Crossroads

By Jennifer Crowfoot

Two Men
One Woman
Two Devastatingly Wrong Choices

All Cassandra Green has wanted since high school was to marry Christopher, the man of her dreams, have his babies and live happily ever after.

But after one terrible night showed Cass the depths of depravity that her new husband had sunk too, and the dark side he'd hidden from her, those dreams were obliterated in an explosion of cruel betrayal, tears and heartache.

For Jeremy, the man who has loved her all of his life and has been unable to get over her, a fateful incident gives him the second chance at happiness that he's been craving.

But is he able to get out of a situation of his own making to claim his one shot at true happiness?

DARK ADULT ROMANCE. NO CLIFFHANGER. STANDALONE. H.E.A

WARNING
***For mature audiences only:18+ Contains frequent strong profanity, violence, drug use and sex scenes. Certain aspects of this story may be upsetting, or offensive to some readers. Contains scenes of cheating, domestic/verbal abuse. Story contains Aussie slang/idioms.***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Crowfoot
• Release date: Mar 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311108371

Jennifer Crowfoot

Married, Jennifer lives with her husband and her spoilt, feline fur-baby, Hades, in beautiful rural N.S.W, Australia.When not writing, Jennifer can be found with her nose buried in a book.She also has a collection of self-published books on Amazon.? ? ?

Book preview

Crossroads

By

Jennifer Crowfoot

Crossroads

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Crowfoot

Cover Image: Copyright Dmitriy Shironosov

Stock Photo. (C) pressmaster/Stockfresh

http://stockfresh.com/

Cover design by Jennifer Crowfoot

Smashwords License Statement

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

~ * O * ~

This is a work of fiction.

Characters, names, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to incidents is purely coincidental. Any places or towns mentioned are used in a fictional manner.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

WARNING.

**This story touches on the sensitive subject of drug abuse and domestic violence. Please be aware of this in your decision to read this book**

For mature audiences only 18+

Contains frequent strong profanity, violence, drug use and sex scenes.

Story contains Aussie slang/idioms.

Standalone.

HEA

Dedication

For Mary-Ann

Your overwhelming passion for this story — for Jeremy — continues to astonish me. You have been this book’s greatest champion, constantly urging me forward with gentle words of encouragement.

Your advice was wise and helped me see what I couldn’t always see. The old, ‘Can’t see the forest for the trees’, adage comes to mind here.

You possess the uncanny ability to know just what needed to be said and it was always delivered at the perfect time, with the correct mixture of encouragement and firmness….

"It is by chance that we (re)met.

By choice we became friends."

ANONYMOUS

"As painful as it is to admit that we are being abused, it is even more painful to come to the conclusion that the person we love is someone we cannot afford to be around."

Anonymous

"When you are with someone who is never pleased, it is time to stop trying to please him."

Anonymous

Prologue

Dream On!

THE PAST

From the picnic table seat off to my right comes a rustle of material and high giggles, followed by the dull whack of flesh on flesh. I hear loose gravel pop and crunch as my friend Jeremy’s latest lap-warmer stands up, presumably straightening out her ruffled clothing.

Go on Simone, I’ll see ya later on in Science, Jeremy orders, his deep voice lower and rougher than normal. My stomach flutters at the sound of his voice as he casually dismisses the girl. She whines and I roll my eyes, releasing a long huff of annoyance through my nose.

Good God, every lunchtime’s the same, except a different girl claims his coveted lap. Can’t they see he has no serious interest in them? Jeremy’s the equivalent of a randy bee; buzzing from flower to flower depositing a load of his DNA before flying off, never giving the flowers (or in his case, girls) a second thought.

Despite the déjà vu-ness of this moment, I can’t help myself, swivelling on the bench seat for a look. On the table top in front of me, my unwrapped lunch lays forgotten, growing stale in the wintry air. Resting my elbow on the worn wood I cup my chin in my palm, watching as yet another lovesick girl watches her hopes of snaring one of the resident school heart-throb slash bad-boys, crash and burn before her starry eyes.

With purpose hardening her face, she crosses her arms tightly, the age-old seduction technique accentuating her generous cleavage. Helpless, and drawn by his raging male hormones, Jeremy’s gaze briefly drops. I watch his Adam’s apple bulge as he swallows and then looks away, the muscles of his jawline wriggling and popping beneath the taut, lightly stubbled skin.

Tossing her hair back she batts her mascaraed lashes at him. I don’t wanna go, lunch isn’t over yet. Can’t we go down behind the storeroom? There’s no teachers about and Cassie won’t tell. Will you? She glares at me, daring me to say anything, and for a minute I’m sure she’s going to stamp one little leather-clad foot.

C’mon, I’ll warm you up real good Jerry-bear, whiny-girl whinges through her chattering teeth, her attentions now fixated on a yawning Jeremy.

Jerry-bear? I snicker at her stupid pet-name for Jeremy, knowing how much he’d hate it. I wasn’t so sure that he’d knock back her offer of being ‘warmed up’ though. He does fancy himself as an all-conquering-love-beast.

He makes a gruff noise in the back of his throat, the resultant sound halfway between a cough and a laugh.

For Christ’s sake, piss off, he mutters. His expressive eyes capture and hold mine, his pupils pinpricking with exasperation as he leans in to whisper in my ear, You wouldn’t have a cross, or some holy water in your bag would ya? I need something stronger than a simple ‘go away’ to make her leave.

He sits back and waggles his brows, before shooting me a slow wink.

I slap my hand over my mouth, stopping my laughter from escaping as I look past his broad shoulders to where she stands, tapping her foot and staring at Jeremy, her heavily kohl-rimmed eyes boring into the side of his long shaggy-haired head.

Watching.

Waiting.

She’s trying, and so totally failing to be seductive, her pink lips pouting as she rubs her hands up and down her cardigan covered arms, the movements making her full breasts bulge over the top of her loosely buttoned white blouse. My eyes rake up and down her shivering figure, noting how her bare legs pimple and turn from tan, to blue, as a wind whips in from the west bringing with it an icy blast of air.

I force myself not to allow my pity for her to show on my face. We do have a winter uniform consisting of long sleeved shirts, jumpers, jackets and long pants and it’s not my fault she chooses to dress in bum skimming skirts, no tights, paper-thin blouses and light cardigans.

A lively flash of colour catches my eye and swivelling on the seat, I watch as a paper-speckled wind-gust rips around the side of the English Block, spilling out into the crowded, noisy quadrangle. I watch hypnotised — the bristling pair at my other side dismissed momentarily — as the mischievous wind captures more discarded lunch wrappings and loose rubbish, tossing them high into the air where they mingle with the papers already there, the whole lot dipping and diving like swirling, dancing kites.

The sound of shoes scuffling on the rocky ground snaps me out of my trance and my eyes drift back to my side.

C’mon babe. Don’t you want a durry? You won’t get another chance to have one until school’s out, Simone points out, her voice rising. Twirling a lock of brassy blonde hair around and around and around her index and middle fingers, her eyes narrow.

Raising his arms, Jeremy locks his fingers behind his head and leans back against the table. Crossing his long legs at the ankle, he stares up at her, his expression hard and unreadable.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise with the ascending pitch of her voice, as she tries to bend Jeremy to her will and I see she’s starting to get majorly pissy.

But, unfortunately for Simone, pissy doesn’t do it for Jeremy.

Turning away, he effectively dismisses her before bestowing one of his beaming smiles on me, showing me a mouthful of perfect white teeth and giving me his complete and undivided attention.

Fucking slack bastard, she snarls over her shoulder as she stomps off, her middle finger raised high over her head in salute.

Whatcha got today? Let me guess. Is it —? Jeremy asks, his eyes glancing to my sandwich, and then back to me, big-boobed Simone long forgotten.

Placing my back to the school I pick up half a sandwich, my nose wrinkling as I feel the stale bread beneath my fingers, my appetite vanishing faster than the sun on a stormy day. Urgh, I really hate eating stale bread, it tastes like what I imagine dried-up washing-up sponges would taste like. My lip twitches as I imagine chowing down on a bright pink sponge before I remember that I was going to give Jeremy a piece of my mind.

How can you just dismiss those girls like that Jer? I interrupt. Don’t you even feel a twinge of guilt for hurting their feelings? As I wait for his answer, my eyes roam over his achingly familiar face.

The corner of his full lips twist downward and his nose crinkles as he pretends to give my question some thought.

He releases a long hard breath and scuffs a hand backwards and forwards through his messy blond hair, making the long ends poke out every which way.

Yummy. But still not as hot as Christopher, I remind myself, before I give a mental shrug and allow myself to surrender momentarily to the spell that’s named Jeremy.

Nup. They give. I take, he answers cryptically, shrugging. Leaning into me, he pokes at my sandwich, his soft hair brushing against the side of my face while his warm honey-brown eyes twinkle with mischief.

I hold my breath as his lips slowly curve up in a patent Jeremy smile. Oh god. He so owned the rights to the art of the wickedly smooth smile.

Now, back to this, he pokes harder, pretending to ignore my reactions to him, As if I don’t already know. He chuckles. Low. Deep. You’re so predictable Cass.

I groan, reining in my dancing female hormones.

From years of experience, I know no good ever comes when he gets that look on his sweetly handsome face.

"Ew! Jer, that’s so gross. Don’t touch my food, I don’t know where you’ve had that finger, I shoot out at him, my nose crinkling. Today," I whisper under my breath.

He chuckles as I raise my hand, and sandwich, away from the reach of his questing fingers.

"Nowhere you’d wanna know ‘bout little Miss Innocence. But I can give you a hint…it starts with an S." He bumps me with his shoulder and laughs, long and loud at my prissy, pursed lips.

I snort, interrupting any further discussion about Jeremy’s lust-life.

It’s creamed honey and raisons Mr Flirty-pants, but you already know that, I exclaim, throwing his hand a disgusted look as I wriggle further down on the worn school bench, the one that we’d claimed for our own back at the beginning of Year Ten, two years ago.

This particular table and seating, was the hottest property amongst the seniors at Wendall Bay High, and all the other year tenners had been furious that we’d snagged it first. I suppose the hot competition for it all came down to that old adage: location, location, location.

Or privacy. Privacy. Privacy.

And, no one had had the desire — or guts — to challenge us for it. Not that I’d really expected them to.

Placed towards the back of the school, behind the looming bulk of the long brick subject blocks, it’s private, cool in summer — shaded by a gnarly old Jacaranda tree — and its positioning gives us a clear view of any prowling, lurking teachers before they see us. Not that I worry about teachers, but my two best friends do.

Even they, in all their wild devil-may-care attitudes, don’t want to be busted smoking at school too many times. They’ve been there and done that, and, as they’d told me, the hassle of explaining themselves to their furious olds just isn’t worth it. Although, that being said, I know they still sneak off to the back of the rarely patrolled area behind the sport’s equipment storeroom — or as it’s more commonly known amongst the male students as, ‘the skirt-lifter’ — to grab a quick smoke.

No one’s challenged us for the right to call this sought-after area our own, due to the boy who sits beside me, and his — and my other — best friend, Christopher. They’re the classic bad-boys, and no one dares contradict a single word that falls from their lips.

Why they still stick around me after all these years is a complete mystery. We’ve been firm friends ever since Kindy, when they’d come up to me and offered me one of the coveted Tonka trucks to play with after witnessing my missing-mummy-melt-down and its accompanying flood of unstoppable tears. From that moment on, we’ve been inseparable and none of us has ever had a problem with our unusual relationship.

It’s as natural and easy as breathing.

Although, once we’d hit high school, I’d quickly worked out that the sudden rush of wide-eyed, pouty girls wanting to be my best-friend-forever, had more to do with my two hot friends, than a suddenly burgeoning popularity on my part amongst the stampeding herd of love-sick female students.

To be virtually ignored, or worse, openly bitched at day in, day out, was a blow to my already fragile ego. I was never full of confidence, and no matter how many times the boys told me to suck it up and just ignore the sniping of jealous girls, it gradually began to wear me down.

I love these boys, but I really could’ve done with another girl to hang out with, talk clothes, make-up and boys with. Instead of having to feign interest in talk of their eye-bleedingly long playing sessions of the latest blood and guts video games and, depending on the season; football and cricket. But the yuckiest topic of all, was which skanky chick was the easiest and hottest fuck. (Their words, not mine.)

Blech! I always try to tune out when they start grunting amongst themselves about that subject. Not something another girl needs to listen to. I sigh, my fingers squeezing my sandwich tighter. They’re such man-whores already, and I think sometimes they either forgot I’m a girl, or it just doesn’t register on their ‘care-meter.’

I can’t think on another reason for their candid and open talk regarding their sex lives.

At five foot eight, I’m embarrassingly taller than the average seventeen — going on eighteen — year old girl. Kind of like an Emu dressed in a school uniform. Twice a day, morning and evening, my blunt-speaking mirror informs me — and I agree with its opinion — that I’m no gorgeous, sexy supermodel.

I’m not even in the realms of a wannabee model.

I’m on the curvy side of curvy, with average looks, nothing to upload selfies and brag about on Twitter or Facebook. Dead, boring, straight, boring, brown hair falls to my waist, while beneath natural, boring, brows I watch the world pass me by through contrary eyes which couldn’t decide if they want to be green or blue. And my mouth.

Crap.

I unconsciously rub at my bottom lip as I muse on the one thing I truly despise about myself. My full lips. I think they look like I’ve tumbled into a cranky bee-hive and suffered a thousand stings to my mouth. They’re puffy. And ugly. And I can’t stand them.

No wonder all the boys’ darkened eyes drop to them, their mouths wide open, their expressions unreadable.

Although I’m going with horror. Disgust. Repulsion.

I’m disgusted with them too, and I have to live with them twenty-four-seven. Urgh. At least they only have to look at me during school hours.

Fuck, you’re sick. You’ve gotta be to eat that weird shit Cassie, Jeremy declares — unknowingly interrupting my maudlin thoughts, and dusty memories — around a mouthful of meat pie.

Dropping his half-eaten lunch on the seat beside him, he unscrews his soft drink and slugs it down without taking a breath. Burping, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, recaps it and then tosses the bottle at his feet before holding out his mauled lunch.

Want mine? It’s real food, not that bready crap you eat every day.

I shake my head, my hair flinging into my face with my movements.

He stills, and then reaches out a hand, carefully tucking the long strands back behind my ear. I watch his eyes widen slightly, his black lashes so thick and long it should be illegal on a boy, and I can’t fail to notice how the honey colour of his irises deepen to a rich tawney shade.

Your loss then, he declares, before shrugging and demolishing the steaming pie in two bites.

Cocking my head, I watch his jaws work from side to side as he chews. Jer, you’ll get a stomach ache you greedy pig, I tease.

He swallows and then laughs, immediately stretching his denim covered legs out. My boys flip the bird to uniform-wearing rules, no poncy trousers for them. They wouldn’t be caught dead wearing polyester, or whatever school pants are made from. I don’t know, or care.

I only care that when that hot body of Christopher’s is draped in jeans and a loosely buttoned shirt, he looks like the kind of boy mothers warn their daughters about.

I feel the heavy weight of eyes on me, and from the corner of my vision I spy Jeremy checking me out. My insides flutter. My mouth dries up, and despite the chill of the wintry weather, tiny beads of sweat break out across my forehead as I grew uncomfortably warm.

Jeremy’s sweet and all, and yes, I admit, incredibly hot, but I’ve never been attracted to him. Well, not in the same way, and with the same intensity, that I am for Christopher. Whenever Chris is near, I’m like a helpless little innocent asteroid caught in the irresistible, magnetic pull of a big ‘ole sex-planet.

My mouth dries up and struggling to eat the last of my lunch, I give up, shoving it back into my bag. I hear the heavy tread of footsteps on asphalt heading towards our table and my fingers freeze on the zipper.

Taking control of my fingers again, I zip my bag up and shove it to the side.

Dropping my hands to my lap, my fingers curl up on my thighs as if hiding from the world.

I envy them.

I want to hide too.

Those footsteps are etched into my brain; their stride as unmistakeable and unique as their owner.

Jeremy kicks away his empty drink bottle with a hollow clatter. Yo, Chris. Where ya been man? He yells.

As I listen to the sounds of the other member of our little gang walk towards us, my body begins to tremble. I uncurl my fingers and dig my nails into the sensible thick cotton of my navy blue winter pants like two burrowing Echidnas.

Homework. Spiders. Exams. Spiders. Broccoli, I chant like my own personal Om, hoping my weird mantra will help to settle me down.

Nope.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

My nails dig in with a grip of steel that I didn’t realise I possessed, and I wince.

My heart races and my breaths grow quick and shallow as I wait for him to speak.

I’m so pathetic, I think, crushing on a boy — man, I correct myself, forgetting for the moment that both Chris and Jeremy had turned eighteen two months previously in April, (Chris at the beginning of the month and Jer at the end) — that hasn’t shown the slightest hint of being interested in me.

I’m just the annoying girl that makes up this little friendship triangle. Guys like Chris DON’T ever date curvy girls like me, I realise, blinking furiously as my eyes begin to sting.

You’re late. Been gettin’ it on with the teacher you dirty bastard? Jeremy laughs, his tone low, molten and ohmigod I admit it okay... It’s sexy.

Ha ha. You’re a funny prick, ain’t ya? Chris answers gruffly.

I exhale and swallow, my mouth and throat instantly dry as his deep rumbling voice wraps around me like a soft angora blanket.

Or a loving embrace.

I instantly sweep my ridiculous little pity-party-thoughts of earlier into the mental strong box I have reserved for the bullies’ fat chick and ugly dog comments and spin the combination. Locking all of that ugliness away in the dark where it belongs.

Taking in a deep breath, I release it, feeling lighter.

The pulse in my neck throbs in time to my heart’s frantic tattoo as the loose pebbles crunch and ping beneath his boots, the sounds echoing like a jackhammer in my ears, the closer he gets.

Stay calm Cassie. Do NOT make a clown out of yourself by doing something STUPID, like you’ve been known to do in the past. Act cool. Casual. Unaffected. Alluring.

I drop my head, my hair falling around my face like a curtain.

Hiding me.

Yeah right, I whisper, my words stolen by the wind and tossed high into the air. I do stupid like a pro.

Despite the coolness of the day, my face heats as I recall the time last summer, when I’d accidently knocked the remains of my tub of yogurt into Chris’s lap. I’d then groped him like a mad, sleep-deprived toddler on one of the Wiggles, as I’d frantically tried to clean the creamy white mess up with pages torn out of my Science book.

As I’d scrubbed his lap, I’d been naively unaware of what my zealous ministrations were doing to him, until both boys had burst out laughing. Chris had then proceeded to inform me — with the world’s worst straight face, mind you — ‘that if I’d wanted to play with his dick, all I’d had to do was ask.’

I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip as I recall how Jeremy had scooped me up into his arms bridal style, laughing big belly laughs as he’d swung me around, his luscious full lips stretched wide, his honey eyes twinkling with amusement.

In between rotations I’d noticed Chris watching on with narrowed eyes, his arms tightly crossed across his chest. Tilting his head to the side, his face had hardened into the scary look I knew usually proceeded an arse-kicking.

But for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why he’d even want to punch the snot out of Jeremy? They’re friends.

I come back to the present with a jolt, as the combined scents of citrus, sandalwood and musky male drift up my nose. Closing my eyes, I inhale. Clenching my hands together in my lap, I silently war with the naughty part of myself that begs me to turn around and just drink in the magnificence that is Christopher Reynolds.

I try so hard to ignore that little she-devil’s siren words.

The cold winter air chills the beads of sweat across my forehead and I slowly spin on my seat, my eyes opening, unable to resist anymore.

Chris is my secret crush.

And in my feverish, nearly-a-woman-imagination, he’s also my future husband.

Crossing my legs, I tuck my right foot behind my left calf, lace my hands together and lock them around my knee. Dipping my head slightly, I cast my eyes around. My gaze settles on the half a dozen girls sitting at the very edge of the quadrangle, whispering in each other’s ears as they blatantly gobble up my two best friends with hungry eyes.

Possessive fury rises from somewhere in the pit of my stomach, settling high in my chest like a scorching ball of coal as I watch them pull short skirts up even higher over stockinged legs, exposing parts of their flesh normally only seen in bikinis, or the skimpiest of shorts.

Tarts, I hiss under my breath. Gritting my teeth, I take a deep breath and release it. Tearing my eyes away from the flirting girls, I give in, and like a blind woman miraculously given the gift of sight, I lose myself in the dark and wild beauty that is Christopher.

From beneath the cover of my lashes and falling hair, I covertly drink him in.

He runs a hand through the top of his wavy dark hair, the ends falling back into place to curl around the bottom of his ears, unaware of how such a simple gesture makes the muscles in his arms flex and roll beneath the skin.

As I stare, my lips part and I lick them. I catch another whiff of his cologne, or deodorant, or whatever he uses that makes him smell so damn fine —

(edible)

— and my mouth waters. It’s as if my taste buds are preparing to be blessed with the greatest feast ever sampled.

I sigh dreamily as wayward sooty strands around the crown of his head stick up every which way, simply begging for fingers — my fingers, of course — to comb through them.

Tame them.

The friggin’ old bitch made me stay an extra ten minutes after the lunch bell for chucking shit at that deadshit, Dorknal’s, head, Chris growls in answer, his gaze boldly sweeping over me as he pulled his smokes out of his pocket and tipped his head to the side. Wanna durry dude?

Yeah mate, Jeremy answers. Leaning back against the tabletop, he scratches the spiky scruff on his chin with his thumb nail.

As he moves I catch a whiff of something yummy. It reminds me of soft summer rainfall and the clean scent of the sea, mixed together with hints of sweet smoky incense. Heat pools low between my thighs and blushing hotly, I squirm on the seat before uncrossing and re-crossing my legs.

Dropping his hand from his chin, Jeremy stretches both arms behind him on the table. I shouldn’t have — and I mentally kick myself up the arse for doing it — but I freeze as if electrified as his muscular forearm wraps firmly around my upper back, his hand clasping my shoulder, his strong fingers idly fondling strands of my hair.

Unaware of my reaction to his touch, Jeremy screws his face up as he demands, Who the fuck’s Dorknal?

I sag forward, instantly missing the solid security of his touch, his closeness — at the same time confused as to why I’m feeling this way — as he retracts his arms and stands, unfolding his lean body to his full six foot-plus-something, height. Placing his large hands behind his head he stretches, grunting appreciatively, his body reminding me of a sleek Panther, brimming with elegant wildness.

His untucked shirt rides up to his navel with his movements and a tiny mewling sound bubbles up the back of my suddenly dry throat. I shove a fingertip between my lips, gnawing on an already short fingernail to stop it escaping. Electrical pulses zip along the surface of my skin, raising the hairs in their wake as I catch a tantalising glimpse of tanned, hard stomach and the trail of brown hair which traces a path down from his navel only to mysteriously vanish beneath the waistband of his faded Levis — like Alice down the trippy rabbit hole.

For a second I burn to trace that path with my fingertip.

And then….

My eyes drop a fraction lower, widening like a cartoon characters’ as I see the healthy bulge behind his zipper. Distorting the front of his jeans. My breath hisses out like a punctured tyre. I can’t look away. I feel the heavy weight of eyes on me, and instinctively know Chris is watching my reaction.

But, I just can’t look away. Stop myself.

He’s got a hard-on, I tell myself dumbly, feeling like a virginal idiot the moment the thought takes shape. Oh well, too late to un-think it now. Well, d’uh Cass, the smarter side of my id shoots back. I freeze, my cheeks so hot my eyes water up.

I blink.

I swallow down the excess saliva that now pools in my mouth.

I think I may have even gaped like the village idiot.

Actually I’m sure I did.

Jeremy turns his head and winks at me. I gulp noisily like a frog swallowing a grasshopper as I realise I’ve been caught red-handed…ah…red-eyed, totally checking him out. As the impossibly long and thick lashes of his winking eye — totally illegal and wasted on a man, I surmise as I allow myself a few moments of swoon — sweep down over one tanned and sculpted cheekbone and then flutter upward, I wish the ground would neatly peel back and just fucking swallow me whole.

He smiles cheekily, giving me a flash of teeth before turning back to Chris who’s pulled out two smokes. Ignoring the strange sexual tension crackling between Jer and me like static on a stormy evening — and his mate’s erection, must be a male thing, I figure — Chris extends his hand, the cigarette held in-between his thumb and forefinger.

Jeremy takes it, curling his fingers around the smoke, his large hands easily hiding it from the sight of any teachers’ prying eyes.

Tucking my hair behind my ears I sag back against the hard wood of the table, cupping my cheeks in my hands, the skin beneath my palms burning like sunburn.

Chris tucks his cigarettes back into his pocket and turns his gaze back to me. A slow smile tilts up his lips, his face lighting up as he looks at me.

How you going gorgeous? He asks, his voice dropping a couple of octaves, making the hairs on my body instantly stand to attention before falling into a dead faint.

I swallow, feeling like I’ve been sprung with my hand down my pants. I’m g-good, I stammer, blushing furiously, and so not understanding my sudden speech impediment. Jeremy’s eyes dart between Chris and me, before he frowns and looks away, shoving his empty hand deep into his jean’s front pocket.

At Jeremy’s curious stares between us, Chris’s sunny look vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. His free hand clenches against the side of his thigh as he shoots Jeremy a tight look, before tipping his head back and gazing up at the cloudy winter sky. He sighs, the sound loud and drawn out.

Dropping his head, he spins his cigarette between his fingers as he answers Jer, Ya know Dorknal, he’s that geeky smartarse turd in my Math class. Glasses. Shit teeth. Face covered in zits. Daniel Houser. Ring a bell now? Without waiting to see if Jeremy knows who the hell he’s talking about, Chris turns, shifts his weight onto one foot and looks down.

I’m instantly dazzled as the full one thousand mega-watt power of his gaze hits me.

I think I stop breathing. Jesus, who needs oxygen when those eyes look at you?

Normally the colour of beautiful sapphires, Chris’s eyes have darkened to the shade of a tropical storm-cloud and simmer with a strange heat which makes my mouth over-salivate. Beneath the wool and cotton of my winter uniform, beads of sweat trickle down between my breasts as my body heats. While deep inside my chest, my heart pitter-patters against my ribs, making me feel breathless and slightly dizzy.

Drawing me out of the spell Chris’s intense look has placed me under, Jeremy laughs. Shaking my head, I look up at him. He tips his head back, the sound of his laughter drawing attention from the other kids nearby and I take note of the shiny strands of his hair as it spills down the back of his white shirt, the thick ends reaching past his shoulder blades. I lace my fingers together to stop them from reaching up and touching his hair, seeing if it’s as soft as it looks.

Sighing, my breasts push against my shirt and jumper with the force of my inhalation. Inside the soft cups of my bra, the tips of my breasts harden, the sensation equal parts pleasurable and painful.

Jeremy rocks forward, his hands placed on his knees as his laughter grows softer, gentler. Oh god, the sound of his pleasure in my ears is rich and somehow, sinfully wicked. It’s the equivalent of what I imagine eating a whole tub of chocolate frosting in one sitting would be like…without the sickly feeling of course.

His continued amusement at Chris’s nasty description of his unfortunate classmate, Daniel, causes Chris to break out into laughter and a smile tips my lips up as I listen to my best friends. Compare them.

Jer’s laugh is so unlike Chris’s infectious chuckles. Night to day. When Jeremy expresses his joy as laughter, it’s like an aural orgasm — and yes, I do know what an orgasm feels like. I know how to take care of myself that way, thank you very much.

Chris’s laughter is more subdued. Subtle. It’s more in line with an icy drink on a scorching summer’s day, or a refreshing dip in the ocean when you’ve sweated at school all day. It’s a sense of being satisfied. Of coming home after being away on holidays. It’s the equivalent of an aural embrace, as opposed to the toe-curling effects of Jeremy’s body trembling aural climaxes.

But, I’m more than willing to overlook this minor detail in my future soul-mate. No one’s perfect. Jeesh, I’m so far from perfect I’m surprised both boys are happy to be seen with me. As they swagger away to have a smoke, I fold my hands in my lap and allow myself the luxury of dreaming about white frothy dresses, sparkling diamond rings, beautiful dark-haired and blue-eyed babies….

And a happy ever after with the sexiest boy in the universe.

Christopher Reynolds.

~ * O * ~

CHAPTER ONE

The Wedding

PRESENT DAY

Standing in stockinged feet before the oversized oval mirror in bridal-headquarters, aka room 103 at The Seascapes Hotel, I watch through misty eyes as my mother carefully gathers my veil off the bed and cradles it over her arms. Stepping over to me, she slides the diamanté encrusted comb into my hair, the attached tulle tumbling in a white frothy cloud down my back to pool at my feet.

Lifting and dropping the sheer fabric, as if she’s throwing a sheet onto the bed, she fusses and clucks over it, until finally satisfied that all of the wrinkles have been smoothed out. Stepping backwards, she clasps her hands tightly at her waist.

What do we think ladies? She asks the bustling women behind us.

I blush as a chorus of ‘Oohs’, ‘Ahs’ and ‘So beautiful’ erupt from the room behind me: the excited voices of my best friend, two aunts and three cousins.

Mum’s eyes gloss over as she gazes at me. Reaching to the box of tissues on the bed, she dabs beneath her eyes. "I’m going to cry. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. She sniffles. Oh baby, you make such a beautiful bride, he’s a lucky man," she whispers, her voice cracking.

Leaning over, I give her a quick hug. Thank you Mum.

Now, now darling. You don’t want to get your beautiful dress all crinkled do you? She chastises kindly, ignoring her own advice as she returns my embrace, enveloping me in a cloud of expensive perfume.

Stepping back, I smile at her. Blinking back happy tears, I swallow roughly, a small choked hiccup escaping from a throat which feels swollen.

Have a drink, it’ll calm your nerves. It’s doing wonders for mine, my cousin Leeanna chirps, shoving a fluted glass of popping bubbles into my hand.

I stare down at the honey-coloured liquid.

There’s a silky rustle of fabric and I watch in the mirror as my best friend, and now chief bridesmaid, Selma, glides up to my side a glass held in her hand which she swiftly replaces my unwanted drink with.

Thank you, I whisper.

How about you drink this one instead sweetie. We can’t turn up to the church with a pissed bride, the Minister would shit kittens and then keel over onto his stage… she laughs, and it comes out as a very unladylike snort, …or whatever the hell his podium-thingamajig is called, she sings.

Draining my unwanted glass of bubbly, Selma leans in to whisper in my ear, Go ahead and drink it darl, it’s perfectly safe. It’s only juice, not a drop of alcohol in it. Placing her free hand on my arm, she looks into the mirror, her pale blue eyes gazing into mine. I watch her brows crease before smoothing out again. Are you crying?

Her face softens, and I bite my lip to stop the quiver it makes as I see her struggle to control her own emotions. She clasps my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Don’t cry Cassie sweetie, you’ll ruin all that pretty, and not to mention, expensive make-up.

I laugh. We can’t have that now, can we? I joke, my voice sounding overly high in my ears.

How’re you feeling? Selma’s sharp eyes flick down to my stomach.