I’m reluctant to leave, but realize this is one of many instances where this isn’t my place. As her neighbor and friend, I should have walked away a while ago. Slowly, I nod, and turn to go.
“Max?” Ace calls my name. I stop, and immediately head back to where she’s finished another cut. I’m surveying the space, ensuring all ten of her fingers are there, that there isn’t any blood, that the saw is turning off. “Thanks for helping me. I really appreciate it.” She presses her lips together and glances past me, exposing her shyness. I had never considered Ace shy. Though I hadn’t known her well, she always had friends and boys hanging around her. It wasn’t until this summer when I began spending time with her, that I realized she strayed more toward being an introvert and preferred being around her closest friends and family.
“You’re a natural,” I tell her.
“I’ll come find you for lunch.” Her tone rises, making her statement sound more like a question.
“Yeah, and if you get done here, come by and find me.”
Once again, she smiles, and once again I forget all the reasons I should be avoiding her.
* * *
If distraction were a noun, it would be Ace.
I haven’t managed to accomplish nearly the amount of work I should this morning, because my attention continues navigating to where she’s currently using a nail gun to secure the base of the floor.
After she’d completed her task with the miter saw, the plaid-wearing volunteer had led her over to the house, opposite of where I was helping to complete the framing. She had the same overwhelmed look on her face when someone presented her with a nail gun, but this time, she asked more questions.
My phone buzzes for a third time as a guy secures the side I’ve been holding into place. I wipe my brow before reaching for it. It’s hotter than hell today, and there isn’t a single inch of shade on this piece of property.
Jameson: …Kendall says Ace is volunteering at the building site, too.
Me: Yeah, no need to tell her where I’m at.
Jameson: Now’s your chance to impress her.
Jameson: This is the perfect setting. You can even turn up your cockiness without looking like a bastard ;)
I don’t bother replying to him. Instead, I pocket my phone and follow two others who have been working with me to get this side of the frame up, to take a water break.
“Things are looking really good!” A woman with bright red nails and a clean, white T-shirt smiles as she hands us each a water bottle. “This place is going to be done in no time.” Her sentiment reminds me of the crap Jameson’s been spewing from the college brochures: promises that often sound far easier and faster to accomplish than they really are.
“Hungry?” Ace appears beside me, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
It’s too hot to be hungry, but I nod.
“Great idea!” The man in the plaid shirt appears as well, standing too close to Ace. “We’ll all take a break for lunch. Cool down.”
Ace grips the crook of my arm, and reason and logic transform. No longer am I considering all the reasons I shouldn’t be with her, but every reason that I should.
Continue the journey with Ace and Max, and begin Becoming His, today: myBook.to/BecomingHis1
About the Author
Mariah Dietz lives with her husband and three sons, who are the axis of her crazy and wonderful world in North Carolina.
Mariah grew up in a tiny town outside of Portland, Oregon, where she spent most of her time immersed in the pages of books that she both read and created.
She has a love for all things that include her family, good coffee, books, traveling, and dark chocolate. She’s also obsessed with Christmas ornaments and all things Disney.
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Also by Mariah Dietz
Becoming His: myBook.to/BecomingHis1
Losing Her: myBook.to/LosingHer2
Finding Me: myBook.to/FindingMe3
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The Weight of Rain: myBook.to/WeightofRain
The Effects of Falling: myBook.to/TheEffectsofFalling
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CURVEBALL: myBook.to/Curveballebook2
EXCEPTION: myBook.to/Exception
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Add A Thousand Reasons, a new novel releasing June 21st to your TBR: https://bit.ly/2GUKkYE
Cocky BB: Two Boys, One Prom
BB Easton
Cocky BB: Two Boys, One Prom is a work of creative nonfiction based on characters introduced in BB Easton’s bestselling memoir, 44 Chapters About 4 Men. While the settings and most of the situations portrayed in this book are true to life, the names and identifying characteristics of all characters have been altered to protect the identities of everyone involved.
Copyright ? 2018 by BB Easton All rights reserved.
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No part of this story 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 the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Author’s Note
For those of you who aren’t familiar with me, I write stories about my own life. About the actual, questionable, choices I made and the actual, regrettable men I dated.1 These stories are usually funny, definitely self-deprecating, shockingly sexy, and for some reason, oddly unifying.
I’ve been moved by the unity our little indie romance community has demonstrated as of late, so I’d like to contribute to this movement with one of my most sacred stories. One I have never told any of you. One that will live on in infamy. It is the story of the time I took my two ex-boyfriends—sworn mortal enemies—to the same prom. I call it…Cocky BB.
Enjoy!
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1Dated (verb, past tense)—to risk contracting venereal diseases, tetanus, and jail time with a man in exchange for attention, free piercings and the occasional meal at Waffle House.
Introduction
Let me set the scene for you. It was April of 1998. I was a junior at Peach State High School—a huge, working-class public school in the suburbs of Atlanta. On paper, I looked like the model student: four-point-oh grade point average, on track to graduate early with honors, no disciplinary file, aside from a few tardiness-related detentions. However, in person, I looked like a drug-addicted gutter punk. My once-shaved head had grown into an inch-long helmet of hair that I’d bleached platinum blonde and tried to tame with hair gel and bobby pins. I wore too much black liquid eyeliner and not enough of anything else. And my steel-toe combat boots practically weighed as much as my emaciated ninety-five-pound body.
You’ve probably heard the term “high-functioning alcoholic” used to describe someone who suffers from an addiction yet manages to excel in at least one area of their life. That was me. I was a high-functioning bad-boy-aholic. At any given moment you could find me chilling on the Dean’s List while some sexy, broken, tattooed, miscreant with washboard abs and a killer smile was completely ravaging the rest of my life.
Or in this case, two.
Ronald “Knight” McKnight had been my first love, if you could call it that. A professional would have called it Stockholm Syndrome. Knight was a friendless, joyless, vicious sadist whom everyone at Peach State High School had learned to steer clear of. He looked like a skinhead, lifted weights with the football players, and physically assaulted anyone who so much as spoke to me. By tenth grade, Knight had completely isolated me from my friends and made himself my only option for rides home, for friendship, for everything.
Naturally, like the dumb attention-starved fifteen-year-old that I was, I grew to love the psycho. But when his violent tendencies became more than he could control, Knight joined the Marines and shipped off to Iraq. He exited my life the same way that he’d entered it: before I was ready and without my permission.