“Wouldn’t know.” Morgan shrugged.
“Sorry, man. I forgot you spent the summer working every day.”
The look of sympathy on Barry’s face was so comical, Morgan snorted, spewing milk from his mouth onto the tree where they’d met for lunch every school day since ninth grade. A small section of bark on the old oak ran white as he wiped his chin.
“Need the money,” Morgan explained, tossing his paper napkin into a nearby trashcan. “I’d rather be out in the sun all day than stuck behind the counter of my parents’ gas station.”
“Three afternoons a week,” Barry reminded him. “Six hours. No big deal.”
Though they lived in the same lower to middle-class neighborhood and were lumped in the same lower end of the social hierarchy by Lake Darwell High’s rich kids, in many ways, Morgan’s life was the mirror opposite of his friend’s.
Oren and Deena Holt were hard-working, decent, law-abiding people who doted on their only child. Barry had a safe place to call home where he was always welcome. He was loved but never overindulged. Gentle discipline were the bywords in the Holt household.
By contrast, Laird McCloud was the kind of man who thought fatherhood was a good idea—until faced with the reality. When his wife died before Morgan’s fifth birthday, no one was there to curb his temper or veto his bad decisions. At best, his parenting skills could be called lax. At worst, verbally abusive.
Laird kept food on the table—when he didn’t blow a week’s worth of grocery money on a weekend bender. Morgan learned at an early age to slip a few dollars from his father’s wallet soon after Laird returned from cashing his paycheck. Or risk not eating for a few days.
At thirteen, he found a job on an organic farm run by Marcy and Sven Reinhold.
Fresh air and sunshine agreed with him. As did the huge lunch Marcy put on the table. Soon, he moved from pulling weeds, to planting, then plowing, then anything and everything the couple needed doing.
In the five years he’d worked at the farm, he gained weight, muscled up, added eight inches to his frame, and had a nice nest egg stashed away in a place outside the house, away from his father’s greedy, grasping hands.
“Only good thing about school starting is football practice. Keeps me out of my parents’ store.”
“Poor baby,” Morgan sighed dramatically. “Three hours a day must be murder.”
“Kills me, son.” Barry winked. “Every time.”
Laughing, Morgan popped the last bite of sandwich into this mouth. Sports weren’t his thing. Music was his first love—his passion. Still, he supported his best friend and tried to make every game. Even if Barry spent all his time on the bench.
“Think you might see some action this season?”
“Doubtful.” Barry grinned. “Let the rich kids crack their skulls open. I’d rather sit on the sidelines and watch Jenna Paul shake her pom-poms.” Barry waggled his eyebrows. “Lucky me, last Friday, she showed me what’s cooking under her cheerleader sweater.”
“What’s the verdict?” Morgan asked, lips twitching.
“Spectacular,” Barry sighed.
Morgan chuckled. Girls were a subject the friends agreed on wholeheartedly. While he preferred to keep his conquests to himself, and Barry liked to brag, the details his friend shared were relatively mild by teenage boy standards.
They dated—a lot. Wasn’t much else to do in Lake Darwell on the weekend beyond a one-screen movie theatre or standing around a bonfire, watching classmates drink themselves stupid.
Even if there were a myriad of options, why would two healthy, girl-minded boys choose something other than a burger at The Treetop Café followed by making out with a warm, willing female?
The girls Barry went out with didn’t care if he kissed and told. Morgan’s dates appreciated his discretion. Neither had lacked for female companionship since eighth grade when their voices changed and every girl in their class seemed to develop curves where none had been before.
“Molly Jane still holding out?” Barry asked. Finished eating, he stretched his compact body out under the shade of the oak’s sprawling branches.
Morgan shrugged. As usual, he kept silent on the subject.
“I get she’s probably the best-looking girl in our class—outside of the rich kids. But come on. What good does a pretty face do you when your balls are blue, and she’s saving herself for what? Marriage?”
“God,” Morgan said. “She wants to be a nun.”
“No shit?” Barry scoffed. “Why?”
“Some people are religious, asshole.”
“Sure. Okay,” his friend conceded. “When did Molly Jane have her revelation? While her tongue was down your throat? Or when your hand was under her bra?”
Barry knew how to paint a picture, Morgan thought with a half-smile.
“Could be an excuse not to go all the way,” he admitted to his friend, unconcerned one way or the other. “Or she might be serious and take her vows. Either way, so what?”
“You wasted an entire summer on the chick.” Barry rolled his dark eyes. “Seems she owes you more than, I found God, get your hand out of my panties.”
Barry wasn’t a big conversationalist with his buddies, even less where girls were concerned. Morgan enjoyed talking, before and after.
“Molly Jane and I had a lot of laughs,” he said. “Besides, it’s not like I’m hard up.”
“You mean?” Barry mimicked jacking off. “Hardly the same thing, brother. Not by a longshot.”
“I meant,” Morgan said with a snort, “there are other girls. I liked Molly Jane. Still do. But I wasn’t in love.”
As the words left his mouth, Morgan caught sight of a group of girls exiting the cafeteria. In the center, leader of the rich girl pack, was India Curtis.
Morgan lost his train of thought. His heart raced. His mouth grew dry. Then, India laughed, tossing a strand of dark, curly hair over one shoulder and saliva pooled around his tongue.
Familiar with the reaction, in his estimation, India wasn’t simply beautiful. She was everything.
Perfectly straight teeth. Skin the color of rich cream. The body of a goddess. Morgan swallowed, his blood heating as his gaze followed her across campus. India’s amber eyes haunted his dreams, along with the rest of her.
Morgan wouldn’t call what he felt love. How could he? Since first grade, they hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words. Yet India Curtis was his ideal. No other girl came close.
“Roll your tongue back into your mouth,” Barry chuckled.
“What?” Morgan asked, watching until the last second when India disappeared through the doors of the high school.
“Off limits, son.”
Barry spoke in general, about all the rich girls who attended Lake Darwell High. He didn’t know Morgan’s secret. No one did. He remained silent for several reasons.
First, Barry would give him endless grief if he found out. Second, if Morgan kept his mouth shut about the girls he dated, why would he talk about India, his fantasy? He didn’t need to be told how hopeless the situation was.
Five years was too long to obsess over any girl. And India Curtis? She was the elite of the elite. The top of the teenage food chain. Her father, along with a few select cronies, ran the town. Even the boys with money were reluctant to ask her out.
Head cheerleader. Homecoming queen. Captain of the volleyball team. And smart. She was top of the class with a perfect GPA. India led a charmed life. Always smiling, laughing, the girl was filled with so much energy and life, she practically sparkled.
Sometimes, though, Morgan wondered if India was as happy as she seemed. Just a feeling. After all, living in a big house, wanting for nothing, didn’t mean her life was as perfect as everyone assumed.
No one could say what went on behind those amber eyes. Was she as content as she seemed? Or, like Morgan, did she long for more, for different? For something far away from Lake Darwell.
“Tom
my Markle claims he’s been inside no man’s land.”
When Morgan simply raised a questioning brow, Barry snickered.
“India Curtis.”
“What about her?” Morgan asked with admirable calm. Yet, certain he knew what was coming, his jaw clenched.
“Last week after football practice, Tommy claimed he achieved the impossible. Happened at the Curtis family annual Fourth of July bash. Seems the Virgin Queen is pure no more.”
Morgan didn’t care how many guys India slept with—he would never be one of them. But the idea she would allow a bastard like Tommy Markle to touch her, let alone be the first, was more than he could stomach.
“Bullshit,” he spat. “Markle would swear on a stack of Bibles he’s slept with every female at Lake Darwell High School. Including Ms. Bach, the librarian. And she’s seventy if she’s a day.”
“Have you noticed Ms. Bach’s legs? Still primo.” Barry heaved an exaggerated sigh. “But I get what you mean. Markle’s a decent quarterback, but a lousy human being. Half the sex stories he tells have to be made up.”
“Bet the rest are exaggerated. Or outright lies,” Morgan said, feeling better.
His India would never let Tommy Markle near. As for… The thought was too disgusting to finish.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch hour. Barry, bless his uncomplicated soul, quickly forgot all talk of India Curtis and her sex life. He found a new subject closer to his heart. His sex life.
“Jenna Paul agreed to meet me under the bleachers after school.”
“What about football practice?”
“Coach Winfred gave us the day off—hard scrimmage tomorrow. Jenna wants to help me keep my muscles toned, bless her heart. Team first, rah, rah, rah.”
“What a girl.”
“Amen.” Barry nodded. “Want to join us?”
“A three-way?” Morgan joked, knowing his friend wasn’t into sharing. “No, thanks.”
“Funny.” Barry jabbed him in the arm. “You get your own make-out partner. Jenna has a lot of friends. I hear Lacey Cranston is a barrel of laughs.”
Morgan rubbed his bicep. For someone who looked like an average Joe—average height, average build—Barry proved looks could be deceiving. He was solid muscle and didn’t pull his punches.
“Tempting as your offer is, I’ll be in the music room.”
The high school’s selection of instruments was limited, but what they had on hand was prime. The piano, a classic baby grand, had been donated long ago. Despite twenty years of suffering through marginally talented teenagers pounding the keys, the woman in charge made certain the quality was maintained.
“Sounds like a load of laughs,” Barry groused.
“Mrs. Fields is a great teacher. She’s made some notes on my latest songs.”
“The only reason I don’t kick your music nerd ass is that, when you get famous, I plan to take advantage of our long friendship. Barry Holt, personal manager.”
“I don’t think so,” Morgan said. “You have about as much self-control as a fruit fly in an apple orchard.”
“Meaning?”
“My money would equal your good time. You’d blow my profits on women and, well, blow.”
“Cocaine? Me?” Barry frowned, then grinned. “Okay. You’re probably right. But I’ll need something to show for all the years of loyalty.”
Morgan slung an arm over Barry’s shoulders as they made their way toward class.
“Tell you what. Every time I play a concert anywhere near Lake Darwell, front row seats. Free of charge.”
“Gee, thanks for the absolute least you could do.”
Taking his seat near the back, Morgan’s gaze fell on India. She always sat in the middle, surrounded by friends. Like a beautiful work of art hanging in a museum, she was to be admired, never touched. But no one could stop him from looking. And dream with abandon.
“Models.”
“What about them?” Morgan asked as Barry pulled his attention back to reality.
“Once you’re a famous rock star, you’ll be rolling in the hotties. Promise you’ll share with your old pal, and we’ll call it even.”
“Since when am I in your debt?”
“Don’t get bogged down in details,” Barry said. “We’re talking the crème de la crème of womanhood. All I ask is an introduction. My good looks and charm will take care of the rest.”
Despite Barry’s bravado and at times less-than-stellar judgment, he’d been a good friend. The best. Morgan didn’t aspire to rock stardom. He wanted to write songs. Let someone else take the tunes to number one.
But what the hell. Everyone had their dreams. If Barry wanted to fantasize about a bevy of models, who was he to argue. He also knew his friend’s type.
“First time I meet Claudia Schiffer, I’ll give her your number.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
♫~♫~♫
EYES CLOSED, MORGAN’S fingers ran across the piano keys. He didn’t need to read the notes. The music was in his head, in his heart. Had been since the day he was born.
Morgan knew the meaning of his song, the deeper context beyond the melody. The backbeat was soft at first. Subtle, almost nonexistent. Slowly, the rhythm changed from gentle to pounding, building, building. A battle waged as the protagonist struggled to break free of what was expected and take control of his life.
As usual, his composition was autobiographical.
The melody was easy. Morgan walked through life, one song or another constantly playing in his head. While he knew what needed to be said, what was in his heart, finding the right words was harder.
Mrs. Fields suggested a writing partner. With the proper combination, she said, they could be the next Rogers and Hammerstein.
Morgan knew she meant well. But Broadway wasn’t in his future. The world would have to wait for the next Sound of Music. Now, a rock opera was another kettle of fish. Maybe. Someday.
For now, his sights were set on the world of popular music, to be specific. However, if the latest pop princess wanted to ride one of his compositions to the top of the charts, why not?
He could be a bit of a music snob, but he wasn’t crazy.
Smiling at the idea, Morgan closed the piano lid over the keys.
Alone, he walked the room, tidying up piles of sheet music and abandoned instruments—his fellow students treated the place like a pigsty. Everyone was long gone, including Mrs. Fields. She trusted him to lock the door on the way out with the key she gifted him in case he wanted to work on weekends.
Morgan’s father was not a music lover. Especially on a Sunday morning when he sported a hangover from a combined Friday and Saturday night spent at the local bar, downing whiskey shots with beer chasers.
Slipping on his jacket, the door opened just as he reached to turn off the light over the exit. A burst of rain-drenched air shot through the opening. A body followed close behind. Man or woman, he couldn’t tell at first. An umbrella blocked his view of everything but a long, black raincoat and black rubber boots.
“Hey,” Morgan shouted. “In or out. Either way, shut the fucking door before you flood the place.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Female, he decided from the timbre of the voice. Morgan frowned, trying to identify the woman whose face was hidden under a floppy hat.
“Kind of late to be running around. Car break down?”
As the hat came off, a tumble of dark hair fell around her shoulders. She pushed curls away from her face, and Morgan froze.
India Curtis. Holy shit.
A pair of amber eyes looked into his, a tentative smile on her lips.
“My car’s fine—far as I know.”
“Then why—” Morgan’s voice cracked. Talk about embarrassing. He tried to cover with a cough—the manly variety, he hoped. “What are you doing here?”
“Well…” She took a deep breath. “I’m India. India Curtis.”
“I
know.” Automatically, Morgan shook her outstretched hand. “We’ve been in the same class since first grade.”
“Right. I know who you are. Morgan McCloud.” India shrugged. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember my name.”
“How could I forget? If there’s a beauty pageant in a hundred-mile radius, you enter—and win. What was the last one? Apple Blossom queen?”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No!” Morgan assured her. “Of course not.”
“Oh.” India seemed disappointed. “No one ever does, you know. Not to my face, anyway. Might have been nice for a change.”
“You mean you aren’t perfect?” Morgan asked, tongue in cheek.
Contrite the second he said the words, he was about to apologize when to his surprise, India laughed. A sound he’d heard often, but now the first time he was directly in on the joke.
Lord, she was beautiful, his heart sighed. If Morgan weren’t already smitten, he would have fallen again, then and there.
“I’m anything but perfect,” India said. Eyes cast downward, she fiddled with a large black button on her coat. “I lie to people. A lot. All the time. Everyday.”
Not sure why she felt the need to confess—to him of all people—Morgan waited silently for an answer.
“I have good reasons—so I tell myself. Mostly, white lies.” A crease formed between her brows. “When people ask, how are you? They expect me to smile and say great, terrific, couldn’t be better. So, I do. Easier than the truth.”
“You aren’t great? Or terrific?” Morgan asked. “Things could be better?”
Morgan wondered if India had some deep, dark secret she’d kept hidden but for some inexplicable reason, on the darkest, stormiest night in months, decided to unburden herself on a stranger. He certainly qualified.
She shrugged. Either she changed her mind, or there was nothing earthshaking to tell. As someone who lived with secrets and lies every day of his life, Morgan imagined the answer for India was somewhere in between.
“Family stuff,” she said. “You know. Parental drama.”
“I understand.”
ALMOST EVERYTHING Page 5
