Anna Cruise, Carlyle Labuschagne, Charlotte Abel, C.L. Foster, Delphina Henley, E.L. Todd, Kelly Risser, Kristina Renee, N.L. Greene, Randi Cooley Wilson, Sharon Rose Mayes and Susan Burdorf
This book is fictitious. All references to ancient, historical events, persons living or dead, locations and places are used in a fictitious manner. Any other names, characters, incidents and places are derived from the author’s own imagination. Similarities to persons living or dead, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Each story is owned by the original author and has been included in this compilation with their express permission. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher or author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
Certain
Kris Kendall
Copyright Kris Kendall 2014
It Was You—prequel
A new adult contemporary romance by Anna Cruise
JUNE
“Killing him isn't an option.”
I stared at my best friend. Griffin was sprawled on the couch, his lanky frame taking up all three sections of the battered, stained piece of furniture. The TV was on and I glanced at the picture again. A baseball game, runners on first and second. The pitcher was checking the guy on first, but it was more to buy time than anything else. Neither of the runners were moving on a two and nothing count.
I felt my stomach clench and the anger bubble up inside of me. I didn't hate baseball. I hated that I was watching it instead of playing.
“No shit,” I said. I picked up the bottle of beer in front of me and took a long pull. I wasn't twenty-one—hell, I was barely nineteen—but having a friend like Griffin made it easy to score booze. “I just said he'd be better off dead.”
“You're just saying that because guys in hats and tight pants are chasing a little ball around a diamond on TV.” Griffin pushed his long blond hair away from his face and sat up. “Look, the situ with your dad blows. No doubt, man. But sitting around being pissed off about it hasn't gone so well, has it?”
I hated that he knew me so well. I lifted my middle finger in his direction.
He grinned, a slow easy smile. “Dude. It's done. You can't get the money back. You're not going to Stanford.”
“No shit,” I repeated. I sounded like a broken record. “I can still be pissed off about it, though.”
And I was. I couldn't shake it even when I tried. Any time I saw anything related to baseball, it was like a spark setting a fire inside me.
Griffin raised his eyebrows. “You gonna be angry for the rest of your life? 'Cuz you're going on...what? Over a year now? That's a pretty fucking long time to be mad at your dad. And the rest of the world.”
The guy sitting next to me should have known that I could stay angry forever. It was one of my superhero-like abilities, one of my vices. I had a temper. And I had no problem holding a grudge.
“I don't wanna talk about it,” I muttered.
My best friend laughed. “Come on, man. I'm here for you.” His expression was one of mock concern. He sat up and folded his hands all prim and proper and tucked them under his chin. “Talk to me. Let me help you. We can work through this.”
If I'd been holding a can instead of a bottle, I would have fired it at his head. Instead, I shot him a glare that would make most people cringe. Not Griffin, though. He let out another loud laugh and stood up.
“It's too easy to fuck with you, man.” He stretched, his arms so long that his hands almost scraped the popcorn ceiling. He picked up his phone and checked the time. “I'm gonna head down to Law. See what the break looks like. You comin'? Water might wash away some of that anger.”
I chewed on my lip, then swallowed another mouthful of beer. I could go surf with him. Load up my board and go down to Law Street and ride a few. Breathe in the salty air and let the waves wash over me and try to take my mind off of all the shit that was going on.
I glanced at the TV.
The pitcher threw another one wide. The batter flipped his bat to the side and trotted slowly to first base as the other two runners moved up. I missed flipping the bat. I missed getting to third base.
I missed baseball.
“Yeah,” I said, dropping the bottle on the coffee table. It clanked on the wood surface and toppled over and the last remnants of beer spilled on to the surface. “I'm coming.”