by Kelly Myers
Frenemies with Benefits
Kelly Myers
Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Myers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Blurb
Prologue/Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Excerpt: Breaking All the Rules
Invitation to join Kelly’s Newsletter
Blurb
I’ve spent my life running away from my past.
And for so long, that’s worked.
Not anymore.
Now my past is out to get me in the form of Zach O’Malley.
He was my first crush, but that was then.
My name is still Beatrice Dobbs, but everything else has changed.
I’m an adult now.
I don’t want to go back to my troubled past.
Plus Zach is from the wrong side of the tracks.
Sure, back when I was in high school, I had a thing for the Bad Boy, but not anymore.
And on top of that, he’s trying to get me to reconnect with my mother.
I haven’t spoken to her since I was eighteen, and I would rather re-take the SAT’s than see her again.
And yet, I can’t seem to push Zach away.
He’s no good for me.
But maybe – just maybe– my teenage self was onto something.
What’s the harm in a little bit of fun?
Prologue/Introduction
June, 2009
I check my watch for about the twentieth time. I’m supposed to pick up groceries on my way home from school, but I’m trying to postpone the errand as long as possible.
My mom handed me five bucks this morning. What on earth am I going to get with five bucks? You can’t even get two solid meals from McDonalds with five dollars. Not that my mom would be happy with fast food. She says she needs to watch her figure. In my humble opinion, trans fat is the least of her worries.
It’s the first truly hot day of the summer. As soon as class was done, my friends Sara and Amy and I made a beeline for the park picnic tables. I lean back on the bench and enjoy the feel of sun on my face and neck. I try to forget that the month is almost over. School’s out in a week, and I’m already dreading it.
I know most high school juniors are supposed to be looking forward to summer. It’s not like I’m a total nerd who only cares about homework. If I lived in a nice big house with air conditioning and a pool in the backyard, trust me, I’d be pumped for summer.
I don’t have that big house though. Just a single mom and a crappy apartment.
No school means I’ll have two options: hang around with my mom, which is totally not happening. Or hang around with my friends in Torrins which is only marginally better. I glance over at Sara as she examines her eyeliner in her little pocket mirror.
She’s been dead set on seducing this older guy named Brett. I’ve warned her off him. He knows my mom. Let’s just say, if he runs in the same circles as my mother Claire Dobbs, he’s no good.
Amy leans into me and flicks a strand of my straight red hair. “You should dye your hair black, Bea, it’ll make you look older.”
All my friends want to look older. They dye their hair and put on loads of makeup and pierce their noses. I don’t. When my mom was my age, she tried to act older. All that got her was a teen pregnancy.
Yeah, that’s right. I’m the child of a sixteen-year-old who got knocked up. And – miracle of all miracles! – I’ve managed to reach the age of seventeen with no accidental pregnancy. Which basically means I’ve already exceeded all expectations in life. Sometimes, I think I should just quit while I’m ahead. Who knows? Maybe having a child at eighteen with some jerk who doesn’t even stick around for the third trimester will not result in me turning into a sad unemployed mess who deals drugs just to make cash for groceries.
It’s this stupid town. Torrins, Illinois. A thirty minute drive from downtown Chicago, but it might as well be 30 hours.
“If I dye my hair black, everyone will think I’ve gone goth,” I say. “Or it’ll just make my skin look even more abnormally pale. No thanks.”
I don’t say it, but I actually like my hair. Sara and Amy have both been getting chunky blonde highlights since we were in the eighth grade, but I never succumbed to the urge. My hair is technically red, but I like to call it auburn because that sounds more sophisticated. It’s long and silky smooth and, best of all, it doesn’t look anything like my mom’s hair. The rest of my face is almost identical to hers, but my hair is all my own.
Technically, I might share it with my dad, but he never stuck around to see that, so I get to say it’s all my own.
I sigh as I hop off the bench. It’s almost four, I’ve got to head home, or my mom will get all paranoid. She acts like her apartment is somehow safer than the streets. It might be, if she didn’t associate with a bunch of drug dealers.
“I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” I wave to my friends, and they flutter their hands back at me. Then Amy turns back to her phone, and Sara keeps surveying the park for her crush.
When I get home, I’m clutching a plastic bag with pasta and sauce inside it. I was tempted to slip a chocolate bar into the waistband of my shorts, but I didn’t. I’ve seen Sara do it about a hundred times, but I always chicken out. I don’t want to make any little mistakes. They tend to snowball into massive mistakes. My mother is a living testament to this.
My heart sinks as I open the door. Finn is slouched on the grey ratty couch. My mom is curled up at the card table we eat on, a cigarette in one hand and a can of beer in the other. Her legs are crossed and she’s wearing flip-flops and jiggling her foot. Finn makes her nervous.
“Hi, Beatrice!” She plasters on this fake smile for me while Finn smirks from the couch.
I’m not a violent person, but I can never look at Finn without wanting to smack him.
My mom used to be alright. Sure, she was never the type of wholesome mom you see on TV who wears knit sweaters and cuts up apples for snacks, but she held down a waitressing job, mostly thanks to my grandma helping her out by looking after me.
Then my mom started dating around. I have to give it to her, she really knows how to pick them. Each boyfriend was worse than the last. My grandma gave up on her and now barely talks to either of us. Then one of my mom’s lousy boyfriends convinced her she could make way more money dealing drugs for Finn than working as a waitress. That charmer didn’t stick around, but Finn did.
Hence the current afternoon chat. I dump the measly groceries on the counter and head straight back to the door. No way am I sticking around to hear Finn hand over more product to m
y mom.
“I’ve got to meet someone for school.” The lie rolls off my tongue with ease.
“See you later, sweetheart,” my mom says. She gives me a grateful smile. She doesn’t like me around when she’s doing business. And yet, she still does it.
“Yeah, see you later, sweetheart.” Finn narrows his eyes at me, and my stomach lurches.
Someday, I really hope he gets too close so I can whip out my keychain mace.
I duck out the door and scamper down the steps. When I’m outside, I lean against the side of the building and sit down. I pull out a textbook and stare at the pages. We have exams coming up. I can at least start studying.
I nearly jump a mile when a figure appears around the corner.
Then I see who it is, and my cheeks turn bright red. Zach O’Malley.
He’s not good news. I know that. He’s older and graduated a year ago. His dad works for Finn as well, and as soon as Zach was out of school, he started delivering drugs for his dad. I hate the way some of my friends talk about it, as if it’s so cool and daring.
“Bea.” Zach grins, and my breath catches. “I thought I’d find you here.”
He ambles over and sits down right next to me, so that our shoulders are almost touching.
I know he’s not good. But he’s not bad either.
Zach is nice. Or at least, he’s been nice to me, whenever we run into each other.
He peers over my shoulder. “The federalist papers. Fascinating stuff.”
His blue eyes wrinkle up as he smiles. All the other girls say Zach is smoking hot, but I think he’s more than that. With his dark hair and tan skin that always stands out against his white T-shirts, he’s handsome, like some hero out of a fairy tale. Only he’s a hero with a mischievous side.
“Exams are next week,” I say.
“And you’ll ace them all, I bet.”
“Oh, I’m not sure.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “I don’t know if I’m up for the rigorous demands of the Torrins High curriculum.”
Our public high school is one of the worst in the county. It’s shockingly easy to impress the teachers.
Zach rifles around in the plastic bag he was carrying and then presents me with a chocolate bar.
A smile tugs at my lips. I always feel all bubbly when he’s nice to me. “Thanks.”
As I reach for it, Zach pulls the bar away. “Oh it’s not actually for you.”
I furrow my brow and drop my hand back into my lap.
“I have other plans.” Zach leans forward and grins, as if he’s about to share some great secret. “I’m going to let it melt in the sun and then ‘accidentally’ smear it on the seat of Finn’s car.”
I grin. Like most guys with a toxic masculinity problem, Finn is obsessed with his car.
“Promise you’ll film his reaction for me?” I ask.
“Oh, of course.”
I start to giggle just imagining Finn’s overblown reaction to melted chocolate ruining his upholstery.
That’s the best thing about Zach: he makes me laugh on the worst days. No matter how over-her-head my mom gets with Finn, and no matter how much she addles her brain with drugs and alcohol, Zach always finds some way to joke.
That’s how I know he’s not all bad. He may not be good, but he’s definitely not all bad.
And all of a sudden, I’m not stressing about my mom or the end of the school year. I’m just laughing with Zach and thinking that if I get to see more of him, it might not be an awful summer after all.
Chapter One
10 Years Later
I mutter under my breath as the bus jolts to another stop. There’s no reason for me to have a car living in Chicago, but once a month, when I make the trek out to Torrins via public transit, I seriously consider investing in a car, if just to avoid the bus.
Public transit in Chicago is great. The trouble is, no one ever wants to leave Chicago and go to Torrins. No one except me.
I wouldn’t go. In fact, I could be perfectly content if I never clapped eyes on the town of Torrins (or this cursed bus) for the rest of my days. I have a fabulous job in downtown Chicago, my own apartment in Lincoln Park, and every weekend I have brunch with my three best friends. My life is great.
It just so happens that I owe my wonderful life, in part, to my grandmother. Who inexplicably adores Torrins. Or at least, she refuses to move. Someday, I’ll convince her to move to the fanciest old person’s home I can find, and I’ll pay all her bills. For now, Deborah Dobbs insists on staying in her hometown and being totally self-sufficient. I guess I wouldn’t love her as much if she wasn’t so stubborn.
Even so, I should be inducted into the sainthood for suffering through the ups and downs of the 359 bus the first Sunday of every month.
At least the heat is working. January in the midwest is brutal. There’s been no snow this week, but last night the temperature took a nasty plunge. I’m ensconced in my long black coat with extra insulation. It’s high tech, and I feel good wearing it back to Torrins. I couldn’t afford a coat this nice when I lived here, but now thanks to my corporate job, I can wrap myself in this overpriced garment like its armour. I can pretend I’m not the girl from Torrins anymore.
At last the bus rattles to a stop, and I hop off. I set out at a brisk walk with my hood up and my head down. My grandmother lives only a few blocks away, but it’s never fun to run into old acquaintances from high school. I always get sad thinking about how miserable I would be if I had ended up stuck in Torrins and going nowhere, and they always look at me like I’m some sort of snob.
I know what you’re thinking: this chick is a snob. To which I say: you’re absolutely right. I’m a snob. I worked hard to get a scholarship to college and escape my not-so-glamorous roots, and I’ll congratulate myself on successfully avoiding the mistakes of my mother for the rest of my life.
And now you’re probably thinking I need some therapy. Well, been there, done that, and I am fully at peace that I am estranged from my mother.
Besides, my grandmother once told me that the best therapy is a good joke, and I’ve always been inclined to believe her.
I let myself into her front door. As soon as I’m inside, I smell the slightly musty smell of her perfume, and the tension eases out of my shoulders.
“Beatrice!” My grandmother appears in the doorway to her kitchen.
“Hi, grandma,” I say.
I walk forward and give her a big hug. I lift up my tote bag. “I come bearing gifts: fancy olives and prosciutto from that posh market in Lincoln Park.”
“You spoil me.” She turns back into the kitchen, and I follow.
I know her house like the back of my hand. I spent my earliest years toddling around Deborah Dobb’s living room before my mom moved us out. Then I returned to live with my grandmother for my senior year of high school. At that point, her house was a safe haven, the only harbor in a storm. If that sounds melodramatic, then you haven’t met my mom.
We settle down in her warm kitchen to snack on everything I brought. My grandma is an amazing cook, but I like to bring her fancy or exciting food for my sunday visits.
She tells me the latest news from her part time job at a grocery store, and I tell her about all the drama at my office. I work selling online advertising sales, and salespeople are the most petty people in the world. I try to stay out of the messy drama, but I always like to imitate some of the funnier scenes. My grandma loves when I do an imitation of the guy who works on my team and tries to close deals by raving about whatever sports team the potential customer likes.
My grandmother married her high school sweetheart and has worked the same job since he died of a heart attack when she was almost 40. She never complains. Her life is simple, but she is content.
I have no idea how someone like Deborah produced the trainwreck that is my mother Claire. The only reasonable explanation is a baby mix-up at the hospital.
That has to be ruled out though because all three of us look alike. My mom a
nd grandma have brown hair, and mine is auburn, but we all have the same wide-set green eyes and high cheekbones.
As the afternoon wears on, my grandmother asks about my friends. I have a close-knit group of girlfriends: Zoe Hamilton, Marianne Gellar, Elena Ramirez and me. We all met in college, and we’ve navigated the ups and downs of life together ever since. My grandma never lived in a big city, and she always says she never wanted to, but sometimes, when I tell her about the times I have in Chicago with my friends, I think I glimpse a wistful look in her eye, as if she’s wondering what could have been.
Maybe I’m projecting. Being back in my hometown makes me angst-ridden.
My grandma sighs and glances at her clock. “I guess you should be heading back.”
“I’ve got a big week of work ahead.” I’m always guilty about leaving too soon. “Next month, I’ll stay till late and we’ll go out to dinner, ok?”
“Sounds great,” my grandma says. “A night out, just us girls.”
A sharp memory ricochets through my head. Whenever I asked about my dad when I was little, my mother would never answer, but my grandma would always say, “It’s just us girls, and that’s just fine!”
I know she missed her husband, but for my sake, she always acted like it was such a stroke of luck that it was just women in the house. Until one day, she and my mom couldn’t take the tension. They fought about everything, and eventually, my mom packed a bag and dragged me out.
I pull my coat on and head out into the cold. The sun sets early in January, and the sky is already starting to darken.