Contents
COPYRIGHT
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon
About the Author
Blank Pages
Alice Darlington
COPYRIGHT
Blank Pages (c) 2020 Alice Darlington
All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced or transmitted in any form with the exception of quotes and small excerpts in the form of book reviews or articles. The scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without written consent of the author is piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property, in accordance with The Copyright Act of 1976.
This E-Book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and situations are fictitious as a result of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to names, locations, or actual events is completely coincidental.
Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Copyright (C) 2020 Alice Darlington
Cover Design: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Editing by C. Marie
To my husband: every thing in my life is dedicated to you and the little beings we created.
To my best friend: Without your endless, maddening positivity, this book would still just be a daydream.
CHAPTER 1
I didn’t realize how lazy I’d been all summer until I hit the one-mile mark on the treadmill. So maybe I didn’t get out of bed until eleven. Maybe I ate a lot of food that was handed to me through a window. Maybe most of my liquid intake was deliciously poisoned with sugar. Still, running shouldn’t hurt this bad, right?
I couldn’t be this out of shape. Maybe it was something else. Maybe I was dying. Maybe cancer had eaten its way to my aching muscles, or maybe it was heart failure. Yeah, my heart definitely felt like it was failing.
“Lex, you’re not dying. You just spent the summer reverting back to some seriously unhealthy habits,” Jules, my roommate of two years, told me. I hadn’t even realized I’d voiced my death fears out loud. At least she let me stop running after that, even though she’d doubled my mile and a half in the same amount of time.
As a contingency of me working out, we stopped to get me a coffee at Lola’s before we made it up to our apartment. Lola’s was the go-to coffee shop, just off campus. It was also owned by Jules’ parents. Our three-bedroom apartment was above it with its own separate entrance.
Jules raced to our one shower, surely planning to use all the hot water. In retaliation, I plopped down onto her bed in all my sweaty glory, savoring the warm caffeine I was about to inhale. Lola’s was open six to eight Monday through Saturday, and for that entire time, the smell of fresh-baked muffins, scones, and croissants wafted through the ceiling into our living room, not to mention the coffee. Even if I didn’t like Jules, I don’t think I’d ever be able to move. Coffee was an addiction I refused to give up. The liquid happiness coursing through my veins was the only reason I’d made it to my senior year, or to two PM. Same difference.
When she finally emerged to find me still lying on her bed, coffee empty, her disapproval was evident in the form of an eye roll. “After that run, just imagine how good you’ll look when we go out tonight.”
I scoffed. The amount of exercise I was willing to do wouldn’t get rid of that extra little pudge on my lower half. Thankfully, it could be somewhat hidden by a good pair of pants.
“I don’t really want to go out tonight,” I pouted. It wasn’t like I had other plans except refusing to move the muscles that ached in protest, but I also didn’t want to spend my evening in the company of drunk boys and even drunker girls trying to get their attention.
“It’ll be fun,” she promised, unwrapping the towel she’d used to capture her blonde hair. She continued drying the shoulder-length style as she rummaged through the abundance of clothes that were stuffed into her tiny closet. “It’s the start of senior year—let’s celebrate.” And by celebrate she meant dancing until her feet ached and drinking until a guy who was normally a seven looked like an eleven, which was how most twenty-something-year-olds celebrated in college. I wasn’t most. I usually objected. Unfortunately for me, Jules rarely listened to my objections, instead disregarding my complaints and flat-out ignoring the evil looks I shot her way.
She even picked out my clothes, since I apparently couldn’t be trusted to do so. Probably reasonable considering my version of dressing up consisted of wearing black yoga pants. They say it’s the color of mourning. For me, it was much more versatile. I wore black to everything from weddings to midnight thieving escapades, though one usually involved more leather than the other—not that I actually went burglarizing in the middle of the night. Sometimes, Jules and I wore our catsuits while watching Batman, though. I figured it was basically the same thing.
Another reason I hated going out: the preparation time. Girls were expected to be dolled up to the point of raccoon eyes and Joker lipstick. I generally stuck to a natural sort of look that complemented my average five-foot-five stature. I was confident enough to admit that I was pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way, but I did try to play it up on occasion. A little bronzer on my high cheekbones and light pinks over my lids went well with my skin tone, and a thin layer of black on my upper eyelid gave my plain brown eyes some much needed attention. Most guys would probably think I wasn’t wearing makeup at all, but if my face were actually bare of all artificial enhancement, they would think I was sick or hadn’t slept in three days. The red lipstick was the only bold thing about my makeup regime. I wore it like an armor against my averageness.
My red lips puckered into the toothpaste-splattered mirror. “As good as it’s gonna get,” I said to myself.
“Ooooh, what color is that?” Jules asked, turning from her mirror on the opposite side of our joint bathroom.
“The actual name has rubbed off, so I don’t know.” It was already worn down to a nub. “I’ve been calling it ‘Error Message Red’,” I told her, making kissy faces at my reflection.
She laughed at my naming. “You know if the whole writing-for-a-living thing doesn’t work out for you, maybe you can get a job naming lipsticks.”
“Or nail polish,” I suggested. Honestly, it seemed like a great way to pay the bills. I wondered how much money they made and made a mental note to look into it since my current backup plan consisted of prostitution and donating my eggs, or something even worse: receptionist. Shiver. None were a promising plan B.
“There is some kind of confidence-building secret ingredient in red lipstick.” Jules was applying cruelty-free mascara
to her already perfect lashes. She was a nutrition major, an animal lover, and one hundred percent invested in the chemicals in every ounce of makeup, not to mention a practicing activist interested in the baby sea turtles that suffered the negative effects of makeup testing.
She was one of a kind, and we meshed well together. Her wild side complemented my caution, while I tamed her fierce edges—at least a little…sometimes. Okay, hardly ever.
“Why are we doing this again?” I whined, asking for the third time since I’d started getting ready to go to the bar two blocks down the street. Excitement did not run through my veins as it seemed to hers. Jules was, according to everyone’s opinion, fun. I was more the type you had to drag out and force to have fun, impatiently waiting to be back in my bed.
“Lex, it’s Thursday. You’re a senior,” she said, as if that were a reasonable answer. “And you said you wanted to live a little. Wasn’t that your new school year resolution?” Not exactly word for word.
“Yes, but just because it’s my last year here does not mean I have to participate in every Thirsty Thursday.” It wasn’t the idea I’d had when I mentioned that I’d like to live a little more adventurously this year. Jules shook her head, continuing to plaster more makeup on her naturally beautiful face. She was that kind of girl, the kind you wanted to hate for being so pretty. If she hadn’t been my best friend, I was sure I would have hated her, too. I kept waiting for an earthquake to hit and switch our bodies Freaky Friday style. Did you get superpowers? she’d ask me, and I’d reply, No, just a flawless complexion, so who is the real winner here?
“Your hair looks fabulous,” she told me, interrupting my jealous thoughts about switching our skin, which only seemed a little bit creepy.
“That’s because I didn’t plan on going anywhere. It always looks better when it thinks we’re staying in,” I explained, fluffing the long, brown curls that never seemed to be controlled.
“You’re sure to draw some eyes tonight, and it’s about time. You are in dire need of male attention. You seriously need to meet someone. It’s been too long.”
I grunted. So I hadn’t seriously dated in a year or two…maybe three? Who can keep track?
“You need to play the damsel in distress and rein you in a white knight.” Jules continued shuffling through her closet, and her words halted my brush mid-stroke.
“I don’t want to be the damsel in distress,” I protested. “I don’t want a knight—not that a brave knight isn’t attractive. Don’t get me wrong, a handsome knight is good, but he’s not needed, and he needs to recognize that. I’m an independent woman! Give me a sword and watch me work.” I was pointing my hairbrush at the mirror with each word, prompting her to laugh.
“So you can slay the dragon yourself?” she asked, a half-smile playing on her face at my nodding. “You, oh mighty princess warrior, don’t need a man, huh?”
“Need? No, but I could definitely want one—the right one. Someone to be the big spoon, kill the spiders, make the morning coffee. Someone to clean the hair out of the shower drain, because let’s face it, that will never be me. I mean, this is the twenty-first century—I can slay the dragon, and he can go grab me some tacos. Seriously, why is there not a Disney movie about this?”
She threw her head back and laughed at the ridiculousness of my rant. It was infectious, causing me to abandon my makeup and clutch my stomach in pain from the lack of air. When she was able to breathe again, she flashed me her award-winning smile. “Come on, Lex. You know I need my wingman.” She really didn’t. She could get a guy with smudged mascara and her hair sticky with someone’s spilled beer. I knew this, because I’d seen it happen—more than once.
“Fine. I’m coming.” I re-cuffed my skinny jeans and slid on my red Chucks. After licking my teeth in the mirror to make sure the color hadn’t escaped my lips, I followed her out the door with little hope of enjoying myself.
Smashed was just a couple blocks down from Lola’s and was the customary Thursday night hangout for all college students at Dixie College in Sparksville, South Carolina, along with want-to-be college students trying to recapture their lost youth. I can assure you, they seldom found it here. The air was clouded with cigarette smoke, and people lined the walls and circled the few pool tables and dart boards. The dance floor was overcrowded with stumbling girls. I sighed as soon as my Converse hit the sticky floor.
The mob at the bar was three-deep, and I was certain most of them were underage. Fake IDs were all the rage for eighteen-year-old freshmen, and I thought maybe I could mention that in the first edition of The Dixie Chronicle.
There were six editions of the school paper each year, three per semester. Although I had been contributing my writing to the campus newspaper since freshman year when my journalism professor suggested I apply for the open position, I’d yet to write anything of real substance. Articles on the nutritional value of cafeteria food (very little) and the pros and cons of grading curves (all pros) served a purpose, but they never satisfied my need to put pen to paper and inspire. For my want-to-be writer heart, that stung.
The first article was always geared toward freshmen. I didn’t know how the journalism staff would feel about mentioning alcohol in the school newspaper. It was the truth, though, right? Isn’t that kind of the point of true journalism? Freedom of speech and all that?
I made a mental note to look into it as Jules finally did get the bartender’s attention, to the irritation of some who had been waiting much longer. She ordered a fruity drink that reminded me of the beach minus the little umbrella. With any luck, it was the only drink she’d pay for all night, though that had more to do with her lowcut silk top and less to do with any four-leaf clover or rabbit’s foot.
A full hour passed of too-loud music with too-drunk girls and too much alcohol. Relief washed over me when Jules worked her way through the crowd. I was not ashamed that I was stuffed into a corner, online shopping on my phone.
“You go on home. I’m going home with Jack.”
“Jack?” I questioned, glancing over her shoulder at the man attached to her hand. It was her usual pick: tall, dark, and handsome, probably played some sport to have muscles that looked like that. “Are you sure?” I asked.
She nodded, looked at him, looked back at me, and winked.
Fighting my urge to sigh, I responded, as always, “Call me if you need me,” and shot a threatening, best-friend glare at her man of choice. He didn’t wither, probably too tipsy to fully understand the warning my limited muscles and dirty fighting tactics entailed.
With my wingman status no longer needed (not that it ever really was), I decided to walk the two blocks back home. I could have ordered and paid for a ride, but the air was fresh and the night welcomed me, beckoning me home to a fresh pint of ice cream and pants with an elastic waist.
I had only just made it across the parking lot when I heard my name. I knew that voice, and I knew it came from a six-foot-tall piece of man candy who’d walked straight out of a romantic comedy, the good kind where the guy gets the girl in the end and catchy music plays while the ending credits roll.
“Lex!” he yelled, running over to catch up with me, dark hair windblown. “Where are you going? It’s early.” He glanced at his wrist, only to realize he wasn’t wearing a watch.
“Hey, Ben. I’m going home, have a lot to do tomorrow.” He should have known. He was in the same American History class as me, and we had a five-page paper on the Founding Fathers due Monday. I had only completed the introduction and conclusion paragraphs, which were really just twisted around sentences saying the same thing. Neither seemed very promising. It was barely the third week of classes and I was already falling behind.
“You’re walking? By yourself? Alone? At night?” he questioned. The chill in the night air had put a rosy tint on his cheeks, but I tried to ignore the effect that had on me, and on my ovaries. I attributed it to my lack of conversation with people who looked like they might moonlight as an underwear model. Even
though I’d known Ben for years, we’d only had a handful of classes together, less since we’d completed the general curriculum. We were friends, but not exactly ‘walk you home in the middle of the night’ friends. More like ‘I forgot my pencil, do you have an extra one’ friends. Maybe smile or wave when we see each other but never actually speak. We were the generation of social media; we didn’t use our voices anymore.
“I’m a big girl. I think I can handle two blocks.”
“You’re five foot six.” He leaned back and squinted one eye, as if I were talking about my size and not my maturity. “Maybe. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t walk you home?” he asked, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Are you a gentleman?” I asked, only half joking. He had a reputation for being a charmer—a fun, intelligent charmer with a set of abs that would make excellent cover art for a hot-and-heavy romance bestseller. Needless to say, he had his pick of girls vying for his affection, and for his abs. Mostly his abs.
“Ouch.” He smiled, holding his hand to his heart. “Come on, Lex, let me walk you home.”
I relented, more so I could go ahead and start toward home than anything, and he fell into step beside me.
“Have you started your history paper yet?” he asked, making the type of meaningless conversation I typically despised. Small talk was one of my pet peeves, along with dryer lint, hangnails, and losing an irrational number of bobby pins. There were actually quite a few meaningless things that made my blood boil. Small talk was right up there. Words meant too much to me to throw them around carelessly. I spent a great deal of my time with words. They generally made better companions. They deserved better.
“Barely,” I answered.
“Same. I have a hard time focusing on history. That’s why I waited until my last year to take it.” Ben was a senior, like me, majoring in some really complicated type of engineering, if I remembered correctly—which, of course, I did.
Blank Pages Page 1