With those last words, Gretchen climbs out of my car and slams the door behind her, so hard she makes the vehicle rock.
Panicked, I bolt out and follow after her. Her long legs take her far across the parking lot as she heads straight toward Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church. But I can run fast when I need to, and I catch up to her quick. I grab hold of her arm, and she snags it out of my grip, whirling on me with wild eyes.
“Get away from me!” I grab her again, and she shakes me off, her expression full of disgust. “God, you’re so freaking weird! Just leave me alone!”
It’s the weird comment that gets me. It always gets me. They all single me out. They all point their fingers and laugh. With every step forward I make, something like this happens, and I’m pushed four steps back.
She turns away, breathing heavily, but she’s not going anywhere. Odd. She’s usually dying to get away from me.
That’s when I realize she has her phone in her hand. And she’s tapping away on the screen, like maybe she’s texting someone.
Hell.
“Gretchen, come on.” I keep my voice even, like this is no big deal. Like I’m not hunting her down in the church parking lot on a Tuesday night. The wind whips through the giant pine trees that surround the lot. I can hear the branches swing and sway, the hoot of a lonely owl in the near distance. It’s dark up here. Quiet. No one drives by. The street is abandoned, and the nearest house is a quarter mile away.
Feels like it’s just the two of us out here.
All alone.
“Fuck you, you fucking weirdo!” She turns to face me and starts to laugh. No doubt when she catches sight of the stricken look on my face. “I can’t wait to tell everyone about this. Wait until I spread this story around—I will ruin you.”
A roar leaves me, unlike any sound I’ve ever made before in my life, and it makes my lungs ache. I run up on her and shove her hard, so she tumbles to the ground. She’s distracted, in shock that I shoved her, and I take my chance and sock her in the face. I meant to hit her mouth, but my knuckles only glance off her jaw and my entire hand throbs from the impact.
I can’t believe I hit her.
“What the hell?” She touches her face gingerly, working her jaw to the side, and she winces. “You punched me!”
“You deserved it.” My voice is eerily calm as I stand over her, both of my hands clutched into fists.
She tilts her head back, all that glorious red hair spilling past her shoulders. Even after I hit her, she still challenges me. I don’t know whether she’s brave or just stupid. “What are you going to do to me now? Beat me up?”
I say nothing.
I don’t need to.
Instead, I smile. Laugh.
Actions speak louder than words, after all.
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Acknowledgments
I had so much fun writing this book and now when I go back and re-read it, I feel nostalgic and even a little…sad. This book is so incredibly personal. Many of the tiny details in this book are based on real people in our lives, sweet teens who both live with me and those who are friends with my children. I name no names. I don’t point any accusatory fingers and I’m not trying to call anybody out, but I want to thank these anonymous teens from the bottom of my heart for being so open and real and honest with me. I seriously love them all.
Now for a few quick thank yous:
— Thanks to K & H for the middle name
— To A for the “go elf yourself” underwear
— To J for his love of Dr Pepper
— To B for all that fierce loyalty
— To S for The Bachelor love
About the Author
New York Times, USA Today, and number one international best-selling author Monica Murphy is a native Californian who lives in the foothills below Yosemite with her husband and children. A workaholic who loves her job, when she’s not busy writing, she also loves to read and travel with her family. She writes new adult and young adult romance and is a firm believer in happily ever after. She also writes contemporary romance as USA Today best-selling author Karen Erickson. Visit her online at www.monicamurphyauthor.com.
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Pretty Dead Girls
Daring the Bad Boy
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