Between Friends (Between the Raindrops #3) Read online

  Between Friends

  (A Between the Raindrops Novel)

  Susan Schussler

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

  Copyright 2016 Susan Schussler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

  Cover Art by Rocky Shore Media LLC

  Some photos licensed through Shutter Stock

  ISBN: 978-0-9890333-5-0 (E-book) 978-0-9890333-4-3 (Paperback)

  Library of Congress Control Number 2016959072

  Rocky Shore Media LLC, St. Paul, Minnesota

  First printing December 2016

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Between Scenes

  Other Books

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Baggage

  Each year adds more weight to the load of luggage we carry on our path of life. Make sure your arms aren’t burdened by someone else’s baggage.

  Write your own story.

  Don’t let others write it for you.

  Chapter 1

  Megan

  I HAND THE cashier my card and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I know what it means—he’s here. I can sense it. As I scan the tables in the coffee shop, relief trickles through my limbs. I don’t know what is wrong with me. Maybe it’s my lack of caffeine. I take a relaxing breath to calm my insides and then I hear it.

  “Hey, babe.”

  The sound pierces my spine and I freeze as a chill spreads across my skin. Damn. I haven’t heard that familiar voice in almost four years, but it still burns in my mind. I know I should pretend I didn’t hear him. I know I shouldn’t turn around, but I can’t stop my body. His bright blue eyes and that cocky half smile almost knock me to the floor. God, he looks good—better than I’ve ever seen him. His wavy honey hair, longer than I remember, shines with golden highlights. Our eyes meet and I’m completely gone.

  My body would jump him right here in the coffee shop, if not for the little control my mind still possesses. My World Cultures professor stands three spots behind him in line. I struggle to put up my wall quickly and smile, but he knows me so well. Those eyes could always read me. It’s like we’re back in his Ford pickup in high school and no time has elapsed. I move down to the end of the counter to wait for my latte, trying to put as much physical distance between us as I can.

  “We should catch up,” he calls to me as he pays for his coffee.

  My breath hitches and I know he heard it because he chuckles. Damn my professor for being here. “I have a few minutes right now,” is all I can squeeze out as I try my hardest not to let my body win. Limit our time together. Do it now and never again. In public—always keep it in public. I grab my skinny latte off the counter hoping he will decline.

  “I’ve got all the time in the world for you, Meg Billings,” he says with that smile.

  He pulls out a chair at a nearby table, spins it around and straddles it. He crosses his arms over the top of the chair’s back and stares at me as I hang my purple jacket over the back of my seat.

  “Your coffee is ready,” I remind him and he lifts his chin in acknowledgment, like he always did. When he returns to the table, he pulls his sweatshirt off over the back of his head, in the sexy way that always meant “get ready, Meg,” and turns his chair back around before sitting down. I know it is a mistake to be here without my friends for support. They are my backbone when it comes to Chase Maxwell. If my girls were here, they would tell him where to shove that beautiful face of his. I should just get up and walk out the door right now. Why does my body react to him? No one else does this to me. I’m always in control, except with him.

  “Short hair suits you,” he says, raising his chin again.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Relax, Meg. It’s a compliment. I like it. It’s feisty. You really need to learn how to take a compliment.”

  I am impressed with what comes out of my mouth next. “It’s just you I have a hard time believing.”

  Then he looks at me with those blue eyes and says, “Don’t hate me. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “But you did,” I say. I can do this: I think for a second, until he reaches out and touches my hand. The goose bumps shoot up my arm. I can tell where he is looking and am grateful for the thick sweater I’m wearing. I quickly pull my hand back, tucking it away on my lap. Here we go again.

  “You left me remember?” he says, his blue eyes penetrating mine.

  “You gave me no choice.” I don’t want to rehash this again so I’m relieved when the text from Alli buzzes on my phone. It gives me an out. I can tell him I have to meet her. I’m sure he remembers how neurotic my roommate is about being on time. I set my phone on the table, readying my excuse—big mistake. Always good with his hands, he snatches it off the table and quickly punches in his number to send himself a text.

  I stand up and slide my jacket back on. I hold my hand out for the phone. “I need to go,” I say as convincingly as I can.

  “No you don’t,” he replies, looking up at me. He’s the only one who can see through my walls. How does he do that?

  “I just want you to know I went through rehab. I’m clean.”

  I look at him skeptically.

  “Have been for two and a half years,” he claims. “I miss you, Meg. I gave up all my old friends after treatment. You weren’t one of my drug buddies and no one knows me like you. I just want to talk. You’ve got my number, now. I have yours. Let’s talk.”

  I nod and that cocky smile appears again. God, I hope I can handle this.

  As I leave, I consider dropping my phone down the storm drain on the way to the bus stop, but I just can’t. Part of me has wanted to run into him. I knew I would someday. I ran into his younger brother last summer. His dark hair so different from Chase’s, but his eyes were the same and it threw me off. He carried a toddler in his tattoo-sleeved arms and the boy had Chase’s eyes too. His brother hugged me like I was his long lost sister and we chatted on the sidewalk for an hour. He told me then that Chase had gotten into rehab, but didn’t offer his number or a way to contact him and it took everything I had not to ask. I told myself then that being clean didn’t matter, but when I see him now, I don’t know what to think.

  I finish my coffee waiting for the bus and toss my empty cup into the garbage can on the sidewalk. The February wind bites up my short ski jacke
t and I peer down the street hoping to spot my bus turning the corner. I see Chase jay-walking across and getting into a bright yellow sports car. It’s not a make I recognize—too expensive. He must be selling drugs instead of using or maybe he’s turned to pimping.

  The bus comes before he pulls out of his parking spot so I don’t get a closer look. The heat on the bus is stifling and such a change from outside that I unzip my jacket to get some balance.

  My phone goes off in my pocket and I pray it isn’t Chase. I need more time to recover. The text is from Peterson.

  Are you coming to the game tonight?

  I totally forgot about the game. Dylan Peterson and I have this standing date for the Gopher basketball games. His younger brother plays and his family has a block of six season tickets. His parents don’t go that often and even when they do, Peterson always brings me. He calls me his lucky charm. Every game I’ve missed the team lost and every game I’ve gone to, they’ve won. I can’t explain it. I think it’s just a coincidence, but Peterson swears it’s me. I don’t mind. I like basketball and it’s free. I reply: What time are you picking me up? He probably is placing a bet and wants to make sure my plans haven’t changed.

  Peterson: I’ll be out front at 3:30.

  Me: Why?

  Peterson: I owe you dinner, remember?

  Me: Yeah, I remember. You’re supposed to cook it. Are you cooking?

  Peterson: No time. We have a game tonight.

  Me: At least your culinary skills won’t kill me.

  Peterson: That’s what I said. See ya soon.

  Peterson and I have been seeing each other off and on for a while now—mostly off. We met at a basketball game and that is really all we have in common. He’s a big guy who played football in high school and lives in a frat house off campus. He’s entertaining to hang with and kind of like one of my brothers, only bigger and not an asshole. We don’t have a serious relationship and we both date other people, but during basketball season we pretty much only see each other. It’s just an understanding we have, not that it would upset me if I caught him out with someone else. It wouldn’t. And he doesn’t have any claim on me, but dating someone else would complicate game night. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t get serious with anyone anyway, not since Chase broke my heart.

  ***

  Peterson picks me up and we meet up with four of his buddies at Keane’s Pub for dinner. I get a burger and fries and of course, Peterson eats most of my fries. Why do guys always assume that a girl is too full to eat her fries? Give me enough time and I can finish them.

  My mom used to say that my metabolism would slow down someday and all the food I eat would find its way to my thighs. It hasn’t happened yet. I can still eat what I want and she didn’t stick around long enough to say “I told you so,” so it doesn’t matter what she thought. Maybe I’ll be one of those lucky chicks and not have to spend my life eating nothing but lettuce.

  When we get to the game, Peterson plants a kiss on my lips before the first buzzer. The kiss is full of excitement and anticipation and part of his ritual. He’s very superstitious and very predictable. We watch Minnesota annihilate Nebraska with a forty-six point spread and talk player statistics most of the game. Statistics is the reason I like the game. Statistics is my thing. I especially like basketball because of the sheer number of points scored in a game. The ratios are less subjective, more concrete.

  Most guys don’t know I have a gift with numbers. They hear I’m an education major and think I’m just some sweet little innocent who likes children. They don’t know I can whip their butts at poker or black-jack because I count cards or that I know more about sports statistics than they do. I don’t usually share that my second major is math and I’ve been offered a fellowship for my doctorate. It just intimidates guys. They would much rather think I’m some hot little blond teacher. They don’t need to know. Dylan Peterson knows, but he doesn’t want to share the knowledge with his friends. He would much rather keep me to himself and pick my brain during basketball season.

  Peterson gives me a fist tap and then dips me back for our end of the game kiss, just like he always does. He rights me and squats down so I can climb onto his back. I slip into my jacket and jump on. He folds my legs around his waist and carries me out of the stands, showing no strain as we head up the stadium ramp. I know he can bench press three of me. He likes to brag about it to his buddies. When he gets us out into the cool night air, he drops me to the sidewalk and tucks me under his arm to keep me warm. He really is sweet, like a giant teddy bear.

  We head back to his place, where the usual Friday night party is in full swing. Games aren’t usually on Fridays and I don’t always see Dylan on non-game nights, so I’ve only made a couple of the house parties this year. A year ago, my roommates would have met me at the frat house, but now I’m on my own with Peterson. My closest friend, Alli Cole, is trying to maintain her grades until her acceptance letter for medical school comes. She’s applied to four schools, but her first choice is right here at the University of Minnesota. I know she’ll get into the U. Her father and mother are legacy med students and her grandmother teaches at the medical school. Alli could get in through nepotism alone, but the fact that her MCATS were pretty close to perfect doesn’t hurt either. Alli doesn’t come out anymore. Maybe she’ll revive her social life after her acceptance letter comes.

  My other besties have already found the loves of their lives and aren’t motivated to go to a party with a bunch of drunks anymore. Jessica Flynn is practically married to her boyfriend Jeff—all she needs is the ring. They’ve been together forever, it seems. And Sarah Austin—she snagged a famous Hollywood hottie on the internet a year ago and already has her ring—four karats according to the tabloids. She moved out to L.A. a month ago to start her new life. I’m left here, stuck in limbo, so broken I’m sure I’ll never find someone to love.

  Chapter 2

  Liam

  CRAP. CRAP. CRAP! What the fuck was I thinking? Her short blond hair sticks to my arm like dust on a black town car, and even though her sprite sized ass presses against my side, all I can think is—would it be better to pull my arm from under her head slowly or quickly? Either way she’ll wake up, but if I do it quickly I could probably get my pants on and be halfway out the door before she realizes I’m leaving. But without a car, I would have to call for a ride or get one from the girl in the bed and that would make the quick exit pointless.

  The girl is familiar. I’ve hooked up with her body several times over the last year. Tara Waters and I have an understanding. Even though we see each other at the clubs all the time, she knows I don’t do relationships and doesn’t hassle me about it. We hook up with other people, but if the barometric pressure is just right and we’re both alone at the club at the end of the night with no other prospects—we let things happen. Neither of us look at it as more than a hookup. Tara may post a picture of us once in a while if we get really crazy, but she always okays it with me before posting. The right picture at the right time helps both our careers.

  But, I hope to God there are no pictures online from last night. First, because I have no recollection of what happened, and second, which is the bigger problem—this is not the bedroom I normally wake up in. This is Tara’s twin sister’s room and Tina is the queen of social media.

  I slowly edge my arm free and crawl off the bed, scanning the floor for my clothes as I stand. I spot my boxer briefs hanging off the bedside table next to Tina’s phone and I grab them, quickly pulling them on before turning around. I seize my pants off the floor and slide those on as well.

  “I finally understand what all the hype is about. There is no reason to sneak out.” Tina sits up letting the sheet fall to her lap. Yep, they’re identical, right down to their nipple rings.

  I smile. At least I didn’t piss her off last night. She’s been trying to get me to sleep with her for over a year. She even dangled a threesome with her sister, hoping to get me to take the bait. I know most guys
would have jumped at the opportunity to sleep with identical twins, but my experience has taught me that no matter how equitable a guy is about satisfying both parties—one girl always feels slighted in a threesome. In this case, it would have been Tina, because I like Tara better. I’ve vowed to never do one again and I won’t.

  Which brings me back to defusing my current problem. Tina and her phone. The tricky part about sleeping with a habitual poster is that anything you say or do can be held against you. Whether it’s true or not, you don’t want to piss them off because you will end up looking like a douchebag in the press. I usually avoid sleeping with girls addicted to posting. I pick up her pink rhinestone-blinged phone before plopping down next to her on the bed. I hand her the phone, kissing her cheek because playful comes off better than demanding, and say, “Show me the damage.” At least I’ll be able to reconstruct the night from her posts.

  “I didn’t post anything. That’s not what last night was about.”

  I pause before speaking, because brooding works. It’s better for a girl to think I’m contemplative and deep than to be offended by what I’m really thinking.

  “Don’t be mad. Take it as a compliment. Tara and I share everything, even guys. But when you wouldn’t, we had to get creative.” Her hand smooths across my chest. “She’s out of town, and well, you know the rest.”

  I’ve somehow blacked out the rest. Her finger runs along the exposed edge of my boxer briefs, and I grab her hand, pulling it to my lips to stop her without offending her. It’s better to flirt than to be smeared in the tabloids. God, I hate games.

  “My sister’s too sweet. If I had you first, I’d keep you for myself.”

  “So you’re keeping the posts to yourself?” I ask. I’m not leaving anything to chance.

  “Of course. Like I said, that’s not what it was about. I just want to be in the lineup.”

  “Show me all the pictures from last night, then we’re deleting them, and if we hook up in the future, we hook up. If we don’t, we don’t,” I say. We won’t, but I’m not telling her that.