The Tenth Girl Read online

  The Tenth Girl

  Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2018 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

  To Napoleon. Thanks for being the most loyal writing buddy an author could ask for.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Carrie Aarons

  Prologue

  Cain

  The competition was simple.

  Four years.

  Ten girls.

  Winner got bragging rights and the key to The Atrium for the entire summer before we all went off to college.

  It sounded easy when we drew up the terms, sealing the deal with a cheers around a table stacked with Bud Lights that Joshua had stolen from his older brother’s stash. All six of the freshman who were recruited to the varsity football team had pledged their participation.

  Fuck ten girls, preferably virgins but we weren’t going to be picky, by the last day of our senior year of high school. The first one to ten won it all.

  It sounded easy. Plus, we’d be getting off and what was better than that?

  I’d done well for myself, scoring chicks and blow jobs alike. Even if I didn’t do a dance in their end zone, getting my dick sucked wasn’t a bad consolation prize.

  Nine girls. I’d racked up a tally of nine, which in a high school of two thousand kids, was pretty hard to do if you thought about it. Girls talked to their friends, warned them off from assholes just trying to get in their pants. A lot of these girls didn’t want to sleep with that many people, thought they’d be called a slut if their number got too high, too quickly.

  But I’d managed to do it. It really hadn’t been hard. Being the best high school quarterback in the state of Texas with charm that could melt rubber off tires helped a lot. Chicks were dying to brag about the one night they’d spent with me.

  All I had to do was scratch number ten into my bedpost and that would be that. Victory would be mine.

  From the moment I saw her, I knew she would be my final mark.

  If only Harper Posy had been that simple. If only Harper Posy had been that easy.

  Chapter One

  Harper

  A dusty ranch home was a step up from the trailer park, but just barely.

  The plumes of dirt clouds rose up behind the car as it pulled onto my grandmother’s land, rolling green hills with clumps of forest creating a scene from a western movie right in front of my eyes.

  For a Florida Keys girl, the lack of salty sea air was suffocating, the amount of greenery and the smell of horse manure souring my nose.

  From the driver’s seat, Mom steers as she chews her nail beds down to quick. I’m surprised they aren’t bleeding yet, her most anxious moments always coming with the destruction of her manicure.

  I’d hardly been able to pack my threadbare belongings from our trailer before she whisked us out on a sob and a heartbreak, her latest relationship going south and ousting us from the only home I’d ever known.

  Sure, it had been a crappy home in a strung-out county of the hottest, muggiest location in the United States, but still … it had been home.

  “Harper Pearl Posy, did you even hear me?” Mom’s southern twang lilts into my ears.

  Is it me or does it sound stronger since we passed the border into her hometown, Haven, Texas?

  “What’s that?” I don’t mask the attitude from my voice.

  I don’t mean to be a brat, my mom usually doesn’t ask anything from me and as far as mothers go, she’s a pretty great one. But … I’m unusually bitter. I don’t want to move to Texas, where football and cows are always on the menu. I liked my little corner of Florida, kayaking solo through the mangroves and writing in my journal on remote beaches.

  “Don’t slouch in front of your grandmother. And button that top button. She’s going to make a comment about your ripped up jeans, but don’t let her smell the fear on you.”

  I’m not sure why she’s decided to come home after all of this time. Maybe it’s because we’re broke, although she never said anything. While my mom has a steady, good job, raising a child alone on an elementary school teacher’s salary is almost impossible. We always had enough, but there were never any leftovers.

  Could that be why we were going to live with my grandmother?

  My grandmother was that in name only. Having met her only two times in my life, we weren’t close. The first time was at my grandfather’s funeral when I was seven, and I barely remember it. The other was when she came to Florida for Christmas five years ago and left early because she and my mom could barely stand to be in the same room. I could tell it was because her mother didn’t approve of her choices, or getting pregnant with me once upon a time out of wedlock. I could also tell that it had been this way for probably their entire lives together.

  We pull up to the front of the house, the yellow siding of the ranch caked in dust, just like our car. I wasn’t sure how or why my grandmother still has all of this land, as the animals and production of hay and whatever else happens on a farm ceased when my grandfather died. I remember this detail, because I remember Mom and Grandma fighting over this on the phone for years.

  But there she was, the strong-jawed woman, standing on the faded wood of the front steps, a German shepherd and a large sheep dog flanking her.

  Mom pulls in to the sounds of a rooster cock-a-doodle-doing, and damn it’s so Texas I almost have to roll my eyes. She takes a deep breath, squeezes my hand, and grips the door lock.

  Once we get out of this car, our lives will have officially changed. No more Florida girls, getting through it just the two of us. We’ll be in Texas. In the unknown, but so known for her. I’m scared, but the storyteller in me is excited to observe the new wide-open spaces around me. With each new corner of the world I find, I get a little more inspired to write.

  We exit the car, the dry heat hitting me in the face with such force that I need to cough up a dusty lung.

  “Hi, Mama,” my own mother calls to her parent, her southern twang really making its grand entrance.

  My grandmother nods, not moving any other muscle, and I swear, she could
intimidate a mob boss, this woman.

  But for some reason, she doesn’t scare me. “Hi, Grandma. Thanks for having us.”

  Her lip curls up a little at my polite greeting, and I look into her eyes. Maybe it’s because we’re more alike than my mother and I are. In my grandmother, even if I haven’t seen her in a long time, I find a kindred spirit. Where my mother is bubbly and lively, I am quiet and introverted. Where she is still wide-eyed at times, I’m realistic and can be blunt. I have a feeling that I have my grandmother to thank for those qualities.

  We walk together to stand in front of her, and the sheep dog begins to lick my hand.

  “You’re too skinny, but some Texas meat will fix that right up. But, I see you received your mother’s breasts. That will be a problem for a girl like you. A big bosom and long legs tempt men even if we don’t want it too. You’ll come to church with me every Sunday to remedy that.”

  She says this all matter-of-factly, as if I would just nod my head and agree. I cross my arms over my boobs, knowing full well that the C cups look odd on my small frame. And now I was more self-conscious about it than ever.

  “Wow, Mama, can we at least move our bags from the trunk to the house first without talks of Holy Sunday?” Mom giggles, and I love her.

  She could kill a dragon with kindness.

  And with that, my grandmother is done with us, turning and walking into the house without offering a drink or showing us to our rooms. Mom pulls open the screen door as we drag our bags in, and I’m met with a home that hasn’t left the nineteen seventies. Shag carpet, wood paneling on the walls, a TV that was discontinued thirty years ago, and that collection of Christmas plates resting on railings nailed into the drywall.

  But it’s clean, and bigger than the mobile home I grew up in, so I can’t complain. Plus, I get my own room, and don’t have to sleep on the convertible couch/table when Mom brings dates home, who almost sit on me while they kiss her. Maybe Texas ain’t so bad.

  I set my things out slowly from the one suitcase I brought with me. Two pairs of jeans, a couple of shirts, one pair of jean shorts and one white khaki, three dresses ranging in fanciness, a handful of underwear and bras, my favorite Agatha Christie novel with a worn and tattered cover, the only picture of my father I’ve ever seen, and my laptop. My entire life, there, laid out on the green plaid wool blanket on the twin bed I was to sleep in.

  I run a finger down my father’s cheek, the same high bone structure that he gave to me smiling back from under his firefighting hard hat. How is it possible to miss someone you hardly even remember?

  My laptop is on its last leg, the keys worn off even though I know them by heart. I splurged all of the money I had on an external hard-drive last year, because God knows this thing is going to crash at some point and take my entire debut novel with it. I’ve been pouring my heart and soul into this book for the last three years, in between school and work, and I’m so close to finishing it, I can taste it.

  By the time I walk out of my room, my stomach rumbling, it’s dark and silent. And I mean silent. I make my way to the kitchen, to the huge sliding glass doors, and look out.

  Pitch black.

  Not a sound.

  Weird … I wasn’t used to this. It wasn’t bad, it was just different.

  I had a feeling everything was about to be different. It started low in the stomach, like only those types of feeling can. Foreboding ran up and over my shoulders, prickling up my neck, alerting every hair follicle. Change was coming, even bigger than the one that was already here.

  “Are you ready for school tomorrow?” A quiet, low voice speaks from my left.

  I startle to find my grandmother sitting at the kitchen table, a mug cupped between her hands. Jesus, when did she get here? She was like a ninja, I hadn’t even sensed her presence.

  I nod, although I’m not. Of course Mom had driven us up here on a Sunday in the middle of September. Of course I would have to go to a brand new school as a senior just hours after I put down roots in Texas.

  “I guess. I’m pretty good in school.” I offer up this fact as if I want some sort of medal or cookie from her.

  A flicker of a smirk ghosts her lips, and she rises. When she passes me, she places a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t let those rowdy Haven kids get the best of you. Welcome to Texas, girlie.”

  And with that she walks off, leaving me even more unsure than I already was.

  Chapter Two

  Harper

  The hard-edged voice of Jason Aldean beats like a drum in my ears, my worn out earbuds stuck into the canals to drown out the anxiety coursing through my blood.

  At least I wouldn’t have to change my taste in music. Florida and Texas both had that redneck country vibe in common, so I was A-Okay when it came to staying hip on the latest tracks.

  Haven High School was way nicer than the percentage of this town I’d seen already, and I remember Mom mentioning something about a big football donor putting a lot of money into the facility a couple of years back. And by putting a lot of money into it, she must have meant that the person literally paid to have a new state-of-the-art school constructed. New red brick and gleaming glass make up the school, with picnic tables and garden areas scattered on a quad outside. Beyond that is what has got to be one of the biggest sports stadiums I’ve ever seen, not that I’ve seen many, and this is a high school we’re talking about. The turf is bright green, and every section of the track and facilities surrounding it is manicured.

  Which makes me wonder, what did the other part of town look like? I was from the Keys; the part that tourists didn’t venture into and was more frequented by dealers and smugglers. I knew there was always a different side of somewhere, and that I typically didn’t belong there.

  The parking lot is paved to perfection, with bright white lines sectioning off the spots. I decided to walk to school on my first day. Hell, who was I kidding? We could barely afford one car, and it wasn’t like my family’s house was that far from school. I enjoyed the fresh air and the silent time to think, to create stories in my head that I would one day write for the masses to read.

  And because I’m so wrapped up in Sam Hunt and checking out the place that will be educating me for the next year, I almost don’t see the Jeep barreling toward me.

  At the very last second, I jump out of the way, the truck the only one in the parking lot. This maniac person the only one in the parking lot … well, besides me.

  I pop an earbud out and inspect the vehicle, pausing my music as I slow my walking. The car is one of those old-school, soft-top Jeeps, everything removed, with mud on the tires and specks of it dotting the white body of the frame. I can see inside, the weather in late September still scorching hot in Haven.

  Black leather seats, with a gym bag and books scattered along the floor in the backseat. Which I can see … since there are no doors on the entire car. And when I look up to see its owner … I’m stunned.

  A giant unfurls his long body from the car, lean legs followed by a thick torso, strong neck and jaw that lead up to a jet-black hairline. This boy, who looks more like a man, is muscled from his head to his toes, you can tell by the way his jeans pull tight on that sculpted behind and his biceps strain in the plain green T-shirt. That hair, the color of ravens, is long on the top, cropped close on the sides, and looks like it’s had fingers and wind running through it all morning. Dark aviator sunglasses grace his nose, but that’s all I can manage from his profile. I can’t see his face from where I stand yards away in the parking lot, becoming a shadow, blending in.

  I’m good at blending in, and disappearing from view.

  Maybe he’s a teacher? Could that be why he’s here so early? I’m here as the sun comes up so that I can get a lay of the land before the school day chaos ensues.

  But just as the thought of him possibly being a teacher enters my brain, it goes right back out the window. A giggling, gangly, half-naked girl dismounts from the passenger seat. She runs around t
he front of the car, meeting him, sidling up to his strong figure like a cat purring in heat.

  And that’s when I spot the varsity jacket slung over the headrest of the driver’s seat. No, he’s not a teacher.

  He’s a jock.

  I should have known, but I wasn’t used to this breed of high school male, so my radar was off. Where I came from, druggies were popular and that was giving them too much credit. Most of the kids at my school in Florida flunked out before sophomore year, and the sports teams were, essentially, a joke.

  But this guy, he’s got popular bad boy written all over him.

  And it’s too early for them to be here, because surely these beautiful people don’t need to study. And he is definitely not the type to show up for a before school detention, even if he was penalized with one.

  I watch them, still undetected, as they slink into a glass-paneled side door, the girl swiveling her head right before they pop inside just to see if they’ve been caught.

  Maybe it’s the pause between songs, or the empty parking lot, or the sun beating down on my back.

  But I realize I’m utterly alone, and this mystery has presented itself. What are they doing? Why are they here?

  The suspense novel reader and writer in me has to know.

  I follow them, unplugging my earbuds and rolling the chord up, sticking them in my back pocket.