Chasing The O

By Lorelai LaBelle

After a bad breakup, I’ve decided to start over, with only one rule: no more pricks. And no, I don’t mean those pricks.

I mean guys who cheat, lie, and hunt for their next date while we’re at dinner. Those pricks. Yeah, I’m done with them. But here’s the thing: I’ve never experienced the big, magical O. Not once. Believe me, I’ve given it my best shot. That’s why my best friend thinks I need a second rule: if he doesn’t give me the O, he’s gone.

No second chances.

But when I meet Vince, the man of my dreams—I’m talking scorching hot looks, a charmingly sweet personality, and a sexy voice that makes my blood rush—and I still get no O, it kills me to say goodbye.

Vince, on the other hand, isn’t ready to give up. So he makes a suggestion—we create a list of naughty experiences that go well beyond missionary. And so our journey begins with a list of fourteen kinky exploits.

Sadly, it’s not all steamy romance, and the obstacles wedging us apart seem too great, especially when Vince’s past catches up with him in the most deadly way, and the list itself threatens to shatter the ground beneath us—and my heart.

This is a complete full length standalone romance novel with a HEA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorelai LaBelle
• Release date: Sep 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781311059536

Lorelai LaBelle

Lorelai was born in 1989. She is a bookworm who loves writing erotic contemporary works that push boundaries and have a touch of mystery/suspense. She also enjoys writing paranormal and dystopian when the mood strikes her. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband, their chubby cat, and two birds. In her spare time she likes to bike, hike, and drink craft brews, like many Portlanders do, and watch movies in the dark.

Book preview

cover.jpgChasing The O - Titlepage - No Water-819

Copyright

A Pucker Up Press Book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2017 Lorelai LaBelle

All rights reserved.

lorelailabelle.000webhostapp.com

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Editor: Rachel Guerin / Bridgetown Editing

Cover photograph: iulianvalentin/123RF

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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.

Dedication

To all Portlandians and the city that never stops brewing. Here’s to keeping it weird.

To my husband for all his input, inspiration, and love.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1—STUCK

Chapter 2—INTO HIS ARMS

Chapter 3—WHEN MACI MET HARRY

Chapter 4—WHEN MACI MET JOSH

Chapter 5—WHEN MACI MET ANDRE

Chapter 6—WHEN MACI MET DAVID

Chapter 7—TIME FOR MOXIE

Chapter 8—THE FIRST OF MANY?

Chapter 9—MY FIRST SELFIE

Chapter 10—THE LIST

Chapter 11—ONE DOWN

Chapter 12—THE DINNER PARTY

Chapter 13—THURSDAYS

Chapter 14—FOREST PARK

Chapter 15—THE SEX TAPE

Chapter 16—MR. HAMMER

Chapter 17—RESTRAINED

Chapter 18—OVER THE LINE

Chapter 19—SAND AND SEX

Chapter 20—ALL IN

Chapter 21—FAULTY WIRES

Chapter 22—AN UNEXPECTED KISS

Chapter 23—I DO

Chapter 24—THREE’S A CROWD?

Chapter 25—CRUMBLING WALLS

Chapter 26—THE PRICE OF HAPPINESS

Chapter 27—HERE COMES THE BRIDE

Connect with Lorelai

Acknowledgements

About the Author

1

STUCK

"You know what your problem is, Maci?"

Danielle plucked the photo that lay between my thumb and the crossword puzzle that I was pretending to fill in. She had snuck up behind me and now peered down at me over the tall back of the couch.

Hey! I exploded off the old, worn sofa, diving at her feet to retrieve the picture of my ex-boyfriend, the book of crosswords flying behind the forty-inch flat screen.

You’ve never had an orgasm, she answered her own question as she danced around, waving the picture in my face as though we were still in high school. It’s as simple as that. She was tall, gifted with an hourglass frame, and breasts no man could cover with one hand.

Ignoring her ridiculous observation, I wrestled the snapshot from her strong clutch. The glossy paper tore: a rip that ran from his crotch right up to the bridge of his nose, bisecting his chiseled face. What the hell, Danielle?

She released the photo and stepped back. Her brown sugar hair swayed, her long bangs dangling in front of her eyes, blocking most of her thick eyebrows. Look, I’m just trying to help. It’s been a month since you dumped Ryan’s cheating ass, and it’s time you moved on. Your mood is starting to affect our friendship.

My mood? I stared down at the ragged seam of the photograph. Ryan’s smooth, black skin was now crumpled, his bare chest divided, and his face barely recognizable.

Yeah, Danielle went on, your mood. You’re a grouch. I mean, you may as well move into the dumpster. It’s been that bad this last week.

It’s a garbage can, I corrected. Oscar the Grouch lives in a garbage can.

See. That’s what I’m talking about. She whipped around and headed for the kitchen.

I followed after her. A strip of clear tape would right the wrong. Retrieving the tape roll from the junk drawer, I smoothed out the picture and flattened the adhesive down the rift. It was no good. The picture was ruined. Sure, I had a whole folder on my computer with hundreds, if not thousands of snapshots of us, but there was something about holding the glossy paper that I found comforting.

Ahh! I ripped the picture apart and threw it in the trash.

Danielle flipped off the switch to the electric kettle, the water near boiling. Did you just growl?

What? I eyed her, a little more than pissed off.

Nothing, she said, scooping loose tea into a dinosaur mug. Every morning she drank Yerba Mate, her healthy replacement for coffee. She seldom consumed it in the afternoon, but today was one of those days.

That was the only print I had of us, I hissed. So what if I’m pining—

You’re not just pining, she interrupted, pouring the hot water over the tealeaves. The fleshy dinosaurs disappeared on her mug as the piping water changed the design to skeletons. You’re bitchy, crabby, and, well, downright mean. If you were just pining, you’d be locked in your room eating cookie dough ice cream and drinking chocolate porters, but you’re not doing that. You’re just arguing and snapping and criticizing.

I stood there, silent, reflecting on her words. What were we doing? Fighting? We never fought. It wasn’t us. It just wasn’t the nature of our relationship. But then again I’d never had a boyfriend like Ryan before. He was a wild black stallion in a corral of broken, soul-sucking ponies. Perhaps an embellishment on my part—who could say for certain? Danielle said she could, and she was of the opinion that I was hallucinating, charmed by his sensational, muscular body. It had been a minute and I hadn’t responded. She plunked a metal strainer straw into the steeping tea.

I have too had an orgasm, I said at last.

She smiled, happy the conversation was shifting to a more appealing topic. Is that so? You didn’t with Todd, I know that, or Aaron. And Ryan—come on, you already told me he wasn’t what you thought he’d be.

I laughed. "Well, of course I didn’t with Todd. He was my first, and it was just clumsy and messy. Can’t blame him for missing the mark. And I did have them with Ryan."

Her smile twisted into an unimpressed smirk. Just because his dick was the size of my forearm, doesn’t mean he had the blood to take it home. So, were you lying before or are you lying now? She had caught me in the lie, but it was a lie I was committed to, unwilling to admit the accuracy of her assumption. What did it feel like? she asked, after another long silence.

Uh—it felt uh, well—warm?

Warm? That’s what you’re going with? She sipped her tea, her lips barely sealing over the straw because they were stretched so wide, hardly containing her laughter.

I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. All right, so what? So I’ve never had an orgasm before. It’s not a big deal. What’s the point you’re trying to make?

Don’t you get it? You were with Ryan for seven months and you never had an orgasm, so why on earth would you want to get back together with him?

Because life is about more than just sex, Danielle, I declared. "You should know that, engaged and all."

Sure, that’s true, she said between sips, but sex is a big portion of it, not a tiny segment, and I think you owe it to yourself to find the right person who electrifies you in all the right ways. Let’s face it, Ryan wasn’t that guy. He was an asshole who cheated on you.

Because I wouldn’t try new things in bed! I shouted. My heart was pounding now, my cheeks flushed. It felt like a surge of water was breaking the fissures in the dam I had built to keep the secret behind his betrayal.

She set down her mug, aware that I was on the verge of collapsing into tears. That’s the reason why he cheated?

I nodded, holding back the tears.

She wrapped her arms around me. Oh, honey, no. No, that’s not why he cheated on you. He did it because he’s a lowlife pig—

But maybe—maybe if I done the stuff he wanted, he wouldn’t have gone to someone else for it.

She pressed my head into the top of her chest. At five-four, I was a good five inches shorter than her. You can’t tell yourself that. He was scum, and you deserve so much better. A guy like Ryan still would’ve done it even if you had given him blow jobs five times a day. It’s in his character—in his rotten, good-for-nothing genes.

Her words helped fight off the tears. You really believe that? I asked, rubbing under my eyes.

He had no love in him, Maci, she said, squeezing me tighter. Only a drive to satisfy himself. If you want my advice, I’d say spend one more day analyzing the disaster, being mopey and grouchy and all that stuff, then move on. Forget him. I know Mr. Right will come along and sweep you off your feet, and who knows, maybe with him you’ll want to do the dirtier stuff.

Yeah, maybe, I blubbered. Look, I know you’re right. I know he wasn’t good for me. I know he didn’t have that magical, heart-warming love. But what is that stuff, right? He had a hard body—

And a big, limp dick that did nothing for you. After one last body-crushing embrace, she released me and resumed drinking her tea. Come on, one more day, and then move on.

One more day, I repeated. And after today?

You move on, she said. Find another guy.

And if I can’t?

Well, who says you need a guy anyway? You’re a strong, independent woman who runs her own business.

"I don’t need a man, Danielle. I want a man. I want someone to cozy up to on the couch while watching TV. Someone to go on long walks with, to fall asleep next to—my nights are a lot lonelier than yours."

You can always come and cuddle with Ashley and me.

I’m serious. What if I can’t find the right guy?

Her face contorted. "What does that mean? There are guys walking all over the place. I’m positive you’ll snag the one who really fits you, the one who really wants to be with you . . . and most importantly, the one who pleases you."

I gave her a thin smile. She was brightening my mood a bit. All right, I’ll waste only one more day hung up on him.

Good, she said. Her grin revealed that her teeth were dulling to a shade of green, though this happened every morning, and disappeared after she brushed away the residue. The only thing I don’t get— She paused, reluctant to bring up what was on her mind.

Why didn’t I tell you about my problems in the bedroom? I finished for her.

Yeah. I don’t get it. We’ve shared everything since the third grade and now you’re keeping secrets from me?

I turned and looked out the window at the falling snow. It was chaos. The wind was ever-changing, blowing the baby white specks in every direction. The snow layered the ground a good six inches. I was embarrassed, I guess. I turned back to face her.

Embarrassed, really? She hinted with her eyes that I was tending toward childish rationale. "I told you I preferred women when we were seventeen, and that was way bigger than this, but you’re my best friend and I couldn’t keep it from you despite not knowing how you’d react."

You knew I’d be supportive, I said, a bit defensively.

Just like you should’ve known that I’d be supportive now, she threw back.

Fine. You’re right. I should’ve told you sooner. My hands had a mind of their own, gesticulating as I talked. I’ll explain it all now, if you want.

Well, we’re pretty snowed in, so lay it on me.

Here?

You feel like going out? she asked. I’m not driving in this.

We could walk somewhere, I suggested.

Mocha Momma’s?

I was thinking more like U-Brew, I said. I could use a drink—or two.

Sure, she said with approval written in her smile. I think that’s manageable. We’ll need layers. We dug through drawers and scoured the coat closet for the warmest clothes we had, then trudged off into the calf-deep snow, heading for the pub a few blocks from our duplex. As we plodded down the sidewalk, I prepared myself to unleash the vexation that had been eating at me for over a month.

Consoling-Icon-2

THE ALARM BELLED IN my ears the next morning. I had set it for seven, not wanting to oversleep. I must have pressed the snooze a few times because the projector displayed 8:23 on the ceiling in a red glow. I hated that number, twenty-three, and I’d swear I saw it everywhere. It followed me. Haunted me. I couldn’t go a day without seeing it somewhere, and believe me I tried. Rolling over, I slapped the off button, staring at the date: 2/11/18.

It had snowed again last night, as it had all that afternoon and evening, making the journey back home from the pub a stumbling nightmare. I hadn’t left out a single detail in my tale. Danielle—the trooper she proved to be time and again throughout the years—listened and interrogated me with interest, even though I was a bitchy mess. I harangued myself for my poor choices and blind faults. We dissected my seven-month relationship with Ryan and all the signs that pointed to what would eventually occur. The examination took several hours and multiple porters, but after our discussion ran its course, my chest felt better, and my body lighter.

And, in the end, I vowed to never date another prick like Ryan again. I was done with them. No liars, cheaters, or domineering men who bossed me around like a fifties secretary. If they were rude and disrespectful, they were gone in a finger-snap. I had no more time for such abusive egos. As Danielle put it: I deserved better. She also believed I should add a second rule to my dating policy: if he didn’t give me the O, then he was gone, no second chances. I was a little more tentative to execute that one, but I didn’t disregard it either.

I slid from under the toasty down comforter into the frosty air. The heater hadn’t worked properly in two months, but the owners shirked their obligation to repair or replace it, regardless of the bombardment of desperate calls from me. Drawing the curtains open, I gazed out on a land of snow. Short icicles draped along the eaves. The snowstorm had practically shut down Portland, as far as I could tell from the news and the empty streets. There were a lot more people walking, though: kids carrying the lids to plastic storage containers, and utilizing them as sleds in the absence of actual saucers and toboggans. Any hill, no matter how minor it was, attracted crowds of families. Parents even blocked off both ends of the street with big trucks so that their children didn’t have to contend with cars charging through the snow as if it were dry pavement.

I dressed in my thickest sweatshirt and yoga pants over a pair of fleece-lined leggings, and then shuffled into the sole bathroom of the apartment. The mirror greeted me with its usual morning grace, reflecting pillow creases on the left side of my face and the wild strands of my deep chestnut hair running in all directions. Bed head was never flattering. I studied my eyebrows for strays and plucked the ones deforming the line. Patches of peach fuzz peppered my upper lip, none of it noticeable until a couple of inches away, but still, it gave me enough concern for me to pluck, too.

I held up my B-cups and wished they were more like Danielle’s triple Ds. I mean, I was comfortable with them and everything, but men just looked at her differently, in ways I sometimes desired. Although her looks came with a downside, like the assholes in our college dorm who used to call her FLBP, which no one cared about until later when we Googled it and found out it stood for Future lower back problems.

Todd, my high school sweetheart who took my v-card at eighteen, once said mine were more like B+s. That was always nice to think about when I glanced at them, even though he ended up being a total douche.

At twenty-five, my slim figure still turned heads, but most of the time I was hidden behind the counter at work, and very few bothered to sneak any peeks, so far as I could tell anyway. People who did notice always complimented my smooth skin and high cheekbones.

In many ways my roommate and I were complete opposites in appearance. She had brown Indian skin where I had olive white. She had curves where I was as straight as a pencil. She was tall and I was short—or more like average? She wore straight hair with bangs and I styled my hair in curls with my bangs tucked behind my right ear.

I disregarded the mirror and the comparisons between Danielle and me, retrieving my toothbrush to combat the foul stench emanating from my mouth. I hadn’t brushed the night before and the alcohol wasn’t doing me any favors.

After I finished, I ambled into the kitchen, passing the living room where Danielle was sitting in the recliner next to the fireplace. She was reading a mystery novel while she sipped her tea.

I boiled some water for the French press and let the coffee brew. Are you going to work today? I asked her, resting against the narrow frame between the kitchen and living room. Small marks along the left side suggested that hinges once clung to the wall and supported a door, but for whatever reason, it was gone now.

No, I called in and I have a bunch of stuff I can do from home, Danielle replied, setting her book down on a thigh. Are you going in?

Bridgett said she could handle the bakery this morning, I said, but I’d like to get up there. Inventory was supposed to be done on Friday.

If you want, I can take you this afternoon. Her deep brown eyes stared back at me. The Crosstrek has all-wheel drive, and the snow is starting to turn to slush on the roads.

Great. I disappeared into the kitchen and grabbed my Keep Portland Weird mug, pouring until just below the brim. I had a habit of doing that—rushing. I slurped down a fingernail’s breadth so it wouldn’t slosh and flopped down on the couch, opening up my old laptop from college. The pastime of social networking had taken up a large chunk of my life since oh-six, yet now I mostly did business-related research and advertising instead of chatting.

Colby-Jack, my cat (named after the cheese that matched his color scheme) leapt onto the open cushion next to me and rubbed my forearm, climbing into my lap. I scratched his belly before he jumped onto the couch’s arm and lay down, his feet dangling off its sides. Danielle liked to call him Tubbers because of his size, but after a year a dieting, he hadn’t lost any weight and was irritable all the time, so now he ate what he wanted when he wanted, thanks to a feeder that never stopped filling his bowl. He was a fat, happy cat, who loved to be near me more than cuddle. But I didn’t mind.

Oh, Danielle spat out half an hour later, interrupting my web browsing. Becky texted me this morning. She has two spots to fill on her Hood to Coast team and was hoping we’d join.

Hood to Coast is so long, I said, "and I haven’t run in, well, years. Not since working at that first bakery in Eugene."

You’re still a runner at heart, aren’t you? Isn’t that why you have that hanging up? She pointed to a black-and-white poster of Steve Prefontaine crossing a finish line with the quote, To give anything less than your best, is to sacrifice the gift, printed in the corner. The poster hung off to the side of the fireplace, sandwiched between two decorative sconces.

Yeah, I guess, I replied, glancing at the quote. I’m just so out of shape.

No more than I am, she said. And I wasn’t twelfth at state like you were.

High school cross country was a long time ago, I reminded her.

Come on, it’ll be fun, she urged. We can join that gym that just opened up by the bakery on Hawthorne.

"Ripped City Fitness? Really?"

Sure, what the hell? It’s close to work, and I saw that the joining fee is only ten bucks since it’s new, and fifteen a month. That’s better than any of the other gyms.

But it sounds like it’s for bodybuilders, I argued. I don’t need some guy ogling me the whole time I work out.

Guys are going to do that at every gym, she insisted.

I refilled my mug. "That’s a good reason not to join one." The truth was that I had no interest in paying for a membership I was likely to use for a few weeks before losing the motivation to keep going.

She picked up her book and blocked her face from me. Well, I’m going to do it, with or without you.

Fine. Fine. I’ll do it. I Googled Ripped City Fitness. The gym is open today, if you want to join when you take me up to the bakery.

She got up. Sounds like a plan, Jan. I’ll get to work so we can head over there early.

You’re so lame, I said.

And I make a lot of money, she teased. It was true, as some kind of a senior manager at Powell’s, she made at least triple what the bakery brought in for my wages. She swept down the hall to her bedroom and left me to my web browsing.

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COME ON, DANIELLE YELLED, wrapping herself in her warmest coat. You always take so long to get ready.

I can’t just throw something on, I said, changing out of the white spaghetti strap tank top, and tossing it on the growing pile near my dresser. We’re going to the bakery afterward, remember?

She stood in my doorway, throwing her head back, irritated. Then bring a change. You won’t find something for both. She picked out an outfit for work as I swapped into a tighter pair of yoga pants. Rummaging through the pile, she held up a high-performance shirt designed to wick away sweat. Put this on.

But it covers everything.

So?

So, maybe I want to meet someone, I said. You’re the one pushing me to move on.

I wasn’t thinking today, she laughed. And besides, your sports bra hides your girls. Just put this on so we can go.

I yanked the shirt from her, scowling, even though she had a point. Yet they showed a little, enough to attract an eye or two. Her bra, on the other hand, completely concealed her twins: it was one of those Enell bras that boasted ten hooks in the front to secure her exceptional size, nearly eliminating the bounce. She hurried me along as I double-knotted my shoes. We swept down the stairs to the single-car garage that made up the basement of our long, narrow duplex. The room only ran half of the apartment. Why the designers hadn’t constructed the basement the entire length and included another room was as big a mystery as the missing kitchen door.

Every other week we switched parking in the garage to keep it fair. Danielle’s new silver Crosstrek sat in the cold, damp room. Only one flickering light hung in the middle of the garage, leaving most of it in shadows. I had never been fond of spiders, and the thought of spending too much time in the dark, underground, vulnerable to the swarms of fangs that skittered around on eight legs, always forced me into the car as fast as humanly possible.

Danielle laughed at me, climbing in slowly, and drawing out the scene of my discomfort. The car door closed and she pressed the clicker under the center console that opened the garage door. You know, if you didn’t make such a big deal out of it, I wouldn’t even bother, she said, looking over her shoulder as she backed out into the cement driveway of the two duplexes.

The car spun out and I stomped my foot as if slamming on an imaginary brake pedal.

Relax, she said, driving over the buried sidewalk and past the eight-foot hedges, onto Yukon Street. It was a modest climb up to Seventeenth Avenue. Danielle broke too hard and the tires skidded, heading into the intersection. Luckily, there were no souls around.

Maybe this was a bad idea. I held onto my seatbelt for dear life, remembering Danielle wasn’t the most cautious of drivers. It wasn’t normally a big deal, but I’d never ridden with her behind the wheel in the snow, and it was starting to freak me out.

Don’t be a baby, she said, continuing onto Milwaukie Avenue. I’m a good driver. It’s just been a while, that’s all.

I don’t remember snow like this since oh-eight when my mom slid into that ditch, I remarked. Remember that? It was lucky that I was there to help dig her out.

I think last year was worse than that. If the snow keeps falling we’re going to have two snowpocalypses in a row. That’s not good for business. She pulled up to the stop sign. A big full-ton pickup was barreling down the road, slush flying toward the sidewalk and us. Dirty, wet snow splattered our windshield. Wipers slapped it off, streaking the glass. I regarded Danielle, worried that her road rage might kick in. Her eyes blazed with fury.

Fucking asshole, she screamed. Come on!

Don’t do it, Danielle. Don’t even think about it.

She stepped on the gas and followed the truck.

This isn’t going to accomplish anything, you know that, right? You’re just heading for trouble. I’ve seen that look before. I know what you’re thinking.

What are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.

Yes you are, I said. You’re going to follow him until he parks then chew him out, just like you did to that guy last month. My hands were braced against the armrest and the small console that divided the seats.

She gave no reply. Disaster was on the horizon. She drove within inches of the pickup’s bumper.

Let it go, Danielle, I pleaded, but her ears were closed. Really? You’re going to do this in a snowstorm?

Before I could berate her decision at length, the pickup turned abruptly without a blinker. The stunt shocked us both, and Danielle flattened the brake pedal in reaction, launching the car into a perilous swerve. As the truck cleared the corner, the shiny bumper of a sports car met the front of the Crosstrek.

The seatbelt proved its futility as my face slammed into the dashboard.

2

INTO HIS ARMS

The car was full of groans, most of them made by me. You all right? Danielle asked.

My forehead thumped and I could feel the bruise blooming above my eyes. My chest hurt where the seatbelt was strapped from my shoulder to my hip. Nothing a little porter won’t cure, I joked. My eyes are having a hard time focusing. I looked over at her and saw a blurry face.

Your forehead is pretty red, she observed. There’s no blood, though, so I think that’s a good sign.

I nodded. How are you?

My shoulders are a little tense and my heart is racing, but that’s about it, she replied, unbuckling both of our seatbelts. The car in front of us was stopped, the engine idle. We should go check on them. However, before either of us made a move for the handle, two men jumped out of the sports car, one from each side. The blurriness lingered as they ran to our car.

Are you okay? the driver shouted. His sexy voice forced the blood from my head, having an intoxicating effect, as if I were actually swooning, something I didn’t believe happened in real life. It certainly didn’t to me.

Danielle opened the door. We’re fine—we’re okay. You two?

The driver was bending over Danielle’s door. Neither of us is injured. What happened? There was a truck tailgating us, and then . . .

I fucking hit your car, that’s what happened. She was starting to panic, the pitch of her voice climbing. Neither of the men replied, but the driver offered Danielle his arm as she got up. Ugh! And the bastard got away! She rubbed her face.

Excuse me? the driver asked, concern plaguing his countenance.

I got out and inspected the two. The passenger was a tall, burly guy with tattoos up his arms and neck, a shaved head, and a huge, black beard that consisted of tight curls. He looked like he could have played for the Timbers. The other man was shorter, about Danielle’s height, slender but attractive—from what my suffering vision told me—with a fancy navy-blue blazer over a white shirt that said Nerdalicious across the chest. I glanced down at the Crosstrek’s bumper, but it didn’t even seem scratched. The sports car was the same, which I noticed was a Ford Mustang by the design on the trunk. Mach 1 was stenciled along its top edge. To our collective relief, the disaster could be downgraded to a minor fender bender.

Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s really sorry and upset, I told them. Danielle! I hissed. Get out your insurance card. She was looking at where the truck had turned. I snapped my fingers to draw her attention. What are you doing? My voice sunk to a whisper.

She broke out of her trance and walked around the car to the glove box, searching through a stack of manuals and papers.

Oh, don’t worry about it, the driver said. There’s no damage done. It was an accident and no one got hurt.

Danielle straightened up. You sure?

The intoxication wore off as my responsible instinct kicked in. We have to exchange insurance information, I said. At that moment I felt like I was under heavy scrutiny from all three, and I made myself small, hiding behind the car door, now self-conscious of what I was wearing. Damn Danielle for hurrying me. Just in case one of us feels an injury later on. I once read that most people don’t even notice they’re hurt until seventy-two hours later.

He nodded. In that case. He started for the passenger door.

I’ll get it, the passenger said coolly. He wore a stern expression, one so grim it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had never smiled in his life.

Danielle poked me, and whispered, Why did you do that?

What do you care? Don’t you have full coverage?

Yeah, but now my rates are going to skyrocket, she said, resuming her hunt for the insurance card.

I thought twice about bringing up how the accident wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t lost her temper. But I knew nagging her then wouldn’t accomplish anything, so I ignored the comment and moved on. I think that’s it, I said, pointing to the floor under the compartment.

I’ve never been in an accident. What do we do? she asked, picking up the piece of paper and depositing the rest on the seat.

I shrugged. I’ve never been in one either. My head was beginning to really ache, and my vision was going in and out, from extremely hazy to a little fuzzy. Just write down their info and let them do the same.

Here, the passenger said, offering Danielle an open leather folder with the insurance card displayed behind a soft plastic cover. They traded info, Danielle jotting down the lines on the back of a receipt, while the driver extracted a leather-bound notepad, accepting the card from his friend. The passenger walked around both cars, appraising the damage.

Again, I’m really sorry, Danielle said a minute later, handing back the folder to the passenger. He trudged back to the door he had left open and got in. She turned her attention on to the driver. I’m glad there wasn’t any damage to your car.

Well, I’m just glad there isn’t anything wrong with you ladies, the driver said. Cars can be easily fixed. Bodies, on the other hand, they’re a little harder . . . Are you okay to drive?

Yeah, we just live a couple blocks away, she replied. And I think we’ve had enough adventure for the day.

He smiled, though it was hard to read his face, especially because my eyes couldn’t focus. Okay. You two take care, and get home safe. He hopped into the Mustang and cautiously drove a few blocks, pulling off to the side. It was as if he were watching us. Maybe he was a gentleman and wanted to make sure our car still worked, or maybe he was going to follow us home and harass us, or maybe he had other plans . . . Who could say? My mind wandered for a moment, concocting multiple scenarios. It was sweet and creepy at the same time.

Only a few cars had driven past throughout the ordeal. None of them stopped to offer assistance. God, that was awkward, Danielle said, letting out a huge breath.

Painful, I responded. We climbed into the Crosstrek, both pretty shaky.

Do you still want to go up to Hawthorne? she asked, her hands trembling as she gripped the steering wheel.

Is that a joke? I said with a bite. I think I need to go to the doctor. My vision isn’t getting any better.

Sorry, was all she said, checking behind us as she pulled forward, then swooping around to head back home.

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DANIELLE WAS SITTING IN the waiting room at our Doctor’s office in Milwaukie. So?

So? I echoed, passing the receptionist.

She failed to smile at my humor. So, what did Dr. Franklin say?

I have a minor concussion, I answered, ready for a nap.

Really? she gasped, surprised. But we barely hit them. There wasn’t even any damage to the cars.

I’m just telling you what he said. I swept out the door into the freezing afternoon air. I also have a chest contusion and a swollen forehead. He was worried about my hips, but the x-ray checked out, I guess, so I just have to ice for a few days. She unlocked the doors with her clicker. Oh, and he said that new science has disproven that you have to stay awake after a concussion, so you don’t have to worry about making sure I stay awake.

Her eyes grew wide with concern. I can’t believe you have a concussion. Do you want to stop at a drugstore and get icepacks? We jumped inside, and she started up the engine, still warm from the drive to the office.

I yawned, nodding.

The engine revved as she pressed on the gas while still in park. Oops. She locked the shifter into reverse and gradually backed up. The ride home was as slow as the ride there. Danielle didn’t exceed ten mph, mindful of the drivers that dared the slick and obstructed roads.

How about you? I asked, about halfway home. Her appointment had slipped my mind until then. What did the physician’s assistant say?

She grinned at me. No worries here.

We spent the rest of the day watching season two of Once Upon a Time on Netflix while I iced twenty minutes on and twenty off.

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ARE YOU READY? DANIELLE shouted from her room on the morning two days after the accident. The rain had come and melted almost all the snow. Clumps lingered in random spots, but the streets were free of the white menace.

My vision had cleared up and my bruises ached but the pain was dwindling. I can’t find anything to wear, I said, shuffling through mountains of clothes. Most of my outfits were from high school or my early years at U of O. Every time I gazed at my closet or inside my dresser, I had the dreadful sense that I desperately needed a new wardrobe. In reality, there was nothing wrong with the majority of what I owned: they just felt wrong when I

Reviews for Chasing The O

[kendall · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'll start with what I liked. It was a good story overall. It had some comical moments. I could see this as a movie, honestly. I liked getting to know the other characters that added to Vince and Maci's personalities and experiences that got them to where they were.

Now for what I didn't like. The book was entirely too long. I wasn't sure how to picture Vince. In the beginning, he was a sexy, strong, and mysterious guy. Then, it seemed by description that he was immature and nerdy. If I recall, Maci had noted him as almost child like with a naivety a time or two. That didn't coincide with his technilogical abilities along with the various investments. He also suddenly became a guy who could easily kick someone's ass. The bodyguard situation was all over pointless to the story. Things that should have been delved into weren't. Other things could have easily knocked the book length down considerably. No doubt I could go on. However, those were the things that really stood out to me.