Second Best

By Katie Karambelas

Can you really love two people at once?

 

Tess appreciates being alone. Being alone is easy. After aging out of foster care, she's ready to start a new life across the country at the University of Rhode Island. After URI's most eligible bachelor, Jake, insists on getting to know her, there's no way she'll be able to fly under the radar.

 

When Tess starts dating Brayden, Jake's best friend with a mysterious illness, she believes everything has worked out perfectly. However, as much as she tries to deny it, Jake and Tess can't avoid their underlying feelings for each other, and stolen moments together are riding a dangerous line.

 

Will she be able to keep up the façade for Brayden, or will she ruin the only real friendships she's ever known?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Aug 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9780973762754

Book preview

Water next to the ocean Description automatically generated

Second Best

KATIE KARAMBELAS

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Second Best

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2020

eISBN: 978-0-9737627-5-4

Copyright © 2020 Katie Karambelas All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Erica Christensen

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you by complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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To my mom: For everything. I miss you every day.

And to the writing teachers who kept me on the path of my dream: Nicole Hanly, for giving me the first writing assignment in 7th grade that made me fall in love with storytelling; Stephanie Whetstone, for believing in a 19-year-old determined to write a novel; and Alison Wellford, for knowing my thesis would become this novel you’re about to read.

I can’t say thank you enough.

Dear Reader,

What you’re holding in your hand is the culmination of every moment someone told me I couldn’t do something. You are holding my heart. I’ve always had the attitude of why not me? but rarely did I get to show anyone it really was me.

I danced for years, and then one day I stopped. I acted for years, and then one day I stopped. I did a lot of things and stopped. But storytelling? From the moment I picked up a pen and pressed it onto paper, I knew that I couldn’t stop. I have a lot to say and this isn’t even the half of it. There are stories inside of me I’m just dying to tell. And I will.

Because, why not me?

And if you’re holding this novel in your hands and this is your dream too, I encourage you to keep reaching. You’ll get there. I promise it’ll be the most surreal day of your life.

Hugs and light,

Katie Karambelas

Chapter One

Tess

The collegiate sport of beer pong was said to have begun in the mid-century at Dartmouth. At least, that’s what my dad told me as he held a stark-white ping-pong ball between his pointer finger and his thumb, eyeing a red Solo cup sitting on a table, filled halfway with Bud Light, in the middle of our living room.

Tess, he began, before releasing the ball and sinking it into the cup. This is how we are going to pay next month’s rent.

He scooped me up into his arms in celebration and then placed me back down as he went to high five the other men in the room. They had come and gone over the course of the day, and I accepted slaps on the ass for good behavior and glances that strayed a little too long. I was only seven, but these were not the kinds of people I wanted to stick around for long.

A week later, the rent wouldn’t need to be paid after all. After his overdose, my dad was just a tombstone in a little cemetery outside LA. Almost immediately after the cops found his body, I was shoved into the back of a too hot car, the window cracked just enough so I could breathe, headed for a place they told me would be my new home. What they didn’t tell me at the time was that it would be the first of many until I turned eighteen.

I was just a number in a system. Home became an idea I fantasized about, one I didn’t know before then either. My mom died when I was three, same culprit as my father: heroin. And while I felt like my childhood died the minute we drove away from that yellow house, I’d be lying if I said that was true. You can’t lose something you never had in the first place.

That day was one of our good days. I could count on one hand alone the times my dad hugged me.

I wondered whether the makers of ping-pong balls envisioned what they’d actually be used for more often than not. Who decided this was a fun use for them? I’d have to Google it later.

I’d won a few beer pong tournaments back home, but it wasn’t exactly what I’d call fun. I only ever entered tournaments for money. Growing up moving from house to house, family to family, meant you had to find ways to maintain an income of your own. I couldn’t keep a job if I was moving down the coast a year later. So, instead, I played pool or drinking games for quick cash.

Being in a house packed so full of people that to lift your own drink to your face you had to elbow someone in the shoulder was not my idea of fun. Neither was the sloppy conversations with strangers or the sleazy ass-grabbing from guys. I only tolerated it back home for the money. What was my excuse now?

I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming here, I said under my breath, knowing Claire, my roommate, probably couldn’t hear me. I could barely hear myself.

Lighten up, Tess, she replied, nudging my elbow. It’s just a frat party. It’ll be a good way to get to know people. You need to make some friends. It’s good for the soul.

I’ve got you, I said, giving her a forced grin. "You’re my friend."

Yes, she replied, a bit of aggravation in her voice. And as flattered as I am that you chose me to be your one and only friend, maybe you should branch out a little. I’m joining a sorority. I can’t be around all the time.

She was right about not being around all the time. Claire disappeared within half an hour. I stood my ground and stayed in the room with the beer pong table, as team after team tossed their ping-pong balls into each other’s cups. Each time a team near me won and screamed in excitement, I had to lean to my left to avoid beer in my hair. After about an hour of the same routine, I was ready to call it a night. I just needed to get out of the puke-stained house alive.

I stood up from the couch I’d been sitting on, the only one in the entire house, and headed toward the entry of the room, slithering through the maze of people. I’d almost made it when someone rammed into me, knocking me back a bit.

Shit! I’m sorry, miss, he said, his calloused hands reaching to me as if to hold me steady.

I looked down at my tank top that now was covered in Bud Light. It’s fine, I said, pushing past the blond and toward freedom. I missed the smell of fresh air.

He stopped me by touching my arm, pulling me back around to face him. Wait. Let me give you my shirt, he said in a southern drawl that reminded me of Gone with the Wind. I pictured him with a cowboy hat. He’d fit right in.

I just wanted to get the hell out of there. The last thing I needed was blondie taking off his shirt and drawing more attention to me. Maybe these girls liked the attention those guys gave them. But me? I’d rather be home watching Netflix and eating a tub of popcorn. I was done with parties, done with hustling people for money. This was supposed to be my fresh start. I’ll admit, he was attractive, but in a way too obvious way, the kind that hurt your eyes. I wanted out.

I’m fine, really, I replied. It’s an old shirt. No big deal. I attempted to leave again, removing my arm from his grip, but paused when I heard some feminine squeals from behind me. He’d taken his shirt off! Right in the middle of the damn party!

Here, he said, handing me his University of Rhode Island T-shirt. I took the light blue fabric out of reflex, turning around as quickly as possible. It was like someone had chiseled his abs right onto him. I was looking at a Greek god statue. And he was the kind of guy who was very aware of how terribly sexy he looked, and he expected you to tell him.

I pushed my way through the crowd, trying to locate the bathroom. When I finally got to the front of the line, I went inside and immediately came back out. The entire floor was sticky with puke. I rushed back past the bathroom line and toward the front door, still clutching blondie’s shirt in my hands. When I finally found the front door and went out onto the porch to go home, a voice stopped me.

Well, little lady… I give you my shirt, and you don’t use it.

I paused on the top step of the stairs and turned toward his voice. He was sitting on the porch swing, nestled between a flock of girls, a Solo cup resting in-between his thighs. He was still shirtless, his chest glistening in the night, almost like someone had poured baby oil on him.

I threw the shirt back at him, hitting him in the face, and kept going down the stairs. When I’d gotten a ways down the street, he brushed my arm. Damn, you walk fast.

I rolled my eyes. At least he was wearing the shirt. You sure don’t know how to take a hint, do you? I sped up, hoping he wouldn’t follow.

Hey, wait up.

I’m fine. Please let me go, I pleaded.

Miss, you’re by yourself, and it’s very late. I can’t let you walk alone, he answered, genuine concern in his voice. He dramatically whispered, "There could be rapists out."

I stopped dead in my tracks and swiveled to face him. He kept going for a second before he realized I’d stopped and jogged back to me.

What? he asked.

"You could be a rapist," I replied.

He laughed, tucking his hands into his pockets. Ma’am, with all due respect, do I look like a rapist?

I don’t know. I crossed my arms and stood my ground.

"You could be the rapist here," he replied.

Well, if I am, you probably shouldn’t walk me home. I started walking again, turning onto the street my dorm was on.

Maybe I like danger.

I shook my head, noting his approaching steps. When he got next to me, I said, Maybe I don’t.

Look, miss, I feel bad. He tugged my wrist gently, making me stop and face him. I noted that he smelled like barley and too-sweet cologne. The mix of the two made me want to gag. Let me make it up to you. If you aren’t going to take the shirt, at least let me pay for your laundry or something.

I stared at him, trying to figure out if I could weasel my way out of his offer. I knew guys like him. He wanted attention. But I wasn’t going to give it to him. I took a deep breath, grabbed the bottom of my tank top, pulling it over my head, then threw it at him. He caught it in his hands with a stunned look on his face.

Uh… Not really what I expected you to do, but hey, it’s not a frat party until you see a girl in her bra, I guess, he said, staring at the shirt he now held in his hands, careful to avoid looking at me.

I’m not doing it for your entertainment, I said, rolling my eyes. Just wash the shirt so you can feel better. You don’t have to give it back to me.

I kept going, reaching my dorm only moments later. When I opened the door to go in, I took one last glance over my shoulder. He was gone, like he’d never been there in the first place.

Chapter Two

Jake

I didn’t look her in the eye when she threw her shirt at me. I kept my hands steady and eyes laser-focused on the Kelly-green fabric in my hands. Don’t get me wrong; I wanted to look. But you don’t look at a girl’s tits when you’re the one who spilled beer on her. At least, that etiquette sounded right.

As she left, I noticed her auburn hair covering most of her back, specks of her light purple bra strap poking through as she moved. When she got to her dorm, I turned the corner, losing her from sight. She was safe now.

I contemplated going back to the party, but my exchange with Mystery Girl ruined any appetite I had for more booze. I was too in my head, too focused on this girl I’d never seen before to allow myself to let loose. There was something about her that made me want to know her, something different from the group of girls who felt the need to be within arm’s reach at every party.

Since I hadn’t had much to drink, I threw MG’s shirt onto the passenger’s seat of my car and headed home for the night. I enjoyed living by the ocean, but sometimes it had its downsides—like having to drive to parties. The long curves of road heading away from the university and toward the water always put me at ease, but tonight my nerves were in full effect.

What was she doing alone at a frat party anyway? Didn’t she know that girls by themselves at frat parties were bad news? Maybe that’s why she was worried I would rape her. Maybe she assumed I was just like them, the guys who slipped roofies into your drink when you turned your head, the guys who slid their hand up your shirt the second your lips touched. Some of them were my brothers, but they weren’t me.

When I got to the house, I tossed her shirt in with a small load of my laundry. I fell asleep on the couch shortly after I put the clothes into the dryer, the thump, thump, thump of the cycle lulling me into a deep sleep.

The alarm on my phone woke me up to what felt like only a couple hours later. I rubbed my neck, trying to work out the kink I’d gotten from sleeping on the couch all night. MG’s shirt was still damp, a downside to renting an older house, so I put the dryer on another few minutes as I made myself breakfast. Out the kitchen window dark clouds were slowly rolling toward me, and it was already starting to sprinkle.

When I got to her dorm later that morning, I only had to wait about ten minutes for her to come outside. I was under the entrance canopy as the sea of students attempted to outrun the rain. She wore a hoodie up around her face, her hair tucked underneath.

Good morning, sunshine. I have your shirt, I said once she was next to me.

She jumped. I tried not to laugh as I held up her shirt. I figured I’d bring it to you since the weather was so bad.

I told you to keep it, she said, not cracking a smile. The irritation in her voice was palpable.

It made me uneasy. Man, was she tough. What am I going to do with a girl’s shirt?

Give it to one of those girls fawning all over you last night, she replied, narrowing her eyes at me.

I don’t know them. I paused, waiting for her to respond. When she didn’t, I said, Look, miss, I’m trying to be nice here. I spilled beer all over your shirt, so I owed you. You know, I’m actually a nice guy, some would even use the term gentleman. Give me a little credit.

Since when do nice guys go to frat parties? She pursed her lips and a hand went to her hip.

They don’t normally, I replied. But my dad insisted I join the frat he was in so I joined freshman year.

Family duty, huh? she said, a hint of sympathy in her voice.

You could put it that way, I guess. Through the smell of fresh rain around us, I caught a whiff of her floral perfume.

Well, thanks for the shirt, she said, taking her tank top and stuffing it into her book bag. I’m going to be late for class.

I’ll walk you, I replied, with little hesitation despite the storm that was growing around us, and the clear reason why I shouldn’t.

I was toeing a line, one that could get me into a lot of trouble if the wrong person found out. But I wanted to know her more, and if that meant getting a little wet and being a little sneaky, I was up for the challenge. I’d done crazier things to get girl’s attention back in high school.

It’s a monsoon out here. No need.

She started to walk out into the rain, but I gently touched her arm. Where is your class? I asked.

She gestured toward a building to our right with her thumb, rolling her eyes at me.

Perfect, I said. That’s just where I’m headed.

By the time we reached the building her class was in my hoodie clung to my chest, heavy with rain. I tugged her aside, moving her away from the doors that quickly opened and closed as more students rushed to make it out of the rain.

So, are you going to tell me your name? I asked her as she took her hair out of her bun, letting loose a pile of waves that looked more brown than the red I remembered from the night before.

Why would I tell you my name? I don’t know you.

My name is Jake Callock, I told her, pretending to not to be fazed by her rudeness, even if it made me uncomfortable. Although I’d been up north a couple years, I still missed the southern hospitality I was used to. I’m a sophomore English major. I’m from Tennessee, born and raised among horses and free-range chickens. We moved to Providence two years ago so I guess I should say I’m from Rhode Island now. I’m not sure how that works.

I stared at her, waiting for a response. She was quiet for a moment, looking at me intently. I wasn’t sure what she was thinking, but god, did I want to. A piece of hair stuck to her lip, and I resisted the urge to swipe it off with my thumb.

Nice to meet you, Jake the supposed gentleman from the farm. Yee-haw! she answered before leaving, swaying her hips as she went.

I stood, dumbstruck, until she was gone behind a classroom door.

Maybe she was playing hard to get. I wasn’t sure what MG’s problem with me was. Sure, I looked like a typical frat dude, sans the pastels and boat shoes, but that didn’t give her a right to make assumptions about me. Would she have acted the same if I was wearing my usual plaid button down and blue jeans? Did wearing this stupid polo with our fraternity letters on it make it okay to treat me like a criminal? I was trying my best to get to know her, but all I kept getting was ice.

Still, as much as logic told me to just let it go, I couldn’t. The more she kept her distance, the more I wanted to uncover about her. What was she hiding? Why wouldn’t she let me get to know her? Did she really not want to know me either?

I’d lied about where my class was, so when I checked the time and realized my class had started five minutes ago, I hightailed it across campus. I slid into my seat with a screech as my wet clothes rubbed against the sleek chair. The professor’s back was turned, but a few students looked my way before turning their attention back to the blackboard. I sat down so fast I didn’t notice Jennifer sitting next to me until it was too late.

Psst, she hissed, trying to get my attention.

Fuck. Jennifer Maxwell. Long black hair, dark brown eyes, a flawless face, bangin’ body with curves that would have any guy drooling. She was the epitome of a hot piece of ass. She was the kind of girl who frequented a fraternity. But I wasn’t any guy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blind. But Jennifer Maxwell was not the caliber of woman I’d ever be interested in. She’d been around the block and bragged about it. She was the female version of the stereotypical frat guy. Her bed was probably falling apart from all the notches she’d made.

Hey, Jennifer, I said through gritted teeth.

She scooted her chair closer to me, sliding her hand down my arm. Have you been working out?

Same line, different day.

I looked at the clock. Only fifty-four more minutes until freedom.

By the time lunch rolled around, I wanted nothing more than to be back at home. I was thankful for the break to eat with my friends. I only had to make it through one more class before I could be on my front porch watching the waves roll in. It was my favorite part of the day, when the sun sprinkled glitter across the waves, and all that I could hear was their crash as they broke against the sand. It wasn’t the fields of Tennessee on horseback, but it was the same kind of calm, the same kind of steadiness. The predictability reminded me of home.

Tennessee sometimes felt like a lifetime ago. I’d been so focused on the people around me and making sure everyone else was happy, that when I started to think about it, I realized I wasn’t content, I was complacent. I missed my horses. I missed the fields of green.

Here, while beautiful in summer and fall, the winters dragged me down. When we moved to Rhode Island, I convinced myself this was good. I’d always loved the ocean when we traveled to the North Carolina coast for a week each summer, and now I could finally be near one. But there wasn’t much else to Rhode Island that kept me here. I still wasn’t sure why I decided to stay past high school.

I found the table with Brayden and some of my frat brothers in the center of the lunch room. Brayden was the first friend I made when I moved to Rhode Island. A part of me wondered if I stayed because I needed to keep him under my wing. He was a little awkward when it came to human interactions beyond me and him.

But since being by my side, he’d started to come into his own. He would never have joined a fraternity on his own, and now he was thriving. He had friends and he was sociable at least, as much as a guy like Brayden could be. He kept to himself a lot, a book in one hand