Fraternize Read online

  “You’re a pain in my ass!”

  “Well, you have a nice ass,” he said, humor lacing his tone.

  I smiled.

  “You’re smiling, aren’t you?” he said in a silky voice.

  I snorted and tried to wipe the hot tears from my cheeks.

  “Don’t fight it. You love me.”

  “I hate you.” I was full-on grinning as I stood and shuffled over to unlock the door.

  Miller shoved it open.

  “You should be warming up with the team,” I whispered. “Whatever will our school do without its hero?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who’s hiding out in the locker room because you let some skinny bitch get to you.”

  I sighed. “Maybe next time I’ll give her a cookie.”

  As he towered over me, he held his helmet in one hand and placed his other against the doorframe. I’d been bigger than most girls my whole life. Miller was the only person capable of making me feel small. He reached out a massive hand and gripped my chin. “You’d be grumpy too if you referred to bread as Satan.”

  I forced a watery smile. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  He dropped his hand. “Em . . .”

  “Uh-oh, what’s that look?” I teased, already feeling slightly better. How could I not when it was Miller Quinton?

  The hottest thing to hit Bellevue High since . . . well, ever. With mocha-colored skin and clear blue eyes, he was almost impossible to not stare at without feeling uncomfortable. His Ethiopian mom was drop-dead gorgeous; mix that in with the Spanish heritage from his dad’s side and you got model-good looks, giant muscles, and a killer smile that had the power to make even my crappy night look completely blissful.

  “I’m your best friend, right?” He stepped closer, reaching for my hand before grasping it and pressing an open kiss to my palm. His lips were warm, his smile gentle.

  “Why do I feel like you’re about to give me the sex talk right now?”

  “You loved that sex talk we had last year. I rocked your world with those pictures.” He winked and I felt my cheeks get all hot and splotchy. “But seriously, Em. Have you ever thought that maybe you’re perfect just the way you are?”

  Air whooshed out of my lungs as tears threatened again. My uniform felt tight and itchy, and the really sick part was that Larissa, my nemesis, was right. Between last year and this year, my boobs had grown, and I’d turned into this curvy woman I didn’t recognize. One who would never fit into a size six, or eight, or even a ten.

  “Smile, Em.”

  “Yes, Miller.” I forced a smile.

  “I’m only friends with the cool kids, right? No losers on this roster.” God, he was such an arrogant ass. “Which also means . . .” He grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me toward the field. “I can’t win this game unless you cheer really loud for me, boo.”

  I groaned out loud. “Never say that again. Ever.”

  “Boo.” He burst out laughing. “I think I just lost a brain cell.”

  “Not to mention all of my respect.”

  “Well, we had a good run.” He gripped my hand in his as we walked back to where the game was about to start. “Cheer loud, cheer girl.”

  “Don’t rip anyone’s head off, ya dumb football player.” I hugged him tight.

  He jerked his head toward Coen. “Except his, right? Because I’ve been itching to rip his head off since day one.”

  I followed the direction of his gaze while Coen threw a long pass across the field. “He’s your quarterback.”

  Miller clenched his jaw and pointed at the field with his helmet. “After this season’s over, I’m kicking that punk’s ass.”

  “And ruin your chances of going to college because his dad sues you for touching his precious?”

  Miller made a face. “What do you see in him anyway?”

  “Biceps. Nice mouth. Killer body—”

  “Horrible personality . . . cheating tendencies?” Miller finished. “When are you going to finally admit you have feelings for me and throw caution to the wind, hmm?” His dimpled cheeks broke out into a huge smile as he tapped his face with one of his gloved fingers. “Alright, give me some. Platonic. Strictly for good luck.”

  I tugged his head down, ready to brush a kiss across his cheek, before he turned his mouth and crushed his lips against mine.

  I sucked in a breath.

  Breathing him in.

  He broke off the kiss and shrugged. “Whoops.” He winked over my head at what I was sure was my furious boyfriend.

  “He hates it when you do that.” I slapped a hand across Miller’s chest.

  “Perks of being your best friend. That mouth.” He turned and started running away, while yelling back at me. “It’s always been mine. I’m just waiting for you to leave the dark side.”

  Ignoring what he said like I always did, I called after him. “Have a good game.”

  “Go, Knights, go!” He pumped his fist into the air and then gave me one last cocky grin before pulling his helmet on.

  I jolted awake at the sound of my alarm going off. Of course, the night before trying out for the Bellevue Bucks squad, and I dreamed of him. Tears welled in my eyes. I always dreamed of him when I was stressed, and all it did was add fuel to the fire, fanning the flames of my pain until I wanted to scream. I had enough to deal with—why did it always come back to him? He was impossible to escape, all I wanted was a breather. To feel normal. To move past it. To move past him. Instead, he was a constant reminder, a constant pain in my ass.

  It was still dark out, so I checked my phone. Four more hours of sleep before I had to report to tryouts. I had four more hours to thrust all thoughts and memories of Miller Quinton out of my brain—my heart—expelling even the happiest memories right along with the agony of the bad ones.

  He wasn’t worth my time.

  Or the space in my head and the tiny cracks still infused around my heart.

  He may as well be dead . . . just like our friendship was the minute he promised he’d never make me cry—and then walked out of my life forever.

  Chapter One

  EMERSON

  Present Day

  Sleep didn’t come.

  But the memories did.

  So while most girls were probably well rested and ready to make the squad, I was stuck with the Ghost of Christmas Past. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror of my crappy car and willed away the dark circles under my eyes.

  I had to make the squad.

  I had to.

  It was my last shot. Professional cheerleaders didn’t get paid much of anything, and with as much time as I spent trying to become one, I was at a crossroads. I just didn’t want to give up, I couldn’t. My mom had been a professional cheerleader before she died, and I still had her picture under my pillow, the edges torn, the colors faded. Growing up without her had been painful. Not because I remembered much about her, I was too young when she was taken from us. No, it had been hard because my dad hadn’t quite got why I was bullied. To him I was perfect. He never saw the flaws everyone else seemed to, and when I grew boobs and hips, and all the other lovely things that girls get when they grow up—he handed me a picture of my mom and said, “You look just like her, and she was perfect.” It kept me going.

  Until Miller.

  God!

  I slammed the steering wheel with my palm until my hand went numb. Why? Why did it always have to come back to Miller?

  One more.

  That’s what I told myself.

  One more memory surfaced.

  And this time, as I pulled out of the apartment complex, I let it.

  Because as much as it hurt to admit it, I’d rather have him in my thoughts, where he was safe from hurting me, than lose him forever.

  (Then)

  The locker room door shut behind the last cheer member, blanketing me in silence. Well, except for the noise coming from the other side of the room.

  The walls were thin.

  Very thi
n.

  The guys were still shouting and banging hands against lockers.

  I grinned and walked over to the door that led into the guys’ locker room. A small hallway with two offices divided the space between the girls’ and the guys’ locker rooms. The athletic director’s office was on one side and the football coaches’ office on the other. If you wanted to sneak across, you had to get on your hands and knees and crawl.

  So I wasn’t at all surprised when I opened the door and looked down.

  And Miller looked up.

  “Fancy meeting you here.” I knelt to his level and crossed my arms. “Escaping so soon?”

  “You know how I feel about male shower time.” His grin was back, but it was shaky. Yeah, I knew all too well how he felt about it.

  Both of us had our issues.

  I had my weight.

  He had the color of his skin.

  Stupid.

  So damn stupid that tears threatened. Tears for him, not for me.

  The white guys made fun of him for being too dark. And the black guys made fun of him for being too white.

  He couldn’t win.

  After a long game, I knew he was exhausted and just wanted to shower and go home.

  “Come on.” I held out my hand and dragged him into the girls’ locker room. “You can shower in here.”

  “With you?”

  “You should be so lucky, Casanova.”

  “Break my heart, why don’t you,” he grumbled, placing a hand across his chest, and then grabbed his bag from the floor. He knew I’d let him in. He knew I’d say yes.

  We were best friends.

  Not that I’d ever admit it out loud since he’d probably want to test me on it—but I’d go to prison for the guy. Cheerfully.

  I’d already suffered numerous school detentions in the name of friendship after joining in on several of his harmless pranks.

  The principal called us Satan’s duo.

  I took it as a compliment.

  I think Miller did too.

  “So . . .” He plopped his bag down on one of the benches and dropped his shorts.

  I quickly turned away and stretched my arms over my head.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  “Food. Drive. Maybe stop by the dance?”

  “No! Just say no to dances, Em.” A rustling sounded, and then the shower turned on. “Besides, last time Coen grabbed your ass.”

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Don’t wanna talk about it,” he snapped.

  Which wasn’t at all like Miller.

  “He’s cheating again.” I figured if I said it like that, like a statement, it wouldn’t hurt as bad, but pain still sliced through my gut before nausea made me want to toss up everything I’d eaten that day into the toilet.

  Suddenly, huge arms wrapped around me, and I was getting pulled backward.

  “No!” I shouted. “MILLLERRRR!”

  “Oops, you’re wet,” he said after I was already underneath the showerhead with him, water pouring over my soon-to-be-mascara-streaked face.

  “Why are we best friends again?”

  He was quiet and then whispered, “Because I don’t make you cry.”

  “Promise?” I swallowed the thickness in my throat. “Promise you’ll never make me cry.”

  “Promise.” He pushed me away a bit. “Now stop hogging the hot water.”

  Little did I know that his promise would be impossible to keep.

  Or that we had precious little time left.

  Chapter Two

  EMERSON

  (Then)

  A Week Later

  I held his hand as tight as I could.

  It didn’t take away the pain. Nothing would.

  Pulmonary embolism.

  His mother died instantly.

  I watched my best friend fall apart that day, and I wasn’t so sure I would ever have my Miller back.

  The funeral sucked.

  The pastor tried to make everyone feel better by talking about heaven. It was not what Miller needed to hear.

  Because, besides me, his mom had been his best friend, his greatest cheerleader. His Navy dad was hardly home.

  They were the dynamic duo, as Miller usually called them.

  And now?

  Now he just had me.

  The shoes were too big to fill.

  The task too daunting to even think about.

  Encouraging words fell on deaf ears as both Miller and I placed a rose on the casket and walked out into the parking lot.

  “Let’s get drunk,” he announced once we were back in his truck.

  I nodded. “Alright.”

  His gaze sharpened in on me. “Seriously?”

  Shrugging, I put on my sunglasses so he wouldn’t see my puffy eyes. “I think if anyone deserves some underage drinking, it’s you.”

  We didn’t talk again until we were back at his house, in his room, surrounded by liquor he’d taken from his parents’ stash.

  “This is probably a bad idea,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, before lying back next to me on his bed and staring up at the ceiling.

  The fan whipped around in a comforting rhythm, while I clutched his hand like a lifeline, my own fingers slowly growing numb as he squeezed back.

  After a few minutes, he finally spoke again. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Shit, are you pregnant?” I teased, trying to break the tension.

  His laugh was soft and then gone. I hated it. The silence between us. There was usually so much teasing and laughter.

  “Miller?” I leaned up on my side and looked down at him. “What is it?”

  “Dad—” he choked out. “He was relocated . . .” He gulped. “Down South.”

  Horror washed over me. “But it’s the middle of your senior year!”

  “Yup.”

  “You like it here!”

  “Yup.”

  “Your mom just died!” I was so pissed. So. Pissed.

  “And the worst part . . .” Miller finally locked eyes with me. “I don’t remember half the funeral—not because I miss her so much, but because I’m going to miss you. It’s like I lost you too, and you aren’t even gone.”

  “Miller . . .” I fought to keep my tears at bay, but they started streaming down my face all by themselves. “You have me. You will always have me.”

  “For now.” He sighed. “And next week? When I start at a new school?”

  “NEXT WEEK!” I roared, jumping to my feet and nearly kicking him in the junk.

  “Damn, you’re terrifying when you’re angry.” He finally smiled a real smile, one without pieces of sadness attached to it.

  “Hell yes, I’m angry! He has no right. NO right.” I fumed, punching the pillow, my hand dangerously close to taking out Miller’s perfect face. “Why don’t you just stay here? Live with me!”

  “Was that a marriage proposal?”

  “Come on, Miller. I wasn’t even down on one knee. Don’t be dramatic.”

  “Me? Dramatic?” He shook his head. “Never. You’re the cheer-tator, remember?”

  “I rue the day I let you watch Bring It On.”

  “‘That’s alright! That’s okay! You’re gonna pump our gas someday!’” He sang in a perfect bravado.

  I rolled my eyes. Happy that at least he was acting like himself.

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “Well, if that wasn’t a complete subject change.” I felt my cheeks burn red and suddenly lost the ability to swallow.

  “Did you ever . . . sleep with him?” he repeated.

  With a deep breath, I whispered out a quiet “No.”

  He bit back a curse before reaching for me and tugging my shirt over my head, his fingers working the front of my jeans before I could utter my next sentence.

  “What are you doing?”

  He kissed me long and hard and then whispered against my lips. “Being selfish.”

  “How?”

 
“I’m taking a part of you with me.”

  Chapter Three

  MILLER

  (Then)

  Three Days Later

  Houma, Louisiana

  “I hope you wore a condom” was the first sentence my asshole dad muttered to me once I walked into the plain two-bedroom house on base, after the longest car ride of my life, during which he basically ignored me. I thought at least after the distraction of moving our shit, he’d acknowledge me. Not the case.

  “Good to see you too,” I grumbled, tossing my duffel bag onto the couch and sitting. I already missed her so much.

  Em always said what was on her mind. She’d have given my dad an earful, and it wouldn’t have been the first time either. Right after the funeral, she’d marched up to him and told him that he was ruining my life.

  I think I fell a little more in love with her that day, if that was even possible.

  “Now listen here.” Dad’s Southern drawl was thick and irritating as hell.

  I wondered if he’d been drinking. Seemed like he hadn’t stopped since the funeral. And he was only too happy to relocate. Like Mom meant nothing to us. Like I meant nothing to him.

  “No son of mine’s gonna knock up some white trash and drop out of high school! Not with all your talent!”

  “Wow. Good talk, Dad.” I stood and walked out of the room before I did something stupid, like punch him in the face.

  I had no idea which bedroom was mine.

  So, I guessed.

  Must have been right, since the first doorway I walked through had my bed, a dresser, and some of my posters scattered around the floor.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell.

  I was going to give her shit if she didn’t answer.

  “YES!” Em shouted into the phone, forcing me to pull it away from my ear. “I’m here! I’m here!”

  “And drunk too, it seems,” I joked.

  “Hah-hah, like I’d ever get wasted without you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re such a good friend.”

  She was quiet.

  Damn it. I could sense her sadness, and I hated that I was the cause of it almost as much as I hated my father for having legal custody of me.

  If I were eighteen, I probably would have fought to stay in Washington.

  Instead, I was in Louisiana.

  Freaking Houma, Louisiana.