Never Been Nerdy

by C.M. Kars

  Never Been Nerdy

  By C.M. Kars

  Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as real strength –

  St. Francis de Sales

  Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. – Marianne Williamson

  COPYRIGHT

  Never Been Nerdy

  Copyright: Catherine Karelis

  Published: January 4, 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Other Works by C.M. Kars

  Never Been Kissed (Never Been #1)

  Never Been Nerdy (Never Been #2)

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  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

  About the Nerdy Author

  Acknowledgements

  As before, I have special people to thank for making this book you hold on your Kindle come to life.

  To Jessica Daoust, again, for listening to me complain … and complain about this book, and how awful a writer I was, and all the normal insecurities a writer has. So, thanks for listening to me, then telling me basically to STFU and write because you were expecting chapters from me.

  To Mavreta V., because back in the day, when we were at MAC studying for PHAR 301 and I told you my dream job would be writing, you asked me to dedicate a book to you. Here it is!

  To Mom, because, well, because you’re you, and without you, I wouldn’t be me. If I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t be able to write what I do, and I definitely wouldn’t be the same person without you. Love you lots, and I really hope you enjoy this one (even though nothing can compare to you reading NBK and having NO idea I was the one who had written it!).

  To Skyla Dawn Cameron for her keen eye and attention to detail that has me unafraid of opening her content letters after an editing session with her. Also, a big thank you for creating my covers for this series!

  Lastly, to you Nerds, because I love you all so much. We have never met, and we will likely never meet in person, but know that what you have given me when reading my book, and leaving me a review or comment on any social medium, well, it’s the closest thing to magic I think us humans possess –the ability to show others we care. Thank you so much for taking a chance on me, and enjoying Sera and Hunter’s journey in the process.

  Enjoy Katie’s path to love, she’s going to need all the help she can get.

  I less than three you ALL!

  Chapter 1

  It’s the curse – it’s gotta be all the curse’s fault.

  The curse has everything to do with my bad luck. Everything. And for fuck’s sake, I can’t use the excuse of being cursed as a defense for vehicular manslaughter.

  If the thing I hit is even human, that is. It could’ve been just a really big duck. Yeah, or one of those evil geese with their honking and hissing. See? Not so bad if I killed a goose – which means I’ve orphaned a whole bunch of geese babies.

  I really really don’t want to think about the alternative. Like, I could have seriously possibly hit a human being. Ah, Christ, I’m not ready to go to jail! I have so much to live for, and they’re going to separate me from my Louboutins!

  I have to think about letting go of the steering wheel for a solid thirty seconds before my hands do what I tell them to. I check in the rear-view mirror and pretend I see tumbleweeds in the distance since the road’s completely deserted. I’m on a back street on my way back home, and dusk has painted the sky a fiery orange that reminds me of my favourite nail polish – OPI’s Tasmanian Devil Made Me Do It.

  Which reminds me of jail jumpsuits. And the possibility of becoming someone’s bitch because I’m not a physically strong person, and I know I’m pretty enough that like Vinny Gambini says in My Cousin Vinny, “one way or another, you’re getting fucked tonight.”

  I punch the button to turn off the radio, Axl Rose’s vocals being lost to the sound of my heavy breathing, as if the silence is going to make me focus better. I have the fleeting shameful thought that my hood is going to be ruined and I just fixed the fucking brakes. But I’ll take the dent if it means I didn’t hurt a person. Oh please, please don’t let it be a dog, either. Please, please, please!

  I pull in deep breaths through my nose, and ignore the squelching panic my stomach is currently feeling. I feel like I’m going to vomit, and shit my pants at the same time. Hell, even my fingers shake hard enough that I have to fumble to get my car door open.

  Minghia, I hate you Nona Imelda! Who the hell curses their own granddaughter?!

  When I ease my foot off the gas, I realize I’m still moving, and with a screech I pound the brake and get Roxie, my blue Mustang, in park. A shocked sob escapes my mouth, because seriously, if I didn’t originally hit a person, I sure as fuck did it now!

  The dread gnaws on my insides, and saliva pools in my mouth. But I have to see, I have to get out of the car and face what I did.

  I don’t want to look. I want to stay in my car, and stare at my reflection in the visor, and pretend that the smudge at the corner of my mouth of my practically Valentino-Red lipstick is the only problem I have right now.

  Now that I’ve got the sweats, black spots float in the air which would probably mean I’m about to have a panic attack, or pass the fuck out.

  Ovary up, DiNovro!

  I gulp down air, and end up choking on my saliva. I feel my pumps connect with the pavement as I climb out of my car, but everything from the waist down feels like it’s gone to Jell-O.

  So this is what a jellyfish feels like.

  I start to pray – even though I’m pretty sure God doesn’t exist and the cornetto I wear on my necklace is more to keep the malocchio away than anything else.

  I use my laser-focus to look at the driver side tire, examining it without really examining it, forcing myself away from the reality of it all, and denying, denying, denying the mere hint of some dark stained liquid on the pavement as I slowly round my car.

  I take a huge amount of time staring down at the pavement two inches forward from my toes. I think of stupid things, trying to ignore the blood pounding at my temples, and my rapid pulse throbbing in my wrists.

  Really, DiNovro? You wore those pumps today at work? Black pumps don’t suit you – even if they are red soles.

  Swallowing hard, I force my head up with, I’m pretty sure, the pressure needed to cause a wrecking ball to demolish a building.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  I let out a squeak at the sight of the body. There’s a body!

  The dizziness that envelops me has me swaying on the street like I’ve had too many shots of Nono’s grappa, and the horizon has tilted on its axis. My ankles give up on holding me up, and I wobble almost gracefully until I hit the pavement with enough force to rock the very foundations of the plan
et. Or almost.

  All I need now is for some fucker to dash into my car, put it in gear, and hello, I’m spaghetti Bolognese on the pavement next to the giant dude I hit with my car. Christ, there must be an asteroid-sized dent in my hood. Please let that be my only problem.

  My eyes start to water, and I really just want to have a tantrum right now like I used to back in the day, but I’m an adult, and I need to face the consequences of my actions.

  I drag myself over to the ... uh, body-person-thing, and keep my gaze tracked on his chest.

  Because it is a he, like a he-he. A man. Full-grown and everything, and if the stretching of the fabric of his navy t-shirt is anything to go by, a man. Which makes it all worse, like I may have just killed one of the finer specimens of male in the whole entire city of Montreal, and fuck it, they’re so hard to find.

  Girls have enough problems finding out if a dude is gay or not, especially when they’re stacked like this wannabe Viking sprawled spread-eagled next to me on the street. And I hit him with my car.

  Focus!

  Right. I’m going to have to touch him, aren’t I? Check the beat of his pulse? As if I’m a freaking doctor or something and know what the burning hell I’m doing. I really wish I’d watched more episodes of Grey’s. TV should have prepared me for this.

  Did his chest just rise and fall? It did, it did! I’d put my right hand on the Bible and swear on it, God strike me down and all that shit.

  He groan-grumbles, and my hands flutter around him like stupid ass butterflies trying to find a place to land. Well, at least he made a sound, which has gotta be good.

  I swear to the Virgin Mary, if Nona Imelda were still alive, I’d chuck her in an old folks’ home and make sure she’d never see the light of day. But revenge will have to wait, and I’ll see her in hell when my time comes. Christ, stupid old hag, cursing her own grand-daughter! Stupid Italian bullshit!

  The Viking lets out another groan, and both his giant hands come up to cover his face, then start rubbing at his temples. Fucker wasn’t even wearing a helmet... then again, I don’t see a bike, but it does mean I can’t pedal-to-the-metal it out of here anytime soon. I do have something called a conscience. Maybe. Only on good days.

  The fact is, I’m a bleeding heart for everyone and anyone, and after seeing what my best friend, Sera Delos, went through, well, let’s just say that my emotions are stuffed deep, deep down inside of me, like, deeper than the Mariana’s Trench (I googled that earlier today).

  Could you pay attention to the hunk of man in pain three feet from you? Thanks.

  “Hey...” I whisper, and clear my throat, because fucking hell, I am a grown woman and deal with anything the world throws at me.

  “Hey... you okay?” I ask, and feel like such a tool. I hit him with my fucking car! Of course he’s not okay!

  “Please tell me you’re okay. I’ll wait.”

  The Viking puts his hands down back at his sides, and his eyes slowly creak open only to slam shut again. After a few seconds, he does it again, and this time it’s permanent. And shit, I’m not wearing my sexy underwear today, because wow. Just wow.

  Yeah, I totally would’ve felt bad about killing him.

  His eyes are a peculiar green – the shade of budding leaves. His face is pretty much pure perfection, too. While this guy doesn’t induce panty meltdown with just one look like MacLaine does, he is injured, and he just looks like he needs a warm-up. The line of his jaw is coated with dark stubble, and the length of his hair looks like it would graze his chin if he were upright. Pity I don’t see any tattoos or piercings – I think Sera took the last hottie left.

  My heart beats a little faster when our eyes connect. Do I know this guy? Does he live nearby? Hell, how didn’t I notice him, and invite him over? Chain him to the bed?

  “What the fuck?” is all he says, and I stop my ogling. I’ve already saved his face in the database of my brain for my spank bank later.

  “What the fucking fuck just happened?”

  Wow. Even his voice is supreme. All deep, and almost-growly. I swear all my nerve endings stand at attention and my vagina quivers at the prospect of the Viking saying my name.

  Then he really looks at me, but the kind of look that has my heart racing and blood pooling in my cheeks. Like, hello? I do not blush. Guys just don’t have that effect on me anymore.

  “Are you the genius that hit me?” The Viking asks, but basically says. He turns his head back straight and glares up at the darkening sky. October is here, and my ass on the cold pavement is making me shiver. He must be running at a higher temperature, otherwise I don’t understand the whole t-shirt thing. I wouldn’t mind being held in those arms.

  I clear my throat and think of how I’m going to explain myself. I certainly will not tell him I was checking out my reflection, and looked away for all of two seconds, and he came gliding across the seemingly deserted street (probably, I wasn’t looking), and caused a serious dent on my Mustang’s hood. Because now that he’s okay, I’m going to have to pay for that out of my own pocket, my insurance won’t cover it. Too many claims in the past year. Too bad they can’t insure against pure bad luck. Assholes!

  “Yeah... that would be me,” I say, glaring down at him. I know it wasn’t smart looking away from the road, but people do it all the fucking time! Changing songs on an iPod, changing radio stations, hell, looking down to grab your coffee so you can take a swallow.

  “Shit, woman, what the hell is wrong with you?” He groans, going up on his elbows, looking down at his long legs. How tall is this guy? “I am not hard to miss.”

  I tamp down on the smile that wants to make my lips move, because, well, the situation doesn’t call for it. I don’t want him to think I’m a maniac – just a wrong person, wrong time kinda thing. Better chance of me getting his number later.

  “I looked away for two seconds, I swear! Shit, how’s your head? You think you have a concussion or something?”

  The Viking closes his eyes, and lets out a real man-sigh. The kind of sigh that’s almost theatrical, like he’s suffering my very presence. No need to be rude.

  “I don’t know; I’m not a doctor.” He pins me with a glare, and I have trouble getting to feet. No one has ever looked at me with that much dislike before, even for a second. Unless it’s jealous bitches eye-fucking my shoes.

  Sweet Virgin Mary, thank you so very much for not letting this big lug die.

  “Never said you were. C’mon, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

  The Viking smirks, and it does something to his face that gives him a bad-boy charm. My inner thighs start to quiver. Oh, this is going to be fun.

  “I really don’t think me getting into a car with you is a good idea,” he says, getting himself upright. Holy fucking shit, he’s Viking-tall, too! And now that he is vertical, I can see his hair is long, and he’s got enough scruff on his face that makes me think of beard burn in all the right places.

  Yup, the tips of my hair could so be on fire right now, and I wouldn’t even notice.

  “Shit, I’ve lost one of my contacts.” He bends down at the waist and glares down at the street, like it’ll just flip over and give him his contact lens no problem.

  I clear my throat, announcing that I’m going to talk. “Look, I’m not too sure about this, but I’m pretty sure we should go to the emergency at the General so you can get your head checked out.”

  Just when I think he’s going to heed my flawless logic, he does nothing of the sort, and takes a look at my hood and lets out a long whistle. Hello, he’s looking at my car, instead of looking at me? What the hell?

  “I would say sorry that I did that to your car, but you know, that was before I had to hop up on the hood to stop you from breaking both my legs.”

  The Viking leans down again, bending at the waist and lunges forward for a discarded messenger bag that was nowhere on my radar. I shiver when a cold breeze hits my open coat, and really hope the girls aren’t making a face and standing at
attention. Then again, flash away.

  He loops his bag around his neck and shoulder and pats down the contents, grabbing onto the bulges in the pack, making sure everything’s there.

  “Woah,” he says, looking at me full-on for the first time since I made his brain do the wave in his skull. Finally, a proper reaction. But now he’s looking at me like I have a speaking tumor growing out of my head.

  I snap my coat closed over my chest now freezing chest and give him my Italian stare, the very one that’s full of all the Mafiosos who’ve ever lived and sworn vengeance on another family.

  And the Viking doesn’t even budge or have the decency to look scared out of his mind.

  “What’s got your face looking like that?” I ask, cinching the belt of my trench coat. Holy hell, when did October start getting so cold? I start mentally planning my trip to the Bahamas, or wherever there’s a ton of sun for my winter vacation. Montreal winters only get worse from here on in.

  “Easy there. Take the hellfire out of your eyes for a second,” he says.

  I squint at him. I really just want to get him in the car and bring him to my apartment and have my way with him. I mean, after I bring him to hospital and he gets a clean bill of health.

  Maybe I should ask the doctor that he gets a full blood work-up, too, in case he’s got something funky going on in his underwear. I don’t care if I’m being presumptuous... this guy is HOT. And sometimes a girl just needs a good roll in the hay and not have to finish herself off.

  Yeah, this Viking dude sure looks like a giver, and I’m signing up for that train ride.

  But... the way he said hellfire has me frowning. I swear to God, if this guy is a -

  “Shit. My poor skateboard! You will be missed oh, faithful steed.” I start blushing for him.

  Seriously, what the hell is coming out of this guy’s mouth?

  He lifts up a battered skateboard, the kind that I saw many a time with the flamboyant roses and skulls painted across it when the boys back in high school would do their thing in the parking lot. The Viking looks up at me with what can be described as a sad puppy face, or worse, like I’ve torn out his heart and plunged my stiletto-clad heel on it. But the way he’s looking at me…