Love to Love Her YAC Read online

  Love to Love Her

  (Silver State #1)

  Renae Kelleigh

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 Renae Kelleigh

  Discover other titles by Renae Kelleigh at Smashwords.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1 – Happy Birthday

  Chapter 2 – Composed Young Women

  Chapter 3 – Sexting

  Chapter 4 – Lucky Number 7

  Chapter 5 – M.I.A.

  Chapter 6 – The Reckoning

  Chapter 7 – Just Friends

  Chapter 8 – The Beach

  Chapter 9 – Dress for Success

  Chapter 10 – Solace

  Chapter 11 – Transgressions

  Part 2

  Chapter 12 – Gone

  Chapter 13 – Winnemucca

  Chapter 14 – Mystery Solved

  Chapter 15 – Mystery Solved

  Chapter 16 – The Visitor

  Chapter 17 – Fair

  Chapter 18 – Ollie’s Omelet House

  Chapter 19 – Confession

  Chapter 20 – Curfew

  Chapter 21 – Ride

  Chapter 22 – Apart

  Chapter 23 – Serenade

  Chapter 24 – Date Night

  Part 3

  Chapter 25 – Sacramento

  Chapter 26 – Done

  Chapter 27 – The Other Shoe

  Chapter 28 – Happy Halloween

  Chapter 29 – Cravings

  Chapter 30 – James Bond

  Chapter 31 – Theater

  Chapter 32 – Concert

  Chapter 33 – The Letter

  Chapter 34 – Happy Thanksgiving

  Chapter 35 – Something to Say

  Epilogue – Happy Memorial Day

  Acknowledgements

  Sneak Preview: Silver State #2

  Part 1

  Chapter 1 – Happy Birthday

  Saturday, September 8

  Rhiannon – 8:00 PM

  When Ruthie and Corinne first began probing me about how I’d like to celebrate my birthday, I offered a few options, the majority of which included some combination of a rented movie, pajamas, and ordering takeout from Mr. Wong’s China Palace – getting hammered on your twenty-first just seems overrated and cliché. Well, the day has arrived, and knowing these two I can’t say I’m surprised to find myself in the back of a cab speeding toward the center of town and probably a night of debauchery instead.

  Two hours ago both girls showed up at my apartment laden with boxes and bags of makeup, curling irons, hairspray, flat irons and enough dresses, corsets, skinny jeans and miniskirts to make me wonder whether half a dozen other girls would be joining us. In actuality, all the garb was culled from their closets with the intention of subjecting me to an impromptu fashion show. Turns out my two best friends had already powwowed and deemed my own wardrobe both “too tame” and “insufficiently stimulating” for our night of drunken revelry – also not a surprise. Forty-five minutes and nine outfits into my display of exhibitionism they finally settled on an ensemble that strikes the perfect cross between slutty and licentious and consists of Corinne’s black faux leather leggings and Ruthie’s too-small halter top in midnight blue lace with the plunging V neckline. They compromised on the footwear – I’ve been allowed to wear my own knee high boots with the stacked heel.

  Corinne has made dinner reservations at a restaurant in downtown Carson City that serves Spanish tapas paired with overpriced bottles of wine. I suspect this is chiefly to do with the fact that Vince, her crush, works here as a part time kitchen manager. Ruthie and I watch and pretend to gag as the two of them exchange thinly veiled glances dripping with unbridled lust until Vince inadvertently backs into a waiter and causes plates of cheeses and toasted bread to go airborne.

  Our next stop is a pretentious looking bar called Gelo. I balk at the $15 cover until I realize it’s karaoke night – these bitches know me so well. Ruthie turns back to me with a sanguine grin and winks before leading the way to a high top table near the bar.

  “First drinks on me!” Corrine says as she sheds her jacket to show off her bare shoulders. “What’ll it be, birthday girl?”

  My eyes sweep to the bar, behind which resides an impressive array of liquors. Upon closer inspection, the entire back wall is a manufactured waterfall that pours a sheet of clear water backlit with several lamps that seamlessly shift color from purple to yellow to red. I’m reminded of the colored lights in a Barbie’s swimming pool.

  I cursorily glance over the drink specials written up on a board above the bartender’s head. It’s really more of a formality – Corinne knows what my favorite drink is. “I’ll have a grasshopper, please,” I tell her before turning back to take in the stage ten yards away. The DJ is still setting up, but a few coeds with enough alcohol already flowing through their veins are consulting the tome that lists all of the available songs.

  Ruthie and Corinne are well aware that watching others sing karaoke is a favorite pastime of mine. What they don’t know, though, is that as of this moment, my new intent is to surprise them by partaking of the festivities myself. I may be the kind of girl who needs a shot of liquid courage to dance publicly or initiate a meaningful conversation with any decent looking male, but singing is one thing I can do stone cold sober.

  A moment later a waitress arrives at our table balancing a tray of drinks. She sets down my grasshopper, Ruthie’s Blue Moon and Corinne’s amaretto sour before placing a shot glass full of golden liquid in front of each of us. Corinne smiles wickedly before raising her shot glass. Ruthie and I follow suit.

  “To Rhiannon!” Corinne cries. “Happy Birthday to the sexiest lady at Winston Sierra!”

  “Hear, hear!” seconds Ruthie.

  I roll my eyes before gamely tossing back my shot. Tequila. I can feel the fire scorching down my throat and building a home in my chest and then my belly.

  “You bitch!” sputters Ruthie. “You know I hate tequila! Where’s my fucking lime?”

  Corinne barks out an acerbic laugh before remembering to have the decency to at least feign repentance. Ruthie immediately starts guzzling her beer to stamp out the bitter flavor of the 80 proof. I chuckle privately while sipping my own minty mélange through the swizzle stick it came with.

  Meanwhile, the first brave souls to take the stage are a pair of Asian girls who can’t seem to stop giggling. They end up guffawing their way through a botched-up version of Katie Perry’s “Firework.” We clap for them anyway, knowing it takes balls to be the first ones up.

  We sway and clap to a litany of songs ranging from The Killers’ “Read My Mind” to Prodigy’s “Firestarter” (notably not such a great choice for karaoke). Then, after an hour of listening to other people’s singing, which has at times progressed more into the realm of inebriated caterwauling, my own best girls hustle up to the stage, pulling me along with them.

  Corinne parks me in front of the platform with a wink and a nod, then joins Ruthie behind the microphone. I couldn’t be more shocked – as far as I’m aware, both ladies have always been strictly spectators in the gruesome sport of karaoke.

  “This one goes out to the gorgeous blonde in the front row!” hollers Ruthie. She gestures emphati
cally for me to somehow identify myself to the crowd, and I offer an anemic wave in response.

  “Happy birthday, Rhiannon!” yells Corinne, whose mouth is a touch too close to the microphone – her proclamation sends a squall of high-volume feedback rifling through the enclosed space.

  The DJ pushes a button and the melodic first notes of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” expels smoothly from the speakers. I throw my head back in gleeful recognition before wildly cheering on my two best friends as they belt out a drunken yet only moderately off-key rendition of the song for which I was named.

  Blake – 10:30 PM

  Not long ago I would have sworn that I’d never be caught dead in a karaoke bar. As my roommate Adam is quick to point out, however, technically this is not a karaoke bar – it’s simply a bar that happens to have karaoke on the menu for this evening. Now that I’m here, I have to admit it is pretty funny watching people stripped of their inhibitions entertain illusions of grandeur as they croon versions of pop songs with varying degrees of success.

  A guy with a beard and backward baseball cap has just finished a rather bawdy performance of “I Touch Myself” while dry humping the microphone stand when Adam slides my fourth Guinness in front of me and claps me on the back. “When are we gonna see you up there, huh man? I know you’ve got what it takes, I’ve heard you in the shower.”

  “I’m not anywhere near drunk enough for that,” I tell him. I glance back up at the stage in time to see a tall redhead and a curvy Indian gal take the stage.

  “This one goes out to the gorgeous blond in the front row!” says the Indian girl. She gesticulates toward another girl planted front and center before the stage, and said honoree turns and flutters her long, tapered fingers at the crowd pressed in around her. Holy shit – she’s a knockout. Chin length strawberry blond hair that curls around her face, a lightly freckled nose, creamy skin, a deep cut neckline that frames the deep swell of her cleavage, and long, shapely legs that go all the way up to an ass that is, arguably, perfect.

  “Happy birthday, Rhiannon!” pipes the redhead, and with that the music begins and the girls deliver a passable rendition of the Fleetwood Mac song. All the while, I can’t seem to peel my eyes off the girl in the front row. At first she appears a tad rigid, as if she’s uncomfortable standing there at the front amid all the sweaty, gyrating bodies. As her friends continue their tribute, though, she appears to loosen up, and by the end of the song she’s hopping up and down with her slender arms raised, causing her boobs to bounce—it’s quite captivating. Her fair skin blooms pink as she flushes from exertion, and the overall effect is nothing short of breathtaking. I slide a glance back at Adam, and it’s evident he is deriving just as much enjoyment from her sidebar performance as I am.

  The girls wrap up and file back off the stage, where they’re greeted with open arms by the beauty in the front row. The three of them squeeze each other enthusiastically in a display which, from my perspective, can only be described as intensely erotic.

  Suddenly I want nothing more than to be up on that stage, witnessing that girl (Rhiannon I guess?) jump and sway to my words the way she had to the one before it. Emboldened by the alcohol and my sudden jolt of yearning, I almost topple the barstool I’ve been occupying in my determination to beat any other aspiring performers to the stage.

  I whisper my selection to the DJ and squint back down at Rhiannon and her friends still gathered together close to the stage. I shed any vestigial apprehension as I notice her looking up at me, and just begin to sing. “Authority Song” is one that typically carries well in my vocal register, my own voice a somewhat less folksy version of Mellencamp’s baritone, but truthfully I’m a bit put off by the sound of the warble in my voice and disappointed by the fact the acoustics in this crowded room can’t seem to measure up to my tiled shower at home.

  Once I reach the first chorus things seem to be flying a little more smoothly, and I chance a look out into the audience. She’s still there at the foot of the stage, staring up at me with big doe eyes the color of honeyed caramel and positively beaming at me. Quickly I blink away, wanting if at all possible to avoid the embarrassment of becoming visibly aroused while on stage.

  Too soon the song reaches its end and I replace the mic in its stand. The realization of what I’ve just done has set in, and with it a touch of nausea. I stumble off the stage and lift my chin to look for Rhiannon again just in time to notice her squeezing past me on the steps to gracefully assume her own position behind the microphone.

  The crowd goes wild, because of course they recognize her as the reputed birthday girl, and likely also due to the fact she looks like a fucking angel standing beneath that glaring spotlight. She turns back to instruct the DJ, then stands still waiting for the music to begin. Her hands hang at her sides, and I smile to myself when I notice she’s popping her knuckles.

  The ensuing two and a half minutes will go down in history as the single most enrapturing moment in my life to date…at least that I can presently recall. Rhiannon’s mezzo-soprano rendering of Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” is hauntingly beautiful, and even more beguiling and downright mesmerizing is the confidence and poise she exudes as she rocks subtly back and forth, launching her voice into the now all-but-silent bar. Gone is the awkward insecurity I picked up on earlier when her friends took to the stage–this goddess-like songstress has taken her place, and she’s sexy as hell.

  The song draws to a close, and Rhiannon allows her voice to melt into a soft nothingness. She dips her blond head in a diminutive curtsey and is met by…nothing. The girl has effectively stunned an entire room full of intoxicated men and women into reverent silence. The collective intake of breath seems almost palpable.

  And then, all at once, we exhale as one, and the applause is deafening.

  Rhiannon – 11:15 PM

  I alight from the stage with adrenaline still pumping through my muscles and bones like a fist through a wall. Corinne and Ruthie receive me with an effusive chorus of giggles and claps on the back. They swallow me up in their arms, and we edge through the crowd back to our table near the bar.

  “Damn, girl! Way to bring the house down!” cries Corinne. “I was practically moved to tears!”

  “Seriously…what other talents are you keeping hidden away from us?” asks Ruthie, her striking features masked in suspicion. “Are you a champion kick boxer or anything like that?”

  “Sumo wrestler, actually,” I tell her with a wink as I slurp up the last of another grasshopper.

  Before she can serve up a saucy retort, Ruthie’s eyes go wide as she takes in something behind me, and I peek back over my shoulder to see what has her looking like someone is taking a shit on the dance floor or something.

  “Mind if we join you?” asks a very tall, attractive guy with short dirty blond hair and blue eyes as clear as my little sister’s. He’s dressed like he came from work in khakis and a button down shirt. I recognize the guy behind him as the Adonis who was up on the stage earlier singing “Authority Song” while drilling Corinne, Ruthie and me with his commanding green eyes, which I can now see are flecked with a flashing gray. He’s only an inch or two shorter than his friend, and his bronzed skin is set off by a longish and semi-unruly mop of sun-lightened brown hair. His chin is strong, his jaw line angular and covered with day-old stubble. My eyes rake over his body, taking in the black boots, jeans riding low on his narrow hips, and long sleeved henley that flaunts the toned musculature of his chest and shoulders. His sleeves are pushed up past his wrists so I can see the curl of the hair on his lean forearms. Oh, and is that a tattoo I see peeking out from under his left cuff?

  My eyes meet his once more, and I blush at the fact I’ve been caught staring. The lines around his eyes hold an aspect of amusement that expands to delight when Corinne chirps an enthusiastic “Of course, pull over some chairs!”

  In one fluid movement Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome circumnavigates his friend and guides a stool between Ruthie and me. Ruthie lifts a
n eyebrow before grinning impishly at me, and I wonder if this is her way of calling dibs. Too bad I’m not going down without a fight.

  “Happy birthday,” he says in a deep tone that belies the softer, more melodic timbre of his singing voice.

  My heart stutters in my chest, and I rush to steady my breathing before responding. “Thank you. I liked your song. You’re good at it–at singing.”

  His face spreads into a smile that is very nearly heart stopping and bares a set of teeth any orthodontist would proudly claim credit for. “That means a lot coming from you. You’ve got one hell of a voice.”

  Bolstered by the shimmering buzz of the alcohol, I sit up straighter in my seat. “Sweet of you to say. If you liked that, you’ll be really impressed when you hear me play guitar at the same time.”

  Shit. Now I sound like I’m bragging. Maybe I should just go ahead and mention the fact I earned first place in fifth grade science fair while I’m at it. And that I had a prizewinning rabbit in 4H as an adolescent.

  I dart my eyes back up to his face, and my stomach flips as I watch him flick his pink tongue across his full lower lip. I’ve never seen more perfect lips. Thankfully his eyes are still smiling.

  “I’ll bet you’re right about that,” he says, and already I can tell I’m in trouble. It’s as if every tilt of his head, every twitch of his lips, every word that rolls off his tongue, is calculated specifically to elicit the type of physical response, the deep-seated shudder of yearning, I seem to be experiencing.

  A hand is thrust between us that liberates me from my idiotic stupor. “I’m Corinne,” says the voice that belongs to the hand. He takes her hand in his own and gives it a brief shake. “Over there is Ruthie,” Corinne continues with her introductions, “and it seems you’ve already met Rhiannon.” Corinne leers at me suggestively before waggling her eyebrows. I glance away and pretend not to notice.