Girl going nowhere, p.1
Girl Going Nowhere, page 1
GIRL GOING NOWHERE
B. CELESTE
© Copyright 2023 B. Celeste
EPUB Edition
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Temptation Creations
Editing: Proofing Style
OTHER BOOKS BY B. CELESTE
The Truth about Heartbreak
The Truth about Tomorrow
The Truth about Us
Underneath the Sycamore Tree
All the Shattered Pieces
Where the Little Birds Go
Where the Little Birds Are
Into the Clear Water
Color Me Pretty
Tell Me When It’s Over
Tell Me Why It’s Wrong
Dare You to Hate Me
Beg You to Trust Me
Make You Miss Me
When It Rains
Girl Going Nowhere
To all the readers who wanted a smuttier side of B. Celeste. This one is for you
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Books by B. Celeste
Dedication
Playlist
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
PLAYLIST
“Bad Guy” – Billie Eilish
“Anti-Hero” – Taylor Swift
“Bring Me To Life” – Evanescence
“Last Night” – Morgan Wallen
“My Oh My” – Camila Cabello
“Ride” – Chase Rise (Ft. Macy Maloy)
“Unsteady” – X Ambassadors
“Hate Me More” – Canaan Cox
“Fed Up” – 92legend & Big Kuza
“There Goes By Life” – Kenny Chesney
CHAPTER ONE
Blake
The television quickly flicks off as soon as I slam the door behind me, but it’s too late. I already heard the thundering impact from the bat and ball, followed by the roar of a crazed crowd, telling me exactly what my roommates were watching.
“I told you that you didn’t have to do that,” I call out, kicking off my heels until my sore feet meet welcome, cool hardwood. I let out a breath of relief and pick up the knockoff Louis Vuitton shoes and walk toward the living room.
Two of my three roommates are lounging on the couches, looking over their shoulders as soon as I stop at the open archway that separates the living room from the dining room and kitchen.
It’s Brodie, who looks so much like Colton Haynes that he won a lookalike contest that got him one thousand dollars and a chance to meet the celebrity after his picture went viral, who rakes his blue-gray eyes over me with a frown. “What are you doing home already?”
He told me how badly he wished he was the one taking me out tonight as soon as I stepped out of my room, flattening my hands down my little black dress. And when I mean little, I mean little. If I hadn’t put on weight, it probably wouldn’t have looked so scandalous, but these days my body fills out all my clothes in ways it never did before. Some to the point I couldn’t squeeze into them even if I sucked in, held my breath, and got a running start into the stubborn bitches that hug my widened hips.
Brodie Adams is a massive flirt. And any woman who shows a little skin, no matter how intentional, gains his attention. Even me—the roommate deemed “off-limits” when I signed my name on their lease. But did I sort of wish he was the one taking me out instead of my sleazy coworker? Yes. A thousand times, yes.
One heated look earlier, and he was positive I wouldn’t be home until tomorrow morning.
“He wouldn’t stop staring at my boobs,” I answer, frowning at the memories of him conversing more with my Ds than me. And because it’s been a long time since I’ve hooked up with anybody, I let him touch them after we left the restaurant. Then I let him do a lot more when we got to his car. I want nothing more than to shower and get rid of the scent of him after dumbly climbing onto his lap and riding him in an abandoned parking lot until we both got off.
He probably thought he won tonight, but it was me playing the game.
Both Brodie and his cousin Dante Harris, who’s the quieter roomie of all of us, do their best to avoid glancing down at the biggest reason why my back hurts all the time. I used to have average boobs. Boring ones. Now they’re huge, expensive to contain in bras I can only find in limited stores, and nearly give me a concussion the few times I force myself to go to the gym and use the treadmill.
Dante, who I can’t always tell if he likes me or not, drapes his ankle over his opposite knee as he sits back on the couch. “Sounds like a douche. Is this the one you met at work? Trevor?”
“It was David,” Brodie says, picking out a pretzel from the bag in his lap. “Or was David the one who asked for your number at the coffee cart?”
“Nah,” Dante cuts in, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “That was Tim, and if memory serves, he never texted her.”
Brodie nods. “Oh yeah. She made us watch He’s Just Not That Into You after that.”
I cringe at the reminder of how pathetic my life has been since becoming a single mom. “Gee, thanks for bringing up my many failed attempts at locking a guy down. Yes, it was Trevor from work. No, I don’t want to talk about it. But if you want to keep going on my track record, why don’t we turn the TV back on so we can see another one of my past mistakes.”
The cold challenge has them both backing down with soft apologies murmured under their breaths.
Smart.
Brodie sets his food down. “We were just seeing what the score was,” he tries reasoning with me, not that he needs to.
We’ve been over this a million times. Everybody gets a chance to choose what to watch on TV, no matter what it is, like baseball. Despite their love for the game, they’re loyal to a fault. So, even if they’re rooting for the very man’s team that I have a strong indifference toward, they’ll never be Jonathon Dover superfans.
“Who’s in the lead?” I ask.
The boys share a look.
Dante scratches his stubbled jaw. “Phillies.”
Of-fucking-course. “Well, good for them.”
“Blake—”
“I’m tired,” I mumble, swiping at my heavy eyelids. “I know how much you love that team, so I hope they win. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
But I hope their right fielder takes a ball to the nuts, I add silently.
Turning on my heel, I walk down the hall that leads to the three rooms I spend the most time in when I’m here.
When I open the door to the smallest of them all, a closet that was converted into a toddler’s bedroom, I’m not surprised when I see the lean figure in the rocking chair placed in the corner. The moonlight spills into the open window, and the white noise machine on the dresser plays a soft lullaby that puts me to sleep when I crash in here.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell Finn, smiling at the way he cradles the sleeping three-year-old against his shoulder.
Finnley Wilder. When I moved into Brodie, Dante, and Finn’s four-bedroom apartment in Queens almost three years ago, it was because of his ad I answered online. I’d been desperate after my previous living arrangement fell through and wasn’t above begging them to give me a chance. With big, fat, ugly tears on the ready.
For obvious reasons, they’d been reluctant to agree. It was Finn who convinced his friends to give me a six-month trial and see how it went after Brodie and Dante protested that having a girl with a baby around would bring down their bachelor status.
And here we are, all this time later.
Oddly, we all get along well. Both Brodie and Dante work in sports journalism, so I used what little I knew about baseball to bond with them, hoping to win them over. And when a little too much tequila was consumed shortly after moving in, the truth about my past came to light. My midnight confession about who Maia’s father is changed their admiration for the Phillie’s right fielder when they found out the length he went through to silence me about her existence.
I feel a little bad about it. Their jobs are to highlight people like Dover. The online magazine they work for, Sports Pact, did more artic
“I know I don’t have to,” Finn tells me, carefully standing up and walking Maia over to the twin bed he’d helped put together with Brodie when it was time to get rid of her crib.
The guys have been wrapped around her little finger since we moved in. It didn’t take long at all before her cute little face won them over. If it weren’t for her ability to sleep through the night and be the least fussy kid I know, we probably would have wound up somewhere far less nice.
He sets her down with ease without waking her up, smiling down at her as she hugs the blanket Brodie gave her for her birthday last year when she was going through her Little Mermaid phase. It’s pink and purple with mermaids all over it. Even though she’s moved on to loving everything horse-themed, she’s still obsessed with that thing because of who gifted it to her.
I walk over, wrap one of my arms around his, and rest my cheek on his shoulder. He’s not much taller than my five feet seven inches and fits every stereotype known to man about tech nerds.
He isn’t overly bulky like Dante or Brodie, but he’s not scrawny either. Whenever we go to the gym together, he can outrun me on the treadmill and still musters the energy to lift weights before I even finish my workout. He wears glasses thicker than the ones I have to put on to read and has a collection of bow ties that I still tease him for whenever I get the chance. Brodie called him the Walmart brand Grant Gustin after Finn’s favorite show, The Flash.
Weirdly, I sort of see it.
The software developer staring idly down at my daughter pulls in close to six figures a year, a far cry from the income I make working as a receptionist at the local doctor’s office. It never made sense to me why he wanted roommates in the first place when he could easily afford to live on his own wherever he wanted since we’re outside the city. But I also have to acknowledge that his career is a big reason why he’s never upset about my rent being a little late or the few times I can’t contribute to the smaller bills like electric or heat.
And the biggest thing I love about the softy standing beside me is that he hates sports. Which means I don’t have to pretend like a part of my soul dies whenever a certain man pops up on the television screen being praised by sportscasters and swooned over by fans.
“She’s getting so big.” I sigh in disbelief, pushing my thoughts away.
He rests his cheek on the top of my head as we watch the little girl sleep peacefully. “She really loves the new bed.”
The day they put together her big girl bed, I’d been inconsolable. Brodie brought me my favorite hot chocolate to comfort me, Finn bribed me with trash TV, and Dante hid in his room until I stopped crying because it made him uncomfortable.
“You smell like sex,” Finn informs me.
I blush, wondering if I should deny it.
“That guy was using you, Blake,” he says.
The disapproving tone in his voice has my lips wavering downward. “Maybe I was using him, Finn. Ever think of that?”
Pulling away, I don’t bother looking at his face. The last thing I want to see is judgment. I’ve already been told by plenty of other people that I’m self-destructive. He doesn’t need to be the next one to point it out.
“Good night,” I tell him, squeezing his arm, pecking Maia on the head, and walking to my room.
I never thought I would have been the twenty-four-year-old who cried over her little girl getting a regular bed and getting her feelings hurt when people found out I had sex.
How did I get here?
Old memories of careless times resurface, reminding me exactly why I’m standing in an apartment with three men and a toddler.
It all started at the wedding.
CHAPTER TWO
Blake
“Are you here for the bride or groom?”
The question pulls me away from the ritzy country club decorated in white, silver, and purple decorations. It’s nothing short of beautiful. Floral arrangements are strategically placed at the end of every aisle of seats, a lavender carpet rolled out leading up to the dais, and soft classical music is playing from a small group of men with string instruments off to the side.
Emily Tilly always wanted a small, intimate wedding, and she pulled it off in a stunning way I knew only my best friend could.
My eyes go over to the equally stunning man who asked me the question. It’s safe to say he’s older than me from his defined features, but not enough to deter my attention. He’s attractive. Not in the devastating way that Patrick Dempsey is, but attractive, nonetheless. Masculine. Sure of himself, based on the lopsided smirk he gives me as my eyes do a lazy perusal down the length of his body.
He’s tall. Muscular. His clothes are fitted properly to his body, which tells me he probably has money and a tailor on speed dial. Broad shoulders. Sexy stubble covering a square jaw. Dark brown eyes that match the color of his hair lock with mine when I finally stop openly checking him out.
It’s only fair, considering he’s doing the same to me. The green silk dress my mother bought me lands mid-thigh on my legs, and the bodice hugs my curves to show off the hourglass figure I’ve been graced with. It doesn’t show much cleavage, though his eyes roam over my chest appreciatively anyway, before his attention lands on my face. I’m nothing special to look at—somewhere around average—with my long chestnut locks wavy from the wet braid I fell asleep in last night and big hazel eyes that tend to be on the grayish side more often than not.
“Bride,” I finally answer, shifting my weight on the heels that give me an extra couple of inches.
“Shame,” he says, grinning. His chin dips toward the groom’s side. “I’m here for the groom. Hector”—Emily’s soon-to-be-husband—“used to be my lawyer. Did me a lot of good.”
“Hector is a good man. I wouldn’t let him marry my best friend otherwise,” I reply. He’s ten years older than Emily and way more mature than any guy she dated before. It was admirable that he was never afraid to love her from the start.
We stand smiling at each other, both with a mutual up-to-no-good glint in our eyes that promises how the night will end, regardless of where we’re sitting during the ceremony.
And it does.
One short drive to his hotel room later and it’s nothing but mouths on mouths and skin on skin. Hands roam. Clothes are stripped. Noises are made. It’s a rush of kisses, touches and urgency as a condom is rolled on.
I’d be lying if I said it isn’t the best sex of my life. There’s no doubt the man is experienced and as confident in the bedroom as he is everywhere else. That Colgate smile flashing up at me from between my legs is devilish at best, like he knows I’ve never had it this good before. He knows exactly what will set me off and for how long, and how to draw out one orgasm after another until I’m boneless and gasping for air.
But three months later, and over a hundred dollars worth of tests and doctor’s appointments that have drained my bank account, I realize just how much that one night with a virtual stranger has truly cost me.
When I finally gather the courage to get his name and show at to the address Emily gave me with a sad look on her face, I realize exactly why my best friend looked the way she did after asking around about my one-night stand.
Jonathon Dover, thirty-eight. Famous right fielder for the Philadelphia Phillies.
Married for nine years with two kids.
When he opens the door and gapes between me and the ultrasound photos in my hand, I can tell he’s made his decision then and there.
And because I’m young, pregnant, and scared, I take the payout he gives me to keep quiet, sign the paperwork his suited-up team sends me to remain silent, and never see the major league baseball player again.
At least, not in person.
CHAPTER THREE
