Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)

Adrian and Freddy’s alcohol-induced fight is big news for about three days before exams start and gossip dwindles to a minimum.

If there’s ever a time I’m reminded that I don’t belong at Lionswood, it’s during the two-week exam period that preludes holiday break.

Last year, I managed to scrape by with a handful of Cs and a few Bs, but that was only after several all-nighters in the library.

This year – the college year – I know I’m screwed.

“I don’t understand why you’re so worried,” Adrian says, sprawled out on my bed in nothing but his uniform slacks and a half-buttoned white dress shirt.

“Because these scores determine everything,” I say from my desk chair, hunched over one of Adrian’s old study guides and munching on the gourmet sandwiches he brought with him. I’m not sure how he knew I hadn’t eaten today, but this pesto turkey sandwich is leagues ahead of the protein bar I was going to choke down.

Adrian’s notes are, of course, far more meticulous than mine have ever been. “And Pratt’s is extremely selective. I need an amazing art portfolio and grades that don’t suck. I have a C in English, which means I need to do nothing short of great on this exam if I’m going to keep my GPA up.”

Even talking about it sends my cortisol levels skyrocketing.

It’s only two weeks. I can make it two weeks.

“How do you get a C in AP Lit?” He drawls. He looks ridiculously large on the twin-sized mattress. “I took that class sophomore year. It’s basic literary analysis. You just tie everything back to mortality and the role of death in the life cycle, and you’ll get an A.”

I roll my eyes. “We’re not all geniuses.”

A teasing smile tugs at his mouth. “Well, according to the SSAT scores you submitted to get into Lionswood, you are…”

Some of my mirth dampens. “We don’t need to talk about that.”

“Why?” He closes the book and levels me with his full attention. “You never told me how you managed to cheat your way here. I’m very curious about it.”

“The how doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree.”

“We’ll agree to disagree then.”

“No, I want to know,” he says and sits up completely. “I’ve thought about it, you know. I never had to take one of those tests, but I’ve heard they’re highly regulated. Human proctors, cameras…I’ve wondered if you bribed someone to inflate your score, but that’d take more money than I imagine you’d ever be able to come up with.” His eyes gleam. He’s enjoying this too much. “So, how did you do it? Hide a cheat sheet on the label of your water bottle? Sneak a cell phone into the exam? Hire someone else to take the test in your place?”

I fidget with the edge of the study guide. “No. None of those. As I said, the how doesn’t matter.”

Although Adrian’s known my secret for a few weeks now, I’m no more comfortable discussing it now than I am the night I used it to bargain for my life.

The bed creaks as he rises from the mattress and stalks over to my chair, leaning down till his curls tickle the side of my face. “Can’t you indulge my curiosity?” He murmurs into my ear. “You cheated your way into the world’s most elite boarding school. You deserve some bragging rights, sweetheart.”

I shift in my seat, and when our eyes connect, I’m temporarily distracted by the long, inky lashes that frame his dark eyes.

By his own admission, he’s a monster, but in certain moments, under certain lights, even I’d mistake him for innocent.

I shake off the thought. “I’m not telling you. It’s better if you don’t know.”

Because you might realize I’m just as fucked up as you are, I want to add but don’t. It’s not a part of my history I’d like to revisit anytime soon. Or ever again.

He sighs. “Fine.” With a chaste kiss to my neck, he stands up. “We still need to discuss plans for holiday break.”

“Well, I’ll be in Mobile with my mother,” I answer. “I just got a ticket.”

It’s not often I look forward to breaks at home, but this year is shaping up to be the exception. I need a break. From just about everything, but especially from the newfound relationship I apparently have with the boy currently stretching out his long limbs in my dorm room.

The dance was…intense.

And though there hasn’t been so much as an echo of murderous intent from Adrian since, I know that I need space.

I need to clear my head, and I need to do it somewhere that’s untouched by Adrian – somewhere that he’s never imbued with his presence.

The man in question hums. “You know, you told me about your father, but you’ve never said much about your mother.”

I pause. My mother. One of my least favorite conversation topics. “She’s, uh…” I rub the back of my neck. “She’s born and raised in Mobile. Currently lives there with her boyfriend. They’ve been together five years or so. That’s about it.”

I’ll leave the deeply embedded mommy issues for another time.

“I see,” he says thoughtfully, and suddenly tugs me out of the desk chair, situating himself on the edge of the bed so I can stand between his legs while he grips my hips. Like this, we’re actually eye-level, and it doesn’t come at the expense of anyone’s craned neck or stooped shoulders.

“Well, I can’t say I ever thought I’d willingly take a trip to Alabama, of all places.” His nose scrunches up in distaste. “But I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

I glance at him sharply. “What?”

He shrugs. “Well, I should meet your family, shouldn’t I? Now’s a good time as any, and it’ll give me a good reason to shirk my family for the holidays.”

My heart thuds. I’m waiting for the punchline, but his expectant look only tightens the knot of dread in my stomach. I did not see this coming.

“You want to come to Mobile. With me. And meet my mother.” Repeating it doesn’t seem to make it any easier to stomach.

“Is that not what people in relationships do?”

“Well, yes, but…” I swallow. I can think of about a million reasons I’d like to keep a thousand-mile radius between Adrian and Mobile, but not a single one that’d go over very well. “There’s no need to rush this kind of stuff, is there? And, besides, mom’s boyfriend, Rick, is completely unavoidable during the holidays. He’ll hold you hostage with one of his weed-fueled government conspiracy theory rants. I could never subject you to that.” I crack a smile for good measure.

His eyes narrow playfully, but there’s a hard edge to his voice when he asks, “Are you ashamed of me, sweetheart?”

My eyes widen. “What? No. Of course not. I could never be ashamed of you. I’m just trying to save you from a very boring, very awkward holiday break.”

He gives another thoughtful hum, and I can’t tell if he actually believes me, but I’m eager to deflect. “What about your parents?” I blurt out.

He visibly stiffens. “My parents are tricky. As you know.”

“I mean, if we’re talking about shame…”

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says, and there’s not an ounce of hesitancy in his tone. “But there are a lot of logistics involved in meeting my parents.”

I’d only meant to use the question as a diversion, but I am curious about Adrian’s family – more than I probably should be. As it stands, I’m not sure which version of Mary and Edward Ellis I should be more wary of: the glossy, untouchable one that graces magazine covers or the monstrously abusive one painted in Adrian’s journal.

I’m afraid both versions might be capable of eating me alive.

“Now that they can’t control me the way they used to –” His expression hardens. “My parents are grasping for any kind of power they can get in my life. In ten years, I’ll have full access to the family trust and they’ll cease to be useful. In any capacity. And having someone that I’m attached to…” His grip on my hips tightens. “You’d be a piece of collateral for them to leverage against me. They wouldn’t hesitate to exploit you if it meant controlling me.”

I swallow. I figured “logistics” meant the little stuff – which fork to use at dinner and how to cross my legs like the daughter of a CEO and not a waitress from Alabama.

I didn’t realize it meant danger.

But of course it does. Adrian is dangerous…why wouldn’t the rest of his family be?

“You don’t need to be worried, sweetheart.” He swipes a thumb over my furrowed brow. “I’d never let my family touch you. There’s only one Ellis you need to concern yourself with.” He punctuates the sentiment with a long, searing kiss that lands me half-way over his lap, my hands tangled in his hair.

Although he’s gentler than he was the night of the dance, kissing Adrian is just as all-consuming as I remember. Ever the control freak, he sets the pace and when he’s had his fill of me, he draws back, eyes half-lidded with desire, and I have one of those moments again – the one where I’m momentarily stupefied by his beauty.

Space, I tell myself. Space will be good.

***

I stand in the gravel driveway of Rick and Mom’s very humble abode, Adrian’s parting gift strapped to my back– a new leather bookbag.

It’s not a big deal. You need a backpack anyway, he’d said, but the subtext was clear: I needed a backpack that hadn’t come from Freddy.

An unreasonably possessive gesture, but it was hard to argue with five-thousand dollars worth of calfskin leather.

Here’s to hoping it survives the Alabama humidity.

Mobile is just how I remember it: a steepled Baptist Church on every corner and just enough palm trees to remind you it’s a coastal city.

And warm.

It’s November, and I’m wearing shorts and a half-a-can of bug spray as I traipse up the drive. I spot Rick’s vintage (his word, not mine) pickup parked alongside the trailer immediately, but Mom’s Saturn Ion is nowhere to be found, so she must be at work.

Great. Just the welcome I need: a few hours of uninterrupted Rick time without Mom to even act as a buffer.

There are some freshly planted peonies in the flower beds and a new holiday wreath hooked to the screen door, but the same unfortunately placed palm tree still hangs over my bedroom window. Whenever there’s a storm, it rattles against the trailer’s aluminum siding and leaves me unable to sleep.

I see Rick’s makeshift garage has miraculously survived another season.

Well, garage isn’t really the right word for it. The shed haphazardly assembled next to our mobile home doesn’t have enough space to house one car, let alone two. As far as I know, the only thing the rickety wooden structure is shielding from the elements is a handful of old tools.

With a sigh, I ascend the rickety porch steps and knock on the door. The chatter of whatever sports game Rick is watching filters through the screen, and just as I’m starting to worry he might not have heard me over the sound of the enthusiastic commentary, he ambles into view. “You made it,” he grunts and the screen squeaks open. “Your mother will be glad to hear that.”

The moment I step inside the cramped space, the scent of tobacco washes over me. “Mom said you quit smoking.”

He gives a non-committal shrug and scratches at his patchy five-0-clock shadow. Rick looks a lot like Tony Soprano – a scruffier, heavier, and unemployed Tony Soprano. “She bought me some of those nicotine patches, but they don’t work for shit.”

I nod. “Well, the flower beds look nice.”

Rick gives another grunt before retreating into the living room, apparently having reached the limit of his social battery, and I head to my room.

While the trailer is technically a two-bedroom, the second could probably fit into a shoebox, but I’ve done what I can with the space. The walls are riddled with old sketches and pictures of me and Mom. I’ve even covered my twin-sized mattress in colorful, patterned blankets to distract from the fact that it’s starting to sag from age.

I lay my bag and luggage on top of the refurbished desk I’ve managed to squeeze into the corner and collapse onto the bed, the springs squealing under my weight.

Three weeks.

Coming home is always a mixed bag – like trying to fit into a coat two sizes too small. I used to think, once I got to Lionswood and made friends, I’d be able to shear my Alabama roots and grow new ones.

But now I just have two places I don’t quite fit in.

“Poppy!” Rick’s voice rings out. “Grab me a beer, will you?”

I don’t say a word about Rick’s day-drinking as I grab one of his Busch Lights from the fridge.

“Here you go.” He’s parked on the ugly yellow-brown sofa Mom picked up from a flea market a couple of years ago, but the yellow tint is a newer addition – a side-effect of Rick’s cigarette habit, which has even discolored the snow-white walls into an eggshell shade.

“Thanks,” Rick mutters, eyes glued to the Baseball game on the tiny flat-screen. “There are some dishes in the sink. It’d be nice for your mother to come to a clean house, don’t you think?” He pops the can open fingers and takes a long swig.

I cross my arms over my chest, a bout of frustration as familiar as this house ballooning under my skin.

Don’t engage.

You just got here.

Don’t en –

“They’re not my dishes.”

“It’s also not your house, is it?” A Progressive commercial comes on, and Rick points one meaty finger in my direction. “You should count yourself lucky, kid. If you’d grown up with my folks, they would’ve had you payin’ rent or out on the streets the minute you turned eighteen. Your mother’s too nice for her own good.” He struggles to peel himself off the couch and stands. “I’m going to the garage.”

I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from snapping back, but as Rick stomps toward the door, it still comes out under my breath: “You don’t pay rent either, asshole.”

Still, I end up channeling my frustration at Rick into the tower of dishes crowding the sink because he’s right about one thing: it would be nice for Mom to come home to a clean house.

After the dishes, I move onto vacuuming.

Then mopping.

By the time I’ve started the laundry, another one of Rick’s demands cuts through the light music humming in my ears.

“Poppy!” Rick bellows from the garage. “I need two more beers!”

I sigh, slamming the fridge door, and stomp toward the shed. “It’s not even 2 PM.”

Looming over a salvaged dirt bike caked with rust, Rick scowls at me in the dim, cramped space. “Don’t talk about my drinking, kid.” He holds out an expectant hand. “Give ‘em here.”

As I relinquish the cans, he turns toward the back exit of the shed and whistles. “Hey, Ian! Take one of these with ya!”

A moment later, a shaggy head of dirty blonde hair peaks through the opening, and I feel my stomach bottom out.

What the fuck?

Ian Creasey is at least three or four inches taller than I remember, but he’s still got the same layer of baby fat clinging to his grease-smudged cheekbones.

Instinctively, I take a step back – but Ian doesn’t so much as spare me a glance as he snags the can from Rick and disappears back through the exit, the high-pitched whine of a dirt bike engine shortly following.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

It isn’t until I can no longer hear the bike rumbling down the gravel drive that it feels like I can breathe again.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Rick grunts after a particularly long swig of beer.

I swallow and manage to find my voice long enough to ask, “Why is Ian Creasey in our garage?”

“My garage,” he grumbles. “And he’s helpin’ me with my bike.” He loosely gestures to the dirt bike propped up in the center of the garage before turning and rearranging the tools on the workbench.

I stare at the back of Rick’s sweat-stained wife-beater. “How long?”

“Couple months.”

“How often is he here?”

“Few times a week.”

“Why him?”

At that, Rick pauses and looks back at me, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why are you asking so many goddamn questions?”

I inhale sharply. It’s not often that I need, well, anything from Rick, which makes this all the more frustrating. “Has he asked about me? Have you been talking about me? Just tell me that.”

Rick must be able to hear the panic leaking into my voice because he raises one bushy eyebrow. “Why the hell would we be talkin’ ‘bout you, kid?”

I assess Rick for several long, drawn out moments, searching for any kind of deception or ill-intent in his face, but he only looks annoyed by my line of questioning – not duplicitous.

I shake my head and mutter, “Nevermind. I’ll talk to Mom.”

Before Rick can turn the questioning on me, I scurry back into the house and lock myself in my room.

Holy shit.

Holy.

Shit.

It takes at least two minutes to subdue the racing thoughts in my head, and even then, I know I’m fucked.

Because of all the things I thought I was coming home to, the boy whose life I ruined is not one of them.