Tru Love (First Love Book 1)

by Rian Kelley

  Mr. Langier calls the class to order with a greeting in French and the instruction to pass up their homework. Genny falls into the familiar rhythm of class and lets her mind wander. A full, silver moon in a cloudless sky and a rusty-haired wolf prancing in the shadows, nose pointed toward the sky and music flowing from his mouth. Only that image morphs into an image of Truman Lennox, standing in the shadows, his full mouth curving into a dangerous smile and his hand reaching toward her, inviting her to join him.

  Stupid, Genny chides herself and belatedly becomes aware of Mr. Langier speaking to her in French.

  Genny stares at him blankly.

  “This is a romantic language isn’t it, Miss Vout, but perhaps you could try a little harder to stay in the moment,” he suggests.

  Genny feels a blush heat her cheeks. She knows Serena is staring at her but she refuses to turn her head. She’s had enough trouble for one day. She wills the clock to move faster but, of course, that doesn’t work. When the bell rings Genny expels a breath, turns her back and stuffs her books into her bag. She doesn’t want to face Serena; she’ll just have more questions for her and Genny has no intention of admitting her fascination for Truman Lennox to herself, nevertheless her friend.

  “Where are you going?” She catches Genny at the door.

  “Lunch.”

  “You want to eat with me and Victor today?” she offers politely. Genny looks in her face for any lurking curiosity and finds none. Her eyes, though, are brimming with laughter.

  “No.”

  “You’d rather sit by yourself, sulking?”

  “I’m not sulking.”

  “Hiding,” she corrects. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re definitely hiding something.”

  Genny shrugs and steps into the hall. “If you say so.”

  “You’re afraid to look at me,” Serena crows. “You think I might suck the information out of your head?”

  “Sometimes you know too much,” Genny points out.

  “The eyes are the windows to the soul,” Serena says, adding an exaggerated somber tone to her voice. Then she laughs.

  They walk into the cafeteria and Genny finds the shortest line. Serena follows her, waving Victor over to join them. Genny tries not to look for that head of fabulous red-brown hair. She keeps her nose pointed forward and searches for something interesting about the girl in front of her that will provide a distraction. Short, spiky black hair, silver earrings in the shape of conk shells. . .that’s as far as she gets before the pull to scan the cafeteria, to look into the sea of faces for that one face, attacks her resolve. She shakes her head. Counts the number of kids in front of her in line. Eleven. Is a bag of Doritos really worth it, she wonders?

  She has to eat something.

  She’s busy arguing with herself and doesn’t notice the silence that falls over their part of the room until it hurts her ears. She looks over her shoulder. Serena and Victor are standing behind her, holding hands. They’re facing away from her. Genny can’t see over their heads, to the point where everyone’s attention seems focused.

  “What is it?” Genny places her hand on Serena’s shoulder and rises on her toes so she can see better.

  “Chasyn Trent,” Serena says and Genny can hear the twist of her lips in her voice. Serena doesn’t like the girl; well, very few people do. Chasyn likes herself enough for all of them.

  “What is she doing?”

  “Getting up close and personal with Truman Lennox.”

  Genny steps out of line so she can see it for herself. Sure enough, Chasyn is standing beside Truman, a tray of food in her hand. She’s talking and Truman is looking up at her from his seat. He’s frowning, a look that turns frosty when Chasyn puts her hand on his shoulder in a casual gesture, but then curls her fingers into his hair.

  “Pushy B,” Serena grumbles.

  Victor laughs. “What do you care?” he asks.

  “I’m speaking for every woman present,” she says, “especially for my BFF.”

  Victor turns and looks at Genny. “Really?”

  “No,” Genny denies through the shimmering heat wave emanating from her body. “Your girlfriend is delusional.”

  She ignores the clawing feeling in her stomach. Refuses to put a name to it. Won’t even look at it from the corner of her eye. Instead, she takes the opportunity presented by the change of interest, and skips a few places in line. She reaches the counter in seconds and is on her way out of the cafeteria in under a minute, apple, Doritos and diet coke in hand, and not looking over her shoulder to see what became of Chasyn’s advances.

  The sky is clear today. The gray burned off leaving a blue that looks almost breakable. Genny sits on a bench at the back of the school, looking at the Mercedes and BMWs parked in the lot. She pops the top on her soda and waits for the bubbles to settle before sipping. She tossed the apple on her way; it tasted like cardboard. She’ll choke the chips down if she has to; just knowing they’re comfort food will help.

  She’s definitely had a rotten two days. The best part of that: if bad things really happen in threes, then tomorrow should be her last day of darkness. Then she’ll go back to her charmed existence: a mother who understands her; a father who doesn’t, but really wants too. And a friendship restored? That might be too much to hope for. That might take a few more days.

  Chapter Nine

  Genny arrives for detention at exactly two-forty. Teachers rotate the baby-sitting responsibility; today, it’s Mr. Plume, one of the P.E. teachers and the girls’ volleyball coach. He looks at Genny with disappointment. Clearly, as team captain, Genny has an obligation to be a model citizen.

  “Genny.” His voice is heavy and his mouth gets that pinched look he wears when a game isn’t going well.

  “Sorry,” Genny says. “I expect better of myself, too.”

  The day went better than she hoped. Only Homer brought up the incident from yesterday directly, and that was so he could apologize. Girls stared at her and in the locker room, when Genny was suiting up for P.E., a few of them whispered about her and Hunter and how awful it was to have your boyfriend break up with you at school. The real news is Truman. How ‘turn down the thermostat sexy’ he is. Genny hopes she never sounds like that. Overnight, the school erupted with geysers, in the form of girls, and they’re all gushing about him.

  She hears Mr. Plume clear his throat and when her eyes adjust she sees he’s waiting for her, his arm extended.

  “The vice principal gave you an invitation?” he asks.

  Genny hands him the paper and listens as he reads her offense aloud, “’Truant periods four through six.’” He gazes at her, his eyes round. “Really?”

  She nods and tries to turn back the tide of color rising to her face. “Bad day,” she offers.

  He tucks the slip into his pile and tells her, “We’re all entitled to one or two of those. Have a seat. It’s all book work in here. I’ll help you with an assignment, if I can. History is my best academic subject.”

  Genny finds an empty desk in the second row, near the back, and slides into it. There are three other students spread out around the room and she can hear footsteps approaching from the hall.

  She feels the pull—awareness tugging at her senses—and knows before he walks through the door that it’s Truman. The bell rings as he slips into the room.

  “Tru,” Mr. Plume greets him, though it’s more a question than a welcome. “Already?”

  Truman nods. “I guess I need a learning curve.”

  Mr. Plume accepts his slip and reads it, this time to himself, but he looks up at Genny when he’s done.

  “You two have already met, then,” he says.

  Truman follows his gaze until it lands on Genny. His expression doesn’t soften. Doesn’t waver. It’s intense and thoughtful and Genny wonders what he’s thinking. Is he back at that moment in the park, when Genny just about threw herself at him?

  She lowers her head, breaking eye contact first to hide the warm flush of her skin.

&n
bsp; “Yes, Sir,” Truman says.

  “Well, this isn’t a meeting of the social committee. You’ll need to sit apart. There’s no talking. Use the time to complete homework assignments.”

  Truman nods but says, “I was hoping Genny could fill me in on what I missed in calculus today. Mrs. Winchell kept me in her office.”

  Winchell is their guidance counselor and Genny wonders what Truman did to earn a full hour of the woman’s attention.

  “Of course, maybe you could help me, Mr. Plume?” Truman asks politely.

  Plume is shaking his head. “Calculus? We didn’t have that in school when I attended.”

  As the captain of the men’s U. S. Volleyball team, Plume was the drive behind two Olympic victories, which is why he’s at Fraser. Genny thinks every teacher must have a claim to fame in order to have a chance here.

  “Genny?” Plume calls for her attention. “Do you mind helping Tru with today’s calculus lesson?”

  “I’ll try,” she says. The truth is she spent little time paying attention in class today.

  She digs through her back pack for her math notebook and feels the air around her thicken as Truman enters her space. It is seriously harder to breathe when he’s close to her.

  He waits for her to look up before he says anything and then it’s only a brief ‘thanks.’ He’s back to the Truman she first met in front of the bookstore, when he pulled her from the path of a speeding car and the next day--yesterday--wondered if she had a death wish, only the frown isn’t as deep.

  “Sure,” Genny says. She hands him her binder. “Maybe copy the notes first.” She hopes he doesn’t ask her to explain them. “There are two problems. No one finished in class, but they’re due tomorrow.”

  He finds the divider marked math and opens to the last page of notes. Genny spots her doodling across the top of the page and cringes. Stars. A full moon and beneath it the head of a baying wolf. Truman’s name in an elaborate script with a crescent moon sketched into the ‘n.’

  She feels his eyes on her and wishes she could sink through the floor. She resists the urge to look at him.

  “Genny,” he whispers and she wonders how one person’s voice can be so alluring. “And I thought you didn’t like me.”

  “I don’t,” she says, and it might even be true. Can you be attracted to someone you don’t like? Maybe. If she knew him better, would that kill the attraction or only make it worse? “I don’t know you.”

  “I’m an OK guy,” he says.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  He laughs softly. “I’m just trying to reassure you. But don’t take my word for it”

  She ignores his comment, and the tone of his voice, which is more like the flow of water on rock than anything belonging to a mere human.

  Mr. Plume clears his throat as a pointed reminder.

  “Notes,” she prompts. “You’re supposed to be copying them.”

  She picks up her copy of Pride and Prejudice and starts reading. Of course, she can’t concentrate on the words. She tries breathing through her mouth, thinking that if she can block the fresh air, citrusy scent of his skin she could actually focus on the drama in her hands. But it doesn’t work, because then it’s the rise and fall of his chest that catches her attention, and the sure movement of his hand across the page. His fingers are long, his writing smooth and readable. In fact, she notices that he’s not writing anything about calculus at all. When he’s done, he turns the page so she can read it better:

  Movie tomorrow night?

  Genny realizes she’s sitting forward in her chair, leaning into his personal space. When he smiles, the movement is so close, so tangible, so tempting, that her lips respond.

  Then she slams on the brakes, closes her mouth and pretends a kiss was the last thing on her mind. A little late on cue, she pushes herself back in her chair.

  And his smile grows bigger, full of knowing, and pulls on her senses.

  She was never this attracted to Hunter.

  She lets the thought sit idle in her mind. She stares at it without picking it apart. She lets the truth seep into her bones. She is attracted to Truman Lennox. No more denial.

  But that doesn’t mean she has to do anything about it.

  She shakes her head, but feeling that isn’t enough even for her, says, “No. Thanks.”

  “Why?”

  She frowns and the skin above her nose creases. “I have plans.”

  She hasn’t forgotten that she’s supposed to invite Truman to her father’s baseball game.

  “What?” he presses. “You’re not back with the drummer, are you?”

  His voice dares her to lie. She stares at him, wondering where that kind of confidence comes from.

  “My father has a home game,” she mutters, with no intention of issuing an invitation.

  Truman’s eyes snap with amusement but his voice is firm when he says, “Great. I’d love to come.”

  “I didn’t invite you.”

  “But you’re supposed to.”

  Genny feels her mouth open but no words come out. She isn’t capable of thinking for a moment and then she says something completely moronic,

  “You can read my mind.”

  It’s the only answer.

  Truman laughs like he’s heard nothing funnier but quiets quickly when Mr. Plume raises an eyebrow in their direction.

  “No,” Truman whispers after Plume is back into his newspaper. “We’ve never been capable of that.”

  “We?”

  “My family. In Scotland, telekinesis is considered a genetic trait.”

  “You say that like it’s as common as blue eyes.”

  “No. Maybe as common as the birth of twins, though, but not as welcome.”

  “No one wants to know what everyone else is thinking?”

  “Would you?” he counters. “All the time? You get into a fight with your mom, or your best friend, and you’re slammed with thoughts never meant to be spoken…”

  She thinks about that. Knowing every thought, good and bad, wouldn’t be a lot of fun. Knowing how people really feel about you, even briefly, would hurt.

  “It’s a curse,” he says and his voice is sincere.

  Genny nods and lets it go, “So how do you know about my father’s game?”

  He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of heavy, shaded paper. Genny recognizes it immediately. It’s company stationary, with the team logo splashed across the top border. Genny accepts the paper and unfolds it so she can read her father’s scrawled writing. A premier pass falls onto her desk.

  ‘In case Genny forgets to invite you,’ her father wrote. ‘Would like to thank you in person for saving my daughter’s life.’

  “When did you get this?”

  “Today. Ms. Winchell called me to her office and let me know that the invite was hand-delivered by a team assistant. Then she spent another forty minutes talking about my “single act of bravery.”

  His smile is big and amused and Genny feels her lips turn down in response.

  “Are they going to put a plaque up for you? Dedicate a bench in your honor?” Genny asks, so careful to keep the bitterness out of her voice that it ends up sounding artificially sweet.

  “Not a plaque,” Truman says, thoughtfully. “Or a bench. But they are thinking about making April fourteenth Truman Lennox Day.”

  Genny’s mouth drops open in disbelief. This can’t be happening. The one mistake she makes, in three years of high school, and it will be forever preserved in infamy.

  Truman reaches over and gently lifts her chin. She nibbles at her bottom lip.

  “I’m kidding, Genny,” he says. His finger slides over her lips. “Stop that.”

  Genny tries to take a breath but is firmly convinced all the air has evaporated from the room.

  “You set me up,” she accuses, her voice thin and wispy.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I thought it would be easier for you if I opened the subject.”

  She
grunts and turns back to her book. She checks the print to make sure she’s holding it right-side up, then lets the words blur behind her thoughts. There is nothing easy about Truman Lennox or her feelings for him. She hears him flip a page in his notebook and then the scratch of his pencil as he starts copying the notes he missed. She makes a conscious decision not to look at his hands. But that doesn’t stop her from thinking about them. Yesterday, they held her close in an embrace meant to keep her from harm. They were strong, but not bruising; sure, but completely within the bounds of a life-saving effort. She wonders how they’ll feel on other parts of her body, and seriously doubts her heart will perform as poorly as it did for Hunter.

  No problem breathing now, she thinks. She presses her hands against her heated cheeks, then peers around them when she realizes an unnatural silence has descended upon them. The kind of quiet a wolf might bring into a vulnerable forest.

  Truman is gazing at her with something close to hostility. His brown eyes gleam with the heat of his emotions.

  He cannot read my mind, she reminds herself, and this makes speech possible. And indignation.

  “What?” she asks.

  His fingers tap against the paper.

  Yep, he’s definitely pissed.

  “You are so moody,” she accuses.

  “Guys don’t get moody. That’s strictly girl territory.”

  “You’re brooding,” she points out.

  “Yesterday, you were afraid of me,” he says, his voice a slow but steady whisper. “I don’t know why, I only know I didn’t like seeing that look in your eyes. Directed at me. I’ve been trying all day to figure you out. Now, it’s like I’m sitting next to a bonfire.”