by Kitty Parker
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Kitty Parker.
All rights reserved under Kitty Parker. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Table of Contents
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 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
Epilogue
Prolouge
* * *
Sometimes the only thing you want is a date. Someone to be with, whether for a single date or an eternity. But the problem always is, there isn't anyone available that's even decent. So what do you do? You wait. You sit down and wait for him or her to show up. That's where I come in. Most people don't even see me. The majority of those who do notice me know me as the face behind the book, or the girl in the corner of the smart classes. My teachers know and worship me as Miss Laycha. The extreme few who are actually my friends know me as Emma. But no one knows the person behind the quiet mask covered by a book. The whisper borne through the corridors by hopefuls and established couples. The murmur that makes that special someone materialize if you just drop your name into locker 420, the third locker from the left in the C wing. The person without a name, known only as… The Matchmaker.
Chapter 1
* * *
Emma
* * *
It's always gratifying to walk through the halls of North High and see the happy couples everywhere: in broom closets, dotting the hallways, staring soulfully into each other's eyes. You really can't escape them. Especially now, in the beginning of the year, where everyone's still in the rosy haze left over from glorious summers. All that is a tribute to my skill, talent that allows 90 of my couples to end up happy, or at least in an amicable break up. And the few times they do break up, it's basically always because they request someone completely wrong for them. Yeah, I take requests. Not often, because people don't often tell the Matchmaker how to do their job. The people trust the Matchmaker's judgment more then their own, which is good, because I usually know what they want better then they do. And it shows, because the people I pair them up with are much better suited then those they would have chosen for themselves.
"You."
I payed no attention to the voice addressing me as I bent down to open my locker.
"Book girl."
The voice was deep and masculine, refined but icy cold. I forced myself not to respond to the commanding tone and continued placing books in my locker.
"Are you ignoring me?" his incredulity was touched with more then a hint of rage, and I had to contain my laughter. Poor kid, thwarted by a nerd. I rose lazily to face him.
"I'm sorry," I drawled as I stood, "I wasn't aware you were speaking to me."
My eyes traveled up a well built body clothed in designer labels, much taller then my own petite frame, before stopping to meet inscrutable dark grey eyes. The words nearly stuck in my throat as I saw who I was addressing. If it had been a 19th century novel, I would have fainted.
"I addressed you quite clearly," Darien McGavern stated. In anyone else, I would have labeled his remark a retort, but he didn't stoop to those levels. Everyone knew that. Retorts implied he had done something to defend, and everyone knew that simply wasn't possible. Not for Darien McGavern, Ice Prince, richest kid in school, the one nobody stood up to. When he said jump, everyone else fought for the chance to ask how high.
'No, you addressed someone called 'book girl'. As far as I know, that isn't my name or a title bestowed on me."
Everyone except me.
"Then you obviously aren't well informed," he scoffed, "Where is locker 420?"
At that, my hidden smirk nearly broke its bindings. Only intense self control and the fact that it was Darien McGavern I was speaking to held it in. With it being Darien, the smirk was incapable of appearing on my face. People say he's intimidating, and if anything, I think that's an understatement. I simply refuse to dance to his piping. Or that's what I had always resolved to do in the unforeseeable case that he would actually speak to me. I was pleased with myself that I had kept my oath.
"You have business with the matchmaker?" I asked, making my eyes as innocent as possible while concealing my laughter. This would be a fun assignment. Darien McGavern!
"Of a sort," he scowled. On anyone else, that expression would have looked hideous. On him, it worked. "Now, Emma Laycha, where is the damn locker?"
Cowed at last, I wordlessly gestured to the locker directly above my own. I couldn't quite see what he slipped in, as his long, lanky body obscured my sight, but something definitely went into the Matchmaker's locker. He spun and scowled at me once more, then stalked away without even a nod of thanks.
I tried to be mad about it, I really did. I attempted to work myself into a rage, speculating on all the other things he could have done to show his thanks without compromising his dignity. But no matter how hard I tried, there was only one refrain in my mind, one that cancelled out al the anger.
'He knows who I am!' I thought, trying not to sound giddy even to myself, 'He knew my name!'
* * *
Darien
* * *
Of all the- I couldn't think clearly. That girl. She actually thought she could defy me! She, who barely came up to my chin, who I could probably break in half without hardly trying, stand up to me! Me, Darien McGavern, the heir to the McGavern fortune, millionaire in my own right.
My scowl grew as I turned my back on her and stalked away, contemplating her insolence. To presume to retort to me, to correct me, to tease e even! Well, I had of course set her back on track. No mere girl can tell me how to talk to her!
I stole a subtle peek back at her. She saw me and grinned. I yanked my head back around. So maybe she wasn't as set back on course. Oh well, she was a nobody. No one worth dwelling on.
If only she hadn't been laughing when I snapped at her! I really could have convinced myself to ignore her otherwise. But those damned huge emerald eyes were laughing, smirking even beneath the glasses.
Dangerous bitch now, because she had seen me put the note in the Matchmaker's locker. Now when the matchmaker found the note, it could easily be traced back to me. Damn. Damn that girl to the poor hells where she belongs, with her thrift store clothes and dime store jewl-no, she didn't wear any jewelry. Even cheaper. Maybe, if I'm lucky, her parents will work for mine, like most do in this d
amn school, and I'll get her thrown out. That would be a blast.
'Hey, D-money!"
Yea. Brock. My s called best friend, in reality just the only person I can stand for any length of time. True, he's not quite as rich as me, but then again, only the Lexingtons are. But he's easy going, doesn't argue, and is easily dominated. By me, of course. He always goes by what I said. Except that one time…
"Hello, Brock," I responded indifferently.
"Dude, hear of any parties this week?" he asked, trotting easily beside me. My legs may be longer as I am taller, but he's more athletic then I am. Sure I work out, and I'm no weakling, but Brock's the football quarterback. I don't need the athletics to help me, though. My native good looks and money get me all the girls I could ever want. Well, perhaps not all, but all in the conceivable future. I don't need a mythological matchmaker to help me find love. Hell, I don't even need love.
"Because I need some encouragement after the big game," Brock was still chattering, "we'll probably win, but a back up plan to get wasted is always necessary!"
That's Brock for you, always enthusiastic. Far too enthusiastic. And talkative. I was forced to cut him off as he continued to ramble.
"Saturday. Lexington's."
It always shuts hum up for at least a minute when I use that tone.
"Dude, that's awesome! Lex throws awesome parties!"
Usually, at least. But he was right in this case. Lex's parties were nearly as good as mine.
"It's just a party, Brock. We go to one almost everyday," I chided him abruptly. A flock of freshmen sauntered by. I scowled, and they fled.
"But maybe this time, that new step-sister of Lex's will show. I haven't seen her before, and she must be hot."
'Lex has a sister?" I really hated to ask Brock anything, he's so stupid, but in this case it was called for. New girls are always good. More and more are getting paired up, thanks to this damn Matchmaker. A new unattached girl could prove a good distraction.
"You going to show?" Brock queried. He always asked, and I consistently answered the same thing. Another example of his all prevailing idiocy.
"Of course. Don't I always?" I flashed a passing sophomore my patented not even a smirk, and she backed hurriedly away, facing me with an awestruck expression fro as long as she could before she ran into the wall and, blushing, fled. My smirk grew into a sneer.
Chapter 2
* * *
Emma
* * *
As soon as he was gone, I yanked my locker back open. No one has ever noticed the hole in the bottom of locker 420, because they're all too cowardly to open it. They're afraid opening the locker will break the magic spell that is The Matchmaker and they'll have to set themselves up. The horror.
I pawed through the notes in the basket at the top of my locker. A few notes of thanks- always nice for when my confidence is down-, a few requests, a couple bills for bribes, and one angry letter from the bitch I oh-so-mistakenly set up with a complete bastard. I was just doing my job. They were perfect for each other, really!
In other words, there was nothing unusual in that basket. Everything was signed and none by Darien. But I knew I saw him put something in the locker! He wouldn't have asked for the locker if he hadn't.
I stood and glanced around. No one was in the hall, as usual. Having a locker on the far edge of nowhere was occasionally useful.
I yanked locker 420 open. I never bothered to lock it. Even if people tried to take anything, all the notes were in my locker, and the hole was inconspicuous enough that they wouldn't notice anything. Locker 420 should have been empty.
Jammed in the hole where the notes fell from locker 420 to mine was a scarlet rose with a slip of paper attached. Raising my eyebrow at the oddity-what good did giving the Matchmaker a rose do, monetary bribes would be more practical- I unfolded the paper. A note was written on it. 4 words.
I want the Matchmaker.
No name, no return address, no way of knowing who had written it. But there was only one person it could be. It had to be Darien. It was the only conceivable option, however inconceivable it might be. Even the handwriting matched what I knew of him!
But what on earth was the possible use? Why would he do that? I had to quell my inner giggle at the request, that he wanted to be with me. It made no sense! And Darien McGavern did not do anything without a solid reason behind it. Everyone knew that. But he wanted me. No, not me, the Matchmaker. How did he even know it was a girl? And how was the supposed girl to know it was him? He'd never written to the matchmaker before, how was I expected to know it was him? I couldn't know the handwriting.
"Yo, Em!"
My inner debate interrupted, I slammed the locker shut, rose and all still inside. Hurriedly, I spun to face the approaching boy.
"Hi Allan."
As always he frowned at his given name. The almost rise it gets is the only reason I call him that, rather then his nickname. His face cleared quickly, though. Nothing kept him down for long.
"Why are you looking in the Matchmaker's locker?"
"I'm not," I retorted easily. I love Allan to death, but he is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, which is useful in situations like this.
"Okay!" If he hadn't been 6'5 and majorly built, I would have said he chirped. I rolled my eyes and patted him affectionately on the shoulder. He threw off my hand.
"Want a ride home?" he asked.
"I've told you before," I began patronizingly, but he cut me off for once.
"That you refuse to get rides with me. I know. But I still don't get why!"
He wouldn't. He had been popular since preschool.
"It won't do your reputation any good to be seen with me," I explained slowly, "Or else, I would be popular simply by association. I don't want either of those to happen."
"Why not? You don't want people to like you?" he asked, confused.
"I'm fine with the friends I have, and I don't want people to like me because you do," I informed him, "So I'm not getting in your car."
"Fine," he pouted. I grinned. I had discovered I was incapable of staying mad at Allan for long. He turned to jog away, but I stopped him, a sudden idea intruding. It was a long shot, but…
"Allan, what do you know about Darien McGavern and the Matchmaker?"
* * *
Darien
* * *
"Dude, this is taking forever!" Brock complained. I nodded curtly, For once, I agreed. These idiots obviously did not comprehend the idea of either move forward or get the hell out of my way. The crowd in the halls was moving slower then a turtle. More like a sloth. Or a snail. Or an amoeba.
"Move." I commanded, not yelling, but pitching my voice just high enough to be heard amidst the bustle. People pressed themselves against the walls as I strode down the now silent corridor, Brock trailing in my wake as the crowd closed up behind us.
"Yo," Lex was fighting his way toward us, occasionally waiting as people squeezed to get out of his way, without him even asking. At one especially crowded area, he physically lifted a girl out of the way and placed her to the side with a polite 'excuse me'. But for the most part, people let him through. I don't know why, they can't actually respect him. Maybe it's the smell. He, like, Brock, had come straight from football practice, and they reeked of sweat and mud. I had learned early on in my friendship to block out the smell, as I wouldn't have been able to stay by them otherwise. Neither of them or the rest of the team would ever learn that people don't find that stench attractive. People being me.
Brock greeted Lex with an exuberant punch on the shoulder. I was almost impressed that Lex stood up to it. I would probably have been on the floor if I had taken the fall impact of Brock's punch.
"Hey," Brock cried, "I hear you've got a party Saturday."
"Yup. Even convinced the old man to pay," Lex replied just as happily.
"So any chance your sis will show?"
I saw Lex's eyes flick to the crowd, as if searching for someone, but before I could tra
ce his look, his eyes were back on Brock.
"How'd me getting a sister get out so fast?" he inquired, and I was almost impressed in spite of myself. It was an almost subtle attempt at misdirection.
"Oh, rumors. They say you got a new step-mom, as well as 15 brothers and sisters and 20 pets."
Lex and I stared at him.
"What?" Brock shrugged, "People in this school will say anything. So, is your sister coming?"
"Oh, well," Lex had obviously decided a distraction wouldn't work. Brock could be a bull dozer at times, "I doubt she'll show."
I leisurely lit a cigarette and drew from it, hiding my slight shock. Most girls jump at the chance to go to one of Lex's parties. They know I'll be there, after all.
"Is she hot," I drawled after another pull at the cigarette. Lex turned to face me, and even I was astonished at his expression, though I was careful not to show it. Lex was glaring. At me. His face hurriedly shifted back to its habitual slightly goofy grin, but I was sure that I had said something to make him mad. And nothing provoked Lex. Everyone knew that.
"So?" Brock prompted.
"Dude, that's a loaded question!" Lex exclaimed, his face set once more into a smile, "She's alright, I guess."
"But you would have to say that, wouldn't you?" I said lazily, ignoring the crowd listening to the entire conversation, "You can tell us the truth. Is she?"
"Why, McGavern?" Lex retorted, "Thinking of using the Matchmaker like us lesser mortals at last?"
"Why would I need the Matchmaker?" I scoffed, "I can find my own people to have sex with."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one figure moving faster then the rest, weaving out of sight between pupils. All I caught was a flash of pale skin and dark clothes before she was out of sight. That Laycha girl. Idly, I wondered what had happened that she had left so suddenly, but I quickly dismissed it as unimportant. She didn't matter, and never would.
Brock whistled to hide his discomfort. I knew he hated to have the Matchmaker brought up. How could Lex do that? He must have known as well as I that the Matchmaker evoked bad memories for Brock. I mentally cursed Lex. I was the one who would have to deal with bringing Brock out of this Matchmaker induced funk.