.

  “Am I too much excitement for you? Your heart can’t take it? Is that it?”

  I
laugh sourly. “Yep. Hit the nail on the head with that one.”

  “Because damn, this place is stuck in time, girl,” he says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “How do you take it? Everyone’s still exactly who they were before I left. Nothing’s changed. The Roll-A-Rama’s still serving up crap nachos. Abby’s still working her way through the men in this town. Chuckie’s got the same old job at Sheetz. And you--”

  I cringe as he looks me up and down. I don’t think I want to hear what he’s going to say.

  “I never thought you would stay, Genevieve. You and that big brain of yours.”

  I swallow. “I didn’t. I mean, I went to UPenn for a semester. But then my mother died, and I—” I shrug.

  He looks at me. “Your mom died?”

  I don’t say anything, partly because I know he heard me, and partly because I don’t want to repeat it.

  “Aw, Genevieve, I’m sorry,” he says, sounding genuine. At least he can be a human being about that, because he’s been there. “She was a nice lady.”

  “It was fast. Breast cancer. She was so busy caring for the two of us she never took care of herself, and when they found it, it was too late. I came back here shortly after that,” I say, thinking of the last time I’d showed up at the house I grew up in. After my mom died, the once-homey and welcoming place that always smelled like cinnamon had been dark, curtains drawn, drenched in the scent of puke and whiskey and body odor. When a week went by without my father getting out of bed, I’d had to make an executive decision about him.

  “He still doin’ everyone’s taxes round here?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No. He hasn’t been himself since she died.”

  “Okay. But I can’t believe he’d want you to stay here.”

  I swallow. The truth is, my father doesn’t want much of anything, anymore. But I’m all he has now. And one thing I don’t want is the pity, so I say, “I don’t know. As much as I wanted to get out, it actually felt good to come back home. I didn’t actually like college. UPenn was so confusing. I couldn’t decide what I really wanted to major in.”

  “You wanted to write, didn’t you?”

  I blink, surprised that he remembers. “Back then. But I took a journalism class my first semester. I got a C. I’m not very good. My professor told me I wasn’t captivating my audience.”

  He’s pressing his lips together. “Fuck that. You’re captivating.” Then he grins. “At writing, at least. I can’t speak to other things.”

  I punch him on his solid, muscular arm. The contact is enough to make me curious about what perfection lies underneath, so I vow never to do that again.

  He pulls in front of the lit neon sign for Peking Dragon and throws the car into Park, then turns to me. “So, you’d have fucked Magee?”

  I feel my hands curling into fists. “Yes. I would’ve fucked him silly. I have,” I lie, because I want to see something on his face other than superiority. “We’re an item. We fuck all the time.”

  He coughs. Mission accomplished. He looks wounded. “Seriously. I never thought him as your type.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. He’s the perfect type for me. We’re all stuck in the Bradys Bend time warp while Silas St. Clair was out conquering the world, changing it enough for the rest of us, and changing himself in the process. Now, fuck off.”

  His eyes widen. “I haven’t changed.”

  I snort. “Yeah. Right. You stick out here now like a sore thumb.”

  He looks hurt. “I do?”

  I nod and point at his gigantic, ugly ring. “You could signal to ships off the coast of the Atlantic with that thing.”

  “What, this?” He takes it off and makes like he’s going to toss it away, but I can see the pride in his eyes as he looks at it. He slides it back on and spends another few seconds admiring it, during which time I want to smack him.

  Then he reaches out to touch the side of my face, maybe push a lock of hair away, but I flinch away. “Stop.”

  “You hate me,” he murmurs. “Got it. But it wouldn’t be Bradys Bend if you weren’t still my scrappy little girl.”

  His girl. I feel a flutter inside that I quickly suppress. I am not his anything, and I’m not going to let him sweet talk his way back into my heart, with his fancy everything and his hotter-than-hell looks and his . . . god, he’s right about one thing.

  I hate him.

  “Fuck you,” I growl, pulling the keys out of the ignition and stepping out onto the sidewalk. “See you, Silas.” If I’m unlucky.

  He jumps out of the car, resting his elbows on the top of it, and says, “Hey, wait. What about me?”

  “You have legs. At least one of them is good. Walk, or limp, or whatever,” I say, not turning around as I hurry down the narrow, puddle-dotted alley between the restaurant and the laundromat. I climb up the wobbly metal steps to the door of my apartment.

  “But I’m staying at the Milton. That’s like ten miles down the road.”

  I turn to him, confused for a moment. He and his dad used to live in the apartment over St. Clair Auto, the now-defunct shithole of an auto-body repair shop down the street that his father used to own and operate, and I guess that’s just where I imagined him going after this. But when he made it big, despite the fact that he and his dad had always been at each other’s throats, he bought his dad a home in an exclusive retirement community in Naples, Florida. The few times I’ve gone past it, the shop’s windows were all boarded up and the vegetation and weeds around it had begun to swallow it up.

  I hesitate before shrugging and continuing up the stairs. “Don’t care.”

  “Ouch,” he calls to me. “That hurts.”

  “Get used to it,” I tell him. “Or don’t. Again, I don’t care. I don’t give a shit about you, either way.”

  That’s a lie; as blatant as you can get. But I need to put the brakes on this, because I can’t let him inside my apartment. I do that, and it’s all over. Knowing him, and the way he loves a challenge, he will spend all night trying to change my virginal status. And I’m not drunk, but I’m just tipsy enough not to trust myself. “Good night, Silas.”

  When I get inside my apartment, I close the door and lean against it, letting my breathing slow to normal. Then I trudge straight to the bathroom, squeeze toothpaste onto my brush, and start to scrub my teeth. As I do, guilt creeps in, and I flick it away. It’s his damn fault if he falls in a ditch on the side of the road and dies. He has absolutely no family remaining in Bradys Bend, yet another reason why he has absolutely no business returning here.

  As I’m gnawing on the toothbrush and throwing my hair into a ponytail, there is a knock on the door.

  Still holding my toothbrush, mouth filled with foam, I open the door to see Silas standing there, hands laced together. I swallow a thick lump of toothpaste and look into his eyes, my resolve breaking, as he kneels down on my welcome mat.

  “Please?” he asks, giving me the most pathetic, fat lower lip pout I’ve ever seen. If I squint just right, it’s the same little-boy Silas who tripped over his words when he asked me out for the first time. The same one who cupped my breasts with reverent awe. The same Silas who told me he loved me, and that there would never be another girl as perfect for him as me.

  It’s one word. And it’s enough to completely destroy the wall around my heart. I push the door open, and let him inside.

  Silas

  The apartment over the Peking Dragon is shit. Dressed-up, smelling sweet, but shit. Before it was the Chinese restaurant, it was a trolley station, so it’s about the oldest thing in Bradys Bend, but it looks like Genevieve has made the most of it. It’s clean and cozy, filled with little touches that show she has pride in it. And it’s so very Genevieve—with all this cute, country-style shit around, like rustic snowmen and gingham checked curtains. It smells like gingerbread, not greasy Chinese food. I walk around the room, looking at all her pictures. She has frames on every surface of her living room. Most are of her and her parents. And of c
ourse, there’s a fucking huge bookshelf there, taking up much of the wall, loaded with more books than I could read in a lifetime. I scan the titles. Some of them aren’t even in English.

  Though she never dressed the part, Genevieve Wilson is a true, snooty rich bitch, always parading around with her chin in the air, a few notches above everyone else. From what I can remember, Genevieve’s dad is a CPA who offered financial advice to just about every family here in Bradys Bend, including my dad, after my mother died. The Wilsons lived in the nicest house in town. Genevieve’s bedroom was the size of the apartment I’d grown up in over the auto shop, something I knew from the one time she let me sneak in to fool around on her giant, fluffy white bed. They lived a fairytale life. They never fought, because Genevieve was such the good, model daughter, volunteering at the soup kitchen, tutoring poor idiots like myself. While most girls wanted to distance themselves from their parents, Genevieve never did. Sometimes they’d come to my football games and she’d sit right between them, instead of with her friends.

  When I look at her next, she’s standing in the doorway to the kitchenette, cell phone at her ear.

  “What are you doing?” I ask her.

  “I’m calling you a cab. Where are you staying, again?”

  “The Milton.” I grin at her. “What? Don’t want me staying here? Are you afraid to spend the night with all this manliness?”

  “Yes,” she answers, appraising me from head to toe. There is an honest-to-god fear in her big blue eyes, one she always used to get whenever I strayed my fingers somewhere she wasn’t sure of. “Honestly, yes. I don’t know you anymore.”

  I’m surprised by that, because Genevieve always hid her fears, played tough. And she’s a woman now, not some kid. Scared of me? She’s got to be kidding. “Look, girl. I won’t be a problem. I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

  She ends the call and throws her phone down on the coffee table, annoyed. “No one’s answering. That ‘twenty-four-hour service’ thing they advertised is for shit.”