Dearest Clementine
Read Dearest Clementine Online
Authors: Lex Martin
DEAREST CLEMENTINE
LEX MARTIN
Dearest Clementine Copyright © 2014 by Lex Martin
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
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.
This New Adult contemporary romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.
Copy Editing by RJ Locksley
Cover Design & Photo by © Lex Martin
ISBN 978-0-9915534-0-2
Table of Contents
DEDICATION:
To Matt & my little bears.
You are my happily ever after.
"It is never too late to be what you might have been."
- George Eliot
-
1 -
My pen traces mindless circles in the margins of my journal as I stare out the window of the dusty common room.
This is what I’ve needed to find my footing
, I think as I fight the nerves taking root in my stomach.
Down the hallway, the sound of squeaky wheels is punctuated by a groan and a thump as luggage hits the floor.
“Wait, what will happen if there’s a fire? We’re on the eighteenth floor,” one girl says, her vowels long and polite. A Southerner.
A deep male voice reassures her. “I know it’s a hike down those stairs, but don’t use the elevators. The last thing you want is to get stuck between floors. I’ll check each room to make sure you’ve evacuated.”
I can’t make out the rest of the conversation until two girls shuffle by the lounge.
“Holy shit. Our RA is hot!” a girl in a sundress tells her friend as she lugs an overstuffed duffle bag. “I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”
“He’s a senior or a grad student, dork. He’s not going to be interested in
you
,” the other one says, her accent softening her words.
Hitting on the resident assistant, the upperclassman paid to keep an eye on all of the kids in the dorms, was never my thing. My RA freshman year, Tao, was five two and into Jesus. Not my scene.
I can’t imagine who would want to be an RA. Tao was always rushing some poor slob to the hospital with random broken bits. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he found my friend Sarah passed out, piss-drunk, with a broken ankle. How she managed to vomit on all four walls of her dorm room before she went down is beyond me.
Tapping my pen, I shift in my seat.
I’ve spent the last three months trying to get in the zone, grappling with ideas, but I only ended up with a journal full of manic-looking drawings.
This has to fucking work.
I breathe deeply, the smell of stale Cheetos assaulting my nose.
If I can get into a writing routine again, I can do this. I’ve done it before.
I keep telling myself the same crap, hoping something clicks. All summer, I’ve tried to be positive, and trust me, that’s no easy feat.
My knee starts to jiggle, and just as I’m about to go into full-out crisis mode, a voice startles me.
“Darlin’, now
you
don’t look like a freshman.”
Turning slightly, I see him in my peripheral vision, leaning in the doorway. The RA.
“That’s because I’m not,” I say flatly.
“So what are you doing in Warren Towers? I mean, why would you willingly hang out here? I get paid to be here. What’s your excuse?”
He’s joking. I get it. But I’m not in the mood.
“Just looking for some white noise,” I say, returning to my journal. I feel his eyes on me, and my face starts to heat. “Look, I’m not some creeper if that’s what you’re getting at. I just need a little inspiration.”
I jot down random words, hoping something can pull me out of my writing coma: suitcases, hot RAs, condoms, diet Coke, donuts.
Trying to ignore the intensity of his stare, I gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I’ve always loved this view. Boston is alive with color, rich with the burnt sienna of brownstones that bake in the August sun. Walls of ivy ripple in the breeze off the Charles River, making me wish I could go for a run.
Nostalgia tugs at me as I think about how much has happened since I lived here freshman year. I got the idea for my book in this very seat three years ago. And I’m hoping like hell I can do it again.
A quick glance at the clock feels like a punch to the gut. At this rate, I’m never going to figure out my next book if I can’t get in the zone. And I
have
to get in the zone. No one will pay my bills if I don’t, and Boston University doesn’t exactly have a soft spot for poor little rich girls. Because on paper, I’m silver-spoon-up-my-bum wealthy, the daughter of two Fortune 500 assholes. Unfortunately, my parents never got the memo they’re supposed to give a shit about my life.
Who knows what I did to piss them off? It’s immaterial at this point. The bottom line is I need money.
Pronto
.
I have one thing on my side. On a good day, if the stars align and the fates agree, I can write my ass off. Which helped at the end of my freshman year when I received the letter from the bursar’s office noting that I owed a cool twenty grand.
It’s ironic that my novel, which highlighted one of the most humiliating moments of my life, helped pay that bill.
I haven’t been able to write anything on par with
Say It Isn’t So,
my one and only book, the lucky ticket that bailed me out of debt. But I guess I haven’t had to. What started off as maudlin ramblings in my diary that I shaped into a narrative somehow jumped up the charts and became an indie bestseller.
The RA clears his throat, pulling me from my thoughts. “And you thought you’d find inspiration here, a freshman dorm?”
I don’t have to look up to know he’s grinning.
How the hell do you hear someone smile?
my inner voice quips.
He chuckles. “Are you having any luck? Finding inspiration?”
Finally, my eyes sweep up, and my stomach instantly lurches. He’s tall with dark, shaggy hair that flops in his face. Intense green eyes stare back.
The girls were right. He
is
good-looking.
He smiles a dazzling, megawatt grin, and my chest clenches at the thought that he probably has lickable abs.
Oh, for the love of God, Clem, get a grip.
I bite my lower lip until it stings, and my eyes dart back to my journal.
“No,” I say, wishing I had more time to write. “No luck with inspiration.”
My jaw clenches as my pen returns to drawing circles. Ignoring the hammering of my heart that I hope has everything to do with my looming tuition bill and nothing to do with Henry Cavill’s doppelgänger, I flip through the pages in front of me, desperate to find something that will help me get my shit together.
He shifts in the doorway.
“I’m Gavin, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say half-heartedly. My body, on autopilot, starts to pack my stuff even though it’s too early.
Shit. Fuck-it-all-to-hell shit!
You can’t go. You don’t have anything figured out yet!
“And… you… would… be?”
“Leaving.” My inner voice sighs at me.
Always such a bitch, Clem.
“Yeah, that’s not what I meant.” He sounds amused.
I swing my messenger bag over my shoulder.
“I know what you meant,” I say, glancing up as he blocks my exit.
He’s taller than I thought… and built…
The fact that my heart beats even faster the second I smell his citrusy cologne pisses me off. I pride myself on being a modern girl, one who doesn’t need a man, especially if all he’ll do is break my heart. So the idea that this guy and his little smirk give me kamikaze butterflies aggravates me more.
I let out an exasperated sigh as I wait for him to move out of the way, my eyes traveling along his bulging bicep, which strains against his t-shirt.
Stop. Checking. Him. Out.
I shake my head at myself as I scoot around him and head for the elevator. I press the button and wait all of three seconds before I punch it again.
“You know, you’re on the eighteenth floor. This could take a while,” he says behind me. “I’m guessing you probably have more than enough time to tell me your name.” He chuckles again, apparently undeterred by my fuck-off vibe.
This doesn’t mean anything. Just because you didn’t get an idea today doesn’t mean anything.
Nerves jumble my stomach, and I half consider taking the stairs when the elevator doors slide open and relief floods my chest.
I don’t know why I have to get away from here right now, but I do.
I get in and turn around. Obnoxiously sexy RA guy is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me. Our eyes meet, and he raises his eyebrows.
As the doors start to close, I feel a twinge of guilt.
Ugh. Fine.
“Clem. My name is Clementine.”
The doors close, but not before I catch him grin.
* * *
The musty smell of our apartment building blasts me in the face as I trudge up the stairs. Everyone is standing around the wagon-wheel coffee table, and Jenna hovers protectively in front of her garage-sale find with her hands on her hips. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is pulled up in a spiky ponytail and she has a smudge of dirt across her cheek.
“Clem, help me out here,” she says in her sweetest South Carolinian drawl. “Do you think this is hideous? Because I don’t. I think it has personality.”