by Billie Dale
Wannabe More Copyright © 2019 by Cybill Richey. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Furious Fotog
Editing by Karen Hrdlicka
This book is a work of fiction and meant for reading fictional enjoyment. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Billie Dale
Visit my website at www.billiedaleauthor.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: December 2019
Author Billie Dale
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Works by Billie Dale:
Authors Note:
Dedication:
Prologue
Part One
One | Summer Vacation 1999
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven | Three Years Later
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen | Three Years Later
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Part Two
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three | One Month and A Whole Lot of Sleepless Nights Later
Forty-Four | Four Years and One Draft Pick Later
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven | Present Day
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five | Six Months Later
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight | Six Months Later
Epilogue
THE END
Say You’ll Be There
One
Acknowledgements
About the Author:
Other Works by Billie Dale:
THE REIGH WITCH CHRONICLES: Paranormal Romance
Birthday Witch
Princess Witch
Wedded Witch
Forever Witch
Fairytale Fantasy
Never After
Not So Wicked
Labors of A Hero
Love in Seven Mile Forge
Wannabe More
Say You’ll Be There – Coming Summer 2020
Spice Up Your Life – Coming Winter 2020
Standalones
Potion Perfect: A New Adult Romance
Ravyn: A Psychological Thriller
From Author Billie Dale comes a story of friendship spanning two decades. A life of loyalty, family, and love tested by decisions made with the best intentions combined with Dale’s signature wit and a cast of characters you can’t help but adore. Wannabe More, book one in Love in Seven Mile Forge, will prove second chances do exist.
After years of friendship, that summer he was mine.
With our futures waiting to take us down separate paths after graduation, we made a pact.
To explore being more than friends.
To indulge in all we’d been holding back.
We couldn't have possibly known it would change everything.
One unexpected night in the barn, seeking refuge from the rain, altered our destiny but I refuse to let our actions undo all his hard work.
I’ll sacrifice everything for him to live out his dream in the NBA. But when he finds out the truth, will he hate me for it?
Series inspired by Spice Girl Songs
Authors Note:
THANK YOU FOR READING Wannabe More. I hope you fall in love with Mazric and Sammy Lee as much as I did. Up next is Preslee and Joey followed by Hendrix and it’s a surprise who he will end up with. Each Seven Mile Forge book can be enjoyed on its own but are better if read together. I promise there are no cliffies!
Second chances, friendship, and love abound in the small Kentucky town and I hope you’ll join me for the journey.
If you enjoy Sam and Mazric I’d love to read your thoughts. Please leave a review on your favorite retailer and make sure you join my mailing list for updates on future releases.
XO, XO,
Love,
Billie
Dedication:
TO MY VERY OWN MAZRIC and Samantha. Thank you for the inspiration.
Prologue
“YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG,” an unemotional lilt carries on the breeze. Lost thought, I startle at the high-pitched sound. Irritated I turn meeting the bug-eyes of a scrawny boyish kid, hovering at the edge of the court with a black and white pig sitting at his feet.
Jesus, even the pets here are weird. My head tilts to the cloudless sky. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping this oddity is gone when I open them.
“I can help,” the kid offers.
I ignore him, dribbling twice before lobbing another shot. It misses, ricocheting off the backboard. After grabbing the rebound, I clench the ball between my hands.
“Pass it to me and I’ll show you.” He claps his hands.
I lunge, pretending to throw it at his face before my palm slaps on the leather. He doesn’t flinch just continues to stare with wide green eyes.
He angles his head, analyzing me. “Pappy Joe didn’t say much about you but since you’re not talking, are you mute?” He points a finger at his ear. “Are you deaf?”
Taller than me and shapeless, he’s dressed in stained blue jean bibs and a gray T-shirt. Matchstick legs with bulging, knobby knees stretch down to grass-stained Jack Purcell Converse. I inch closer, prepared to tell the guy to get lost when I notice the mass of black hair knotted at the back of his head. He is not a he at all.
Ah, shiitake mushroom, he’s a girl.
Did you know you could meet your soulmate at ten years old? The girl who lives next door is the smartest I’ve ever met and the most annoying. One sweltering June day, we arrived at Double V Ranch and this would be the day my entire life changed.
Part One
“MATURITY DOES NOT EQUAL age. Some who are old remain stuck in the toils of youth, forever young. Sometimes the youngest of us possess knowledge beyond their years, stealing the fun of frolic and laying the weight of intelligence on their shoulders.”
—Anonymous
One
Summer Vacation 1999
MAZRIC
WILD INKY HAIR FRIZZES around her head with the length hanging down to her waist. Too big for her body clothes blow in the summer breeze. The tips of her black-stained fingers match the splotches on her bibs and when the wind shifts, I smell motor oil. She’s a few inches taller than me, but Mom says I’m like my dad and will grow eventually. This girl is all knees,
elbows, and bones. Her eyes bulge out of their sockets and half-grown Chiclet-like front teeth behind wide lips say she’s younger than me. I step closer, enjoying the curiosity puckering her mouth I watch her trying to work out what is wrong with me.
Slam the ball rattles the rim, zipping back at my head. I snag it seconds before it smashes my face, only to force it toward the net again. Mom said I’d enjoy the fresh air; it smells like horse crap. She boasted on the benefits of the country greenery—her words—all I see is freaking corn stalks.
“The quiet will help ease your grieving,” she claimed, but the darn ball smacking the glass backboard echoes, ricocheting off the trees and rattling my brain because it’s too flipping soundless. Sure, a loud truck rumbles past or a tractor putters in a field but I like noise. Her final push was about me getting to spend time with my grandfather. My dad’s dad, who I met when I was too young to remember. Back before he reenlisted; pre-death, pre-everything. I never knew the man enough to miss him. Always stationed somewhere, doing something noble to protect our country. Mom says I should be proud of the man I called Dad because he paid the ultimate price for his service, but his death cost me my friends, my home, and I can’t find it in me to miss a person I never had.
“Hey, Maz,” mom yells, as the moving truck inches down the driveway. When I don’t answer, I hear her footsteps hitting the hard ground. “Mazric Jason, you answer me when I call,” she continues now at the opposite side of the court. I look at her from under the flop of hair hanging in my eyes. Her grimace fades when she sees the girl.
“Oh!” Her angry mom tone lightens, “You must be Sammy,” she cheers. “Joe said you’d be coming over. You’ve met my son, Mazric, and I’m Carrie Lynn.”
The girl glances from me to my mom. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m sorry, Pappy didn’t tell me his grandson was mute. I’ve been trying to talk to him, and I may have hurt his feelings with my stupidity.”
Crap, she threw me under the bus. Mom hates my rudeness.
Mom’s brow rises, wrinkling her forehead. “Mute? No, honey, he’s not unable to speak though he can be a butthead. I came to insist he help lug boxes inside, but his time is better spent here with you.” She rounds to face me and I know her mom glare better than anyone. “Thirty minutes, Mazric Jason Vortex. Stop being a jerk. Joe says she’s here every day and you’ll be helping her do chores.” She tells Sammy to come to the house for sweet tea and gives me one last harsh warning glower before she walks away.
I turn my back to Sammy, in hopes she’ll take the hint and go away. Hands pressed to the sides of the ball, I continue to shoot.
Two
SAMANTHA
HIS MOM IS GREAT BUT he doesn’t want me here. Too bad.
I’ve been up since dawn staring out the window. Pappy Joe promised they’d be here today. I skipped breakfast, afraid I’d miss their car pulling in.
A thunderous horn vibrates the windowpane. The large white box truck bends the branches of the overhanging trees on its way up the winding dirt drive. Daddy hollered I had to stay out from under foot until they settled. But I’ve been waiting since Pappy said they were coming and I don’t want to anymore.
A few months ago, after I finished brushing the horses, I ran inside for a drink and found Pappy crying into the cup of his hands. I hadn’t seen a man cry since I found Daddy with tears on his cheeks when Ma left. Not knowing what was wrong, and too scared to ask, I ran through the tall grass separating our properties and got Daddy.
Pictures of smiling faces caught my attention every time I entered Joe’s living room. My tummy flipped when I stared at the love shining from the eyes of the man in uniform, holding a tiny baby. I always looked too long at the sunshine bright grin of the woman next to them. Pappy caught me lost in the photo, telling me it was his son, grandson, and daughter-in-law. I’d never met them and after overhearing Dad and Joe, I would never meet his son. That day in the kitchen was the day he found out his son died in a military training exercise.
At dinner two weeks ago, Joe told me his grandson and daughter-in-law were coming to live on the farm. They’ve arrived, the truck is here, and Daddy won’t let me go over.
When he dozes off in his recliner, I slip on my shoes, tiptoe out the door, release my pet pig Princess Glitter Piggle—PGP for short—from her pen and we run through the pasture to the farm.
Watching him fling the basketball at the hoop with no precision drives me batty. “I told you, you’re doing it wrong.” I snag the rebound, dribbling out to the three-point shot arc. With a quick calculation of trajectory and wind, I release the ball into the air. Seconds later it swishes through the net.
Mazric stands slack-jawed, blinking from me to the basket. “What the frack? That was a fluke. You can’t do it again.”
He’s wrong, again. I may only be seven, eight in two months, but I don’t forget anything unless I want to and I’m a boss at math.
Pappy Joe has a great basketball court he built for his son years ago: a half court with glass backboard and silky net. Lines painted with precise measurements to that of an actual gym. He says his son was a great ballplayer but decided he’d rather serve his country. To feed Daddy’s need for a son, I started playing when I was five, taking part in a camp every summer to make me a better player. I care little for the sport, but the math behind the shots challenges my mind. Figuring the angles, strength, and distance to perfect each basket is the only reason I continue to play.
I’m essential in helping Dad in his shop. When he realized I could watch him take an engine apart and remember where everything went, he put me to work. Plus, my little hands fit in places his big ones don’t.
After Mama left, I read books about engine repair to become the son he wanted. He got scared for a bit and took me to the doctor when I was younger to better understand why when I read it stays in my head and why I crave knowledge .
I prove I’m right by working my way around the horn, sinking baskets from each spot along the half circle.
“Impossible,” he grits. “What are you six? How in the H-E-double hockey sticks can you make those?”
“I’m almost eight, actually, and your vocabulary is impossible. You make up words which don’t exist. I find it quite disturbing. Basketball is all about the math. Solve the equation; make the shot. Simple,” I respond.
“You use math to play and you’re questioning my word usage? Are you crazy?”
“No. My daddy had me tested when I was five. I have an eidetic memory with an affinity for numbers.”
I don’t like the mean sneer tilting his lips. It’s the same bullying look the kids at school get before they tease me. “You have an idiot memory?”
“Ha, ha. I’ve never heard that one before,” I sass. “E-i-d-e-t-i-c. It means I remember whatever I see after viewing it for a brief time. A photographic memory. Now if you’re done being awful, I can help you with your shot.”
“Ahhh,” he groans fisting his hair. A shadow eclipses his eyes as a sigh deflates his narrow chest. “I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m mad at. Let’s start over. I’m Mazric Vortex. My mother caught me swearing with my friends and threatened to make me eat soap, so I create words instead of cussing. I don’t want to live here, but since I’m stuck, I might as well make the best of it. Yes, I would like for you to teach me how you make all those stupid-good three-point shots.”
Streaks of caramel lighten his hair gleaming in the blazing June sun and his eyes resemble the honey Daddy buys at the local farmers market. I’ve experienced enough teasing to recognize a sincere apology, and he’s sorry for being a jerk.
When I heard they were moving in with Joe, I’d hoped I could make a friend before all the rumors of my weirdness tainted his opinion. My lips lift to a huge smile. “I’m Samantha Gentry but everyone calls me Sammy Lee. Me and Daddy live over there,” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “And though you don’t like it here now, you will grow to love it. Double V Ranch is my favorite place in the entire world and Pappy is awesome
. Now for the shots, we gotta start with where you put your hands on the ball. Are you left or right-handed?”
He tilts his head in a look I know too well. It’s one of confusion mixed with irritation. I study my last words, knowing I have the tendency to be annoying, but can’t find anything this time. “You don’t talk like a normal seven-year-old.” He grabs the ball from my hands.
“Age is a number, and while I love numbers, they are never wrong. As for how many years I’ve been alive, the sum doesn’t match the whole. If it bothers you, I can go home.” The familiar sadness of being different melts down my spine with the chill of an ice cube.
“Nah, it’s kind of cool. You sound like a teacher. Teach me Obi Wan of basketball.”
He smiles and my heart triple beats because it’s the best, friendliest smile another kid has ever shown me.
When you’re seven years old, so smart you skipped a few grades and dress like a boy, the kids don’t know where you fit. The boys don’t want to play with me because I’m a girl, and the girls stick up their noses because I’m too much like a nasty boy. I’ve tried explaining why they are wrong but it only makes them meaner.
After I told Jackson Mills his bogus fishing story was wrong, he proved I was a girl by shoving me. I tripped over my own feet and fell, skinning my elbow and knee. To prove I was more than a mere girl, I punched him in the nose and they suspended me for three days. Daddy was furious because of the learning I’d miss. Telling him I already knew everything Mrs. Allen taught made him angrier. But Pappy Joe said he was proud of me for standing up for myself and bought me Princess Glitter Piggle. She’s sort of pinkish, but mostly white, with large black spots and corkscrew tail. He promised me he would never use her for bacon and helped me build her sty.
When Mama left, Daddy quit his mechanic job in town and started his own shop in the barn. He could’ve gone back when I started school, but he had enough customers to keep us going. I met Pappy when I chased one of his chickens across the pasture and he almost ran over me with his tractor. He showed me where to put the little flocker, and I told him how wrong he built his coop. We became friends. I watched him muck out the horse stalls and feed the hens.
