I'll Be Right Here

By Rachael Mashburn

A Southern love story chock full of sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll. It's terrible. Avoid it at all costs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachael Mashburn
• Release date: Feb 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524284329

Rachael Mashburn

Rachael Mashburn resides in Atlanta with her husband and youngest daughter. She grew up in a small town in north Georgia where it's easy to get lost, yet still know you're right where you need to be. Beyond reading and writing, Rachael enjoys yoga, and spending time with her friends, family, and pets. Her family currently shares two dogs, two cats, and three hermit crabs.

Book preview

I’ll Be Right Here

by Rachael Mashburn

Dedication

This story is for young lovers.

The ones that open their heart, bare their affection

and run out to face a beautiful, yet harsh world.

They have it all, and most of them never even know it.

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Music or songs mentioned belong solely to the artist that produced them.

Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

Table of Contents

Part One ~ Late August

Part Two ~ September

Part Three ~ October

Four ~ December

Five ~ January

~ Part Six ~

Part One ~ Late August

The basket of damp laundry drops to the ground with a splat. As usual, the jeans are tangled with the t-shirts. I work them free and pin the jeans to the line first, being sure to snap as many wrinkles out as possible. Maybe soon mom will have enough money to have the dryer repaired.

I hear a car coming down Main Street but I can't see it from behind the house. The car downshifts and turns onto Grady Street which runs parallel with my line of laundry. I pin my vintage Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt to the line by the shoulders, and peer at the Plymouth disturbing the peace.

It's painted orange with yellow pinstripes. Black louvers cover the rear windows. A confederate flag adorns the roof. The driver catches another gear and the car gains speed. The passenger has shoulder length auburn hair. He's laid back in the seat as if freedom and confidence are natural to everyone. He locks his eyes on mine, and I indulge him without breaking the connection. The car pulls him away. Soon he's a memory and so is the rumble only a V-8 engine can manufacture. I reach for another shirt and shake my head. It's unusual for a 17 year-old girl to love the rumble of vintage cars or the cry of a slide guitar, but I do. They lift my soul to another plane where life is good, where happiness is pure and free. I guess I can thank my dad for those passions; he worships his 78 Camaro and Eric Clapton. Finished, I head back inside to vacuum before mom gets home from work.

The next day the September sun is bright in a clear azure sky. Leaves pirouette to the ground as I walk to the store to finagle a pack of Marlboros out of the cranky cashier. He's been in business for forty years and has always done things his way, the government be damned. He only sells two types of fuel, leaded and unleaded. You won't find beer or lottery tickets, but you will find rolling papers and a loaf of bread. I get a Coke, then ease up to the counter the way a shy girl would. The store smells of pine-sol cleaner.

My mom needs a pack of Marlboro's, please.

Homer's fluid, gray eyes fill with skepticism at my