by Everly Lucas
Learning to Love the Heat
Everly Lucas
Copyright © 2017 by Everly Lucas
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, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
To my younger self,
for having faith that I’d eventually get my shit together.
Contents
1. Claire
2. Ben
3. Claire
4. Ben
5. Claire
6. Claire
7. Ben
8. Ben
9. Claire
10. Ben
11. Claire
12. Claire
13. Ben
14. Claire
15. Claire
16. Ben
17. Claire
Confession
18. Ben
19. Claire
20. Ben
21. Claire
22. Claire
23. Ben
24. Claire
25. Ben
26. Claire
27. Claire
28. Claire
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
Claire
I’m lying in bed, wearing absolutely nothing. My pink floral top sheet is a rumpled mess at my feet. Sweat dampens the hair at the back of my neck and glistens on my chest, between my breasts. My long legs are spread apart, letting warm air lick at the wetness between them.
I wish I could say that all this is from being freshly fucked, but nope. It’s just stupid hot in here.
The sun went down hours ago, but the air outside is still a balmy eighty-nine degrees—not out of the realm of normal for summer nights in Philadelphia. I have no clue what the temperature is inside, since I refuse to keep a thermometer in my apartment. I think I’d cry just from looking at it.
My dehumidifier rattles like a box full of vibrators, and the fan positioned an inch from my bed is as effective as a pinwheel. My air conditioner is—
Oh, wait, that’s right. I don’t have one of those.
This isn’t working. The more I sweat, the more frustrated I become, and the more frustrated I become, the more I sweat. I roll over to face the fan, but the new position squishes my breasts together, creating a heat and perspiration trap. Fuck, that is so much worse.
Flopping onto my back again, I throw a full-on tantrum, pounding my fists into the mattress and kicking the sheet at my feet. “Ugh! This sucks!”
Chances are good that my ear-splitting shriek woke my poor upstairs neighbors. But you know what? Screw them. I’ve had to knock on their door three times in the past month because I could hear their TV as clearly as if I were sitting right in front of it. And don’t even get me started on their Call of Duty obsession.
No, the annoying couple living above me can listen to my completely justified scream of total agony and get right over it.
When I moved into this building in June, it didn’t take long to figure out my basement apartment isn’t designed to accommodate any kind of air conditioner. But it’s the perfect size, in the perfect neighborhood, and at the perfect price. And, really, how bad could one summer be? My grandmom lived without AC until she was sixty years old, and she never once died of a heatstroke.
Turns out, Grandmom was one tough chick, and I didn’t inherit a lick of it.
Moving sucks, altogether, and should be avoided at all costs, but I’d found myself with an immediate need for a new roof to live under. It was either this place or end up back at my mom’s. Don’t get me wrong, I love Dawn Templeton to pieces, but she sucks as a roommate. Plus, she lives out near York, Pennsylvania, which would’ve made for one hell of a commute.
With my pale—no, porcelain, since it sounds prettier—complexion, Summer and I have never been the best of friends. This year, we’re completely at war with each other, and Summer is kicking my pasty, porcelain ass.
Fifty-eight days until fall. It may as well be forever.
Staying horizontal clearly isn’t helping me reach my goal of not being awake, so I roll out of bed and shuffle out to my tiny kitchen. I don’t bother with clothes. Anytime-nudity is one of the main perks of living alone, and I take full advantage of it as often as possible. My ancient fridge makes its usual alarming gurgly noises from having to work double-time to keep its contents cold, and I give it a nice pat on the head for a job well done. Then I abuse the shit out of it by cooling off in front of the open door while taking my time sipping a glass of water.
On nights like this, I miss the house I used to live in. Not so much that I’d ever go back, but that place had tons of windows, lots of light, and all the central air a girl could want. If I believed in divine retribution, I’d be convinced this apartment is my punishment for past mistakes, of which there are many.
But let’s not go there. I’ll end up with nightmares if I think about it too hard…if I ever fall asleep, that is.
I place the empty glass on the drying rack next to the sink. The clock on the microwave says it’s 12:34 a.m., and my brain says, “Ha ha! I’m so fucking woke, let’s circle the block ten times and watch Food Network until the sun comes up!”
Me? I say, “Screw you, brain,” then collapse on the couch and turn on the TV, utterly defeated.
Someone once tried to tell me that one hour of sleep is worse than no sleep, at all. I found this funny, since sleep is the greatest thing known to man, no matter how much or how little you get. But now that I’ve experienced it first-hand a few times, I can safely say that, no, one hour of sleep is not funny. In fact, it’s the unfunniest thing ever.
I’m fully aware I’m being a whiny brat, but the situation is serious. If I don’t find a way to cool off today, I’ll end up in jail for aggravated assault on pretty much everybody.
I swear, I’m not normally this irritable. My preferred state of being is less violent, more calm, quiet, and drama-free. But, at this point, I’ve reached a level of grouchiness so excessive, I’m sick of my own bad company. If only I could figure out a way to ditch myself like I’d ditch any other toxic person in my life. That being disappointingly impossible, all I can do is find ways to cope.
I could go to the movies—theaters are reliably freezing. But my next paycheck is still a full week away, and a ticket alone would set me back eleven dollars. Between student loans and no longer having someone to split the rent with, my checking account has suffered greatly. It’d probably be wiser to use what little is left in there for things like food and, well, more food.
Another option is the café down the street. I bring my laptop there after work most nights to get a little writing in, but they never let me stay long without buying more than a bottle of water.
Greedy, gluten-free bastards.
I splurged this week and bought a transpass, so I guess I could ride the bus all day long…or until I get sick of the sweaty summer-body smell. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what I do. Anything is an improvement on being cooped up at home. What I could really use is a massive dose of fresh air to clear my lungs, and I know just the place to go for that.
Decision made, I throw on my royal blue one-piece bathing suit and a shapeless white sundress. Once I’ve packed my tote with a couple paperbacks, some SPF 80, a huge bottle of water, and an old blanket, I grab my keys from the bowl by the door and head out. The second I step onto the sidewalk, I’m hit with a scorching wall of heat.
What the hell? The sun should never be this strong at eight o�
�clock in the morning. I’m supposed to have at least a couple more hours of ginger-friendly daylight.
Today’s current tally: Summer, one; Claire, zero.
But it’s fine. Really, it is. I’m a big girl. I’ll survive. I’m fairly certain of this.
On the bright side, Rittenhouse Square is still relatively free of people when I arrive, so I have my pick of lawn space. A large maple tree near the Free Library calls my name with its leafy branches providing ample shade. I spread my blanket over the thick roots and get comfy against the trunk. Because of the layout of the city, wind funnels through the streets surrounding the park and into the center of it, so I definitely feel that fresh air I was craving.
Summer and I are now in a dead heat.
That’s unfortunate wording, but you get me.
I pull out one of my books, take a few sips of water, and settle in for a long, lovely day at the park.
Two
Ben
Andy’s talking to me. At least, I think he is. There are sounds coming from his general direction that might be words, but I’m not focused on him enough to confirm that. I’m focused on her.
A flash of bright white danced at the edge of my vision a few minutes ago, and I’d turned to check it out. That’s when I saw her. Her pale skin glows, even in the shade, making her look like some kind of supernatural creature—an angel, maybe, or an alien. She’s definitely the hottest alien I’ve ever seen.
Her skin is what caught my attention, but when I saw the bright red hair piled on top of her head, I knew I was a goner. There’s something about a gorgeous redhead that makes you want to find out if she’s as feral and dangerous as she looks. And hope like hell that she is.
This particular gorgeous redhead is camped out under a tree, about forty feet from me. When she bends her knees to prop up her book, the hem of her dress pools at her hips, putting her long legs on full display. It’s impossible not to picture those legs wrapped around my hips or her creamy thighs trapping my face between them as she screams my name.
I can’t tear my eyes from her…until Andy smacks the back of my head.
“What the fuck, man?” I jump back, rubbing my poor, abused skull. “Was that necessary?”
My best friend tosses the Frisbee for his pit bull, Cannoli—so named for his tan fur and white belly—and the dog takes off across the lawn to catch it. He trots back with the disc locked in his powerful jaws, looking like he knows he’s the shit.
Like father, like son.
“Well, considerin’ I just told you I let a dude fuck me in the ass and you didn’t even blink, yeah,” Andy says in his South Philly accent. It has to be the ugliest accent in the entire US, sounding like the bastard child of Baltimore and New York City, but, for reasons I’ll never understand, women are into it. That could also have something to do with his cocky Italian charisma, but they do love to hear the man talk.
“So you dig dick now. Am I supposed to be surprised?”
This earns me another whack on the head. Andy tries to collect the Frisbee from Cannoli’s mouth and ends up in a tug of war with an animal bred for tugging.
“Fuck you,” he says to me, giving up the fight. “You spaced out. You see somethin’ you like?” When I point to my redhead, he contemplates her for a second before giving his unsolicited assessment. “She’s cute, but she needs a fuckin’ tan. She should get outta the shade, get some sun.”
“You’re shitting me, right? Look at her. She’s an angel.” If this guy weren’t my best friend, I’d be shaking my head and walking away from the obvious crazy person. “Oh, that’s right. You’re only interested in women with fake tans and fake tits.”
“I like a girl who takes care of herself. I see nothin’ wrong with that.”
I let it drop and go back to my blatant staring. At some point, I’m going to grow a set and talk to her. I just need a little time. These things can’t be rushed.
Looking away from her for a moment, I snap my fingers at Cannoli and point to the ground. He drops the Frisbee at my feet, and I give the happy pup a good scratch between his ears.
“Damn…”
My head pops up, and I catch Andy gawking at the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s standing now. No, that’s too tame a word for what she’s doing. She's stretching her lithe body from her toes to her fingertips, elongating her limbs and making herself appear even more unreal than before. With her arms raised, the bottom of her dress rides up, revealing her upper thighs and, where they meet, a bright blue triangle of whatever she’s wearing underneath. The color is shocking against her white skin, and I can't help imagining what other shocking color might be hiding behind it.
A strong breeze hugs her cotton dress to the side of her body, showing off her curves. Watching her before, as she sat against her tree, I’d assumed she was simply slender. But this girl has hips and breasts I’d be willing to commit all manner of crimes to get my hands on, and—
Fuck me, she’s taking it off.
Does she have slow-motion superpowers? She can’t possibly be undressing as slowly in reality as she is in my head. That’d be far too provocative in a park full of small children and dirty old men. Then again, I wouldn’t complain if this lasted forever. But the show does eventually come to an end, to the eternal disappointment of my dick. My angel lies down on her blanket, releasing her hair from its clip and fanning it around her. I can look away, now. And breathe.
“If you’re not gonna man up, mind if I take a shot?”
Oh, yeah, Andy’s still here. I’d forgotten all about him.
Wait— "I thought you said she needs a tan.”
I have to remind him he didn’t see the appeal before, or he really will go after her. Once Andy sees a woman he deems fuckable, he oozes charm all over her until she’s on her knees or naked in his bed. No way in hell is he allowed within oozing distance of this one.
“She’s not your type, man.” I nod in her direction. “Look, she’s not even wearing makeup.”
“Like I give a shit, anymore. A body like that’s every man’s type. Plus, I’ve never had a real redhead before, and that one looks like a ripe fuckin’ peach I’ve just gotta sink my teeth into.” He sinks them into his fist, instead. Better that than her perfect skin.
When he strips off his shirt, I know he’s serious about making a move. A panting Cannoli sits at our feet and watches our exchange with one of those big pit bull grins on his face, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m about to neuter his owner.
I shove at Andy’s shoulder and stake my claim. “I’ll talk to her. Just give me a second—and stay away from her. Got it?”
The douchebag laughs at my uncharacteristic territorial outburst, but at least he has the good sense to step back and hold up his hands in surrender. “She’s all yours, man. Take all the time you need.”
I know he’ll stick to his word and leave her alone, but he’s wearing one of those wicked, arrogant grins I’ve learned not to trust. Snatching up the Frisbee from where Cannoli dropped it at my feet, Andy aims at an empty area of the lawn. I crouch down to grab my water bottle and steel my nerves, and when I look up, Cannoli’s chasing the neon disc…and headed straight for my redhead.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Flipping my soon-to-be nutless friend the bird, I take off to try and prevent a disaster. Cannoli wouldn’t hurt a fly, but a massive pit bull charging toward her might scare the future mother of my children into leaving the park. And I’m not ready for her to go.
A high-pitched squeal has me picking up speed. By the time I get close, Cannoli’s already abandoned his plastic prey and has his mouth at her neck. I call his name, shouting at him to back off, but he doesn’t budge.
As soon as I grab his collar, my angel busts out laughing. Not cute, girly laughter, but loud and unrestrained, and I want to cover her mouth with mine and swallow it all down. She’s squirming, too, which…yeah, let’s not go there.
When she pushes the seventy-pound beas
t off her and sits up, I see a large patch of shiny dog slobber on her neck and shoulder. Instead of wiping it off right away, she gives Cannoli a thorough scritching and plants a kiss on his forehead.
Is this girl even real? If Andy hadn’t seen her, too, I’d think I just imagined her and have officially lost it. It was bound to happen, eventually. You can only search for the One for so long before your sanity craps out on you.
“Your name’s Cannoli, huh?” she asks the thoroughly pleased pup. He wags his tail, like her speaking to him is the greatest thing ever. And now I’m jealous of a damn dog. “You look like a cannoli. I could just eat you up!”
And I could just stand here and watch her all day. But as much as I disagree with my best friend’s methods, he did give me the perfect opening. He’ll never let me hear the end of it if I don’t take it.
“Hi. I’m Ben.”
Three
Claire
I look up from my new buddy to see a man standing next to him. Well, the shape of a man. I’m only seeing him in silhouette, what with the bright sun directly behind his head, blinding my poor, sensitive eyes. I slip on my sunglasses, but they’re not much help.
“Shit, sorry,” Ben says, stepping further into the shade. Good boy.
He extends his hand to me, and I dig my fingers into the quilt to keep from flinching away from it. It’s a perfectly normal guy-hand. Nicely manicured. A few callouses. No scars or warts or sores—nothing gross or scary. I know what I’m supposed to do with it, but instead of giving a quick shake, I eye it up, debating its ability to ruin me.
