Temper for You Read online

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Definition of “Temper”

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other books by Genna Rulon

  Sample of ‘Tastes Like Winter’ by CeCe Carroll

  Temper For You

  Copyright © 2014

  Genna Rulon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at Library of Congress

  ISBN-13: 9780990777809

  Cover design by G. Relyea

  © Genna Rulon, 2014

  Cover Images Copyright

  Used under license from Shutterstock.com

  To Debbie,

  my bestest friend and the sister of my heart

  Twenty years of friendship all began with purple nail polish!

  Without your encouragement, nudges, and occasional butt-kicking, Temper For You would never have been finished.

  Thank you for pulling me out of my shell when I ‘go turtle’ and for standing beside me, no matter what. You know me better than anyone and love me anyway. You are my rock, my cheerleader, and more often than not, my sanity.

  So many readers have told me they wish they had an Everleigh or Sam in their lives, but what they really need is a Debbie.

  PS- Does this count as a card?

  tem·per

  /ˈtɛm pər/

  noun:

  1. a particular state of mind or feelings.

  2. habit of mind, especially with respect to irritability or patience, outbursts of anger, or the like; disposition: "an even temper."

  3. heat of mind or passion, shown in outbursts of anger, resentment, etc.

  4. calm disposition; composure: "to lose one's temper."

  5. a substance added to modify other properties.

  6. the degree of hardness and strength imparted to a metal, as by quenching, or treatment with heat.

  7. a middle course; compromise. (archaic)

  verb:

  8. to moderate or mitigate: "to temper justice with mercy."

  9. to soften or tone down.

  10. to make suitable by/as if by blending.

  11. to impart strength or toughness by heating and cooling.

  12. to produce internal stresses in by sudden cooling from low heat; toughen.

  13. to pacify. (archaic)

  "We are what we believe we are." -C. S. Lewis

  Meg

  “Excuse me, sir, can I ask you a question?”

  I opened my eyes to find Sam leaning across the narrow aisle to address my seatmate in 1A. I whispered a silent prayer to a God I no longer believed in that she was not about to do what I knew she was about to do.

  “Sure,” the unsuspecting gentleman replied while he leaned forward to meet Sam’s eyes.

  I braced for it.

  “Have you ever been charged with a violent crime?” Sam inquired in her sweetest voice as if it were a completely routine question from one air traveler to another.

  “Um…no. No criminal record,” Mr. 1A responded with a mixture of amusement and confusion.

  “Do you have a history of drug abuse or mental illness?” Sam continued, clearly pleased with his answer and willingness to accept her bizarre behavior.

  “Nope,” he responded as the corners of his lips tilted upward.

  Sam continued her now familiar inquisition as I pretended to be invisible.

  “On a scale of one to ten—one being fumbling idiot, ten being orgasmic virtuoso–how would you rate your sexual prowess?”

  I subtly banged my head against the headrest, trying to distract myself from the routine.

  Luckily, 1A had a sense of humor and chuckled before playing along, “I’d say I’m a solid eight—with moments of nine…with the right partner, of course.”

  “Hmm…an eight is acceptable,” Sam muttered, before offering him a wink, “but a nine is better. Have you considered joining the ‘Mile High Club,’ or if you’re already a member, would you like to renew your dues?”

  I groaned my embarrassment, while 1A choked on his surprise.

  “Unless the invitation is on behalf of the spectacular example of male perfection to your right, I’ll have to decline,” Mr. 1A replied suggestively, leaning forward to partake in a thorough examination of the ‘male perfection’ in question.

  Sam’s laughter filled the air around us, and I couldn’t help but smile. At least she was having fun.

  “Love that sound,” I heard Griffin whisper to Sam before addressing the less-than-subtle pick-up line. “Sorry, man. The head of the inquisition,” he nodded to Sam, “and I have an exclusive club all our own.”

  “Figures,” 1A complained good-naturedly, “all the best ones are taken or straight.” He ended his assertion with a defeated sigh.

  “Guess I need to add a question about sexual orientation to the list,” Sam mused. “Oh well, can’t fault a girl for trying. Thanks for playing along. I’m Sam, by the way,” she introduced before pointing beside her. “The super-sized sexiness with a side of hot-damn you were coveting is Griffin, and the stunning lady beside you—who is pretending not to know me—is Meg.”

  “I assume Meg was the prize if I’d answered all the questions correctly,” 1A deduced. After sweeping his gaze over me, he added, “Honey, if there was ever any doubt, I can now lay it to rest. Because if my bat won’t swing for you, then there is no woman who could ever get me to play. You’re stunning.”

  “And you, Mr. 1A, are a charmer,” I said with sincerity.

  “While 1A has a certain ring to it, please, call me Stuart,” he replied.

  “I’m sorry for Sam’s interrogation. Her favorite pastime is trying to find a bedmate for me, despite my protests. You, sadly, are only one in a long line of failed attempts.”

  “Why on earth would you need anyone’s help finding a man? Your smile alone must attract a dozen guys, ready to propose.”

  I rolled my eyes at his over-the-top compliment. It was sweet, regardless of the exaggeration.

  “I’m not in the market for anything requiring the exchange of rings—ever—or anything in the neighborhood of commitment, for that matter. I’m just interested in a bit of satisfying fun, but my track record in selecting partners is less than stellar. Which
is why Sam appointed herself my ‘screening committee,’” I said while making air quotes. “It keeps her entertained and I couldn’t stop her if I tried, so I roll with it,” I finished with a shrug, no longer shy in explaining the source of Sam’s crazy behavior after nearly a year of similar antics.

  “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?” he commiserated.

  “No, more like, if you can’t beat ‘em, stay the hell out of their way so you don’t get steamrolled.”

  Stuart smiled a sympathetic grin, which led me to believe he had his own ‘Sam’ to contend with.

  After a brief pause, Stuart switched gears, much to my relief. My pathetic sex life—defined by the seemingly endless dry spell I was currently not enjoying—was not a topic that gave me the warm fuzzies.

  “Were you in LA for business or pleasure?” he asked.

  Ah, the quintessential air travel question.

  “Actually, LA was a layover on our way home from Hawaii. Our close friends got married in Kona over the weekend,” I replied. “We decided to overnight in LA in each direction to break up the trip from New York. Six hours trapped in a tin can is Sam’s limit.”

  “A destination wedding…how romantic. Did you have fun?”

  “I’m not generally a fan of weddings—or flying—but I would do anything for Hunter and Everleigh. They’re perfect together. Hell, I even got a contact high from their joy.” And it was true. I didn’t believe in marriage as a rule. I’d even refused to attend weddings in silent protest, but Huntleigh (their couple name, as christened by Sam) were one of only two exceptions…the other being GriffLo (Griffin and Sam’s couple name, as christened by me—the result of Griffin’s pet name for Sam, ‘Lo’).

  “A woman who hates weddings? I didn’t think such a creature existed. There must be a story there. We have five hours to kill...regale me!” he ordered.

  Despite Stuart’s warm, engaging demeanor, I’d known him all of twenty minutes. I didn’t share my life story with strangers—or anyone, for that matter. Sam and Everleigh were my most trusted friends, and even they knew only carefully selected pieces of my past—a synopsis, if you will, some of which included less-than-accurate details. Twenty-five years of hard-learned lessons had taught me well; I didn’t share the whole truth of my past with anyone, and I never would. Some burdens were meant to be borne alone. Why?

  I am an apple.

  Everyone knew that a rotten apple spoils the bushel if left close to the good apples for too long. But that apple didn’t start out rotten…it didn’t ask to spoil and turn rancid. Climate and environment—circumstances beyond the innocent apple’s control—caused the decay. Something made its way inside what was once a perfectly healthy, desirable apple, full of promise, and contaminated its previously unblemished state.

  Was it the apple’s fault that the Evil Queen’s magic caused it to become poisonous? The apple had nothing against Snow White. There was no long-standing Snow/Apple feud filled with backstabbing and prince-stealing. ‘Granny Smith’ didn’t want to harm the fairest in the land. The naïve produce was simply minding its own business, hanging on its tree and sunning itself, when the Evil Queen (or more likely one of her minions, as I doubt royalty— even of the evil variety—personally harvested anything, despite its importance to the nefarious plan) came along and plucked the guileless apple from its home. The apple had no defense. Against its will, the otherwise benign fruit was submerged in a cauldron of black magic, where the malevolence soaked through to its very core and changed the once life-giving flesh into a vile aberration of its former self.

  But here’s the kicker—the pièce de résistance. The prince, dwarves, Snow White…no one blamed the apple, right? The kingdom wasn’t suddenly decorated with apple tree stumps. No one was burning apples in the town square. Nope, the apple wasn’t vilified at all, even though it was unquestionably a tool for evil. But…I would bet every penny to my name, few though there are, that Snow White never ate an apple again. Snow wasn’t snacking on apple Danish at breakfast. There were no apple pies at the harvest celebration. She may not have blamed the apple, but there was no way girlfriend ever wanted another bite to cross her ruby red lips. Although blameless, the apple was quietly ostracized and excluded once the truth was revealed.

  That’s the reality of being a rotten apple…and the reality sucks. Not only was the apple rotting, but it’s lonely and forced to choose between rolling beside other rotting apples (an unpleasant prospect to be sure) or coexisting near beautiful, untainted apples, though always on the periphery to minimize the risk of contaminating others with its own foulness.

  “Meg...are you still with me?” Stuart asked, pulling me from my Disney-inspired self-realization.

  Excusing myself from the one-woman pity party I was hosting, I turned my attention to Stuart and did what I do best…listen and evade.

  “We’ll get to my wedding aversion, which is a result of various boring clichés, but first you must tell me whose text you were hoping to receive when you checked your cell phone no less than a hundred times before takeoff,” I deftly dodged the conversation.

  With a dramatic sigh, Stuart launched into his life story with an emphasis on Taylor, his ‘heart’s one true desire.’ Each time he attempted to turn the tables back to me, he was easily redirected by my follow-up questions. Genuinely interested in my seatmate’s love woes, I was entertained for the duration of the flight. It was clear that Taylor was head-over-heels in love with Stuart and their spat was the result of both men’s fear of being hurt. They were entrenched in the uncomfortable transition from casually dating to deeply committed.

  When we landed at JFK, Stuart and I parted with a hug. I encouraged him to forgive Taylor for his ‘bitch fit’ and not allow fear to spoil his happiness. Once his promise was secured, I departed with Sam and Griffin, knowing it was the last I’d see of Stuart. In a different life, I would have exchanged contact information and happily welcomed a new friend into my sphere…but in this life, my attachments were few by necessity. Only four persistent and stubborn individuals managed to breach my guard, and while I was grateful beyond words for their friendship, I knew it was still four too many—at least for their own well-being.

  Until the foursome strong-armed their way into my life, I’d never sought the intimacy of friendship. It wasn’t because I didn’t want it, mind you, but you can’t want something you don’t believe lasts or will be taken from you. And like love, friendship has never been anything more than an abstract concept or literary device…at least in my experience. The possibility of melting the ice of loneliness encasing a soul was unfathomable to someone who had never felt the warmth of support or care. That warmth was like a drug, and I had to be very careful not to become an addict, mindlessly searching for my next hit of affection. I knew, without a doubt, that I would have to live without it again one day in the not-so-distant future…regardless of how much the thought tore at my heart.

  When all was said and done, I was still rotting, and I wouldn’t—couldn’t—contaminate those I’d grown to love.

  "Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over." -Octavia Butler

  Meg

  “Thanks again…for everything,” I said to Sam and Griffin as we neared Sam’s townhouse, where I’ve lived for the past seven months.

  “Oh god, not again. I’m going to find one of those water cooler jugs and we are going to start a swear jar, but instead of putting money in for cussing, you’ll have to put in a dollar every time you say ‘thank you’ for something ridiculous!” Sam threatened.

  This was a threat she may actually follow through with and I’d be broke. Already destitute, I would have to fill the jug with ‘I owe yous.’

  “Whatever. I’m eternally grateful—deal with it. You just paid for my damn trip to Hawaii! If that isn’t worthy of a ‘thank you,’ then
what is?” I argued. “Stop being an overly generous beyatch and I’ll stop thanking you,” I added with a heavy serving of sass.

  A glimpse in the rearview mirror showed Griffin’s eyes were smiling at my feisty retort. Sam whipped around to glare at me from the front seat, but she couldn’t fully suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips.

  My display of cheekiness satisfied Sam more than any words of gratitude ever could. Sam and Everleigh have inspired and encouraged this feistiness in me over the last year and a half. The spark wasn’t new per se—I’ve always had a snarky inner monologue—but their friendship decimated a few barriers.

  Ultimately, I gave myself permission to voice the thoughts I had been taught to restrain. I no longer believed expressing myself was shameful or disgraceful—holy hell, it was a relief! The burden of suppressing my natural reactions was debilitatingly heavy, so shrugging off the constraints was a relief I’d never imagined. My entire life, I’d held myself so tightly bound I was little more than a robot. The freedom to just be me was a revelation.

  “Megs, you mind if I kidnap Lo? I’d like to pretend we’re on vacation for one more night before re-entering the real world,” Griffin asked.

  “Well, I don’t know, Griff. It is a weeknight after all, and you know her curfew is ten pm,” I teased. His question was equal parts sweet and lunacy. First, Sam spent at least five nights a week at Griffin’s house (he spent the remaining two nights here)—it was expected. Second, Sam was a grown woman and didn’t answer to me. Third, I was a grown woman perfectly capable of being alone.

  “Wise ass,” he retorted as I leaned forward to give them both a kiss on the cheek. “Make sure to lock up and set the alarm.”

  I smiled as I waved goodbye from the front door while rolling my suitcase into Sam’s townhouse, where I re-armed the alarm, grateful for Griffin’s never-ceasing concern. Griffin and Sam shared a misguided sense of obligation after I was shot while trying to save Sam from a kidnapper. Who knew being shot would transform my bleak life so drastically? It’s probably best that I didn’t know gunshot wounds to the stomach were so effective at improving one’s quality of life, otherwise I would have launched myself into the line of fire a decade ago. I could imagine myself googling shooting ranges before dressing in head-to-toe black and skulking around between the shooting gallery and targets. Crazy, I know, but given the life I previously led, not as cray-cray as it sounds.