Pretending Read online

  Pretending

  Shanna Clayton

  Copyright © 2014 Shanna Clayton

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1497318717

  ISBN-10: 1497318718

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover art by Eden Crane

  Editing by Cheryl Murphy

  You can visit Shanna at: http://www.shannaclayton.com

  For Perla

  My friend, my beta reader, and my beauty guru.

  Love you, girl.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  CHAPTER ONE

  DOLL

  Anyone who thinks living in a mansion is a dream come true has never been alone in one at night. Hearing loud noises, trying to figure out where they’re coming from and what’s causing them—trust me when I say the glamour and glitz goes straight out the window. First thing tomorrow I swear I’m buying a dog. A big ferocious one. With fangs.

  I bet Harland is laughing his ass off somewhere from the other side. I loved that man like he was my own dad, but sometimes I wonder what he was thinking by leaving me here in his rustic Victorian. Payback for giving him hell as a teenager? Possibly. He did have one twisted sense of humor. No college dormitories for me, oh no. That would’ve been far too conventional for his tastes. If he thought my life was anywhere bordering normal, I would’ve become his unfinished business. I glance at the ceiling.

  Go ahead and cross into the light, Harland, you jackass. I’m scared shitless.

  I inhale, trying to get a handle on myself so I can listen. A few seconds of silence tick by, and I figure I must’ve dreamt the noise. Either that, or it was just an eerie nighttime sound. Kent House is known for those, the air clanging through its pipes, wood expanding and contracting, crackling pops in the attic—all testaments to its old age. This place was built before the invention of cars and most modern technology. It’s bound to make a few weird noises. Or have a few ghosts…a possibility that makes me shudder. When Harland was alive, these things never bothered me. His presence alone made me feel safe.

  My phone flashes from the nightstand. It’s three a.m., meaning I’ve only been asleep an hour. This is what I get for studying with Gwen. I should know better by now. Those late night study sessions include one too many margaritas and little to no actual studying. She must’ve just gone to bed even later than me, because there’s a text from her.

  Got us white shirts 4 Graffiti Bash. Don’t care if Princess Bitchface is hosting. We’re still going.

  She’s referring to Charlotte Hart. They’ve hated each other for as long as I can remember, but it’s anyone’s guess as to why. Both of them change the subject whenever I bring it up. Being stuck in the middle isn’t easy, but I’ve gotten pretty good at staying neutral. Taking sides isn’t a good idea when your best friends don’t get along. Chances are I’d lose one of them if I did.

  A long sigh escapes as I lay back down. Going to that party is the last thing I want to do. Professor Barakat is hosting a seminar tomorrow night discussing new insights into evolution. Wanting to go screams lameness but hanging out with the Greek elite doesn’t compare. I’d rather be lame.

  A thud booms from downstairs.

  I bolt upright in bed, now very much awake. I did not dream that up.

  Obscure noises and shuffling ensue, each sound making my heart pump a little faster. Throwing my sheets aside, I rush to the closet and grab the first robe I find. Then, keeping my steps light, I creep into the dark hallway outside my bedroom. My cell phone is tucked to my side, 911 already punched on the keypad. I’m ready to press the dial button at a moment’s notice.

  Why don’t I own a gun?

  Charlotte told me to get one after seeing this place. “Guns are loud and dangerous,” I said at the time, inflecting my very liberal, collegiate stance on weapons. “Besides, there’s plenty of staff at the house. What do I need a gun for?”

  Clearly a dumb call.

  Should’ve listened to her.

  Muffled voices come from up ahead. I listen to them closely, trying to figure out who they belong to. Can’t be staff. Gwen and the few staff members who live here sleep on the third floor. Everyone else should be long gone.

  The voices grow louder as I reach the balcony overlooking the front entranceway. On both sides are wide mahogany staircases leading down into the foyer. Instead of turning to either side, I crouch into the shadows, pretty sure it’s a good idea to stay unseen, at least until I figure out who’s down there. Peeking out from between the banister’s wooden legs, I focus in on the dark space at the end of the stairs and catch the outline of three shadowed figures.

  Oh God. Are they here to rob the place?

  There are plenty of valuables in the house. I should call the police now. But I’d probably be safer calling from my room. I don’t want to think about what they’ll do if they hear me.

  Just as I’m about to take off, someone switches on the light. I blink, my eyes adjusting, and focus in on the guys in the foyer. My breath catches in my chest.

  He’s back.

  There’s no mistaking that dark shade of hair or tattooed-covered biceps for anyone other than Wesley Kent. He stumbles into the foyer, dressed in a grey shirt and dark jeans. He looks the same except his hair is slightly longer, and his skin is tanned.

  Well, damn.

  Now I feel stupid.

  My roommate. Of course. Most people would’ve come to that conclusion long before now, but Wesley and I aren’t your average roommates. I haven’t seen him since the beginning of summer. That’s one of the stipulations in Harland’s will. We’re allowed to leave town for the summer—and Wesley always does—but we have to stay here during the fall and spring semesters. That part wasn’t added for me. Harland knew I was content living here in Kent House, and I promised him long before he died I’d go to college.

  Harland added that stipulation for Wesley. They weren’t speaking at the time of his death, but he knew his son well, and he knew Wesley would never stay if he weren’t given some time off. Exploring is in the Kents’ blood. If it weren’t for the inheritance, I doubt he’d be here at all. Harland knew he was dying. I think he created the will to push Wesley and me together, possibly to create a friendship between us. That’s far from what happened though. I see Wesley during the school year just as much as I see him during the summer. This house is big enough to get lost in, and it’s definitely big enough to keep us out of one another’s way. Whatever his reasons, Wesley doesn’t want anything to do with me or with his dad’s plans.

  “Take his arm, Chase, before he passes out here on the damn floor.”

  Wesley’s friends hold him up, one on either side of him. They’re both tall, and they look like they’re in good shape, but they’re struggling to keep Wesley upright.

 
; “Jesus, Tyson,” Chase hisses. “Did you have to get him so drunk?”

  “Whiskey masks the pain,” Tyson says, looking offended. “I’ve kept him this way since we landed. It’s called friendship.”

  “More like alcohol poisoning.”

  I recognize them from campus. They’re both anthropology majors, and by the sound of it, they also went to Egypt over the summer. Just thinking about the Egyptian dig makes me stiffen. It killed me to let it go. Opportunities like that don’t come along often, especially for students. I wanted to sign up but knew better once I saw Wesley’s name on the info packet. He’d been chosen to lead the team. It was crushing but working alongside a guy who can barely stand to live with me stole the trip’s appeal.

  “I don’t understand you, bro.” Chase, the bigger of the two guys, hefts Wesley to the staircase. “You knew when you took that beating they’d make it worse for you than for Hayes.”

  Beating? Did he just say that Wesley was beaten up?

  And Hayes? It had to be our neighbor Hayes. This town isn’t tiny, but it’s hard to imagine that many people with the same name.

  Wesley doesn’t say anything, and Chase continues to yell at him. “Why did you do it? And right after you got the cut to your stomach. Did you know you almost died?”

  I bite my lip.

  He’s exaggerating. He’s got to be exaggerating.

  “I don’t think that’s helping, Chase.”

  Wesley stumbles forward, swaying so much he loses his balance. My chest tightens right before Chase catches him mid-fall. He slides to the floor, collapsing on the first step. “S’kay. I think I’ll stay right here…” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “Just leave me the bottle of whiskey.”

  “Like hell,” Chase yells. “You’ve had too fucking much to drink already.”

  Tyson’s voice is less impatient. “We can help you to your room, Wes. Doesn’t a warm bed sound nicer than the hard floor?”

  “Yes, but the bedroom is so…far.”

  That isn’t the alcohol talking. This place is a maze of hallways and rooms. It’s the reason Wesley and I have only been in each other’s presence a few awkward times. We both stick to our ends of the house.

  “Just point us in the right direction,” Chase snaps.

  Wesley tries to focus his vision. He starts to lift his arm, but it falls slack, and so does the rest of his body. Looks like his bed is made for the night.

  “Oh that’s just wonderful,” Chase says. “Now we’ll have to wake up the staff.”

  That’s my cue to leave. None of this has to do with me, and the last thing I want is to get involved. I should get out of here before Wesley’s friends come trudging up the stairs and find me.

  Using the banister as support, I pull myself up when a loud creak gives way. The noise grinds against my eardrums, freezing my body into place. Oh God. As far as creaks go, that had to be the loudest one ever made in the existence of time. They had to have heard it. I can’t look back though. I don’t want to bring more attention to myself. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, I’ll blend into the shadows. My only other option is to break out into a run.

  “Wait there, miss! We need your help!”

  Guess running is out, dammit.

  I stand, glaring at the wooden rail like it’s out to get me. Tyson marches up the stairs while my mind runs rampant constructing a plan to get out of this mess. Wesley and I live our lives pretending the other doesn’t exist. If he were sober, he wouldn’t want me talking to his friends. He wouldn’t want me having anything to do with them. This is what I get for letting my curiosity get the best of me. Never again will I inspect a noise in the middle of the night—serial killers and thieves be damned.

  Thanks again, Harland.

  I turn and nearly smack into Tyson’s chest. When I look up, the guy is smiling at me and giving me a look I haven’t gotten in quite a while. “Well what have we here?” he asks no one in particular, eyeing me from head to toe.

  Guys haven’t looked at me this way in so long I’m not sure how to react. It completely throws me off. I sort of have the urge to laugh, but at the same time, I feel like rolling my eyes.

  “What the hell is going on?” Chase calls from the foyer, sounding irritated.

  Tyson doesn’t tear his eyes from me. “Nothing.” His smile widens. “Just admiring some of Kent’s artwork. This piece is in-fucking-credible.”

  Oh Jesus. He’s really working that seductive appraisal thing. Tyson is a good-looking guy with blonde hair and dimples, and he’s got a certain swagger about him. I’m not swooning at his feet or anything, but even so, I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in my throat because:

  I’m a girl.

  Flattery works on me every time.

  “Well stop eyeballing her, and ask her to point us in the direction of Wesley’s room.”

  “I may ask her more than that,” Tyson says so only I can hear.

  I’m more than amused at this point, but not the least bit intimidated by the heated look he’s giving me. Back home, I dealt with guys like Tyson all the time. Waitressing at the local sports bar meant serving guys who came on too strong once they had a few beers in their system. I can handle him.

  “Tell me, beautiful, how much does Kent pay to keep you on his staff?”

  A grin tugs at my lips. I can’t really blame him for that assumption, considering Wesley probably never mentioned me before.

  I decide to have a little fun with it. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I want to offer you double his price.”

  Now I know he’s drunk. Either that, or he’s teasing me. I’m not sure which. “You’re making me think I’m underpaid.”

  “I assure you, I’ll pay more. My house could use a maid.”

  “I’m not a maid.”

  He shrugs as if he couldn’t care less what my job is. “Cook. Clean…whatever you want to do.” He winks, and there’s a suggestive cadence to that last part.

  I purse my lips, pretending to consider his offer. “Gee, what’s the going rate these days for a roommate? Because I can assure you, Kent pays me nothing.”

  Tyson’s jaw drops. The look on his face is priceless, and I laugh again.

  “You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” he sputters. “You’re Wesley’s roommate?”

  “Dahlia Reynolds,” I say, sticking my hand out. “But most people call me Doll.”

  “You live here with Wes? In this house?”

  “Yep, that’s how the whole roommate thing works.”

  “How come I’ve never seen you before?”

  “We had Biological Anthropology together. You’ve seen me before.”

  Tyson rubs his hand over his jaw, trying to place me. “You sure about that? I don’t remember you being in that class.”

  “You probably never noticed me because…” I look down at my body, catching the way my tank top and boyshorts peek out of my robe. Readjusting the fabric, I pull the strings tighter to cover myself up. “Well I don’t usually look like this.”

  That’s something of an understatement. I usually go out of my way to look as unnoticeable as possible. Tonight I look like myself.

  “That’s hard to believe.” Tyson’s sexy rasp reappears. “’Cause I don’t think I could ever forget you.”

  Oh geez. He’s back to flirting. Better change the subject now before Wesley wakes up and realizes what’s going on.

  “You’re looking for Wesley’s room, right?” Glancing over the balcony, I spy my roommate’s limp form sprawled across the stairs. “What exactly is the matter with him?”

  As soon as the question leaves my lips, I feel like banging my head into the nearest wall. I shouldn’t have asked.

  “He’s uh…got a bit of a gash across his stomach,” Tyson says. He turns, looking back at the lifeless Wesley and tilts his head. “Among other problems.”

  “What other problems?”

  Crap—I’m curious now, especially since it sounded like there’s a story behind
those words. But I really shouldn’t be asking. His problems, whatever they are, have nothing to do with me.

  “Never mind,” I say before Tyson can answer. “I don’t want to know the details.”

  The problem is I do want to know. What did Tyson mean Wesley had a gash on his stomach? A gash could mean something as small as a scratch or something as big as a gaping flesh wound. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I swallow it down.

  No more questions. I can’t involve myself in Wesley’s business any more than I already have.

  “Go help your friend,” I say to Tyson. “I’ll show you where his bedroom is.”

  Wesley’s friends end up carrying him, Tyson holding his arms and Chase in charge of his legs. When I hear Wesley groan—an agonizing sound—I stop.

  Chase catches my look of horror. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Just keep going. He’s not exactly light.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.” Tyson grunts, breathless. “You’re not carrying his upper body.”

  I continue to lead them down the hallway, ignoring every painful sound Wesley makes. When we finally get to his side of the house, I have to stop and think about where to go. The first room I check is a bedroom. The only other bedroom on this floor is mine, so this one has to be his.

  They lay Wesley on top of his king-sized bed, then take a moment to catch their breaths.

  “You should take off his shoes,” I suggest from the doorway.

  I don’t know why I said that. Wesley’s comfort doesn’t matter to me, but it’s too late to take it back now.

  Looking tired and aggravated, Chase and Tyson each wrench a shoe from Wesley’s feet. Before I can ask them to do anything else, they both turn to leave. Chase nods on his way out by way of a goodbye, and Tyson pauses at the doorway. “Thanks, Doll. Maybe I’ll see you on campus.”

  He sounds hopeful. Tyson is one of Wesley’s friends. It’s not like we can be buddy-buddy or anything, but I don’t think he realizes that he’s playing for Team Wesley just yet. Once he understands how divided this house is, it will be the end of us knowing each other. “Night, Tyson. Drive safe.”