The End Zone Lj Shen Read Online

  Copyright © 2018 by L.J. Shen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may exist reproduced, distributed or transmitted in whatsoever grade or by whatever means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the example of cursory quotation embodied in disquisitional reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted past copyright constabulary.

Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

The Terminate Zone

Encompass Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

Interior Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

The End Zone

Prologue

Chapter One

Affiliate Two

Chapter Three

Affiliate Four

Affiliate Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter 8

Chapter Ix

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

The Terminate Zone: Extended Epilogue

Extended Epilogue: Vicious

More by LJ Shen

Preview of Midnight Blueish

Prologue

Chapter Ane

"Love looks non with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."

—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

Jolie Louis is a smart girl.

She knows that her best friend, Gabe Poirier, is a bad idea.

He'southward a walking, talking cliché. The Adonis quarterback with the bulging biceps and harem of fangirls trailing behind him on campus like a stench you can't get rid of.

Sadly, that's too the reason she can't stay abroad from him. Well, that and the fact that they're roommates.

Jolie is already straddling the line between friendship and more than when Sage comes to her with an offering she cannot refuse: be his simulated girlfriend and live for free for the residue of the semester.

She tells herself that she can handle it.

He'southward merely the boy she saved ten years ago, right?

Wrong. So very incorrect.

He is a man now, and she is his captive

Eye, trunk, and soul…

X years ago.

On the eighth night, she decided to talk to him.

Eight nights since the Poiriers had waltzed into her life, occupying the house next door.

Eight nights in which the screaming, yelling, and crying of Mrs. Poirier and the roars of her husband pierced Jolie's ears, trickled into her soul, and left her trembling under the quilt her grandmama had made for her.

Eight nights in which their kid—most her historic period, x or eleven—stumbled to their squeaky porch, his dirty blond pilus sticking out in every direction and his breast heaving with uneven breaths.

Cheeks stained pinkish.

Rima oris curled in a dark scowl.

Optics blazing hot, red rage she could run into even in the pitch-black of the dark.

Eight nights that he'd been climbing the oak tree which divided the land between the Poiriers' and her house. He saturday there, hidden by branches and leaves. Sometimes he howled to the moon like a alone wolf. Most times, he cried equally silently as humanly possible.

7 sleepless nights in which she tossed and turned and mourned for the nameless male child and his mama, before she broke down and decided to approach him. Even if he'd yell at her. Fifty-fifty if he'd laugh at her. Even if he'd show her no mercy like his daddy had taught him.

The daughter pushed her window upwardly with a groan, dragged an old case of books across the carpeted floor, hopped on it, and slipped through the open up fissure, pouring from the safe of her sleeping accommodation to the untamed, uncut meadow. The rain pounded hard on her face, the air current swooshing in her ears. It was humid, hot, muggy, and sticky. Her white cotton wool pajama dress clung to her pare, rain dripping from its hem to her anxiety. The grass was slippery, and mud coated her toes. The male child was trudging to the tree determinedly. She cautiously ambled in the aforementioned direction.

He slowed when he saw her, so she picked upward the step. Later in life, she'd learn that this was their special tango. One pulls, the other pushes. One wants, the other gives. One loves, the other hurts.

"What are you doing here?" he yelled through the rain. It was impossible to answer him. Her heart was in her pharynx, pounding boom, smash, boom like a caged animal peckish freedom.

Stride, some other footstep, and then some other. She wondered if that'south how it felt to exist alive. Really alive. Not just living. Wet, uncomfortable, and shivering in the midst of a hot summer storm. Up shut, he looked even angrier, his eyes a terrifying hue of midnight blueish and ire.

They stopped near six anxiety from each other, right next to the tree. He was slightly taller, slightly wider, confront slightly tenser, and a lot warier than she expected.

"Well?" he repeated, brooding. He is far besides young to brood, she remembered thinking. And it worried her, despite all reason (their cursory history). "Why the hell are you hither?"

"I'grand sorry," she said, swallowing the hurting she carried for him. Similar stars in her pocket—information technology was huge, and she couldn't begin to empathise how she'd harbored information technology for eight nights. He needed help, and she wanted to give information technology to him.

They'd kickoff schoolhouse in a couple of weeks—fifth form—and he'd be the new kid. She decided right then and there that she was going to be his ally. She'd be his friend, whether he liked information technology or not.

"You lot're sorry?" He snorted out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. Raindrops ran from the tip of his straight nose, his total lips flattening in an angry line. "Well, don't exist. I'k perfectly fine."

"You don't look fine," she insisted.

"Well, I am."

"I'chiliad here for you." She hugged her midsection, embarrassed. Her grandmama used to say that honesty fabricated you vulnerable, but that in that location was nothing stronger than the truth.

"Whatever you lot need, I'm here for you. I'm Jolie, by the fashion." She stretched her mitt between them. He stared at it silently, contemplating, like she offered him much more than a handshake. And maybe she did. The whole affair felt bizarre. Grown-up. The oak tree abreast them looked like a living thing, watching as they made this unlikely pact.

"Sage," he said, his palm connecting with hers.

She squeezed hard; he inhaled harder. He jerked her to his body, buried his head in the crook of her shoulder, and shook with tears she couldn't see.

They hugged in the rain, just like in the movies.

They hugged long, and tight, and desperately, his skin soaking into hers like a kiss.

The girl thought to herself, this is how beautiful honey stories begin. She pressed her ear confronting his thrumming pulse. His body was warm, but his muscles were rigid like ice.

The daughter airtight her optics and the storm disappeared. Not considering it had stopped, but because beside him, she felt fearless.

And on the eighth night, the girl gave the boy more than than friendship and a hug, without fifty-fifty significant to—and definitely without agreeing to.

On the eighth night, the girl gave the boy her center.

He took information technology silently, never offering his back.

"Yo, JoJo. Your ass is on wingman duty tonight." A steaming Starbucks mug slides across the shiny chrome desk he bought for me last Christmas. I lift my head, skeptically examining him through my hazel eyes.

Sage Poirier. My best friend. Louisiana's finest higher quarterback. The man who put the 'ho' in manwhore. My forever crush. The list goes on, but I'm certain you go the point. I rearrange the golden neckline of my sensible powder bluish blouse, tossing my strawberry blonde tresses (heavy on the strawberry) acro

ss my shoulder.

"I have an English lit exam tomorrow." I yawn, my hand already hovering over the keyboard of my MacBook. The bribe—pumpkin spice latte with marshmallows, not technically on the menu, but the barista would throw in her own kidney to get Sage to grin at her—is appreciated, albeit pointless. With the amount of homework I have, I'm non going to budge from my seat this evening. Sage grabs the chair opposite to me and plops backwards on a heavy sigh, his arms bracing its back. He is wearing his black New Orleans Saints cap backwards, his Wayfarers hanging under the brim of his hat from behind. It's the indisputable, international I'm-a-douchebag bluecoat, and it occurs to me, for the hundredth time since we moved in together freshman year of college, that if I hadn't known him since historic period ten, I would probably find him equally sexually attractive as a gassy rat.

"You're no fun." He leans forward and flicks his thumb and finger on the tip of my olfactory organ. His mischievous, dimpled smile widens when I swat his hand away.

"I have grades to go along," I retort.

"So practice I."

I snort a express joy on an eye roll. "You're one of the near sought-afterward quarterbacks in Louisiana. Going pro side by side year. At this point, you tin chip your manner to beingness a encephalon surgeon if you'd like. Every professor in this college would buss the globe yous walk upon if they didn't fearfulness you'd file a restraining society against them."

Sadly, it isn't fifty-fifty an exaggeration. Don't go me wrong—I'thousand thrilled for my best friend. He deserves everything he's achieved, which is a lot. At twenty-i, he has his own shiny, burgundy truck, a brand new flat he rents all by himself (I pay the bills in exchange for my room), and iii NFL teams courting him like he is a damsel in a Disney movie. Despite all his success, he's never once been uppity or complacent to me nigh it. Instead, he gives me access to his new identify, new truck, and new life. He is still the good Southern mama'due south boy who takes off his hat whenever he visits the pocket-size subcontract we lived on. The but downside to being Sage's best friend is, well…

"Question is—do you want to kiss the ground I walk on, or better yet, me?" His elbows are on the desk-bound now, his head cocked to the side attentively. "Considering, Jolie, babe, yous're the only person I'1000 looking to print. Ideally between the sheets." He winks.

Insert an emoji of moi gagging uncontrollably at his tackiness.

This is non the start time Sage has made a move on me, and I bet it won't be the last time I shut him downward.

A calendar month ago, Sage and I accidentally bumped into each other in the hallway while I was butt naked afterwards a shower (forgot the towel in my room). He was on his manner to pee, sporting impressive morning time forest through his gray boxers. I was looking down, head hanging in shame every bit I hurried to my room. He was looking down, rearranging his junk. That'southward how we concluded upwardly colliding, limbs tangling together, with me tumbling downwards and him reaching for my donkey to make certain I didn't fall. What a admirer, right?

From that indicate forward, Sage has been adamant that we demand to hook upward. Emphasis on the word 'demand' and not 'should'.

And, Lord, forgive me. If he were whatever other guy, I'd be all over him like a rash afterward a torrid Vegas holiday. The human looks like the love kid of Matthew Noszka and James Dean. The fact that he is six feet four inches of tight abs and only five percent body fatty does not—I repeat, does not—brand it easier for me to constantly reject him. But you know what makes information technology actually easy for me to say no? The notion that Sage, whom I grew up with and know better than anyone else, is going to pause my heart into a trillion pieces, smash information technology to dust, then skip over all the leftovers on his manner to the next pinkish sheet-covered bed.

Considering. My. Best. Friend. Is. A. Whore!

I dear him, but he is a manwhore who can't proceed his dick in his pants for longer than twenty-four hours. I'chiliad pretty sure this fact could be backed up scientifically, if someone put effort into researching the subject. Anyway, I'thou likewise fastened to Sage—and to my heart—to mess with either of them so recklessly.

"Information technology's a no from me," I say in an exaggerated English language accent, folding my artillery and feigning boredom, doing my best Simon Cowell impression. We've been bingeing on the British version of 10 Gene lately and Sage makes me do an impression of the British guess every commercial break. If I refuse, he tackles me to the floor and tickles the shit out of me. I thrash and try to worm my manner out from between his steel arms, only to exist pinned tightly onto the floor, his hard body over mine. He is and then ambitious and defended, ninety percentage of the time I cave simply because I'k too scared I'll accidentally come or fart (hey, simply keeping it real).

"I'll plow it into a 'yes' before the cease of the semester." He stands up, curling his fists as he stretches and yawns. His black shirt rides up and the prominent Five leading to his crotch is on full display. In a final-ditch endeavour to salvage my panties, I avert my gaze, my optics difficult on the MacBook screen, and furrow my brows as the words in my lit essay skid from my vision. I decided to major in English lit because I'm good with words, merely whenever he'due south effectually, I'chiliad nil only a blubbery mess. He continues, "No girl has ever said no to me nevertheless, and I'll be damned if the 1 who does is the chick I care about the about."

"But that'due south exactly why I'k saying no," I snap, my caput shooting upwards from the essay, annoyed he'd joke about our friendship.

"Why?"

Why? "Why?" I look upwards, huffing. Yep, I'm actually huffing. And huffers are my pet peeve, but male child, does Sage make me want to huff lately. "Practice yous really want to throw away ten years of friendship for a quick lay?"

He smirks. "Offset of all, it'due south non going to be quick. I know what I'chiliad doing in the sack. We're talking a minimum of twenty-5 minutes, lady, and I'm being humble here, because I might be a little on the excited side when I finally get you in my bed." He cups his groin and winks, and I would gyre my optics if it weren't for the fact that his room is down the hall, and the thin walls confirm his statement. All the girls he brings home (roughly 20 pct of the Usa female population) do moan and scream for an boilerplate of forty minutes. "And second of all, I volition not be ruining anything. You have one-night stands. I accept ane-nighttime stands. We can have them together and even so continue our friendship intact. Nosotros're not fucking twelve, dude."

I guess I can impale this conversation by pointing out that (A) twelve-year-olds don't usually take sexual intercourse, and (B) I'm non a dude. But there'south something else I need to make clear.

"I don't appoint in one-night stands." I pick up a pen and asphyxiate it to decease to keep myself from punching Sage's gorgeous, self face. I know my fist is going to be hurt more than than his nose. The guy is seemingly built of steel, bronze, and copper.

"Of course you lot do. What about that Brandon dude?"

"That Brandon dude was my boyfriend for seven months," I deadpan. Funny he should mention information technology, since Brandon and I broke upward last yr because he was adamant that there was something going on between Sage and me. Which was insane, inaccurate, and incredibly annoying. But what was fifty-fifty more disheartening was the fact that Sage did everything he could to nurture this false assumption by constantly touching and calling me whenever I hung out with Brandon like he was trying to sabotage our relationship. Sage was but a few weeks short of pissing on my leg to claim his ownership, which was kind of rich, considering how Sage'due south dick has been passed around like community belongings. I'k surprised he'due south non partly funded by the government.

"That douche was never your beau, JoJo."

"Sorry to disappoint, but he really was."

"Well, he didn't know that. I still want to kick that guy's donkey."

"What? Why?"

"Considering—lamentable to disappoint," he mimics my tone, and pretty accurately, as well (the bastard), "but he was banging a Kappa Blastoff Slutta whatever chick named Nadia. I saw them hanging out at parties at least twice, only I kind of thought yous'd never really seriously dated the dickbag, aye?" He runs his huge palm over his sandy blond hair and messes information technology to tousled perfec

tion. I swallow, feeling my nostrils flare. Goddamn Brandon. "And then I never thought I should mention information technology to you. You know I always got your dorsum."

I smiling tightly, stand, and walk to the kitchen with Sage following behind me. I want him gone, so I tin cry myself to slumber, or phone call my bestie, Chelsea, to talk and then much shit about Brandon his ears catch on fire and burn downwards his whole apartment block. I experience played, and stupid, and near as desirable as a bowl of stale broccoli even though information technology's been months.

"Come with me," Sage coaxes once more, his croaking vocalism seeping into my trunk and melting my lady parts into warm goo. What'due south wrong with me? This is my best friend we're talking well-nigh. Countless times I watched him get home with other girls, puking in national parks, and experiencing meltdowns. Crying happily when his parents got divorced, weeping sadly when his male parent died of liver failure afterwards years of booze corruption, and roaring triumphantly when he got a total scholarship for college.

"I have an exam, think?" I open the refrigerator and have out a carton of OJ. I slam the door and when I plough around, he is caging me in, bracing the counter from each side of my waist, his oral cavity so close to mine I tin run across the dimple in the eye of his full lower lip. He stares me down predatorily.

My heart is in my pharynx.

My soul is well-nigh probably in my eyes.

And I am scared. Completely, utterly, and desperately frightened of what he tin practise to me if I let my guard down. If I permit him.

"Wasn't talking virtually the party, Jo. Allow'southward go to my room. Forget about Brandon. Nearly people. Nigh all the bullshit. I want to make yous feel adept."

"Sage," I hiss, narrowing my eyes. "Please don't brand this an issue. I'd detest to move to another apartment, but I will, if that's what it takes to save our friendship."

And my heart.

He throws his head back and shakes information technology, staring at the ceiling, exasperated. Then he pushes off the counter and I'thou left to stand up hither, watching his tight donkey walking toward the hallway. What'southward with this dude? Did he actually not know I had lady bits before he saw me naked? I refuse to sacrifice our friendship because he suddenly sees me as a convenient fuck. He's been acting so strange lately.

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