A Little Crushed
Contemporary Romance by Viviane Brentanos
Rebecca Harding is intelligent, witty and sometimes downright annoying. She is also damaged. To the outside world, she presents an image of a young woman in control, confident and cynical, but no one knows her torment. In her nightmare, she is alone.
But then, Max Jackson enters her life when it is teetering on the brink. Despite a rocky start to their relationship, he becomes her salvation.
Max is the only person who knows the truth. He understands her fears and wants to protect her fragile heart. In Rebecca, he recognizes a kindred spirit. He would give anything to take away her pain, but he comes to realize Rebecca has read more into his concern. He would rather die than hurt her, but life throws him a curve ball, leaving him no choice but to walk away.
A Little Crushed © 2012 by Viviane Brentanos
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
MuseItUp Publishing
14878 James, Pierrefonds, Quebec, Canada, H9H 1P5
Cover Art © 2012 by Suzannah Safi
Edited by Anne Duguid
Copyedited by Penny Ehrenkranz
Layout and Book Production by Lea Schizas
eBook ISBN: 978-1-77127-230-8
First eBook Edition *December 2012
Production by MuseItUp Publishing
A Little Crushed
Viviane Brentanos
•Cold, Cold Heart
•Past Undone
•Written in Stone
MuseItUp Publishing
www.museituppublishing.com
Max Jackson rested his head against the mullion window and watched the rain drum out its incessant beat. He wondered if he would ever get used to England’s capricious climate. A futile deliberation, really. The weather was the least of his worries. What did he know about teaching? Not a lot. Okay, he wasn’t a total novice, but no amount of honors degrees could substitute for hard experience.
Tom had faith in him—which was more than could be said for his own father. Max rubbed at his brow. No point heading down that long, sorry road, especially two days before the start of term and
especially
when he hadn’t even downed his first beer.
Raising the bottle to his lips, he turned his gaze to the photograph on top of the cast-iron fireplace. Kate’s cool beauty failed to evoke the usual gut-wrenching reaction. That spoke volumes. Max lobbed the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. He wouldn’t think about Kate. What was done was done.
He supposed he ought to go shopping. His stomach couldn’t handle another greasy take-away. If he hurried, he’d make the tiny corner shop there and back in time for the rugby match. A walk in the rain just might clear the dusty cobwebs from his head.
As he pulled a black brolly from the stand, Max smiled at his reflection in the hall mirror. So English gentleman.
Ten minutes later, he placed his tin of beans onto the shop counter, feeling anything but gentlemanly. His free-with-two-gallons-of-petrol umbrella had taken one look at the vigorous wind and flown away with it. Water ran in cold rivulets down his neck and under his collar. Oh, to be back in Sydney.
“Good afternoon. Just this, please and—”
“Hi, Mary.”
A riot of dark hair breezed in front of him.
“Sorry…”
The young voice was breathless, arrogant, and not in the least bit sorry.
“Bloody pervert dog.” The ‘voice’ threw down some coins and grabbed a bar from the chocolate stand. “Vicky left the front door open again, and Wally made a break for it, and I just know he’s heading for Mrs. Blair’s poodle. The only way I can entice him home is with one of these.” She waved the chocolate bar precariously close to Max’s nose. “Stupid old bat. Why doesn’t she get her done? She really ought to pay me stud fees. I—”
“Excuse me, but I do believe I was before you.” Patience on rice paper thin, Max attacked her with his best Aussie tough guy glint.
It didn’t have much effect. Eyes, the colour of velvet chocolate homed in and speared him with a look of such disdain that he squirmed. By the expression on her haughty face, he knew he’d been judged and definitely found wanting. Obviously deciding he’d taken up enough of her time, she turned back to Mary.
“Thanks.” She picked up her change. Grabbing her chocolate bars, she spun on her heels. “Bloody colonials.”
Max stared after her, speechless. “What…” he turned to the smiling Mary, “was that?”
* * * *
Mouth full of bacon sandwich, Rebecca Harding studied her sister. Vicky drove her insane; always moaning about her bloody weight. And yet, on some level, Rebecca envied her. How nice it must be to inhabit a cerebral world of banality. Other than worrying whether she’d gained two ounces, or how she’d manage to find Justin Bieber tickets, Vicky didn’t have a care in the world.
“Do stop, Vicky.” Her mother placed a bowl of yogurt and honey on the breakfast table. “And stop frowning like that. You’ll get lines.”
“Oh, please.” Rebecca spooned four heaped spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee.
“
Some
of us care about our appearances.” Her sister’s scorn swirled in the air like a malignant fog. “Just coz you’re a closet lesbian.”
“Well, at least I am a
thin
closet lesbian. Sorry. Let’s be politically correct, here. You are curvy.”
“I so hate you.” Pushing away her plate, Victoria stormed out of the kitchen.
Hidden behind his
Guardian
, her dad and head of the not-so-harmonious household, failed to repress a chortle.
“Don’t encourage her.” Her mother swiped at his newspaper. “Poor Vicky. You know how sensitive she is about her weight. That ugly uniform does nothing for her. It doesn’t seem fair that Becky…”
Rebecca licked the butter from her fingers. “Sorry I am a disappointment to you, Mother, but we can’t all be slaves to fashion.”
“There’s more to life than appearances.” Folding his paper, her father rewarded her with a fond smile.
“Oh, I know, Daddy dearest.” She forced out a wounded sigh. “But a sharp intellect is no substitute for a pierced navel.”
“Pierced navel?” His predator gaze swept to her mother.
Stuffing a piece of toast into an already crammed mouth, Rebecca leaned back in her chair to watch this latest round of marital discord unfold. It so got the day off to a cracking start. She found it perversely comforting—familiar.
Trying hard to hide her guilt for playing a part in this latest Vicky
coup d’état
, her mother busied herself with the washing-up. “I think it looks quite sweet, actually.”
Her father didn’t concur. “Victoria!” His Tarzan-like roar sent Wally, her trusty mutt, running for cover.
“Bye, Dad.” A terrified squeak filtered through from the hallway. “Must run…late for school.”
“The folly of youth.” Rebecca sighed. “Where will it end?”
“Oh, do be quiet, Rebecca. You are eighteen now, for goodness sake. When are you going to stop with this infantile teasing? And you, John.” Her mother snatched his unfinished mug of coffee from his hand. “You can be such a fuddy-duddy at times.”
“Because I object when my fourteen-year-old daughter mutilates her body? And I was drinking that.”
“Wicked. Mutilations. When do they begin?” Adding his two cents, Jack, her brother and ally, shuffled into the kitchen, yawning as he opened and closed cupboard doors. “Where… Chocolate cereal?”
“Are you five?” Her mother thrust a box into his hand. “And hurry up. You’re going to be late, and where is your tie?”
“It’s not fair.” Jack pulled it from his blazer pocket. “Why do we have to wear uniforms, and Rebecca doesn’t?”
“Oh, don’t start. When you get to the sixth form, you will have the same privileges.”
“He’ll be in Borstal by then.” Her father grunted.
Folding his newspaper, he looked up. Eyes narrowing, he leaned across the chaos that was a breakfast table. Rebecca held back the giggle bubbling over in her throat. Her father didn’t disappoint.
“Forgive me for asking. After all, I am only the head of the household, and I know my opinion does not carry much weight, but was there, by any chance, a two-for-one offer this week?”
“Oh, Dad.” Jack twiddled his new ear-stud. “For a Socialist, you can be so uncool.”
“I may be a Socialist, misguided off-spring, but I’m afraid I never got Mr. Blair’s
cool
Britannia.”
“Why, Dad.” Jumping to her feet, Rebecca pushed back her chair before planting a kiss on his cheek. “Was that a pun?”
* * * *
Rebecca walked into the sixth form annex and wrinkled her nose. The smell of fresh paint attacked her senses. Was she ready for this? Not really. A wave of nausea hit her. She swayed and leaned against the row of metal lockers for support. Her head hurt again. She ought to tell her doctor. He’d stressed he wanted to know if the headaches ever returned, but she didn’t want to go down that road. Maybe it was nothing. Everyone got headaches, didn’t they? Why were hers such a big deal? Stupid question. She knew why. The ‘accident.’ She was so tired of the ‘accident.’ No one spoke of it, but she felt their eyes on her. Her parents, the doctors… She wished they’d go away and leave her alone. They wanted her to remember, to talk about it. She didn’t. If her brain had shut down, didn’t that mean something had happened that was best left buried? She didn’t need a stupid degree in psychology to tell her that.
“Becs, you were supposed to wait for me, you moo bag.”
A loud shriek dragged her up from her personal hell. Emma Brown, her best friend since primary school, clasped her in a tight bosom hug.
“Really, Emma,” Rebecca removed herself from the zealous clutches, “not so emotional. We’re supposed to be ‘mature and responsible young adults.’” Her spot-on impression of Mr. Clemmons, their sixth form head, sent Emma into a fit of giggles.
“Nice outfit, Becs.” David Keeley whistled as he walked by, clutching a game console to his chest. “Did someone die?”
“You are so drôle,” Rebecca parried, tone as icy as only she could make it. “Go and count the hairs on your chest. You should be done in two seconds.”
“Oh, ha ha.” His face turning a deep shade of puce, he scurried off into the lounge area.
“He is just too intense, but then I would be too if I had his acne but really, Becs…” Emma circled her, lips puckered. “Don’t you think the look is a little too Goth?”
“Don’t you like it? My dad says it is a manifestation of adolescent rebellion.”
“Stop pontificating, and let’s grab a locker. Have you seen this place? It’s great—comfy chairs, telly. It’s even got a vending machine. Way to go Mr. Black on the refurbishing.”
“Emma, drinking coffee all day long is not quite the purpose of upper sixth, and spell pontificate.”
Emma ignored her sarcasm. “Have you heard?’ She pulled open a locker. “Farty Adams has retired.”
“About time. How can anyone with such an ugly accent possibly teach English?” Rebecca winced as Emma slammed the metal door shut. Catching Em’s suspicious gleam, she eased the creases of pain from her face. Emma could nag for England.
Hands on hips, Emma cocked her head to one side, vision sharp as a shark on the prowl. “Becs, are you okay? I know make-up isn’t your thing, but you look as if you are wearing the latest death row shade.”
Rebecca gave her the chill zero eye, knowing where this conversation was leading. “Don’t get on my case. I am fine. Let’s talk about something far more interesting and entertaining…your mission of the month. How is that going by the way? Any luck? You should hand out flyers.
“‘
Wanted. Brave, but probably pathetic, youth willing to assist equally pathetic and delusional sex-starved girl in goal to lose her virginity. Perverts need not apply.’”