by Amy Sparling
Summer Forever
Part 4 of the Summer Series
Amy Sparling
Copyright © 2015 Amy Sparling
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover art from shutterstock.com
Cover design by Amy Sparling
First edition May 18th, 2015
Dedication
To all of my readers who started reading Bayleigh’s journey and finished with Becca’s. A loyal reader is an author’s greatest asset.
Chapter 1
“Trick or treat!” A tiny little Batman holds out an orange plastic jack-o-lantern, his toothy grin spilling out from under his mask.
“Happy Halloween!” I say, digging into the bowl of candy and giving him a heaping handful. My boss Ollie had told me to pace myself with the candy, but I can’t help it. Cute kids get lots of candy. Besides, we have like ten more massive bags of assorted Halloween candy in the stock room. Ollie probably just wants leftovers so we can gorge on them in the next few weeks.
“I like Captain America, too,” the boy tells me as he steps aside so the next girl in line can get some candy. I wink at him and then smile at his parents as they shuffle him out of the door and toward the next store in the in Lawson Outdoor Mall. C&C BMX Park is located at the very end of a long strand of outdoor shopping stores, which makes up the only good shopping center in Lawson. LOM always does this big Halloween celebration, encouraging all of the stores to give out candy to kids so their parents are more likely to do some shopping as well as trick-or-treating.
I love it because we don’t get many trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood so there’s never any fun in handing out candy at home. Plus, now that I have the excuse of having to work, I can get out of party invites.
I know. I’m a loser. But underage house parties meant for getting wasted and hooking up with random people never really appeal to me. I used to only go when my best friend Bayleigh forced me to, but now she’s married and has the cutest little kid ever, so she doesn’t hit up the party scene either. I smile and hand out candy to a little girl dressed as Elsa from Frozen. She’s about the hundredth little Elsa I’ve seen tonight.
My phone vibrates loudly from under the front counter. When my line of trick-or-treaters have fizzled out, I set down my plastic Captain America shield and find my phone, hoping for a message from Park. He’s on his way to Texas from California and should be here in an hour or so, depending on traffic.
And yes, I’m dressed as a not-so-sexy Captain America. I chose the costume both because Captain America is the hottest Avenger, and because I didn’t have any time to make my costume this year, thanks to freaking college midterms. Government and History are not my friends. In fact, they might just derail my college career before I’ve even reached my junior year.
I had spent the last week fretting over these freaking mid-terms. At home, I studied my butt off and at work, I did the bare minimum of my job requirements and then studied discreetly at the front counter until my shift was over. As much as I love my boyfriend, it’s a good thing he hasn’t been able to visit in a few weeks. Otherwise, my grades would have been toast.
Instead of making my own costume, I was lucky enough that I had some spare time to swing by the Halloween store after class today. It’s a shame that all of the costumes for women have to be ridiculously sexy and skin-baring. I remedied that by wearing black tights under my red, white, and blue spandex booty shorts and I safety-pinned a piece of white lace between the cleavage of my sexy Captain America tank top.
The absolute last thing I’d want is to have my boob fall out while I’m handing a four-year-old some mini Snickers bars.
Disappointingly, my new text isn’t from Park. It’s from the other ‘ark’ in my phonebook—Mark. The guy I stupidly went on a date with last semester. I was in a dark place, missing companionship and feeling like Park and I would never work out. But after going on one measly date with Mark, I know I would have stayed far away from him even if Park and I never got back together.
To put it plainly, he’s kind of a creeper jerk.
I sigh and open the text even though I already know the gist of what it’ll say. He’s been texting me randomly every week or so, asking me out on another date, or worse, asking for very filthy favors when he’s been out drinking. My simple replies of No thanks don’t seem to deter him. Bayleigh insists that I tell Park about it, have him answer the phone next time Mark calls and tell him to go away. But I don’t want to bother Park about this. He’s been busy with his motocross career and with fixing up the house he bought on my side of town.
He’s acting like everything is cool and fine but I worry. It’s weird now. Things have always been weird with the idea of dating someone who lives two thousand miles away and has a career and apartment on the other side of the country. But now that Park went off and bought a house in Lawson, Texas without even telling me about it first, is just another weird layer to our complicated relationship.
Buying a house seems like a super expensive way to visit your long distance girlfriend. And what does it even mean, anyway? I know he has money from racing professional motocross for a few years, but still. It’s weird.
Mark’s text message makes me grimace. It’s not the worst one he’s sent, but it’s no friendly hello either.
Send me a picture of that sexy ass costume you’re wearing.
My skin feels like something’s crawling on it as I look up, half expecting to see him and his drunken friends standing outside of the BMX park, watching me with creepy sneers. They aren’t, luckily. A man with a ton of tattoos walks in with three little girls, all dressed as princesses.
I shrug off the disgusting text message long enough to give them candy and compliment their awesome handmade tiaras. The moment they leave, I look at my phone again and realize something. How does he know I’m wearing a costume? Is it just a lucky guess?
What makes you think I’m wearing a costume? I text back, even though I should probably just ignore him.
Because it’d be a crime for someone as hot as you not to dress up.
I scowl. I’m working. I don’t have time for this. Please stop being gross.
A few more kids come in and my phone doesn’t go off for another half hour. I’m feeling good, like maybe he finally got the message to leave me alone, or maybe he’s just bothering another girl, hoping for a sleazy photo to hit his inbox.
Guys don’t make any sense to me. Why would they want photos of girls when they can just get all the nakedness they want by searching for it online?
I ask Ollie this when he returns from his office, wearing a Dracula cape and plastic fang teeth. He didn’t really put much effort into his costume, but that’s better than nothing. The other guys who work the BMX part of the shop didn’t dress up at all.
Ollie lifts an eyebrow and looks at me as if I’ve grown an extra head. “You kids really blur the lines between boss and friend, ya know?”
“Sorry,” I say, feeling my cheeks blush. “I shouldn’t ask you that. It’s just annoying when guys I barely know ask me for dirty pictures. It’s like why the hell do they want it?”
He laughs. “Men are idiots, Becca. But I’m proud of you for not doing things you feel uncomfortable with. If that guy keeps asking, I’ll send him a picture of my hairy ass. Maybe that’ll shut him up.”
I laugh at the thought of sending a picture like that to Mark. That would be hilarious. More kids come in to trick-or-treat and Ollie makes his best Dracula impression, which is actually quite horri
ble, and then heads out to pick up dinner for us. Tonight we’re getting Magic Mark’s oven-toasted sandwiches, which are to freaking die for. I love having a boss who acts like friend, gives me advice like a mentor, and buys us dinner when we’re at work.
Around nine p.m. the trick-or-treaters have pretty much fizzled out, but it’s a Friday night and the BMX park is open until midnight. Some of the teenage riders beg me for candy, and since we have hordes of it left over, I give in and let them take an unopened bag back to the locker room. Food is strictly prohibited on the track, so I give them my meanest, most threatening glare and tell them to keep the food and the empty wrappers in the locker room.
I settle back down on the stool at the front desk, casually browsing through Pinterest on the work computer. Someone walks in and I look up with a Professional Employee smile on my face.
The smile quickly falters.
Mark strides up to the front counter, reeking of pot. His eyes are glazed and he smiles lazily at me. “Trick-or-treat,” he says, widening his smile. “I didn’t bring a candy bag, so maybe you can put the candy in my pockets.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning back to the computer screen. Ollie has already gone home for the night, but I could easily call one of the guys from the back on the intercom. They can kick him out if he refuses to leave on his own.
“Aw, come on,” Mark says, stepping up to the counter, pressing his hands against the aluminum countertop. “I’m just playing. I don’t need any candy. I just came for some eye candy.” He bursts into laughter and I swear he could do a perfect impression of Beavis and Butthead with that stupid, stoned laugh of his. “Do you get it?” he says. “Eye candy?”
Of course I do, but I want to put him on the spot. Make him feel as uncomfortable as he makes me feel. “No.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Explain it to me.”
He leans forward on his elbows and I take a step backward from the counter. His eyes drift to my chest. “What I mean, is there’s two pieces of candy for my eyes right in front of me. Since you wouldn’t send me a picture, I had to come see them for myself.”
I look him straight in the eyes. “You’re gross.”
The doors slide open and I ready my candy bowl for the incoming children. It sucks that I have to step away from the protective wall of the front counter to give out candy, but with any luck, if I spend a long time putting candy in kid’s bags, maybe Mark will leave.
He seizes his opportunity and grabs my arm, almost making me drop the candy bowl. A short and chubby pirate runs up to me, holding out his pillowcase full of candy.
“Trick-or-treat!” he squeals, but his little voice can’t drown out the words Mark says while he’s gripping my arm. “Aw come on, Becca. You didn’t think I was gross when you went out with me.”
My jaw sets so tightly it makes my neck hurt. I twist away from him and try to focus on the little kid in front of me. Someone appears on the other side and then cuts in front of the kid just as I’m about to drop candy into his pillowcase. The candy spills everywhere and when I look up, confused, I see what caused me to be shoved backward.
“Hi there,” Park says to Mark with a smile that could level mountains. “Get your fucking hand off my girlfriend.”
Chapter 2
Mom and Dad are asleep when I get home just after midnight. Park leaves his truck on the side of the road instead of pulling into the driveway, which lets me know he plans on staying a while. Dad leaves for work really early in the morning, so Park will only block in Dad’s police car if he’s not staying very long.
Ever since I turned nineteen, my parents got kind of cool about letting me do whatever I want. Yeah, I’m a legal adult and everything, but it’s still their house, and I kind of expected that they wouldn’t let Park stay over late, but they really don’t care. Dad had told me once that me hanging out at home is the safest place for me to be, so of course he doesn’t mind if Park is there, too. He said it’s a thousand times better than the shit he has to deal with at work; murders, runaway teenagers turned drug addicts, etc. Honestly, I don’t want to know what the etc. is. It’s a terrifying thought.
I grab my purse, lock my car, and jog down the driveway to where my super, crazy hot boyfriend is still sitting in his truck, his face lit up by the glow of his cell phone.
I tap on the driver’s side window and he rolls it down. I make this big exaggerated frown. “Why are you rolling down the window? Get out so we can go inside!”
He sets the phone down in his lap and I sneak a glance at the screen. He’s looking at his emails. “I’m not ready to go inside,” he says, nodding his head toward the seat next to him. “Get in.”
“It’s after midnight. Where are we going?”
“My new casa,” he says, his eyes going wide with excitement. “I closed on it today.”
He holds up his hand and I slap him a high five, then I shimmy around the front of the truck and climb inside. Hopefully Mom and Dad won’t wake up, find my car and not be able to find me, and freak out. Actually…I send Mom a quick text telling her that Park and I went to get ice cream at the twenty-four hour grocery store. Hopefully she won’t wake up, but if she does, she won’t have to freak out and think I’ve been murdered.
A couple of months ago, when Park decided to drive all the way to Texas and surprise me after weeks of us not talking, he had given me a key and claimed it was my key to his new house. That was kind of true. He had been in the process of buying the house for a few weeks, and once he knew he would officially get the house, the rushed out and got the keys made just so he could make some huge romantic gesture to me before he had actually closed on it.
The house in question was a foreclosure that had been vacant for a few years, so the bank took forever to get all the paperwork and stuff finished on it. So my house key, all shiny and new, was just a symbolic gesture for the house we couldn’t quite go inside of yet.
Until now.
When I had asked why he didn’t just wait until the house was closed on and officially under his ownership to give me the key, he had said he couldn’t wait that long and risk losing me forever. Park may be a rough around the edges, hardcore motocross guy, but the boy sure knew how to be romantic when he needed to.
Park’s new house is situated on the very edge of Lawson’s town border. It’s near the river and in the absolute middle-of-nowhere, just a mile north of where the interstate takes you on an hour-long drive to Mixon, Texas, home of lots and lots of empty boring land and, of course, Mixon Motocross Park.
Mixon, although just a dot on the map, is close to my heart. It’s where Bayleigh lives. If you speed and don’t get caught, the drive is only forty-five minutes, so it’s not so bad. Still, I miss her like crazy, even if she did used to make me go with her to house parties.
We pull into the driveway, which needs a new pouring of concrete because the one that’s there now is all broken up an disheveled from tree roots growing underneath it. Park and I have been here a couple times, usually just sitting in the driveway looking at it and talking about all the ways the front yard could be landscaped.
Now, we get to go inside. “When did you get the power turned on?” I ask as we walk up the overgrown pathway that leads to the front door.
“Today. I had to stop by with an electrician to make sure everything was wired okay and that nothing would catch on fire or anything. That’s why it took me so long to get to your work tonight.” At that, a flash of a grimace crosses his face. He was not in a good mood when he walked in and found Mark hassling me. “I unplugged all of the appliances just in case. Everything passed inspection though, so that’s good.”
Park’s new house is an older home, built to look like a Victorian, but it’s not that old. It’s two and a half stories with a wraparound porch that has a swing hanging near the front door. On the third floor is a peak with a big bay window that Park said would be my painting studio. It overlooks the backyard which has a small creek flowing through it that meets up wi
th the river a few miles down. I think he only owns a few acres of land here, but the land goes on and on for miles, so the view is beautiful.
The white exterior needs repainting and the black shutters could use a fresh coat of paint as well. Park had warned me that this place was a fixer-upper, but as we walk in through the massive wooden door, I’m surprised that it’s not nearly as bad as I had imagined.
Hardwood flooring groans beneath our feet as Park leads me from the foyer into the living room. It’s massive and has a beautiful fireplace in the center of the biggest wall. The walls are painted baby blue and are dotted with nails from where the former resident’s pictures used to hang. “We have to get rid of this ugly blue,” Park says, motioning for me to follow him into the kitchen. “You might want to close your eyes,” he says, placing his hand on my lower back. “And you know, just don’t open them at all,” he says with a snort of laughter. “The kitchen is ugly as hell.”
I ignore his advice and look at the kitchen anyway. “You’re right. This kitchen is balls ugly,” I say, tapping my finger on the forest green Formica countertop. “But it’s huge, and that’s a good thing.” The kitchen is open and angular, with tons of cabinets and counter space. There’s an island in the middle with a bar and two French doors that open out into the back yard.
Park nods and sits at one of the leftover barstools. “Here’s the plan: This bullshit linoleum is going tomorrow. I’ve got some guys who are going to rip it up. We’re going to put eighteen inch square tiles down.” He points to his finger as he lists off his renovations. “Granite countertops and brand new cabinets. These are just the worst,” he says, looking with disgust toward the white painted cabinets. “And all new appliances, obviously. Fresh paint. It’ll be perfect after that. Same thing with the bathrooms. They’re all being totally gutted and redone. I’m not even going to show you those because they’re so blah and outdated.”