Better With You, page 1
Better With You
Brit Benson
Contents
Playlist
Content Note From The Author
Prologue
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
Epilogue
From the Author
Want More?
Sneak Peek
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright© 2021 by Brit Benson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial use permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons and things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Murphy Rae
Editing by Rebecca at Fairest Reviews Editing Services
Proofing by Sarah at All Encompassing Books
Created with Vellum
To all my fellow millennial babies who made mix CDs with songs you downloaded from LimeWire, spent too much of your money on Manic Panic and eyeliner from Hot Topic, and languished through every school year with only the promise of a Warped Tour Summer as your motivation. I hope my little “punk rock pixie emo chick” speaks to your soul. I also left a few lyrical Easter eggs in here for you.
Let’s see if you can find them.
* * *
To my husband, without whom there is no possible way I could have turned this book around so quickly. Thank you for putting up with my zombie looking, patience lacking, possibly-hasn’t-showered-for-days, moody ass. Je t'aime.
By Myself- Christian French
buzz cut – lovelytheband, MisterWives
Grand Theft Autumn – Fall Out Boy
Starving – Hailee Steinfeld
The Rock Show – blink-182
Hero / Heroine – Boys Like Girls
sex – EDEN
FUCKBOY – Dixie
Dirty Little Secret – All American Rejects
forget me too – Machine Gun Kelly, Halsey
You’re So Last Summer – Taking Back Sunday
Punk Rock Princess – Something Corporate
Head On Collison – New Found Glory
I Really Wish I Hated You – blink-182
Fat Lip – Sum 41
Everything Is Alright – Motion City Soundtrack
Memory - Sugarcult
Plot Twist – Marc E. Bassy, KYLE
10,000 Hours – Dan + Shay, Justin Bieber
I Think I’m In Love – Kat Dahlia
That’s What You Get – Paramore
Lose Somebody – Kygo, OneRepublic
I Will Follow You into the Dark – Death Cab for Cutie
She Is Love – Parachute
Tell Her You Love Her – Echosmith, Mat Kearney
Hear You Me – Jimmy Eat World
Hands Down – Dashboard Confessional
Better Together – Jack Johnson
Click here for the extended playlist.
Content Note From The Author
Please be aware: this book contains references to some difficult topics that could be upsetting for some readers.
* * *
Topics that take place on page are: death of a loved one, terminal illness of a family member.
* * *
Topics that are referenced but do not take place on page are: transphobia, bullying, forced outing of an LGBT person.
Prologue
Betrayal.
That’s what comes first. A painful, bottomless black pit rips open in my stomach, festering, stretching wider and wider until my body bends from the weight of it.
Then hatred. A blazing anger erupts in my chest, licking white hot flames around my heart and lungs, as my breaths grow ragged, and my eyes burn.
It’s enough to consume me, to drive me mad, but it’s doused quickly by a dark sense of despair. A soaking wet blanket covering all of my senses and stealing the light, rendering me lost.
I try to work through it, try to struggle my way out, but then anguish is joined by guilt. An iron fist wrapping around my throat as black dots blink in and out of my vision, and it hurts to breathe. It hurts to move. It hurts to exist.
Betrayal. Hatred. Despair. Guilt.
Separate attacks, but quickly they join forces until I am one raging battlefield of chaotic emotions, threatening to take my logical mind under siege.
I’m seeing red and the sound of blood rushes through my ears. I want to scream, cry, run. I want to hide. Under the surface, I’m a mess.
I fight to keep my face neutral, to remain steady and appear calm, but all I can see is the date on the calendar. All I can think of is the deadline I won’t reach, and the promise I’m going to have to break.
I let my guard down. I let someone in. And in doing so, I let him down. The only person worthy of everything good, and I’ve let him down. Again.
Tears burn the backs of my eyelids, welling up and threatening to spill, but I won’t let them fall. I’ve had years of practice turning my outside to stone.
The man beside me shifts, and I can feel his attention on me. His pleading gaze with his dark, chocolate brown eyes. I see his hands moving in my peripheral as his big fingers fidget, and despite his size, the movement is delicate. I know how those hands feel on my skin. I know how soft his touch can be.
I try to fight it, the way my heart clenches and aches. I try to focus on my anger, on the betrayal. I try to keep my sadness for the boy I’ve let down.
But deep down, I know the truth.
Underneath the fury, buried under the newfound hatred, is loss.
Loss and longing.
Mourning for the man beside me, the man I thought I knew. The man who is not at all who he led me to believe he was.
1
Four weeks earlier
I smell like stale beer and french fries.
It’s disgusting. I’ll never let myself get used to it.
My shoes stick to the floor as I walk back and forth, wiping down counters and replenishing garnishes. Limes, lemons, oranges, green olives, and my favorite, maraschino cherries. I snag one before putting the garnish tray back in the ice chest.
“I’m about finished here,” I call to my manager, wiping my hands on my bar towel.
“You’re good, B. Thanks for coming in tonight. I know you’ve got a lot going on.”
“It’s cool.” I shrug. “I can always use the money. Even if it is a slow Wednesday, cash is cash.”
I grab a toothpick from the jar on the bar and steal another cherry from the tray in the ice chest. Popping it in my mouth, I wink at the guy two bar stools down. He left me a decent tip earlier. The least I can do is pay him one last bit of attention since he’s likely to be back.
“Alright girl, well, head out and I’ll see you on Saturday night. You’re closing.”
Jada pulls a draft for another guy and slides him the pint. A group of them came in to watch some live streamed coverage of the Butler University basketball team then stayed. I couldn’t care less about the game, but it’s the only reason I made any money tonight.
I say goodbye to Jada and head to the back of the bar to get my stuff. Switching out my hideous non-slips for my boots, I drop the shoes in my locker and grab my helmet and crossbody purse.
I should change my shirt because I know I stink like a bar, but I’m just too damn exhausted. I’ve been working more since Jada promoted me to lead bartender at Bar 31, my classes have been kicking my ass, and I’ve been spending all my free time trying to concoct the perfect cookie for the Bakery On Main cookie contest next month. My body is pissed at me and letting me know it, but if I can win that contest...the two-grand in prize money would be worth it. I don’t even care about having my name and cookie displayed on their menu. Okay, that’s a lie. That would be cool. But the prize money? That’s the real appeal.
I duck out the back exit and walk to my bike. She’s my Baby. A black 2012 Honda Rebel 250. I bought it used from the guy who owns the auto garage back home for $1500. It was a fucking steal, but I think he felt sorry for me and cut me a deal. Sometimes there are advantages to being the girl everyone pities.
Putting my purse in the saddle bag, I swing my leg over the bike, put on my helmet, and start her up. No matter how tired I am, the rumble of her engine always gives me a jolt of excitement. Something about the freedom and the danger, maybe. I rev her twice, just for fun, and then cruise out onto the street.
It’s already a little past midnight when I pull into the parking lot of Quick Stop, the small convenience store just off campus. It’s late, I’m beat, and I only need one thing, so I
I hate having to shop so close to campus. I don’t like running into people I know.
Working at one of the popular campus bars means a lot of people recognize me. Occupational hazard. Unfortunately, there are not a lot of jobs where I can make 500 bucks on a weekend fully clothed, so when I’m on the clock, I fake it. Makes me quite a damn peach when I clock out.
After locking my helmet onto the backrest and grabbing my purse, I pop in my earbuds—a whole other level of antisocial. I spent the last three hours being on. Any more human interaction and I might develop a twitch.
My 2000’s pop punk playlist—the one I reserve for post-bar shifts—is blaring in my ears, and I head to aisle six, where they keep the baking stuff. I scan the shelf, find what I need and go to grab for it, then stop.
Shit. This store actually has pure vanilla extract. I drop my hand. I was gonna get the imitation stuff—it’s what I’ve been using—but if I want to win this contest, I need quality ingredients.
Shit. Eight freaking bucks for two ounces? I can get eight ounces of the imitation for $1.99.
I groan. This hurts. Like actually flipping hurts.
It’s that poor kid mentality. I’ll probably never outgrow it.
I sigh, resigned, and reach for the pure vanilla, just as another hand snatches it from the shelf. I whip around keeping my eyes on the precious bottle—the only one this stupid convenience store has—and huff.
I’m about to pop off and put this snatchy thief in their place, but my attention is stolen by the hand that’s holding the bottle. A big hand. A strong hand. A sexy hand.
Hmm.
I scan my eyes upward. A few woven bracelets are tied loosely around the thick wrist, and a dusting of hair covers the muscular, rigid, golden forearm.
That’s a nice forearm, right there.
I move my gaze farther up, over a defined bicep and a broad chest covered in a blue and white baseball-style t-shirt with a silver necklace of some sort hiding just beneath the collar. The defined jaw is sporting a bit of dark brown scruff, and soft, chestnut hair feathers just above the shoulders.
I expand my focus, enough to study the whole hairstyle, to find it loose, kinda messy, with a bit of a wave to it.
Prince-haired Harry hair.
When the mouth moves, I flick my eyes down to it to find plump lips quirked in a bit of a smile, and they move again.
The hulking man is speaking.
“Huh?” All I can hear is Patrick Stump in my ears.
His mouth moves a third time, the tiny smile turning into a full-blown grin, showing off straight, white teeth.
Then I watch in slow motion as the other hand, the one not holding my bottle of pure vanilla hostage, rises up and tugs one of my earbuds out of my ear.
“You said Prince Harry,” he says with a laugh.
“No, I said prince-haired Harry,” I correct. “And I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.”
“Oh,” he says, voice low and playful, and raises an eyebrow in question. I raise mine in response but don’t speak, and he laughs. “Are you okay?”
I bristle. “I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t sure. You’re kinda just standing there staring.”
“I was sizing up my new enemy.” I tug out my other earbud.
“Enemy?” He laughs again. It’s a good laugh. Deep and vibratey. Yes, I just made up that word. The laugh is unique. It deserves its own word.
“You just stole that vanilla from me. I don’t make it a habit to befriend thieves.”
“I didn’t steal it. I just got it before you.” He’s still smiling. It’s an attractive smile, damn it.
“I was clearly here first. I was clearly reaching for that bottle when you jumped out of nowhere and snatched it.” I put my hand on my hip and pop it out. My roommate Ivy calls it my power pose. She says it’s how she knows when I’m in a ‘take-no-prisoners’ mode.
“You were here first, yeah. But you were standing there surveying the shelf for a pretty long time,” he says with a smirk. “Some of us have places to be. It’s not thieving to just sneak past ya and grab what I need.”
“It’s line jumping, which everyone knows is poor social etiquette, and it is thieving, because that bottle is mine.”
“Poor social etiquette?”
“Mmhm.”
“Is it poor social etiquette to blatantly check out a stranger at the grocery store, too?” He raises his eyebrows, grin still affixed to his mouth.
I huff out a laugh. “Please. I was not checking you out. I was surveying you for weaknesses in case I have to resort to violence.”
His answering bark of laughter makes me lose my grip on my poker face, and I smirk.
Okay, maybe this particular social interaction isn’t the worst.
“Resort to violence?” He laughs. “I’m like twice your size.”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” I croon. “Don’t underestimate me. It could be your undoing.”
He watches me for a minute, eyes sliding over my face, my body. I can actually feel his gaze on me, and I try to imagine what he sees. Tan skin, amber eyes, freckles, nose ring, ChapSticked lips, turquoise dipped black hair. The old Green Day shirt and plain black distressed skinny jeans I’m wearing are snug and show off what little curves I have, and, of course, I’m rocking my Docs (Thrift store find. Twenty bucks. Fucking treasure.).
For a brief moment, I wish I would have taken the time to change and at least peek in the mirror before I left work. I’m sure I have helmet head from the bike, and there’s a damp spot on my jeans from a beer spill. Not to mention how I smell... I feel just a teensy bit self-conscious, but then it passes. If he doesn’t like what he sees, screw him. The big, beautiful jerk.
When his eyes land on my lips again, I clear my throat loudly and force a frown.
“So, Butch, you gonna hand over my property or do I have to overpower you and take it myself?”
“Butch?” He jerks his head back, amused and confused.
“Butch Cassidy? Train and bank robberies? A famous burglar. Don’t tell me you’re a thief and uncultured.”
He chuckles and gives me a shrug.
“Just a pretty face, then.” I shake my head and sigh. “Such a shame.”
“You think I’m pretty.”
“I have eyes.” I fold my arms over my chest and look away, feigning boredom. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a criminal.”
“I’ll tell you what.” He mimics my stance and hits me with an all-business stare. “I’ll trade you for the vanilla.”
I purse my lips before asking, “What do I have to give?”
“I’ll trade you this vanilla for your number.”
Oh. Well, okay then. This is a no-brainer.
“I told you before that I don’t associate with criminals.”
“But if I give you the bottle, then I wouldn’t be a criminal. I’m not stealing; it’s all just one big misunderstanding.”
“And what if this isn’t your first offense? How do I know you’re not trying to trick me? Get my number, then make off with the vanilla?” I squint my eyes at him. “You could be trying to set me up for a bunch of cold calling campaigns. Or planning to put my number on a billboard or a bathroom stall. How do I know you can be trusted?”
Pretty sure I’ve got this boy eating out of the palm of my hand. He’s trying so hard not to let his smile take over his face, trying and failing, and his brown eyes are dancing with humor. He’s amused. He’s having fun, and I’m suddenly not tired anymore.
“You bring up good points.” He pauses. “I don’t suppose you’ll take my word for it.”
