Contents
Dedication
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Acknowledgments
Also by the Author
About the Author
Excerpt from The Messenger (Mortal Beloved, Book One)
Links
For Carol “Cookie” DuMond
Because you believe.
The Story of You and Me
Copyright © 2013 Pamela DuMond
All rights reserved.
Cover Art Design: Michael James Canales http://www.mjcimageworks.com
No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any other means, without written permission of the author, except in the use of brief quotations used in articles or reviews. You can contact the author at [email protected]
Chapter One
“Screw you, Alejandro!”
The beer bottle whistled past my ear and smashed into the wooden bench behind my head, showering me with shards of glass. I dropped my e-book reader and ducked as a second bottle flew over my head and exploded onto the booth behind me.
“Thanks for asking, but you’re not my type. Give me your keys,” a guy said.
Multiple slivers of pain popped on my head and face. I mopped back my beer-drenched, long, chestnut-colored hair that was plastered onto my cheek and glanced down—my fingers were now covered with specks of blood.
“I SAID I ams fines for the drivings,” the screw you boy slurred.
I wasn’t all that thrilled about leaving my mom, Nana, friends, my safety net and moving to Los Angeles for a couple months. I certainly hadn’t come here to be in the middle of a bar fight. I could do that back in my hometown in Wisconsin. Even an average Wisconsin chick could throw a punch.
A twenty-something, curvy, African-American waitress maneuvered her way through the crowd of flip-flop and T-shirt attired college students who’d suddenly shut up and stared at me. She hustled to my booth wearing a heavy dose of concern on her face. “You okay, baby girl? Oh, no. You’re bleeding.” She turned around. “Thomas Taylor, so help me God, you’re not coming back in here until you clean your frat boy ass up. Get him out of here, Alejandro. Now!”
There was scuffling and more slurred swearing. “Dude, you’re three sheets to the wind,” the guy—Alejandro—said. “You’re not driving. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
The pretty waitress squinted at me through black-rimmed glasses. “Honey, you don’t look all that good.”
“I’m fine, I’m sure I’m fine,” I said. “Just one tiny cut.”
She frowned and shook her head. “That is way more than just one cut.” She turned toward the bar and snapped her fingers at a portly balding man. “Freddie. Call 911. This girl needs to go to the ER.”
“No. No.” I waved my hands. I hated hospitals. I tried to avoid them like the plague. “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“You have to. It’s close,” she said. “Only a couple blocks away.”
“I know. But—” I looked down at my e-reader. The screen had gone black. I tapped it. Dragged my finger across the screen. Nothing happened. I sighed. “It’s been a long day. I’ll clean up when I get home.”
If I could find my way back there.
It took the whole day to travel from my home in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin to L.A. I cabbed it from the airport to the realtor’s office where I picked up the keys to my summer session sublet that was about ten blocks from the USCLA campus. I asked the assistant for a recommendation to a local eatery where I could score a decent meal without breaking the bank.
I deposited my bags at my new crash pad and called my mom to tell her I arrived safely. I changed out of my sweaty traveling clothes into a modest sundress and grabbed my jean jacket. I bolted the lock, threw the keys in my purse and said hi to my new next-door neighbor—a handsome metrosexual named Cole who clutched his scrap of a dog. “This is Gidget,” he said.
“Oh, hey, cute furball. My name’s Sophie. I’m your new summer neighbor.” I wiggled a couple of fingers at the dog.
Gidget narrowed her eyes and growled at me in a soprano tone.
I pulled my hand back. “Sorry,” I said. “Animals usually like me.”
“Oh, she does!” Cole said. “Gidget only growls at new people she thinks she might like.” He scratched her ears. “Everyone else she simply ignores.”
“Oh good!” I said.
Funny. That description sounded a bit like me.
By the time I walked to the Westwood Grill the sun was setting and I was exhausted. Based on the assistant realtor’s description, I’d expected a semi-quiet night with a good book and a decent but not great meal. I didn’t expect to be soaked in beer with glass shards embedded in my face and head. I pinched my forefinger and thumb together and attempted to pull one out of my cheek. Something squished and I felt a little woozy.
The waitress blinked. “Those wounds need to be flushed,” she said. “You might be Wonder Woman for all I know, but you can’t do that on your own.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me to standing. “Will someone please call 911?”
“No! Don’t. I’m all right.” But she pulled me up too quickly and now I was definitely dizzy. I swayed for a few seconds when someone else with bigger and stronger arms grasped my shoulders from behind.
“You okay?” a guy asked.
“How many times do I have to say I’m fine?” I tasted blood trickling into my mouth, my knees buckled and just like that—I was falling.
But he caught me. His strong hands that had been holding my shoulders wrapped tightly around me—one circled my waist, the other crossed my chest as he pinned me back against what felt like his brick wall of a chest.
“Right. Because everyone’s who’s ‘fine’ collapses,” he said.
I looked down. A complete stranger with built forearms and tan muscular hands was holding me up. Way to go, Sophie. This was such an auspicious start to my most excellent adventure in the City of Angels.
“I got you,” he said.
“Thanks. You can let me go.”
“You need to sit down. Cheyenne—pull out a chair, please. This booth is soaked.”
The waitress pulled out a vinyl chair from an unoccupied table. “Where’s Thomas? You didn’t let him drive? I do not want that frat brat back in this bar, but I don’t want him dead, either.”
“Me either. Freddie locked him in the storage room.”
“Freddie’s got a hernia. No way Freddie could have gotten Thomas “The Incredible Hulk” Taylor into our storage room.”
“Freddie’s hernia did not prevent him from locking the door after I pulled Thomas over the bar, dragged him into the storage room and propped him against the wall next to a large sack of potatoes.”
“Hello?” I tapped my index finger on the guy’s hand t
hat was firmly planted between my boobs. “Do you people not realize that you are talking about stuff like I’m not here?”
“Oh, I definitely know you’re here, Bonita. While I think the cute fingernail thing you’re doing to my hand is kind of sexy, I’m not thrilled that you’re bleeding all over my favorite Rolling Stones T-shirt.”
“Sorry!” The Stones? A grandpa-aged dude had his hand between my boobs and was practically feeling me up? My new life was totally not starting out the way I had hoped. “Thanks for catching me, Mister. You can let me go. Now.”
“Mister?” He lifted me up six inches off the ground like I was a stuffed animal, or a cat, walked me a couple of feet over to the table and deposited me gently onto a chair. “Mister is a word people use for someone’s uncle, or a disheveled man on the street who hits you up for spare change. I’m not old enough to be called ‘Mister.’” He released his grip on my waist and chest and shifted one large, firm hand onto my shoulder. “Hold still. You’ve got a piece of glass sneaking down the front of your dress. I’m going to save you from another cut. You can thank me later.” His fingers inched down under the neckline of my sundress, brushing my skin, under my collarbone, headed toward my bra.
Seriously? Thank him for copping a feel? I held my breath.
“Breathe. I almost have it.”
I glanced around. The young California flip-flop diners were staring at me like I was one of those embarrassing videos on YouTube. Oh crap, one guy actually had his iPhone pointed at me—I was going to be on YouTube. I probably looked like a bleeding, drowned rat and really hoped my mom wouldn’t stumble across this online.
“Got it.” His hand pulled out from the top of my dress and flicked a piece of glass away.
A round of applause and a few wolf whistles erupted from the crowd. “Chalk up another save for Alejandro!”
“Dude, she’s bleeding all over your T-shirt and you haven’t punched her. When I spilled my margarita on your Sticky Fingers T-shirt you punched me.”
“I punched you, Paul, after you took three swings at me when you were hammered at the Memorial Day picnic.”
“Whatev. I think this means you like her,” Paul said.
“Hey, Alex!” A sun-kissed blonde girl wearing a plunging halter dress that displayed a scary amount of bulging cleavage placed the back of her hand to her forehead, batted her eyes and pretended to swoon. “If I happened to fall, would you catch me, too?” Three nearly identical Barbie friends seated at her table giggled.
I winced and turned my head away from the onlookers. Could this get anymore embarrassing?
Cheyenne caught my look, turned and snapped her fingers high in the air. “Show’s over,” she said. “Get back to it.” They returned to their drinking, eating, hair tossing and flirting.
“Where’s my purse? I need to pay for my burger,” I said. My face was starting to burn more.
“Your burger’s on Thomas’s tab,” Alejandro said. “Along with a new e-reader and your visit to the ER.”
“I’m not going to the ER.” I tended to be stubborn about these types of things.
“Hey, Cheyenne! Can I get another round over here, please? Some chicken wings, two veggie wraps and a Caesar salad with the croutons and dressing on the side?” Blondie shouted from the opposite side of this smallish, informal bistro.
Cheyenne regarded me with one eyebrow arched.
“Go. I got this,” Alejandro said.
She nodded and walked away.
It was beyond time I called it a day. I had an appointment with a pair of tweezers, some rubbing alcohol, drugstore antibiotic creme, as well as shampoo and conditioner back at my new apartment. If I could even remember where that was. “Thanks for your help, Alejandro.” You big, strong, sweet and kind, Rolling Stones’ loving, old grandpa. I stood up. “You can take your hand off my shoulder.”
He did. “Let the record stand that I do so reluctantly.”
“Sorry for ruining your T-shirt.” I plucked at my dress’s neckline and shook off some glass splinters. “Why don’t you give me your e-mail? I’d like to reimburse you.”
“Even better, why don’t you give me your name, number and email?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and frowned. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe coming to L.A. wasn’t the smartest move in the world. I ground my teeth, but that hurt my face. “My name’s Sophie. You’re a nice guy and all but I keep the other stuff private.”
I turned toward him. My gaze traveled up about six inches until I looked into the most stunning pair of hazel eyes I’d seen in my entire life. Alejandro wasn’t a grandpa—he was close to my age. His black shiny hair curled behind his ears, tapering down his neck. His cheekbones were high, his lips bite-able—I meant—full. His V-neck T-shirt revealed a hint of that wide rock solid chest that had sheltered me for a minute or so. “Maybe I can Play pal you.” I bit down on my lip. “I meant PayPal.”
Alejandro smiled, leaned down and whispered into my ear. “I like your first suggestion better.”
“Oh crap, just get me the hell out of here!” When I realized I’d said that out loud.
“Why don’t you drive her someplace picturesque, Alex?” the booby blonde said. “After all, you’re so good at driving.”
Alejandro grabbed a set of keys from his pocket, held them up in the air and jangled them. “Yo, Freddie!”
The bartender looked up. “What?”
“Call a cab before you let Thomas out. I’m officially off duty. I am not driving his privileged drunk ass home.”
Freddie saluted him. “Got it, Alex.”
Alejandro, aka Alex, shoved the keys back in his pants pocket, grabbed my purse from the beer soaked booth and placed my dead e-reader inside it. “And now we’re on our way to Emergency. I’m driving.”
Chapter Two
“I do not want you to hold my hand!” I lay semi-reclined on a gurney in the USCLA emergency room area for non-life threatening wounds. After the resident doctor examined me, a young intern had injected my face in seven locations with lidocaine or cocaine or whatever-caine combo they used at this teaching hospital. Now he was pulling out beer bottle splinters from my face with gleaming stainless steel tweezers as I tried not to flinch.
“Actually, you do,” Alejandro said. “You’re in the passenger seat tonight. Stop hitting your imaginary brakes.”
“Don’t move, Sophie,” Dr. Dewitt said. “And unless you want these cuts to leave some scars, I’d be quiet if I were you.”
“Good luck with that one.” Alex squeezed my hand. “You could not have gotten all these out on your own. You would have screwed up your beautiful, pale, midwestern dairy queen face.”
The waitress was right about the hospital being close by. The ride from the Grill to the ER took all of two minutes. Alejandro asked about my accent. “What accent?” I asked. “That accent,” he said.
So I told him I had just flown in from Wisconsin. I’d arrived two hours before my flight at the Milwaukee airport and was patted up by TSA. I flew to Denver and then had a lay over. My flight to L.A. was delayed due to tornadoes or thunderstorms, or whatever always delayed flights. By the time I boarded the plane I was seated next to a screaming toddler whose ears kept popping. Neither of us had a relaxing flight.
“And… voilà!” Dr. Dewitt smiled and held up a tiny piece of colored glass with his medical tweezers. “We have captured the last culprit.” He plopped it into a small, pristine, stainless steel dish, then leaned in and fussed over my face. “No stitches. I’m prescribing a round of oral antibiotics, a topical antibiotic creme and Mederma to reduce chance of scarring.”
“Oral antibiotics?” I asked. “Research has proven the overuse of oral antibiotics has paved the way for superbugs. Why do I need oral antibiotics?” I yanked my hand from Alejandro’s and pushed myself to a seated position.
“Do you know how many people, places or things that beer bottle came in contact with before its fragments penetrated your pretty face?” He pulled out a pad of
paper and wrote a script. “Hand this to the pharmacy on your way out. Don’t leave here without your drugs. Here’s a card for Dr. An’gel Ducote. She’s the best plastic surgeon at the hospital should you change your mind and want a consultation. Call her assistant tomorrow to get a prompt appointment.”
“Thank you,” I said. No way I’d be calling another doctor.
“In regards to physical restrictions you need to forget about yoga or hitting the roller-coaster rides at Magic Mountain for a couple of days.”
I rolled my eyes. “Got it.”
“Nice of you to drive your girlfriend here,” he said to Alejandro. “I’m sure you have only the best intentions. Do I need to spell out the rest?”
“I’m not his girl—”
Alex shook his head. “Apparently, you do?”
“You need to curtail sexual activity for the next couple of weeks so her wounds heal properly.”
My eyes widened. “He’s not my boyfriend and we’re not—”
Alex nodded, somber. “Thanks, Dr. Dewitt. Will do.” His mouth squirmed, an impossibly sexy dimple formed in his cheek as he shoved back a smile. “Sophie didn’t want to go to the ER. I had to convince her. Now she’s going to be even madder at me.” He cocked his head and winked at me.
I shot him a look that could kill. Or, at least, hopefully maim. “I’m not like that. I just met him tonight! I cannot believe that—”
“Yes, yes, young love will survive.” The doctor scribbled notes on my chart.
“We are not having any—”
“You already argued with the good doctor about the antibiotics, Bonita. Pick your battles.” Alex stifled laughter and shook his finger at me. “No sex. You’re just going to have to live with that.”
“I will not—”
“Everyone says that,” Dr. Dewitt said. “Patients and their significant others consent. But then it’s a special occasion, or an anniversary and everyone boards the passion train. Those wounds that were healing? Break open. Some even get infected. I see them back here or at the clinic, but it’s usually too late. Then, good luck with the plastic surgery. I recommend either abstinence, or if you can’t manage that? Just make do for a week or so with some basic foreplay.” He pointed to Alex. “Yes, she’s super pretty. Practice restraint.”
The Story of You and Me Page 1
