High School Lover

  HIGH SCHOOL LOVER

  Copyright © 2018 by Rose Croft. 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.

  Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: Lauren Schmelz, Write Divas

  Editor: Bex Harper, Bex Harper Designs

  Formatter: Tami Norman, Integrity Formatting

  Cover Design: Bex Harper Designs

  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

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  Teaser

  About the Author

  Present

  “What do you mean by the word member? Are we talking about a part of a group? Or are you referring to his junk?” Rose glanced up from the laptop, pointing at the document on the screen.

  “You know what I mean. You’ve read just as many historical romances as I have. You’re an English teacher for God’s sake!”

  She pffted me. “You mean his dick. Right, Loren?”

  I exhaled and squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Yes, Rose, his dick. Should I be worried that you’re shaping the minds of teenagers?”

  “You’re writing about two people getting it on with their ‘bosoms’ and ‘member,’ sister. Who even writes like that anymore? What are you…an eighty-year-old woman from Wales?”

  “No.” I was twenty-six and apparently out of touch, according to Rose.

  “And…” She paused, appearing uncertain, probably trying not to hurt my feelings. Why at this moment did she care? It’d never stopped her before.

  “Go on. Tell me your thoughts.” I’d had this idea to write a romance novel for a long time, and Rose had been my sounding board ever since we had roomed together in college. We both shared an interest in books and writing. I’d majored in journalism and she in education with a minor in English.

  “I don’t know. The whole premise of the story sounds very dated, like one of those old-school historical romance books.”

  That was true. I was obviously inspired by those older books I had snuck out of my mom’s bedside nightstand when I was probably too young to read them. I was too young to read them. And the books were old, the pages had yellowed, and the content was not even close to being politically correct. And the authors used words like bosom, member, loins, and moist. And I read those books. Liked those books. My mother liked them. Why did she read them? I started analyzing why my perfect, Suzy Homemaker, cheerleader-for-life mother would enjoy those books. She seemed like the last person who would want to read about sex. I cringed. My mind was swerving off topic.

  I turned my focus back to my ride-or-die friend. “So, you’re saying the basis of the story is weak?”

  Her eyebrows scrunched behind her studious-looking glasses that she always wore. “Well, it seems like the characters are somewhat one-dimensional. You know…I hate you. I love you. I hate you. You hate me? Let me stick my manhood inside you and give you something that will change your mind…Ooh, I love you again.”

  She’d just reduced the seventy-five thousand words I had written to a pile of shit. Why didn’t she go ahead and punch me in the face, too? But, if I were honest with myself, I knew deep down the story lacked depth. I needed a candid opinion if I wanted to grow as a writer, and my bestie never held back. That’s not to say she couldn’t also be annoying as hell.

  “Okay, what if I threw a couples therapist into the mix?” I deadpanned. “You know, like Dr. Phil. He could tell the heroine to kick the guy’s ass to the curb.”

  She laughed. “Is he going to time travel back to the nineteenth century and tell the main characters to get real?” After some ridiculous banter back and forth involving Dr. Phil, a pirate, and the young delicate virgin the rakish pirate was trying to deflower, there was a heavy bout of obnoxious laughter because we were goofy like that. And, yes, I could admit this story sounded ludicrous.

  When the final giggles subsided, Rose laid her hand on my shoulder. “Loren, you’ve always been a good writer. You used to make me so jealous because the papers that we had to write in college seemed to be so easy for you. Why don’t you look at some of the current books in this genre? And think about what truly inspires you.”

  I was suddenly taken back to a time several years ago when I wrote poetry and another dear friend, Andrew, had asked me to think about where I drew my inspiration from. He, too, had encouraged my writing. Where Rose was more tough love and to the point about my work, he was more positive in his criticism, which was funny because he could also be the most sarcastic person ever. But never when he read my work. He made me believe I could attain my dreams of being a writer. I thought we would always collaborate together, be together, but I had let outside influences, specifically my parents, steer me in another direction. More like force me in another direction at gunpoint. I’d never forgotten about that. What they did. Why I allowed it.

  I exhaled slowly, frustrated that I was going to have to chuck this story and start over. But I wasn’t going to be discouraged this time. It was about damn time I did something I enjoyed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Rose stood up and slid her purse over her shoulder. “I know I’m right.” Cue eyeroll from me because, in her mind, she always knew best.

  I walked her to the door. She squared her shoulders, facing me as though she were about to give a presentation. “You can do this, Lolo. Don’t get frustrated and give up. Chasing your dreams is not always easy, but if you work hard and stay committed, you can achieve your goals. Perseverance is key.” She jabbed her finger into my chest. “I know you have a great story in there just waiting to come out.” She pierced me with her cocoa eyes, behind clear lenses. “Just let that story come out.” She jutted her chin to punctuate her point. “That’s right, let it out, chica. It’s frantically beating on the door, trapped.” She leaned into my chest, cupping her ear. “I hear it. I hear him desperately pulling the door handle, rattling the door.” She raised her head, pausing dramatically to let the words sink in. “It’s time, Loren. Unlock that door.” She ended on a whisper.

  She sounded like a walking motivational meme, spewing the most inane crap I’d ever heard. How did she do that with a straight face? How did I not lose it, either—because I laughed at everything. Maybe I took her words to heart. I hugged my personal cheerleader, thankful that I had her support. “Thanks for the pep talk, Rosie.”

  After she left, I began doing some more research online about what subgenre of romance books people liked to read. It was glaringly obvious that I’d been living in a flipping time capsule. Was I Amish and just recently discovered the Internet, and the possibility of reading books online? Okay, I knew you could, but I never did it.

  I checked out the top sellers on Amazon, and most of them were contemporary books. I clicked and read blurbs, read the first few chapters of some of them. I smiled like a kid who’d tried chocolate for the first time. Eager because I’d actually found new au
thors I wanted to read. I clicked and clicked and clicked for hours as though my index finger had OCD. I was buying books like I had all the money in the world, which I didn’t. Wait, back up. I downloaded the Kindle app on my computer first. Because I’m tech-savvy like that. Then I bought, bought, and bought.

  As I perused, I saw links to other books. One title stuck out as though calling my name—Three the Hard Way (Risky Business, Book 1). Risky Business, hmmm…sounds like the characters might be shady. Please let it be a drug dealer/mafia romance. That mantra repeated in my head as I read the blurb. My lips curled up in satisfaction. I knew I’d hit the mother lode. It was a flipping drug dealer/mafia romance. It was about two drug dealers and the sheltered daughter of a mafia kingpin, whom both men had fallen for. Holy shizz! Drug dealers…check. Mafia…check. Romance. Fighting over a girl. Check, check, check to infinity. I was all over this like a great white on a seal. Click.

  Finally, I gave my finger a break because it’d worked so hard, already developing a little muscle. I immediately opened up Kindle to read my badass drug dealer/mafia romance. Yes, there was action, love…and threesomes. Threesomes? Because the two rival dealers who fought over this girl in the beginning decided to form a business alliance and then got down to business with her, together. I’d never read anything like this before. Did I not tell you I’d been living under a rock? Just needed to clarify for those sitting in the back row.

  Anyway, the story was exquisite, heart-wrenching—the prose was exceptional. I wanted to slow clap after reading it, smoke a cigarette, and speak French. I gazed at my hand and said, “How you doin’?” in my best Joey-from-Friends voice because not only was I moved by the author’s words, I was moved to go take care of my own business.

  Several hours after reading the book, I still thought about the characters. Twenty-four hours later, the story continually lingered in my mind as though the characters were real, close friends who kept me up-to-date on their lives. This book was like a heady dose of ecstasy, and I wanted more. When I got home after work, I clicked on all the other books by the same author and read voraciously as though the apocalypse were coming in the next few days.

  As I read, I knew. I knew what I wanted to write.

  Adam took my hand as he kissed my flushed cheek. “Veronica, you’re very special, and I want to be the man to fulfill your desires. All of them. You wanted to be with my brother Shane and me together, and I granted you that. So, scratch this off your list because it’ll never happen again. I don’t like to share.”

  Holy shitballs, Batman, I just wrote my first ménage. I wanted to call Rose and tell her. I’d kept her posted the past several weeks about my writing. At first, I was hesitant to tell her, but Rose was never judgmental. She may have called me “Slutessa Cunnilingus” when I told her the story, but coming from her it sounded more like an endearment.

  Rather than call Rose, I clicked on Facebook to see what was happening—my daily distraction. I continued scrolling through several political posts and family pictures from friends. Sometimes it seemed like I was staring at the cyber badlands, where everyone was his or her own hero in this imaginary world.

  I continued to browse nonetheless and noticed a link on the Briarhill Falcons group page, my old high school, that led me to an obituary. I clicked on the link and my body shook as I saw the picture of a familiar face. “Michael Dodd, 25, found dead in his home.” The article didn’t give any details about his death, just a bio and funeral information. However, in the comments, among the condolences from former classmates, there were a few messages that hinted at Mike’s using heroin.

  Oh, my God! Heroin??? The last time I had seen him, which was probably eight years before, he’d never so much as taken a sip of alcohol because he was such a huge dork who loved basketball. He made the varsity team his senior year, but usually rode the bench. He was only five foot ten, and in the basketball world that was short. However, that didn’t stop him from dedicating himself to getting better. He constantly worked out, practiced his shots, and ran himself into the ground to improve.

  I knew this because I played on the girls’ team and we would occasionally get together and have shootarounds. When we weren’t practicing, we were watching NBA or college basketball games together. Mike could tell you any stat about any player—college or pro. I was impressed with his never-ending self-motivation because he had virtually no support from his family. Back then, his parents were heavy into drugs, and he was ashamed and vowed to never be like them. He was by far the kindest person in the world.

  Jesus, what the hell had happened to him? My mind was racing as my heart constricted, wondering when everything went wrong. I hadn’t seen him since the day after graduation when he came over. We were shooting the basketball around in my parents’ driveway, and I’ll never forget our final conversation.

  “You excited about going to Houston in the fall?” Mike asked as he dribbled slowly before hiking one leg and firing off a fadeaway shot. Swish. I’d received a partial scholarship to Rice University.

  I rebounded the ball, gripping it close to my chest. “Yeah, I’m ready for a change of scenery. I’m a little nervous about being in a big city and meeting new friends. You know I’m not the most outgoing person in the world.” I wasn’t the type to go out of my way to talk to people unless I knew them. I seemed to be drawn to extroverts, like Mike, who could meet ten people in a day, and they’d all be close friends by sundown.

  He walked over and gave me a few friendly pats on the back. “I know it’s hard for you to put yourself out there and strike up a conversation with a stranger, but you’ll be fine.” He stared down at his feet and scraped some gravel around. “Have you talked to Andrew?”

  “No.” I looked away, ashamed, fingering the ridges on the ball. “I can’t. This time you need to stay out of this, please.” We gazed at each other in silent understanding. Finally, I forced my lips into a smile and slammed the ball to his chest, changing the subject. “What are your plans? You still planning on working and taking classes at NCTC?” That was the community college closest to us. Mike also worked as a pizza delivery driver.

  “Change of plans.” He palmed the ball, extending his arm straight; his eyes were focused on the ball as he twisted it around, studying it like it was a magic eight ball. “I think I’m going to travel up north, like Wyoming, see Yellowstone National Park or travel to the northwest, maybe visit Oregon or Washington.”

  “You’re going to travel the countryside? How can you afford it?”

  He chuckled as he glanced at my wide eyes. “Dave gave me some money for graduation and told me to go off and travel.” Dave was his stepfather, a doctor who specialized in pain management, I think, but Mike had told me in the past he snorted more coke than Johnny Depp in Blow when he was binging. Apparently, he was on a cocaine hiatus now because Mike also said his stepfather was a great guy when he wasn’t using. His mother and Dave had divorced three years before, but Mike still kept in touch with him.

  “Okay. Then what?”

  “Probably find a job somewhere along the way. I don’t know. All I know is I can’t stay here anymore.” He pounded the ball on the concrete as if he were trying to eradicate his problems. Boy, did Mike have problems. His mother, Loretta, was dating some jerk named Jack who was a deadbeat cokehead who couldn’t hold down a job. So, he mooched off of her, living with her while they both did drugs. Jack also had a bad temper when he was high, and Mike and he had gotten into some heated altercations a few times. To make matters worse, a month before, Mike’s dad Phil had been busted, again, for dealing in the back parking lot of the restaurant where he worked and was back in jail.

  “I’m sorry, Mike. You deserve so much better.”

  “Thanks, Loren.”

  “So, you’re just going to take off and embark on a new adventure.”

  “Yeah, I’m super stoked. It’s a fresh start, you know?”

  I nodded, feeling admiration for someone who was gutsy enough to leave behind eve
rything familiar and try to make it on his own. I would never think to do something like that or have the courage to do it. Yes, I was going off to college, but that was what was expected of me.

  “When do you leave?”

  “In two days.” He held the ball out to me. “In fact, I probably need to get going so I can pack.”

  I grabbed the ball, cradling it against my hip. “You better keep in touch with me.”

  “I will.”

  In the following months, I’d received a couple of calls—short conversations, just checking in with me—and letters from him giving descriptions of the places he’d been. He had even included a few photos of himself with some of the people he’d met along the way. Then, the calls and letters stopped coming, and I never heard from him again. I’d tried to look him up on social media but never found anything.

  I wiped my face free of tears while taking a few calming breaths and searched for information on the funeral. Does Andrew know about this? He…was my other best friend. He was more than my best friend. Who was I kidding? He was my world, and we had been inseparable.

  Although I hadn’t spoken to him since the end of our senior year, I still thought about Andrew over the years, some might say obsessively. He was the first person who’d praised me about my writing, and there was little that we didn’t share with each other.

  I loved him.

  He loved me.

  My parents hated him and banned me from seeing him again.

  I allowed it and didn’t fight for us.

  Sounded like some over-the-top teenage drama, right? Maybe it was, but to me it was real. The hurt was real.

  As time passed, I thought I would eventually move on, and my heart would heal. It didn’t.

  He’d most likely moved on nicely. I knew he had because he was a successful screenwriter with several indie films to his name and was gaining more critical acclaim with each piece he wrote. He probably lived in L.A. in a place like Laurel Canyon, like a rock star, while I made barely over minimum wage as a copy editor—and I use that term loosely because the tax books I edited were basically rereleased every year with tax-law changes that were usually minimal. So, the job didn’t require much thought or rewriting. I was definitely not changing the world with my words as I thought I would. Andrew was, and it wasn’t surprising. He’d been crazy talented in high school—the most creative person I’d ever known.