The Lunam Legacy (The Lunam Series Book 3)

by Nicole Loufas

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Other Books by Nicole Loufas

  I appreciate you!

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

  THE LUNAM LEGACY, BOOK 3

  ISBN: 978-1721933808

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Loufas

  www.nicoleloufas.com

  Editing by Indie Solutions, www.murphyrae.net

  Cover design by Murphy Rae, www.murphyrae.net

  Except for the original material written by the author, all song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

  Chapter One

  Mom’s wine-scented breath tickles the back of my neck, a sensation as familiar to me as the sound of my voice. She watches in silent judgment as I pack for my last session at Camp Tuluka. Every shirt, every sock is scrutinized. I choose white, she suggests red. I want black, she thinks blue brings out the color in my eyes. My mother, Kalysia, has made a career out of micromanaging my life. Camp is my only reprieve, and even that is coming to an end.

  “You aren’t taking the blue long-sleeve?”

  “Nope.” I slam the drawer closed with my hip.

  “It gets cold—”

  “I’ll be fine, Mom.”

  “Aren’t those shorts a little short?” She tugs at the hem of my brand-new designer cut-offs.

  “They’re fine.” I jerk away and pull a handful of denim from my girl parts.

  “Change into something else.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll order you another pair.”

  I waited six long weeks for these shorts to arrive. That’s with expedited shipping from New York. “By the time they get here, it’ll be too cold to wear them.” I do a squat to try and loosen the material. “They’ll stretch.”

  “Abbi, you look inappropriate.”

  I covertly check for camel toe as I pass the mirror. My hoo-haw practically waves at me. “I’m going to camp, Mother. Not church.”

  Mom can morph from soccer mom to prison guard with a snap of her finger. “Take them off. Now.”

  “Who is even looking?” I tell my reflection and by default, my meddlesome mother.

  “Like it or not, the younger girls look up to you. It is your responsibility to show them right from wrong.”

  Leadership is important to Kalysia. She is forever preaching about setting good examples, and supporting our community. The public’s perception of our family drives her insane. She spends hours on social media, reading comments about my grandparents’ restaurant or my dad’s automotive business. If she’s not obsessing over trolls online, she’s fixating on me. In the grand scheme of things, a pair of shorts isn’t worth a battle. Not when I have bigger plans in the works.

  “Fine.” I rip the fly open, releasing the chokehold on my vagina. “Are you going to watch me change?”

  She backs into the hall. “I’ll order a new pair today. You’ll have a few good weeks left to wear them.”

  “Don’t bother.” The shorts drop, and I flick them off the end of my foot. I pull a pair of camp appropriate shorts from my bag and put them on. “Is this better?”

  She pokes her head into the doorway, does a once-over, and nods in approval. I get it, she’s protective. Most mothers are when it comes to their children, but Kalysia Kincaid has taken the term helicopter parent to a whole new level. I’ll be eighteen soon. An adult by law. I can vote for a president and fight for my country. Apparently, I can’t pack my own underwear. Mom shamelessly rummages through the drawer, counting how many pairs I’ll need over the next two weeks.

  “Mom!” I snatch the panties and shove them into my bag.

  “Let me have my moments.” She habitually straightens my pink and white striped duvet. The duvet she picked out when I asked if I could redecorate my room for my sixteenth birthday. The plan was to make the room over in my style—old-school ’90s grunge. Lots of plaid, lots of black. Yeah, no. Mom had her own plan. She surprised me with a new room. Surprising me is the only way she can maintain control. God forbid she let my opinion, or my happiness, get in her way.

  “Folding my underwear is a moment?”

  “When you have kids….” She stops herself from speaking of a hypothetical future.

  My future.

  The subject is never discussed. Argued, yes. It kills her to imagine me living life on my terms. She’s so desperate to keep me under her thumb that she’s squeezed one more year onto my prison sentence. I’m being forced to take a gap year, which is ridiculous since I was homeschooled and—you guessed it—she was my teacher.

  I live in a small town. The closest school is forty-five minutes away, and that’s without snow. Meyers, California, is a blip on the GPS. A pit stop for travelers heading south to San Francisco or weekenders on a quick jaunt to Lake Tahoe. Like me, Meyers is completely and utterly insignificant to the rest of the world. I’m not claiming to be special, but I’ve always felt a sense of purpose. Like I was meant for more. More than what Meyers has to offer. More than what my mother believes I’m capable of. She wouldn’t even allow me to have a pet growing up, unless you count the goldfish I won at the county fair. Goldie’s untimely death had nothing to do with the fact that I forgot to feed him. Everyone knows fish from the fair are on borrowed time.

  “I got this.” I shrug past her to my closet. “Can you get my toothbrush?” Asking for help makes her feel useful and gives me some breathing room.

  “Of course. I’ll pour some mouthwash into a travel sized bottle for you too.”

  “Great idea.”

  She leaves, and I text my best friend, Raine, to make sure she has the “special” bottle of mouthwash. I may have been sheltered most of my life, but I know how to have fun.

  “Who are you texting?” Mom hovers over my shoulder.

  I flip the phone over before she can read the
screen. “When I get home from camp, we need to discuss boundaries.”

  She is fully aware that her unconditional love is suffocating me. When Kalysia was my age, she was in love with my father and on the verge of motherhood. They admit it was a quick courtship before my debut. Love doesn’t follow a schedule, or so I’ve heard. She is scared shitless I’m going to follow in her footsteps. Keeping me under her watchful eye is the only to insure my uterus stays baby-free.

  “You look so much like your grandmother,” she finally says.

  That might not sound like a compliment, unless you’ve seen my grandmother, Layla. She’s pushing sixty and could still walk a runway in New York.

  “I think I have her ass.” I spin in the mirror and do a little twerk. Mom isn’t impressed. The worry line running across her forehead is starting to resemble the San Andreas Fault. Any deeper, and she’s going to erupt. Her thirst for information when it comes to where I am, who I’m with, what I’m reading, thinking, eating, is a sickness. Summer camp is the only place where she doesn’t feel the need to keep a chokehold on my life. The phone rings downstairs. Only one person ever calls the house phone: my grandfather.

  “I better get that. Monte is driving up Wednesday and needs your father to order him new tires.” She hurries downstairs, and I take advantage of the distraction.

  I grab my bag and make a run for the front door.

  “Abigayle,” she yells from the kitchen as I breeze through the living room. “Dad, I’ll call you back. Abbi is leaving for camp.”

  “I’ll be late for orientation. We have a group of newbies coming for the last session.” I push open the screen door and walk out onto the gravel-covered path to my Jeep. I left it parked at the end of the driveway for this very reason. A quick getaway.

  Kalysia follows me out. “Training new counselors this late in the season isn’t normal.” Her mom-gauge is pegged. “Who are they? Where did Sophie-Ann find them?”

  “Two counselors left for college last week.” I toss my bag in the backseat. “You know what college is, right? That place where people my age go to learn and gain life experience.” I climb into the driver’s seat and put on my seatbelt.

  “Sophie-Ann didn’t say anything to me when we had lunch on Tuesday. Where did she find qualified counselors this late in the summer?”

  “Maybe she placed an ad on Craigslist.”

  “Why are you such a smart ass?”

  “I get it from Layla.” Grandma is the opposite of Mom. She let me drive her Mercedes when I was fourteen and always sneaks me a sip of champagne on Christmas. Layla believes in me. My judgment. My potential. My dreams. “Will you please consider letting me stay with Layla and Monte?”

  Having residency in San Francisco gives me a better chance of getting into college. In 2020 the California education system collapsed. Increased gun violence drove families into the private sector for education; to save the primary school system, the state had to close colleges. Private universities remained open, but state schools were closed for eleven years. When they finally reopened, it was mostly in major cities. High tuition rates didn’t deter every eligible member of society from applying. To keep the playing field fair, acceptance is done through a lottery system. Qualified applicants must receive an eighty-five or higher on the California High School Exit Exam and can only be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five to have their name added to the waitlist. They give local students priority, so moving in with my grandparents would improve my chances exponentially.

  My family can afford to send me to a private university, but I’m wholly unqualified. Ninety percent of all private university applicants play a sport or an instrument. A perfect GPA, impeccable references, and near perfect attendance are required to even be eligible. It’s no secret they won’t even consider a homeschooled student for enrollment. Homeschooling doesn’t prepare you for the fast-paced college curriculum. I changed classes by moving from the sofa to the kitchen table. Cramming two years into what used to take four is grueling, even for normal students. I’d probably burn out the first semester. A state school is my only hope for continued education, and my overprotective mother is crushing my dream. Monte has connections to Ivy League schools back east, but Mom chooses to keep me locked up in Meyers.

  “We’ve talked about this, Abbi. Your dad and I don’t think it’s a good idea right now. Next year—”

  “Next year they could increase the age of acceptance, and my chances will be even worse.” Every fall there is a huge debate on raising the age limit to thirty. Protests are held, riots ensue.

  “Why are you so afraid to let me go? Layla said you were an independent kid. You practically raised yourself.”

  Mom and Layla have a tumultuous relationship. They’re best friends one day, mortal enemies the next.

  “Layla did the best she could during those times. A lot has changed since then. For the better.” She gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I wish I’d had your opportunities when I was eighteen.”

  Considering I have zero opportunities, the only thing I have going for me is that I’m not a teen mom. “Sorry my birth screwed up your big life plans.” I start the Jeep and put it in gear. It rocks backward.

  She walks beside the jeep as I slowly reverse out of the driveway. “Let’s get through the rest of this year, then we’ll see about San Francisco.”

  I jerk to a stop. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Contrary to what you believe, I want you to experience all life has to offer. Just give me a few more months. Next year the world is yours.”

  I put the Jeep in park and she steps up to the door.

  “Enjoy the rest of your summer.” She kisses the top of my head.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  She takes my face in her hands. “I love you so much, sweetie. These are the last few weeks of your childhood. Enjoy them with your friends.”

  “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

  I put the Jeep in gear, and she reluctantly lets me go.

  Chapter Two

  I drive winding road that leads to camp for the final time. Pine trees stand guard shielding Camp Tuluka from the outside world. It’s tradition for outgoing counselors to carve their name into the wood sign just outside the gate. I pull my jeep over and hop out. Unlike the people who carved their names in this sign, I’m not moving on. The crumb Mom fed me as I left home is most likely another empty promise, like the trip to Hawaii for spring break that never happened or the Rollerblades I’ve been waiting for since I was eleven. I run my hand over the names of people who taught me how to swim and shoot a bow and arrow. Even Ozzy’s name is on the sign. He must have carved it before he left.

  “Abbi, you slut!” Raine screams from the passenger window of her mother’s minivan. “We’re supposed to do the carving together.” She jumps out before the van comes to a complete stop.

  “You do the honors.” I reluctantly hand her my pocketknife.

  “What are we writing? I forgot.”

  “Long live RAbbi, then the year.” Rabbi has been our nickname since birth. We were born two days apart. That’s about as many days as we’ve been separated since.

  I watch over her shoulder, mom-style. I really wanted to be the one to carve, but there’s no use arguing with Raine. I stopped years ago.

  Her mother, Patsy, waves from the minivan. “Hey, Abbi, have you heard the good news?” Patsy’s question is rhetorical. Everyone knows everyone’s business in Meyers. “The winery won another award. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Only to you, Mother.” Raine stabs the knife into the soft wood. “Like the world needs another rosé.”

  I walk to the passenger window and lean in. “That’s great! I can’t wait to try it.”

  Kalysia is strict when it comes to processed foods and caffeine, but allowing me a sip of wine every now and then is okay.

  “I’ll pick up a case for your mom when we take Raine to Napa next month. You girls have a great time.” Patsy makes a U-turn bac
k to the highway.

  Raine is leaving me for an internship with the Duke Family Winery. Her father, Ray, runs the day-to-day operations, so she isn’t totally free, but it beats the shit out of working at the River Run Motel with Uncle Carrick. For the first time, our lives are heading in separate directions. Am I jealous? Hell, yes.

  Raine hops into my Jeep. “This time next year, I’ll be sipping wine on my veranda.” She flips her long black hair.

  “And I’ll be cleaning toilets in a flea-infested motel.” I stomp on the gas and propel us toward the last weeks of our childhood.

  “Sophie-Ann told my mom the new counselor is from out of state.” She anxiously digs through her sizeable makeup bag.

  “Hoping for another Aussie?”

  “God, yes. Best. Sex. Ever.”

  “Americans just don’t do it for you, huh?”

  Raine has had four sexual partners: one Australian, two Brits, a Greek, and a chatty Canadian.

  “I guess I just haven’t found the right American.” She swipes gloss across her lips, turning them shiny red. “But this is your summer, Abs. I pinky promise to let you have first dibs.” She holds out her little finger, and I lock mine with hers. I love Raine for saying that, but there is no way I can compete with her. It isn’t about looks or who has the better body. It’s that other thing, the unseen, unspoken thing that draws a man to a woman. I don’t have it.

  As usual we’re the last to arrive for orientation. I pull into the only empty spot in the parking lot. “Are you ready?” I pause before opening my door.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she groans.

  “This is it. Our final summer at Camp Tuluka. I’m actually going to miss this place.”

  “Only because you’ve never been anywhere else,” Raine reminds me. “This isn’t the end, Abbi. It’s the beginning of the rest of our lives.”

  “Was that supposed to be a moment?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Because that was so corny.” I step out onto the gravel. Rocks crunch beneath my shoes. One of many sounds of camp.

  “You’re the one always daydreaming about some astronomical, life-changing event.” She steps out and slams the door.