Embody (Full Circle #1)

by S. E. Hall

  “Kelly, I-”

  “Hush, just go,” she gently pushes me toward the dressing room.

  I pull the curtain behind me and first things first—add up the price tags.

  Skirt- $11

  Fabulous brown ankle boots with a western, rhinestone pattern- $20

  Wide, brown leather belt with buckle that matches the boots- $10

  Jade green, tight fitting shelf tank top- $5

  Black vest- $5

  The positively perfect Sam Hunt concert outfit for only fifty-one dollars. And tax.

  I made thirty-three dollars in tips today and need one of those to pay for the bus.

  “Bellamy? Everything okay in there?”

  “Yes,” I transplant happiness into my voice as I walk out, still in my uniform. “I’ll take the skirt, tank top and vest, please.” Really wanted the boots, but I can’t justify spending twenty dollars on a luxury that I’ll probably only wear a few, select times. I certainly wouldn’t be able to wait tables in them.

  Kelly’s brow furrows as she gives me a sympathetic smile…which I wish she wouldn’t.

  “Bellamy, this is a consignment shop. You can trade in your old things for new items.”

  “I know, very cool by the way, but I don’t have anything of your inventory’s caliber to bring in. I love the outfit, but the belt isn’t a necessity and I’m sure I can dig up some shoes that’ll work.”

  “You’re underestimating your trading potential,” she grins, grabbing all the items and heading to the register. “You’re a young, beautiful girl who goes to college with other young, beautiful girls who want nice things but may not be able to afford them, right?”

  “Righttt,” I drawl.

  “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll sell you the whole outfit for twenty bucks, and you,” she reaches below the counter, reemerging with a large stack of hot pink papers, “hand out all these fliers to your friends and girls on campus, deal?”

  “Are, you sure?”

  “Positive.” She bags up my new duds and hands it to me, along with the fliers. “And Bellamy? You get sick of schlepping greasy food in that hideous uniform, you come see me about a job.”

  No. Way.

  I float, literally float, on cloud nine to the bus stop…and hand two ladies, also waiting, a flier of course.

  How amazing would it be to work for that delightful woman, in that trendy, uplifting store? And just maybe, every once in a while, spend an itty-bitty portion of my paycheck on unbelievably priced, stylish clothes? Clothes that wouldn’t make me stick out like a sore thumb amongst my “financially blessed” friends.

  I’m so lost in “no way this is real” land, I almost miss the ding of an incoming text.

  Jefferson: I’m at your apartment. You’re not.

  I laugh brusquely, a new kind of tingle zapping through me.

  Me: Hot AND smart? I’m a lucky girl. You’re right, I’m not.

  Jefferson: Calling me hot won’t work. Where are you?

  Me: Sitting at the bus stop. Be there in about thirty, if you want to wait.

  Jefferson: Don’t. Move.

  Me: Why? I’m already here. Just wait for me. Coming back this way is silly.

  Jefferson: Wait for you at least thirty minutes or be with you in less than fifteen? Hmm. Sticking with Don’t. Move.

  Me: Bossy.

  Jefferson: I mean it woman. Your fine ass better be sitting on that bench when I get there. Driving, gtg.

  He’s lucky I’m in such a great mood.

  Twenty-Five

  JT

  “CALL UNCLE SAWYER.” I command my Sync system to make the call and drum my fingers on the steering wheel, internally cussing the traffic as I wait for him to answer.

  “Mini me, what’s up?” His greeting echoes through my car in the only volume he has—deafening.

  “Nothing, just missed the sound of your dainty voice. Doctors have any idea when your balls are finally gonna drop? Be nice to be able to tell you apart from Aunt Emmett.”

  “Don’t make me send my daughter to kick your ass, boy,” he laughs.

  “Whatever. Seriously though, need your advice.”

  “Silicone-based lube, definitely. That water-based shit’s like trying to fuck your way down a Slip-n-Slide.” Sadly, yet not remotely surprising, he’s serious.

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. Now for my second question.” I roll my eyes—because his ass is crazy, yes—but mainly because I’m stuck at least three rounds of changes deep at a damn stoplight.

  Which only hammers home the reason I’m calling my uncle harder. My sweet Bellamy is sitting, waiting for me, at a sketchy fucking bus stop. Probably perking up and smiling, only to slump back with a disappointed frown, when every approaching car turns out not to be me.

  “Bellamy needs a car,” I growl, still picturing her waiting, in the heat and her uniform that smells of stale grease, on the dirty, crowded bench.

  “Lawd, here we go,” he laughs. “What do your parents say?”

  “Nothing, I haven’t told them. Telling you. Saw, she rides forty-five minutes each way, every day, just to go work on her feet waiting tables or run around campus and then go wait tables after. Sometimes she leaves home hours before she needs to because of the damn bus schedule and carries her breakfast with her!”

  “All right, simmer down. You’re screaming in my damn ear.” Says the man whose “inside” voice shatters eardrums.

  “Sorry,” I inhale a sedating breath through my nose. “And we’re always missing each other, like right now. She got off work early, so she was gonna wait around for over an hour for the bus to run again ‘cause I was in a meeting and didn’t get her text. It’s just… crazy. Infuriating as fuck. I want to help her. She deserves better.”

  “How long you been seeing this girl?” he asks.

  “Bellamy. Her name is Bellamy,” my defensiveness surges out, unmistakable. “How long were you seeing, or trying to see, Aunt Em when you got her a place, job and car?” I wince, not tamping down the accurate, but disrespectful, sarcasm in my tone enough.

  “Okay,” he chuckles, “point taken. I have an idea, and your back, sorda. Your parents come at me wielding torches and pitchforks, telling ya upfront, I’m gonna act like I have no idea what the fuck they’re talking about. And you’re gonna go along with it. Actually, I need to go on record again as saying, you should discuss this with your parents.”

  “Noted, and again, no. Now what’s your idea?” I’m finally next at the light, so he needs to spit it out.

  “That big ass Navigator you roll around in? I know it’s paid for, but is it in your name?”

  “Yep.” I like the way his mind works…this time.

  “Just your name? No Daney (his age-old play on combining my parents’ names) as co-signer?”

  “Nope, just me.”

  “Thinkin’ that fancy motherfucker is worth about seventy grand. You could get two nice cars in place of it, dontcha figure?”

  Fucking brilliant. Sawyer Beckett doesn’t get near enough credit for that kick-ass brain of his.

  “You’re the man, Uncle Saw. Thank you.”

  “Uh huh. And remember boy, I. Know. Nothing. You rat me out,” he laughs in the pitch of pure evil, “just don’t rat me out.”

  “Never. You’re as scary and certifiably insane as you are helpfully ingenious. Thanks again, gotta go.”

  I disconnect the call and rack my brain as to where the title to my car is, quickly losing all train of thought…because I see Bellamy.

  She pops to her feet as I pull up, and her stunning smile, only for me? Yeah, I gotta find that title.

  I park, jump out and hurry around to get her door and bag. “Hey,” I grab a quick taste of her plush mouth, “sorry it took me so long, traffic was a bitch.”

  “No problem, thanks for coming.” Her voice; something’s different. And she doesn’t “get in” my car, she launches herself in and giggles with her bounce. Hmmmm.

  I put her stuff in th
e backseat, then climb in, grinning to myself when it crosses my mind—I won’t be doing this very many more times.

  “You seem happy,” I say easily, holding onto the right word, which would be…radiant. “Good day, I take it?”

  “Unbelievable,” it comes out an exhale of whimsical air.

  I reach over and take her hand. “Tell me about it. Have anything to do with whatever’s in the bag?”

  Dear God. Note to self in my “new to actual relationships” notebook: don’t ask a woman showing flashing neon signs of wild emotions—happy, sad, mad, or otherwise—stirring inside her to “tell you all about it” unless you really want to know.

  As I’m driving around, scoping out decent car lots, Bellamy chatters non-stop, without taking a breath, so fast I honestly can’t make out a few words.

  But I listen as best I can, truly happy…because she’s happy.

  She tells me what’s in the bag, but refuses to let me see her new outfit until the night of the concert, making me want to see it all that much more. She finally comes up for air to ask me what I think about her taking the job at the store she already absolutely loves, which I’ve gathered from the parts I did hear.

  “What’d you say the owner’s name was?” I ask, striving to sound casual.

  “Kelly, um…Teller! Yep, that’s it.”

  Clue. From. God.

  Teller…as in a bank teller…as in the safety deposit box where my car title is tucked away.

  “Hold on,” I warn, putting my arm across her all soccer-mom style as I make an illegal U-turn.

  “Jefferson! I can’t die, I finally have a good job offer and a boyfriend!” she yells, swatting me with adrenalized might in the shoulder.

  Damn if she isn’t something else…the funniest, brightest part of my every single day. Only my Bellamy would choose that response while dodging death by U-turn.

  When we’re safely parked in front of the bank, I shut off the car and shift in my seat to look right at her, bright green eyes—pupils dilated with crazy-high endorphin levels but still dazzling—and take both her hands in mine.

  “I was told, by somewhat of an entrepreneur in the field, that I had to ask you to be my girlfriend.” I raise one brow and grin.

  “So ask me,” she coolly counters, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

  I laugh. “But you just said I already was.”

  “So don’t ask me,” she leans in and feathers her lips across mine. “Totally up to you, Mr. Rulebook. But either way, we both know, you’re my boyfriend.”

  I suppress a groan, turned the fuck on by her cute, confident claim. “Is that so?”

  “Yep. And just to confirm that we’re on the same page, we’re monogamous. So, any little chippies that try to move in on you, be sure to let them know I used to be a yellow belt in karate.” She proudly tilts her chin and I do all I can to contain my laughter.

  “Couple things,” I say as seriously as I’m able.

  “Yes?” she asks in smooth challenge.

  “Maybe I’m wrong, but doesn’t monogamous mean only having sex with one person? I’m damn sure I’d remember if that applied to us,” I wink.

  “When we get to that point, yes, it absolutely means that. Until then, it means being loyal, in all ways, to one mate. As in, no dating or canoodling with anyone else.”

  She said when, not if, we get to that point. Don’t think my dick didn’t hear her too, twitching once.

  “Stop picturing us having sex and ask me your other thing,” she interrupts me from… picturing us having sex.

  “Huh?” Oh, yeah. “Baby, isn’t a yellow belt like, the second worst one? Right after the one that comes with the uniform?”

  She crosses her arms and harrumphs. “Did you ever have a yellow belt?”

  “No,” I chuckle. “And, it has to be said, because…it’s funny as fuck, but I have no idea how to ‘canoodle,’ nor do I know what a ‘chippie’ is, so no worries on either of those.”

  “Okay then,” she bobs her head, satisfied with the win. “Now, mind telling me why we’ve been parked in front of this bank for so long?”

  I undo my seatbelt and reach for my door handle. “I need to run in real fast and take care of something. Will you be all right waiting out here for a minute?”

  “Psshh, will I be all right? Yellow belt, remember? Will you leave the keys though, so I can listen to the radio?”

  I toss them to her and take a minute to really look at her. Bellamy Morgan is quite simply the most extraordinary, seriously fucking adorable person I’ve ever encountered. And soon, little things like having a car and nice apartment won’t be “treats.” They’ll be her norm.

  “Lock the doors, Karate Kid.” And I wait until she does to walk away.

  Twenty-Six

  Bellamy

  I’M BELTING OUT “When You’re Gone” by The Cranberries as though unaware I’m completely tone deaf and vocally challenged, when he knocks on the window.

  I screech, caught off guard…and singing, badly, blushing as I turn down the music and hit the unlock button.

  “Wild guess, but you never made it to yellow belt in singing, did ya baby?” He has the decency to duck his head while he laughs.

  “Funny. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

  “Nah, I’m no good.” He continues avoiding eye contact, slipping a manila envelope under his seat before starting the car.

  “What’s with the not at all secret envelope?” I pry in an impish tone.

  “You’ll see soon enough. Patience, woman.”

  “It’s gonna drive me crazy,” I pout. “Your choice, either tell me, or sing. Pick your poison.”

  “You asked for it.” He comes to a stop sign and finagles with his phone, picking a song. “I’m not as good as Zeke,” he snarls, “so don’t laugh or run away with him.”

  “Who?” I reply instantly, sincerely ignorant.

  “Good fucking answer, baby.” I get a pleased, predatory once-over from him…and then I get to hear him start singing.

  He’s chosen “I Don’t Dance” by Lee Brice, a song I know well and love, and with the first husky, hedonic word out of his mouth, my core clenches and thighs quiver.

  Jefferson Tate Kendrick’s been holding out on me. Not only can he sing, he can send your whole body into trembles with the raspy way he makes every melodic lyric sound like seduction.

  I let my head fall back and close my eyes, absorbing my smoky, sinful, personal concert. Not gonna lie, or be a bit ashamed, that by the time the song’s over, my panties are wet and I’m breathing heavier than if I’d run a marathon.

  “Bellamy,” he lightly touches my arm, “we’re here.”

  I slowly peel my eyes open and turn my head to give him a lazy smile. “That was, wow. You can sing, Jefferson.”

  “Yeah? You liked it?”

  I only nod, afraid of embarrassing myself if I try to use actual words to describe what just happened.

  “My dad’s pretty talented. Must’ve gotten it from him,” he shrugs, oblivious to just how incredible he is. “Let’s get out, look around.”

  It’s only with his reminder that my daze lifts and I look to see where we are. A car lot.

  “You’re getting a new car?”

  “Something like that.” He gets out, sauntering over to my side to open my door and offer me his hand.

  “What’s wrong with the car you have?” I ask, glancing back at his Navigator…not quite seeing the problem.

  He lifts our joined hands and sweeps his lips across my knuckles. “Doesn’t fit my needs anymore.” His voice is thickened with mystery, half-hooded eyes penetratingly enigmatic.

  “BELLAMY, COME OUT right now! You’re causing a scene!”

  Shit, his volume tells me he’s getting closer…gonna spot me crouched down, hiding behind this dumpster, any second now.

  But what choice do I have? My purse and phone are in his car, way across the lot…and he’s being ridiculous. Outside of his ever-loving mind! Trying to
buy me a car! A freakin’ car! Is he kidding me with that?

  So, I ran. Throwing in some tactical bobs, a few shifty weaves, and finally…going into hiding.

  He chased.

  And every shopper and salesperson at the dealership laughed, thoroughly enjoying our lil’ show. I may have even seen one person filming it on their phone. Great, can’t wait for the world to see our game of “refusing mouse hide and bossy cat seek” on YouTube.

  I hear his feet crunching on the gravel, each step sounding nearer. Time to make a mad dash for the office, where I’ll call a rational person to come get me.

  “Bellamy!” he screams, pounding footsteps gaining on me as I run, as fast as I can, past the service garage, around the corner and in between two rows of cars.

  “Go away! Leave me alone, crazy man!”

  “I’m crazy? You’re running around like a headless chicken!”

  “You’re not buying me a car! Amscray! Be gone with you, bossy boots!” Almost there. I slant left, but he reads the play, cutting me off.

  I end up in his unrelenting arms, a sweating, panting, captive mess.

  “Tag. You’re it,” he huffs, out of breath. “Might be more fun, and appropriate to play, I don’t know…at the park? Pretty sure we’ll be on YouTube within the hour.” Already thought of that, you pushy tyrant. “Not every day a girl gets chased around a car lot by her boyfriend, begging to buy her a new car. And what the fuck is amscray?”

  “Scram, in Pig Latin.”

  “You couldn’t just say ‘scram?’” He laughs. “Hold on, and don’t run again.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and groans when he reads the text.

  “What is it?” I ask and he turns the screen to me so I can read it.

  Brynn: INCOMING. He knows. Tracked your GPS. TAKE COVER. I REPEAT. TAKE COVER.

  Another ping.

  Sky: You do know the bank calls Daddy if we go in, right? Actually, guess you don’t. Good luck!