“I pay a fucking fortune for your education, Francesca, you could at least look like you were brought up in a decent home. If you want to dress like a damn slutty Prank then maybe I should have sent you to the local High School.”
I wanna say right here and now that I did not choose to go to St. Mary’s Preparatory Academy of Excellence. Let the record stand—I wanted to go to my local public school. No uniforms, no damn boring AP classes, and a ton of super-cute boys to choose from! Who wouldn’t want that? But no. Brock Hancock’s daughter couldn’t possibly rub shoulders with Pranks.
I huff out an exaggerated sigh, but it gets me nowhere so I start a mantra in my head, Weeks. Just several more weeks. In less than two months I’ll no longer have to put up with this crap and I’ll be on my way to college. My acceptance letter to Georgetown University is pinned to the noticeboard by the refrigerator and I glance over at it, immediately feeling calmer. It’s my golden ticket out from under the control of Brock Hancock and once I’m gone, I’m never coming back.
Mom appears behind me and starts combing through my hair. I snatch the brush from her hand. “Mom!”
I gather my hair into a ponytail before she begins braiding it. Jeez, I look enough of a dork in this grotesque uniform as it is. Before either of my ‘rents get the chance to say anything more, the front door chimes and I roll my eyes as the over-the-top Big Ben wanna-be announces my friends’ arrival.
I snatch a piece of toast from the toast rack on the table and give yet another eye roll. Like seriously? What family breakfast table contains a damn toast rack? It’s worse than that, too. Mom has these dinky little cup things she balances boiled eggs in and each cloistered little eggy-weggy has a teeny-tiny knitted cozy jacket to keep them warm. Honestly, it looks like the fifties threw up all over our breakfast table.
“Stop fussing around her, Elizabeth.” Brock Hancock picks up his newspaper and I sigh with relief at being excused. Mom steps back and smooths down her frilly apron, she lowers her eyes when Dad barks at her and I feel ashamed for yelling at her earlier. Now she looks a little lost as she hovers waiting for me to leave.
“I-” I stall, unsure what to say as she stands there looking for-all-the-world like a Stepford wife. For a second, my future flashes before my eyes. I see frilly aprons and a plump husband griping about his cold coffee and how overcooked the green beans are. Taking a deep breath, I snatch up my bag and race to answer the door.
Thankful to be out the house, I hurry Bambi and Krystal down the driveway and hold out my door clicker. The car beeps twice and the locks spring open and we dive inside. As soon as I am in my cute Mercedes CLK Cabriolet, I drive around the corner and stop on a side road. I leap out the car, pulling out the tail of my blouse. After retying it at the front, I undo the top button. The optional hideous green and navy striped tie goes into my bottle green blazer pocket and then I’m rolling up my plaid skirt until it is six inches above my knees. Using the car window to check myself, I turn sideways and adjust the pleats in my skirt so I don’t end up with a lump of material adding unwanted inches to my narrow hips.
When I’m done, I compare myself to my friends and decide I look ten times better than either of them. Not that I’m dissing them, but Bambi and Krystal never offer much competition. Poor Bambi is the least graceful deer-like person I can imagine. She has a long body and short legs with heavy thighs. Although pretty, she looks more mouse than deer with those beady black peepers and a pointy little nose that more often than not has a nervous twitch about it. Krystal, on the other hand, resembles her name too closely. Her features are all hard angles and her fake-tan sparkles in the sunlight from all the oily lotions she rubs over it.
Krystal hands me her compact mirror and I hurriedly reapply my makeup and tug out the hair tie. Fluffing my hair, I take a moment to admire it. My blonde locks are my pride and joy and the one thing I am so grateful to my mother for. While tons of the girls try to copy my hairstyle at school, none of them can get the color just right. My natural honey and gold highlights just can’t be purchased in a bottle.
When I feel respectable again, I climb back into the driver’s seat and floor the accelerator. The girls giggle beside me and our hair flies out behind us like in those old sixties movies. I reach into the glove compartment and pull out my new blue Gucci sunglasses and my friends gasp appreciatively.
“O.M.G! Franny. Your Mom caved?”
I can’t prevent the smugness from filling my face. I’ve been after these three-hundred-dollar glasses for weeks and Daddy was being so mean. Mom played along with him at first, refusing to let me have them but, when we went on our girl’s shopping trip last weekend, she rolled over like the pussy cat she always is when Dad isn’t around.
I push them back up my nose and glance at the road ahead. “They didn’t come from the outlet either.”
Did I hear crowing?
That earns me another gasp and Krystal claps her hands and pulls on her own two-hundred-buck pair of tan ones. “So cool, Franny, now we can be the Gucci Chicks.”
“What?” I take my eye off the road for a second to look across at her. God knows what she is going on about, Krystal’s mind works in mysterious ways. When I look back, the light changes to red and I have to slam on the brakes. We all fly forward and the seat belts lock in place.
“You know, kind of like the Pink Ladies in Grease—but the glasses will be our signature.”
Behind me, Bambi squeals in agreement and puts on her pink framed discounted Gucci’s. They are last summer’s style and even though she swore blind they weren’t, I know for a fact she got them from the outlets for fifty bucks. But Bambi is my B.F.F so I’ll never call her out on it.
When we pull up in the academy’s parking lot, I jump out the car and hunt through my bag for a comb. I’ve just about tamed my blonde mane back into a ponytail when half the football team pile out the back of Lance Gordon’s pickup. Bambi nudges me in the ribs and her eyes glaze over as she watches him strut around the front of the truck. He has on the team’s jacket and skin-tight Diesel jeans. By now, Bambi is barely able to stand and Krystal and I are supporting her arms so she doesn’t collapse in a melty heap on the floor.
Lance glances our way and a beaming smile appears on his face. He strikes a pose, checks we are all watching him, smooths his hand over his hair, and then glides his two index fingers across his eyebrows. His friends repeat the gesture, and they all stand there preening like peacocks. I want to burst out laughing but Bambi has fallen for it—hook, line, and sinker. She is now flipping her hair over her shoulder, sucking in her chubby tummy, and pushing out her enormous breasts. She pops a hip and strikes a pose which all becomes too much for me. A snort leaves my nose and I have to turn away so she can’t see I’m laughing.
When I do, my eyes land on a tall dark-haired guy who is up a ladder, cleaning windows. His blue twill shirt is hung from his back pocket and he’s wearing a dark tank that shows off his muscular arms. His skin is bronzed—not with a fake tan like all the kids at school, but like he has worked in the sun all spring. His skin has an olive hue to it, and as I watch the way the muscles of his back flex, I begin praying he’ll turn around and look my way.
His wayward dark hair flops deliciously in every direction and, within seconds, my mind is wondering what it would be like to push my fingers through it. But my brain doesn’t stop there. My neurons are firing, creating a whole fantasy around this guy. Even though I can’t see his face, I decide he is Italian and that he will have brooding dark eyes that will make my panty’s melt if he should ever turn around and look at me.
Krystal tugs at my arm, bringing me back to reality. I swing back around and my fantasy vanishes as Lance Gordon struts toward me. Now there is no denying Lance is cute, but he is seriously not my type. The blond-haired, square-jawed quarterback and current school heart-throb should tick all the boxes, but he doesn’t. I don’t know why because my father would think he was a match made in heaven for me. Lance’s father owns a fleet of
limousines servicing politicians, and Daddy would love nothing more than to align their two business empires.
The fact that Daddy thinks the sun shines out of Lance Gordon’s ass is a major turnoff. I glance over my shoulder, back at Hot Guy up the ladder and give one more go at willing him to turn around, but he doesn’t budge and I’m left wallowing in disappointment. I sigh and square my shoulders ready for Lance. He flicks his sandy hair and plays with the expensive wristwatch on his arm—turning the face so I am able to see it is an Omega.
“How’s things, Francesca?”
I’ve sometimes read descriptions in romance books where a man says the heroine’s name and a bolt of electricity goes straight to her groin, but when Lance calls me Francesca it has the opposite effect. Anyone who addresses me like my father could never make me go weak at the knees. I stare back at him, realizing that he doesn’t just sound like my father, but he bears an uncanny resemblance to him as well and, although my Mom tells me how much of a catch my father was back in the day, a little puke rushes up my throat and enters my mouth.
“Fine, thanks.” I gulp away the bad taste. “Um, sorry, I have to run. I just remembered I need to speak to Mr. Matthews about a homework assignment.” I pull Bambi in front of me and turn away, leaving my blushing friend to fall over her words as Lance scowls after me.
As I hurry across the parking lot, I glance up at Hot Guy on the ladder and, to my delight, he finally turns around. My heart stops as all the cute features I’d given him in my little fantasy earlier, turn out to be true. Dark hair, olive skin, thick brows, and high cheek bones all sculpt his face into the perfect Italian God.
I’m frozen to the spot and stare right at him. Coming to my senses, my cheeks burn and I put my head down and try not to run the last few steps to the entrance. All the time, I’m moving forward I can feel his eyes boring into my back. Just before I reach the door to the school, I chance one more look and he grins at me. His smile is huge and full of glistening white teeth and, when the corners of his lips turn up, a sparkle hits his blue eyes—not dark as I had assumed—and a gorgeous sexy dimple appears on his right cheek.
I am lost.
My knees tremble. I’m scared they’ll give way any minute and I’ll go crashing to the floor but somehow, I manage to give a shaky smile back to him. Just when I think my day can’t get any better, Hot Guy grabs hold of the bottom of his tank and slides it slowly over his body.
Every last sound is sucked out of the air as his actions transfix me. My jaw hits the sidewalk and I literally cannot take my eyes off that gorgeous body. A second later, the air surrounding me heats up and my palms begin to sweat. As the tank leaves his head, he winks at me and that is when it happens…
A sharp pain hits me smack-bang in my chest and a Nano-second later, my panties are soaking wet. For one awful moment I am mortified, thinking I must have peed myself. A quick glance at the ground reassures me I haven’t and then the fluttering in my stomach plus the tingling between my legs points to another possibility—one I have only read about in my romance books. I think I just had my first gush over a boy!
Chapter 3
RICK
Ah, shit! She looks like she’s about to freak...
Maybe taking my shirt off was a bit much...
Maybe I shouldn’t have winked...
Quickly, I climb down the ladder, trying not to look as if I’m rushing. Francesca is probably not the kind of girl that’s used to forward advances. I’m sure she’s a sweet girl—the kind that likes dudes who are Goody Two-shoes and behave all polite and shit.
The second my set of grimy boots hit the grass, I pull my shirt out of my back pocket and throw it over my head as I walk toward her. As I’m yanking my shirt down over my chest, she takes a peep in my direction and watches the rest of my shirt falling over my abs. She’s biting her bottom lip as I make my approach.
Fuck, she’s so much cuter in person.
She seems nervous, she does have her right knee bent in towards the other, but she doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere. I got that working for me. I’d like to bend that knee around my waist and hook the other in the air with my palm as I rock myself between those knees... and her thighs.
Interesting. Her thighs are fully exposed and I chuckle to myself. Did she hike up her skirt on purpose?
“Hey.” I cock my chin up, throwing my sweaty tank over my shoulder and digging my hands into my pants’ pockets. “You okay?’
“Okay? Of course, I’m okay.” She seems flustered. “Do I not look okay?” Francesca crosses her legs. One foot goes over the other, locking her legs together.
I take a step back, relaxing my stance. My nerves are firing off like it’s the Fourth of July but I need to play it cool. I point. “Aren’t you the girl from—”
“The Spin Motors’ commercial.” She sways, her skirt teetering like a bell. “Yeah. So, I’m sure you’ve seen it?”
“Who hasn’t?” I chortle. “You look really good in that commercial. I especially like the end when you—”
“Oh God!” She face palms herself. “The lip-lick was not supposed to be in there. I thought they finished shooting. It’s so embarrassing.”
Embarrassing? Damn, if she only knew what that lip-lick does for me.
“So, what’s your name?” I ask, though I already know what it is.
“It’s Francesca, but only my father calls me that. Everyone else calls me Franny.”
“Franny? I like that. Except it sounds more like an ol’ lady’s name, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me?” She blinks and her eyes narrow as her cheeks take on a heated, red-rosy glow.
I like the fire brewing, but I might be ruining any chance I have if she’s not the type that can handle a little joke.
“Ah, I’m just kidding. You’re nothing but cute.” My eyes wander over her. “You’re fucking adorable to be honest.”
Franny’s breath hitches at the drop of the F-bomb but her legs come uncrossed.
I think I’m making progress.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss. My Ma says it’s a problem.”
“Your Ma?” Her eyes narrow with curiosity.
What the fuck? Why am I talking about my damn mother! What chick is going to be into a guy that talks about his Ma? I’m as flustered as she is. I need to change the subject.
“Yeah. So, you go to this school?” I already know the answer to this, too, of course. Duh, she’s got the uniform on.
“Mhm,” she grins. “How about you? You look like you’re working, but I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I just started. It’s only part-time as a favor to my sort-of-a-brother. Today’s my first day.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rick.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m eighteen. And you?”
“Seventeen, but I’m a senior,” she emphasizes. “I’m graduating this year.” She squints, but her blue eyes still sparkle. “You look like you’ve already graduated from high school.”
“Nah,” I come clean. It’s embarrassing to say, but, “I never officially graduated like I was supposed to last year, but I did get my G.E.D. Passed with a high score, too. They don’t teach the stuff in school that I know a lot about—stuff I’m smart with. I doubt there’s anyone here at St. Mary’s that knows the shit I do.”
“Oh, so you’re smart, are you?”
I like the sarcastic, cocky tone in her voice that comes with a twist of her ponytail between her fingers. She’s not exactly the girl I perceived her to be. She might be a bit naughty.
“What kind of smarts do you have that I don’t?” she asks.
Raking my hands through my hair, I confess, “I know a lot about cars.” Racing. “Chemistry.” Drugs. “Accounting.” Hustling.
She puckers her lips with suspicion. “Cars, chemistry, and accounting?”
“Yep. What about you? What are you studying?”
“Everything. They make us study everyt
hing here.” She pokes out her tongue with disgust but it’s the same tongue I see at the end of every Spin Motors commercial and I swear to God, I want to swoop in and suck on that tongue and then suck on the rest of her.
“Hey, c’mere.” I cock my head to urge her towards me.
“What?” She shies, smiling bashfully and resisting. Her dimple—the same one that matches mine—has exposed itself and now my junk is dying for me to pick her up, take her home, and do naughty things to her with my own tongue.
I put my hand up, beckoning her closer once more. “C’mere. Don’t be shy.”
“What is it? I’m not shy.” She’s playing coy. “Why don’t you come closer to me?”
Mmm, I like the challenge. She’s feisty.
I step up, looking down at her pretty face. “Smile for me.”
“Smile?” she asks, which she instinctively does with a giggle.
I smile myself, reaching for her hand and pulling it up. Franny’s breathing quickens as I fumble through her fingers until I find her thumb and press the pad into my dimple. I stroke my own thumb across her dimple as well. “We have matching—”
“Fran!” shouts a feminine voice and Franny quickly steps away. The distance tugs at me painfully.
“C’mon,” urges a young lady, another student in uniform with short legs wearing a pair of Gucci sunglasses and who I assume is Franny’s friend. “We’re going to be late. You’d better hurryoh!” Franny’s friend has just caught sight of me. “You’re fucking hot!”
I’m biting my lip with my hands in my pockets as Franny tries to cover her friend’s open, near-drooling mouth.
Her friend plops her sunglasses on top of her head to take a good look. “Where the hell did you come from?”
“Shut up, Bambi. Don’t talk,” fusses Franny, which is amusing.
“I’m not from this side of town,” I reply.
Bambi continues. “Are you new? What classes do you have? Would you like me to tutor you?”
Heart Broke (Broken Home Book 1) Page 2
