Only for Him Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ONLY FOR HIM

  VOLUME ONE

  CRISTIN HARBER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Six Years Ago

  Sophomore Year, Summerland County High School…

  Grayson

  This entire shitty-ass trailer reeks. The stink of cheap liquor and an even cheaper woman hangs in the air as I walk in the door. There’s a system I keep for knowing how deep Pops is, and it goes by smell. If he’s been smokin’ pot, I’m on my own before football practice. No big deal. If the stench of cheap beer fills our place, Pops’ll give me hell, but not enough that I can’t duck out and escape. I’ll be a little banged up, but nothing I can’t ignore when Coach Snyder makes me run laps for being late. But if our trailer smells like liquor, I’m screwed.

  That’s the last thing I need. I forgot my damn football pads this morning and needed to slink in, grab them, and go. But judging by what stinks, that may’ve been a bad decision.

  “Oh!” A woman’s slurred surprise drifts down the short hall.

  Well… damn.

  I turn toward the source of the slurred yip and cheap vanilla aroma. She walks into the room, and I feel her gaze as I assess her level of sobriety. On a scale from buzzed to smashed, she’s hovering around a solid tipsy. Smeared red lipstick and years’ worth of smoking are written on her too-tan face. That’s Pops’s type—dive bar skank.

  The lady’s hair screams “just been fucked,” and she hops from one foot to the other, tugging on a stripper-girl shoe. One foot makes it into the see-through plastic, but she drops to the ragged carpet in a mess of drunken giggles.

  Great.

  “Hey, you,” she slurs, her eyes bobbing all over me.

  Disgusting. I don’t know her name, but I could guess. Bambi. Candi. Mandi. Sandi. I think they make up their names. Statistically, there aren’t enough parents in Summerland County naming their kids with names ending in i to allow his screws to all rhyme.

  “Didn’t know you had a boy, Randall,” she coos, more to me than to Pops. “Quite the boy…”

  Not only have I been caught at home, but the lady is eyeball fuckin’ the shit out of me. Pops’s instability makes him jealous, which fuels his anger. Like I’d touch one of his whores.

  But now that Pops is done with his woman, he’s going to take it out on me for whatever he dreams up—that I’m flirting with his fucks or that I… exist. Such an asshole. I exist. I’m his son. His problem. It blows my mind how often he brings his trash back here when he doesn’t want them to know I’m alive. In what world does that make sense?

  Shirtless and with glassy eyes, Pops sways from the back room, acting drunk and well-fucked. I hate that look; I always thought that getting laid should chill him out, but it never does. Just makes him angrier. Not that it is hard to do. He can go from passed-out to ready-to-kill in a liquor-stinking breath.

  Pops sneers at me, and even though I should expect it, my stomach sinks. He hates me, and as sick as it is, I can’t blame him. I ruined our lives.

  “Grayson, boy, told you not to come home.”

  “Randall.” The lady, still sitting on her butt, giggles from the floor. “You’re too young for a boy that big.” She eyes me like she needs another go in Pops’s waterbed. Alcohol-fueled lust fires behind her makeup-caked eyelashes.

  My skin crawls. Her tongue darts out, licking like she wants to taste me, and a foul shiver runs through me.

  Pops swings his glare between me and his piece of ass, and his scowl tightens. “You shoulda stayed doing your football, ROTC, whatever the fuck you do. Not come here.”

  If I didn’t need my shit for football, I wouldn’t have come home. I should’ve skipped practice. I’m never going to make it back in time. With the anger pulsing in our trailer, there’s no doubt Pops wants a fight that I won’t give him. I can’t—I’ve earned every punch he lands.

  Dread rushes into my blood. The thing about a whiskey punch is that it hurts a fuckava lot more than if he’s been slamming beers. Even better is when he’s stoned. Even if his limp-dick fist balls, there’s a good chance he’ll pass out before he makes contact.

  I swallow the lump in the back of my throat, bracing for what will come. It will suck, especially since he doesn’t seem that drunk. The more sober he is, the longer he lasts. A shitty fact of life. The guy’s up for father of the year.

  “I forgot my pads.” I try to sidestep him in the narrow living-slash-kitchen area.

  He takes two swaying steps. “Boy.” Spittle hits the back of my neck, then his fist cracks sloppily on my head.

  Son of a bitch. I hadn’t braced for that. If a hit’s coming, I zone out, not feeling a thing. But him swinging in front of that lady? I shrug it off, ignoring the sting. “Just getting my shit, and I’m out, Pops.”

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere now, boy.”

  I move toward my room. Practice is in twenty minutes. My teeth grind together. If I can just—

  Pops grabs my shoulder, steadying himself, and then leans in. “I said—”

  “Think I should be going.” The woman gives a smoker’s cough.

  Even though bench-pressing his weight would be easy, I let Pops whirl me to the counter. It takes everything I have to detach. The counter edge digs into my back, and I know the beating is coming. The confirmation is in his eyes, and one long onceover tells me he’s not nearly drunk enough to make this session quick.

  I’ve had fifteen years walking this earth, and I should’ve known better than trying to sneak in to grab my gear. I’m never going to make practice tonight. Coach Snyder might wonder, but he never asks.

  “You knew I had company, you little shit.” His voice is cigarette stained. More spittle hits my skin. “Honey,” Pops calls to the lady without taking his eyes off me. “I’ll call you. Get your ass goin’ home now.”

  “’Kay, honey.” She fumbles toward the door, swinging a purse off the couch.

  The honey-talk makes me sick. Maybe she doesn’t think he’ll fight, and I’ll just take it. I have a couple inches on him, plus muscle where he has none. I play sports. He smokes anything he can find. I survive on protein bars. Pops trades our food stamps for dime bags and fifths of whatever burns the hardest. Instinct should have my adrenaline going, readying to fight or flight. But it doesn’t.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Pops snaps.

  Everything.

  But I shake my head slowly and wait, daring him to strike. I’m not afraid of pain. Maybe I even embrace it.

  My heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. This is what I deserve but can’t wait to escape. As the trailer door slaps shut, he drives home a gut shot.

  The hit explodes. I torture myself by staying under his roof, knowing he’s the most pathetic, ruined man I’ve ever met. But I made him that way, and as fucked up as it sounds, it’s the only way I think he’ll survive. I owe him that much. Long ago, Pops was normal… I was normal… Mom was alive.

  Another blow lands, and my breath is gone. I brace for his wheezy left hook. It connects, but I’ve already started to numb out, thinking the only thoughts that save me from my nightmare.

  The sweaty stench of liquor registers as he lands a slap. “Fuck you, boy.”

  Another slap to my temple, and he grabs my ear, ripping it down. A burn of pain explodes, and I
silence my reaction, dropping to my knees. His drunken attack hits more than it misses. The scalp shots hurt, blistering fresh pain into a familiar headache. Blood touches my tongue. Bruises are a part of life. No one looks too hard. This is what I’ve accepted.

  Harder punches rain down, but I’m gone. Numb. I hear the swings more than I feel the impact. I wonder if this is how soldiers detach when they’re prisoners of war. I close my eyes and think about the only thing that makes life worth the trials: Emma Kingsley, her sweet smile, and the laugh that make me believe in a future.

  Warmth bleeds through me, and I’m aware of her innocence. Sophomore year isn’t for finding answers in a girl’s face. It’s for working my way off first-string JV and figuring out how to pass chemistry.

  Another hit strikes my temple. Pops nails that perfect spot, and my balance is off. Pain I will not admit to explodes behind my eyes. Another strike lands. Then a push. I’m down on my back. Violent agony ricochets as Pops’s bare foot strikes my ribs. That bastard.

  Emma.

  I fight to think of her. The only girl I want. The only one I could ever tell about this. But I won’t.

  I open my eyes. It’s the wrong time to say I’m sorry. Our gazes clash, then one sloppy kick flies to my head. A hair of a second before his foot hits, I know I’m going to be out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Junior Year…

  Emma

  Irish twins. The thing about sharing classes with my older brother is that we confuse people. Ryan is eleven months older than me. Most assume we are fraternal twins, since we don’t look at all the same. His hair is dark blond. Mine’s more gold. His eyes are hazel; mine are brown. He’s a little preppy, a little trendy, which is a good combination on him. But I’m all over the place: maxi dress one day, a jeans-and-shirt combo that’s more tomboy than casual the next.

  Tonight, it’s torn-at-the-knees jeans and a screen-print tee with a pixelated, monochrome design I’d made in photography class. All around me, music thumps. Some of the guys from our class are getting trashed. Some of the girls are, too. But mostly, it’s just a typical party.

  Courtney and Melanie are in the corner, evil-eyeing me, but I catch them, and they glance away. There’s a good chance they’re in deep discussion about revoking my BFF card. Fine by me. I just want to leave, and that’s why I’m getting their dirty looks. I’m distracted by one Grayson Ford, hottest guy in the room, and my platonic best guy friend. Yay…

  He’s got a cheerleader following him around, and he isn’t ignoring her. Yay, again.

  “Hey.” Hands clap to my shoulders and spin me around. Courtney’s glaring at me. “Would you just go over there already?”

  I can’t even play dumb. “Nah. What’s the point?”

  Melanie sidles up. “Yeah, what’s the point? Except you two are like star-crossed lovers or something—crazy in love and doing nothing about it.”

  Crazy love. I’ve grown up with the perfect example of that. And that is not anything that I have with Gray. Well, at least it’s not mutual because, whether I admit to it or not, I love him and have since I can remember.

  Courtney throws her head back, laughing. “First comes love—” Melanie joins in with their rhyme, and in sync, they finish up, “Then comes babies in a baby carriage.”

  They break into squeals about our future imaginary children. God. But I’m not even going to have this discussion. Pointing to my ear, I mouth, “What? Never…”

  My parents are crazy in love and, apparently back in the day, humped like rabbits. Totally disgusting, except for kind of cute, which is why there were three of us kids in very short order. Cherry is about a year older than Ryan, and she’s the wild child.

  Our folks stopped after me, probably because three kids three and under would be enough to send anyone to an asylum. Mom’s sanity was likely saved from the loony bin by tying her tubes—which incidentally was the only time our parents would ever, even in passing, touch on the birds and the bees talk. Win-win for all. I like being the baby of the family, our parents are sane, and no one had to sit around for an awkward conversation.

  But why I’m thinking about families and babies while staring at Grayson out of the corner of my eye is… pathetic. He’s Ryan’s best bro and a semi-permanent fixture around our house. Grayson is just Grayson, and even if I’ve imagined him looking at me the way I do him, it’s just not a possibility.

  So I’m glad he and Ryan are tight. I’m even happier that I can at least call him my close friend, too. I focus on our long standing friendship. It’s been the only way I can justify the homicidal tendencies that provoke my inner ninja warrior chick every single time I see some bippy-boppy, cliquey bitch succeed in capturing his attention.

  “Seriously, Emma. You need to chill out or head home.” Courtney hip-bumps me.

  “Can’t.” I turn to her, shaking my head. I’ve masochistically offered to make sure both Ryan and Grayson have a sober ride at the end of the night. And by sober ride, I mean me.

  “Right. Well, don’t look now, but here comes a certain somebody.” Melanie giggles into her red plastic cup. “See ya.”

  Courtney squeaks. “Eek, see ya!”

  They both take off in the absolute most obvious way possible. Shit, shoot, shit. Deciding that my thoughts are too transparent, I head for the front door. Some fresh air will fix me up since I’m pretty much the only sober person here.

  “Emma?” Grayson calls from behind me.

  I pretend like I don’t hear and push through the crowd for the door. I’m almost outside when I hear Ryan calling after me, too. He’s laughing, and once I’m on the front yard, I turn around to see my brother heading out the door with his arm thrown around a girl I pretty much hate. “Let’s go to Whities before we drop them home.”

  Them? Oh, no. I didn’t sign up to chauffeur around Ryan and that girl making out all over the back seat while trying to ignore Grayson, who’s looking ten kinds of amazing. And… no way am I heading for a burger run. Just not gonna happen.

  The door to the house opens again, and out walks Grayson. My mind freezes then spirals to an immediate love-struck-heartbroken twist when I see Gray with another her whom I dislike. Immensely.

  She’s clinging to his broad chest and giggling as they make their way down the front porch. I hate this, how I feel, how I react. There’s always that distant, maybe-one-day kind of hope that this weird vibe is actually not a made-up daydream. But if that’s the case, why would he torture me?

  “Ems.” He shoves away from his clinger. “We leaving?”

  At least that shove gives me some very small level of satisfaction, even though she just moves back in again.

  “Hey.” I jingle my keys then turn to Ryan. “Yes. But we’re not going to Whities.”

  Ryan groans, and I roll my eyes.

  Gray sidesteps the girl on his hip. “Why’d you run off a sec ago?”

  “I was in sober-girl hell.” No way will I admit to him why. Everywhere I went tonight, there was a chick trying for his attention.

  “So why’d you run for the door just now?” His voice is teasing. He nudges my shoulder with his arm.

  I swear, between those arms and that chest, I don’t know what to do with myself. I shrug instead, imagining him holding his arm around me, pressing our bodies together. “I was bored. Didn’t want to drink, and I have dance in the morning.”

  My list makes sense, but none of it’s true. I can’t drink around Grayson for fear that I’ll do something stupid. And I like being their sober option because I’m pretty much their only option, and that guarantees me more time with him. I’m a Grayson Ford addict. No one will blame me though, and I’m pretty sure there’s an I Dream of Gray support group at school.

  My eyes slide over him. He’s perfect. Sweet. Funny. Smart. Tough. A combination of male awesomeness, all in the right blend.

  The girl who had been latched to Ryan’s chest pulls back from him. “Seriously, Emma, you should try out for the team.”

&n
bsp; Now the girl under Gray’s arm scowls. “Tryouts have been over for forever.”

  Add her snippy shut down of something I don’t even want to do to the list of reasons I hate her.

  Ryan’s girl smiles at me, and I think that she’s actually trying to suck up to me to win him over. “For Emma’s talent, I think we’d make an exception.” Spoken like a true captain of the cheerleading squad.

  Whatever. Art bleeds in my veins. I know I could do well on the cheerleading team, but that’s not why I dance. The rhythm, the feelings, with the right music and a focus, I don’t dance. I emote. All that poetry in motion stuff comes naturally to me.

  “She’s not a dancer,” Grayson adds. “She’s a photographer.”

  Dancing’s fun, but photography is who I am. He knows it. Heat hidden by the evening’s dim light hits my cheeks. “That I am. But really, I’m your ride, so in the car. Let’s go.”

  Grayson’s girl wraps her arms on him, readying to work some take-me-home magic. But he sidesteps her move, and relief floods me.

  “Hey.” Gray points down the street. “Becca’s in your neighborhood. She’ll drop you.”

  When her mouth hinges open to protest, he leans in to add a more private part to their conversation. Whatever he said works, and after a bit of giggle-fussying, she waves goodbye and almost skips down the sidewalk.

  Seriously. I. Hate. Her. Or maybe it’s me that I’m hating. Why can’t I just tell him? Sighing, I know the answer I’ve replayed a million times.

  He’s my friend.

  My best friend.

  It will ruin everything. He’s Grayson Ford, the dream boyfriend, the ideal catch. And I’m me: cute but not gorgeous, friendly but not super popular. If Ryan wasn’t my brother, I wonder if as many people would even notice I exist. A long time ago, I learned that some friends only wanted to hang with me for access to Ryan and Gray. Nice.

  Back to chauffeur duty. Ryan’s attached at the face to his cheerleader and heading toward the back seat.