Frenemies

  Frenemies

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Blanchard

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  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, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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  Bolero Books LLC

  11956 Bernardo Plaza Dr. #510

  San Diego, CA 92128

  www.buybolerobooks.com

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  All rights reserved.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CONTENTS

  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 Ninteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Friends with Benefits - Chapter One

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Nicole Blanchard

  DEDICATION

  To my gypsies Rachel, Sara, and Lisa.

  Because family don’t end in blood.

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAYLA

  “WHAT DO you mean I have to take another class?” I demanded. “I’m on schedule to graduate in the spring. I’ve satisfied all the requirements for both my business and art majors.”

  My advisor, Ms. Jensen, a harried woman in her mid-fifties with her hair in an ever-present bun and her lipstick always smeared, took off her glasses and wiped them with the hem of her wrinkled cardigan. “Ms. Tate, one of the general business classes you took at another facility did not transfer to our institution. It seems previous advisors were not aware, and therefore, you weren’t informed. However, if you want to graduate with your degree in business, you’ll need to take another business elective and the only one available is Business Ethics. The last available opening is at eight on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. It’ll put you at five classes for the semester, but with your academic record, I don’t anticipate it being an issue.”

  I slumped back in my seat, my brain racing. I’d prepared my schedule with a fastidiousness bordering on obsession over the last three years. I had to if I wanted to graduate on time with my double major and keep my mother off my back.

  I didn’t just want to graduate this spring—I needed to.

  Not only to prove to myself I made the right choice to pursue art in addition to her business degree requirement, but to prove to my mother a menial, low-income position like art was a good career move, even if it didn’t feel like it at the moment. If I’d gone into finance like she’d wanted me to, I could have secured an entry-level position making quadruple what I’d make as an artist starting out.

  But finance wasn’t what got me up in the morning. It wasn’t what made my blood pump and my nerves trill as I anticipated the next piece I could tackle or the next aspiring artist I could inspire. In other words—I’d never be my mother—and I’d never be able to make her happy.

  Learning I hadn’t worked hard enough to be on top of my credits was only going to prove her right and that wasn’t a conversation I was looking forward to.

  “This has to be some sort of mistake. I’ve triple-checked my credits and degree requirements ever year.” Was it hot? I was sweating. My legs were sticking to the leather seats.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Tate, but my hands are tied.” She reaches across the expanse of the desk between us to hand me a folder fat with paperwork. “This is all the information you’ll need to know about the class. Dates, schedules, syllabus. Your first class will be Wednesday morning at eight.”

  My eyes nearly popped right out of my head. “Ms. Jensen,” I glanced at the first sheet, “is there no way to accept the transfer credit? Five classes in addition to my part-time job is a lot to juggle. Is there no way to dispute the ruling?”

  Ms. Jensen, who’d lived and breathed administration for the past thirty years merely smiled, getting to her feet. “You’re a bright girl, Layla. I’m sure you won’t have any problem figuring out the details. If you’ll excuse me, I have a ten o’clock.”

  Thoroughly dismissed, and frankly at a loss for words, I got to my feet and wordlessly shook Ms. Jensen’s hand. She was already turning to leaf through paperwork as I drug my feet to the hallway. There wasn’t a day during my college career where I’d been as dejected as I was leaving her office. My heart thudded in my chest like it was about to call it quits, my arms hung listless by my side, my fingers barely retaining their grip on the folder. What was the point? It was a stupid thing to be upset over, but I wanted to start the semester on a positive note, and this absolutely wasn’t it.

  I’d worked so hard, so hard, the past few years to do the right things, for my future, and to impress my mother.

  I guess I’d have to work a little bit harder.

  THAT WEDNESDAY before my first Business Ethics class, I considered throwing in the towel completely. I could go backpacking. Off the grid. I snorted. It wouldn’t matter. My mother would still find me. If I didn’t answer my cell phone on her first call, she would just keep calling.

  “If you would have listened to me, you’d have a prestigious position at the firm waiting for you in the spring after graduation,” she said.

  “Uh huh,” I answered automatically. I winced at my mother’s screech in my ear. Normally, I’d give her an explanation guaranteed to placate her when she worked herself into a state, but I was already late for my first day of the new class, and I didn't have the time to muster up any patience to finesse her into a better mood.

  "Are you even listening to me?" Her voice was like nails stabbing into my ears. "I swear you are the most ungrateful child on this earth. I've given you everything: my time, my money, even my body, and this is how you repay me. Your sister never treated me like this. She was always such a good girl."

  With the implication being I wasn’t.

  It wasn't the first time I'd heard how much I'd failed as a Tate. According to my mother, I couldn't do anything right. "I'm listening, Mother," I responded as I hustled my way across campus. Parking was such a joke. It was my senior year and I should have mastered
how to find a spot and get to class on time by now. I could only hope the professor didn't have a stick up his ass.

  The truth was, I'd let Mom work me up into such a state I missed my entrance to campus and had to double back. Traffic was a nightmare, as it is every morning on Tennessee Street, and it took double the time to turn around and fight my way to the parking garage. A headache had begun to make itself known so I stopped off to Einstein's for a bagel and coffee to ward it off. All the while my mother shrieked in my ear about her favorite topic: how I was a complete and utter failure to her.

  "You could have fooled me. I asked you if you'd given any thought to the position I forwarded to your email."

  I chugged the coffee and cursed viciously under my breath when some of it splashed on the crisp white button-up shirt I'd bought specifically for my first day of senior year. That's what I got for trying to pretend to be a professional. Unlike my older sister, Delia, I couldn't quite seem to pull off the effortless elegance. I was more a harried homebody.

  "I haven't had time to check," I answered, despite knowing that wasn't the response she was looking for. It didn't matter what I said. I could do everything exactly the way she wanted it and she would still find a reason to complain.

  "Layla Lucille, the firm is expecting your response." My mother had a habit of emphasizing random words in the middle of a conversation when she was especially incensed by my idiocy. "Please make it a point to respond to the job posting by the end of business today or you will lose this opportunity."

  She didn't have to say she'd be disappointed. She was perpetually disappointed. Besides, she made it a point to call me no less than three times a day to check on my progress. Three years ago, I sent her in to apoplectic fits of rage when I changed my major from finance to art with a minor in education. No amount of threats or intimidation could sway me to change my mind. In the end, I compromised and double-majored in business and art to get her off my back. It meant more work for me, but I'm used to work. It also meant less free time, but other than my best friends, Charlie and Ember, I didn't really have many social commitments. Besides, I could use the business side to manage my career in the future.

  It still burned my ass that mother got her way in any respect, but I only had one more year to suffer through her meddling, and then I would be free. I'd have my degree, could get a respectable job, and be out from underneath her thumb. May seemed like an eternity from now, but as long as I kept focused, I'd make it through.

  "I'll take a look at it after classes," I said. Before she could object, I pushed through the lecture hall doors and added, "Class is about to start. I have to go."

  If it was possible to shame someone over the phone, Magdalene Bennett Tate was able to do it. "I expect to hear from you the moment you answer the position posting this evening."

  "I'll talk to you later," I said instead of answering. She didn't know it, but I had no intention of applying for the position. I may have been graduating with a degree in business, but I had no desire to join her friend's firm, no matter how many tantrums she threw.

  She disconnected without saying another word and in that way, it made her feel like she controlled the conversation.

  Stomach full of lead from yet another stress-filled conversation before 9:00 a.m., I could no longer stomach the thought of eating my onion bagel with cream cheese. Full of remorse, I tossed it in the trash can before navigating upstairs to the lecture hall. Business Ethics was one of the last courses I'd need to complete the business degree and was only offered at the earliest slot in the morning. If my mom wasn't trying to kill me, my grueling schedule sure was.

  I pushed through the doors to the lecture hall, hoping it will be a relatively easy A. The small group of students turned to face me, and the professor's voice cut off mid-sentence. So much for sneaking in unnoticed. Viscerally aware of their stares, I hurried with my eyes on my shoes to the first available desk at the back of the class. My cheeks began to burn as I pulled out my notebook and pencils. Having always been the perfect student, any sort of infraction made me incredibly uneasy.

  "If that's the last interruption," came the professor's smooth, somewhat familiar male voice. He began to go over the syllabus and I followed along with the printed copy I pulled from my carefully organized binder.

  My neck ached from the struggle to keep my eyes on my papers. I wanted to glance up to see who it was, since my class list had the space for the professor blank the last time I checked, and I wondered if I'd taken one of their classes before. At the same time, if I knew them, I didn't want the shame of seeing the disappointment on their face, not so soon after the verbal lashing from my mother.

  "Why don't we go down the rows and introduce ourselves?" he said, and I mentally groaned. Why teachers thought it was an important part of class, I'd never know.

  When it was my turn, I finally looked up and promptly wished I hadn't. I manage to introduce myself, giving my name and major, but I don't know how.

  All the while he smirked at me like he was enjoying my discomfort.

  He probably was, the immoral, no-good bastard.

  My ears burned with indignation and embarrassment. The asshole probably didn't even care I was late, he just wanted to see me squirm. As he went down the line of students, I pulled open my class schedule to confirm my suspicions, and noted the updated listing with growing horror: Business Ethics - D. Hampton, T.A.

  Our gazes connected over the heads of the other students and heat crackled between us. It was the heat from fissures in the ground between us, because I must be in hell.

  My goal for the past fifteen years of my life, aside from appeasing my mother, has been to annihilate Dashiel "Dash" Hampton. Ever since he humiliated me in front of the entire elementary school during the spelling bee.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, thankful no one could see the war waging between us since I was at the back of the room. He merely continued teaching as though my presence didn’t bother him. Fine. Two could play that game. If it didn’t bother him, then I wouldn’t let him see how much it bothered me.

  Despite the conscious effort I made to keep my eyes on my paper where I took notes on his expectations for the semester and the timeline of papers and assignments to be due, I couldn’t help but glancing back up at him when I didn’t think he was looking. Of all the classes—in all the lecture halls—in all the buildings on campus, I got the one where Dash was the T.A. or, as he said in his introduction, "Call me Mr. Hampton." I barely managed to control my responding snort.

  Mr. Hampton. I bet he was loving that.

  It would be a cold day in hell before I ever called him Mr. Hampton.

  Class continued uneventfully, unless I counted the times I glanced up from my notes to find Dash smirking down at me. I ground my teeth and reminded myself I couldn't hit a teacher, even if he was a T.A., and tried to focus on the information he was presenting. It didn't help each time our gazes connected, I was hit with a wave of irritation so strong, I wanted to launch myself from my seat and wipe that smirk off his face.

  The moment the hour was up, I thrust myself out of the desk, but not in his direction. In fact, I hustled toward the door like he was my mother trying to set me up with a sweet boy she knew from church.

  "Ms. Tate?" I heard him call before I could reach freedom.

  I spun around and slammed into a wall of muscled chest.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  Taking a generous step back, I straightened my shoulders and tried to pretend like I was as unaffected as he looked. "Yes?"

  He was close enough I could see the flecks of darker green in his mossy colored eyes, and I noted he was weeks overdue for a haircut. As long as I’d known him, he'd been fastidious about his appearance, so I knew the slightly messy, unkempt style must be intentional. Unlike me, Dash looked good no matter what time of the day. I remembered my stained shirt and hugged my books in front of my chest. His plaid button-up was perfectly pressed, and his jeans looked as if they'd just come
off the rack.

  The silence stretched on, but I refused to meet his gaze. If I was going to survive this semester with him, I was going to have to pretend like his stupid face didn’t make me want to plant my fist in it. I'm sure there was something in the code of conduct forbidding assault on a staff member.

  As I counseled myself to remember our new dynamic, his scent wrapped around me, catching me unaware and unprepared. Like warm sugar and smooth, dark whiskey it seeped into my system like a drug, and I found myself swaying forward for another taste.

  "Ms. Tate?" he repeated, and the amusement in his voice had me snapping out of my stupor.

  I looked up and found his smirk had been replaced by a slightly befuddled smile. "I'm sorry," I said, cursing myself for my stupidity. "What?"

  "I hope you'll pay better attention in class, but I wanted to remind you class starts at 8:00 am. I know it's early, but I hope you'll be on time in the future."

  Oh, he was loving this. He had to be. I couldn't entirely blame him. If I had the chance to be in a position of power, I'd take it out on him, too.

  "You bet," I replied through gritted teeth. "I have to get to my next class."

  "I look forward to seeing you next time!" he called out to my back.

  I made a mental note to check over the attendance policy. I'd never been the type of person to skip a class, but for Dash, I'd be willing to make an exception.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DASH

  THE LONG AND short of it: I was fucked.

  The last person I expected to see walk in to my classroom was the one woman I've wanted as long as I could remember.

  It was just too bad she was the only woman who had never wanted me back.