Love on the Run: Book One of the Against All Odds series Read online

  Love on the Run

  Gemini Jensen

  Love on the Run

  Copyright ©2018 Gemini Jensen

  All Rights Reserved.

  Love on the Run is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover designed by Cormar Covers

  Editing by Alice Lunsford

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the author’s explicit permission.

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Purchase only authorized editions.

  Dedicated to all those who made me feel like I couldn’t (Here’s a big SCREW YOU), and to those handful near and dear to my heart who made me realize I could.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Titles by Gemini Jensen

  Acknowledgments

  Connect with Gemini

  About the Author

  Prologue

  I grew up with exceptionally strong beliefs that eventually became the foundation on which to base all my decisions. A lot of this had to do with my upbringing, and the relationship between my own parents, and the rest I just picked up along the way.

  There is a slew of subtext and fine-print to my beliefs, but the main structure consists of these rules:

  One: Kindness is important. You can never truly tell what another human being has gone through and may be suffering from. Pain has an uncanny ability of making a person act out of character and lash out at others.

  Two: Always exude couth, class, and confidence. As the saying goes “you never get a second chance to make a first impression.

  Three: Bend when necessary, but don’t be a pushover. Compromise is important but so is your sense of self.

  Four: Don’t trust anyone (except your mother, most of the time).

  And the final and most important rule…

  Five: NEVER FALL IN LOVE. Love is fleeting. Even more prominent is the fact that true love, star-crossed lovers, and soul mates don’t exist. These ideas are a misconception due to a chemical reaction, which has been embellished upon to create a profitable market. Love sells. It sells in the movies. It sells in literature. It sells in the art of persuasion. Everyone craves love, which is frequently the beginning of their own demise.

  Chapter One

  Valley

  “Almost done! Just one more second!” I yell out to my mother as I finish braiding my auburn hair, securely looping the end with the ponytail holder.

  Taking one last look in the mirror and then grabbing my bookbag, I bound out of the bathroom and down the hallway into the living room. There, I find my mother perched on the arm of the love-seat. She’s eyeing the clock and jiggling her leg (her tried and true nervous habit), but once she grasps I’ve entered the room her gray eyes, full of assessment, turn to me. As the moments tick by without her daring to utter a single word, all the while staring down her nose at my outfit, it’s easy to interpret her criticism over my show of fashion nonchalance.

  “Honestly Valley, I don’t know why you insist upon living out ‘Casual Friday’ every day of the week.”

  I look down at my leggings and slouchy yet comfortable teal sweater, not at all understanding what the big deal is.

  “Well Monica,” I begin, putting much emphasis on the Monica, “first things first it’s not Valley, it’s Sloane here. We really need to start getting into character given that we’re already entering our first day out in society as debutantes here in Bumfuck, USA. And as for my outfit… Look around and see what everyone else my age is wearing.”

  Monica has the audacity to look appalled by my sharp tongue, and even turns slightly red in the face though she makes no move to scold me for my choice of words.

  Just like my name isn’t really Sloane, mom’s name isn’t Monica either. We’re playing the roles of Monica and Sloane Monroe however, for hopefully a more extended amount of time than with the last identities we dropped. Valley is my nick-name, short for Valentina. Mom’s real name is Althia like the plant just spelled differently, but it has been years since anyone other than ourselves has called us by our given names. Secretly, I’m thankful that she still does so when we’re alone, otherwise, I might forget altogether.

  “Well SLOANE,” my mother sasses back using the same opener I just used on her, “it’s your first day of school your senior year to state the obvious, and in a new town after all. Whatever happened to our motto ‘you never get a second chance to make a first impression? Hmmm, Missy?”

  We’ve used this motto to aid us through bouncing from place to place and constantly having to start over again when meeting new people. It’s a tedious cycle that I can’t ever find my way out of, but we’ve implemented a few rules to follow, and drawn inspiration from quotes like so many other people do. Doing so gives the impression of making each new transition easier.

  As for my clothing choices, I can’t fault my mother because I know where she’s coming from. She’s a beautiful lady who takes great pride in her appearance. Well dressed, groomed and cared for, she manages to look elegant on a budget (something I have never quite managed to perfect). Some days I swear it’s just her natural demeanor and the way she’s wired. Other days, I wonder if it has transferred over with her as a learned habit from her previous life as Althia Malone, wife and arm candy to a very wealthy and dangerous man (who also, unfortunately, happens to be my father, and the reason for our current way of living a life on the run).

  If I were to tell someone that my Mom is in her late 30’s, they’d probably, in turn, call me a liar. Heck, even I’m nearly tricked into believing it’s a lie… She’s hardly changed at all from my earliest memories of her. Her corn-silk hair, creamy complexion, wrinkle-free face (which is, believe it or not, botox free), and body that’s firm and toned in such a way that would put even the most seasoned fitness models to shame, couldn’t possibly belong to a woman her age. One who has birthed a child to top it all off. If we were to look alike, she would pass as my sister. The only giveaway to her age are her sad, exhausted and soul-filled eyes that implicate her of holding more life experience and wisdom than a person twice her years.

  “I was going for the fit-in and blend-in approach rather than the stand-out-in-a-crowd approach. Figured it would be a little smarter and put less of a target on my back,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

  Clearly, she can’t argue with that, so she passes me the pla
te of scrambled eggs with sautéed veggies that she’s prepared for me, effectively ending our conversation on my attire. Despite being cold and practically tasteless on my tongue, I scarf it down anyway because really… who wants unwanted attention from your peers due to a displaced stomach growl in an otherwise quiet classroom?

  While downing my orange juice, I think to do one last check of my bag to make sure I have everything covered. I soon realize there are a few necessities I have forgotten, tampons being the most important. I’m not due for my period for at least another week or so but still wince at the thought of being left to my own devices should that scenario be thrust upon me unexpectedly. My body gives a little shudder just thinking of having to ask someone else, who I didn’t know from Eve if they had one. Not the prototypical first day of school that I have in mind.

  After I retrieve a few from the bathroom cabinet, I scamper into my sleeping quarters (called that because the room is literally so tiny, a bed and dresser can hardly fit in here), and I scoop up my old and battered copy of Gone with the Wind. While I may not need it for the actual learning part of school, I do, however, need it for my sanity. A book will provide a nice shield at lunch or during the small window of time before classes start. It’ll aid in the appearance of being unapproachable and completely okay with not congregating with my fellow classmates, which is practically my goal in life. I cram my tried-and-true read into the second largest pocket; the only space available in a bag that’s otherwise stuffed to the fullest extent of its capabilities.

  Slinging my back-pack over my shoulder unconsciously signals my readiness to leave, so, Mom picks up her designer handbag from the coffee table, momentarily rummaging through it to verify the presence of our trusty Beretta. She’s never had to turn it on someone before luckily, but she’s still made me familiarize myself with it starting when I turned 13. Mom always says we need to be prepared for the worst at all times, and in a worst-case scenario, I might have to fend for myself.

  Satisfied, she unclips the keys from the strap of her bag and opens the front door, holding onto it just long enough for me to pass through. Once I do, she swiftly turns the key back to the locked position before sliding it out.

  In the true fated fashion of stressful days, we step out into a rainy and dreary atmosphere. The sky is a ceiling of angry storm clouds whipped by roiling winds. It’s even slightly chilly despite being nearly the end of August in the Southeastern United States.

  “The perfect day for hot chocolate, a pot of hearty soup, and a good book,” I muse, smiling infectiously to my Mother, who in turn, finally upturns the corners of her mouth for the first time all morning. Not much of a smile, but it’s a start.

  Thoughts of Autumn and all the makings thereof, lead me back to another time and place when we were living in Michigan. I had gotten to enjoy a true fall-time of the year while we were there. Stockings, scarves, pea-coats and boots were a large part of my clothing ensembles. Needless to say, Mom gave me a lot of leeway there, being pleased by my enthusiastic accessorizing.

  To say I’d loved it there, living under the pseudonym “Mia” at the time, would be a severe downgrade of my true sentiments for the place. Living in Michigan had been pure magic, and once we had to close-up shop, I’d been dejected as I witnessed it disappearing from sight.

  But, as my mom had very firmly insisted, we had stayed well beyond our time constraint, and enduring the potentially harsh winter that Michigan was known for wasn’t in our best interest. I can still remember everything about our final days leading up to the move, down to the last meal we cooked together there: Cabbage Beef Soup.

  “I’m making dinner tonight,” I insist as I turn to face Mom.

  “Fine, as long as it doesn’t cost us an arm and a leg.”

  Spinning on her heel, she sidesteps a rather large crack in the aged sidewalk, then gracefully strolls ahead of me and climbs into the driver side of our car. We only have one vehicle between the two of us, and I understand her desire to explore the sleepy little town we’ve only recently moved to, but I can’t say I’m excited to be the new-to-town senior still being chauffeured around by her parent. It’s just another tick on the list of things for folks to poke fun at, and as far as poking fun at one goes, I’m sure I’m going to be at the receiving end of plenty of pokes.

  This is a small town, where everyone knows everyone. My classmates have been placed together since kindergarten, and are all well familiarized. Here I am walking in as the total outcast in a setting where everybody has a decided category or group of people they’ve been pre-placed into. It’s just the way of things in small town circles. Well, they’ll just have to create a new category completely devoted to yours truly, and, so long as no one attempts to encroach on my space that’ll be just fine by me.

  The engine purring to life awakens me from my momentary uneasiness, and as we pull off the gravel road that leads from our new residence, onto the paved main road, I attempt to take in the scenery flashing by. The drive from home to down-town is only about five minutes, and I can finally acknowledge that the quaint southern character of the town is inviting enough. We turn down main street and I make note of the handful of shops adorning each side, filing away in my brain the ones I’d like to further investigate.

  There is, of course, the town bakery; a flower shop with a beautiful spread of assorted Lillies, Tulips, and Roses gracing their window; a gift shop with little trinkets and some candles I happen to spy on display as we cruise by; a consignment shop; a record store…

  “I wonder how they’re still in business considering everyone uses MP3 and digital files now?” I ponder out loud.

  There’s a general Store followed by a cute and trendy little boutique that I know my mother will be hitting up sooner rather than later, and finally a hardware store right at the end.

  We turn the corner onto the road perpendicular to Main Street, where we pass the pharmacy, an old-timey diner and two more restaurants, the newspaper headquarters, and the combined Sheriff’s Office and Courthouse. I spy a small supermarket up on the hill and seriously hope a neighboring town with more to offer isn’t too far away. In a mere 30 seconds, it would appear I’ve been served the entire town on a silver platter.

  Finally, the school comes into sight resulting in my nerves becoming amped up. I am pleasantly surprised it isn’t as small as I had pictured it to be, nor is the building anywhere near as run down and decrepit as I’d originally suspected. The glossy and seamless windows appear brand new, and the newer parts of the structure point to remodeling in recent years.

  A sign for Central Valley High School stands proudly at the front of the school entrance, showcasing the school mascot as “Home of the Bears” with a depiction of a huge Bear roaring, teeth bared, and claw swiping at the air.

  Our SUV follows the flow of traffic to the drop off area, which doesn’t take too long considering mostly Freshman are the ones being dropped off by their parents. I groan at the thought, a childish yet understandable reaction.

  Before I know it, we’re three cars away from the drop-off zone where I’ll have to exit the vehicle. I hastily unbuckle my seatbelt, picking my bookbag up from the floorboard to secure it over my shoulders. Nervously, I begin fidgeting with the straps, rubbing the rough material between my thumb and forefinger so hard it leaves a patterned imprint. This garners my mother’s attention. After a completely silent car ride she finally speaks up.

  “I already know I don’t need to lecture you on what to do and what not to do. What I haven’t told you yet is this… I plan to go against something we have avoided doing since we left your father. Now, I want you to have an open mind,” she pauses, as her impeccably arched brows knit together, allowing time for her words to sink in before continuing.

  “I fully intend to try settling down here, longer than anywhere else we’ve stayed before. I know in the past I’ve said it’s never safe to stay in a town for too long and I still think that’s true, but in a lot of ways, I’ve failed you as a mothe
r. You need guidance in communicating, and well, forming relationships in general. I don’t want you to overshare and raise any suspicions, but I do want you to acquaint yourself with some of the girls here. Or guys,” she says bumping my arm in a teasing way as she tries to get me to look at her. Instead, my eyes remain downcast, studying the shape of my dress-boots, the curve of the toe.

  “You certainly don’t have to be BFFs or anything, but please just try to be involved.”

  When I finally look over, she’s playing up the pleading eyes like a professional at getting her way, as the car inches forward, making me next in line to the drop-off zone.

  “Val---Sloane,” she quickly corrects “this is your last chance to experience the essence of adolescence. Please promise me you’ll try.”

  Looking to me for my affirmation, she waits, although she likely knows my answer before I even do. Mom doesn’t typically ask for a favor until she’s mapped out her approach, ensuring the odds are in her favor, leading to a finishing execution. In other words, she always gets an agreeable answer. Plus, when her voice holds so much emotion and fervor, I’m doomed from the start.

  Apparently, this is important to her, and she’s been through enough disappointments to last a lifetime. So, I can’t let her down. I won’t.

  I step down out of the vehicle, glancing back at her before closing the door. I concede, “Okay mom… I love you. Be careful out in this weather today,” as I glance wearily around at the shroud of dismal clouds.

  “I love you, Sloane,” she volleys back, quickly getting into character since we’re now within earshot of other students.

  “Please try your hardest, and have a good first day,” her voice harps, all for show.

  To a passerby, it probably seems she’s speaking of trying hard academically, but she and I know that isn’t her true meaning. There is a complexity behind her words no one but us will understand. She’s the one person in the world who knows me better than anyone, having taken on the roles of being both my best friend and my confidant. Translated, her words really signify: Don’t do anything stupid, try to fit in, don’t cause too much attention, and make attempts to be included in activities with other students.