Rebel Heart

  Table of Contents

  Other titles by LK Farlow

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Excerpt From Coming Up Roses

  Books Mentioned

  © 2018 by LK Farlow

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design & Interior Formatting: Jersey Girl Design | Juliana Cabrera

  Editing: Librum Artis Editorial Services | Gray Ink Editing

  No part of this publication 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 the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  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.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  www.authorlkfarlow.com

  Other Titles by LK Farlow

  Southern Roots Series

  Coming Up Roses

  An Uphill Battle

  Weather the Storm

  To my Phoobs.

  Thank you for loving my Rebel Heart instead of trying to tame it.

  AJ

  No.

  Such an amazing little word. Magical, really. Just two little letters, but when put together they’re packed with so much power.

  “No, I will not share my food with you.” I say that one every time I go out with Stacia, my best and only true friend.

  “No, you may not use my study guide.” This one goes out to all the jocks in my classes. Seriously, taking notes isn’t that hard—it requires nothing more than a pen, a piece of paper, and half a brain.

  “No, you may not have my number.” Might as well tattoo that one to my forehead, and at this point, what’s one more piece of ink?

  “No, I don’t want to meet for drinks.” Not now, not ever, stop asking, I typically add on silently…unless you’re tall, dark, and handsome and know how to use the tools the good Lord gave you.

  “No, I don’t want to tell you about my tattoo. And no, you sure as shit can’t touch it.” That’s right up there with feeling up baby bumps and bald heads.

  And, now, I’m using my favorite two-letter word to tell my British Literature professor, “No, I will not tutor some jock so that he can maintain his eligibility.”

  “I’m not asking, AJ,” Professor Doss informs me, staring at me over the rim of her turquoise cat-eye glasses.

  “What do you mean you’re not asking?”

  “I’m telling. He needs the help, and you have the knowledge. You should know, more than anyone, not to judge a book by its cover.” Cue imaginary eye roll. Yeah, yeah, with my vibrant tattoos, cotton candy colored hair, and overall bad attitude, I really shouldn’t judge others. But, an athlete? No thanks. I think I’d rather get my next tattoo in some dude’s kitchen.

  “Telling? Why?” I ask, my patience wearing thin.

  “Telling because we both know you have the time, and if you want a recommendation letter from me, this is what it’s going to take to acquire one. Take it or leave it, your call.”

  Professor Doss’s words cause me to wince, because dammit, she’s got my arm twisted behind my back—metaphorically, of course. I don’t just want her letter, I need it if I want a real shot at getting an internship with Booking Out—a not-for-profit childhood literacy program. She was a project kickstarter for them, and her opinion carries weight.

  With a long, heavy sigh, I give Professor Doss a terse nod, causing her to break out into a bright, toothy smile. “Good choice. I’ll give him your student email, and he’ll be in contact.”

  “Yippie,” I mutter, sounding as unenthused as possible.

  Agitated, I quickly dash across campus toward the café to meet Stacia, hardly taking the time to notice the lush green grass lining the cobbled sidewalk or the gorgeous live oaks shading the path. Prewit U has a breathtaking campus chock-full of the Southern Mississippi charm that I tend to take for granted due to being a lifelong native. People—mostly out-of-towners—always ask how I like living in such a small town. I guess they think with me being me that I must feel stifled in such tiny town smackdab in the middle of the Bible Belt, but Cottonwood is a fairly open-minded place—you know, except for the old money assholes.

  I breeze through the double doors fifteen minutes past the time we agreed on, and knowing Stacia, she’s about to let me have it. I forego the order counter and make my way to our table in the far corner. “You’re late,” Stacia points out, just like I knew she would. Which is ironic, because swear to God, the girl will be late to her own funeral.

  “Yup, sorry. Doss held me up,” I explain, and she huffs out a breath that scatters her wispy black bangs.

  “Ugh. What for?”

  “Apparently if I want her letter of recommendation I have to tutor some beefcake athlete.”

  Stacia blinks her big, brown doe eyes at me and straightens her septum ring before bursting out into raucous laughter. I glare at her, wholly unamused. “Oh my God, AJ. That’s amazing.”

  “Check a dictionary. Amazing is not the word you’re looking for.”

  “No, babe, it really is.”

  “How so?” I demand, stealing her iced latte from where it was resting on the table in front of her.

  She snatches it back. “Get your own.” Slowly, she gulps down several swallows before continuing. “And, it’s amazing because it will provide endless entertainment for me.”

  “You’re a bitch,” I tell her, and she just laughs all the harder. “Whatevs. I’m out.” I stand from the table and sling my crossbody over my shoulder.

  “You know you love me!” Stacia yells dramatically as I walk away from our table. Glancing back at her, I shoot her a wink and carry on my way.

  It’s ten o’clock, and I’m deep into the paper I’m writing when the email notification on my laptop dings, alerting me to a new message. I click save on my paper and switch over to my web browser. My inbox shows one new message from a B. Larson.

  From: B.Larson@PrewitU.edu

  To: A.Adams2@PrewitU.edu

  Subject: Tutoring

  Hey AJ,

  Professor Doss gave me your email address and told me to reach out to you about tutoring. I’m available on Tuesdays and Thursdays at five. Meet me at the library.

  -Brock

  No, no, no, no. There’s that word again. Except this time, it’s a prayer. A down-on-my-knees-begging-I’m-wrong kind of prayer. Brock fuc
king Larson. The bane of my existence since age twelve. I blink at my screen in a daze. It can’t be. I reread the email at least six more times, desperately hoping for his name to magically change.

  In a panic, I grab my phone and dial Stacia. She knows all about Brock and our stupid, sordid past—if you can even call it that. After all, she’s been my best friend since he ditched me. She comes from old money just like me, only her parents are loving and supportive.

  Like a good girl, she answers on the first ring. “Knew you still loved me, AJ.”

  “Always, but not the point. Brock Larson. Please, please tell me there are two Brock Larson’s enrolled here.”

  “No can do, babe. Only one, why?” Her question is met with silence. I’m petrified that speaking it aloud will make it true—well, truer. Luckily, Stacia’s a smart girl and figures it out all on her own. “Oh, no way. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I wish I was.”

  “Sucks balls, AJ. That sucks balls.”

  “Donkey ones,” I lament.

  “You’re just gonna have to put on your big girl panties and deal with it. This letter is more than worth dealing with his particular brand of BS.”

  I run my fingers through my bubblegum colored locks and sigh into the phone. “Ugh. You’re right. Promise you’ll help keep me sane?” I ask, all but begging.

  “Duh. Now, go to sleep. Worry about tomorrow’s problems tomorrow.”

  I disconnect the call and place my phone on its charging dock before scanning over his email once more. Only this time, my prior panic over who I’m tutoring is replaced with rage over the actual content of the email. How dare he just assume I’m free and willing to bend to his schedule. Ugh. That’s so like him to be an arrogant little prick—like father, like son.

  Pissed as hell, I shut down my laptop and place it on my nightstand. With one more long, drawn-out sigh, I let my head hit the pillow and drift to sleep imagining tearing him a new asshole on Tuesday when I see him.

  BROCK

  “Look, Dad, I really have to go. I’m going to be late—”

  Per usual, when Dad hears something he doesn’t like, he ignores it, and right now he doesn’t like the thought of me deciding when to end our call. “How’s your handicap?”

  “Plus two,” I mumble, tugging the ends of my slightly overgrown brown hair, dreading his response. After all, Everett Brantley Larson is banking on me to follow in his footsteps—or maybe it’s that he plans on living vicariously through me. Either way, he’s not going to like my answer, regardless of the fact that a plus two handicap, in most circles, is considered a good thing.

  “Come again?” he demands, and I repeat myself, enunciating clearly this time around.

  “I said plus two, Dad.”

  “Disgraceful. Absolutely disgraceful. When I was your age…forget it. Maybe I should bring on someone to coach you between team practices.”

  “But we practice five days a week!” I blurt out.

  “Then we’ll add him on the two days you don’t,” my father grits out, his temper getting the better of him.

  “Dad, I have a full course load, regular practice, the gym, homework, my volunteer hours, and my tutoring. I really don’t think—”

  “I don’t recall asking your opinion, son. I’ve already emailed Coach Garza. I requested Saturday and Sunday mornings. Moving on, how’s your GPA?”

  Fuck. “Three-point-five,” I tell him, hoping it’s high enough to satisfy him, but I know it isn’t.

  “You know, I really expected more from you, Brock. Your mother is going to be so disappointed when I relay all of this to her.” He clucks his tongue at me, and I roll my eyes, knowing my mom won’t care even an iota. She’s always been my biggest supporter and would fucking be proud of me even if I was a slacker with a C-average. These are things most parents would be proud of, but nothing less than perfect is enough for my dear old dad. “What class are you struggling with?”

  “Lit, but I’ve already set up a tutor. In fact, I’m running late to—”

  “I’ll email your professor and make sure your tutor is the best of the best. I’ve got to run, son, talk later,” he barks into the phone, like I haven’t been trying to end the call for the last fifteen minutes.

  I’m close to twenty minutes late when I make it to the library—I hope this AJ guy is still here, but I wouldn’t blame him for bailing. Shit knows I would have. From the doorway, I scan the tables, looking for a familiar face from my lit class.

  On my first sweep, I don’t notice anyone I know. So, changing tactics, I begin looking for anyone who looks like a tutor. Do tutors have a certain look? I’m picturing thick glasses and a pocket protector, but once again, I come up empty. I’m about to turn and leave when the sensation of being watched rolls over me, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. I give the room one last sweeping glance and just about stumble when I see a set of brown eyes I’d know anywhere glaring daggers in my direction. The look she’s aiming at me is damn near lethal. Why in the hell is sweet little Abby Jane Adams mad at me? Then again, Abby Jane isn’t little anymore. Or sweet.

  Once upon a time, those brown eyes were the highlight of my day—seeing them light up with laughter, watching her cheeks blossom pink. Her smile was brighter than the sun, and her laughter was sweeter than anything I’d ever known. Even as a kid, I knew there was something special about her, which is why it didn’t bug me too much when our moms talked about us getting married when we were grown. Because, at age five, over mud pies, I decided Abby Jane would be my wife.

  Turned out life had other plans. Middle school hit, I shot up by five inches, and suddenly girls thought I was cool. Abby Jane though, she was a late bloomer, and thanks to the glorious travesty that is grade school hierarchy…and me being a thirteen-year-old horndog…Abby Jane and I grew apart.

  By high school, we hated each other. Well, she hated me. She was the antithesis of everything our families stood for. She was loud, opinionated, bossy, crude, and was always testing the limits, whereas I walked the straight and narrow. Her mother constantly asked why she couldn’t just do as she was told, like I did, which didn’t help matters between us.

  Still, none of that explains why she’s looking at me like she wishes she could roast me over an open flame.

  Cocking my head to the right, I lift my brow at her in question, and she wastes no time marching right over to me. How freaking weird.

  “How nice of you to finally show up, Larson,” she barks at me, her eyes full of fire.

  “Show up for what?” I ask.

  “Tutoring, Jockstrap.”

  “Tutoring? You’re my…oh, shit.”

  “Yeah, oh shit is about right. You’re twenty-five minutes late now and I swear, if you ever show up even ten minutes late again, it will be our last session.”

  “Sure thing, Abby Jane.” I bite back my smile. “Oh, and by the way, golfers don’t wear jockstraps.”

  She sears me with her glare.

  “So…are we going to…” I wave my hand over her already open textbook. Looks like me being late didn’t stop her from getting started. Swear, you’d never peg her for the nerdy type, based on looks alone.

  However, judging from the current look on Abby Jane’s face, she’s murdered me twenty times over in her head.

  Slowly, she pivots in her chair so that she’s fully facing me, and while I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help but rake my eyes down her body, from her bubblegum hair to her perky little B-cup tits covered in an old, faded Nirvana shirt that cuts off about an inch above her skintight leggings, revealing a delicious slice of skin, all the way down to her busted-up aqua Chuck Taylors. She may not be my type, but there’s no denying Abby Jane is fine as fuck.

  I’m still glued to that sliver of skin when something smacks me in the face. “Hey! Pervert!”

  My eyes fly back to hers and then fall to the offending object that hit me—a pencil. She threw a fucking pencil at me. Smirking, I snatch it up from where it landed on t
he table and inspect it, pretending it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. I run my thumb over the bite marks in the wood…a habit that seems to have followed her.

  “I know you heard me,” she bites out, her voice full of ire. “Brock!”

  God, I love riling her up. Always have, though I didn’t realize I missed doing it quite this much. “Yeah, I heard you, Bucky.”

  She falters, taken aback at the use of her old nickname, assigned not only because of her pencil chewing but also because of the buck teeth she sported until she got braces in fifth grade.

  “You must want to fail this class.”

  Now it’s me who’s shell-shocked. “You wouldn’t.”

  Abby Jane snaps her book shut and jams it into her bag. “Fucking try me.” Swear to God, that girl needs Jesus—or some good dick. I watch as she storms out of the library, wondering how in the hell the two of us are going to survive an entire semester’s worth of tutoring.

  AJ

  From the moment I peeled open my eyes this morning, I knew it was going to be a shit-tastic day. Why? Because it’s Thursday—which means tutoring with Brock day—which is comparable to hell on earth. I would literally rather get a root canal with no numbing than deal with his immature ass.

  Dramatic? Maybe.

  Accurate? Fuck yes.

  I tripped and face-planted getting out of bed this morning. My flat iron crapped out on me. The tip of my favorite eyeliner snapped off, with no sharpener in sight. The load of clothes I’d tossed in the dryer last night was still fucking damp and smelled like a dirty sock. And to top it all off, I knocked over my coffee can, spilling the grinds to the floor, thus rendering me coffee-less on today of all days. So, here I am, dressed in a pair of ripped-the-fuck-up leggings, a lace bralette, and a shirt with the sleeves and sides cut out, rushing out the door loaded down with my crossbody backpack, keys, and empty Thermos.

  I trudge out to my sweet-as-shit matte black ’69 Chevelle. No lie, this car is my baby. It was a gift from my grandpa—along with a generous trust—much to my parents’ chagrin. When they realized I wasn’t ever going to fit into the neat, well-mannered box they wanted to shove me into, they all but disowned me, going as far as shutting off my cell, canceling my credit card, kicking me out, and refusing to pay my tuition.