Lucky Ball

by Lisa N. Paul

  Inhaling, she pivoted, praying her legs would carry her out of the pool house without incident, and took her first step. The second one came easier.

  “Wren,” Thurston called, a hint of desperation in his voice.

  “Go to hell, Thurston,” Emmy tossed over her shoulder as she followed Wren out the door. “Better yet, go to third. Looks like you’ve got easy pickings.”

  Thurston’s voice, tight with cruelty, called out from the small house, “Walk away, Wren. I don’t need a stuffed bra when I have the real thing right here.”

  Two feminine giggles screeched before turning into moans.

  Hot trails leaked down Wren’s cheeks as she briskly walked through the house to the front door with Emmy by her side. The swishing sound of blood pumping through her ears muted the voices of the party-goers. Then again, maybe her classmates were too busy staring at her to make any noise of their own. Either way, Wren needed to get the hell away from all of them.

  “Oh my God, oh my freaking God. Wren, I can’t believe that just happened,” Emmy repeated for the umpteenth time as Wren buckled her seat belt and waited for her friend to start the car.

  All the comebacks she should have said started popping into her head. The scene they’d caused while fleeing the party may have been small, but Wren knew that by Monday morning, the gossip mill would be churning. “I should have told him his breath smelled like dog food.”

  “Oh my God, did it?”

  “No.” She sighed. “He smelled like Lifesavers. Please hurry up, Em. I wanna get out of here.”

  “I just can’t believe he turned out to be such a shit,” Emmy announced, another thing she’d repeated for the past five minutes, as she sat behind the steering wheel of the idling car.

  “Yeah, well, I can,” Wren finally admitted. “I’d been getting a weird vibe from him, and today, when the Fortune Eight Ball told me not to let things go further tonight, I should have listened to it.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Her friend sighed. “That ball did tell me I’d be the prettiest girl at the party, and I certainly was… present company excluded.” She winked.

  Ping… ping. Emmy’s cell phone came alive as texts chimed in. She yanked her phone from her purse and stared at the small screen. In that moment, Wren realized two things: first, her cell phone had run out of battery, and second, something was very wrong.

  “Oh no, fuck, shit, damn. Wren, I am so sorry. I… I… shit, you may as well just look at this.”

  As she grabbed the phone from Emmy’s hand, bile churned in Wren’s stomach, rushing up to her throat. The screen may have been tiny, but there was no way to un-see the image—her, leaving the party with wide eyes and a tear-streaked face, humiliated by the class golden boy. It was painful, pride shattering, but that wasn’t what would be seared into her brain or the brains of her classmates forever. Nope, instead, they would finally get what they’d always wanted. Her favorite white tank top, paired with the brand-new lacy white bra, apparently became translucent under the light of a cell phone flash.

  “My nipples. You can see my nipples.” Without a second to spare, Wren threw open the passenger door and vomited onto the street. Humiliation and heartache lurched from her gut as her soul wept. “I-I’m so stupid.”

  “No, you aren’t, Wrenny. Third-base Thurston is the dumb one. That dog-breathed loser doesn’t deserve you anyway.” Emmy handed Wren a tissue and a stick of gum. “As for that picture…”

  Wren’s stomach clenched at the mere mention of the photo, but she stayed quiet.

  Emmy continued, “People can be jerks. You know that. However, there is not one person in our school, including Dog-breath, who will ever accuse you of stuffing your bra again. That, my sister, is a silver lining.” Emmy winked, which for some reason made Wren feel a bit better.

  “I know you said the Fortune Eight Ball was just a crazy toy, but you know what? That crazy toy was right three times tonight.” At Emmy’s confused expression, Wren held up one finger. “First it told me not to let Thurston near my melons.” A second finger lifted. “Then it said not to wear this damn tank top.” A third finger shot up. “Finally, it declared you would be the prettiest girl at the party tonight.” Wren proclaimed, “From this night on, the Fortune Eight Ball shall be my guide.”

  “Sounds perfect.” Emmy giggled.

  Wren wasn’t joking.

  Chapter One

  Where You’ve Allowed Yourself To Settle

  Present Day

  Sewing machines hummed and presses hissed as Wren moved from her spot in the assembly line toward the factory break room. What had once been a comforting sound, like kittens purring, now grated her nerves. She likened it to Freddy Krueger’s nails on slate boards…yep, made for lovely dreams.

  “Sorry about your break, Wren,” the floor manager, Dave, yelled over the noise. “I promise, tomorrow you’ll get the full forty-five minutes just like everyone else.”

  Yeah right, Wren thought. If I had a dollar for every minute of break I was owed, I could buy a small island and a hot island guy to apply my sunscreen each day. Instead of a verbal response, she lifted her hand, turned, and walked to her locker.

  “Don’t be bitter, Wren,” her manager called, a smile evident in his voice. “You’re one of the best at Under Your Wears. That’s why we keep you in the golden spot.”

  There was no mistaking the sarcasm in Dave’s voice. Shit, ever since that turd had been promoted to manager, his subtlety had turned brash, sometimes even uncouth, but fell just short of harassment. She had nothing clear-cut to report to the owner. (Not that she would anyway. After all, she was meant to be at this job and couldn’t afford to lose it.)

  The sound of Dave’s voice was worse than the Nightmare on Elm Street claws she dealt with in her sleep. Thank God she’d turned him down when he had asked her on a date all those years ago. At the time, she’d seen him only as a friend, but now she’d probably welcome Freddy and his striped sweater over Dave’s snarky bullshit.

  Sighing, Wren snagged her messenger bag from the locker, slammed the metal door shut, and hurried out to the parking lot. She may not get time for lunch, but if she didn’t get the hell out of the building for at least a few minutes, the possibility of a meltdown was huge.

  The brisk December air whipped through Wren’s low ponytail, sending a chill through her body. She hated the cold weather more than anything…well, almost anything. It came in second place to her godforsaken job. With mere minutes for her break, she pulled her cell and a protein bar from her bag. Three missed calls from Emmy and as many texts. Wren unwrapped her bar and called her friend.

  “Eeep, happy Friday, girlie-goo!” Emmy’s excitement traveled through the line, making Wren’s lips lift even though smiling was the last thing she felt like doing.

  “You too. Listen, I don’t have much time to chat—”

  “Shit, did Dave the douche cut your break again?” Emmy didn’t wait for a response before continuing. “You know, you should talk to Mr. and Mrs. Hayden about this. They love you, and what Dave is doing is slave labor. You work in an underwear factory, not a damn sweatshop. Ten-minute lunch breaks are against the law.” The ire in Emmy’s voice was just one more reason Wren loved her best friend. “Seriously, you gave up your dream of being a teacher for this job, and what do you have to show for it? You inspect crotches, for God’s sake.”

  “Eww, when you say it like that, it sounds sleazy.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter how I say it. You are crotch quality control inspector number sixty-nine.”

  “Emmaline Thomas, you know I’m inspector thirty-four.” Wren giggled though. Her friend’s joke never got old.

  “See, at least if you were number sixty-nine, it would be something fun to discuss on dates. Dates, Wren. Remember those?”

  “What I remember is that I called you to feel better, not worse,” Wren said softly, “and you are doing a crappy job. I know my life isn’t where I thought it would be at twenty-four, but this is what i
t’s meant to be right now—”

  “No, honey, this is where you’ve allowed yourself to settle.”

  With only three minutes left before she needed to return to her post, Wren swallowed the last gulp of her water and headed back toward the warehouse. “I need to get back to work, Em.”

  “Okay, girlie.” Emmy’s cheer, regardless of if it was real or faked, made Wren feel brighter. “Tonight, you, me, drinks, and dancing at Club Eclipse. I’ll pick your ass up at eight.” Before Wren could protest, Emmy continued. “Don’t bother coming up with excuses, missy. I got a raise, and we are celebrating. You’ll just have to be a bit hung over and tired for crotch patrol tomorrow. And I know you have that damn Fortune Eight Ball with you. You’d better start asking it about your outfit choices now, because we both know that you’ll never get out of the house on time if you wait until you get home to start planning.”

  Wren grinned. “It’s not that bad, Em. I just use it to help me make final decisions.”

  “Yeah, tell that to the first hour of our senior prom—you know, the one we missed.”

  “That was ages ago.” Wren groaned.

  “Okay, then tell that to the movie we missed last week. Did you honestly think the seats cared whether your ass was covered in black denim or blue?” When Wren didn’t answer, Emmy continued, “That’s what I thought. Decide on your outfit, and be ready to go by eight.” Silence stretched for a beat before Emmy said, “I love you. I do. I only want you to be happy.”

  “I know, and I love you back. See you tonight.”

  After ending the call, Wren tossed the phone in her bag and the bag back in the locker. She had four more hours of work to get through before any celebrating would get done.

  Hmm… She opened the metal door and reached for the orb. “Should I wear pants tonight?” One brisk shake, and the answer appeared in the window.

  –Better Not Tell You Now–

  And that right there was the reason for the missed movie. Wren swore that damn ball just liked to fuck with her.

  *

  “Shit, buddy”—Marcus’s grin turned into a full-fledged smile—“this place gets busier and busier every time we come home.”

  Kids of all ages moved in and out of the small rooms where music lessons were taught, bands were formed, and as far as Logan considered, magic was made. Pride flowed through Logan as he walked his closest friends—the members of the world-famous band Shades of Certainty—Marcus, Greg, Noah, and Ethan around the building.

  “We’re booked solid,” Logan confirmed as he led the guys into the open practice room. On the stage sat keyboards, a drum kit, microphones, and amplifiers. The other instruments came and went with their owners.

  “You did it, dude,” Greg said, awe clear in his expression even if his voice sounded pained and raw. “You opened three fucking music schools—”

  “Nah, man, we did this together,” Logan responded. “There wouldn’t be even one Shades of Music school if it weren’t for the band. I’m not naïve enough to be blind to that.”

  “Enders, buddy”—Noah wrapped his lean, sculpted arm around Logan in a half bro-hug—“our asses have been on the road more than ten months a year for five outta the last eight years. When we are home, we’re recording new albums and preparing for the next tour. We sure as shit haven’t been around to offer more than the occasional appearance or surprise drop-in.”

  The other guys shrugged, agreement clear even in their silence.

  “Shades of Certainty may be loud enough for the world to hear, but when it comes to Shades of Music…dude, we’re the silent partners,” Noah said.

  Logan had been a founding member of Shades of Certainty. He and his brothers took their garage band and turned it into a local sensation that became an East Coast legend. For the other guys, stardom was the ultimate goal, but Logan’s dreams were based solely on having his music spread wide while his life was kept private. So when the bigwigs came knocking, offering a recording deal that would make the band world famous, Logan second-guessed life as a rock star.

  Once he’d discussed his options with his brothers, which entailed SoC moving on without him as their front man, the record label stepped in with a counter offer. They knew they had gold with Logan behind the scenes as well as in front of them. So the contract was renegotiated contingent on Logan staying on as the songwriter (a request made by both the band and the record label). It was the best possible outcome for Logan and one he never took for granted.

  “It’s about the music, brother, your music.” The sincerity in his friends’ words was something, even eight years later, Logan never forgot.

  “All right, all right.” Marcus clapped. “Enough patting each other on the back. This is a practice room, and I think we should play. It’s been fucking ages since we jammed together.”

  Even though Logan was no longer an official part of the band, that didn’t stop them from playing together every time the guys were home from tour. Never for an audience—Logan had given that up when he walked away from the contract—but in the privacy that was the five of them, time stood still. Together, their music was magic and Logan carried the wand. After flipping on the Practice In Session light, Logan locked the door, flicked on the amps, and followed his brothers up on stage.

  “Down here, it’s our time,” Marcus bellowed the Goonies line he always quoted before they performed, dropping the bass over his shoulder as Noah pulled his sticks out from his jeans pocket and sat behind the drum kit.

  One hundred twenty minutes later, with sweat-soaked clothes and a racing heart, Logan clicked off the microphone and smiled. Yep, music was magic in the purest form.

  “That was incredible.” Noah’s sentiment was plucked directly from Logan’s mind. “Seriously, Lo, you still fucking rock.”

  Of course he still rocked. He ate, breathed, taught, and lived music twenty-four, seven. Just because he didn’t do it in the eyes of the public didn’t mean he’d stopped altogether. Music had always been his goal. Music… just music.

  “We wanna talk to you about something,” Marcus said before finishing off the bottle of water in his hand…

  Chapter Two

  Never Ceases To Amaze Me

  Emmy oozed frustration. “Sweetie, please, I’m telling you to wear the high-heeled black leather boots, and my fashion sense always supersedes that thing, remember?” Her brows pitched, the not-so-gentle reminder circling the air.

  A rule they had worked out after the prom debacle was if Emmy was present, she could pick out Wren’s attire, no Fortune Eight Ball required—effectively saving both time and murder on both of their behalves. After all, Wren trusted Emmy to dress her properly, and Emmy had never let her down. But that night, Emmy had worked late, gotten dressed at her own place, and swung by to collect Wren for their evening out. Hence the multitude of shoes strewn on the floor, all of which Wren had questioned the Fortune Ball about, yet still she stood in bare feet.

  “Okay, okay, the black boots it is.”

  Wren zipped up the sexy leather and stole one last glance in the mirror. Her friend had been right—they looked perfect. She grabbed her coat, keys, and handbag, but before she threw the ball in her purse, she had to know for sure—were the boots the right choice?

  –It Is Certain–

  Relief washed through her, and with a smile, she slipped the sphere into her bag as she and Emmy finally left the apartment and headed to the club.

  The floor pulsed beneath Wren’s feet, sending vibrations up her spine as the dance music surrounded her. If one was looking to party, drink, and dance, Club Eclipse was the place to be. That said, she had been there less than a handful of times in the three years since she’d turned twenty-one. Eclipse was more Emmy’s scene. Wren preferred coffee shops, and when the need for a drink arose, local bars were her destination of choice.

  Decorated in holiday cheer, the place resembled a winter wonderland of dancing sexiness. Judging by the line at the bar and the writhing bodies on the dance floo
r, Wren guessed there would be a whole lot of gift giving later on that night.

  “What are you grinning about?” Emmy asked before sipping on her purple drink.

  “Just wondering how many Christmas packages are being stroked right now on that dance floor.”

  The women looked at the crowd and laughed. The Journey song playing, “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” had nothing on those people.

  “Gah, I can’t believe you drink those things.” Wren’s nose scrunched at Emma’s drink choice.

  “Are you kidding? Grape vodka and Gatorade is the best. It’s like a party in my mouth.” Emmy tipped the glass to her lips and swallowed a large gulp. “Come on, Wrenny, don’t you ever get tired of doing the same things day in and day out? Don’t you ever wanna try something new?”

  Looking at her half-drunk glass of house white zinfandel, Wren realized that while she drank the same drink every time she indulged in alcohol, she no longer tasted it. White zinfandel was the first drink she’d allowed herself to have after she turned twenty-one. Well, after she spent her twenty-first birthday drinking every kind of alcohol offered to her, then spent the night and the next day puking up her guts. When she finally found the nerve to drink again, the Eight Ball helped her decide what to choose. White zinfandel didn’t make her puke, and that was a win in her book. Three years later, the pale pink liquid was the only thing she trusted not to make her sick.

  “I agree my drink choice may be boring,” Wren admitted, “but at least it doesn’t make me puke. I know you think my Eight Ball is the root of all evil, but if not for that little guy, I’d have never drunk again. He helped me pick an alcoholic beverage I could tolerate. So be grateful I’ll even drink this.”

  “Wow, are you sure your degree was in early education and not creative writing? Because you’ve managed to rewrite history in a way that would make Shakespeare proud.” Obviously Wren needed to work on her death stare, because Emmy didn’t even flinch. “Did you ever think that if you hadn’t pickled yourself in alcohol the night you turned twenty-one—a rite of passage, I’ll once again remind you—you would have never gotten sick in the first place? Better yet, it’s more important you realize that any drink you drink in excess will make you ill, even your beloved zinfandel. A couple of bottles of that crap, and you’d have a repeat performance of that birthday. The only difference would be pink puke.”