by JB Salsbury
Breaking Defenses
JB Salsbury
Copyright © 2019 by JB Salsbury
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.
Cover art: Pixel Mischief Design
Proofread by: Read by Rose
For all my readers.
I live my dream because of you.
Contents
Prologue
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
Also by JB Salsbury
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Prologue
Las Vegas High School - Senior Year
Rowan
I’m not going to puke, I’m not going to puke. I’m not going to puke.
I repeat the phrase in my head as my stomach twists while roaring the opposite. I’m regretting the PB&J I ate for lunch. I should’ve gone without, but food feeds the brain and I need all the fuel I can get.
Friday. The last day of finals week in my very last week of high school and there’s no way in hell I could mess this up.
AP calculus is my sweet spot.
Math has always been my thing.
I pulled an all-nighter just to insure I had this test in the bag, and yet my stomach still gurgles with unease. But I’ve learned the hard way that even the best laid plans can get blown to shit without any help from me. My life has been a constant uphill climb with unimaginable obstacles, but I’ve managed to hold on by my nails to keep climbing.
The past does not predict the future.
I make those words my new mantra and it seems to work a little better than the previous.
Weaving through my boisterous classmates in the courtyard there is a tangible change in the air. Four years of school is almost over. Sure, we have those couple of pointless days next week that we’ll spend signing yearbooks and having end of the year parties, but those don’t really count.
The Las Vegas sun is hot so that when I pull open the door to Mr. Thorn’s classroom the air-conditioning cools my sweat-dampened skin.
“Rowan, you’re early,” Mr. Thorn says. He’s at his desk with a half-eaten sandwich and an open bag of lunch-sized Doritos.
I drop my bag at the desk in the front, the same desk I’ve had all semester and manage to claim easily every class period because no one likes to sit in the front. “I don’t mean to interrupt your lunch.” I unzip my backpack that’s barely being held together by safety pins and some creative needle and thread work. I thumb the torn shoulder strap thinking fondly of the bag that has managed to survive four years of high school. “I’ll study quietly until the bell rings.” I drop into my seat and pull out my AP calculus study guide, the one I’ve practically memorized over the week.
Mr. Thorn grunts and goes back to his lunch.
I skim through the first few pages without having to look at the equations because I’ve been over them a million times. Relationship between infinite limits and asymptotes, intermediate value theorem—
The bell blazes overhead signaling the end of the lunch hour. My hand clutches the front of my lucky shirt for comfort. My Bear State University shirt, the one I picked up when I toured the campus after I was offered the coveted Brower Millstone Academic Scholarship. Since I was eight years old I’ve dreamed of living in Los Angeles, going to school for accounting and becoming the CFO for a Fortune 500 company. Living by the beach is a dream, and getting out of Las Vegas, more specifically, away from my mom and stepdad, is the ultimate goal.
The room fills with sweaty teenagers in various forms of conversation. Kids I went to school with for four years and most of them don’t even know I exist. It’s not that they’re assholes, at least, not all of them. I’ve always been an introvert, never found comfort in friendship because it’s unpredictable. That’s what I love so much about math, I can always count on there being one right answer.
I keep my head down, looking over my notes, as Mr. Thorn cleans up his lunch and by the time the final bell rings the classroom is full except for the two desks on either side of me. I feel a small sense of comfort knowing there won’t be anyone sitting close enough to me to cheat off my paper.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your AP calculus final. The test consists of twenty-eight questions, each one a concept you learned sometime during our time together. The test is worth eighty percent of your grade, so I hope you all took my advice and studied hard.”
Most of the room groans, but my lips curl in a secret smile.
As hard as I’ve studied, there can’t possibly be a question on that test that I don’t know the—
The door swings open with a gush of hot air. With the sun glare I can’t tell right away who’s walking in late. When he takes his first steps inside my gaze narrows while my stomach simultaneously flips over on itself.
How does a man of his size manage to move like he’s walking on air?
I’d recognize that swagger anywhere.
“Carey Slade,” Mr. Thorn says with a shake of his head. “Nice of you to join us.”
The all-star football player hikes his backpack higher on his shoulder and flashes his most charming grin. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up with…something.” He swipes at his lower lip with his thumb and it doesn’t take a math genius to figure out he got caught up with someone. Most likely Serena Yuki, the gorgeous Asian American captain of the cheerleading team. Her and Carey have been on-again off-again since freshman year.
Mr. Thorn mumbles, “Take a seat, Mr. Slade.”
I watch his big body float to the desk to my left and I am hit with a whiff off fancy smelling cologne when he drops into the seat next to me. He places his backpack on the floor between us and leans back in his chair, making the plastic and metal groan in protest. He’s well over six-foot and I couldn’t begin to guess at his weight, but something tells me he’s probably heavier than he looks. His shoulders are wide, arms thick, and his large chest tapers into a narrow waist and—
“Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”
My gaze snaps to his and judging by the smug look in his hazel eyes he saw me checking out his body. I feel my lips part to reply, but words fail me.
I’ve been going to school with Carey Slade since Freshman year, but he’s never once spoken to me. Okay, there was that one time Junior year when I was standing in the lunch line, blocking the doorway and he said, “’Scuse me” as he pushed by. But this is the first time he’s looked at and spoke to me at the same time.
He tilts his head, his dark messed up hair catches the fluorescent lights making it look more brown than black. “Pencil?”
Right. Pencil.
I nod dumbly and curse him in my head for making me feel dumb. I don’t have a lot going for me. I’m not popular, don’t play sports, and no one would ever accuse me of being beautiful, but I am smart. My 4.2 GPA proves as much.
I pull my backpack to my lap and unhook the big safety pin to get into the zipper pouch. I feel his eyes on me and move quickly in the hopes that he won’t see my hand shake. I reach for the first pencil I find and hand it to him.
He smirks and takes it. When his big fingers brush against mine, I whip my hand back and curl it into my stomach.
He leans across the
aisle, holds up the pencil, and whispers, “Thanks.”
Feeling lurchy and awkward I nod, only realizing when I go to pull out my own pencil that I’d given Carey my lucky one.
Carey
Unicorns.
Odd. I never would’ve thought Rowan Campbell would be into unicorns. The mythical horned horses seem way too mainstream for the girl who seems to get all her clothes from Goodwill. I’m not implying that she’s poor, she drives an older Volkswagen Jetta and I know those things aren’t cheap. It’s more like she appreciates things with mileage.
She’s always wearing some faded over-sized t-shirt from another state, and every winter she sports a sweatshirt that reads World’s Greatest Grandpa that’s so big it covers her knees.
When I asked for a pencil I expected some stumpy yellow number 2 with teeth marks and no eraser. Not this silver and pink speckled monstrosity.
Mr. Thorn drops my test on my desk. “Keep your eyes on your own paper. You’ll have fifty minutes to complete the test. Cheating is an automatic failure in the class.”
Yadda-yadda…
I flip open the first page, carefully reading the question, and feel Rowan’s eyes on my test. Which is really fucking weird because the girl is some kind of super genius, and although I get decent grades, I need to if I want to continue playing football, she would never find me worthy of skimming answers from.
She’s not staring at me, she’s staring at the pencil.
I drag the pencil off the desk and into my lap, pretending to rest it on my inner thigh and then turn just in time to catch Rowan eyeing my crotch.
Her cheeks light up, a bright pink that makes her green eyes, that are wide and horrified, glow. I chuckle and she puts her eyes back on her paper, her head sinks deep between her shoulders as she scribbles furiously on her test.
I smile and get back to mine.
I read through the questions, answering the ones I know and skipping the ones I don’t. I’ve got a decent GPA, and I already have my one-way ticket to Bear State University to play football, so I only have to complete this test, I’m not looking for an A, just a passing grade.
Thirty minutes have gone by and there are three questions on the test I haven’t answered yet.
Thank God for planning ahead.
I wrote a little cheat sheet on the backside of a water bottle label.
Mr. Thorn is nose deep in grading papers when I reach into my backpack for my water bottle. I place it on the desk and casually peel the label back while I keep my eyes fixed on the test.
I work out the problem and reach to flip the page when my hand knocks the water bottle off my desk and it rolls under Rowan’s.
Startled, she makes a little squeak that gets Mr. Thorn’s attention. I keep my nose to my test as Rowan swats at the bottle beneath her, finally pushing out her chair to snag it from the floor.
Mr. Thorn looks panicked watching the girl climb under the table. “Rowan, please stay in your seat—”
“Sorry,” she says. She holds the bottle up. “I got it. Sorry.” She climbs back into her seat. “It’s just a water bottle.”
But the label is hanging open exposing all the black pen marks hidden inside. I continue to work on my test, hoping the cheat sheet goes unnoticed, but when Mr. Thorn comes around his desk, I close my eyes and pray to the god of second chances.
“Give me that,” Mr. Thorn says.
Rowan, again at a loss for words, makes a weird groan whine sound and hands him the bottle.
“Ms. Campbell—”
“It’s not mine.” She finally finds her words and that’s what she chooses to say? Amateur.
“Whose is it then?”
They have the entire class's attention now, all of us looking to the front of the class to wait and see who Rowan throws under the bus.
“I-I don’t know. I was taking my test and I heard it fall…” Her gaze slips to the empty seat on her right, and then comes to me. I can see the question in her eyes, she wants me to confess.
No fucking way.
Everyone knows you never confess when accused of cheating.
I shrug. “I didn’t see it either.”
The entire room is silent as Mr. Thorn’s face swells with anger. “If someone doesn’t confess I will fail the entire class.”
Rowan gasps.
Mr. Thorn points to the back of the room. “Mateo?”
I whirl around at the sound of my team’s quarterback’s name, he also happens to be my best friend. What the fuck is he doing?
He removes his baseball hat that I know has cheat sheet inside it because we made them together last night. He runs a hand through his shaggy blonde hair and frowns. “It was Rowan, Mr. Thorn.”
“What?” Her hands are clamped on the back of her seat, her fingers white. “It wasn’t me.”
“I saw her.” Mateo eyes the girl. “I’m sorry, but I can’t fail this test just because you’re afraid to confess, Rowan.”
She slams her gaping mouth closed, her jaw is hard and her back is ramrod straight. I watch her shock morph to anger and then her shoulders droop with acceptance.
“Get your things, Ms. Campbell,” Mr. Thorn says with disappointment in his voice.
I’d expect someone in her position to be throwing her shit around, huffing and puffing and making a scene, but there’s a calm reserve to the way she gathers her backpack together, and slides her test into Mr. Thorn’s hands.
“Straight to the office. I’ll meet you there after class and we’ll have to call your parents.”
Only then do I see a hint of emotion. Her eyes widening, her face grows pale. “I’m eighteen. You don’t need to involve my parents—”
“Office. Now.”
Like a lamb being led to slaughter, Rowan leaves class with her bag in her arms and her head hung low, the small, quiet girl paying the price for my mistake.
I stare down at the pencil in my hand, those fucking unicorns looking back at me with disgust and a heavy dose of judgment.
Rowan just saved my football career.
Too bad I’ll never get the chance to thank her for doing so.
Chapter One
Bear State University - Two and a Half Years Later
Carey
I should’ve known it was a mistake to agree to go out with the team tonight after a grueling two-a-day practice. When they said just a quick drink at the university’s designated dive bar, I had hoped it would be empty, seeing as the semester ended two days ago and everyone went home for Christmas.
I was wrong.
The place is packed with drunk Bear State students blowing off end of the semester stress before pulling their shit together to get home to their families.
I don’t blame them. I’m doing the same. After practice tonight coach Brawley pulled me aside and delivered the worst possible news, pissing all over my good mood.
“You failed your accounting two final. You’ll be benched for the bowl game.”
I would’ve preferred the guy kick me in the balls, spit on my face and call me a little bitch.
Benched for the bowl game? Because of one fucking test? Yes, those were my exact words and no he didn’t appreciate my attitude.
“I managed to convince Professor Neal to let you retake your final in one week.”
One week? That’s the day after Christmas.
“I have to admit, I thought I’d be benching you for your temper before I’d be benching you for your grades.”
Leave it to coach to pour a little salt into the wound.
“You get one more shot at that test. You fail it, you fail your team.”
Professor Neal made it clear I’d need an eighty percent and above to pass her class.
I told coach the truth, math just isn’t my thing.
That’s when he broke the news.
Which brings me to now, stuck in a crowded bar, locked in my head and staring at the whiskey swirling in my glass. A firm grip squeezes my shoulder.
My roommate Kaipo, a
big half-Hawaiian dude and our team’s fullback, squeezes next to me at the bar. “Quit pouting about your test, man. At least you’re getting a chance to make it up.”
“I’m not pouting,” I mumble and toss my whiskey back, sliding my empty glass away. Okay, maybe I’m pouting a little.
“Take care of your shit and move on, we got a bowl game to win!” He slaps me on the back.
I turn to glare at the dickhead. “Yeah. I know. But while you guys are training your asses off, I’ll be stuck in the library with a stupid tutor doing fucking math.”
“Let me buy you another drink.” Kaipo waves over the bartender.
“Nah, man. I’m good.” I check my phone. “It’s almost last call and I have to meet my tutor in the morning.”
“No booze. All right.” At six-foot-six he towers over everyone else in the bar as he peruses the crowd.
I pull twenty bucks from my wallet and toss it on the bar, giving the bartender a chin lift.
When I turn around to leave, Kaipo is flanked by two beautiful women, both dressed to kill, and sizing me up. Jersey Chasers. They’re easy to spot. They’re always sexy, and they treat me like I’m some kind of Prince Charming before they even know my name. These two I’ve seen before but have yet to…experience.
The brunette tucks in under Kaipo’s gigantic arm and looks up at him like he’s a million dollar bill. The blonde, well, she’s looking directly at me with the same expression.
“Carey, this is Callie,” Kaipo says while gently guiding the woman closer to me. “She’s been dying to meet you.”
I give her a quick once over. Tight little body, big boobs, a lot of hair—I wonder how much of it is real. Doesn’t matter, I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out. “Callie.” I hold my hand out to shake hers and when she takes my hand I tug her close and loop an arm around her lower back.
