Authors: Chelsea M. Cameron
Style
Style
Copyright © 2016 Chelsea M. Cameron
All Rights Reserved.
Editing by Laura Helseth
Cover by
KassiJean
Style
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. All rights reserved.
Other books by Chelsea M. Cameron:
Nocturnal (The Noctalis Chronicles, Book One)
Nightmare (The Noctalis Chronicles, Book Two)
Neither (The Noctalis Chronicles, Book Three)
Neverend (The Noctalis Chronicles, Book Four)
Whisper (The Whisper Trilogy, Book One)
Deeper We Fall (Fall and Rise, Book One)
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iBooks
Faster We Burn (Fall and Rise, Book Two)
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iBooks
Together We Heal
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iBooks
My Favorite Mistake (Available from Harlequin)
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iBooks
My Sweetest Escape (Available from Harlequin)
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iBooks
Our Favorite Days (My Favorite Mistake, Book Three)
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iBooks
Sweet Surrendering
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iBooks
Surrendering to Us
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iBooks
Dark Surrendering
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iBooks
For Real (Rules of Love, Book One)
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For Now (Rules of Love, Book Two)
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Deep Surrendering
UnWritten
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Behind Your Back
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Back to Back
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Bend Me, Break Me
For all the girls who like girls.
This one’s for you.
“S
he’s like . . . Satan in a blonde package,” Grace said as Stella Lewis walked by. Grace had it right. I slammed my locker and leaned my back against it as Stella went around the corner, her skirt flipping, but not showing
too
much. Just enough. Her ash-blonde hair was curled perfectly, as if she had a team of stylists in her home to get her ready every day.
“Well, I don’t think she’s
that
evil. Just . . . driven? Assertive?” Grace just rolled her eyes.
“Those are just other words for ‘bitch’, Kyle.” I shrugged as we walked beside each other to class. A few people stared as we went by, but I ignored them. Grace had the misfortune of being one of the only black girls at a small high school in Maine; and then there was me. They looked because I walked with a visible limp, mostly due to the fact that one of my legs was longer than the other, and even with multiple surgeries to lengthen it, there was still a discrepancy. Not to mention the scars. It was so much better than it had been, but in high school any physical anomaly was reason to stare, especially in a homogenous community.
I took my messy bun down and then put it back up again. It was a habit I had when I was annoyed by something. Or nervous. Or stressed. Or tired. Grace took the seat next to me in AP Chemistry and sighed.
“What?” I asked, hauling out the enormous textbook and dropping it with a thud on my desk.
“Nothing. Just thinking.” She pushed her dark curls out of her face and glared up at them.
“Be careful. That could be dangerous,” I said, pushing my black-rimmed glasses up my nose. Yeah, yeah, I was the stereotype. Girl who loved academics and wore glasses. I’d heard all the jokes before, so save it.
Something was bothering her, and as usual, she was going to hold it in until she couldn’t stand it anymore and then it would burst out of her at a totally inopportune time. Like when we were in the middle of dinner with my parents. Or at the movies. Or in the library. Or in the middle of a test.
“Whatever,” she said, pulling out her Chapstick and slicking it on her lips. Mrs. Collins started class and I knew I was going to have to wait.
We were working on diagramming chemical bonds, so I let my brain be taken over by that and pushed Grace’s potential problem to the side. Science wasn’t my best subject, but I did well enough to make it to AP Chemistry my senior year, so that had to count for something. Grace and I split up, her to head to Art and me to AP Geometry and then we met up again outside the cafeteria. Like always.
We got in line and filled our trays with pizza, and I decided to grab a salad because pizza and salad cancelled each other out. By the time we got back to the table, Molly, her boyfriend Tommy, Paige, Monica, and Chris were already eating.
“Whoa, what’s with Grace?” Molly whispered in my ear as Grace glowered at her food like it had offended her in some way.
“No idea,” I said back as Tommy and Chris debated something politics-related that would probably end in them agreeing to disagree. Again.
“Hey, is anyone going to the game on Friday?” Monica asked. She, Chris, and Molly were in the band playing flute, bass drum, and clarinet respectively.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. I tried to make most of the games to support them, and we all showed up for Grace and Monica when the drama club put on productions. My friends were pretty spectacular and I didn’t know what I would have done without them.
“Everyone else in?” Monica asked, and we all agreed. I couldn’t have cared less about the actual sport (football), so I usually brought a book and only looked up or paid attention when the band was doing something.
Don’t get me wrong, sports are fine, but they’re not really my forte, considering running isn’t my thing and most of them require it. I would much rather spend my time reading or . . . doing anything else.
“What the hell?” Grace said, finally looking up and turning toward a commotion on the other side of the cafeteria.
“Oh God, what are they doing now?” I said. It was one of the tables for the football players and they were always up to something. Brad Harding was standing on top of one of the tables and chugging . . . something from a glass bottle.
“What is that?” I said, squinting.
“I think it’s hot sauce,” Molly said, shaking her head.
Yup, definitely hot sauce. Brad’s face got red, he started gagging and then hurled all over the table before one of the lunch monitors hauled him off the table and down the hall to the principal’s office. A surly custodian came over to clean up as groups of students clapped in support.
I was about to turn and say something to Grace when my gaze snagged on Stella. She stood with her arms crossed as she rolled her eyes. Tossing her hair over one shoulder, she just happened to look in my direction and catch me staring. I looked away fast, so she didn’t think I was . . . well, anyway.
“I can’t believe people think that’s funny. I mean, how old are they?” Grace said, her brows furrowed. If she didn’t tell me what was up by the end of the day, I was going to confront her. Because this was downright ridiculous.
“Well, he’s going to get suspended, again,” I said. Brad got suspended a lot, but it never stuck because his dad was a lawyer
and
a former politician
and
crazy rich. So Brad was basically the worst because he could get away with it.
The topic changed from Brad’s idiocy to Homecoming weekend and I checked out. It wasn’t that I didn’t care . . .
Okay, that
was
it. I just couldn’t get so whooped up about something that didn’t really mean anything. These weren’t the best days of our lives. I was always looking forward to college. If I could just get to college, I knew my life would start.
I’d finally get a boyfriend and my obsession with academia would be appreciated and I’d be out on my own. Not that I didn’t adore my parents, but I was an only child and living with their expectations hanging over my head had been intense, to say the least. Good thing I was smart, or else I would have had to work my ass off at something else to meet their expectations of being an extraordinary child.
College was going to be it. I just had to get to graduation and then I would be free.
Instead of heading home after school, I always took my laptop downtown to the library and got most of my homework done. It was a hell of a lot easier to work on everything when I didn’t have one (or both) of my parents leaning over my shoulder asking what I was doing and if I was sure I wanted to use that exact word, or if that number was right. They put the
hel
in helicopter parenting.
After I finished everything I needed to get done homework wise, I let myself do some work. Last summer I’d gotten a job at a small IT support company in town and my boss, Jason, had taught me a little bit of coding and graphic design, so I’d started doing a few freelance jobs here and there. Just basic stuff like Photoshop editing and basic web design, but you could make pretty decent money at it. I wasn’t sure if it was what I wanted to do when I got to college, but if I could make a few bucks and enjoy what I was doing, then why not?
My current project was a blog redesign for a new book blogger. I hadn’t even known book blogging was a thing until I posted some of my ads in online forums. She was also a senior in high school and didn’t have a whole lot of money, so she couldn’t hire a real professional. We’d exchanged emails back and forth and I’d liked her and knew I could give her a great design. She’d already done part of the work; finding me stock images and colors and fonts that she wanted to use.
I’d just gotten started, but she was happy with the progress. I put on my coding playlist (which included everything from Adele to the Hamilton soundtrack to Muse) and before I knew it, the head librarian was tapping me on the shoulder and kicking me out.
Time to go home.
“H
ow was your day, honey?” my mom said the second I shut the door. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and then Dad was there too.
“Fine,” I said, knowing that wasn’t an acceptable answer. She gave me the Mom Look and I sighed internally.
“It was good. Got a 98 on my AP Chem quiz and Mr. Hurley assigned us
Jane Eyre
for our next book.” I would be asked to give many more specifics, but that would happen at the dinner table.
To be fair to my parents, they did only want the best for me. Neither of them had gone to college, but had been almost entirely self-taught and didn’t want me to struggle like they had. Granted, the economy was a hell of a lot different now than it was when they were growing up, but I didn’t want to burst that bubble. In the end, we both wanted the same thing. Me, at a good college and getting at least a master’s degree. In . . . something.
Still figuring that out.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announced and escaped to my bathroom for a reprieve.
My room was kind of a disaster, as usual. I nearly tripped over a pair of sweatpants on my way to the bathroom. Might be time to do some laundry. I picked them up and tossed them on top of the overflowing hamper.
I turned the water on nearly all the way and stepped under, yelping a little. No doubt when I got out there would be no hot water. I was a fan of long showers, especially when my parents wanted to ask me to describe every moment of my day.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, letting the water soak my hair. Sighing, I slid my hand down my stomach and between my legs. I was paranoid that my parents would hear me somehow, so the shower was ideal for “relieving stress.” It probably wasted water, but whatever.