ALSO BY AMÉLIE S. DUNCAN
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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
Published by Amélie S. Duncan
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Copyright
Copyright © Amélie S. Duncan, 2016
Cover Design by Louisa Maggio at LM Creations.
Copyright © 2016 Louisa Maggio.
Ebook Formatting Design by Pink Ink Designs
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior permission of the author or publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All books, songs, song titles, mentioned in the novel Piper Dreams are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
ALSO BY AMÉLIE S. DUNCAN
Tiger Lily Part One
Tiger Lily Part Two
Tiger Lily Part Three
Little Wolf
Dedication
To Alan
The best part of my life
is spending it with you
Acknowledgments
I had so much fun writing Piper Dreams. I’m grateful to have the opportunity to share this story with you. I have many people to thank for making this possible. First, I would like to thank my husband, Alan. Thank you for your love, patience, and support. I love you so much.
I’m extremely fortunate to work with two amazing women, Silvia Curry of Silvia’s Reading Corner, and Hermione B. They beta read many drafts of the stories. They are both meticulous in their attention to detail, and their feedback reports are priceless. From the bottom of my heart, thank you both so very much for all your work!
Thank you Claire Allmendinger of Bare Naked Words Editing for editing Piper Dreams. Your thorough analysis of the manuscript improved the story. Special Thanks to Donna Rich for doing the final edit of Piper Dreams. It was wonderful working with you again. It has been a pleasure working with the both of you.
Thank you so much Louisa Maggio of LM Creations for making the beautiful cover for Piper Dreams. Thank you so much Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs for your beautiful e-formatting of Piper Dreams. It has been a pleasure working with the both of you.
Special Thanks to Cxandra for writing the blurb. It has been a pleasure working with you again.
Special thanks to the bloggers for participating in the promotions.
Most of all, I would like to thank the readers for taking the time to read my story. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you.
About the Author
Amélie S. Duncan writes contemporary, erotic romances with a dark edge. Her inspiration comes from many sources including her life experiences and travels. She lives on the West Coast of the United States with her husband.
SEIZE IT. LIVE IT. WRITE IT. The poster covered the glass of Professor Russ Gilmore’s office door in Lake Hall. I had read that poster a few times during the four semesters I’ve been at North University, but in the last fourteen minutes, I read it probably a hundred times. The words didn’t mean much to me before, but today they meant everything. Today was my chance to live.
The department was virtually empty. Most of the professors and some of my fellow students were gone since today was the first day of summer break. I would have left too if Prof. Gilmore hadn’t offered to meet with each of the second term sophomores wishing to apply for his advanced program in journalism. As he explained to us at the beginning of the semester, he would only select ten students out of the two hundred in the department, to enroll in his global program. These classes included a year of experimental learning abroad, and last year’s ten went to the Amazon rain forest!
His plan for this year was a mystery. I, for one, could hardly imagine, since my experience of traveling was limited to spots along the U.S. east and west coast. So, I was certain the experience would be amazing! And if traveling across the world wasn’t impressive enough, his exclusive program came with his coveted recommendation. And we all knew, a recommendation from him was as good as entry into any graduate program or journalist job in the world. He always gave his ten, the chance of a lifetime. I intended to be one of them. If you had asked me just two days ago, my confidence would have been unwavering. He would take me.
But, like my late father always told me, something always comes up out of nowhere. It was like the universe realized I, Piper Rowe, had been mistakenly set on easy and needed the switch flipped to hard before I finished the semester and secured my acceptance into the program. That something from the universe came from none other than Professor Gilmore himself. He had surprised us with an essay during our last class. I gritted my teeth. In the two years I’d been here, no one had ever given an assignment on the last day of class! We had to write a biography or “who you think you are,” as he put it, no fewer than one thousand words, and handed in by the end of the class period. To make matters worse, he lectured all but thirteen minutes. Now, I was usually keen and prepared, playing out every scenario imaginable in my head, but I hadn’t seen this essay coming. Not to mention all the obsessing I had done preparing for finals had left me with a bad case of insomnia. So the night before that class I gave in to my best friend Jorge’s suggestion and took one of his potent sleeping pills. I was still half-asleep when I wrote the essay, and actually wasn’t sure what I’d written, let alone how good it was. The professor didn’t say that it counted towards our grade, but I was sure it counted for something.
I was jolted from my memory as the alarm went off on my phone, alerting me that my thirty-minute meeting with Professor Gilmore was set to start. Gazing at the still-closed door, I frowned and stole a peek around the edges of the poster, into the room. I could just make out his thick head of wavy, silver hair and his bearded face, which he stroked in his seat behind his desk. I moved to the other size of the window to see which classmate was taking my time. It was Matt Carson—the Frat-Brat-Ken-Doll as students called him around campus. I spied Matt laughing heartily. Had he taken one of the ten spots? I took my phone out to make a call as the door swung open startling me. I fumbled my phone and just managed to catch it before it fell to the floor.
“Nice save,” Professor Gilmore said in his
booming voice. He ran his hand through his hair, making it unrulier, and leaned against the door jamb. He was dressed in a busy, patterned tunic and loose jeans with one of his signature, brightly patterned scarves around his neck. His pale face was heavily lined around his close-set green eyes and mouth. A life truly lived in those lines. He gave me his puckered brow of inquisition though a smile formed on his lips. “Ms. Rowe?” His voice went up an octave.
I forced the smile I had on my face to remain though my heart sank. Did he not remember me? The lectures were large, but I always made sure I sat in the front row and answered questions.
“Yes,” I said then paused to clear my throat. “Piper Rowe.”
“Piper’s in your First Person Journalism class with me,” Matt offered, giving a flash of his sparkling teeth. All but adding to my suspicion that he was one of Gilmore’s chosen ten. He solidified it by saying, “Thanks, Professor Gilmore—I mean Russ. Talk to you soon.”
Russ Gilmore allowed us to call him by his first name, but most of us, including Matt, never used it. The selection must have given him swagger too because now he was giving me all kinds of eye contact—something he hadn’t done since I turned him down for a date during our freshman year. I wasn’t in college for dating. I was here to succeed. That didn’t stop him from spreading a virgin-prude rumor about me around campus afterward. I wasn’t, of course, and a well-planned sexual encounter with an overly chatty communications major and a well-timed and witnessed walk of shame the next day ended his rumor cold. Even my friend Jorge admired my propensity though he disagreed with my execution. But I wasn’t here to deal with Matt.
I turned my attention toward Professor Gilmore. “Our meeting is for a half hour. I suppose we should get started to keep you on schedule.”
Professor Gilmore’s smile wilted. “We’re all right. You’re my last meeting today.” He tilted his head and squinted at me. “Piper . . . Rowe.” I watched as recognition filled his eyes.
I exhaled and nodded. Finally.
“Did you know Piper and I share a story?” He turned to Matt.
“Is that so, Piper?” Matt asked. His blue eyes shifted between the two of us and he grinned.
I pressed my lips together. Here we go again. No. I wasn’t that kind of a groupie. “Yes. I believe we do. Your Haight Ashbury story,” I prompted.
“Ah, yes,” Professor Gilmore said drawing out the word yes and beaming at me. “Well, as it goes. It was during 1967—the Summer of Love—in San Francisco’s Haight Ashbury. I shared the best grass I had ever grown with a busty blonde on Waller Street in hopes of fucking her after we finished. Now, she told me she had to go and help out with her friend, Jerry’s, gig for the Hare Krishna Temple at the Avalon with her old man who was also covering the event. Now I was too horny to just let her go. So I went with her.” Professor Gilmore lifted a brow at Matt, and they shared a guy moment, then he let out a chuckle. “It was that kind of time,” he said to me. Having heard much about my father’s man-whoring ways from my mother, I knew this to be true; though I had the suspicion my mother was just as wild.
“Well, when we got there, her old man was tripping acid so bad he couldn’t cover the event, and she got upset. So I told her I worked for a grassroots magazine and could help them out.” He gave me a smile and a wink. “As it turned out, she was covering the Grateful Dead, and her friend Jerry was none other than Jerry Garcia. My little article got picked up, and the rest is history.”
We both grinned at him. “And what a history,” Matt gushed.
Matt was right though his assessment was an understatement. Russ Gilmore built his career as a rock journalist touring with all the top bands and writing for all the major magazines. He then branched off into a dream career as a global investigative journalist. He traveled and reported on every corner of the world and received the most prestigious Peabody, Murrow, Cronkite awards in international journalism and reporting. He had a long list of honorary degrees. He had been to war and the White House. He broke news that changed the world. He, like my father, had inspired my dreams.
“What does this story have to do with Piper?” Matt asked.
Professor Gilmore’s gaze prodded me to share the rest.
“My mother was the busty blonde, and my father was too high to cover the event,” I said and made noises to follow the laughter from the two of them.
“The point of the story is: opportunities surround us. If you’re not finding them, your eyes are closed. Seize it. . . .” Professor Gilmore said and gestured toward the poster on the door.
“Live it. Write it,” Matt and I said along. After our exchange, he swung his arms for me to go inside his office. I dutifully followed, and he closed the door.
“Take a seat on the couch,” he told me right before I sat in the chair in front of his desk. I moved over and sat down on a small, leather sofa, tucking my legs together in my linen pencil skirt. My heartbeat increased as I watched him move behind his desk to collect a manila folder and pulled up the free chair to sit across from me. He let out a puff of air and handed me a paper. “Something stand out for you there?”
I took the paper. It was my essay. My eyes reviewed the content. I was born in San Francisco, CA, but spent the majority of my childhood in Raleigh, NC. I relocated with my mother to Boston after my parents’ divorce. I sighed and read on. The essay next went into my achievements, my top honors in high school, and my work on the college newspaper and creation of the department newsletter. I turned the page, and the blood drained from my face. The last line read, “Professor Gilmore is a fucking dick.”
My mouth dropped open in horror. “I . . . I didn’t . . . I don’t, I don’t know how that got there,” I stuttered. “I apologize for this and accept whatever punishment—”
“Relax,” he interrupted. He gave me a lopsided grin. “You’re not in trouble. If I threw out every student I’ve had for calling me names, there wouldn’t be anyone left to teach. Your essay piqued my curiosity.”
I gulped in air as the blood returned to my face and burned my skin.
“This is an off the record conversation,” he added.
I let go of the air in my lungs. “I had little to no sleep the night before. I took a sleeping pill. I wouldn’t have if I had known we were going to have to write an essay.”
“That’s why I called it a surprise essay,” he said and gave a dry laugh. He flicked his eyes at the paper and then back up to me. “So giving you work makes me a fucking dick?”
I shook my head rapidly. “No. I don’t remember writing it. I’m sorry.”
“This,” he picked up my paper and waved it in the air, “this Piper has guts. Where has she been the last two years?” His brows rose.
My eyes widened and I opened and closed my mouth. “I don’t understand what you mean?”
“What I mean is, this Piper shows anger. Anger is passion. You know, I was actually looking forward to going a few rounds with this Piper.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “But instead, I get the dazed and sorry one.” He shook his head. “I’d encourage you to set up an appointment with your academic advisor to discuss your major because I don’t think you are a good fit for my Advanced Global Journalism program. Good luck, Ms. Rowe.” He handed me my essay, rose, and walked over to his desk and started collecting his things as if he was leaving.
My heart pounded in my chest as my stomach turned over. What in the hell just happened?
“In two years, I never was late for your class. I turned in everything ahead of time. I participated. You even used my work as an example a few times, and now you’re dismissing me from the program because I apologized?”
He spared a pause to say, “I am dismissing you because, frankly, you bore me. I know what you’re thinking. I gave you top marks because writing and reports are excellent. I’ve looked at your class records. You’re pulling almost perfect marks. You’re practically perfect, but as I taught in class, practically perfect only works for Mary Poppins. The students I select have
to be more than paper perfect.”
“Call it practically perfect if you want, but I worked my ass off for those grades. I created, organized, and ran the department paper and blog on my nonexistent free time. I think that makes me more than paper-perfect Poppins,” I replied hotly.
A smile broke across his face, and he extended his hands toward me dramatically. “That! Now that’s more personality than I have seen in all the courses you have taken with me. I still have no idea who you are. Do you even know?” he asked, taking his seat again.
I blinked back tears, and he clasped my shoulder. “I didn’t say any of that to hurt you, but I call it like I see it. You write about people, but you leave you out.”
“But a reporter’s job is not to become the news,” I huffed.
He gave me a broad smile and shook his head. “Yes, but you know as well as I know there is much more to it. The best writing is born from passion. It comes from experience and understanding. By the time I was your age, I had helped build a new water filtering system in a small village in India. I’d taken acid and danced all night at an Allman Brothers concert. I protested, marched, and reported on equal rights. Now tell me about what you have done with your—” He took my paper from my hand, scanned the contents of my essay, and looked back up at me, “—your twenty-one years?”
A tear escaped the corner of my eye as I searched my life for the best answer to give him. I knew I didn’t have anything to share. I hadn’t done anything thrilling. I did what I thought was expected of me. I attended all my classes and worked during my summers. I spent last summer at my Aunt Luna’s tree farm in Los Gatos doing data entry and updating her website and Etsy blog. It paid well enough to afford the gaps in my tuition fees and a few luxuries throughout the year. The rest of the time I spent studying and planning. And dreaming. I decided my choices weren’t worth defending, so I wiped my chin and remained silent.
“As you know better than anyone, global journalists put themselves in harm’s way,” He said in a soothing tone. “They take risks. They trek all over the world to places no one wants to go. They sleep on the streets. They go without clean water. This isn’t about money.” His gaze flicked over me. “There are no manicures and designer clothes—”
Piper Dreams: Dream it, Seize it, Live it. (Dreams Series Book 1) Page 1
