Jen Frederick's Blog, page 8

Lainey’s List Chapter 9

 

Nick

“Elaina…” I hiss out her name. My grip tightens around her hair as she lowers her hot mouth over me. Through the veil of her lashes, I see her challenge. This is why I can’t get enough of her. No matter how caustic her insults or how many times she tells me she doesn’t want me, I keep coming back. For this. For her.

Not for the moment of her submission, but the look in her eyes when she takes me with fierce determination. I’m her opponent, but she can’t resist me anymore than I can resist her.

It’s a fucked up situation. I won’t deny that. We’re probably bad for each other, but I was lost the first time I saw her at Stacks. Admittedly, it’s because, despite having one kid, or maybe because of it, Lainey’s body is one that deserves to be worshipped.

If there’s a hall of fame for bodies somewhere, Lainey’s should be there, cast in bronze, forever immortalized. Wide hips, nipped in waist, generous rack, thick thighs. Everything about her screams woman.

Her sweet ass is waving in the air as her head bobs slowly up and down. She’s taking her time. She loves tormenting me. The more she get can me to lose my shit, the happier she is. We both know that when her mouth is around my cock, she utterly and completely owns me.

And I’m okay with that too.

I’m pretty much okay with all of it. With whatever she wants to do with me, whatever she wants from me.

Does that mean my balls are in her purse? That I’m pussy whipped? I suppose. Because there isn’t a thing in this world I wouldn’t do for Cassidy or Lainey. And it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with how well she gives head — although that’s world class too.

I settle my ass deeper into the cushions and lean my head back, but not so far that I can’t see her. Part of the pleasure of getting a blowjob is watching. Watching my cock shuttle in and out of Lainey’s mouth. Watching her lips get puffy and red from use. Watching her ass sway, as she gets hotter and hotter.

Wet and hot. If I reached over and slid my fingers underneath her panties, she’d be soaked. Lainey’s belief that she can bring me to my knees with her mouth around my cock turns her on like nothing else. What she doesn’t know, or won’t acknowledge, is that I’m on my knees with her constantly. Or would be if she’d let me.

As much as I want to have her in my mouth, as much as I want to be drinking from the succulent well between her legs, I need to wait my turn. And the longer I can hold out? The harder I make her work for it? The wetter, hotter, and happier she is.

Her feather light touches have turned firmer. She cups my balls, rolling them between her fingers, the tips of her digits pressing into that sensitive area right behind my ball sack.

Hard to think when a woman’s touching you like that. Hard to breathe. Hard to do anything but close your eyes and sink into that erotic embrace.

The orgasm I try to hold off tickles at the base of my cock. She’s trying to pull it out of me, one long, sexy drag of her tongue at a time. I’m trying to stave it off. She’s going to win. There’s no way I could ever hold out against her.

The best I can do is lengthen the moment by exerting a little self-control. Okay, a fuck-ton of self-control.

It takes my entire lifetime of discipline and training on the field not to wrench myself from her grip, throw up her skirt, and pound into her like I’m going to die if I don’t get my cock between her legs.

But I’m only human and when she starts moaning and that hum runs along the spine of my dick, the thin thread holding my orgasm at bay snaps clean through.

She knows it too. The devilment in her eyes sparkles, along with a heavy dose of lust, as she peers up at me right before taking me down her throat.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

The rush of release barrels down my spine and out my cock to pour down her luscious throat. My hand drops away from her hair so I don’t accidentally choke her on my cock. At this point, I’m done in. No control left. Not a single ounce.

Lainey swallows me whole, every drop, leaving me completely wasted on the cushions.

“That what you wanted?” she asks, rising to her knees. Her lips are swollen, gorgeous, and so fuckable. Who wouldn’t want to prostrate themselves at her knees to get that kind of satisfaction? A man could pay a hooker a million dollars and not get blown like that.

“Not even close.” I grab her skirt and tug her toward me. She throws up a token resistance — all part of the game — but her body won’t let her leave. She’s too needy right now. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. Her whole body is flushed from her pretty cheeks to the valley between her breasts. I pull her close, inhaling her scent. “I’d think by now you’d know you aren’t leaving until I get my mouth on you.”

Under my grip, she shudders. “You’re going to have to hurry. Cassidy will wake up.”

“She’s out for another hour and you know it.” Cassidy is a creature of habit. Every day at three she naps for two hours. Has for as long as I’ve known her. Then she gets up with enough energy to power an entire city until she crashes again at eight.

“Hurry anyway,” Lainey husks out.

“Crawl up here and sit on my face.” I pat her ass lightly and then slide until I’m prone on the cushions. When she doesn’t move as fast as I want, I fist the skirt in my hands and drag her forward until she’s right where I want her.

“Hold this up.” My voice sounds harsh in the quiet living room. Lainey shudders in delight. This isn’t a side she lets many people see. That she likes to be told what to do and how to do it. Not all the time and definitely not outside sex-related interaction. “Now.”

If I let my foot off the lead for even a second, she remembers that she’s supposed to be resisting me. Not straddling my face with trembling thighs anticipating the first lick of my tongue, which is what is happening right now.

She grabs the fabric of her skirt and pins it against her stomach. The ugly panties she wears like a chastity belt serves only to ratchet my flames higher.

I pull the plain cotton down roughly and latch onto her with mouth and tongue and even a tiny bit of teeth because that’s how she likes it. And the hotter she gets, the harder I become.

I spread her apart and seal my mouth against her. When she comes, I feel the vibrations spread from her shaking thighs into my core and out to every nerve ending in my entire body.

My cock throbs with excitement, desperately seeking another release but I ignore it because that’s not going to happen. The only release I’ll be getting is from jacking off tonight in the shower, reliving the taste and feel and scent of her.

Lainey slides down — or more accurately collapses — into my arms. In these moments, right after we’ve had sex, she drops her barriers and lets me care for her. I pull her panties up and tug her skirt down. I even refasten her bra, even if my preference would be for her to go without.

Cassidy’s going to wake up soon and Lainey will want to be put back together, into one untouched, Madonna-like person. But until that time, I get to hold her; and that’s worth more than satisfying the hollow ache in my groin because this fills the hollow ache in my chest.

The post Lainey’s List Chapter 9 appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey Chapter 8

 

“Lainey,” he buries his face in my neck, “tell me to get off you.”

Tell him to stop touching me? How is that even possible? If I could summon even an ounce of resistance, we wouldn’t have slept together in the first place. Now, knowing how he can make me feel? How he wrings out every last ounce of pleasure, I can’t say those words even though I know they are my best defense.

He makes a frustrated noise and I hold my breath; maybe this is the time he’s done and we stop this craziness.

“Fine, if that’s the way you want it, I’ll take it, but you’re going to look at me while I fuck you.”

The crudeness of his language spears me. This is the way he talks to his groupies. The ones who hang out in the hotel of his away games, the ones who line up for a shot at him in bars and restaurants and nightclubs. I would know… I was one of those girls once. Hell, maybe I still am.

As his head dips lower, the shaggy ends of his hair kiss my collarbone and settle into the hollow in my throat. Even his unintentional touches arouse me. His mouth smooths across the top of one breast and then the other.

I didn’t even realize he’d unbuttoned my blouse. My bra is loosened with one move. He groans as his hands cup my breasts, molding them, squeezing them, and then finally, laying his hot open mouth across one aching nipple.

Every time we’re apart, every time he’s not touching me, I tell myself I have to give this up. That I can’t hate him and love him at the same time. It’s not healthy!

But rational thought doesn’t exist when his mouth is hungrily sucking at my breasts, when he makes those groans as if he’s been waiting all day, all year, all of time, to taste me. I’m helpless to stop his inexorable slide down my body, abandoning my breasts to investigate my navel, and then down even further until the waistband of my prim A-line skirt prevents him from moving on.

Actually, nothing stops him. He kisses my hipbones through the fabric. I can feel the heat of his breath, his desire, through all my layers of clothing. He waits, quietly, patiently, dropping tiny kisses all around my hips and thighs until I can’t stand the teasing any longer.

“Do it,” I command. My voice is unnaturally harsh.

“Do what?” he mocks. He always does this. He makes me say it. Makes me submit. Drives my humiliation deeper. One day, I vow. One day I will get over this. One day I won’t be in his thrall.

One day.

But today is not that day.

“I want you, Nick.” I spit out the words mulishly. I don’t like admitting it and he knows it, the smug bastard.

He arches a brow. “It’s a good thing I’m not sensitive or that tone would put me off.”

My eyes drop to the bulge in his jeans. “Yeah, it really looks like you’re on the cliffs of disinterest.”

He runs his massive hand — the one that holds the football so confidently, the one that cradles Cassidy’s head so carefulfully— he runs that hand over his erection and then grips himself. “We both know I’ve never been disinterested where you’re concerned.”

I watch with jealous eyes as his hand kneads his hard shaft through the denim and cotton. I want to be the one touching him. I want my hand to be on that hard dick.

Enough I tell myself. If I’m not going to turn him away, then I’ve got to stop being passive and pretend like I’m merely accepting his attention.

I’m a fully-grown woman with a child. It’s okay to want sex, even from someone I don’t particularly like all the time

There are worse people to sleep with. Far, far worse. I know this from personal experience.

I knock his hand away and attack his pants. His erection makes it hard for me to pull down the zipper but I manage it. Nick watches, hunger and humor warring in his eyes. I finally tug him free, savoring the weight of him in my hands.

He’s bigger than any man I’ve ever had. His penis spills across my palm and I have to add my other hand to cover him fully. His head lolls back against the cushions as I lower my head.

“Take me nice and slow,” he rasps out. “You’re going to need to make up for all those mean things you said to me at the bar.”

“You deserved them,” I snipe.

“Maybe so.” His hand curls behind my head. “But you’re going to suck me off nice and good anyway, aren’t you?”

He tangles his fingers through my hair and guides me lower.

“Only because I want to,” I say before taking the broad head into my mouth.

“Naturally. Wouldn’t want it any other way.” The strained tone to his easy words matches the tenseness in his thighs.

I tease him with my tongue and lips, skating across the top, the edges, down the sides. I whisper touches along the base. The grip in my hair grows fiercer as Nick struggles for his own control. I feel like this is the only place I win with him — when I can wrest away his control, strip him down to this feral, needy thing.

On the field, in a bar, his gravitational pull is such that he’s the sun and we’re all just his adoring satellites circling around him. But alone, his cock in my hands, he’s nothing but clay. My clay. Mine alone.

The post Lainey Chapter 8 appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Jockblocked Cover!

Jen sent me the cover, blurb and more to share with you all. It’s SOOOO beautiful!!

She’s always played it safe…



College junior Lucy Washington abides by one rule—avoid risk at all costs. She’s cautious in every aspect of her life, from her health, to her mock trial team, to the boring guys she dates. When a brash, gorgeous jock walks into the campus coffeeshop and turns his flirt on, Lucy is stunned by the force of attraction. For the first time ever, she’s willing to step out of her comfort zone, but can she really trust the guy who’s determined to sweep her off her feet?

He’s always played around…



Entering his last year of college eligibility, linebacker Matthew “Matty” Iverson has the team captaincy in his sights. And it’s his for the taking, if he can convince his quarterback Ace Anderson to give up the starting position. Luckily, Matty already has an edge—the hottie he’s lusting over just happens to be Ace’s childhood best friend. Getting Lucy on his side and in his bed? Hell yeah. Matty is more than confident he can have both, but when he falls hard for Lucy, it’s time for a new game plan: convince the woman of his dreams that she’s not sleeping with the enemy.

The post Jockblocked Cover! appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Jockblocked Teaser

Jen is working on getting Jockblocked finished and off to her editor! But look at this great teaser she shared with me.

 

There’s something familiar about him — as if I’ve seen him before. Maybe he models, though he’s a little broad-shouldered for that. But still… “Have we met before?” I ask warily.

A flash of something — irritation, possibly — skips across his face… Maybe he gets this question a lot. “You probably saw me on campus and said to yourself, ‘who is that fine-ass guy and how do I get his number?’ But we were like sliding doors, a missed connection. I read Craigslist. You should’ve reached out.”

Yeah, he’s tired of that question. “Nice story. You sound like a lit major.”

“Sociology, actually. You?”

“Poli-sci.”

“What do you plan to do with that? Learn how to take over the world?”

“If I had the responsibility of the world on my shoulders, can you imagine the gale force winds sighs of that kind of stress would generate?”

“Good point.”

He stretches his long legs on either side of my own chair. If I fell forward, I’d land in his lap.

And that’s a bad thing because…?

I shove the naughty thought aside. If I want some lap time, there are other, less magnetic guys I could turn to—

Less magnetic? You need help, girl.

The exasperated voice has a point. It might as well have come from my roommate; the one who is constantly teasing me about my play-it-safe attitude toward men.

“You seem less tense now,” he observes. He studies my face again, the weight of his gaze almost a tangible thing. “Maybe you should keep me around.”

“Where would I keep you? My lease only allows for three people, and I’m not sure I earn enough here at the Brew House to feed you on a regular basis,” I say lightly. This guy is entirely too smooth for me. I have a feeling that flirt is his default setting. Which is fine. Nothing wrong with that. But it means I can’t — and shouldn’t — take him seriously.

“I’m pretty quiet. I don’t think you’d notice me.”

I raise a disbelieving eyebrow. “That’s not even within the vicinity of truthfulness.”

“I can be quiet.” He raises two fingers. “Scout’s honor.” We both look at his fingers. “I was a Scout but dropped out at the age of fifteen.”

“What happened at fifteen?” I ask, almost against my will. I want to quit the conversation but I keep allowing myself to be dragged back in. See? This is some practiced shit.

“I grew. I was a scrawny kid with questionable health but somewhere between fourteen and fifteen my body said to hell with that, we’re going to be big and strong.”

“And the Scouts got left behind? Poor fellas.”

“I was a shitty Scout. I was way behind on my badge acquisition. It was really a boon to the troop when I left. I think they might have thrown a party.”

I grin. “Your Scout troop was giddy with relief that you left, but you still think I should keep you?”

“I know how to cook, and have, at some points in my life, operated an iron.” He ticks off each skill on a finger. “I always bring the good booze when I’m invited to a party, and I make my bed in the morning.”

“You had me at know how to cook.” Truthfully all those things sound like a fairly responsible person. Safe even. But a guy this good-looking, who knows how to cook, is single, and hitting on me in a coffee shop before booty call hour? It’s all too strange. And I don’t have the time or energy to puzzle this out.

“Awesome. So when should I move in?” His blue eyes twinkle playfully.

I pretend to consider it again. “I think I have to say never. But I wish you luck on your roommate quest.”

He looks unfazed. I get the feeling nothing fazes him. “How about you just invite me over, then? I promise to bring the good booze.” When I hesitate, he swiftly changes gears. “Or we’ll go out instead. Grab some dinner.”

Another girl would have said yes. I wish I was that girl but I’m not. “Thanks for the offer, but I really don’t have the time.”

The post Jockblocked Teaser appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter 7

“Your fish are here,” I announce, as I fling open the door to the condo Nick and Charlie share. The doorman trails behind me, carrying the two styrofoam coolers. “You can put them over by the aquarium,” I tell him.

Nick pulls his ass off the sofa and comes over to hand the doorman a tip. “Thanks Brett.”

Brett doffs a non-existent cap and backs out of the room. As soon as the latch clicks shut, I round on Nick. “Why all the subterfuge? Did you lie to Charlie or did Charlie lie to me?”

“Neither of us lied to you,” Nick says with a scowl. “I was going to pick the fish up today but my trainer told me yesterday I needed to come in for some lifting. And the only time he had available conflicted with the time I’d scheduled to pick up the fish. He’s worried about my throwing arm, given all the injuries that happened last year. Charlotte needed to go to San Antonio to meet with a potential client, and she needed someone to help with her existing client.” He points to his chest. “Me.”

All of what he just recited is accurate, but it still grates. As if the two conspired behind my back to get me in close proximity to Nick.

I know Charlie thinks if I just gave Nick a chance, we’d be great friends. For her sake, I need to just suck it up and pretend to like him.

“You don’t have to stay if it bothers you so much.” He leans against the console table near the door. “I’ve read up on how to take care of the fish.”

“I promised the aquarium manager I’d stay,” I mumble resentfully. “Where’s Cassidy?”

“Napping. The trainer and I wore her out. We had her doing sprints and lifting those little travel cereal boxes. She sat on my back while I did pushups. The little shit had a great time and kept saying things like ‘Unca Nick, why are you compwaining all the time? This is easy!’”

I press my lips together to keep from smiling. I don’t want Nick to think I find his stories cute, even though they are. “I’m sorry she was underfoot.”

“Nah. I think half the guys in the weight room went home and poked holes in their condoms.”

“I hope not. They’ll forget about sabotaging their birth control and then blame their girlfriends in about three months.”

Nick cocks his head. “You know, for someone who is around athletes so much, you sure don’t like them.”

“Ever think it’s because I’m around athletes so much that I have a low opinion of them?”

“Not really. We both know 99% of athletes, even the professional ones, are decent men. It’s the 1% that tarnish all of our reputations.”

I want to argue with him, but he’s right. For the most part, all the athletes I’ve come in contact with are okay. It only takes one bad apple to ruin someone’s life though. I still taste the bitter effects of that rotten fruit. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

Cassidy’s father was a pro football player who’d romanced teenage me until I was dizzy and confused. I’d lowered my guard, let him in, and he torched my life. I lost my family, most of my friends, even my job. But I’d do it over again in a heartbeat because I got Cassidy, and she’s worth walking through fire and back again.

If there’s one thing I can say in Nick’s favor, it’s that he is good to Cassidy. But I can’t forgive or forget what happened all those years ago with Cassidy’s father.

“Here are the instructions.” I pull out the sheet handed to me by the fish guy. “This is going to take an hour. The bags go in first and then once thirty minutes have passed, you mix the tank water with the bagged water and let those float for another thirty. Oh, and you need to send this guy a signed photo made out to his son, Joe.”

“Why the scare quotes around ‘Joe’?” Nick asks. He takes the sheet, looks over the instructions, and then tosses the paper onto the table behind him.

“Because the manager’s name was Joe too.”

“So I’ll make it out to Joe Jr. and if he sells it, then, I guess, more power to him.”

Nick won’t sign autographs for adults anymore. Too many of them show up on eBay. He doesn’t mind doing it for the kids because the signature means something to them.

Nick and I transfer the fish from the styrofoam coolers to the aquarium and then settle on opposite ends of the living room to wait for the fish to become acclimated to their new environment.

“Why’d you install the tank?” I ask. The entire condo is decorated in Charlie’s taste. Other than the game console, there’s not a speck of Nick in this place. So it surprises me that he up and got a tank installed.

“You can’t guess?” He looks surprised.

I shake my head. “No. I’ve never once heard you say you were into fish. Or aquatics. Or even pool therapy.”

“Cassidy couldn’t take her eyes off the one at the dentist. She thought it was the coolest thing.”

“You…you bought this gigantic, expensive thing because Cassidy liked the one at the dentist?” I ask incredulously.

Nick shrugs. “Is there any better reason?”

Good Lord. Why? Why is he trying to be so danged attractive?

“Stop it,” I order. “Just stop it right now. What’s next? A dog? A pony? A car?”

I can hear my voice rising into perilously high levels and snap my mouth shut. Nick rises from his chair and walks over to mine, stopping only when his bare feet are only inches from the toes of my sensible two-inch pumps.

He leans forward and places one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the edge of the seat. “If I tell you you’re overreacting, are you going to attack me like the last time?”

I open my mouth to tell him exactly how much I hated the last time we were together, but before I can, his mouth is on mine.

It’s a light touch, and I know if I pushed at him, he’d back away immediately. I raise my hands to do exactly that — push him away, but instead of pushing him away, those silly, traitorous digits dig into the cotton of his t-shirt and pull him closer. He sweeps me off the chair without breaking the contact between our lips and has me across the sofa cushions before I take my next breath.

Goddammit, I wish I wasn’t so weak.

But I am.

I’m so very weak.

The post Lainey’s List Chapter 7 appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter Six

Lainey

 

“Lainey, I am sure he did not mean you were fat and ugly. I know for a fact Nick thinks you’re gorgeous. He’s asked you out a million times,” Charlie exclaims, after I tell her why I’ve agreed to go out with a stranger.

 

“I know what a slump buster is.” I’ve worked in that damn bar long enough to have heard every derogatory term a male could use in reference to a female. The car in front of me slows down without warning, and I mouth a silent curse as I slam on the brakes.

 

“First, Nick would never engage in that type of thing. And second, he’s never been in a slump. So obviously, he wouldn’t be hitting on you for that reason.” Charlie sighs. “Why do you dislike him so much? He’s really a good guy. And despite the fact that he doesn’t have a steady partner, he’s still a genuine, loving person.”

 

Swinging into the right-hand lane, I flash a one-fingered wave to the driver who is operating his vehicle like it’s his first time behind the wheel and speed down the off ramp into Houston proper.

 

“I know, I know,” I say placatingly, even though I don’t believe it. Charlie’s the sweetest person in the world. She’d try to see the good side of a serial killer. “Look, I’m sorry I brought it up. Anyway, Connie’s brother’s friend sounds nice. He’s gainfully employed and, if he’s a trainer, he’s probably got a body that’s worth taking a chance on. Good looking and employed don’t always go together.”

 

Charlie’s quiet for a moment. “I didn’t realize you were thinking about dating again. I mean… every time you’ve turned Nick down, you’ve said it was because you wanted to focus on Cassidy.”

 

“I did want to focus on Cassidy. When we met, I was working two jobs and seeing Cassidy only a few hours a day. Now, thanks to you, I only work this one job, and Cassidy and I have more time together than I’d hoped for.”

 

“I feel bad I’m making you go to Houston.” Charlie sounds unnaturally guilty but I guess it’s part of her make up. She’s too giving and has a hard time asking for help. Which is why, when I heard her stressing about having to pick up some exotic fish for a client’s new aquarium and having to go down to San Antonio to meet with a potential new client, I was glad to volunteer my help.

 

“This is part of my job and I’m grateful to have it. And Nick and Cassidy are probably having the time of their lives together.”

 

“She adores Nick,” Charlie agrees. “Unlike other women I know.”

 

“Cassidy’s too young to know better,” I respond pertly. The GPS guidance tells me to turn left and the destination will be on my right. “I’m almost at Stedman’s. Anything else you want me to pick up while I’m here?”

 

“No. Thank you.” She hesitates and I can almost see her bite her lower lip. “You really don’t have to deliver it for me.”

 

“Charlie,” I say with exaggerated patience, “I’m here. I’m picking up the fish. I’m delivering the fish. You go get new clients so your business makes lots more money.”

 

She laughs. “Okay. Love you, Lainey.”

 

“Love you too, Charlotte.”

 

—————————————

 

“I’m going to kill that girl,” I mutter under my breath as the manager to Stedman’s Exotics brings out the styrofoam coolers containing eight bags of exotic fish.

 

“I thought maybe Mr. Jackson would come himself.” The manager’s round face is full of disappointment. “I suppose what with the season starting and all, he doesn’t have time to come down to Houston. My kid’s a big fan. Don’t tell anyone though. We’re supposed to support the Texans around here.”

 

“You have my word.” I flick my finger cross ways across my chest, although I don’t know quite who he thinks I’ll be telling.

 

“Great. Great.” He sets the second cooler in the back of my hatchback and whips out a sheaf of papers. “These fish need to be transferred one at a time by acclimating the water in their current habitat to the new aquarium.”

 

“What does that entail?” I’ll drop these off, pick up my kid, and let Nick deal with this mess.

 

He shoves one of the papers into my hand. I scan the instructions as he hits the highlights. “An hour. You first insert the bagged fish into the tank for approximately thirty minutes so the water temperature stabilizes within the bag. Then open the bag, placing the tank water into the bag and let the water mix together for another thirty minutes.”

 

I fold the instructions and place them in my purse. “Sounds good. We can do that.”

 

“If you’ll sign here.” He flips the forms in front of me.

 

“I’ll be sure to give Mr. Jackson the instructions.”

 

The papers are dragged away.

 

“Wait, I didn’t sign.”

The manager sniffs in disapproval. “It’s your signature. You agree to the above tasks. Not Mr. Jackson, but you. It’s why we prefer the owner of the aquarium to come. These are very rare creatures and it’s extremely important to us to make sure our friends are going to good homes – homes of people who will take appropriate care of them. Perhaps…” he taps the papers against the table and I can see the idea forming in his head that he shouldn’t sell these to me. And I’m not going to be the one that Nick Jackson blames for not getting his “special fish.” Oh no.

 

“I swear to you, I will do all of the things.” I hold up my fingers, not sure if I’m doing the scout pledge or the Star Trek greeting. Fortunately, the manager must be as ignorant as I am.

 

He narrows his eyes and assesses my trustworthiness. “Including the thirty minute wait time between each fish,” he says slowly.

 

“Including the thirty minute wait time.”

 

“If you don’t, you could kill these fragile beings and cost Mr. Jackson thousands of dollars.”

 

I smile brightly and as benignly as possible. Why am I not surprised that Nick is buying thousand dollar fish? “Mr. Jackson is going to be so thrilled. Why don’t you give me a card and I’ll make sure that he sends you a signed photo.”

 

The manager beams back at me. I sign the papers quickly before he can change his mind.

 

“Could you have the photo made out to Joe? That’d be perfect.”

 

I look at his nametag. “I thought the photo was for your son.”

 

The manager, aka Joe, according to the tag on his shirt, flushes. “We have the same name.”

 

Sure you do. “No problem,” I reply blandly. I hold out my hand. “Thanks for the help.”

 

“No problem.” He shakes it a little hard, as if he wants me to report back to Nick that Joe was a man’s man with a firm grip.

 

After telling me that braking hard could concuss the fish, I pull out of the lot making sure not to go more than a few miles an hour. I don’t want Joe running me down and ripping the fish out of the back of my trunk.

 

At the first stop sign, I call Charlie. “You’re a dead woman.”

 

“I told you that you didn’t have to do it.”

“You conveniently left out this errand was for Nick.”

 

“I said it was for a client,” she parries.

 

Harrumph.

 

“I don’t know why that would bother you,” she continues. “After all, you are immune to his charm, right?”

 

“Right,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “But, Charlotte, throwing us together could result in us hating each other instead of us enjoying this nice little truce.”

 

“Hmmm. You not talking to Nick, him baiting you, you saying scathing things back. Sure, that’s a real nice truce.”

 

“I blame this on you,” I tell her, as I carefully negotiate the Prius back onto the freeway. “If you didn’t live with Nick, you wouldn’t see any of those things that you claim bother you.”

 

“I can’t leave Nick by himself,” Charlie says. “We both know the guy would have a beer gut and gamers’ elbow from playing Fallout 4 way too long.”

 

Charlie’s casual mention of Nick’s video game addiction generates a painful twist in my chest. Someday, I’m going to move past that boy who made me fall in love with him at the age of fifteen. Someday, I’m going to forget him. Just like he forgot me.

The post Lainey’s List Chapter Six appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter 5

Present Day

 

Nick

 

“Hey Lainey!” I grin at the gorgeous brunette who is currently sweeping her way around Stacks, a dingy, hole in the wall bar, that serves a mix of crusty old locals and employees of the business next door, which just so happens to be the Mustangs’ training facility.

 

She grunts a bare acknowledgment to my cheery hello and continues to clean. I try not to take it personally when the team nutritionist arrives and Lainey practically trips over her feet to get the woman a glass of water, an iced tea, and hands her a menu. Four seats down at the bar, I sit empty handed.

 

My friend, Charlotte, appears out of the back. “Oh Nick, I didn’t realize you were coming in today.” She shoots a guilty look in Lainey’s direction before coming over and giving me a hug.

 

“Wanted to see how you were doing.” I hug her back. Charlie got sick when she was a teen and every hug with her is still precious to me. We almost lost her and frankly, I still don’t think she’s entirely back; although, I could blame some of that on my stupid brother whose head is so far up his ass, it’s a miracle he can walk upright.

 

“I’m fine.” She wrinkles her nose. “I thought you had extra meetings today?“

 

“With a welcome like that, I don’t know why I would stay away,” I reply sarcastically. Between her words and Lainey’s cold shoulder, I’m beginning to question why I did stop in before going back to the condo.

 

“Oh stop,” Charlie scolds. She eases out of my grip and rounds the bar. “What do you want with your beer?”

 

“Whatever is good.” Charlie’s an old friend and knows me better than anyone. Plus, there’s a secret to Stacks. Despite the rundown outer appearance, the bar boasts one of the best fry cooks in the state. And ever since Charlie took over running this place, they’ve been buying meat that has been barbecued for twenty-four hours from some specialty place west of the city.

 

That’s Charlie’s skill — finding things no one else knows about that are going to rock your world.

She even, inadvertently, did that with Lainey. When Charlotte first told me to come to this bar, I know it was because she thought it would be a great place to unwind, close to both the training facility of the Mustangs and my new condo. As a late third round draft pick, I had a lot to prove, including that I deserved a spot on the roster.

 

But it’s not a relaxing place at all and the source of my tension is currently wiping down tables.

“We have cranberry beef brisket, hand cut fries, and some special zesty ketchup. How’s that sound?” Charlie sets a cold draft on a napkin.

 

“Sounds great.” Charlie’s eyes darken with worry over my unenthusiastic tone. The last thing Charlie needs is for me adding to her list of things to stress about. I quickly smile. “Was just thinking about practice today. Didn’t get the ball out of my hands as fast as I’d like on some plays.”

 

The concern in her eyes is immediately replaced by warm affection. She reaches over the bar and squeezes my forearm. “What you’re saying is that instead of releasing the ball in three seconds, it took you three point two seconds?”

 

“Something like that.” I actually performed like a machine in practice today. The rookies stood around in open-mouthed amazement while the veterans slapped each other on the back and whispered words like repeat and MVP. It’s the second day of camp, which means none of those words have meaning. They won’t have meaning for me until maybe week thirteen of our seventeen week season.

 

Lainey continues to ignore me while Charlie does her best to make me comfortable. But I never get comfortable around Lainey. Something about her hits me right in the gut, and it’s been that way from the moment I laid eyes on her.

 

At first, I figured it was a healthy dose of lust. Lainey is a beautiful woman — caramel toned skin, darkened from either the sun or her genes, or both. She has a lush head of brown hair, rich like the mahogany of the bar here at Stack. Full lips set in an oval face with mysterious brown eyes top curves that are bodacious enough to generate song lyrics.

 

My immediate thought was if we had sex, all my uncomfortable feelings around Lainey would go away. Maybe that’s still true. I wouldn’t know. There’s no one more resistant to my charm than she is.

 

When I was drafted by the Mustangs, Charlie came down to Dallas with me. She was in charge of finding me an apartment, getting me settled in, and making sure I didn’t screw up my rookie season.

 

Somehow, she got wind of this place — a local hangout that was free of the press, groupies, and filled with good food. The only downside was the owner was an asshat who treated his employees like dirt.

 

Lainey was one of those employees. A single mother working two jobs to pay for daycare for her kid she barely got to see, she had to take whatever Simon Cronett dished out in the backrooms on top of any flack from the customers.

 

Cronett nearly fired her once because Lainey had to leave early to attend to her sick kid. He followed through on his threat after Lainey and Charlotte got into it with a customer for groping Lainey.

 

For three months, Lainey was in the wind. Charlie and I both searched for her, but I was in the middle of my first year as starting quarterback for the Mustangs and Charlie was new to a city of over a million people. We didn’t see Lainey again until after the season.

 

I don’t know what happened to Lainey during those months. Charlie never told me but I guessed it wasn’t good. Charlie and I bought the bar from Cronett with the promise that he’d leave Dallas.

 

Somehow Charlie lured Lainey back by issuing a paycheck and sending it to all the addresses on Lainey’s employment application. Lainey showed up to collect and Charlie convinced her to come back and help manage the bar.

 

But no matter how many smiles I sent Lainey’s way, I only received stony glares in return. It’s like I killed her puppy — or hit her kid. I haven’t done either.

 

Lainey doesn’t own a puppy and I fucking adore Cassidy, her daughter. But whatever the problem is, Lainey has refused to share it with me for the past three years.

 

“Here you go, Nick.” Charlotte interrupts my self-pitying train of thought. I give her a grateful look.

 

“Looks great.” And it does. The heaping mound of brisket smells amazing and after the workout this morning, I feel like I could eat about ten of these. I dig in.

 

“Was practice good this morning?” Charlie doesn’t care that I can’t answer because my mouth is full of tongue-melting brisket. She probably prefers it that way. “Do you have anything going on tonight?”

 

I shake my head no. “No guys coming over? No girls? Good,” she replies. “Because you’re on babysitting duty.”

 

She picks up her purse and slaps me hard on the back as she passes by me. The quarter pound of meat I just inhaled stays stuck in the back of my throat.

 

I finally swallow it but not until after Charlie exits Stacks. At the other end of the bar, I see Lainey’s mouth set in an unhappy line.

 

“This wasn’t my idea,” I tell her.

 

“I know,” she responds sourly. “But I have to go to Houston for the afternoon to pick up something for one of your teammates, and Charlie’s driving to San Antonio to meet with a potential client. One of the Spurs is thinking about buying a home in Italy and wants Charlie to help him pick it out.”

 

Charlie doesn’t really work at the bar, although she fills in from time to time. Her real job is moving athletes. Lainey started helping Charlie this year and both of them are running a little ragged.

 

When a trade happens, Charlie’s the advance team to help the families settle in. It started with me and word spread like wildfire about my fixer — the person in my life that made it possible for me to focus solely on football

 

It’s how I was able to step into the starting quarterback position when the Mustangs’ number one guy went down with a torn Achilles. I slung my way into a record setting rookie year and haven’t looked back.

 

Chip, the guy I replaced, retired and became the quarterback coach. I admire the guy. Ten years in the league and no rings but he’s a hell of a coach; though kind of a dickhead human being. If I had to coach the kid who replaced me on the football field, I’d be pissed off too. So I shrug off his sly digs and focus on his good advice, which he can’t seem to help but give, even if he resents me.

 

“What time do you want me to pick up Cassidy?” I finish the rest of my sandwich but loiter over the beer. I shouldn’t gulp that down too, right? I mean, it’d be bad for my digestive system. It has nothing to do with the fact that even though Lainey hates my guts for some unknown reason, I still get a contact high from being near her.

 

“In an hour,” she says ungratefully and then, as if realizing she’s kinda being a bitch when I’m doing her a favor, she comes over and replaces my warm beer with a new cold one. “And thank you. I appreciate it.”

 

“No problem. I love Cassidy.”

 

“She loves you too,” Lainey says reluctantly.

 

“It killed you to admit that, didn’t it?” I ask, because apparently I like to live dangerously.

 

“Not really. Cassidy likes Hitler too. She thinks his mustache is neat.”

 

“That’s not Cassidy liking Hitler,” I protest in defense of my number one girl. “That’s a five year old laughing at a weak attempt at a pornstache.”

 

“Pornstache? Calling the Hitler lip hair a pornstache is an insult to 80’s porn stars everywhere. Along with Erik Estrada.” Lainey wipes her brow as if the thought of the actor still turns her on.

 

“Erik Estrada never had a ‘stache,” I grumble. “Plus I didn’t know you were into geriatrics.”

 

“Silver foxes are in right now.” Lainey sticks her nose in the air. “Did you see the guy that Sandra Bullock is dating? Hotter than ninety-nine percent of the guys younger than him.”

 

“Amen, sister,” Connie Miller, the nutritionist, shouts from her end of the bar. Lainey abandons me to go down and exchange a high five. I make a mental note to google silver foxes and Sandra Bullock later. Just out of curiosity, I want to know what cranks Lainey’s engine, because it’s not football players.

 

Despite Stacks being a second home to many of the players, she’s not taken one of them up on their offers. And there have been a legion, much to my annoyance.

 

In my rookie year, there were rumors that Lainey was a groupie who was interested in hitching her wagon to a football player contract but in the three years I’ve known her, she hasn’t slept with one of the Mustangs. We’d all know if she had.

 

In the locker room, you’re not supposed to talk about religion, politics, or money. A bad stock tip from one guy to another can put a real crimp in team unity. But who you sleep with is a constant source of heckling, particularly when it comes to the women who have more desire for the amount of your contract than the stuff in your shorts.

 

“Silver foxes, huh?” I say when she returns to bus my plate. “Thought you didn’t believe in dating.”

 

Lainey gives a small shrug. “I don’t know. I’m re-evaluating things. Cassidy could use a dad and frankly, I could use a man. Want a water or Coke for the road?”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since when what? We started serving Coke when Charlotte took over the bar.” She gives me a syrupy fake smile. “But then you’re never good at remembering anything, are you?”

 

Lainey’s always making digs at my memory. Miss one birthday part ever and apparently I’m suffering early onset of Alzheimer’s. “No, since when do you need a man?”

 

“I don’t need one,” she sighs with exaggerated impatience. “I want one, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had one.”

 

“How long?” I ask, as if it’s any of my business.

 

“Years.”

 

“Honey, if you’re serious, my brother’s best friend is a trainer over at Planet Fitness. Sweet as pie and good looking to boot,” Connie offers.

 

“You can’t go out with a stranger,” I object. If Lainey’s interested in dating, then she should look closer to home.  Like the guy sitting right in front of her, whose been panting after her for three years, not some random guy. “We don’t know anything about him. Fuck, he could be a murderer for all we know.”

 

“He is not!” Connie exclaims indignantly. “He’s super nice.”

 

“Then why aren’t you dating him?” I shoot back.

 

“Nick!” Lainey scolds. “It’s Connie’s brother’s friend. He’s not a murderer. They aren’t going to hire a felon to train people at a gym.”

 

“He could be hiding it,” I mumble under my voice. To Lainey and Connie, I say, “Dating a personal trainer is a big mistake. He’s only going to want to date women who are super fit and work out all the time.”

 

The words come out before I can stop them. Connie sucks in a breath and Lainey looks like I kicked her in the teeth.

 

“So what you’re saying is I’m too fat and ugly for this guy?” She rips the bottle of beer out of my hand and tosses it into the sink behind her. “Give me the number, Connie. I’ll call him.”

 

Did I say I had charm? I must have been sacked one too many times last season.

The post Lainey’s List Chapter 5 appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List Chapter 4

Lainey

The episode with Sarah lingers all day. I’d tried to stand up for her and instead of being appreciative, she’d been angry; as if I’d somehow called attention to her embarrassing moment. I hadn’t intended to do that…had I?

Had I wanted a moment in the sun? Did I think if I stood up for Sarah that suddenly she would be my best friend and I’d be part of the popular crowd?

Maybe, for a split second, my motivation was purely selfish but mostly I spoke up because I wouldn’t have wanted that to be me. I wouldn’t have wanted to be the one to be made fun of by my friends and by people I wanted to like me.

But it’s a good lesson, I guess. Tito always told me the mice in the corner would be ignored as long as they didn’t get too squeaky. I remember thinking that maybe I wanted to get noticed, like Tito was, but today I’d squeaked too loud and the attention that came my way wasn’t pleasant at all.

I manage to make it through the rest of the day without any further run-ins with Sarah or anyone else for that matter.

Tomorrow I’d go back to being the slight girl with the baggy clothes and the oversized head of hair. Sarah’s toilet paper incident would be forgotten and the school would move on as if nothing happened.

When I see Thea after eighth period, the embarrassment at Sarah’s jab has faded and as I predicted, new gossip has already emerged.

“A junior was suspended today for trading nudes on Instagram,” Thea announces as we grab our backpacks and head for the bus line.

“No shit? Do we know him?” Booker T is a school of over a thousand students, about three hundred per grade. The likelihood of me knowing a junior is almost zero. I still ask.

Thea shakes her head. “I’ve never heard of him but he’s on the basketball team. I heard about it in PE class. There’re a couple of players in class and that’s all they could talk about. I think they must have nudes too because they were whispering furiously about how he better not narc them out.”

“Was he trading nudes with his girlfriend or was it a bunch of girls?” I hold the door open for Thea so she can continue to tell me her story.

“No, it sounds like he had dozens of different girls on his phone and he’d trade them for favors from other guys. Gas in his tank, food, booze.”

“Um, that’s disgusting.”

“No question.” She taps my hand that’s curled around my new/old cell phone. “I’m thinking I should get one of these. That way I won’t take any pictures.”

“Why would you want to?” The idea of sending a nude to anyone doesn’t appeal to me. Not even to Nick, whom I adore.

Thea doesn’t answer right away and when she does, her response surprises me.

With a slight, rueful smile, she says, “I just wonder why no one asked me for a pic. I mean, I wouldn’t have given one, but am I so ugly that I’m not even worth an ask.”

“Be glad they didn’t ask you,” I tell her. Before I can say more, though, the buses roar up.

“I know, but all the same, it would have been nice to have been asked.” Thea frowns. “I’m not saying I would have given one but I don’t think nude pics are a bad thing per se. Aren’t we supposed to love our bodies and celebrate our forms?”

“I guess?” There’s a big push toward body positivity in school but that’s intended to cut down on bullying, not encourage students to participate in a nudity fest.

“If I get a boyfriend, I’m going to send him nudes. One of those actresses in the Apple hack, whose naughty pictures were released, said your man is going to look at porn, so it might as well be porn you create.”

“Are you sure she said that?” I ask skeptically. “That sounds like something a guy would tell a girl to get her to send him something.”

“I read it online so it must be true,” Thea says in jest. At least, I hope it’s in jest.

“I can’t imagine sending a nude picture to anyone. I hate pictures of myself clothed, let alone without any covering.”

“Not going to send Nick a picture?”

“No,” I nearly shout out. Thea rears back in surprise. I try for a more moderate tone. “No. I like the anonymity. That I don’t know what he looks like and he doesn’t know what I look like. We’re more equal that way.”

Thea nods knowingly. “You’re afraid he looks like a dog and once you find out only his mother thinks he’s beautiful, you won’t want to be pen pals anymore.”

“That’s not true at all,” I protest. The reverse is more accurate. I’m afraid that he’ll be turned off by me.

Thea continues as if I haven’t spoken. “He’s going to want your picture. All guys want pictures.” She bites her lip and I can tell by the look on her face she’s still unhappy no one asked her for a nude. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I want to say something brilliant and moving that will reassure Thea being excluded from a nude picture-trading ring is actually a good thing, but I don’t come up with anything in time and so I just wave as she disappears inside her ride home.

All the way home, I contemplate whether I’d send Nick a picture. I don’t want to. What I’d said to Thea was absolutely the truth. I like our anonymity—online we can be our true selves and we respond to each other based upon what we know, rather than what we look like.

I know Nick’s patient. Whenever a new person came to interact with us on our space pod in the game, he never criticized them for mistakes.

He’s forgiving. When I made errors, and I made them a lot early on, he’d merely encourage me to try again.

He’s thoughtful. One of the members of our pod announced that his dog had died. Nick comforted him all week and then the guy thanked Nick for sending him a plaque with the dog’s name on it and a place to insert a picture.

It doesn’t matter what Nick looks like. He could look terrible and he’d still be beautiful to me.

As soon as I’m home, I plug in the phone. The stupid thing takes forever to charge so I leave it and start making dinner.

I opt for a simple dish of spaghetti, meatballs, and canned sauce. By the time the sauce and meat are simmering together, the phone is charged a quarter of the way and that’s good enough for me.

I plant myself on the edge of the bed and power up the phone. The first message downloads almost immediately.

Hey Gamer Girl. Got a name? CalledinSick is too long/hard for me to type.

I type in my name and press send.

It’s Lane.

Lane?

No. Lane, I type again. I stare at the letters in frustration. The phone doesn’t want me typing in Lainey. When I press a space bar, it keeps entering the suggested word Lane. I try three more times before giving up. I guess I’ll be Lane.

Okay. Lane! That’s cool. There’s a guy in my school named Rock. Apparently, that was the name of some famous actor in the fifties. But I looked it up and the actor’s real name was Roy.

Rock is better than Roy.

No question.

How’s your friend? The one who was sick?  

Better we hope. We both shaved our heads when her hair began to fall out. Hope I don’t go bald. No hair is not a good look on me. The guys on my football team tell me I’m too damn pale to pull off the naked dome. I’m going to have to do the comb over when I start losing my hair.  

He’s on the football team? My heart sinks a little.

Wanna see?

My heart lowers into my shoes as Thea’s declaration that all guys want pictures is already proving to be true.

I type into my little phone, one letter at a time, the first rule of this texting relationship.

Rule 1: No pics.

Rule 1? ROFL. Why no pics?

I hate having my picture taken.  

Is this where it ends? Before we even begin? My hands are sweaty around the slim plastic case.

Okay. No pics. Any other rules? You did say Rule 1.

Relief makes me giddy. Of course, Nick isn’t going to pressure me into doing something that makes me uncomfortable.

No other rules that I can think of today.

Good. Not much for rules. Did you have a good day?

It was fine, for the most part. Other than my run-in with Sarah, the rest of the day was normal. You?

It was good. Charlotte, my friend who has been sick, is feeling better and she looks better. I’m worried that she isn’t eating enough and she looks weak as a kitten but she’s alive and I’m effing grateful for that. What was the bad part of your day?

 A little happy sound squeaks out of me.

Popular girl got made fun of. It wasn’t pretty but she didn’t like when I stood up for her.

She was embarrassed and didn’t like that you knew that. Diminished her popularity, he types back.

Do you think that who we are is set when we are born? That we remain the same no matter what?

Funny you should ask. A couple of months ago, I would’ve have said no but now I’m wondering if people stay the same and only the way we view things change. My neighbor, the sick one, she and I were raised like siblings. We live next door to each other. Our parents are best friends. I view her like a sister. I have an older brother, Nate. He’s always been kind of rude to her, but protective too.

Nick’s texts come in broken and truncated as if the phone can only handle a few sentences with each send but even if it dribbled out one at a time, I couldn’t be more captivated.

Yes? I type to let him know I’m still here, still listening.

She gets sick and all I can think about is whether she’s going to live. But Charlotte and my brother are trying to figure out the best way to bang. And I find out that they have feelings for each other that aren’t brother/sister. And it’s weird. I look at them and they aren’t the same people to me anymore. Charlotte tells me she’s always crushed on Nate. I don’t talk to Nate about that stuff, but it’s obvious he’s gone on Charlotte. So here I am, between the two of them, thinking what happens if it all goes to shit. But I’m the only one who has changed in this scenario. Not them…apparently.

 I read the last tacked on word and struggle on how to reply.

I wait too long because he sends another message, self-deprecating and humorous.

More than you wanted to know, right? But there’s no retrieve button. Feel free to block.

Never. You’re the only one I want to text.

And I press send before I can delete it. I slowly type in another response, trying to be as thoughtful as he was.

I think you’re all changing. Charlotte’s illness changed you, changed your brother, and changed her. Maybe they had a crush that would have died if they would’ve graduated and life would have been allowed to proceed normally. My uncle stopped dating his girlfriend when he went to college.

My fingers are exhausted after that.

Then I guess that answers your question. Is this about the popular girl?

  Yes. Others seem to want to use this to step over her. On her even. It surprised me. Even if it shouldn’t.

In my high school, we have cliques. All schools do. But inside those cliques are these weird juvenile struggles for power. It’s all very Shakespearean. For every Caesar there is a Brutus or two or three who wants to take Caesar down. From the Brutus’s perspective, Caesar’s sucking all the air out of the room and they think once she’s gone, everyone will notice Brutus.

I want to be one of the forgotten village people. Is that possible?

Maybe? But you seem pretty memorable to me. Gotta run. Chat later.

I sleep on a cloud of sweetness that night.

The post Lainey’s List Chapter 4 appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List, Chapter Three

Cell phones, at least the old ones, don’t last very long. I discover this as I ready myself for school. Halfway in between shoveling cereal into my mouth and checking to make sure all my math homework is in my backpack, I reach for my phone to read Nick’s messages. But my relentless review of them all night has had two results. One, I’ve memorized them, and two, the phone is dead.

Reciting the messages in my head isn’t the same as looking at them. Without the visual proof of them on the tiny green-gray screen, I could have written them. The whole thing could be a farce.

But there’s no time to run upstairs and charge it because the bus will be here in less than five minutes and even a cell phone owning novice such as myself knows I can’t charge the danged thing in that amount of time.

Still…the phone is my only connection to Nick so after rinsing out my bowl, I stuff the dead electronic into my bag and haul ass to the curb.

The Booker T. Washington High School is this weird mix of rich kids and poor kids. There’s a small pocket of really wealthy folks who live in Old Town, just south of Grand. The rest of us come from low-income, subsidized housing.

I’ve heard from time to time that the rich Booker residents are really proud of the diversity of the school and brag about it to their friends. As if the non-rich students are study aids to provide a more “real” high school experience.

Real high school is making sure you know where you slot into the overall hierarchy. You don’t want to reach too high because someone’s there to hit you right on the head to send you sliding back down the ladder. And you always end up lower than where you started.

Serafina Doll is a prime example of this. Serafina was before my time but I overheard Tito and Carlos talking about her once. Serafina was a gorgeous half-Filipino girl whose mother got knocked up by a sailor. Before Serafina was born, the sailor brought her mom to the US and then took off, never to be seen again. Serafina caught the eye of the high school quarterback who promptly dumped his girlfriend, Colleen Hilliard. Sera and the quarterback, Austin, started dating, or screwing, depending on who tells the story.

Colleen patiently waited for Austin to come to his senses. Apparently, she didn’t care that he was wallowing in the gutter; she cared when he wallowed in the gutter too long. After a couple of months of watching her ex-boyfriend and the east side, piece of trash make out in the hallways, Colleen had had enough. She went to her father, a man who wasn’t even a judge but apparently had connections to the immigration office, and had Serafina’s mother deported. Serafina was a citizen but she didn’t have any family here. Never really knew her father. All of her mom’s family was back in the Philippines. So Serafina left too. And within a few weeks, Austin was back walking the hallways hand-in-hand with Colleen.

When Carlos tells the story, his words are tinged with awe. I nearly pissed my pants I was so scared at the end of it. Truly, there isn’t a more frightening story. It’s not that mama or grandmamma can be sent away; it’s the mere idea that one girl has so much power over another.

Colleen Hilliard has graduated. She’s with Austin at Baylor, last I heard. But there are Colleens still trawling the halls at Booker T. I learned this lesson the minute Tito left for college. While he was around, everyone was relatively nice to me—in case he made it big. If he goes on to play for the Rangers or Astros, they all want to be able to ask for tickets or at least claim some kind of association. And being mean to his little cousin is a sure way of getting onto his blacklist.

But now that he’s gone and can’t keep tabs on anyone, the only recourse I have is keeping my head down. Way down. Floor level, really.

This means I sit in the second to the front seat of the bus, far away from the Old Town girls in the back. But the joke’s on those Colleens because I can’t stand sitting in the back of the bus. I get carsick.

Being in the front also means I’m out and into the school before anyone can accidentally trip me, wipe honey in my hair, or spit on my shoes. And if I’m quick enough, I can be at my desk for AP Lit before the bell rings.

Thea McEntire was already at her locker when I arrived. Standing only slightly higher than five feet, it’s easy to miss Thea. She has pale skin and equally pale hair. The only vibrancy in her face is her bright green eyes but so few people probably take the time to notice that.

“Be careful. Sarah Kampack is on the warpath.”

“What now?” Sarah is our current reigning Colleen. Only a junior, she managed to usurp the senior Colleen by spreading a rumor that Colleen the Elder had a dirty cooter. When Colleen the Elder showed up two days later with a cold sore, that rumor hardened into fact—no matter what the truth was.

Colleen the Elder did not return to school for second semester. She tried to float the word she graduated early and was attending community college, which may actually have been factual, but that couldn’t overcome most people’s belief that she had a terrible STD that had rendered her disfigured in some fashion.

“Apparently, last night at cheer practice, she left the bathroom with toilet paper hanging out of her leggings. Boys laughed at her.”

“Ouch. Sounds like there’ll be an execution soon.” One of her minions was going down for that. But Thea and I are far enough away from that crowd that we won’t be affected. Oh, we might be the subject of some hallway taunt and the ripple effect from Sarah’s tsunami might make our feet wet, but overall, we’ll weather this storm without a problem. “How’d you hear about it?”

“Someone put a picture of her up on Snapchat.”

“Oh holy hell. That has to be a limited number of people, right?”

Thea shakes her head. “Not really. Apparently the football team was lifting in the gym at the same time so it could have been one of them.”

“I hope she doesn’t go on some crazy witch hunt.” The waves might reach our knees if Sarah doesn’t get retribution immediately. I reach into the locker to hang my backpack up and my hand brushes the bulge in the side pocket. “Hey, I got a cell phone!”

“Really?” Thea claps her hands. “Tell me what your number is and I’ll text you the picture.”

I grimace and hold up the ancient flip. “No can do. I can text, make phone calls, and I think there’s a simple game on here but pics are a non-starter. And because I’m an idiot, I can’t do any of those things because I forgot to plug it in last night.”

“That’s not a phone. That’s a doorstopper.” Thea inspects it. “I didn’t even know they made these any more.”

She hands it back and I tuck it into my back pocket. “Beggars can’t be choosers. But I had to get the phone because my friend, the one from the game, sent me his cell phone number.”

Thea taps her fingers against her notebook for a moment and then blurts out, “Are you sure you should be texting him? I mean, messaging him in a game is one thing but texting him?”

She says the last two words in scandalized surprise as if I suggested going down on the guy in the hallway. Something we’ve actually both seen a time or two in the stairwell in the north hall.

“What’s the difference?” I finish shoving my backpack in my locker. I grab the books I need for my next two classes and slam the door shut.

“He knows where you live now.”

“Um, unless he’s some kind of wizard hacker then no, he doesn’t. And if he were a wizard hacker, he’d have been able to tell where I lived when I was playing the game. Besides, I like him.”

“That’s not normal, Lainey.”

“So?” Who cares what’s normal? I like Nick. I like texting him. I feel closer to him sometimes than I do my own family.

Thea heaves a sigh and then scribbles something on a notebook. “Here.” She rips out of the notepaper and hands it to me. “Here’s my number. Call me tonight and let me know if you hear anything about Sarah.”

“On it.”

I slide into AP Lit, a class made up of primarily juniors and seniors, just as the bell rings. My show and tell with Thea making me about five minutes late. I hear energetic buzz around me, probably about Sarah and her online humiliation.  The noise and laughter and mockery swells, like a huge tidal wave. I don’t know what Sarah must be feeling right now, but being the butt end of small jokes and sly digs is no fun for me. It must be awful for her.

I can already feel the droplets of the storm. My first instinct is to bury my head. After all, I’m a sophomore sitting amongst a bunch of upperclassmen. Most, if not all, don’t even know my name. So why I feel the need to turn around and defend a Colleen, of all people, I don’t know. But I do. It’s the biggest mistake I make in high school.

“Jesus, you guys. You’d think you never made a mistake your entire lives,” I snap out.

Half the class turns to me in unison. I cringe, rounding my shoulders to make myself a smaller target.

“What’re you talking about?” Griffin Carroll asks coldly. The star point guard of the basketball game curls his hands around the end of his desk and leans toward me. His face is derisive and his tone clearly says I should shut up and mind my own business.

“I, uh, the Snapchat thing. With Sarah,” I stammer out, withering under his stare.

“What Snapchat thing? We were talking about the game this Thursday. Weren’t we guys?” He turns and everyone else nods. “You were the only one to bring up the embarrassing events of last night involving Sarah.” He points to the front of the room.

I know what I’m going to see even before I look; Sarah’s standing just inside the door. If Griff’s tone was cold, Sarah’s expression is glacial.

“Who are you?” she asks, advancing toward me, each click of her heel on the linoleum sounding more ominous than the last. “Why is my name even coming out of those chapped, ugly lips?”

I rub said lips together self-consciously.

“I think she was trying to get Griff to pay attention to her. Just a nobody,” a high, unfriendly voice offers from the rear. I have no idea who that is or whether the statement is designed to help me or hurt me.

Sarah pauses by my desk. “Just a nobody? I can see that just by looking at her.” She bends down; close enough that I can smell the flowers in her delicate perfume. “For your own good, you should stay a nobody.”

Telling her I was defending her isn’t going to make a difference. “Sorry,” I mutter for lack of anything better to say.

She straightens and digs in her purse. A stick of gum lands on my book. “Here, have a stick of gum and next time try to remember to brush your teeth before you leave the house.” She raises a hand to her nose and proceeds to her desk, the entire class tittering with laughter.

My face burns with embarrassment. It’s not normal to want to escape this place? These people? I pull out my phone and clutch it. There are a few people in my life who make me feel good. Nick is one of them. I don’t give a rat’s behind that it’s not normal. He’s a lifeline that I can’t imagine ever giving up.

The post Lainey’s List, Chapter Three appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.

Lainey’s List, Chapter 2

“What’s your pleasure?” Carlos Binelli drawls as he swings open the apartment door. He hangs onto the top frame with one hand and blocks my view of the inside of the house. However, when his gaze hits me, he immediately straightens. “Lainey, what are you doing here?”

Carlos can get things. That’s why I’m here with the X-Box I fished out of the garbage can. I shove the tangle of plastic and cords into his arms. “How many minutes will this get me on a prepaid phone?”

He looks at the mess suspiciously. “Didn’t Tito give you this?”

“If you know that, then you know it’s mine to trade.” I peer two houses down to see if Grandmama is home yet. “Can we go inside? I didn’t realize you did all your business on the porch.”

Carlos’ frown deepens, making his round face look like an unhappy pumpkin. For the most part, Carlos is a good-looking guy. He has a full head of tousled black hair and dreamy brown eyes. His skin is golden brown, a gift from his Italian parents rather than any time spent out in the sun. Mama says that with his stocky frame, he’s the type who’ll end up looking like a ball when he’s forty… if he makes it to forty.

Around here, the average life span is pretty low. At the age of forty-nine, my grandmother is one of the oldest. Most everyone will die of violence, sickness, or just plain neglect before fifty.

If you get out, it’s a different story—a different life. Uncle Tito, for example, is up at UT Austin on a baseball scholarship. The ability to hit a 100 mile an hour fastball is worth a lot of money. Unfortunately, I don’t have that skill.

“You shouldn’t be here Lainey. Tito wouldn’t like it.”

Tito’s a friend of Carlos’. Or maybe it’s the other way around but either way, I’m relying on that friendship to get me a fair deal. Everyone likes Tito and wants him to succeed.

“Tito knows how it is at home. Grandmama is worried that the games will turn me into a violent killer.” I make a gun with my fingers and pretend I’m shooting Carlos. “Are you going to help me out or do I go somewhere else.”

“Shit.” Carlos curses and then allows the door to fall open. “Get in here then and be quiet.”

I follow Carlos down a short hall. “Is little Amelia sleeping?”

He nods. That’s another thing about being poor. We seem to produce an inordinate number of children, as if the only way we know how to go about telling people we love them is to procreate. We exchange babies instead of rings.

Carlos’ back bedroom is an office full of boxes and electronics and probably other stuff I’m better off remaining ignorant about.

“So your granny thinks you’re on your way to becoming Bonnie?” he jokes, as he rifles through a box. “Who’s Clyde?”

“No one. She’d have kittens if I brought a boy home.”

Grandma had mom at the age of sixteen. Mom followed suit by having me at seventeen. I suppose just graduating high school without getting pregnant will be a victory for the Valdez family.

Carlos grunts and then turns around with a phone in either hand. “I can either get you this snazzy smart phone with no minutes or this ancient flip phone with three months.”

“Three months of what?”

“A thousand texts and sixty minutes of talk time per month.”

Of course, I want the shiny smart phone. I could shove it in my back pocket and for once look like the rest of the girls at school. Even if it wasn’t activated, I’d feel like I fit in. Plus, if I had a phone, I could sit in class doing my school assignments instead of being sent to the computer lab. But all of those pluses were offset by one big minus.

No texting meant no Nick. I could go to the library a couple of times a week and send emails but his phone number meant something to me.

If I had a phone in my pocket where I could call or send him messages at any time and receive them as well, it would be like he was with me all the time.

I reach over for the cheap, dull phone with all the minutes because it’s not the container that matters, but the connection it brings, stretching from Texas to Illinois.

Yeah, I looked up his phone number. It has a Chicago area code. That’s about all I could find out.

“I’ll take the cheap one.”

Carlos spins around and hooks it up to his computer. “I’m going to program my number into it so when you’re feeling lonely, you can give me a holler.”

“I’m telling Tito you hit on me.”

Carlos holds up his hands. “It was a joke, Lainey. No need to rat me out to Tito.” He taps a few keys only to pause and look over his shoulder at me. “Everything else going okay at home? Your mom and granny holding up?”

“Yup. Grandmama still has that job over at the telecom company and Mama’s doing some side jobs. We’re good.” Even if we weren’t, I’d lie and say we were great because I don’t want Tito to worry. He’s got a chance to get out of this life and I’m not going to ruin that. But fortunately, it’s not a lie. For the most part, we have food on the table and can pay our rent. I’m not entirely sure what Mama’s doing for the money she brings in, but I operate under the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

“You need anything, let me know.” Carlos tosses me the phone.

I catch it with two hands and flip open the screen. It says “Welcome Lainey.” “Nice touch.” I grin.

“I’m into good customer service.” Carlos leans back in his chair. “Keeps the customers coming back for more.”

“How much to keep it going after three months?” I ask.

“Fifty bucks.”

“For three more months?” I do some mental math.

“For each month,” he corrects me.

I don’t do a very good job of hiding my surprise because Carlos says, “you’re fifteen with no credit card and no bank account. You’re not going to be able to get one from anyone but me. Plus, I’m giving you a friends and family discount. Not to mention I’ll keep my mouth shut about the fact that you even wanted one of those.”

“Right.” I blow out a breath and try to think of a way to earn fifty bucks a month. I’ve been saving up for college but it’s slow going because I won’t be able to get a real job until I’m sixteen.

“What you should do is save up your money and get a fake,” Carlos informs me. “I could get you an ID that says your twenty-one and you could make some real coin dancing.”

He flicks his eyes over my thin jeans and equally worn t-shirt. “But you’d need about two grand for a boob job if you wanted to do that.”

I cross my arms over my small chest and scowl at him. “Thanks for the shitty advice, Carlos.”

“No problem,” he replies cheerfully.

“Are we done?”

“Yup.”

I tuck the phone into my back pocket. At the front door, he taps my arm with a business card. “If you do need to make some extra cash, give this guy a call. He runs an online porn shop.”

“Carlos, I’m not taking my clothes off or doing porn!” I nearly shout.

“Shh, Amelia’s sleeping,” he reminds me.

“I’m not doing porn,” I hiss at him.

“It’s not porn. Sometimes he needs still photos to advertise his texting services. He posts pictures of good-looking girls and then he has a crew of about five old crones who send dirty texts and audio to the guys on the other end. It’s a hundred bucks an hour and all you have to do is sit there with your shirt off.”

“No.”

Carlos shoves the card in my back pocket. “Think about it. Your tits are a little small, but a lot of these pervs like to imagine they’re banging a teen.”

“I am a teen,” I say through clenched teeth.

He just shrugs. “But you’re not actually having sex with anyone. You’re just showing your titties. Lots of your friends do it. How do you think they pay for their shit?”

I’m still gaping open-mouthed five minutes after he’s closed the door in my face. It never even occurred to me that the girls in my school would be paying for all their stuff by doing what Carlos suggests they are doing. And I don’t want to believe it either. He’s just saying that to be rude.

Back home, I hide myself away in my bedroom and take out my new prize.

It’s a dull gray, no bigger than my palm but possibly the nicest thing I own. I practice typing in a couple of messages. Using a keypad to compose my thoughts results in brief, one-sentence missives.

“How are you?” takes five minutes my first time.

“I’m a girl,” takes even longer but mostly because I keep deleting that sentence.

I’m afraid to tell Nick that CalledinSick, his favorite videogame companion, is a female. Girls aren’t welcome in most games, which is why I always pretended to be a guy. Or, more accurately, I never mentioned my gender. And I never talked. Talking is a dead giveaway.

The minute a girlish voice comes through the headset, the guys are either “get the fuck out or I’ll rape you” or “come over and let me shoot the bad guys for you.” There’s never any in between.

But after all these months of playing, messaging, and hanging out, albeit online, I don’t want to hide anymore.

So I take a deep breath and press send on the message that took thirty minutes to compose.

  Hey Nick. CalledinSick here. Miss hanging out with everyone on the game. Thought I should tell you that I’m not actually one of the guys. Hope that doesn’t bother you.

There’s no immediate message back.

And there’s no response ten minutes later. Or fifteen. Or sixteen. I shove the phone under my pillow and leave the room, hoping that distance will alleviate some of my anxiety.

But I’m back in my bedroom moments later.

I want to send another message. One that says Did you get this? Alternatively, I could run to the library and send a quick email. I’m at the door with my backpack over my shoulders when reason finally sets in. What kind of psycho person am I? I hit my head against the door a few times until I can regain some self-control.

“Elaina, what are you doing?” Grandmama’s sharp voice jerks me out of my self-pitying moment.

“You’re home early,” I say weakly and shrug out of my backpack.

Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Have you done all your homework?”

“Yes. And I cleaned the bathrooms.” Each day I have a list of chores. Today is bathroom day. I did that before I scampered off to Carlos’ house.

“Good. Now it’s time to make dinner. I think we’ll have cannoli. Go and get the ingredients ready while I change.” She leaves the living room to shed her work clothes while I go to the kitchen. I’m grateful to for the distraction because sitting around waiting for Nick’s response is its own kind of torture. If I’d known having the phone in my pocket would create this much anxiety, maybe I wouldn’t have gone to Carlos’ house. Maybe I—

  Ding!

The tinny alert sound sends my heart into hyperdrive. I yell down the hall to Grandmama. “I have to pee first!”

“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” she hollers back.

I sprint to the bathroom and slam the door shut. With shaking fingers, I pull out the phone and read the message.

  I knew you weren’t one of the guys. Wouldn’t have given my number to one of the guys.

A huge grin splits across my face.

 How? I type out.

 Never talked for one. Other things like wanting more girls in the space pod and that you never once talked about how you banged someone’s mother.

The insults in Saturnalia were almost always sexual and almost always directed toward the player’s mother. I read the next message.

But maybe it’s because I wanted you to be a girl. Things just work out right sometimes.

My heart flutters wildly and goosebumps dot my arms. He wanted me to be a girl. That’s a gift worth giving up a hundred X-Boxes to read.

The post Lainey’s List, Chapter 2 appeared first on Author Jen Frederick.