Please Love Me Back

by Melanie Marks

  We had a bit of a tug-of-war.

  It made him glance up at me, curiously. It was a very distracted glance.

  But instantly he does a double-take.

  He swallows, staring into my eyes. His lips part slightly and he goes completely still. A tiny noise comes from him as he stares.

  “You’re a fan?” he asks at last.

  As though he needs to ask.

  I close my eyes. Is this moment real? This is really Darius? He goes to Madison Heights now? (Madison Heights!!!)

  The thought is like a stab in my heart. Yet getting to see him again, actually be this close to him, it’s like a dream come true.

  … only Madison Heights—the school isn’t across the country. It’s just across town—and full of filthy-rich kids. Two things that make me sick—Darius with snobby rich people, and Darius snubbing me.

  The air is knocked out of me. Darius never came to see me, ever … yet he totally could have. Any time he wanted.

  But he didn’t want to.

  Apparently.

  “No, I’m not a fan,” I tell him abruptly. “My friend is. Apparently you’ve kissed her a couple of times.”

  He runs a hand through his shaggy, beautiful, messy hair. “Um, you’re going to have to give me more of a clue,” he says with a playful (weak) smile—like he’s kissed a lot of girls. Which no doubt he has. Another stab to my heart, though of course he can’t possibly know that. I mean, it’s been years, and he’s obviously forgotten all about me. He probably expects the same of me—no deep feeling, no bittersweet pain.

  Sorry buck-o the pain runs deep.

  He never came to see me. Not once.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I tell him, trying to sound breezy. “She paid for the kiss—it was charity too. Just like this. You can sign it to my brother.”

  He lifts a brow. “Your brother?”

  I nod.

  “Ouch,” he says with another playful (yet wan) smile. “I’ve been replaced.”

  “Right,” I tell him, terse and hurting—but trying to just sound bitter. “At least this one doesn’t try to act like he doesn’t know me.”

  Darius stills and his lips press together. He pales, squeezing his eyes shut a moment.

  “Cammy … ” he murmurs, his voice husky and soft. So gentle, yet full of agony. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, forget it. I don’t even care,” I snap inanely, then dash away from him.

  Having just told the biggest lie of my life.

  ***

  End of peek.

  Hope you liked it.

  Even When I Sleep is available now.

  Right now it only costs a dollar.

  https://www.amazon.com/Even-When-Sleep-Melanie-Marks-ebook/dp/B01KLW5K1U

  Summary of

  Smokin’ Hot (Accidental) Kiss

  Okay, I’m just going to start by saying I did NOT mean to make-out with my total enemy’s (smokin’ hot) boyfriend. I swear! I mean, I know it sounds like the perfect revenge, since my total enemy BECAME my total enemy by making out with my boyfriend (who, you know, became my ex boyfriend after that) (After totally making-out with the witch.)

  Still, even so—I did NOT make out with my enemy’s (hot) boyfriend on purpose. Really!! TRULY!!!

  Not gonna lie, though—Mmmm. Oh man! That kiss … I can’t get it out of my head. Or dreams. Smokin’ hot Sutter Sinclair, that boy can kiss!

  http://www.amazon.com/Smokin-Accidental-Kiss-Melanie-Marks-ebook/dp/B01F4YB4I8

  Newest books by Melanie Marks:

  Jane’s Air

  Even When I Sleep

  Smokin’ Hot (Accidental) Kiss

  Heartbreaker Hanson

  Love Liam

  Kissing Kade

  Ex-Boyfriend

  Want To Hate You… Too Bad I Love You

  The Tough Boy’s Tender Kiss

  My Brother’s Best Friend

  Dearest (Hot) Enemy

  The New Boy

  My Stepbrother’s Kiss

  My Forbidden Heartthrob

  (Right now each book only costs a dollar)

  (Or you can read them for free with Kindle Unlimited)

  THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

  By Melanie Marks

  CHAPTER 1

  I get a text from Jazz. ‘Um … can you save me? PLEASE????’

  I snort a laugh. I do like that she comes to me now—again. I’ve become her Ally. I mean, since her best friend, Ally, moved away. Now I’m Jazz’s go-to person again. Just as it should be, as far as I’m concerned. I had Jazz first. Then, in fourth grade, Ally came and swiped Jazz away from me with all her girlyness, and non-boyness. Gave Jazz ideas that she was more suitable than me for a best friend.

  Okay, like I said, that happened back in fourth grade though so I’m not holding a grudge. I’m just sayin.’ I was Jazz’s first. Me. Not Ally.

  Anyway, it’s good to have Jazz back. And asking me for help again. Because I like to help her. (Probably way more than I should.) I like the way her big brown eyes look up at me when I help her—like I’m a superhero or rock star or something. It hits me hard in the heart—massacres it—in the best way possible. I mean, ‘cause that is so not Jazz’s normal look. It’s other girls’ normal look. (The I’m a rock star one.) I get that look a lot actually—from other girls. But when they look at me like that, my head swims with, ‘Okay, I’m yours … for the next hour.’ But when Jazz looks at me like that, something happens inside me. To my whole body. It’s intense. And different. And … disturbing, actually. I mean, Jazz has been my best friend my whole life. I know Ally took over that department for Jazz—but for me? It was always Jazz. Always. My best friend—Jazz.

  But a weird thing happened recently, when Ally had to move away, and Jazz turned back to me—you know, for the ‘best friend’ stuff—it wasn’t the same. I mean, I tried to make it the same. I wanted it to be the same. But, well, it wasn’t the same. She would just look at me and my whole body would react. Like I said, it was disturbing. I didn’t want to see Jazz like that—as a girl. It was like a rule—a rule Jazz made herself. (I’ll get to the rule later, but right now I’ve got to pry the girl I’m kissing off my lips so I can text back Jazz.)

  ‘I’ll be there. Which theater?’

  I text it while I’m still tongue wrestling with Gia. (Gia is my girlfriend, by the way.) We’ve been ‘going together’ for two months as of today, according to Gia. And believe me, she would know. She’s up on stuff like that. So, just take her word for it—that’s what I’m doing, since I have no idea. But I’ll clue you in on something—if it’s been two months, then it is an entire month longer than any other girl I’ve ‘gone with’/dated/got-to-mack-without-trying-to-remember-who-I’m-kissing-when-I-close-my-eyes.

  Gia groans and pulls away from me, leaving my mouth lonely and unoccupied. She crosses her arms. “Are you texting while we’re kissing?!!”

  She knows I am, so it’s not really a question. It’s really a statement. And it’s said like I’m a wad. Which I am. I know. I blow as a boyfriend. To be fair though, I warn girls of this before I let them brand me with the ‘boyfriend’ title. They always give it to me anyway though. I’m boyfriend material in their starry eyes … until they realize I’m not. But I try. Sort of. For a while. Apparently, I’ve been giving it a shot for two months now with Gia. She baked me a cake that says so and everything. (It’s a really pretty cake.) We haven’t gotten around to eating it yet though, and now it looks like we probably won’t. Not only because she’s mad, but because I’ve got to, you know, help Jazz rid her bad date in theater number ten (according to the text I just got from her since Gia pulled away from my hungry mouth).

  Gia narrows her eyes. “If it’s Jazz you’re texting, we’re done.”

  Not going to lie, I know what she is saying is sort of fair. And not totally unreasonable. I mean—apparently—it’s our anniversary (of sorts) and really, what kind of tool texts another girl while they’re greedily ramming their tongue down another girl’s
throat? I get that that’s bad form. I do. And I know it’s not ‘romantic.’ Or good ‘boyfriend’ behavior. But didn’t I already cop to the fact I’m not a good boyfriend? Pretty sure I did. Like, a hundred times before we got together. Still, two months ago (apparently) she excitedly texted every girl from her contact list that I was her ‘boyfriend.’ And added the word ‘squee!!’ with two hundred-exclamation points and a bunch of emojis that indicated that me being her ‘boyfriend’ was pretty dang awesome.

  So, that in itself let me know she didn’t really care that I wasn’t top-notch-boyfriend-stuff or aiming for that. That she just wanted to nab the title of ‘Luke-Walker’s-girlfriend’ for a while. And I was okay with that. She got something … and I got something. I, Luke Walker, got a smokin’ hot girl, and in return she got … me, wad that I am. Yet I guess I’m okay to look at (or so I’ve heard) and I’m the school’s football hero, and I own the ice in hockey. (Well, not really. I’m a lot better at football than hockey, but I rock at both—and everybody at school knows it. Especially hot girls. Apparently.)

  Yet here we are. The moment of truth. Again. I’m not a good boyfriend. Shock.

  I look away, feeling bad. I mean, she baked me a cake, and she’s wearing—well, hot stuff. Specifically for me. I run a hand over my face. Then drone out the truth, “Okay, yes. It was Jazz.”

  Gia growls and goes to throw the pretty cake at me, but misses, because I duck.

  I stare at the cake splattered against the wall.

  “Um, I’m going to go,” I tell her, heading for the door.

  “Really???!!!!!” she screams. “Really? On our ANNIVERSARY? While we’re KISSING?!!”

  Okay, so she’s talking about the texting thing some more. I guess that’s a pretty big deal with girls. Noted.

  I sideways glance at the cake on the wall again. “Look, I’m just going to let you calm down, okay?” I tell her, turning the doorknob, wanting so bad to get away from the lasers she’s shooting at me with her big, pretty eyes.

  She puts her hands on her hips. “You’re really leaving?”

  She says it like she can’t believe it. Yet didn’t she just say we’re “done” if I was texting Jazz?

  … And I was. I was texting Jazz.

  Things like this happen a lot with girls. They threaten they are going to break up with me … but then they don’t do it. I have to do it. And it sucks.

  Well, I’m not going to do it. Not today, anyway. It’s our freakin’ anniversary—I guess. I’ve never had one of those and I’m not going to break-up on it. Screw her and her chocolate crazy cake on the wall, I’m going to at least make it til the day after my two-month anniversary, even if it means saying this, “Look, I’m going to leave for an hour—two at the most. Then I’m going to come back—with a gift—because it’s our anniversary. And you look nice.”

  I give her a tiny glance, and I’m actually sincere, “Thanks for the cake.”

  Then I’m out the door before she can throw anything else at me. If she doesn’t let me in when I come back, then okay. At least I didn’t break up with her. On our anniversary.

  CHAPTER 2

  When I get to the theater I discover I don’t have enough cash for the movie. Unfortunately, I discover it when I’m at the window buying the ticket. It’s pretty embarrassing. And awkward.

  The girl behind the ticket window tilts her head. I think she’s giving me a ‘poor shmuck’ look, but then she says, “You don’t remember me, huh?”

  I stop searching around in my pockets and give her a quick second look. I actually get asked this question a lot by girls. Pretty girls. Just like her. I know the correct answer is to say, “Of course I remember you.” You know, lie. It’s way safer that way. For everyone. I don’t get yelled at, or sobbed on, and the girl gets to at least try to believe what I’m saying is true.

  “Y—eah, I remember you,” I tell her, starting to look through my pockets again. I just need to cough up another two bucks. “Hey, can you lend me—?”

  She shoots me the ticket before I can get the full request out.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. “We had fun, right?”

  This seems safe to say. I mean, if we didn’t, she wouldn’t have shot me the ticket, right?

  She nods with an exasperated kind of smile, “Well, I had fun. You don’t seem to even remember.”

  “No. I remember. I totally remember—it was fun.”

  “You didn’t text me after,” she pouts. “I put my name and number in your phone and you promised to text.”

  Uh. I do that a lot. Doesn’t everyone? It would be rude not to.

  “Um,” I rub the back of my neck. “Sorry.”

  I give her another quick glance. Nope. Blank. She must not go to my school (well, probably). And the hook-up couldn’t have been that recent because I’ve had a girlfriend for the past two months—apparently. (I don’t cheat on girlfriends … I just don’t keep them that long. But I keep track of them, pretty much. This girl was never one. THAT, I’m pretty sure of. But that’s about all I’m sure of.) So, I scratch my head, then say as polite as possible, “Well, it’s great seeing you again—you look amazing. But your line is getting long. So, I should probably let you get back to work. Thanks for the two bucks.”

  I scurry away and then enter theatre ten, kind of smiling to myself because it’s a zombie movie. Jazz loves her zombies. Way more than most of her ‘dates.’

  I sit behind her and her ‘date’ without either of them noticing I came in.

  The guy she’s with is this loser, Chad. Well, he’s not exactly a loser to girls, maybe. I guess. They call him ‘hot.’ But we on the hockey team call him ‘Squirrel’ because … well, it’s dirty, so I’m not going to tell you why. But he is not a guy that I would want with Jazz. (Not that I would want any guy with Jazz.)

  When he tries to make another move on her (which takes about ten seconds) I grab his hand as she’s telling him, “For the love of all mankind, I said no!”

  She says it really loud, making me choke out a laugh, even as I’m smashing the guy’s grabby hand in my fist. As I’m doing it, I growl, “She said no. Dude, no means no. You learned that from those commercials, right? And court shows … and life?”

  I fully remove his hand from anywhere near her body and he looks back at me like he’s shocked to see me. Which I guess he is. “Luke?!! Wha—what are you doing here?”

  “Being Jazz’s bodyguard,” I tell him. “Keep your hands off her body. She let you take her to the movie, not … anywhere else.” I was going to say something dirty. Well, filthy, actually. But I caught myself and changed it just in the nick of time. I try not to talk that way in front of Jazz. I may’ve used to think of her as one of the guys, but she’s not a guy … as Chad plainly observed. And well, face it, I’ve observed the fact myself. Jazz is so totally not a guy. (She just watches guy movies and used to beat up most of the guys on our block.)

  “Look, you’ve lost your Jazz-privileges,” I tell Chad, finally throwing his punk hand back at him when he yelps. “—she’s going to sit back here with me, and we’re going to finish watching this movie. And you’re going to go home—alone.”

  Of course as I’m saying this Jazz gives me one of her I’m-her-hero looks and I lose my breath.

  Great. Just what I need—a crush on my best friend.

  While I’m trying to remind my lungs how to work, and remind my crazily thumping heart that we’re only friends, Jazz happily gets up from her seat beside Squirrel and plops into the one next to me. Where she belongs. Close to me. Not another guy. Especially not a squirrel.

  CHAPTER 3

  After the movie, as I’m giving Jazz a ride home I remember that I’m supposed to be getting Gia a gift. “It’s our two month anniversary,” I tell Jazz.

  “Wow, that’s a long time,” she murmurs and I’m not sure if she’s being serious or not. I mean, it is a long time for me. But really, Jazz’s track record with guys isn’t that great either. She goes through guys with lightning
speed. Like her ‘romance’ with Squirrel—well, okay, that only lasted about an hour. But really, that’s par for the course with Jazz. She gives almost any guy a chance—if they ask her nicely. Then they blow it, she moves on. Doesn’t look back.

  She’s looking for something. I’m not sure what. (Secretly, I like to think it’s me. But I’m not sure.) She’s restless when it comes to guys. So, it’s safer to stand back. Let her plow through them and come to me when she’s wanting actual companionship. Like tonight. She wouldn’t even tell me who she was going out with before she left. She just said, “Stand by, I’ll probably need you to bail me out, bestie.”

  She always calls me that, ‘bestie,’ now that Ally left. She does it teasing and sardonically, though. Like it’s some big chore taking over Ally’s best friend duties.

  “Just tell me who you’re going with.” I tried to sound more casual than I actually felt. I worry about her. She had recently been in a coma. (Yeah, a freakin’ coma. I swear. A coma!!) So, she seems really fragile to me. Plus, she lets any guy take her out. It’s disturbing.

  “You won’t approve,” she told me in a murmur distractedly as she scrutinized the contents of her closet, totally not going to tell me who she was letting have the honor of her mouth for the next hour or two.

  Finally she turned from her closet to face me. She held up a red top to her chest. Then a black one. “Which looks best?”

  Really, it would seem she needs to try stuff on for me to be a good judge, right? Only, I happen to know what she looks like in both tops. She looks good in both. Really good. Really, I think I make a better friend than Ally when it comes to decisions like this. Jazz in the red top drives me wild.

  I didn’t tell her this, though. Because I have a girlfriend. And she was going out with some guy.