Over the Fence Box Set
Carrie Aarons
Copyright © 2019 by Carrie Aarons
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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing done by Proofing Style.
Cover created by Oh So Novel.
To the origins of a dream, may you never forget them.
Contents
Pitching to Win
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
Epilogue
Hitting to Win
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Catching to Win
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Fielding to Win
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
Epilogue
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About the Author
Pitching to Win
Over the Fence, Book One
1
Minka
You know when people say they would never, ever want to go back to high school? That it’s the most vicious, awkward period of life? Those whiners have nothing on me.
I shouldn’t have come here. The sliver of doubt rings out clear as day in my mind as I make my way through the throngs of people cluttering the backyard.
I can practically read the thoughts of my drunken classmates who throw a mixture of judgmental and pity-filled looks my way. “Why does Minka Braxton subject herself to these parties? She’s so desperate.”
Maybe they’re right. Am I so desperate to erase the memories of my past in this house that I would submit to the temporary frozen state my body assumed when I entered it?
No, I’m not desperate. I just simply don’t care what people think about me anymore. A year and a half of ridicule will do that to your average teenage girl.
The entire school, not to mention town, has come out for this beginning-of-summer boozefest. Reaching the far-most corner of the backyard, I sit down at the deep end of Jason Hinkley’s pool, slipping off my leather sandals, letting my bare legs dangle in the water. I take a pull from my bottle of wheat beer and let the musky smell of humid June air, cheap beer, and marijuana fill my nostrils.
Jason is one of the richest kids in Mitchum, hence the all-out ragers he throws while his parents travel to summer homes and ski lodges. Mitchum, North Carolina is the picturesque upper-middle-class suburb. With its tree-lined Main Street and Ivy League-producing high school, this is every couple’s dream from the moment the doctor put a bouncing baby in their arms. Almost every kid I went to high school with got a smartphone for their tenth birthday, and a new car on their sixteenth.
It’s not like I don’t have friends; Chloe and Kelsey were the ones who insisted on coming here tonight. But I’d always been labeled the fool, the naïve girl they snickered at when my back was turned. And most times when it wasn’t.
Forget the preference for books over drugs, or my affinity for movie nights rather than sneaking out; my more humble activities of choice have always pushed me out of the inner circle. But that fateful night a year and a half ago, in an upstairs bedroom of this mansion, had solidified why I was labeled a fool.
Looking across the can-filled yard, I spot my best friends gyrating their bodies to the hip-hop song booming out of the speakers. The noise spills onto the makeshift dance floor, otherwise known as the patio. They cling happily to each other, sloshing their drinks and making flirty-eyes at the guys standing around them.
If only I felt free enough to do that with them.
I’m surprised as the thought crosses my mind. No, I don’t yearn to be as boy-crazy as Chloe or as daring as Kelsey, it’s just not in my nature. But sometimes, I think it would be fun to come out of my tightly bound skin. I simply can’t afford the consequences, though.
I eye them, semi-jealous of Kelsey’s auburn colored hair that seems to cascade around her slim body, jangling in time with the dozens of bangles she wears on her wrists. Kels is a total free spirit, as demonstrated by the teal streaks now peppering her long locks, a hippie chick who is all about peace and love.
Chloe is the sweet, graceful one, with her lithe ballerina body, which she is. A ballerina that is. Her tan Italian skin is the only thing that contrasts the normal ballerina stereotype she fits, but if anything, it makes her even prettier. As if she needs it. Chlo is taller than both of us, with straight jet-black hair and a smile that makes anyone within its path instantly warm to her. I wouldn’t even be surprised if she told me she’d landed a deal with some high-level modeling agency.
As if feeling my eyes on them, Chloe
and Kelsey start to scream and motion for me to come “get my groove on.” I laugh, shaking my head, waving my hand passively to let them know I was having a good time people-watching. They relent after a couple more pleas and go back to shaking it.
While they push me, I know they love and understand me. Of course, they love me; they stood by me at the toughest point of my life.
Glancing down at the orange-lit pool, I slice my scarlet-painted toes back and forth through the water, enjoying the natural buzz coming on after finishing my second beer.
“What’s the matter, dancing isn’t really your thing?”
2
Minka
He tilts a smile my way, and I swear I can hear the thud from my heart flopping over in my chest.
Standing before me is a guy so devastatingly handsome, it’s becoming increasingly harder to breathe. It feels like my brain is short-circuiting as I drink him in. He towers above me at six foot three, and that’s not a guess because I’ve studied this particular human at length.
Would it be weird if I sank below the water’s edge to cool the burn flooding my cheeks? Okay, yeah, he might think I was certifiable.
I work my way up, cataloging as my eyes feast on the khaki shorts standing against muscular thighs, falling at his knee where tanned calves end in perfectly pristine tan boat shoes. His navy blue T-shirt stretches across his broad chest where powerful arms are crossed, arms that I watched set the school pull-up record.
God, I could stare at his arms for days. They weren’t steroids big, I never found that level of muscle attractive, but they were built enough that the corded ropes flexed as he adjusted them in front of his body, and my heart did another little swoon.
Glancing up into his face, I have to make sure not to let out the gasp now stuck in my throat. It’s tan and chiseled; a strong jawline and harsh cheekbones dotted by a dark five o’clock shadow. I’ve never thought facial hair was sexy, but his scruff made me want to change my entire stance. No Shave November, sign me up, I’m a fan.
While the face is purely masculine, his eyes were all boyish; startlingly blue, the color of sapphires and sparking with something mischievous. His brownish-blond hair peeks out from under his baseball cap that sits backward atop his head.
I’ve definitely been staring at him for more than a few minutes, because he was staring at me like I was either slow, or really obviously checking him out. Option two, please.
“Uhh … um, parties aren’t really my thing.” Smooth, Minka.
He sits down next to me, not close enough to touch but close enough that I can feel the heat radiate off him. His eyes roam over my face, and I can feel my cheeks heat under his stare. His lips turn up at the corner, and his baby blues level me.
I feel stuck to the pavement, and the music becomes muted as I focus on the chills working their way up my spine despite the summer heat. He tips his head back and takes a long chug from his bottle of beer, and I watch his throat bob as he swallows. Suddenly, I want to be the rim, touching his full lips. This guy makes taking a sip look sexual. A bead of the foamy brew clings to his bottom lip, and I have the strongest urge to lean forward and swipe it away with my tongue.
“Ah, I see, you just come to sit by the pool and get drunk alone. Is that your thing?” He smirks.
The ticker on my bullshit meter notches up a few pegs. Mistrust simmers in my gut, after all, my instinct is well-honed after years of snide comments and jabs thrown my way. I didn’t need summer to start by being the victim of my peers’ latest prank.
Someone had probably taunted this hot specimen to go tease the loser, knock her down a few levels more. They had to have caught on that, in the last year, I’d steeled myself to the torment. I simply stopped caring so much and made a promise to myself that senior year would be different.
Disappointment sits heavy in my stomach, for a split second, I actually hoped he was into me. But I know where hope gets me.
“Typically, I crack open a bottle of Jack by myself, but I thought tonight it might be fun to feel other people’s sweat dripping down my arms on the dance floor or watch drugged-out teenagers awkwardly paw at each other in public.” Sarcasm is my greatest weapon and I use it liberally.
He barks out a laugh.
“Well, then, I promise not to awkwardly paw at you. I’d like to think my skills are better than that. I was only trying to see if I might join you. You see, other people’s bodily secretions aren’t my thing either.” He winks. “I’m Owen by the way.”
Of course, I already knew that … although he just proved he definitely didn’t remember me. Owen Axel, Mitchum’s golden boy, former all-state pitcher and all-around stud. He’s athletic, handsome, talented, smart, and two years older than me.
He is on a full-ride to Grover University and headed for the majors, or so everyone says. Everyone knows Owen and everyone likes him, and any girl at this party would drop their panties for him in an instant. Any girl except for me.
Okay, so maybe it wouldn’t be an instant, but a few minutes, if I was heavily persuaded by alcohol.
“I know who you are. Aren’t your boys looking for you right about now? Isn’t a funnel calling your name?”
Owen and his crew always turn up at these things in the summer. School is out and the boys come back to town, ready to relive their glory days for the three months they’re here. They come back, hook up with the same popular girls who tormented my everyday school existence, and generally all bask in their entitled awesomeness.
I can make out his aquamarine orbs flashing in amusement as the sun slowly descends behind him. My heart beats in a wild thrum just having his eyes on me and I can feel my hands start to sweat. Damn it, if I wasn’t furious at my body for betraying me. I can’t let him get even one word or action to use against me if he was going to report back to his pals about messing with the town fool.
“All right, snarky. While I love a beautiful girl with a sharp tongue, it might be better if she wasn’t a stranger.” Owen smiles, ignoring my question. He rubs a big callused hand over his jaw, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and trace that line too. So, apparently, my body has decided to ignore the “We won’t cater to the popular people anymore,” memo.
Wait, did he just call me beautiful? My neck joins my hands in the sweatfest, and I’m sure he can hear the pulse beating rapidly at my neck while he just stares expectantly at me, a lock of golden hair flopping out of his hat and landing on a chiseled cheekbone.
Why am I getting so worked up? I’ve been prey to this kind of pursuit before, in this backyard in fact, and I had sworn never to fall victim to it again.
“Minka. We shared an entire semester of physical education your senior year, so I’d say we are most definitely not strangers.” I shrug as I glance in the direction of the dance floor. Chloe and Kelsey curiously stare at me, not so subtly throwing thumbs-up.
He looks confused and taken aback by my confession, but only momentarily. He recovers, bringing back that mega-watt smile, almost making me forget why I avoid guys like him at all costs.
And then he opens his mouth. “Nah, I wouldn’t forget a pretty face like yours, Minka.”
I roll my eyes and move to get up, the bullshit meter is now basically full with all I can handle. All I wanted was a quiet night, no drama, and maybe a beer or two or four. “Okay, Casanova, I get that this totally works for you, and by now your chosen sorority sister’s thong would be in pieces on the floor, but believe me when I tell you, it’s really not going to happen with me.”
I move hastily toward the house, ready as anything to down another beer and soothe the butterflies in my belly. It’s not like I wanted Owen Axel, but he is just so attractive. Not even my hardened exterior can resist blushing after receiving the full force of his lazy grin.
As I hit the patio and slither between bodies to the back door, my head turns, seemingly on its own, as if it can feel his pull. Looking at the spot I had just fled, Owen stands there, his now almost indigo-eyes pinning me i
n the crowd. I can see the molten heat flowing out of them, directed specifically at me. A faint smile ghosts his lips. He is so breathtaking that it’s as if the spot I am standing on has just been engulfed in flames.
I am definitely going to need another beer.
3
Minka
Over the Fence Box Set Page 1