She Laughs in Pink (Sheridan Hall #1) Read online

  She Laughs In Pink

  Jessica Calla

  Published by BookFish Books LLC.

  Copyright © 2016 Jessica Calla

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published in 2016 by BookFish Books LLC.

  P.O. Box 274

  Salem, VA

  24153

  [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Calla, Jessica.--First edition.

  She Laughs in Pink / Jessica Calla

  ISBN 978-0-9968013-7-9 (print)

  ISBN 978-0-9968013-4-8 (e-book)

  Cover Design: Anita B. Carroll http://www.race-point.com/

  Book Design: Ellie Sipila http://www.movetothewrite.com/

  Publisher: http://www.bookfishbooks.com/

  For Angela, my partner in crazy.

  Chapter One

  Chase

  I put Gram in a cab to the airport and kiss her goodbye. Soon, I’m weaving my way through the city streets, hauling the two duffel bags I’d packed for college. I make it to the station in record time, rushing even though I’m not in a hurry. But that’s what you do in the city—you rush. I hope New Jersey moves a little slower. I need the break.

  As I push toward the stairs that lead underground to the station, a hot brunette stumbles a few yards in front of me pulling a suitcase with one hand and holding a phone in the other.

  I’ve seen her a million times before—the beautiful girl, new to the city, searching for Broadway, dreams alive and hope shining as brightly as Times Square. I check her out as I follow her, admiring her entirely too long legs shrouded in tight yoga pants. Her tanned arms flex as she lifts her giant suitcase and carries it down the stairs. She’s thin but curvy, tall, and toned. Based on her body, if I had to guess, I’d say wannabe Rockette.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she stands her suitcase upright then lifts the handle as she scans the crowd. Her ponytail swings over her shoulders, and as she turns I catch a glimpse of her eyes. They aren’t the usual clueless, dreamer eyes. They dart around the platform, focused, present in the moment. Aware. She’s on a mission, and she plans to succeed.

  She moves again, pulling the suitcase behind her. Her toned, Rockette-looking ass moves in a rhythm. The darting eyes, the swinging ponytail, the swaying ass, the determination oozing from every step pulls me into a trance. When she stops in the middle of the station, I freeze.

  People watch her as they rush by, some probably pissed at the obstacle she suddenly became, while others, like me, seem enthralled by the beautiful outsider. She pulls something from the front pocket of her suitcase.

  I take advantage of the opportunity and sneak up behind her. I need to talk to her, if only once, to hear if her voice is as determined and strong as her body language. I peek over her shoulder. Holy hell. She’s almost as tall as me. How tall are they growing Rockettes these days? She’s studying a subway map.

  “It’s upside down.” I reach around her to tap the edge of her map.

  She flinches and turns, looking up at me with wide-set, chocolate eyes. Even in the dimly-lit underground I know I’ve never seen a prettier face. I smile because I can’t help it.

  “Excuse me?” Her voice is as enticing as the rest of her, throaty and musical but strong like I’d hoped. My chest tightens and my body comes alive, reminding me that I haven’t had sex in months.

  “Your map.” I point to the paper in her hand. “It’s upside down.”

  She nods and grimaces. “I realize that.” She looks down at her map, and her thick, brown ponytail falls over her shoulder.

  When I don’t move, she looks at me again. “Do you need something?”

  “Can I help you find your train?” I drop my duffel bags on the nasty floor and point toward the tracks. “If you’re looking for Broadway or Radio City, you have to go north.” She doesn’t look where I’m pointing. Instead, she squints, studying me. “Uptown,” I point again, shifting my stance.

  When she doesn’t respond, I narrow my eyes. She tilts her head, and I mirror her movement. “Is something wrong?”

  She taps her lips with a pink fingernail. “I’m trying to figure out if I should kick your ass with my self-defense moves, you know, stick my thumbs into your eyeballs or kick you hard in the knee caps. Or if you’re just bothering me because you’re trying to pick me up…” She smiles as she waits for my response. Her pink lips and nails match her top.

  Cute.

  I return the smile then lift my hands in surrender. “No worries. I’m safe.”

  She shakes her head and looks at her map.

  I continue, “It’s just that you look like a lost starlet. I’d hate for you to take the wrong train and end up another overdosing porn tragedy because I didn’t stop and offer my services. I mean, your map is upside down.” I’m kidding, of course. She’s too gorgeous for porn.

  Her lips press together, hiding a laugh. “I think I’ll manage. And my map’s upside down for a reason.”

  “Hmm. Well, you know, in this new digital age there are these things called ‘apps’ to help you find your way. They go on your phone.” I point to the giant phone she grips in her other hand.

  “Funny, the man I bought my token from handed me this map, not one of these so-called ‘apps’ you speak of.” She scans the station again, twisting the map in her hands. “I’m trying to make the map face the direction I’m facing. See?” She holds it up for me. “Paper can be fun. Ease up, Train Boy.”

  “Train Boy?” I smirk, digging that she’s flirting back. “I’d prefer Sexy Train Man. Why don’t you let me help you? I’m an expert you know.”

  “At reading paper maps? In this digital age?”

  “At everything,” I say, drawing out the last word. She rolls those big brown eyes.

  A train rumbles into the station, pulling her gaze away. She looks at her upside down map, then up at the train, and her smile widens. “Ahh, there it is,” she says, pointing. “Gotta catch that train before the porn industry finds me.” She stuffs the map into her suitcase and lifts the handle. “Thanks for your help, Train Boy.” She winks then walks away.

  “It’s Sexy Train Man,” I call after her. I slap my fist to my forehead because I didn’t ask for her number. Her ponytail hypnotizes me as it sways across her back in time with her hips. Despite her height, she carries herself with attitude—shoulders back, head up, as if she owns the fucking world. The yoga pants do wonders, too. She’s the goddamn Yoga Hottie.

  Then I notice the train she’s heading for is the train to New Jersey University. I can’t stop myself from smiling to the sky.

  If my friends could see her, they’d probably feel better about my decision to leave the neighborhood and try out college. When I told them I needed to live in the dorm to be around the good kids, the kids on the right path, they said I was nuts. But I’ve reached the point where I want to walk the straight and narrow. I’ve even created a New Life Plan—my NLP: no women, no drugs, no alcohol. Yes to studying, art, and the playoffs, but only if the Yanks make it. The NLP is about concentrating on my future.

  There’s no room for Yoga Hottie co-eds in the NLP. I curse myself for flirting, a habit I’ll have to break for the NLP to have a fightin
g chance.

  Recommitted to my plan, I avoid her, sneak into the last train car, and take a seat. No women; new start. Then I make the mistake of picturing my hand wrapped around the Yoga Hottie’s ponytail.

  Fuck. This is not going to be easy.

  At the first stop on the other side of the river, the Yoga Hottie steps off the train and onto the NJU campus. I get off a few cars behind and fall into the trance, following her. It’s only a couple of blocks to the center of campus. The hot, humid New Jersey air makes it hard to breathe, and I slow down and fall behind.

  I shake my head and mentally recite my NLP, losing sight of the Yoga Hottie. Good luck, gorgeous. As I look around the busy campus, my NLP seems absurdly ambitious. If the other women on campus look even half as good as the Yoga Hottie, I’m doomed.

  I make my way toward Sheridan Hall, my assigned dorm. The only information I have about Sheridan is that it’s the oldest dorm at NJU, and it’s near the Student Center. With the help of upperclassmen scattered throughout campus, it’s easy to find.

  At first glance, the two-story brick building looks plain and institutional, but as I approach I appreciate the detail. Symmetrical windows shuttered with ornately carved, white panels line the length of the building. A long porch stretches across the front of the dorm, dressed with intricate wood designs and cast iron rails. Flowers, tall trees, and bright green grass decorate the grounds and seem to defy the humidity and high temperature. I’m not used to seeing so much green. I’ll have to sketch it for Gram.

  No action is happening out front, so I walk around to the back. The less extravagant rear entrance opens to a parking lot jammed with moving vans, SUVs, dollies, hand trucks, and of course, teary-eyed parents dropping off their dry-eyed kids. For the first time in a long time, I’m relieved to be parentless so I don’t have to deal with that scene. Gram offered to reschedule her trip to Vegas with the seniors to help me move in, but I convinced her all I needed were my duffel bags and her love.

  When I reach the back door, I pull my shiny new swipe card from my pocket and place it on the security pad. When the door clicks open, I sigh in relief. For a second, I thought this wasn’t real.

  Inside the noisy stairwell, a group of guys carrying boxes block the stairs leading up. A handwritten sign indicates that room six, my room, is downstairs. Ahh, into the crypt. This must be where they put the non-paying scholarship kids, like me. I grunt a greeting at the guys who get to live above the ground and head to the basement.

  I count the rooms as I walk by. Six rooms, numbered zero-zero-one to zero-zero-six, line one side of the hallway. Across from the rooms, a kitchen and lounge area stretches the length of the building, bookended by the men’s and ladies’ rooms. I’m anxious to meet my floormates, but their parents? Not so much. I avoid eye contact and dig out the key to my room. Of course, room six is on the ladies’ room side. Although not exactly convenient, watching the parade to the shower may be fun.

  My roommate, some dude named Ben who I’d only talked to via text so far, has taken over his half of the room. He’s been on campus for a few weeks for football practice. My side of the room looks bare and sad compared to his, which is covered in clothes, playbooks, magazines, and other clutter.

  I toss my duffel bags, filled with clothes and art supplies, next to the empty bed and realize I have none of life’s essentials, like sheets. I grimace as I look at the bare mattress. God only knows what’s happened on this university-issue mattress prior to my arrival. I picture Yoga Hottie stretched out on it waving me over, then replace the image with some fat dude jerking off. I shudder and wonder how often NJU replaces mattresses.

  Fuck it. I jump onto the uncovered mattress. I’m sure I’ve wallowed in worse. I shut my eyes, hear a girl’s laugh through the wall, and automatically wonder what she looks like. Flirting with the ladies will be a hard habit to break.

  I’m in and out of sleep while images of tight yoga pants and deep chocolate eyes morph into the letters N, L, and P and dominate my mind, until a determined knock jolts me awake. I take three steps to the door and open it.

  Yoga Hottie.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. Still there. I must have willed her to me.

  Her back faces me as she looks down the hallway, and I soak her in. My body tightens as I check out her ass, up close in the well-lit hallway. Needing to get my act together before she turns around, I silently recite the Yankees lineup from the 2001 World Series.

  She spins around and gasps when she sees it’s me. “Train Boy?”

  Damn, she’s cute. I curb the instinct to lean in and kiss her. “It’s Sexy Train Man, remember?”

  She laughs. “You’ve given up your welcoming post at the train station? What will all the lost starlets do now? The porn industry will thrive without you.”

  I can’t stop smiling. I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans and look to the ground like an idiot. I’m nineteen, not fourteen. Get a grip, Chase.

  “I’m Juliet. I’m in room one.” She points down the hall and rubs her lips together. A few seconds pass before I realize I’m staring, and it’s my turn to talk.

  “Oh. Um. Chase Cooper. Known throughout the tri-state area as the Sexy Train Man.” I point to the door behind me. “Zero-zero-six.”

  “Nice to officially meet you, Chase,” she says, leaning around me to look into my room. “Is Ben here?”

  Ah, the girlfriend. She’s the hottest girl I’ve ever seen, and I’ll have to watch her climbing in and out of my roommate’s bed. Which doesn’t sound awful, but still, the universe must be testing my commitment to the New Life Plan.

  “I think he’s at practice.” I find my flirty voice from the train station. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  Her giant brown eyes trail my body. When her gaze returns to mine, she looks at me from under her long, dark eyelashes. “I don’t think so,” she purrs.

  I can play too, gorgeous. I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms over my chest, perfectly content to stand there all day with her. I’ll take the kiss-off as well as the flirt. “Maybe if you let me know what you need…”

  Juliet juts out a hip and puffs her chest out with a big sigh. Then, she smiles for me. Over-smiles, actually, and says, “I just need Ben.”

  Wow. Even if she’s not looking for Broadway or the Rockettes, she must be a performer. Most likely a dancer. I have a history with dancers and know the type—all thin and overconfident.

  “Well, then Ben’s a lucky guy.” I mirror her stare. I haven’t met Ben, but I can’t help resenting him already.

  While Juliet holds my gaze, I shift in the doorway and run through the 2001 Yankees again. Jeter, O’Neill, Williams, Martinez…

  The silence hangs between us, but she grins at my comment. I’m never shy around women, and in general they seem to like me. But something about Juliet—her face, those lips, her attitude—as she stands there and waits for me to flounder intrigues and unsettles me at the same time.

  I search her face, hoping to distract myself by finding a flaw to focus on but I fail miserably. I concede, Yoga Hottie. You win. I blurt, “I followed you off the train,” like a creeper, and mentally slam my palm into my forehead.

  She flips her hair and reaches out to pinch my arm. “You should have caught up and walked with me, Train Boy.” Her eyes land on my mouth. Damn.

  “Do you want to come in?” I push the door open further. I anticipate she’ll say no but, roommate’s girl or not, I’m hoping for a yes. I’ve stumbled off the no-women-wagon in less than twenty-four hours. Great job, Chase. Great show of self-control.

  Lucky for my NLP, Juliet ignores my invitation, laughs, and shakes her head as she turns to walk down the hallway. “Tell Ben I stopped by?”

  “Sure,” I say and silently thank the inventor of yoga pants as I watch her ass bounce down the hallway. Now I’m more than certain by the way she prances away that she’s a dancer. “Nice to meet you, Juliet. You need a map to find room one?”
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  She spins around and winks. “I think I’ll be okay.” She continues walking backward down the hallway, watching me watch her. I don’t move until she disappears into her room.

  It’s only Day One and already my life is changed forever.

  Chapter Two

  Juliet

  I text Ben again.

  Where are you? Met your roomie.

  Train-boy-slash-Chase is movie star hot. I couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness of the train station, but in the light of day they’re blue—so deeply blue they’re almost purple. I sigh as I picture him—that tall frame, all the thick black hair, the deep, sexy voice and those kissable lips. Too bad he’s completely full of himself, leering at me like I’m a piece of meat and he’s ready for dinner. Ben never leers. Still, Chase is something to look at for sure.

  I wonder if all the guys here are hot, or if it’s just my hormones in overdrive at the thought of living down the hall from Ben. Either way, I’ll have to adapt to looking at Chase since I'll be spending a lot of time with Ben in room six.

  I glance around the mess in my room, wondering when my own roommate will arrive. I’m not great with other girls. Boys are predictable. Girls? Not so much. The only girl I’ve ever been close with is Justine. I think of her long dark hair as I twist mine into a clip. The thought of sharing a room with someone besides Justine makes me nervous. I hope I don’t screw up.

  Instead of pacing in circles waiting for Ben or my roommate to show, I stretch my arches and bend into a plié. The simple movement calms my nerves. I’ve only been away from the barre for a few days, and I crave dance—physically and mentally. Now that I’m in New Jersey, the first thing I need to do, besides make Ben love me, is find a drop-in studio. I don’t know where to start, but I do know if I’m not dancing by the end of the week I’ll go crazy.