The Player Next Door: A Novel
K. A. Tucker
The Player Next Door
A Novel
K.A. Tucker
Contents
Also by K.A. Tucker
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
Sneak Peek - Forever Wild
Sneak Peek - Sweet Mercy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by K.A. Tucker
Ten Tiny Breaths
One Tiny Lie
Four Seconds to Lose
Five Ways to Fall
In Her Wake
Burying Water
Becoming Rain
Chasing River
Surviving Ice
He Will Be My Ruin
Until It Fades
Keep Her Safe
The Simple Wild
Be the Girl
Say You Still Love Me
Wild at Heart
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2020 by Kathleen Tucker
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All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For more information, visit www.katuckerbooks.com
ISBN 978-1-7772027-1-2
ISBN 978-1-9990154-9-7 (ebook)
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Edited by Jennifer Sommersby
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Cover design by Hang Le
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Published by K.A.Tucker
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Manufactured in the United States of America
For all those who need a fun and flirty escape.
I promise,
there are no masks or threats of quarantine within these pages.
There is definitely close contact.
One
September 2007
* * *
I survived Day One without puking or crying.
Do they make T-shirts with that slogan? They must. I can’t be the only person to head back to school after summer vacation with a broken heart. Though, I’d be lying if I wore that T-shirt. I did cry today; I just didn’t do it in public. I ducked into a restroom stall as the first fat tear rolled down my cheek and then spent my entire lunch period with my butt planted on a toilet seat, struggling to muffle my sobs as giggling girls streamed in and out, oblivious.
And all it took was one look from Shane Beckett to cause that reaction. Or rather, the lack of a look. A passing glance as we crossed paths in the hallway between third and fourth period, when his beautiful whiskey-colored eyes touched mine before flickering away, as if the momentary connection was accidental.
As if the seventeen-year-old, six-foot star quarterback for the Polson Falls Panthers and I hadn’t spent the summer in a semipermanent lip-lock.
As if last night, sitting in his father’s car outside my apartment building, he didn’t tell me that we were getting too serious, too fast, and he couldn’t handle a relationship right now, that he needed to focus on football, and I was too much of a distraction.
That one vacant, meaningless look from Shane Beckett in the hall today was worse than anything else he could have done, and it sent me stumbling away, dragging my obliterated spirit behind me.
The rest of the day has been a painful blur, with me cowering in the same restroom stall after the last bell rang to avoid the crowd. I foresee myself spending a lot of time in there. Maybe I should hang an occupied sign and declare it mine for the school year.
“Hey, Scarlet.” Becca Thompson, her stride buoyant, flashes a sympathetic smile as she passes me on the steps outside the front doors of Polson Falls High.
“Hey,” I manage, but the bubbly blond is already gone, trotting down the sidewalk, no glance backward, almost as if she hadn’t greeted me at all. She’s nice enough, but I shouldn’t be surprised by the lukewarm friendliness. We’ve never traveled in the same circles, her being the popular cheerleader and me being the reticent mathlete who slogs away at the local drive-in movie theater every weekend in summer. We’d exchanged nothing more than polite greetings before Shane and I started dating, despite our mothers working together at the hair salon for years.
Couple that with the fact that Becca is best friends with Penelope Rhodes—a.k.a. the Red Devil, otherwise known as the worst human to walk these dank halls—who was away in Italy all summer, and I’m not surprised that I’m persona non grata once again.
Becca obviously knows Shane and I broke up. They all must know. But at least she acknowledged me, so I guess there’s that.
She’s heading toward the parking lot now. That’s where the jocks and cheerleaders and otherwise popular crowd hang out, congregated around the cars their parents bought for them, talking and laughing and ignoring the peasants.
I check my watch. It’s been twenty minutes since the last bell. Most of them should have left by now. With a heavy sigh, I tuck a wayward strand of my mouse-brown bob behind my ear, hike my backpack over my shoulder, and amble down the path, ready to avoid eye contact and walk the eight blocks home where I can hide in my bedroom for the rest of my life—or at least for the night.
Rounding the bend, I spot Steve Dip heading this way with two other guys from the football team. My stomach clenches. There’s a reason the wide receiver and Shane’s best friend is nicknamed Dipshit. He’s an obnoxious ass with a cruel sense of humor.
I hold my breath, hoping he’ll ignore me, like everyone else seems to be.
Our eyes meet and he winks. No such luck. “Hey, BB. You cost me fifty bucks!”
I frown. What? I have no idea why he’s calling me that, but it can’t mean anything flattering, especially not with the raucous laughter that follows.
He brushes a hand through his cropped hair. “Tell Dottie I’m gonna come in for a quickie later, will ya?”
“Bite me,” I throw back, my cheeks burning as we pass. How long has he been sitting on that stupid joke? It’s far from the first time I’ve heard something along those lines. When your mother’s the town bicycle, everyone feels the need to share their punch line with you. He never dared say a word about her when Shane and I were together, but I guess it’s no holds barred now.
“Is that an offer?” Steve grins. “’Cause it sounds like that’d be more action than Bex got this summer.”
I lift my middle finger in the air and speed up, wanting to put as much distance as possible before this knot in my throat explodes into tears. I told Shane I wanted to take it slow and he said that was fine. He neve
r pushed me.
Did he tell his friends? Was he laughing about it with them? Mocking me?
The parking lot has emptied out with only a few students lingering. Aside from Dean Fanshaw, no one left is associated with Shane and that crowd. Thank God.
Dean is Shane’s very best friend and, unlike Steve, isn’t known for being a jerk. What he is known for—and for good reason, based on what I witnessed—is boning every girl who’s willing. Currently, he’s too busy mauling Virginia Grafton’s neck against the hood of his truck to notice me.
I keep my eyes forward as I rush past them and his red pickup, trying my best not to think about warm summer nights stretched out in the back of it, cradled between Shane’s long, muscular thighs, my back resting against his chest, struggling to focus on the movie playing on the drive-in screen ahead.
I’m so focused on not catching Dean’s attention that I almost miss the two sets of legs dangling over the open tailgate, tangled in each other.
Almost.
One set, long and male, I recognize instantly. It’s the shoes I recognize, actually—white Vans. Shane’s favorite.
The other legs are shapely and lead into a short, powder-pink skirt that I distinctly remember from second period English.
I’m frozen in place as I watch Shane and Penelope Rhodes lost in a kiss, Shane’s fingers woven through her fiery-red hair, while his other hand slips beneath that tiny skirt.
I was so wrong.
Ignoring me earlier was not the worst thing Shane Beckett could have done today.
Two
August 2020
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I inhale the stale air in the living room, rife with the smell of old wood steeped in summer’s humidity. The widow Iris Rutshack left the house spotless, at least. Or rather, her children must have, because I can’t imagine the ninety-year-old woman on her hands and knees, scrubbing grime off the thick pine baseboards.
I smile with giddiness.
This place is mine.
I used to walk past this charming clapboard house every day on my way home from school. I’d admire the pale blue exterior and the covered porch running along the front, adorned by a matching set of rocking chairs that Mr. and Mrs. Rutshack—old even back then—filled every afternoon, watching the kids go by. On the odd day that their watchful gazes were distracted by a singing bird at their feeder, I’d stick my hand between the fence pickets and steal a bloom from the wild English-style garden that bordered the sidewalk.
Then I’d keep going all the way home to our low-rent apartment complex, my feet growing heavier with each step closer. When I closed my eyes at night, I’d imagine I was drifting off to the rhythmic sound of creaking chairs and cricket chirps, and not to the barfly screwing my mom on the other side of a too-thin wall.
“Thanks, Gramps. Whoever you are.” My voice echoes through the hollow space as I wander. Technically, my father’s father bought the house for me. He was never a part of my life, but he knew who I was—the product of a fling between his twenty-eight-year-old, truck-driver son with a criminal record and my then-fifteen-year-old mother—and was kind enough to name me in his will.
The house needs some TLC, more evident now that the furniture is gone. Nothing fresh paint, new lights, and a belt sander to the worn golden oak floors can’t fix. I knew that when I put an offer in, and ever since I signed the sale papers, my butt’s been glued to the shabby couch of my Newark apartment while I’ve binge-watched home-reno shows for inspiration. Of course, most of it I can’t afford. Slowly but surely, though, I’ll turn this place into the charming seaside retreat—minus the sea—that I’ve always envisioned.
Checking the time, I fire off a quick “Where are you?” text to my best friend, Justine, and then head to the porch to wait for the U-Haul. They were supposed to be here an hour ago. I’m annoyed, but I can’t be too annoyed, seeing as Joe and Bill—Justine’s brother and boyfriend—are driving two hours each way to move me in exchange for beer and burgers and a night on air mattresses.
Well, I’m sure Justine will repay Bill in some sordid way that I’d rather not think about.
Leaning against the post, I smile at the hum of a lawn mower churning through grass in the neighborhood. I’ll have to pay a neighborhood boy to cut my front yard until I can afford my own mower. The gardens, I’ll tend on my own. Iris and her husband doted on this property for sixty years, and I promised her I’d keep them thriving. Maybe that’s a tall order, seeing as I have yet to keep even a cactus alive. First stop tomorrow is to replace my long-lost library card so I can borrow some gardening books.
The low picket fence—more decorative than purposeful—that lines the front yard has seen better days, the layers of white paint peeling away, many of the boards needing new nails to secure them upright. The wooden rocking chairs will need attention too. They rest where they always have. Iris left them, saying they belong on this porch. I can’t bring myself to sit in one just yet, so I settle on the slanted porch steps instead.
Two children coast along the quiet, oak-lined street on their bicycles, throwing a curious glance my way. I’m sure they saw the For Sale sign out on the curb weeks ago. In a town this small, everyone is interested to know more about the woman moving into the neighborhood.
They don’t have to worry about me, though. I’m a native of Polson Falls, Pennsylvania, merely displaced for twelve years when I dashed away to college in New York, allured by the idea of starting over in a big city where people hadn’t heard the names Scarlet or Dottie Reed. It was fun for a time, but I’ve since learned big cities aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, and the luxury of anonymity has its own set of challenges. Like, how hard it is to catch a break in a school board where you have no connections. Seven years of substitute teaching while waitressing in the evenings to make ends meet dulled the luster for that life.
It seemed like providence then, when I made the obligatory trip home to visit Mom for her birthday and ran into my elementary school principal at the 7-Eleven. Wendy Redwood always loved me as a student. We got to talking about my teaching career. Thirty minutes of chatter and what felt like an impromptu interview later, she asked me if I’d ever consider working for her. Lo and behold, she’s still the principal at Polson Falls Elementary and was looking for a sixth grade teacher for the fall. Sure, there were hiring considerations and board rules and all that, but she could navigate around them. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.
I smiled and thanked her and told her I’d think about it. At the time, I couldn’t imagine entertaining the thought, but then I drove down Hickory Street for shits and giggles, only to see the open-house sign in front of my childhood dream home.
Within fifteen minutes of stepping inside, I was dialing Wendy Redwood for the job and considering what I should offer on the property. It all seemed like kismet. I mean, the house was at a price almost too good to be true, and the school was two blocks away!
I sigh as I sip the last of my cold, burnt gas station coffee. This is a fresh start, even in an old world full of familiar faces. Besides, it’s been more than a decade since I last roamed the halls of any school here. Those painful years and cruel people are far behind me.
The peaceful midday calm is disrupted by the chug of a garage door crawling open, followed by the deep rumble of a car engine starting. A long, red vintage muscle car backs out of the garage next door and eases into the open space beside a blue Ford pickup. I can’t tell what kind of car it is, but it’s old and in pristine shape, the bright coat of paint glistening in the August sun.
I never asked Iris about the neighbors. The two times I’ve been here—once during the open house and once after I’d signed the paperwork for the offer—nobody was home on either side. Both properties look well maintained, though. The bungalow with the muscle car has new windows and a freshly built porch off the front. There isn’t much in the way of gardens—some shrubs and trees—but the lawn is manicured.
I watch curiously as the driver’s side door pops open and
a tall man with wavy, chestnut-brown hair steps out, his back to me as he fusses with his windshield wiper. Coffee pools in my mouth as I stall on my swallow, too busy appreciating the way his black T-shirt clings to his body, showing off broad, sculpted shoulders, muscular arms, and a tapered waist. He’s wearing his dark-wash jeans perfectly—not so baggy that they hang unflatteringly off his ass, but not so tight that cowboy boots and a wide-brimmed hat come to mind.
Damn.
I hold my breath in anticipation, hoping my neighbor will show me a beautiful face to match that fitness-model body. What a stroke of luck that would be, to live next to a gorgeous man. A single, gorgeous man, I pray.
Finally, my silent pleading is answered as he turns and his gaze drifts my way.
I struggle not to spew coffee from my mouth as my keen interest turns to horror.
Oh my God.
Someone, please tell me this is a mistake.
Please tell me I’m not living next door to Shane Fucking Beckett.
Three
What is Shane even doing back in Polson Falls?
