Do not read if you've not read GOOD!!!!
So right now I'm thinking this story will be a two-parter. That means the sequel to Good will also be the conclusion.
Title: Better
Release Date: Yeah right
Genre: New Adult contemporary romance
Book Description: Not yet
Now remember: This is rough, raw, and unedited.
Chapter 1 - Motivation
He
watched her tiny shoulders shake with laughter. She pressed the dry erase
marker against the board to hold it steady, but it was no use. Her laughter
forced it up and down and sideways, muddying the numbers he’d written out for
her.
“I’m
not. I swear.” He chuckled. “And now you get to start all over.”
“Ugh!
Help me, please,” she said, turning around to look at him.
He
studied the wisps that framed her face, the afternoon sunlight catching them and
setting them on fire. Her hairline, temples, and cheeks glowed. She looked like
a porcelain doll.
She
grinned and shook her head. “I still don’t believe you.”
He
grinned back. “I know.”
He
walked to the board and erased her mess. And then he rewrote the numbers and waited
for her to start the problem. He wouldn’t baby her this time. He’d done it
every time before. All it took was a little pout and the upturn of those sad
blue eyes. He was a sucker, and he knew it. But not this time. This time she’d
have to work for it.
“You
know this, Cadence,” he said encouragingly.
She
nodded and took a deep breath. He thought it was cute. He couldn’t help it. She
was steeling herself for the mental workout.
He
watched her furrow her brows.
No, he thought. Don’t
you dare.
And
then her face clouded over.
Cadence . . .
“Mr.
Connelly, I don’t think . . .”
“Yes
you do,” he said. “You can do this, Cadence.”
She
chewed her lip and made a decision. She turned her pretty little face towards
him, tilted her chin a fraction of an inch, and looked up with her big, sad
blue eyes. And then she blinked. And waited.
Goddamnit!
Mr.
Connelly sighed. “Okay. I’ll start you off.”
“Thank
you,” she whispered.
He saw
her tuck her chin to hide the grin playing at the corners of her lips. She knew
she won. Again. And he couldn’t be frustrated with her. He wanted to kiss the
top of her head instead—right at the point where her hair parted. His admission
of defeat.
She
turned her face to him again, marker poised inches from the white board.
“Well?
Let’s do this, Mr. Connelly.”
He
smiled. “Okay, Cadence.”
There
was no going back.
“Are
you out of your fucking mind?”
Mark
sighed and popped the cap of his Newcastle. He took a swig, then shrugged.
“Uh,
no. You don’t get to shrug. You have to answer my question. What the hell,
man?” Dylan said. He took the beer Mark handed him.
“She’s
. . . she’s just . . .” He searched for the words, frustrated that they
wouldn’t come easier.
“You
need a song?” Dylan joked.
“Shut
up, man.”
Dylan
laughed and grabbed a record off the back counter. He slid it over to Mark.
“Go
put that on,” he said.
Mark
rolled his eyes and walked to the closest record player. He pulled the vinyl
from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. He lifted the arm, then paused.
“She’s
like a clean slate,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.
One you plan to dirty up,” Dylan replied.
“No,”
Mark said. “That’s not it.” He placed the needle carefully on the vinyl. “Good
choice, by the way,” he said, listening as the distinctive sound of The Killers
filled the tiny space of the record store.
“I
know,” Dylan replied, downing his beer.
“I
don’t wanna mess her up,” Mark said. “I want her to make me a clean slate like
her.”
He
said it facing the record player. He couldn’t look at his friend, but he sensed
the immediate tension in the room. There was a long stretch of silence before
Dylan spoke. Mark watched the record spin as he finished his beer.
“Look
man, I know everything with Andy—”
“Don’t
say her name,” Mark said. “Just, please don’t.”
Dylan
took a deep breath. “How is this high school chick gonna help you, Mark? She’s
in high
school. She’s nowhere near your maturity
level, experience level—”
“I
don’t want her to be,” Mark said. He turned around and walked back to the
counter, hoisting himself up on it and reaching for a second beer. “You want
another?”
Dylan
shook his head. “I’m on the clock.”
Mark
smirked. “Well, I’m not.” He popped the cap and took a long, satisfying gulp.
“I don’t want her to know anything.”
“What?
So you can corrupt her?”
“No. I
just like her innocence.”
“Yeah,
so you can corrupt it.”
“Shut
up, man. That’s not it.” Mark thought for a moment. He took another sip of beer
and scratched the stubble on his cheek. “She doesn’t hurt.”
“I don’t
even know what the hell that means,” Dylan mumbled.
“Yeah,
you do,” Mark replied, looking his friend in the face.
Dylan
shifted uncomfortably and nodded.
“She’s
this beautiful little thing. And I want it.”
“You
can’t use her like that,” Dylan said.
“I’m
not!” Mark snapped. “It’s not like that. I don’t wanna use her. I’m attracted
to her. I’m attracted to her smile and her laugh and her hair and the way she
talks—”
“Stop,”
Dylan ordered. “You’re making me sick.”
Mark
laughed. “I really like her. And I know it’s unwise, okay? I know all this. But
you don’t understand. She’s just there, all the time, shining.”
“‘Shining’?
God, you’re a fruitcake,” Dylan said. His words were laced with light contempt.
“English majors . . .”
Mark
chuckled and took another sip of beer.
“Okay,
so what do you plan to do with the shining girl?” Dylan asked. He watched the
smile spread across his friend’s face.
“Love
her.”
“Yeah,
and then the shining girl puts you behind some shiny metal bars. Mark, you’re a
smart guy. Use your head. And I mean this one,” he said, pointing to his
temple.
Mark
shook his head. “You haven’t met her.”
“I’m
sure she’s like every other teenage girl,” Dylan replied. “And I’m not saying I
wouldn’t wanna hit that, but society kinda has a problem with it, in case you
didn’t know. You wanna look like some child predator?”
Mark
grimaced.
“Exactly.
I don’t care how fucking shiny she is. Some things you don’t touch.”
“She’s
not a child.”
“How
old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
“How
do you know?”
“Well,
I don’t. I think she’s eighteen.”
“Dude.
Step AWAY from the shiny object.”
Mark
laughed. “I don’t think so, Dylan. I don’t think I can.”
Dylan
shook his head. “You know I’m there for you, man. Any way this goes.”
“You
think I’m messed up, don’t you?” Mark asked.
“No. I
think she mesmerized you. I think you’re lonely and jaded and looking for
anything out there that’s the opposite of all the shit you’ve been through—”
“Dylan
. . .”
“No,
man. We gotta be able to talk about it. It’s been two years, Mark. You’re not
the only one who still hurts over what happened to Andy.”
The
chime of the doorbell broke the intensity of the moment. Mark listened,
detached, as a group of teenagers shuffled into the store, chattering. Dylan
shot up from his chair, immediately on guard.
“Fucking
kids,” he muttered.
Mark
smirked. “They haven’t done anything. Chill out.”
The
men watched as the teens wove in and out of aisles, laughing and punching one
another’s arms. Mark heard one of them say “sweet ass” and instantly thought of
Cadence.
“Oh
God,” he whispered, running his hands roughly over his face.
“What’s
wrong with you?” Dylan asked, eyeing a boy who was rifling through a stack of
classic rock albums.
“Nothing.”
“Hey!
What can I help you boys find?” Dylan yelled.
They
turned in his direction, catching sight of the six pack on the counter.
One
exclaimed, “Dude! You drink at work?”
“My
store. My rules,” Dylan replied.
They
all nodded, impressed.
“That’s
cool, man,” another boy replied. “Need anyone to work part-time?”
“Not
one,” Dylan said. “Need help finding a record?”
“Not
one,” someone else replied.
The
boys snickered.
Dylan
cracked a smile. “Then why don’t you get the hell outta my store.”
The
teens froze before shuffling out, spitting timid insults at Dylan as they went.
“Dude,
you’re a freaking asshole,” Mark said.
“No,
I’m not. Those shits stole from me before. It took me a minute to remember. But
I remember. That little blond shit . . .”
“Why
didn’t you report them?” Mark asked. “And why don’t you get your cameras
fixed?”
“Unimportant,”
Dylan said. “We’re not talking about stolen records. We’re talking about Andy.”
Mark
took a deep breath.
“She
was my friend, too, Mark,” Dylan said softly.
Silence.
Mark
opened another beer. “I know she was.”
Mark’s eyes flew open. He lay frozen in bed, engulfed in
darkness, completely unaware of the girl lying next to him, breathing heavy and
even. That sweet sound of contented sleep. He could think of nothing but that
afternoon at Dylan’s store, sitting on the counter drinking too many beers,
talking openly for the first time about the girl who disappeared under a white
sheet stained red. The girl who promised him forever, then bled it out on an
operating table. The girl he loved.
Forever.
He turned his head to look at the living girl beside him.
The girl who lay naked under his sheets, golden hair draped over her neck,
acting as a scarf against the chill of the bedroom. He reached out to touch her
hair, smoothing it through his fingers.
She nodded in her sleep, then opened her eyes. She’d done
this before, and he knew she wasn’t awake.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she replied. “Why do you have bad dreams?”
He froze.
“Why?”
“Cadence, are you awake?” he asked carefully.
“Why do you have bad dreams, Mark?” she replied. “Why?”
“I don’t have bad dreams,” he said. “Go back to sleep.” He
ran his fingers through her hair once more.
“Okay, but I don’t believe you,” she mumbled, and closed her
eyes. He waited until he heard the heavy, even breathing once more before
slinking soundlessly out of bed.
He walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. And then
he stared blankly at the contents inside, deciding if he wanted food or drink.
He wasn’t hungry. No to food. He wasn’t thirsty either, though that beer looked
refreshing. But he didn’t need refreshment. He needed an escape.
It didn’t happen often—remembering. Once Cadence walked into
the picture, he determined to bury the past, or, at least, the finer details.
He’d never forget her. He didn’t want
to. But the details. Well, those he could bury. But every now and then he’d
still dream of the past, and those finer details that would otherwise escape
his memory during the day burst about his subconscious at night, demanding
recognition. They took control of his dreams, and he’d wake some mornings
soaked with sweat. He thought Cadence never knew. She never said anything about
it until tonight.
He closed the refrigerator door and walked back to the
bedroom. He stood over his girlfriend, watching her sleep. She was far away
from him, in her own dreamland, and he couldn’t stand the distance. Not
tonight.
He pulled back the sheet and watched her curl into a fetal
position. Her hand searched for the covers, but he made sure to keep them away
from her grasp. He couldn’t get enough of it—staring at her nakedness. She was
so tiny, so fair. A little fallen angel, he thought.
His.
copyright S. Walden, 2013
