Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1)

  Rumor Has It

  Caterina Campbell

  Rumor Has It is an original work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, businesses, companies, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Caterina Campbell

  ISBN: 978-1-7365301-0-8 (print copy)

  Publisher: Hope Chest Press, LLC

  http://caterinacampbell.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems or other electronic or mechanical means, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Collaborators:

  Developmental, copy and line edit – Angela Houle

  Proofreader – Rebecca Kimmell

  Cover Designer – Sarah Kil Creative studio/www.sarahkilcreativestudio.com

  Formatting – Shanna Swenson

  Beta Readers: Grahame Claire, Miranda Grant, Shanna Swenson, Tiana Campbell, Kayla Zaldivar, and Sara Firth

  For my mom, Lee, who fostered my love of books and writing.

  and

  For my husband, Ron, and my children, Tiana, Cameron, Chaney, and Brielle, who never wavered in their support of my dreams.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  The contents of my mom’s purse, tossed from her Jeep Cherokee’s window, are strewn all over the beach parking lot like the tail-end of a trailer park yard sale. And not a nice trailer park like the one my grandma lived in before she moved to a “home,” but the kind that has toilet bowls for flower pots and crack pipes for wind chimes.

  Joe, the perpetrator of the toss and dash and the longest-running relationship my mom has had since my absentee father left eleven years ago, is long gone in said Jeep Cherokee. My mom is probably still running after him. It’ll take a second for her to figure out the Jeep can burn a lot more ground than her scrawny legs. Not inclined to chase after anyone, I’m left wondering why my mom had a Downy ball in her purse. Bristol, my twin sister, older than me by fifteen minutes, is off to find someone who will help us get our cooler off the beach since the man with the muscles split in a blaze of douchery.

  I look down at the smorgasbord of shit that only Teresa Sloan would pack in a purse and hesitate over a tampon, wondering if I shouldn’t do her a favor and throw it all away. I’m burnt red, my bathing suit is crawling up my ass, my hair, holding a sandcastle’s worth of sand, has dried into a nice crusty, blonde nest, and I’m supposed to care about a tampon with road rash? After a few curse words, none of which are a true representation of my vast four-letter vocabulary, I pull my bikini bottoms out of my ass one more time before picking through the lot sale. I’m God-given, not man-made, and what God gave me is more expansive than a bean pole. I need a damn suit that fits my curves, one I don’t have to search for every time I bend over.

  With the stuff I can salvage back in my mom’s purse and the stuff I can’t tossed, I head back to the sand where my unseasoned feet can have some relief. The sand has cooled, the early May evening making for a much easier walk back to our stuff after an unseasonably hot day. I cram as much of our stuff as I can into the cooler knowing the car barely has room even for that and slip into my sandy coverup. Packed to the gills, the cooler is too heavy, and dragging it across sand is damn near impossible for my five-foot-four-inch frame now ten pounds heavier than it used to be. College has made my average body soft, but once I’ve unpacked for summer and recouped the sleep I lost on parties, finals, and Bristol’s unexpected meeting with the Dean of Students, I’ll be able to surf and run off the weight gain.

  “Brenna! I told you I was getting someone for that.” Bristol’s voice, extra sugary, sneaks up behind me.

  Spinning around, I look up with a sweat trail running from forehead to cheek like a socially awkward geek at a pep rally to find Bristol with a tattooed Adonis straight out of Magic Mike’s hunky gene pool. I could lose a lot of time staring at his well-defined muscles, eight of which are abs. I look like something that slept under a bridge in my grandma’s pajamas and he, wearing only a pair of shorts and a scowl, looks like he stepped right out of Jock magazine.

  “God, she never listens.” Even Bristol’s shitty version of an introduction sounds flirtatious.

  I wonder briefly if his irritable, tight-lipped facial expressions are a product of Bristol’s incessant talking or just his version of resting bitch face. Honestly, as good looking as he is, even the scowl is attractive. Rather than waste his time, I drop the handle while Bristol drivels on about how no one stuck around to help us. If by anyone, she means Joe and his two worthless friends, one of which kept hitting on Bristol because he heard college had improved her blow job skills, then we’re better off.

  “Thank you.” I’m not nearly as honeyed as Bristol, but I’m pleasant.

  He ignores us both and hefts the cooler up to his abdomen where he shifts it until he can get a better handle on it. I let him. I don’t even try and pretend I’m a headstrong, independent, almost-twenty-one-year-old female. Right now, I’m as weak as I look and have no inclination toward changing that perception. He’s not here to find a date, though that may have slipped past Bristol, who continues to push her small Bs at him like she’s got a crick in her back. If we’re ever going to live down our reputation, she’s going to have to start putting those things away.

  Like Bigfoot on a mission, I scoop up the rest of our day into my arms and walk behind Bristol, who is empty-handed and mercilessly chatting to Adonis. We may be identical twins, but our looks, right down to the red splotchy birthmark on our scalps, is where the similarities end.

  Bristol has always been the more flamboyant one. While I’m not opposed to standing out, I typically stand out in a way that embarrasses us both. She’s a lot more in tune with her looks and can make even the worst outfit look trendy. Like today, for instance. We both started out looking hot enough to land a Magic Mike of our own, but at the end of this sweltering day, the only one taking a second look at me is Miss Gladys, the Rec Center’s resident swim instructor since 1952.

  I reach the parking lot as the hot guy is putting our cooler into the trunk of the Ford Mustang we nicknamed the Silver Stallion the second we bought it out of an impound auction. The decade-old horse is rusted around the wheel wells and shimmies like an epilepti
c seizure once it hits sixty, but it’s reliable and doesn’t ask questions or gossip. I value that kind of loyalty. It’s a rare commodity in small-town Milagro Beach, where our reputation was built off a lot of loose lips and a few honest indiscretions.

  I shove the stuff in my arms around the cooler, using up what’s left of the trunk space as well as my four-letter vocabulary, because it’s not exactly an easy feat. It’s a landfill in there, and listening to Bristol flirt her way into a one-night-stand is making me gag. If she worked this hard at school, she wouldn’t be in danger of losing her scholarship.

  “Fuck me! Why can’t you live out of a dresser and a medicine cabinet like the rest of us? And is this my shirt? I’ve been looking for this for a month.” Lunatic-pissed, I spin around and hold up the dehydrated white top that’s shriveled into a small ball of cotton and barely refrain from nailing her in the face with it. She already looks horrified by my language, which isn’t any worse than hers. It’s the company I’m using it in that bothers her. She usually waits until she has the date before she drops the F-bomb, just in case he’s religious or a mama’s boy. I let it go for now, erring on the side of diplomacy for the sake of our Adonis.

  The dark-haired, chiseled hot guy, tattooed from wrists to collarbone, is looking back and forth at us, probably just now figuring out we’re twins. I don’t know where my eyes should land, but I know where they want to. He has abs that should come with a warning, like distractions on the roadway, and his chest, though covered in some sort of baseball crest tattoo, is so defined and sculpted nothing on it moves unless commanded by him to do so. When I finally make it to his face, it too is worthy of more than one look, but I can’t afford more than one if I’m ever going to figure out the logistics of getting the car packed.

  With our college belongings packed in suitcases and two U-Haul boxes taking up the back seat, there is absolutely no room in the Silver Stallion for Mom too, assuming she ever figures out she can’t outrun a Jeep and comes back to find us. Had we unpacked before Mom’s family barbecue beach-play fun-day, we’d have room for the hot guy too, but that would have required forethought.

  Instead of wishing Bristol had found some compost-making survivalist to help us rather than People’s future Sexiest Man Alive, I continue to ignore him and spin back around to face the trunk, heart beating faster than it should for a girl just trying to make room for her spiraling mother.

  “So, you girls good then?” His voice is a buttery, deep tone that sounds less irritated than I expected it to.

  Focus, Brenna.

  “We’re good. Thank you for your help,” I offer, with my face in the trunk. I move a bottle of moisturizer and toss it toward the back seat with a box of tampons, a cereal bar, and two hair clips.

  “It’s no problem,” he replies, assisting me with a loose Frisbee before stepping back to give me more room.

  I open the passenger side door and flip the seat forward, checking to see if I can find a way to fit me back there. There’s no way unless I want to leave a suitcase behind. I pop my head back out and look over the top of the car. “Where’s Mom?”

  Bristol, pulling her hair back into a ponytail, throws her hands up once it’s confined. “I don’t know. Probably still running after Joe. Wait. We’re talking about Mom. She’s somewhere holding her knees and gasping for air while she checks her eHarmony account in case Joe doesn’t take her back.”

  Despite my irritation, I smile, because it’s scary accurate. “You lost Mom, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t lose-lose her. She’s around here somewhere.” She halfheartedly scans the parking lot, biting on her bottom lip, but otherwise looks unconcerned. Bristol has no tolerance for my mom's breakups, makeups, or move-ons.

  As if she knew we were looking for her, Mom, in between heavy tears and run-on sentences about why men are the Devil, shows up carrying her flip-flops.

  “Is it too much to ask your boyfriend to keep his eyeballs in his head and his hands to himself when he’s taking selfies with some random chick in a thong?” “Random chick” is accompanied by strong finger quotes beside her cheeks. She sniffs, “Am I being unreasonable?”

  Bristol looks at me, our matching green eyes locking, her face a tad more dramatized than mine, and then she speaks.

  “Crazy unreasonable.” Each word is clearly enunciated and dripping in sarcasm. “What wouldn’t be unreasonable is asking him not to take the fucking selfies in the first place. Jesus Christ!”

  Hot Guy sees his opportunity to bail and takes it, leaving me to fend for myself and Bristol to regret not paying more attention to his exit strategy.

  Forcing a smile, I thank him again, garnering a dismissive wave and a quickly uttered, “Good luck,” before he’s on the bike path, hopefully heading someplace where he won’t witness any more of our crazy.

  Back on track, I look between the two women ready to do battle over their differences. “Okay, let’s calm down.”

  “NO!” My mom shouts, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “You two have never been in love. So you don’t know what it’s like to lose it.” Bristol’s sunburn reddens, and the shouting begins.

  “I know what it’s like to lose a dad and multiple other men you tried to make my dad after two days! So, don’t tell me I haven’t loved and lost. I’m just not falling for every guy who winks, smiles or sticks his di—”

  I cut her off, grabbing her wrist. “We’re not doing this here.” We have an audience on both sides of us, and we’ve had enough dirty laundry aired in public and at several contentious court hearings to last a lifetime. There is nothing this town doesn’t know about us and I don’t particularly want to add more, though Grundy Beach hasn’t had a really good Sloan Show since my dad failed to observe the reservation system at the Picnic Pavilion and was arrested for squatting at some kid’s birthday party.

  “Calm down,” I repeat, rejecting the pavilion memory like every other pockmark in my life left by my family’s indiscretions.

  “You calm down!” she yells at me, eyes harsh. “You’re just like her. The only difference is you’re actually waiting for the right one to break your heart. And that’s not meant as a compliment.”

  I grind my teeth, nostrils flared like bat caves. “I’m going to ignore you because we don’t need more rumors,” I say, glaring at her. “And it’s not a freebie. I’m going to punch you in the face at home.”

  Bristol smirks. “I’ve seen you fight. I’m not scared.”

  My mom moves between us. “I’ve had enough for one day.” She shifts her glassy gaze to Bristol, oblivious to my discomfort and the audience forming. “Do you think you could take me home, or is there not enough room for me and your judgmental attitude?”

  I laugh at my mom’s spontaneous dig, “There’s never enough room for her attitude. They’re both going to have to stay behind.”

  “Hell no!” Bristol snaps. “You’re staying. I’ll take her.”

  “Uh-uh,” I shake my head vehemently. “Something bad always happens when you’re in charge.”

  “I won’t let her crack the headlights or dent the hood,” she says, referring to my mom’s trip to jail four years ago for taking a bat to her cheating boyfriend’s car. That night, and subsequent others, landed us both with Uncle Rodney for a week while the courts decided whether Mom was fit to care for us. Turns out, fits of passion aren’t necessarily dealbreakers for parenting. I question that ruling from time to time, usually during moments like these or like when my mom’s request to chaperone school dances was denied—indefinitely, by a unanimous decision at a school board meeting. The Sloans don’t get a simple shake of the head and a softly spoken “no.” We get board meetings and court proceedings.

  I glare, measuring Bristol for sincerity.

  She smiles. “I got this. I promise.”

  I give in. “I need panties, and then you can go.”

  She nods and relays the plans to my mom while I dig through a suitcase and grab the first thong I can find. I slip out of
my bikini bottoms, still wet from swimming and being trapped between my thighs, and shimmy into the thong without showing anything more than upper thigh and the bottom curve of my butt cheek.

  I snap the passenger seat back into place, clear out the bag of fast-food trash from our trip home, grab my phone from the front seat, and admonish Bristol, “Home. Dab at a few tears. Put her in the shower. Come get me. Can you do that?”

  “Dude, I’ve got this.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  With a motorcycle on my left and a Prius on my right, I sit on the curb, legs out in front of me in an empty space with freshly painted white lines over chip-sealed pavement. The lot hasn’t had visible lines since my dad walked one as a sobriety test. I don’t know how true the rumor is about his faceplant, but if it’s anything like the rest, it’s an embellished half-truth.

  I bitch about the rumors spread about us all the time, sometimes to the point that Bristol has to point out that without them we never would have seen the inside of Tucker Blossom’s house. She also wouldn’t have been counseled on the teen pregnancy crisis or interviewed by countless parents before being allowed to spend the night. I’m hoping that today's incident with Joe isn’t going to be added to the long list of Sloan misdeeds.