Never the Right Time, Part I

Never the Right Time

Part I

Lizzie Socorro

A Thousand and Seventeen Nights

Publishing Company

1017nights.com

(872) 267-1017

5646 N Kenmore, Chicago, Illinois 60660

Published by A Thousand and Seventeen Nights at Smashwords

Copyright © 2015 Catherine Matamoros & Dolores dS Hernandez

Back cover of Never the Right Time part II

Copyright © 2015 Catherine Matamoros & Dolores dS Hernandez

We would take it as a personal favor if you were to not pirate our beloved novel.

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This is 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.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address above.

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For Daniel

My first book, I wrote for myself. The second, I wrote for you.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

The next installment

About the Author

PROLOGUE

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Anna Beth Hardwick dropped the last of the boxes on the badly carpeted floor of her new dorm room. The large pink stain at the midpoint between the closet and bedframe bespoke many desperate and failed attempts at cleaning up a preferably unknown substance before resorting to the disinfectant and destructive power of bleach, and while the sparse furniture—two each of beds, desks, and strangely upholstered chairs—did not tempt one to say it had been well-loved, did look as though it had not been new for several decades. So far as dorm rooms went, it could be far, far worse.

Despite the many flaws that were neither cute nor endearing, it wasn’t the challenging prospect of softening the Spartan edges of the room and generic, pseudo-oak furniture that filled freshman Anna, newly minted English major, with such encompassing nerves. In fact, she was rather looking forward to making her new home—well, homey—she thought, unrolling the first of many posters, this one commanding its viewer to Dream Big.

Rather, the source of Anna’s apprehension could be blamed squarely on this, the biggest of all life changes she had experienced in her 18 years. Her decision to attend Rice University had sent her mother spiraling into consternation only slightly worse—and considerably more passive-aggressive—than Anna’s own anxiety. Anna had grown up and spent her entire life until this point in the same four-bed, two-story house squarely set in the Atlanta suburbs.

The Hardwicks were deeply attached to Georgia clay. Both sides of her family had lived in or near Atlanta for the past five generations. But as proud as Anna was of her heritage and her home, by the end of twelve years of public education, she was decisively ready for a change of location and culture.

Unsure of any part of her future other than a strong desire to pursue literature, Anna had sent her college applications as far-reaching as California and New England, lured by the seductive promise of artistic communities and publishing loci. She had deliberately avoided applying to a single Georgian institution. Months of agonizing over application letters and scholarship requests came down to three coldly impersonal rejection letters and five acceptances that, despite their veneer of eager personalization, still managed to be somewhat lukewarm and detached.

The choice of where best to throw buckets of student debt on the blazing inferno of increasingly requisite higher education had been difficult for Anna, but she had ultimately decided on the sole institution located in the South that she had applied to. Finally having to face the reality of what it would mean to be separated from her family for semesters at a time, Anna had chosen the location that she believed would make her the least lonely.

And so Anna had decided to go to Texas, where, she believed, she would be among more like minds than she would find in the cold North. Where being Southern was a benediction, not a curse.

All the same, it was unfamiliar territory, and Anna did not know a single one of her new classmates. The plan of attack—for friends must be made—would have to be on the offensive. Active participation in orientation-enforced fun, casual social follow-ups through messages, and engaging conversation over meals. Stick to the plan, and the friends will gradually fall into place.

***

The plan was, on nearly all fronts, a failure.

By the middle of her second week at Rice, Anna had exactly one confirmed friend, and that was only because they lived together: her roommate, Carmen Garcia. And Carmen barely counted, because she was so outgoing that she made friends with everyone. One had no choice but to be close to such an open, warm person as Anna’s pretty, Hispanic roommate.

It was time for a new strategy, Anna decided early Thursday morning. Friendliness wasn’t enough. Now, Anna grimly plotted, she was going to have to resort to strong, affected confidence and daring bravado.

The best place to unroll the new campaign was, she thought, perhaps the main campus atrium. She’d heard rumors of a secret billiards room on campus, which intrigued Anna to no end. Her RAs had bitterly mumbled a comment or two about the secret boys’ club. Then, eating alone yet again in the cafeteria (every empty seat at tables for freshmen was taken, apparently), Anna had overheard two upperclassman boys making plans for an informal tournament in the hall. If she did a little more digging, asked around, hunted a bit, she’d probably be able to find the place.

In all the stress of planning, packing, moving, and being at college, Anna hadn’t had time for a good game of pool in months. She was starting to hanker for it with some desperation. There was nothing quite like the thrill of winning for Anna. She craved the excitement—and hopefully it would help to relieve the anxiety she was beginning to feel over the state of her social life.

And who knew? Maybe she would make some friends.

CHAPTER ONE

Year One

William took a lucky shot against the green bumper, and it did not pay off. Charles grinned as he took William’s place, easily sinking the eight ball and waited for the groan of defeat. He didn’t have to wait long.

So close!

I don’t know whose definition of close you’re going by, but you still had three balls to sink—not exactly a nail-biter, Charles laughed, white teeth flashing brightly in his dark face. So that’s…three to one?

In my defense, I didn’t exactly have time to hone my billiards skills over break, William said with a self-possessed swipe at his long, curly hair. Not all of us have nothing else to do at night.

William nudged his roommate and temporary rival playfully, his olive skin contrasting with Charles’ mocha tones as much as their brown eyes matched in vivacity and mischievousness.

Ouch! Another friend looked over in the middle of aiming his own shot. Low blow, William.

He can take it, William said, nonchalantly shrugging one broad shoulder. He’s had two years to adjust to the fact that his empty social calendar will never reflect my own raging popularity with the ladies. They laughed while Charles scowled.

William always enjoyed taking an opportunity to poke fun at his roommate and friend. When they had begun attending Rice two years ago, Charles had been certain that his gymnast’s build and brilliant writing skills would enable him to secure as many dates as he desired. The journalism major was convinced that women were to be wooed by poetry and sweet-spoken words.

In an ideal world and an atmosphere of ardency, he would be correct. To Charles’ dismay and William’s delight, it had quickly become apparent that Rice University was not an ideal world, and even as an upperclassman, he continued to lack the confidence to extend his sweet nothings past the limits of paper. William, on the other hand, had easily discovered that although he lacked the quick wit to produce winsome verses in a girl’s ear, he did have readily available a smooth touch and a rich accent, born of growing up in Italy, that he’d yet to have proven resistible.

It was William’s turn to rack up, but he couldn’t resist one more jab. "Tell me, amico mio, he said. What is the point of writing all those pretty words, with no girl to use them on?"

Charles did nothing but roll his eyes and take the triangle, but Aiden, with pale freckles, milky skin, and brown hair with the slightest hint of red that bespoke an Irish heritage, had no compunctions about encouraging William, who clearly wanted to share.

So…

William raised one eyebrow over playful brown eyes. "Sì?"

Well? Aiden, as always, was overeager for details. What or who were you doing over break?

Aiden. A gentleman never kisses and tells.

Some gentleman you are, Charles muttered, but the junior’s snide words were ignored.

"Ma! Since you asked. William took a confident perch against the pool table, effectively hindering Charles’s attempts to get a new game going. Unlike dear old Chuck here, who had no other outlet to pour his time, money, and attention into besides trying to beat me in pool, I had to get a job this summer. And there was this—" His cheerful tale was rudely interrupted, not by any of the other players, who were all wrapped in their own games, but by a distinctly feminine voice.

Well! So it does exist. A girl stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the room. Twenty male heads swiveled to stare at the interloper in their world of dim lighting and rock music. "I tell you what, you would not believe the trouble I had findin’ this place," she drawled.

There was no hint of embarrassment in her voice at so rudely invading the one remaining bastion of masculine diversion on Rice’s campus. No note of shyness, just a Georgian accent so thick you could spread it on a biscuit.

Not only is it practically hidden by that little secret door—

That’s the point, someone muttered.

—but every single person I asked for directions looked at me like I was a two-headed calf. Not exactly helpful. She shrugged and began down the stairs—without invitation.

Slithered, more like—at least that was the word that appeared in William’s stunned mind. The way she slinked down those stairs drew way more attention than was necessary to her clingy mini-dress that hit all the right curves.

Freshmen! The clothes they started wearing once they got to college! She had to be a freshman. William would have remembered seeing her around before this year.

Would one of you boys be kind enough to show me where the cue sticks are? I’ve got such a hankering to play a game!

Wordlessly, one of the boys closest to her pointed to the cue wall. She strutted her way over, deliberating over her three choices with a finger tapping against the indentation of her upper lip.

A senior closer to William and Charles’s table made a crude gesture. I’ve got a stick you can hold, honey, he called to her curvy back. There were a few snickers, but the guilty party kept a straight face. If she turned around to see who said it, there would be no way for her to distinguish the guy in the back of the crowd.

Slowly she turned around, now holding a pool cue, and looking straight at the one who had said it, pinned him down with a stare.

Amiably, she smiled. I’ll pass, sweetie.

Lewd bravado withered into a disappointed blush.

Her remaining hand went on her hip. Well boys, now that we’ve got that settled….Do y’all have restrictions against laying bets in here?

The players, who had been thrown into confusion and disgruntled shuffling of feet at her disruption of their masculine sanctuary, perked back up at the suggestion of a bet. Back into their territory. A few even shook their heads in answer, beginning to grin. Oh, this was going to be too good. This girl’s defeat would put some shine back into the hazy room.

It’s not quite fair, darlin’, a boy tried to tell her. Someone trying to be the nice guy. How cute, William thought. Not quite right of us to try and take a lady’s money.

Hmm. She all but ignored him. Any takers? she challenged.

Brady Altan had an answer. I don’t know what you heard about the billiards hall, but we don’t play games for lip gloss. His friend laughed. "Why don’t you go check out Sorority Row? I’m sure they’d be glad to have you." Most of the room was smirking by now.

Unfazed, she smiled back. Tell you what. I got a hundred bucks right here that says not a one of you boys can take me on. Now then, who wants to try for it?

One hundred dollars made a difference. A few of them stood a little taller, appraising her. One even checked the stack of bills he’d already won that day, seeing if he had enough to match the wager.

While the others were reconsidering the situation—and the promise of an easy win, William’s gaze hadn’t strayed from the trespasser. And in an instant, he caught it: a little triumphant smile that flickered and was gone. Staring at her more intently, he wasn’t even sure that he had seen it. Her face was composed and confident, but her eyes had a glint to them that made him smile, and the way her fingers curled around the cue hinted at expertise. She knew what she was doing.

William knew a con artist when he saw one. And he knew an opportunity when it was staring him down. A cut of her winnings would do pretty nicely. William could do with some more wine money. But just a hundred? They could do much better than such a paltry sum.

Come on guys, don’t waste your time, he called out, interrupting her negotiations with a piss-poor sophomore. He caught the angry glare she sent him, but he couldn’t exactly wink at her without the entire room seeing it. "She’s bluffing. Look, principessa, he said as he turned to face her livid expression, just because your daddy played some pool when he was at school here doesn’t mean that you should try the same. There are easier ways to get a guy’s attention." As if the dress hadn’t already done the trick, he thought.

Several of them were already nodding in agreement, including Aiden, ready to show her the door and watch her leave. Perfect.

Don’t feel too bad, though. You hit on the right amount of money. Just enough to pretend that you’re serious, without having to take a real hit on the wallet. That should do it.

You don’t think I’m serious? There was definitely no smile now. The girl looked ready to throw a ball at his head.

"Just standing up there holding a pool cue doesn’t exactly prove anything. Sorry, principessa. Unless, of course, you wanted to raise the wager to something worthwhile…" He gave a shrug that clearly said he didn’t think she would. And she took the bait.

All right, Fabio. What about three hundred? Her index and middle fingers flicked up, holding three hundred-dollar bills.

Where was she keeping them? Charles muttered.

Still too scared to take me on? she taunted.

Me? William pointed to his own chest, like he was surprised at her challenge. "Allora, you’re not going against me. I’m hardly a worthwhile opponent at the moment. Even this guy can beat me." Charles rolled his eyes.

Oh, I see. Her patronizing tone made it clear that she thought he was too big of a coward.

Another voice spoke up. Three hundred! A small path cleared through the crowd to show Roger, one of the best billiards players on campus, throwing the requisite bills on a table.

I’m happy to make a little extra pocket change, if you don’t mind me taking Daddy’s money.

The girl smiled in acceptance of the challenge and slapped her money on top of his. They shook hands. Rack ‘em up! she said brightly.

Suddenly bets were getting called all over the room. Very few wanted to put their money on the perky freshman, but the odds were so ludicrous that some were taking it.

William sidled up to her as they were waiting for Roger to set up the table.

He had to lean down what felt like a foot to reach her. Even with her high heels, she