Dare to Kiss (The Maxwell Series Book 1)

Dare to Kiss

Copyright © 2014 by S.B. Alexander. All rights reserved.

First Kindle Edition: September 2014

E-book ISBN-13: 978-0-9887762-4-1

Print ISBN-13: 978-0-9887762-5-8

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Editor: Red Adept Publishing

Editor: Terri Valentine

Cover and Formatting:
Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Adult Content Warning: The content contained is the book includes adult language and sexual content. This book is intended for adult audiences 17 years of age and older.

Dedication

Tracy Hope, you’ve been with me from the moment my first book was published. Your advice keeps me sane. Your encouragement motivates me and your honesty helps me to get better as a writer. You’re a great friend, and I love you. This book is dedicated to you.
 

Chapter 1

T
he ball left my hand and zigzagged on its way to home plate, missing Tyler Langley’s glove. I kicked the dirt in frustration as he yelled something back at me—what, I couldn’t say. The buzzing in my ears masked all sound around me. I usually got this imaginary bee in my head when I was upset or angry with myself or even when I was nervous. I didn’t know why it happened. My psychiatrist said it was a way for my body to protect me. It sounded like a bunch of crap, but what did I know about my brain?

Tyler came running out to the mound, waving his catcher’s mitt at me. His mouth was moving, but the little bee zipping around in my head was still loud. When he reached the pitcher’s mound, he tipped up my chin with his gloved hand.

Embarrassed at my performance, I looked away. I hated myself right now.

“Look at me.”

I shook my head.

“It’s okay, Lacey. You’re just tired. You have both your fast pitch and curveball ready. The slider isn’t that important for tryouts. It’s only high school baseball.”

My head snapped up, and I met his soft blue eyes that had helped to lessen the constant noise in my head. “Easy for you to say. This is important to me.” I pushed him away.

What was I doing? I didn’t mean to be such a bitch. He’d been patient with me over these past few weeks, helping me practice. He’d given up some of his summer fun in between his football practice, and here I was giving him attitude.

“I know it is, but you have two excellent pitches, and the coach is only requiring two for tryouts.” He enfolded my hand with his callused one.

A small twinge of jealousy hit me. Things came easy for Tyler, it seemed. Whenever he’d thrown a few pitches to me to show me how the curveball looked, my mouth would always fall open at how perfectly he pitched. He’d played on the baseball team his first year in high school, but gave it up when the football coach asked him to concentrate on football. He’d agreed because he loved the game more than baseball, and it gave him better scholarship opportunities.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m just tired.” I pushed the envy aside. It was stupid of me to feel it in the first place. My performance had nothing to do with Tyler’s talents. I was just extremely hard on myself. I strove for perfection. I had to make the team. Everything I’d wanted was riding on this year, my senior year, and my last chance to show the scouts at Arizona State University that I was worthy of a scholarship. They’d seen me play at my old school, Crestview High in California, and were so impressed that they sat down with me to discuss a potential offer to play for their school.

They gave me two stipulations. One, I had to continue to improve my pitching skills, and two, keep up my grades. If I met these requirements I had a shot at not only a scholarship, but at being the first female to grace an all boys’ college baseball team—or at least ASU’s.

“It’s getting late. Why don’t we call it quits? You need to rest your arm.” Tyler tapped my ball cap.

I nodded. I did need my arm loose if I was going to continue to practice hard up until tryouts next week. I prayed I could regain my skills. I’d gone a whole year without picking up a baseball. My hands started to shake as I thought about Mom and my sister Julie.

“Are you okay?” He wiped a tear off my cheek.

“Yeah.” Not really.

Almost a year after Mom and Julie’s deaths, I wasn’t sure I had the confidence to face a new life in a new school and a new home. Did Dad and I make the right decision to move clear across the country? My psychiatrist, Dr. Meyers, had recommended it. The memories and the pain had been too much for my dad, my brother Rob, and me. We weren’t healing. We weren’t even living. I’d abandoned my friends. My dad moped around, hiding in his home office. My brother Rob turned down his dream of playing for the LA Dodgers.

Tyler flicked his head toward home plate. “Come on. Pack up.”

We walked over to the dugout in silence. Once inside, I packed my bag, removed my cleats, and slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops.

As Tyler changed into his tennis shoes, he said, “I’ll get the lights and meet you at your car. We can go get a shake and fries before you head home. I know you like dunking your fries into your shake.” He grinned. It was the same cocky grin that made the girls I’d seen watching us occasionally swoon over him, especially with his blond locks that had a way of curling around his ball cap, and, of course, his ocean-blue eyes.

He was sweet, trying to cheer me up. We’d met when I’d barged into Coach Dean’s office right after I moved here in July. I wanted to talk to him about tryouts and the schedule. I didn’t think the coach would be busy. After all, it was summertime, and baseball didn’t ramp up until tryouts in the fall. Boy, how wrong I’d been. I’d walked into Coach’s office without knocking, and interrupted a meeting between Tyler, Coach Dean, the football coach, and a scout for a large university. Immediately, Coach jumped out of his desk chair, yelling at me for my lack of manners, and to get out. As I slumped my shoulders, cowering like a turtle retreating into her shell, someone in the room had snorted. As I scurried out, I caught a glimpse of Tyler with a grin on his face. Since that day we’d become friends, mostly hanging out on the ball field for practices.

I wasn’t sure if Coach Dean put him up to it or if Tyler just felt sorry for me because Coach humiliated me. In either case, it didn’t matter. I’d made one friend, and to me an important one. He knew the game of baseball well. Maybe the fresh start was panning out.

“Okay” was all I said as Tyler grabbed his bag and ducked into the tunnel.

Then I lifted my Van Halen T-shirt and tied it into a knot to let the night air cool my sweating skin. The style wasn’t the best-looking fashion statement, but I didn’t care. It was approaching nine p.m. Who would see me at this time of night? Then I remembered Tyler wanted to grab a bite to eat. I shrugged. I’d make myself presentable before we got to the restaurant.

I threw my bag over my shoulder as I walked off the baseball field of Kensington High in Ashford, Massachusetts. Dad and I had chosen this school because it had a better academic program, and a better coach than the other schools we researched. I hoped for the umpteenth time that we had made the right decision.

Once at my car, I fished my keys out of my purse. I drove a beat-up Mustang, compliments of my dad. He was trying to restore it. But time was non-existent for him. He had recently opened a new nightclub in the heart of Cambridge, a city known for college kids and a vibrant music scene. He also owned a nightclub in LA managed by Rob, my twenty-two-year-old brother. He had offered to stay in LA and run the business for Dad. In addition to his nightclubs on both coasts now, Dad also owned and managed Eko Records, a well-known label that had signed many top-ten bands and pop singers. The flexibility of the business afforded him the opportunity to work from anywhere.

I took off my ball cap, running my hand over my long brown ponytail. I threw my bag in the backseat and slid into the driver’s side. Dad had said to let it idle a few minutes to get the oil circulating before taking off. I inserted the key into the ignition and turned. The
click, click, click
sound wasn’t good. I tried again. Nothing.

Shit! I banged my hands against the steering wheel.
Damn car.
Dad and I needed to have a talk about better transportation.

Heaving a sigh, I got out of the Mustang, looking around. The sports complex stood slightly to my right with the ball field on its left. Aside from Tyler’s SUV, the only other vehicle was a black truck, which sat under a tree in the far corner of the parking lot. I glanced out at the field, but didn’t see anyone. What was taking Tyler so long? The lights to the stadium were still on, which meant he must’ve gotten tied up with something.

Ducking half my body back into the Mustang, I lifted my purse off the seat when a loud thump on the back of my car startled me. My heart rate kicked into overdrive.

I jerked my head up. Some guy I didn’t know stood behind my car. Panic set in. Since the police hadn’t found the creeps who had invaded our home and murdered my mom and sister, I’d been extremely paranoid.

I opened my glove compartment, grasped the handle of my nine-millimeter handgun, then slowly got out. The stranger seemed frozen. He stared at me as though he were contemplating his next move. I released a quiet breath, placing my free hand on the roof of my car and the other behind my back then met his gaze. All sense of where I was vanished in that moment. The copper eyes staring back at me made my whole body quiver and my brain seize.

Calm down. Calm down.
Yeah, right
. Between the sudden panic attacks that had become normal for me and trying hard to keep from blacking out, I was screwed.

Forget the tingles. My freaking belly had a thousand butterflies fluttering inside. I swallowed in order to get the saliva to coat my dry throat. Jeepers, I needed one of those five-gallon jugs of ice cold Gatorade that a team usually throws over the winning coach.

After a few more swallows, I decided to give my voice a shot. The last thing I wanted to do was show fear. Once I showed any sign of it, I was afraid he would grab me with those muscular arms and drag me screaming into the nearby woods, where he would kill me the way they killed my sister and mom.

“You…have a problem?” I asked. I didn’t think this guy was going to hurt me, but I couldn’t be sure. Regardless, I had the gun in my hand, and I was committed now.

“You need help?” the stranger asked as he stepped around the car toward me.

“I wouldn’t come any farther,” I warned. My fingers wound tightly around the handle of the gun. My muscles were tense enough to burst at any second.

When we moved to Massachusetts, I begged Dad to let me learn gun safety and how to shoot. Reluctantly, he’d only given in because I was going to be by myself on most nights, since he would be working at the club. So we joined the local gun club. No, I wasn’t supposed to be carrying a gun. I forgot to remove it from my car after practice this morning. If Dad found out, I’d be in a load of trouble.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” The guy stopped at the back edge of the car and turned his head left then right in quick succession.

The parking lot lights hit his face at just the right angle to illuminate his copper eyes with lashes so long that I shivered.
Butterfly kisses.
I imagined the light touch of those lashes skimming over my face or anywhere on my body. I didn’t want to take my eyes off of him, but just that thought made my gaze wander slowly down his entire muscular body. His blue—
or was it black?
—T-shirt stretched tight over his broad chest, emphasizing the word
Zeal
. I didn’t know if it was just a word he liked, or if it was the band my father had signed. I continued my obvious assessment, holding the gun as steady as my trembling hand would allow while my eyes landed on his faded, worn jeans that hung low on his hips, tattered at the knees. “None of your business. What do you want?” I asked.

He took one step closer, and I whipped my hand around, aiming the gun at him.

He backed away, raising his hands to shoulder height, and as he did, his T-shirt lifted, exposing a small area just above his belt that made me suck in air.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I was just looking for my brother. He said he would be down here practicing.” His voice was calm, and his relaxed shoulders told me he wasn’t frightened at all.

I slanted my head to one side and a bead of sweat slid down my temple.

“I’m serious. Put the gun away. I’m not going to hurt you. I go to school here,” he said in a husky tone.

“Prove it.” My voice was calm and steady, which shocked me. I wasn’t convinced this dude was a high school student. He looked older.

He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that caressed my skin as though his tongue were licking every inch of my body. “And how do you suggest I do that?” He still had his hands in the air, revealing his taut skin above the waist of his jeans, causing tingles to spark inside me.

The bright lights of the ball field suddenly went off, the area around us darkening. He used those seconds to make his move. He was now standing six inches in front of me while my hip was pressed against the driver’s door.

I lifted my gaze to meet his, and my heart practically stopped cold. His masculine scent of cedar breezed over me as his honey-brown hair fell over his forehead. Up close he was downright gorgeous. His eyes flashed with playful intensity as though he dared me to use the gun, and that just pissed me off. Gorgeous or not, this guy wasn’t taking me seriously.

“Well? You didn’t answer my question,” he said in a gruff tone.

I’d forgotten the question. So I said the first thing that was stuck in my brain. “And you haven’t proved you go to school here,” I said. I had a feeling that wasn’t the answer.

His lips twitched and dimples emerged.
Uh-oh!
My biggest weakness.

Get it together, girl.
I was doing a bang up job of scaring away this stranger. My self-defense instructor would clearly give me an F for this one.

He shook his head slightly as if to say I was crazy. “If you’re going to use that thing in your hand, now is your best shot,” he said as he pressed his chest into the gun, his hands still in the air.

Stupid move.
“Are you crazy?” I didn’t want to shoot him or anyone.

“Isn’t that you?” he countered. His voice had a playful edge to it.

Yeah, I was. How did he know
? Dr. Meyers diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, after I’d found Mom and Julie’s bodies dead on the kitchen floor.
Exposure to a traumatic event can trigger such things as panic attacks, anxiety, nightmares, fainting or blackouts, memory loss, and others. Sometimes a person may feel as if they’re going crazy
, my doctor had explained.

“Do you normally pull a gun on everyone who comes near you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Do you normally bang on cars, freaking people out in the dark?” I retorted.

He narrowed his eyes.

I did the same. It seemed we were at an impasse.

“Well, use it or put it away. I’m not going to hurt you.” A mocking grin threatened on his kissable lips.

“What’s going on here?” Tyler asked as he came running out from the sports complex, panic in his voice. “Lacey.” Tyler skidded to a stop, facing the stranger and me. “What the heck are you doing?”

“What took you so long?” I asked Tyler without taking my eyes off of the stranger.

“I couldn’t find the key to the electrical panel for the lights. Kade, man, what did you do to her?”

What kind of name was Kade?

Kade slowly turned to Tyler, a muscle working in his strong jaw. “What did
I
do to
her
? Are you serious, man? Tell your girlfriend here to lower the weapon. I don’t want any trouble. I was looking for Kelton. He said he’d be down here.”