Heartbreak Highway

By Emma Daniels

Everyone warned Emma Taylor about Dean Price, the bad boy of the south coat. Even his own family don't trust him, but Emma can't help falling in love with her best friend's handsome and way too charming older brother, so when Dean breaks her heart, she knows she only has herself to blame. Only days later her grandmother, and only living relative, dies after a long illness, and Emma decides there is nothing to bind her to her home town anymore, so she moves away and makes a new life for herself in the city.

Eight years later Emma has a new man in her life, a single parent like herself. Not until she accepts a temporary job on Lord Howe Island where her 7 year old son Adam can escape the big city bullies, does her past, and Dean catch up with her.

Tormented with guilt over the way he treated Emma, Dean has spent the past eight years searching for her to try and make things right, but Emma won't forgive him, not until she finds out what really happened to Dean after that dreadful night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Daniels
• Release date: Oct 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458143815

Emma Daniels

Emma Daniels lives in Sydney Australia, but also lived in Germany as a child. She is married with two children. She has been writing romantic novels for most of her life, and the results are clear - more than 10 books to her name. She is also a jewellary artist. Her favourite mediums are chain maille and artistic wire work. If she's not beading, writing, reading, or with her children, she's working part time at the job that pays the bills.

Book preview

Heartbreak Highway

By Emma Daniels

Copyright 2011 Emma Daniels

Smashwords Edition

Down life’s lonely highway I drive.

Along miles of empty heartache.

Searching for you - you - you.

Years of life in chains.

Tied to the memory of heartbreak.

Searching for you - you - you."

The hit song, written by Dean Price for Jacob Cobra Edwards, lead singer of the rock group Stingray

PART ONE

September 1984

CHAPTER ONE

ROMEO IN BLACK LEATHER

Dean Price was drunk, not so far gone that he didn’t know what he was doing, but intoxicated enough not to care. He lounged in his seat, laughing with his mates in the university union bar, thoughts of study for once far from his mind.

His friend and flatmate, Jacob Edwards, or Cobra, as he preferred to be called, started strumming an air guitar and singing softly to himself.

Gotta song formin’ he slurred, flicking his flyaway blonde hair over his shoulder. Cobra fitted the rocker image perfectly, Dean thought, tall, handsome and stoned ninety percent of the time. ‘Why do I always get inspiration when I’m off me face and can’t remember the words the next day?" the brawny blonde lamented.

Rick, their other pal, sniggered. He was a rangy sandy-haired young man who played drums for Cobra’s band. He also attended lectures at the university, but like Cobra, had perfected avoiding study into an art form. ’Cause you’re an economics student not a bloody rock star.

Cobra sighed theatrically. What I wouldn’t give to throw the bloody books away and hop on stage to dazzle the world with me brilliance.

The only thing dazzling with brilliance right now is your imagination. Dream on Jay Jay. We’ll never be famous. We’re just kiddin’ ourselves. None of us will ever be anything more than average Joes in average jobs.

Rick’s words sent a wave of depression crashing over Dean, another unfortunate side effect of alcohol consumption. He should have known by now to avoid the damn stuff, but Dean Price suffered from terminal peer group pressure syndrome.

Shit you’re a misery guts, Rick. I’m off, Cobra announced, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. Time to party on. You guys coming?

Yeah, Rick followed suit. They both stood there, swaying drunkenly from side to side like willow fonds. Dean?

Reckon I’ll pass, he decided, and his two friends stumbled off without backward glances. The last thing Dean felt like doing was staggering off to some sleazy nightclub for a one-night stand. That was all he seemed to end up with lately, when he was lucky enough to score. The heavy study schedule he’d set himself, and his own disinterest, seemed to attract only the seedier types. One didn’t find the kind of girl you took home to meet the folks in down-town Kings Cross.

Dean could count the number of steady girlfriends he’d had on one hand, and they’d never stayed for more than a few weeks. Dean knew love existed, but he’d never felt anything more than the pleasure sex could bring. He was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with him, if perhaps his time with the Black Shadows street gang had meddled with his mind somehow.

It had been his own stupid fault for becoming a member of their club. At the impressionable age of fourteen they had represented everything he wasn’t; tough, savvy, street-wise. They eventually let him join after subjecting him to a rigorous initiation process. Then, like an obsessive religious cult, they set him to work. Only his job wasn’t to steal souls and sell the cult’s warped interpretation of the Bible. No, it was to steal cars, sell crack and attack enemy gangs when they threatened to take over their turf.

If his family hadn’t migrated to Australia, Dean would have ended up in gaol, or dead. Take your pick. There was no other escape from the Black Shadows. To suddenly be able to disappear to another country where no one knew him had been a blessing, and a chance for redemption, but Dean had already damned himself in his family’s eyes, and it seemed nothing he said or did would ever allay their disappointment in him. Hanging around the likes of Cobra and Rick didn’t help either. His folks couldn’t see past their drunken rowdiness, and Dean was starting to suspect they were right. If they didn’t pull their socks up both of them would be flunking out of uni big time.

At sixteen Dean had been so close to the edge, and now he watched his friends throwing it all away for the sake of their band. The sad thing was, they were good, damned good, if only they could get their act together and do more than jam in a garage. One day after hearing Dean singing in the shower, Cobra had asked him to vocalize with them, but Dean knew trying to break into the music industry wasn’t the way to prove himself to his family.

Excuse me. Are these seats taken? a female voice asked close to his ear, dragging him out of his depressing reverie. Dean blinked, looking up to see Janelle Moore standing in front of him.

Only by the invisible man, Dean replied flippantly. Janelle was in one of his tutorial groups. He couldn’t remember which. They had spoken a few times. Even though he barely knew her she gave the impression she knew exactly what she wanted out of life. She was tall, blonde, and attractive, but apart from the usual flush of desire for her large breasts and long shapely legs, he felt little more.

At least I’m not gay, he thought grimly, knowing his parents would have a fit if he came home announcing he preferred men to women. Cobra and another mate had talked him into going to a gay nightclub once just for the hell of it, where Dean discovered he never wanted to repeat the experience. After extricating himself from the amorous embrace of a lecherous geek, he almost clobbered Cobra that night.

Sometimes he really hated peer pressure.

Well I’ll sit on his invisible lap then, Janelle quipped, sitting down in the spot recently vacated by Cobra. So what are you doing here on your own? she asked, placing her drink down on the table in front of her.

What one usually does in a bar, getting plastered, Dean flung back casually.

Not too plastered for wise cracks though. Care for another? She motioned to his empty glass.

Can’t afford another one, he answered truthfully.

Her blonde eyebrows shot up. And I was told on good authority that your folks are loaded.

They might be, but I’m not. Yes, Dean’s family were well off, but no one would know that by looking at him. His allowance only covered essentials, like rent and food. If he hadn’t set himself such a tight study schedule, he would have sought a part time job and invested in luxuries such as records, clothes and a second-hand car. Letting his hair grow meant he could save on barber’s costs. Who cared what you looked like on campus anyway?

Who told you they were rich anyway? he couldn’t help asking.

That rocker friend of yours. Jacob what’s his name? Edmonds.

Edwards, Dean corrected her. And he lied. I’m as poor as a church mouse.

What a quaint old saying, Janelle grinned. Well, I’d better shout you then. What will it be, poor little rich boy?

How about a screaming orgasm? Dean suggested.

She took him literally, and leant closer. Would you like that?"

What normal red-blooded man wouldn’t?

My place or yours? she whispered close to his ear.

Dean shrugged, wondering if he really did want to get laid. She wriggled seductively against him, making his mind up for him.

Yours, he said. Mine’s full of Bible bashers tonight. His other flatmate, Linda Lawson, used Friday nights for her bible study group, knowing Dean and Cobra always went out.

Taking hold of Dean’s hand, Janelle got to her feet. Dean followed suit, drunkenly accepting what she offered. Had he been more sober, he might have questioned her motives, but at the moment he didn’t care. He hadn’t even had to try – she’d come to him, knowing that Dean Price would give her exactly what she wanted.

The humid afternoon air was perfumed with the scent of spring flowers growing in the garden around the small house. Situated on the high side of the street, it overlooked the sprawling suburbs of Wollongong and the distant ocean.

Those around it were of similar vintage, built of timber not long after the turn of the twentieth century. Most had undergone various forms of renovation, but the cottage on the corner had seen better days. Fronted by a shaded veranda which sagged at one end where dry rot had set in, the faded cream paint was peeling, and more leaks appeared in the roof whenever it rained.

The stocky, white haired woman sitting in the ancient wicker chair on the veranda sighed. The place was, like her, decaying a little more each year, but unlike her the house could be repaired. Her granddaughter did what she could, but she was barely eighteen, too young to shoulder the responsibilities of maintaining a rundown old property. Emma tended the garden for her, and did the heavy cleaning and shopping. More Joan couldn’t ask of her.

Due to Emma’s ministrations, Joan’s beloved roses and orchids were now in full bloom. But she hated not being able to take care of them herself. Her arthritis wouldn’t allow her to kneel any more, and her weak heart prevented her from exerting herself. Walking to and from the letter box was the extent of her daily exercise. Her angina attacks had been occurring more frequently lately, and Joan found herself wondering if she’d be around to see her garden grow next spring.

She brought a trembling hand to her chest. Don’t even think it, she ordered herself. Already her heart beat out of time, and the now familiar pain jabbed at her chest. No, I won’t take another pill yet, she vowed. I’ll wait until tea-time like I’m supposed to. Picking up the plastic bag from the wooden table beside her, she withdrew her knitting.

If she’d been ten years younger, or a trifle more healthy, Joan was certain she would have coped better with raising Emma. Her son and daughter-in-law had died fifteen years ago, so the only living relative the little girl had left was Joan. She knew she placed more restrictions on Emma than other guardians did, but she’d grown up during the Great Depression. Life had been so different then. Now women had careers. They didn’t marry their first love, like Joan had done.

Even now, after twenty years as a widow, she still felt a deep pang of sadness whenever she thought about her husband. Forty-six was too young to die. Matthew had been a man in his prime; tall and handsome and brave - too brave. His heroism had been his undoing.

Fighting fires had been his life. He’d saved hundreds of properties and countless lives, but he hadn’t been able to save his own. He’d died in a bushfire no more than fifteen kilometres from home. When the wind suddenly changed direction, he and two other fire fighters had perished in the inferno.

Caring for her granddaughter had managed to get her through the long empty years of widowhood. After losing everybody else she loved, the thought of Emma graduating and moving away filled Joan with dread.

A deafening screech split the lazy afternoon silence. Joan dropped her knitting in shock. Her struggling heart leapt and palpitated erratically.

The cause of the unholy noise rounded the corner and roared past her house at such speed Joan barely caught sight of the leather-clad bike rider. But she knew who he was. She didn’t need to see the long black ponytail flying out behind him to know it was that horrible Price boy disturbing the peace of her normally quiet neighbourhood.

Every summer for four years he’d come home to cause havoc with that deadly machine of his, and every summer Joan’s heart suffered because of it. She was certain he came this way on purpose because it was the older part of town, ‘the retirement belt’ as it had affectionately been dubbed by the locals.

Joan tried to ease the pain in her chest with deep breathing, but instead of helping it worsened. With trembling hands she reached into her skirt pocket for the little pill bottle she now carried everywhere with her. Tipping one into her palm, she stuck the Anginine tablet under her tongue.

While she waited for the pain to supside, she saw her granddaughter round the corner. The girl was obviously in the middle of a daydream. Eyes downcast, a slight smile playing about her full lips, she ambled along the footpath. Probably thinking about some pop star, Joan thought in concern. She feared for the girl. Emma was much too pretty, and Joan was worried that one day Emma would be taken advantage of by someone like the Price boy. Even though Carla Price seemed nice enough, Joan was glad her older brother lived in Sydney most of the year. Young men couldn’t resist blonde girls with innocent elfin faces, and slender, but curvy bodies. Not even the knee-length school uniform Joan insisted upon could hide her shapely legs.

It seemed like only yesterday that the young woman walking up the path had been a golden-haired child playing with her dolls at Joan’s feet. Now she was all grown up, due to start her final exams in a few weeks. Hardly anyone left school at fifteen any more. They studied until they were well into their twenties. Emma, with her interest in sewing, would probably go on to do a dressmaking course, or fashion design as it was now called.

Hi Nan, Emma greeted her. "How was your day?’

The usual, Joan replied. There was little point in worrying her about the deterioration in her condition. She had important tests to get through. Your friend’s brother is back. The lout almost scared me out of my wits when he came flying past here. That boy has no respect, hooning around here like a bat out of hell -

Which friend? Emma interrupted in an attempt to deter her from her favourite topic; the deterioration of moral values in today’s youth.

The American one. Carla.

Dean’s back? Emma exclaimed, flopping down on the top step, She took off her canvas backpack, dropping it on the wooden veranda behind her.

Thought you would have seen him on your way home, Joan muttered peevishly.

Emma shook her head. She hadn’t seen him for almost twelve months. Dean rarely came home during term time. From what she could gather this pleased the family no end. As far as they were concerned he was a lost cause. Carla was convinced the only reason Dean managed to pass his University exams was because he cheated. Lydia had given up years ago in trying to get Dean to have a haircut, or wear ‘normal’ clothes.

For a fashionable woman who ran a designer boutique, having a punk for a son must be a fate worse than death, but Emma was convinced Dean was merely rebelling because his parents were trying so hard to make him respectable. Jake Price was a businessman who’d come to Australia to help set up a sub-branch for his company. Something to do with computers was all Carla could tell her.

Emma found it impossible to believe that a man with such beautiful, velvet-brown eyes could be as bad as they claimed. She didn’t believe all the rumours about his numerous girlfriends, either. Once Dean met the right girl, Emma was certain he’d love her until the day he died.

In her dreams Emma was that girl. She knew it was silly to even think about it. There was no way he’d ever show an interest in a gangly adolescent like her. Even though her grandmother persisted in calling him a boy, in Emma’s eyes he’d long since stopped being that. He was twenty-two after all, a fully grown man with the best body in town, and a face that put her favourite pop stars to shame.

Have you got much homework to do? Joan’s voice broke into her romantic musings.

Emma glanced up at her grandmother. Even though she knew she had heart problems, she’d always looked fighting fit. Joan was too solidly built to be classed as frail, but now her round face was flushed, unhealthily so. This is year twelve. Of course I have homework to do.

Well, you’d better hop to it then, Joan said, mopping hair back from her damp brow with a podgy hand.

Emma sighed and got to her feet. Scooping up her backpack she yanked open the screen door.

The inside of the house was cool and dark. In fact everything about it was dark; the solid old oak furniture, the threadbare floral print carpets. Even the wallpaper had darkened so that its original colour was barely distinguishable. Very few things in it dated after the nineteen fourties, the decade Joan and her husband had moved in.

As Emma walked past the telephone table, an idea struck her. Carla had promised to help her with some economics problems, and if she agreed to let Emma visit tonight, she might even get to see Dean.

Picking up the receiver, she dialled her friend’s number. She almost dropped it when she heard a man answer. It had to be Dean. She knew Mr Price’s voice and it sounded nothing like this; brusque and business-like, not seductive and sexy. The Price family had migrated from the United States about six years ago, and although Carla had lost most of her American accent, Dean still had that distinctive Californian drawl.

If this is an obscene caller, I’ll be happy to talk to you, but let me warn you I’m an expert at talking dirty, he said, and Emma realized she hadn’t identified herself.

No, no. Can I talk to Carla, please? she squeaked, feeling like a goose.

Ah, it’s a sweet damsel. Are you as pretty as you sound? he went on in the same sultry tone. Emma felt her face flush, and was suddenly glad he couldn’t see her.

Jeez you’re a creep Dean, Emma heard her friend yelling in the background. I bet it’s for me, so hand it over before the poor girl hangs up in disgust.

Are you going to hang up on me? Dean asked in that same sexy tone.

N- no, Emma stammered.

She’s not going to hang up on me, he said.

Just hand over the phone, will you?

Ask nicely, he retorted.

I’ll ask nicely when you stop acting like a jerk. Now give it to me.

Emma heard clicking and rustling and Carla finally spoke into the phone.

Sorry Em, she apologized. It is you, isn’t it?

Yes.

As you may have gathered, my pain-in-the-neck brother has come home for a few days. And then in a more subdued tone said, He never comes home during term time unless something’s wrong. I just overhead Mum cancelling tonight’s dinner engagement, so it must be pretty serious.

I suppose tonight isn’t a good night to go over those economics formulas then, Emma said in resignation.

Fraid not. Let’s make it tomorrow after dinner. All right?

Okay. So she couldn’t see Dean tonight, but there was every chance he would still be there tomorrow. She couldn’t help wondering why Dean had come home early. Had he been kicked out of University? Committed a crime? Oh please don’t let it be anything as serious as that, she pleaded silently. Nothing bad must happen to my dream man.

They both hung up, and Emma headed for her room, the only one in the house which didn’t look like a morgue. It was bathed in sunshine most of the day, and Emma had covered the yellowed wallpaper with colourful posters to make it more homely.

The furniture consisted of a solid oak wardrobe, a small bookcase overflowing with Dolly magazines and study notes, a rickety chair, her bed and desk, a relic from a bush classroom. She knew this because her grandfather had curved his name, Matthew Taylor, and the date, nineteen twenty-nine, under the flip-top lid. It even had pencil grooves and a hole carved out for an ink well.

The only contribution she’d made to the room was a small bedside table. She’d rescued it from a clean up campaign three years ago. This was where she kept her clock radio and a photo of her parents, two people she had no memories of whatsoever.

When younger she’d tried to remember them. She would sit cross-legged on the bed with the picture in her lap, concentrating on their faces, trying to visualize an event, the sound of their voices, anything. It never worked, and eventually she gave up. They were destined to remain strangers; a tall blonde man called Adam, and a petite redhead named Sarah.

Emma threw herself onto the bed, which gave its usual squeak as she made herself comfortable. It wouldn’t do any harm to postpone her diary full of revision while she indulged in her favourite Dean Price fantasy.

Even though it had been almost a year since she’d actually laid eyes on him, she had no difficulty in visualizing his handsome face; the strong square chin, straight short nose and wide, full mouth. Having pinched a photo of him out of one of the Price’s family albums also helped. Slipping it inside an exercise book, she had left the house feeling like a criminal. It was now safe and sound in a silver edged frame of its own in a place her grandmother would never think to look.

Emma wrapped her arms around her body, imagining they were Dean’s. What she wouldn’t give to be held by him, to feel his lips against her own. They’d be warm and soft. He’d know how to kiss a girl. There would be no fumbling, no awkwardness. It would be just like in the books; a seductive play on the senses.

The few kisses she’d experienced had been a disappointment to say the least. There had been none of the passion she’d read about in the romance novels she kept hidden under her bed. Emma hadn’t even been on a proper date because Joan wouldn’t let a boy take her out in a car, and these days nobody went anywhere without wheels. According to Joan, cars were the most likely place for a girl to lose her virginity and self respect.

Well, I’m eighteen now. She can’t stop me from going out in cars any more, although the back of Dean’s motorbike was good enough for her. She’d wrap her arms around his waist. Then she’d rest her cheek against his back and feel his long, straight hair against her skin.

If only dreams came true, she thought longingly.

The Price family lived in a two-story brick mansion on the beach-front of Austinmer, the next suburb to the north of Thirroul. It usually took Emma ten minutes to ride her pushbike there, or half an hour by foot. On this particular evening she walked, wanting to savour the warm spring air. One of Carla’s parents’ usually drove her home again in their shiny new air-conditioned car.

Emma had put on the tightest jeans Joan would let her get away with, and a floral blouse that tied up at the front. If she moved a certain way, a small amount of midriff showed. Emma planned on moving that way a lot if Dean was still around. She wanted him to notice her. Other boys had told her she was pretty, but it was only Dean’s opinion that mattered.

The sun had set by the time she reached the end of Carla’s street. As she walked, Emma watched a kaleidoscope of crimsons, yellows and orange slip from the western sky.

The front light winked on automatically as she started up the Prices’ front path. She couldn’t help comparing this house to her own. White columns supported a wide wrought-iron balcony. The double front doors opened to a tiled foyer. Several doorways extended off this, as well as a wide, wooden staircase that led to the second story. The large rooms were filled with plush modern furniture and soft, spongy carpet.

Suddenly one of the garage doors swung open, and Emma stopped. She heard the unmistakable revving of Dean’s motorbike, and a moment later he drove it out into the drive. He would have kept going if his mother hadn’t appeared on the upstairs balcony to yell at him to shut the door.

Oh hello Emma. Get Dean to unlock the front door for you, and go straight up. Carla’s in her room.

Thanks Mrs Price, Emma called back, and waited for the tall, dark man to get off his bike. His jeans, T-Shirt, and leather jacket were all black, a perfect compliment to his long black hair lifting in the breeze. The way it was swept back from his high forehead emphasized the widow’s peak. She noticed that a travel bag was tied to the carry rack of his bike. He was leaving already, she realized in disappointment.

Dean slammed the garage door shut, and started towards her. He was scowling, and Emma was suddenly more in awe of him than ever. He really did look like the villain Carla always made him out to be. She heard a door slam, and glanced up to see that Lydia had gone back inside.

When she looked back down Dean had stopped directly in front of her. Suddenly his surly expression lifted, and he smiled at her, his dark eyes twinkling. His warm lop-sided grin made her heart skip a beat.

An angel in blue denim, he drawled, looking her up and down. And what’s your name?

Emma. Emma Taylor.

Shy little Emma Taylor with the pigtails and braces?

She couldn’t believe he remembered those awful things about her, and a flash of anger speared through her. Yes, little Emma with the pigtails and braces. And to emphasize every point she stretched up to her full height of five-feet-seven-inches, bared her now straight teeth at him, and swung her long mane of blonde hair back over her shoulders.

Dean actually had the audacity to laugh at her, and Emma didn’t care that her all her dreams were crashing to the ground around her. Her anger rose to boiling point, and before she knew it the worst insults she could think of spilled forth.

You think you’re so perfect, do you? Well, you’re not. Your legs are as long as spaghetti, and so’s your hair. You’re rude and obnoxious. No wonder Carla thinks you’re a worthless worm, a scum-bucket, a -

As if I care what my fat little sister thinks of me. If she didn’t hoard so many chocolate bars, she might actually lose some weight. He took hold of her hand. It sent a shiver all the way up her arm. I was merely going to say how much the little girl has grown up, how beautiful she’s become.

Oh, Emma murmured, suddenly embarrassed for her impetuous outburst.

Still gripping her hand in his larger one, he stepped forward, walking her back behind the bushes, and the automatic light went out. Suddenly she couldn’t see him, but she felt him, as he slid his other arm around her waist, pulling her close.

She gasped when their bodies met, trapping her other hand between them against the wall of his chest. He felt so lean and hard, so strong and masculine. A tremor of physical awareness swept through her at the contact, filling her with a heady warmth. No boy had made her feel like this before, which only confirmed in her already infatuated mind how special Dean was.

I’ve been banished, Emma, not to return until I can present the family with my degree. Help me make the next six weeks bearable, he urged, his face close to hers. Her eyes were adjusting to the dark, and she saw the glitter in his.

H- how c- can I do that? she stammered.

He moved his hands slowly up her spine and his fingers slid into her long, wavy hair. She shivered with delight. A kiss will do. Will you kiss your friend’s wicked brother?

You’re not wicked, she murmured, barely believing he was going to make her dreams come true after all.

Wicked to the core, he grinned. Ask anyone.

Suddenly the house light came back on, and Emma heard someone moving on the balcony again. She glanced up and saw Carla leaning over it, peering down into the garden. Emma, where are you? I thought I heard Mum telling you to come up.

Sprung, Dean muttered. Either that or saved by my sister. What do you think? He glanced back down at Emma. When she didn’t answer he released her. Better get going. I’ll see you in a few weeks, because contrary to what they believe. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the house. I will be graduating at the end of the year.

Emma stood there, watching him hop back on his bike. She didn’t move until he had roared away down the street. Carla calling her name finally spurred her into action. She almost stumbled over the garden bed as she returned to the path. Her legs still felt shaky as she reached the porch. The front door swung open just as she reached for the handle.

Don’t tell me what you were doing in the bushes, Carla began. I don’t want to know, but please heed my warning. Girls lose their self-respect just looking at him-

Nothing happened, Emma protested, but Carla grabbed her arm, propelling her into the house and up the stairs.

It wasn’t until they were inside Carla’s bedroom that either of them spoke again. It was enormous compared to Emma’s. She had a sound system and television set in an entertainment unit adjacent to her desk. An Apple computer set off to one side on it, and the rest was covered in teetering piles of study notes. Carla flopped onto the bed, and Emma sat down on the ergonomic office chair.

Nothing happened, I swear, Emma repeated. He wanted to kiss me, but then you came outside.

Carla, a short plump girl, had inherited her tendency to gain weight from her father. Jake Price was a big, burly man, with receding brown hair and hazel eyes. Carla’s wavy black hair and chocolate brown eyes, however, come courtesy of her mother. There was some Hispanic in Lydia’s ancestry, hence the olive skin and dark, exotic looks. Despite her weight problem, Carla was a pretty girl. Her outgoing nature made her popular at school, and because Emma had been included in her group, she was no longer the outsider, the weird one with the witchy grandmother.

Dean can’t even walk past a girl without ravishing her on the spot. Don’t ever let him near you again. He doesn’t know when to stop, and it could get you into all sorts of trouble.

I won’t, Emma murmured, although she was surely disappointed that Dean hadn’t kissed her.

If I tell you why he came home perhaps you’ll understand. But promise not to tell anyone else. This is just between you and me.

I promise, Emma said solemnly.

He wanted some money, which isn’t unusual for Dean. But you won’t believe what he wanted it for. She leant towards Emma, and her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. An abortion. He got a girl pregnant and wants to pay her to get rid of it. I overheard them arguing about it last night. Raking her dark curls back from her forehead, she grimaced. He said her parents refused to give her the money. I wouldn’t hazard a guess they warned her about him, and now that she’s gotten herself into trouble, they’ve washed their hands of the situation.

That’s awful, Emma whispered. Did your Mum and Dad give him the money?

"I don’t know. I was afraid of being caught listening, so I left when I thought Dad might stalk out of the room in anger. I’ve never heard him so irate before, but Dean always brings the worst out in him. Consider yourself lucky you’re an only child. I don’t know what I did to deserve such an obnoxious brother. Why can’t he be like