The Marriage Pact

The Marriage Pact

By

Dinah McLeod

Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Dinah McLeod

Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Dinah McLeod

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

www.StormyNightPublications.com

McLeod, Dinah

The Marriage Pact

Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

Images by Period Images and 123rf/Designpics

This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

Chapter One

Sometimes I wondered if my life would have turned out differently if June 16, 1987 hadn’t been such a big day for me. I was ten going on twenty, according to my mother when my family moved to Georgia and into the three-bedroom house on Pickett Street.

“What kind of a name is that?” I’d asked, exasperated from the long car ride. I’d spent most of it with my legs cramped underneath me because we barely had enough space for the boxes.

“It’s a great name,” my father enthused. “You know, think white picket fences. That’s the American Dream, right?”

I rolled my eyes. Dads. Mine was
so
uncool sometimes. Like, who even cared about stuff like that, anyway?

By the time we’d pulled up in front of the house that would be our new home, my right leg was twitching with a charley horse, which made it much harder than I’d expected to walk to the front door.

“Hey, Shan, come back here! You need to help get these boxes in!”

“But my leg hurts!” I pronounced loudly without turning to face him.

“We’re all tired, honey. You have to carry your own weight. Now come get a box.”

I rolled my eyes again, my feet rooted to the walkway, halfway between the front door and the car.

“Now, please!”

I turned around and stalked back to the car, muttering under my breath about ‘carrying my own weight.’ What did that even mean? Was there a fifth grader alive who could carry almost seventy pounds? I didn’t
think
so.

“Thank you,” he said with forced politeness as he handed me a box to carry.

I grunted as I accepted it and trudged toward the house, making a mental note not to push Dad any further. He sounded about as exhausted as I felt, which meant his patience would be wearing thin. I knew from experience that if I kept pushing, I’d find myself spending the afternoon staring at the paint drying on the walls, without even my Nintendo to keep me company.

It took forever to unload all the boxes—or so it felt to me—but finally Dad pronounced us done and slammed the trunk closed. “Let’s go inside and get some lunch, huh, kiddo?” He reached out and tousled my hair, much to my annoyance.

I blew my breath out in a huff, sending my straight black bangs flying skyward. Still, I didn’t say anything. I really, really didn’t want to have to get by in a new town without so much as Pac Land to keep me company.

My mother smiled as we walked into the kitchen. “Hungry?”

“Sure are. Sugar, why don’t you fix us a couple of sandwiches?” He didn’t ask like most dads I knew. There was no presumption in his voice, but true consideration. If my mom didn’t want to make sandwiches, my father would load us back up and take us out to eat, no questions asked.

Still, my mother smiled her beautiful, wide smile and said, “I’ll see what I can come up with, honey.”

“We’ll make a grocery run after lunch,” my father said, bending to plant a kiss on my mother’s coppery head.

She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling. My mother was a beautiful woman and I didn’t have a doubt in my mind that she and my father adored each other. It was kind of sweet; mostly gross, but kind of sweet at the same time.

My mom stuck her head in the fridge, but I didn’t have high hopes, unless the previous owners had left something behind. In which case,
eww
.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. It echoed loudly throughout the house, mostly because of the empty rooms, I figured. “Are we expecting someone?” Mom asked, turning to look at Dad and me.

“Might be the neighbors. Hope they brought a fruit basket,” he joked. “Shan, run and get the door, OK?”

I didn’t even bother wasting time on rolling my eyes. I swung my legs off the chair and jumped down, shooting toward the door the minute my sneakers made contact with the floor. I loved meeting new people. But when I swung the door wide open, the only person standing there was a boy about my age, with light brown hair spiked on top of his head and a gap-toothed smile.

“Hi. I’m Brody. My family lives next door.” His smile widened as he pointed to the candy pink-painted house.

“I’m Shana,” I told him, offering a smile of my own. “We just moved in.”

His expression said
duh
, but he politely didn’t say it aloud. “Yeah, I heard there was a new family moving in. I’d thought you’d be a boy, though,” he added, his mouth turning down in a disappointed frown.

“Why would you think that?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

“‘Cause my mom heard there’d be a boy, that’s all.”

“Oh, you mean my brother.”

Brody’s eyes lit up and his smile reappeared. “Yeah? Great! Can he come out to play?”

I considered him thoughtfully, tapping my finger against my chin. Suddenly, I was in a position of importance and I was going to enjoy every moment of it. “Sure,” I said, after making him sweat it. “You’ll have to come in though.”

“OK!” he enthused. He followed me in the house, barely sparing a glance for our sparsely furnished home.

I walked straight into the kitchen before pointing and declaring “Ta-da! My brother, Jonas.”

The look on Brody’s face was priceless. It was more than evident that he hadn’t expected to meet a two-year-old who was munching on Cheerios in a highchair. Brody’s eyes had gone wide in surprise and his mouth had drooped open a little. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing and when Brody heard, he turned his attention to me, scowling as he did so.

Before he could say anything, however, my father jumped in. “Who’s this now?”

He glowered at me, but smiled politely when he faced my father. “My name’s Brody, sir.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Brody. Do your parents know you’re here?”

“Oh, yes, sir. They told me to invite your family to dinner, too.”

Dad turned to Mom, who was smiling faintly at the news. He arched an eyebrow as if to say,
better than a fruit basket, huh?
“We would be happy to join your family for dinner.”

What he really meant was that he’d be happy to put off grocery shopping for another day, I snickered to myself. With one last scrutinizing look my way, Brody thanked my parents and left without saying another word to me.

* * *

We’d enjoyed a nice meal of lasagna and garlic bread with Brody’s family, the Pattersons, and my mother insisted they come over to our house for wine and dessert. Brody had been glaring daggers at me throughout the entire meal, so I wasn’t exactly thrilled with this new development, but Mom and Dad were having too much fun socializing to notice. In fact, they were still sitting at the table long after everyone had finished dessert.

I’d left the table in favor of the couch, where I was sitting dejectedly staring at the TV. It was switched off and I wasn’t allowed to turn it on while company was over. Trouble was, it didn’t seem like they ever planned to
leave
.

“Hey.”

I looked up and saw Brody watching me. He looked as miserable as I felt. “Hey.”

“Can I sit?”

I shrugged a shoulder. “It’s a free country.”

He rolled his eyes, but pushed past my feet to plop down beside me on the couch. “Wanna turn on the TV?”

I cut my eyes at him. “Can’t. It’s a rule.”

“You serious?”

“You serious?” I mimicked, screwing up my face, which made my voice come out sounding whiney.

“Great,” he sighed loudly. “Look, I don’t know how long I’m gonna be stuck here, can we please try to be mature?”

I snorted in response. “Girls are always more mature than boys. Read a book, sheesh.”

“Is that what this is about?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “Look, I’m sorry I thought you would be a boy. Just, you know, girls aren’t that interesting.”

“Oh, yeah? ‘Cuz boys are so much better? All you do is scratch yourself and burp and tell fart jokes!” I smacked a hand over my mouth and glanced over toward the dining room to be sure my parents hadn’t heard; I hadn’t realized how shrill my voice had gotten. My mom didn’t approve of what she referred to as the ‘other F-word.’ Which made me wonder what other F-word she was talking about, but nobody would tell me.

“What do
you
do?” he sneered. “Play dress-up and have stuffed animal tea parties? God, at least if you were a boy you’d have a Nerf gun or a video game or something.”

I kept quiet as Brody sighed loudly, smirking behind my hand. “As a matter of fact,” I said, very smug and grown-up, “I have a Nintendo.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You do?”

“Yup.”

“What’s your favorite game?” He asked it casually, but I saw through it immediately and identified it as the challenge it was.

“Pac-Man or Thunder Castle.”

“Please, they’re practically the same game!” He rolled his eyes, but after that he changed the subject to school, which I was dying to know all about.

Before he left, we’d played three rounds of Pac-Man—my parents thankfully didn’t say anything about the TV being on—and I bested him two out of three. He promised to introduce me to some kids if I would give him a rematch.

“Anytime.” I smiled sweetly, then added, “Sucker!”

Still, it hadn’t been a bad night and it felt nice to make a new friend. I went to bed that night looking differently at the stuffed panda I’d slept with every night since I was three. Was it really so bad to have stuffed animal tea parties? One thing I knew for certain was that I wouldn’t be telling Brody about Mr. Soft Paws anytime soon.

* * *

Brody came over the next day and we spent an entire Saturday riding bikes while he gave me a tour of the neighborhood. We even stopped by a game of kickball that was going on in a neighboring yard.

“This is the new kid,” Brody had announced to the yard at large. “Shana. She’s cool.”

Those two words were all it took to get me an instant in with the neighborhood kids. As I answered animated questions about myself, I beamed at Brody. I guessed I could forgive him for wishing I was a boy.

He and I were together all the time after that. If anyone thought it was unusual that a girl and a boy would be best friends, no one said so. Parents were less worried back then. We never did anything but simple kid stuff. We climbed treehouses and told ghost stories and tried to see who could hold their breath under water the longest—Brody—and who could catch the most frogs, a contest where I emerged the victor. In fact, for the first five years of our lives together, everything turned into a competition of sorts, a game where everyone kept score.

I couldn’t say when he’d stopped being my dorky friend and became someone I didn’t recognize. It happened so suddenly and caught me so much by surprise that years later, I still hadn’t recovered. Even if I didn’t know exactly when it happened, I could remember the moment when it hit me, like a full-blown punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs.

We’d just gotten done swimming in the lake, something we did often, especially in the summer. It was a warm, balmy night and the sun had just begun to go down. The crickets began chirping, my signal that it was time to get home. Even though I was fifteen, Dad still liked me to be home by the time the streetlights came on.

I swam to the shore and began to climb out of the water, hearing the sounds of Brody splashing right behind me. I was reaching for a towel when he dove forward, his hand shooting out and grabbing it first. I groaned inwardly, expecting an impromptu game of keep-away. Instead, he offered it to me with the easy grin I’d grown up with—as much as he stayed over, it was probably as familiar to my mother as my own.

“Thanks.” I reached out to take it, brushing my fingers along his hand. A strange tingling jolted through my body at that moment, making me hyper-aware of him. I forgot the towel, even with the breeze raising goose bumps on my skin, cradling my hand as it crackled with electricity.