Beautiful Surrender
by
Priscilla West
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Copyright © 2013 Blackbird Publishing
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
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
Epilogue
The Forever Series Reading Order
Chapter One
It was my first day of class for Econ 102. Junior year. I’d made it this far, busting my ass semester after semester, camping out in office hours, staying up late nights, living off of caffeine. Somehow I’d survived.
I thought getting into Harvard was the hard part and the rest was grade inflation, but the classes were actually pretty tough. Of course, others cruised by on raw intelligence and superhuman brains that soaked up lectures like a sponge soaking up water. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that. I was the exception. Which meant I spent my first two years making closer friends with textbooks than I did with real people.
The lecture room was large enough to fit two hundred students and it was nearly packed. Among the sea of bodies, one caught my eye. Actually, one caught the eyes of the majority of the females in the room: bright blue irises, tousled brown hair, high cheek bones, and chic glasses sitting atop a sharp nose. He looked like a male model from a J.Crew catalog except he wasn’t digitally enhanced—he was real. His features were sculpted with precision and economy. Fitting. Considering the subject matter of the class—and considering he was seated in the front row, which meant he was the teacher’s assistant.
I took a seat in one of the middle rows and waited for the professor to start the lecture. I could already tell this was going to be my favorite class of the semester.
***
“You know, out of over a hundred students, you’re probably the only one who comes to my office hours regularly,” he said with a heart-stopping smile.
I’d found out his name was Martin Pritchard. A senior economics major. Brilliant, insightful, and devilishly good-looking. It took an extraordinary amount of willpower not to get distracted by those vivid blue eyes that somehow seemed to burn hot with intensity and cold with calculation at the same time. A lot of girls had come to Martin’s office hours during the beginning of the course in hopes of snagging a lay. They giggled, flitted their hair, and batted their eyes. Once they realized he was only there for academic concerns—not sexual ones—they lost interest.
He was sitting across from me in the TA office, trying to help me understand the latest assigned readings. Just the two of us.
I blushed and looked down at my notebook filled with scribbles about minimum wage laws and Nash equilibriums. I had no idea what any of it meant.
“I need the extra help. This stuff is kind of hard for me.”
“You ask great questions. Ones I’d expect to hear from students from the more advanced econ classes.” He grinned a perfect set of teeth. “I think you’re just detailed in your thinking. Learning is a lot like putting together a puzzle. And different people have different sets of pieces. The ones with more pieces take more time to put it together, but once they do, it’s a bigger picture.”
I smiled bashfully, averting my gaze to my notes then returning it to him. “Thanks. I never thought of it that way.”
He tapped his head. “Big picture.”
We both chuckled then smiled at one another. It was definitely a shared moment and I didn’t know what to say to follow it, which is why I was glad he ended up breaking the awkward silence.
“Hey,” he said brightly. “There’s a presentation by Gary Becker today in Lowell Hall. You wanna go?”
At the risk of sounding ignorant, I asked, “Who’s that?”
“A famous economist known for the ‘rotten kid theorem’. He’s my favorite.” Martin beamed. I loved how he got excited about economic topics and renowned economists during office hours. His energy was infectious—even making me excited about the stuff from time to time.
I wrinkled my brows. “What a great name for a theorem.”
He chuckled. “Great name for a great theorem. Imagine a bad brother takes pleasure in harming his sister. If the parents say they’ll give more inheritance money to the child who needs it more then the bad brother will want to help his sister do well so that he will end up getting more inheritance. His welfare has become dependent on the welfare of his sister. You can turn a bad boy into a good one with the proper incentives.”
My brows scrunched further, pondering the example.
Martin shrugged then winked. “Maybe he’s not famous enough.”
I laughed. “It sounds interesting.” And like a chance to hang out with a gorgeous guy. Besides, it wasn’t often I got the chance to do leisurely things. “Sure, I’ll go.”
***
We began seeing more of each other. First neutral social events, then it became increasingly clear that we were dating. We’d been seeing each other for a few months when we walked by the gymnasium and Marty suggested we try out the swing dance club.
“A guy wanting to go dancing? I don’t know, I’m not a very good dancer.”
His full lips curved into a wicked grin. “Are you saying men can’t dance?”
“Isn’t that the stereotype?”
“Isn’t it also the stereotype that girls are good at dancing?”
“Touché.”
He put his arm out for me to grab and I took it gracefully. “Shall we?” he said.
I was surprised to find he wasn’t only smart and handsome, but also a good dancer.
We spent the evening with our bodies close to one another, laughing and working up a sweat. I tripped over my feet and stepped on his multiple times but he didn’t seem to mind. He helped show me how to do the basic moves and even convinced me to let him swing me around his waist.
It was the most fun I’d had in college to date.
***
“I’ve never done this before, Kristen. Have you?” His body was tense as he hovered over me on my bed in my dorm room. I had taken his shirt off and it was now lying on the floor where I’d thrown it. The surface of his sculpted torso was smooth and it was a major turn on to see it so up close. I’d been surprised to find he was amazingly fit for a nerdy teacher’s assistant. A regular routine of swimming and dancing will do that to the body.
His chest was heaving as he tried to control his breathing.
I smiled. “If you’re asking if I’m a virgin, I’d have to say no. I had a couple boyfriends in high school.”
“I see.” He averted his gaze from mine to look down at my chest, where he often liked to look. I didn’t mind. In fact, I liked the way it made me feel desirable. He was usually so confident and in control but now in this intimate moment, he was vulnerable.
“Is that a problem?”
“No. . . I just never had a girlfriend before you. I’m kind of nervous.”
I squinted my forehead.
/> “You look surprised.”
“I am. I thought you’d have an extensive dating history given how smart and gorgeous you are.”
He looked at me with those vivid blue eyes. “I don’t trust others easily. I usually don’t get too close to people.”
“You trust me?” I gently pulled off his glasses and placed them on the bedside stand. His eyes became radiant.
“I trust you, Kristen.”
“We’ll go slow Marty. We’ll take our time.” I pulled one dress strap off my shoulder. I took his hand and placed it on my breast, releasing a slow breath as I felt the warmth radiating from his skin.
His cheeks flushed. It was so adorable to see him this way. “Kristen, I—I think I . . .”
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. You’re just so wonderful. The most amazing person I’ve ever met.”
I smiled. “Even more amazing than Gary Becker?”
“A hundred times more amazing.”
I tugged his brown hair and brought his lips down to mine. We made love that night for the first time.
***
Marty punched a fist-sized hole in the drywall of his apartment.
I was frightened. I’d seen small glimpses of his temper over the past few weeks—small outbursts over seemingly trivial things other people did—but I wasn’t too concerned. I attributed it to stress. He was a TA and had a heavy course load after all. But his reactions had never gone this far.
“Marty, calm down. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. How could he do that? Doesn’t he have a conscience?”
“You’re overreacting. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t see you coming so he accidentally opened the door and hit you in the face.”
He sighed and rubbed his nose, which was beginning to swell up. He sat down on the brown suede couch next to me with his head in his hands.
“Why do you get so upset?” I asked. “Have you been stressed lately?” I began stroking his back gently. It was as much to soothe him as it was to soothe myself. I was still shaken up by that punch.
“No, I’m fine,” he grumbled.
“Talk to me, Marty. You’re not telling me something.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, preferring to rub his temples to calm himself. “I’ve never told anybody about this . . . sometimes I just get really angry. My mom was a bit harsh on me when I was growing up.”
“What happened?”
He let out another long sigh. I could tell he was debating whether to say what was on his mind or not. “She was a drug addict.” The words lingered in the air for a moment. “Even when she was pregnant with me, she was snorting cocaine. She says she’s clean now but I know she still drinks a lot.”
My heart ached for him. I knew what it was like to have a bad relationship with your parents. How it affected your social skills and your ability to relate to other people. You couldn’t escape it no matter how far you ran. For me, moving from Texas to Massachusetts wasn’t far enough. I thought I had it bad but it sounded like Marty had it even worse.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, continuing to rub his back to soothe him. “I didn’t know.”
He brightened unexpectedly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s in the past.” He touched my cheek and kissed me. “I know I have a short fuse sometimes but I’m working on it. And you make me want to be better.”
***
“Are you taking your medications?” I asked Marty. We were sitting in a secluded alcove of the Houghton library trying to study.
He had another bad episode recently when he punched a second hole in his wall because a professor criticized a point in one of his essays. The first hole had only been patched two months ago. We’d done it together with some do-it-yourself spackle from a nearby hardware store.
During that time, I’d recommended that he should see a therapist. He was reluctant at first but I finally convinced him to do it. After a few sessions, they told him he had borderline personality disorder, which meant his emotions were amplified and he was very impulsive. He could switch from extreme elation to extreme anger or depression quickly. All from a small trigger—slight criticism, a misunderstanding, etc.
His condition was both good and bad. The times he was happy, he was really happy, which made him the best person in the world to be around. He could brighten your day even if you had just attended a funeral that morning. That was part of the reason girls—and even some men—were attracted to him like moths to a flame. He just had that kind of energy.
But the times he was unhappy, he was awful to be around. It was like a black cloud loomed over his head, tainting everything around him. He would rant and rave, exhibit bitterness, paranoia, and sometimes become physically violent—but he had never hurt me. I had a hard time believing such a wonderful person could become so terrible so quickly. It made me nervous that he could switch between the two extremes in a heartbeat.
Dr. Perkins had prescribed him medication that he was to take regularly. It was supposed to regulate his mood fluctuations. Make him more balanced like the average person. Less volatile.
“No. I can’t think straight when I’m on them. I have to write this paper that’s due tomorrow.”
I felt extremely frustrated. “Do you care about me Marty?”
“Kristen, I care about you more than anything else. You know that.”
“Yeah, Marty. I know. But you understand how it affects me when you don’t take your meds right? It makes me scared.” Tears began welling in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, but it was so frustrating not being able to get through to him. He needed help and I felt helpless in aiding him.
“Shh, shh.” He put his arms around my shoulders and rubbed my arm up and down. “I’m sorry, Kristen. I’ll take them.”
I wiped tears from my face with my hand. “Are you going to your sessions?”
“Yeah I am . . . just not in the past few weeks.”
“You need to go to your sessions,” I said, trying my best not to sound like I was nagging.
“I know, but Dr. Perkins is a dolt. She doesn’t understand me. I’m not getting much from talking with her.”
“She’s supposed to be one of the best therapists on the east coast for treating your condition. Please, Marty. Won’t you do it for me?”
He took a deep breath then relaxed his shoulders. “Okay. I’ll do it for you.”
***
I’d just gotten back to my dorm room from a party to find Marty sitting on my bed waiting for me, his mouth a thin line. His apartment was further away from campus than my room so we’d been spending a lot of time at my place. It made sense for him to carry my extra key.
The first words out of his mouth were an accusation. “You don’t care about me Kristen.”
I didn’t take to that greeting well. “I do, Marty. Damn it. I do.”
“Then why did you go to that party when you knew it would only make me jealous?”
“God. I just went with some girls. They were nice enough to invite me. It’s not like I have a lot of other friends here. I invited you but you said you had too much work to do.”
“I know. I just hate the thought of other guys making a move on you. You’re so beautiful. It drives me nuts to think you’d leave me for someone better. Someone more handsome and charming.”
“I’d never cheat on you Marty. You have to trust me.”
He grumbled then softened his voice. “I do trust you.”
***
It was spring break and I didn’t really want to go home to see my parents so I went to Marty’s instead. He’d said they had a large house and his parents would be excited to meet me. His dad, Charles Pritchard, was a founding partner at one of the most prestigious law firms on the east coast so his family was financially very well off. It’d been a week since I arrived at the Pritchard household located on the outskirts of Boston and things weren’t quite what I expected.
I was standing next to Marty in the living ro
om. We were planning to go out for a dinner date but the car was gone and the other two cars were in the shop.
“Where’s Dad?” Marty asked..
“He’s out late again,” Mrs. Pritchard said. She was sitting in a recliner aimed at the big screen TV but the TV wasn’t on. She had a half-empty bottle of amber liquid in her hand. Even in her disheveled state, Melody Pritchard was a knockout for her age. Radiant blonde hair, hourglass body, and the face of a Victoria’s Secret model. I could see how Marty got his good looks. She lived up to the “trophy” part of trophy wife for sure. “Probably at work banging the secretary.” She brought the bottle to her lips for a long sip. “Nobody loves me. Not your father. Not you. My own son doesn’t love his mother.”
“I do, Mom. You know I do.”
“I raised you. I gave you my tits to drink from. You made them saggy and ugly. That’s why your father is cheating on me. Because I’m no longer pretty enough for him. How can I blame him for wanting other women?”
“No, Mom. Dad’s just busy with work. He’s not cheating.”
She took another drink. “Men are all the same. Liars and cheaters. Isn’t that right Kristen?”
This was awkward. Super awkward. What was I supposed to say to that?
“. . . I don’t know Mrs. Pritchard. Marty hasn’t cheated on me. At least not that I know of. . .” I looked at Marty warily. He gave me a sympathetic look as if to say “I’m sorry you have to deal with this.”
Mrs. Pritchard huffed then took another sip and gestured the bottle at me. “I like you. You’re a good girl. I’m glad Marty met you.” She turned her attention to Marty. “You be good to Kristen. She’s such a nice girl. A real sweetheart. Don’t you cheat on her like your no good father cheats on me.”
“I’d never do that, Mom. I’m good. Just like you raised me.”
She nodded. “That’s right. You’re a good boy, Martin. My son.”
Mr. Pritchard didn’t get back with the car until midnight that night. We ended up ordering delivery pizza and watching mindless action movies in Marty’s room. I faintly heard Mr. Pritchard and his wife arguing downstairs but most of it was drowned out by the explosions and gunshots blaring from the TV.
Beautiful Surrender (The Forever Book 3) Page 1