Collide Read online

  "Collide"

  by J.C. Hannigan

  Copyright 2014 by J.C. Hannigan

  All Rights Reserved

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic or mechanical—without permission in writing from the author.

  Dedication .

  So many people have helped me along this journey of publishing my first novel. I'd like to thank Sarah Fader, for pushing me to "sit down and actually write it", Elizabeth Barone, for her sage wisdom on the publishing world, my husband Matt for dealing with my temperamental frenzied writing spells (and handling our wild children so I could focus), my father, for being the first person to ever tell me that I could do this, that my dream of becoming a writer wasn't silly or foolish.

  I'd also like to thank all of you who have supported me and eagerly awaited the release of Collide, thank you all so much!

  Chapter One

  I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, critically studying myself.

  I don't know why I was so concerned with my appearance when I had never overly cared about it before.

  Maybe I was fretting because it was the first day of school. My long black hair had a natural slight curl to it. I rarely had to do anything to it short of brush it, run some product through it and blow dry it. My eyes were a striking dark, deep green, or so many guys had told me. They were usually the creepy old men I encountered at every place I worked. They were also quick to compliment me on my breasts. For a 17-year-old girl, I had quite the voluptuous curves that gained me a lot of attention with the opposite sex, which was probably the cause of my unpopularity among the other females for the duration of my high school career thus far.

  Somewhat begrudgingly, I finished critiquing myself and expertly applied my signature look: liquid eyeliner, mascara, and bold red lipstick. Whenever I had the chance, I wore black, although my new school required I wear the typical Catholic schoolgirl uniform. I had done my best to add my own personal flair, but it was pretty much hopeless. I looked like a slutty Catholic schoolgirl, which could have been fun…but not when everyone else was going to look like slutty Catholic schoolgirls.

  "Lord save me," I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes. If I made it to graduation, I would need to reward myself with a new tattoo.

  Mom told me that I would be attending a Catholic school with a scared look on her face. We had never been religious before Mom's new husband, Larry. I wasn't surprised in the least that Mom jumped aboard the Catholic train and embraced her "newfound faith" with an insane schedule of church, fundraising meetings, and volunteering in the Sunday school classroom, but I was pissed that she wanted me to jump aboard too. I didn't understand what she saw in Larry—the sex couldn't be that good. Larry was an overweight 57-year-old man who ran the Catholic School Board in the region, which was probably how Mom weaseled a spot for me.

  "It's the best education you could get," Mom countered when I forcefully said no to the whole Catholic school thing. "They choose students that graduate from this high school over others in college and university applications."

  That got my attention. Despite my outward appearance and rebellious behaviour, school was very important to me. I had always effortlessly excelled in school. I wanted to graduate top of my class and get into a top university. I would be an English major. I had a passion for writing, a love for the written word, and saw the beauty of poetry.

  Still, I found the whole thing with Larry and my mom somewhat creepy. He wasn't the kind of guy I would have picked out for my mom in a thousand years. My mom was a stunning woman. She ate healthy and exercised regularly so that her body stayed toned and thin. She had great skin and looked much younger than her 38 years. She could do so much better than lumpy Larry.

  Mom and Larry hadn't known each other all that long before Larry proposed and Mom said yes. Suddenly we were leaving Southern Ontario for the great North. I think Larry had some kind of twisted desire to save us both or something. He was forever trying to play the overly concerned father card. It was annoying. I had been on my own with Mom for so long. We'd gotten along just fine without him. I had been able to come and go without her interference. She'd let it go, convincing herself that I was the good responsible daughter who couldn't possibility be up to no good.

  When she met Larry all that changed. I guess I was partly to blame. I started getting into more and more trouble, and with Larry there noticing everything, it got harder and harder for Mom to pretend that there wasn't a problem. There wasn't really a problem. I didn't do hard drugs; I just got myself into a couple bad situations when I got in with the wrong crowd.

  My mom's desire to move us up North with Larry increased after last winter. I was in a car accident that killed my best friend Lauren. My boyfriend, Rhys, was driving us home from a party, completely coked out of his mind. Lauren and I hadn't had the slightest clue that he was high. We were young and stupid and had no idea what the signs were. Granted, both of us were drunk, but I hadn't seen Rhys do a single thing. He'd been in and out of the bathroom a few times, but how was I to know? It wasn't until after the accident that I learned of his cocaine habit.

  Lauren's death was a traumatic experience for me, and I missed her more than I could even begin to express.

  The attention I received after the funeral was too much for me, especially with Lauren gone forever. When my Mom put her foot down about moving up North with Larry, it surprised us all, but I went willingly. There was nothing tying me to Toronto, and a new start sounded alluring. I wouldn't be "that girl whose boyfriend killed her best friend and almost killed her" or worse, what I was known as before Lauren's death—the school whore. That reputation was harder to stomach without my best friend by my side.

  So far, I hadn't made any friends. A week after we moved in with Larry, I got a waitressing job at a local diner down the road from my new high school. I was a little young to pull off the gig, but the diner owner didn't care too much, since I was only four months away from being 18. The clusters of high school girls that came in didn't enjoy my company, nor did I enjoy theirs.

  "Honey! Are you just about finished?" Mom asked timidly, tapping against the bathroom door. "I can give you a lift to school."

  I threw open the door, my jaw clenched and my eyes hard. I was still punishing her for, well, everything. I avoided looking into her pale hazel eyes, one of only a few differences between the two of us, and a slight one at that. I'd also inherited my father's plump lips while Mom's were thin. Despite those two things, I looked exactly like she had at 17, which I didn't mind. She had been gorgeous, and still was, if not worn and exhausted looking…probably thanks to me.

  Unluckily for her, luckily for me (depending on how you looked at it), I had also inherited my dad's rough personality opposed to her needy clingy one. I knew she was concerned about me, and always had been, and I knew that my attitude did little to diffuse that concern…but I couldn't stop myself.

  "I'll take the bus," I said, brushing past her and down the hallway. Luckily, Larry was already gone for the day. So far, he hadn't done anything to merit my feelings of discomfort, but still. I didn't trust anybody. Not even my mom. She knew it, and she was forever going to ridiculous lengths to prove to me that she could be trusted.

  She was constantly hovering over me, asking me if I was all right. She always had this concerned look on her face, and it would immediately put me into a foul mood. She treated me like fine china, which I hated. I was far from weak. However, there were a few perks. She typically allowed me to get my way w
ith most things, if it meant that I was happy.

  Part of me felt guilty for making her jump through hoops constantly, but I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't stop punishing her for things that couldn't be changed now, and I couldn't stop feeling as if she'd failed me. There was guilt that rode along with those feelings, which made me typically act out in anger toward her.

  I slipped into my black leather jacket (the last thing I had that belonged to my dad) and put in my headphones, walking out the front door and down the suburban street to the bus stop. I took my time walking and smoked a joint, enjoying the sense of calm that took over me. Lauren had been the one to introduce me to the benefits of marijuana. I found it was one of the only things that calmed my frazzled nerves.

  A small group of other high school students was already waiting for the bus. They looked younger than I was. Regardless, I had no plans on talking to anybody right then and there. I ignored their stares and finished my joint, tossing the roach onto the road as if it were a simple cigarette. A couple kids dared to look at me, but I met their gazes with a challenging one of my own. No one knew what to say, so they didn't say anything at all.

  The bus was overcrowded, and I had to sit with some ninth grade kid with greasy hair and terrible skin. If I wasn't on a mission to avoid make small talk, I would have told him about the wonders of deodorant and how it could potentially save his social status, but who was I to talk about social status? Instead, I breathed through my mouth and focused on the vinyl seat in front of me, thinking about how I really needed to buy a car. This was one of those times where I physically had to restrain myself from sending a text to Lauren. She would have found the whole thing hilarious. I felt a sharp pain in my chest at the thought that I couldn't talk to her anymore, but I brushed it aside and stared at the seat in front of me.

  Stepping off the bus was a relief, although the ninth grade kid's scent lingered for a few moments longer than I would have liked. I adjusted the strap of my book bag and followed everyone up the stairs into the school. It was loud, as high school hallways are. Nobody stared at me as if I were out of place as I walked down the hall; I guess they were used to seeing unfamiliar faces the first day of school. A few of the male students did a couple double takes, whispering, trying to discover who I was. I smiled my flirtatious, seductive smile at a group of guys hanging out by the cafeteria doors. They looked like my type, the stoner group. It was the glassy eyes and overuse of Axe body spray that tipped me off.

  "Hey, what's your name?" one of them asked when I had almost passed them. He was tall, scrawny, and very cute with shaggy brown hair that was almost a little too long and soft brown eyes. A band T-shirt peaked out from under his uniform: Metallica, from the looks of it.

  "Harlow, yours?" I replied, not stopping. If he wanted to talk to me, he was going to have to keep up, although I had no idea where I was planning on going. I had to find all my classes, and considering I'd never to the school before…I knew that was likely going to be a challenge. The last thing I was going to do was appear helpless though, despite the anxiety I was feeling. I pushed up the sleeves of my jacket, feeling overheated. The guy followed me.

  "Jake Patterson," he answered, giving me a large grin. His teeth were slightly crooked, but there was something endearing about him. He was like an adorable little puppy. "You're new here?"

  "It would appear so," I smiled, entertained by his eagerness and all the while searching for the principle's office. I needed to check in before I headed to class.

  "How come you look so familiar?" he asked, peering at me as if he was trying to remember where he had seen my face before.

  "I'm in a couple of porn movies," I replied airily. I didn't even laugh at his bewildered expression. People rarely knew how to take me, since I always looked serious and spoke seriously. "Kidding. I work at that diner down the road."

  "Oh ya! You waitress there!" Jake laughed. I gave him a steady look, slightly amused but more or less just waiting to see where this was going. Now that he'd mentioned my looking familiar, I realized that he—and his friends—also looked familiar. They were the group of guys that frequently came in smelling of my favourite scent: marijuana.

  "And you're the group that comes in every once in a while and tips really crappy," I said, giving him another smile before I spotted the sign for the main office, and breezed away from him.

  It was significantly quieter in the principle's office. A receptionist with huge brown 80s hair was answering phone calls. She held her chubby finger up at me, silencing me although I had yet to speak.

  "Yes, I'll put you through to Mr. Osborne," she was saying into the phone. "Have a great day! Can I help you?" I was staring at the boring speckled tile thinking about how wonderful it would be to skip class, indefinitely. Lots of kids were getting their high school diploma online, so why couldn't I?

  "Excuse me, I said can I help you?" she repeated slowly, as if I were deaf.

  "Oh, sorry," I stepped forward. "I'm new here. Harlow Jones."

  "Hello Miss Jones, I have your schedule here," the chubby receptionist said, handing me a timetable and a map. "Enjoy your first day! If you have any questions, please feel free to ask!" I reached out with my right hand, following her gaze down to the tattoo on my inner forearm that was only half covered by the sleeve of my jacket. I'd forgotten I pushed them up. It was my most recent tattoo, of a quill and an inkpot. It symbolized my love of writing. The detail in the feather was breathtaking. My other tattoo was a cherry blossom tree that crept up my right rib cage and cupped under my breast, and across my left collarbone. There were six minimalist black birds in flight. Cliché, I know, but I loved them. Lauren had had the same tattoo across her right collarbone. It was our "friendship tattoo," an idea she had one rainy day last year when we skipped school. We'd gone to Rhys' shop. That was actually the first day that I'd met him. Rhys and the other tattoo artist, Alex, did the tattoos without questioning us on our age because Lauren and Alex were dating. I drew in a breath, ignoring the pang that my jog down memory lane had brought on.

  The receptionist pursed her lips and her tone iced over. "You'll need to cover those up, dear. Dress code, you see. Have a great day," she said, dismissing me coolly. I was used to the pursed lips and dismissal that my appearance brought on in most communities, particularly religious ones. It didn't bother me. It amused me that I, of all people, was supposed to attend a Catholic school, but that's irony for you. I nodded but didn't make a move to cover my arms.

  I glanced at my timetable and map before I headed out of the office. English, room 302. Upstairs. I made my way through the crowds and up the stairs. Everyone was still taking their time, as the warning bell hadn't rung yet. Still, I tried the doorknob anyway. I didn't want to hang out in the hall by myself. It was unlocked, so I slowly pushed it open.

  You know in movies, how things move in slow motion when something significant happens? That's what happened when I opened that door. I was somehow able to take in my surroundings quickly. The classroom was your typical high school classroom, the walls were an off-white, maybe cream colour and there were rows upon rows of empty desks, but that wasn't the significant part.

  My eyes were immediately drawn to the man sitting casually behind the desk. His feet were up and he was leaning back comfortably in his chair, drinking a coffee and looking at some papers on his lap. He was quite the specimen: dirty blond hair trimmed closer to his head at the sides, longer at the top, a little bit of stubble dusting across his jaw line like he hadn't shaved in a few days. He was muscular for an English teacher, and young. If I had to guess, I'd place his age around 28 or so. He was dressed in the typical teacher uniform, but dress pants hugged quite snugly to his muscular legs. He looked up when I walked in, and his eyes were very piercing…the color of the bluest Caribbean sea. My heart skipped a beat and my stomach clenched, the body's natural response to attraction. A response I hadn't felt in a long time.

  "Hello," he said, smiling easily. Play it cool, I warned myself. I ran
a hand through my hair and smiled sensually back as I walked toward him. That threw him off a little, and his easy smile turned into one of caution as he looked me up and down.

  "Hi, I'm new here….Harlow Jones," I said, extending my hand.

  "I'm Mr. Bentley," his grasp was strong. His hands were callused but somehow soft. The clenching in my stomach didn't release, but intensified. I'd never been attracted to a teacher before. Of course, I'd never had a super hot young one before either. He tried not to look, but my chest was at perfect level with his eyes and I naturally hadn't buttoned up the first two buttons of my uniform shirt, despite the receptionist's warning about the dress code. It wasn't an intentional; things around my neck, like tight collars, legitimately made me feel panicky. I watched his eyes take in the tattoo across my collarbone before I broke his gaze with my voice.

  "Is there a seating arrangement?" I asked. He still had a hold of my hand. Dazed, he dropped it and smiled again. I took that opportunity to assess his hands, and he didn't have appear to have a ring on. It amused me that I was concerned about that, of all things.

  "Nope, sit wherever you'd like," Mr. Bentley motioned around the room. Just then the warning bell rang, the sound ringing through my body. I stepped back, still smiling sensually. "Where are you from, Miss Jones?" he asked after a moment of charged (on my part, anyway) silence.