Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Yorkshire slang guide
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
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More by Andie M. Long
About the author
BALLS
Ball Games Book One
Andie M. Long
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Copyright (c) 2015 by Andrea Long
All rights reserved.
Cover photo from One Dollar Photo.
Dedication
To the Midland Meet up Group, without whom I’d have never seen a Camel Ball.
Without you there would be no Camille.
With an extra special mention to Beth Ashworth, my fellow Camel Ball.
Acknowledgements
Once again thank you to the following people who assist in getting these books into print.
To Ruth Loizides for the Alpha reading.
To my sister Maz for the Sister Arc read through. I get so excited when it lands on the kindle!
Special thanks to everyone who beta read this novella and loved it, even if you did then nag me to write the next one!
To Michelle Dunbar, Editor Extraordinaire for spotting when I change a characters clothing and other important details!
To my ETM (Evil Task Master) Nikki J. Levy for all the encouragement, support and bullying to make me
get the books done when I want to be Pillow Barbie. Roflmao.
To my Indie Erogenous Zone ladies who keep me sane.
Love, kisses and sparkles to the Tiara Team.
Lastly thank you to all the readers, bloggers and fellow authors who are so supportive.
Yorkshire slang guide
Dear Reader,
You may be reading this novella from outside of South Yorkshire, England. This story is centred around the Turner family, who I hope you will become familiar with as I write further novellas in the series, all complete stand-alone stories. While I refrained from writing in the broad Yorkshire style of ‘Where’s tha bin?’ (Where have you been), I did want to leave in some British and Yorkshire words as I love providing an opportunity to learn new rude words, (I’m naughty like that.) So what follows is a list* of what you will come across in the novella. If I’ve missed any feel free to contact me and I’ll teach you what they mean. I hope you have fun reading the story. It came about after a meeting of like-minded book readers in Birmingham. We happened to visit a sweet shop that sold Camel Balls (you can Google them if you don’t know what they look like). As some of the meet-up were bloggers who had formed an alliance called All for the Love, myself and fellow author Beth Ashworth joked that we would have our own group, The Camel Balls.
Such is a writer's imagination that a few months later when I saw some ebooks with rude titles I thought it would be fun to write one called Balls. At first it was a joke and I did a mock book cover. The next thing I know Camille is talking in my head.
Love Andie.
Christmas Day 2015.
British/Yorkshire Slang.
Argos catalogue - not slang but you may like to know that this is a catalogue of a shop that sells homeware.
Arse/Arsehole - idiot.
Arse licker - someone is extra complimentary to someone to get treated better.
Banter - chat.
Belch - burp.
Binning - in this novella throwing away. Also used for raining, eg binning it down and when ending a relationship, eg Ha ha you’ve been binned.
Bog - toilet/loo.
Bollock freezing - very, very cold.
Bugger all - nothing. Sometimes for emphasis we say shit bugger all.
Buster - mate but used in a way like told you so, ie Take that buster.
Cracked - crazy.
Crisp packet - a packet that holds what the US call potato chips.
Cuppa - cup of tea.
Dickhead - stronger use of idiot, used with disdain when you really want to insult someone
Don’t give a toss - not bothered.
Dork - a person acting stupid.
Folks - parents.
Fucking me around - messing about.
Git - idiot. Tends to be used jokily, eg someone plays a trick on you, *chuckle* You git.
Hammered - very drunk.
Hit the sack - go to bed.
In a tick - Will do in a moment if you just give me a minute or two.
Knobhead - idiot. Can be used jokily or to be awful. If you’re joking, laugh as you say it, *chuckle* You knobhead. To be rude, dangle your little finger near your forehead to indicate a tiny penis and say it.
Lazy arse - lazy bottom, ie spending too much time sitting down. Does not mean lazy idiot despite the definition of arse on its own (above).
Moron - idiot.
Pissing around/about - messing about.
Pissing contest - men getting competitive, as in practically marking areas with their urine to demonstrate dominance.
Pissing it down - raining.
Pissed - drunk. This word does not mean angry here.
Rat-arsed - very drunk.
Silly old cow - an older woman you are annoyed with.
Smug git - someone who is extra pleased with themselves.
Skinny minny - thin person.
Tap you - have sex with you.
Take the piss - make fun of.
Three sheets to the wind - drunk.
Tons - a lot.
Totty - people to lust over.
Twat - a word for vagina, used to say a person is a despicable person.
Wankstain - stronger use of idiot, used with disdain when you really want to insult someone.
Whinge-bag - someone who complains a lot.
*I’ve had so much fun compiling this list!
Prologue
May 2010
Mrs Winters was a bitch. Ninety-nine percent of netball matches saw Camille benched, but on this freezing autumn day, the silly old cow stuck her in the team. Camille longed for her coat and gloves but instead was dressed in a white sports shirt, extremely tight navy shorts, a short navy blue kilt skirt and a yellow tabard. She thanked God for the tabard which hid the fact her nipples could double as coat hooks right now. As she shifted to pass the ball she stuck out her tongue at her best mate Beth, who stood at the side of the pitch, her long brown hair tucked under a woolly hat. As usual, chief arse licker Catherine had the goal attack position, leaving Camille in her dull spot of wing defence. It wasn’t fair, in this position she could never score. Intercepting the ball from her opponent, she passed to Catherine, who aimed and scored the winning goal of the match. As the whistle blew, everyone crowded around Catherine in celebration, leaving Camille at the rear of the pitch—alone. Typical. Camille shrugged her shoulders and headed towards the changing rooms. Beth ran to catch up with her.
‘You did brilliant there, Cam,’ said Beth.
Camille huffed. ‘Not that anyon
e noticed.’
Beth lowered her voice, ‘Dylan did.’
Camille eye-rolled. ‘As I said, no one.’
Dylan Ball was the class clown and looked the part with his brown curled hair and plump lips. His life mission appeared to be to torment Camille at any possible moment. The end of the year exams were creeping up on them, after which they would leave school for the great wide world. In Camille’s case, she was off to Sixth Form in Sheffield, then Liverpool University, relieved to be leaving behind Rotherham and morons such as Dylan. She’d learnt that Dylan had taken a position in a local bank branch. She reckoned he’d be sacked within the day.
As she pushed open the door, ready for the final lesson of the day, Camille observed her classmates stares, murmurs and cackles as she passed them. Dylan sat among them, addressing her with a twist of a smirk on his face. Camille sighed. What now? She strode past him and took a seat at the front of the classroom. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he hurt her. He could stare at her back. While she waited for her teacher to turn up and start the lesson, Camille switched on her mobile phone to catch up on her Facebook feed. Within seconds, she discovered the subject of the gossip and giggling as notifications piled up on screen. Her. As she’d left the volume on her phone, everyone in the classroom knew she’d received them too. Camille stared at the photo Dylan had posted to Facebook showing her on the netball court earlier. In the picture, Camille stretched as she passed the ball. What had caught everyone’s attention was that the stretch had caused Camille’s shorts to tighten, revealing what Dylan captioned a Camille Toe. Camille dug her fingernails into her thigh to distract herself from the tears that hovered at the corner of her eyes.
‘Camel Toe, Camille Toe. Do you get it?’ A classmate behind her attempted to whisper but failed.
Camille fixed her gaze on the face of Mr Thomas, the teacher who now entered the classroom. She blanked her classmates out and concentrated. She needed to pass these exams and no one, least of all Dylan Ball, would get in her way.
The nickname stuck. Camille closed her Facebook account because everyone thought tagging her in photos of Camels was hilarious. She didn’t have time for social media with the sheer volume of studying she had to do, so it wasn’t the loss it might otherwise have been. Instead, she concentrated on her studies or met up with Beth at the library. She avoided any place where she was likely to bump into Dylan.
Camille sat her exams and left school. She started Liverpool University and the nickname sank into obscurity. Apart from her family and her continued, albeit now distant friendship with Beth, (who had gone to Manchester University instead) her connection with Rotherham was severed. But she never forgot Dylan Ball. She vowed that one day when he expected it least, Dylan would suffer the consequences of messing with Camille Turner.
Chapter One
June 2015
My tunes are on in my cute Fiat 500. Today I’m singing along to Taylor Swift. It’s a waste of my talents singing in a car, I should try out for X-factor next year. I stall at traffic lights but don’t give a toss as my car has a stop-start function and revs to life by itself. Clever Bella. That’s right, my car has a name. White, with red racing stripes on her sides and a black and white houndstooth interior. She’s one stylish babe though her habit of letting the door swing back to hit my arse is an annoyance. I turn left into the vacant car park and park across two spaces for the hell of it.
I stride across the car park towards the building in front of me; a large warehouse with huge windows. I peek inside as I walk along, seeing my reflection stare back at me. My long blonde hair is swept up in a ponytail as a fuck you to the gusts of wind. A crisp packet comes hurtling at my feet and I skip to avoid it. I halt at the front of the building. A large sign written in a spiky font reads The Kid Zone.
This belongs to me now. Well, me and the bank.
I open the locks, push open the door and switch off the security alarm. Then I lock the door behind me. Perhaps I should have done that before I stopped the alarm? The brisk air in the vast space nips at my skin causing goose bumps and I pull my coat tighter around my body. I look around the reception, at the tables, chairs and climbing and play frames. This is my new venture—proud owner of a kids play centre. Beth inspired my career move. She dropped out of University when she discovered she was pregnant and returned to Rotherham to have Trey. The times she complained she had nowhere to go to meet other mums but play groups in dusty church halls, had my mind whirring with ideas. A place for kids to burn off energy while their mums relax. I used the inheritance I got from my paternal grandmother, along with a business loan and bought my franchise of Kids Zone. For twenty-one years old I’m proud of myself, at least, I will be if people use it.
The wind’s direction makes the rain hit the windows with a clatter. I hope it rains throughout summer. Not for me sunbathing in the garden reading. Not this year. This year I need torrential rain and chilly weather. Parents don’t bring their cherished offspring to play centres on sunny days. They rejoice that they can save their money and sit in the park. As my business opens the first week in July, just before the six-week summer holidays, I’m praying for rain. Beth is my tutor of all things children. I thought I'd had a great idea of a corner where mums could read, with books and magazines and a separate crafting corner for the kids. Then I underwent some training, realised I’d spend hours picking up ripped off, abandoned pieces of paper and the glue would end up in the ball pool. Let the mothers bring their own magazines they told me. They’ll take care of them better. They also advised I get used to cleaning as kids seldom aim their piss in the toilet bowl. Those weren’t their actual words but you get the drift. The babysitting I did for pocket money when I was younger had not prepared me for the pending onslaught of children. Bribery of free lifetime access to The Kid Zone for the now two-year-old Trey and I had Beth as a mentor.
The window reveals a few of Rotherham’s industrial buildings. Being back in Rotherham is strange. I’ve rented a two-bedroom house in Treeton near a major supermarket and a pub. The G.P. surgery is close should I need medication for a nervous breakdown. My old family home is in Brinsworth. The folks are still there. Close enough to visit but far enough away they can’t pop around unannounced. So far I love living on my own. I’d gone from family home to shared University accommodation and now I have peace and quiet at long last. I can wash up when I want, do a pamper evening, stay in pyjamas on a Saturday. It rocks. On Friday nights, Beth’s mother often has Trey so we can have movie and pizza night at mine. The pièce de résistance though was that after a childhood of no pets because my parents didn’t want them, I now have a black kitten named Bob. I’d approached my landlady, and she had no problem with me adopting him. He’s sleek, has massive green eyes and likes jumping on carrier bags.
Enough of the daydreaming, I chastise myself. The coffee machine is switched on and five minutes later I’m sat at a table with paperwork and accounts spread out in front of me. Though I have a small office, I prefer to sit here while we're closed.
I’ve always monitored my finances and been savvy with money. The exact opposite of my older brother Tyler. He wasted his pocket money on sweets and Lego while mine went into a junior bank account. Three years older than me, he still lives at home with our parents. He works at WH Smith in the town centre and gets pissed every weekend. I find it sad but he's happy enough. My mother says he’s a lazy bugger and keeps telling him she’s throwing him out at twenty-five. He’s twenty-four now so he ought to be worried, but I doubt my mother means it. She does everything for him, despite having a part-time job at the council cleaning. My Dad’s a Tax Inspector. Mum says that now they’ve paid the mortgage off, they should enjoy the odd weekend away. She thinks Tyler would set the house on fire or she’d find his body after he’d died of starvation. Once I get this business under way, I’ll talk to him. Sometimes it’s as if I’m the older one.
The thought that my business is almost ready to open makes my sto
mach fizz with excitement and apprehension. The franchise people helped me recruit staff. We hired two women able to cook and three young girls agile enough to rescue trapped or frightened kids from the top of the play equipment. Today I was completing arrangements for the launch party, taking place on the eighteenth of July. Free tickets were circulating, and I’d advertised in the local papers, both free and paid. Posters were up at the entrances of local establishments. I hoped people bought food in the centre so I could make a little money back from my investment.
I finish updating my financial spreadsheets. My fingers are now so numb I can’t pick up the receipts from the table. Next on the agenda is a visit to the bank.
As I pull into a packed car park, I’m lucky to see someone reversing out of a space to leave. Nodding to the driver of the other car as they pass, I park and then pout. I don't want to leave the warmth of the car's interior. However, I have tasks to fulfil. I rummage in my handbag to double check the cheques I need to pay in are there.
Henderson’s bank has gone high tech since the last time I was here. In the doorway are so many machines. I put my bank card in one as advised by the written instructions on the machine. Three times I try to deposit a cheque but the machine says there’s a problem.
‘I thought these made you faster?’ I mutter.
‘Sorry about this.’ An assistant rushes over speaking in a soothing tone. ‘Can I see the cheque you’re trying to deposit?’
I huff. ‘It’s a piece of paper like most cheques.’
‘Ah.’ The Assistant smiles at me as if she’s thought of a new antibiotic wonder drug. ‘It’s an extra-large cheque, and it has staple holes.’ She taps the corner of the paper where two tiny holes have perforated the cheque. ‘The machine isn't keen on those.’
Balls (Ball Games #1) Page 1
