Authors: Emily Evans
Epic Escape
Epic Escape
Epic Escape
Copyright © December 2011 by Malinda Childers
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, and as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Emily Evans at
[email protected]
.
For upcoming books and other information, visit
www.EmilyEvansBooks.com
.
Cover art by My Creative Pursuits
Interior Formatting by AtriTeX Technologies Private Limited
ISBN-10: 0984955607
ISBN-13: 978-0-9849556-0-2
[1. Fiction. 2. Romance. 3. Adventure. 4. Science Fiction. 5. Fantasy]
Mom & Dad.
CONTENTS
Chapter 6 What Are You Wearing?
Chapter 12 Beyond The Trap Door
MEGAN
M
egan reached for the aqua enhancement bra she never dared to wear. Today, she dared. Inspired by a magazine article,
How
To Catch Your Crush,
she was ready to go after what she wanted. The author suggested three simple steps.
Step one:
Stuff your bra.
Check. Next, use the right fragrance.
Smell like pie and he’ll ask you out.
She rubbed the apple-vanilla lotion into her arms and hoped Chase liked apple better than lemon or pumpkin butter. The article hadn’t specified flavor. The cream disappeared into her skin leaving behind a faint shimmer, and she admired it as she thought about step three. Step three would be the hardest.
Talk to him about kissing
. She had no idea what to say about kissing.
Tap, tap, tap.
“I have a surprise,” Mom said, from the other side of the door, excitement in her voice.
“One second.” Megan yanked a camisole over her aqua bra and covered both with her favorite shirt. “Coming,” she crossed one arm over her chest, and turned the knob.
Light poured in from the hall, destroying the soft morning glow from her bedroom window, and backlighting Mom’s grin. Megan gave up on the struggle to keep her chest concealed, now more worried about Mom’s big grin and the garment bag she carried than getting caught stuffing her bra.
The concealing plastic slithered upwards with an ominous rustle. Beneath, lay a fuchsia dress with a price tag dangling from one of its puffed sleeves. Mom nudged her toward the full-length mirror. “Try it on.”
The fuchsia monstrosity emerged fully from the bag. After wrestling with the fabric a minute, Mom lifted the mass up. “You slip on the under-gown.”
Megan shrugged off her shell-pink shirt and let the fuchsia dress slide over her. Her stomach knotted and she swallowed against a dry throat. “Um… I’m not sure it’s me.”
Undaunted, Mom held up an overdress spun out of stiff lace. “This goes over the top.”
Megan grasped for an escape. “Maybe I could wear this to your cousin’s wedding and not the dance?” The lace fell over her head like she was the catch of the day. There was no point in struggling. Struggling would just send the hook deeper. The fabric blocked her vision, but only for a moment--one last, happy moment. When she could see again, she had to lock her arms to keep from covering her eyes. The hem landed in scallops against the floor.
Scallops.
Megan ran a bloodless finger under the tight elastic edge of one puff sleeve.
“Wait, there’s more.” Mom held up a wide, matching ribbon belt. “This will show off your tiny waist.”
The ribbon tightened, sealing her fate.
Megan peered over her shoulder. The large bow sagged across her backside, topping off a gift no one would want to unwrap.
“You like pink, right?” Mom said. Her voice held a touch of doubt and her gaze searched Megan’s face.
Megan tried to dredge up a smile. “Pink’s my favorite, but--” This dress wasn’t pink, not really. This fabric was fuchsia, dipped in mud, coated with a pearlescent shimmer.
“Don’t say it’s too much. I wanted to get something special for you. I had a dress just like this when I was your age.”
Megan let out a breath, struggling to decline the gift politely, searching for words to destroy the joy on Mom’s face. Her stomach knotted harder. She couldn’t be the one to crush her happy expression. The protest died without sound.
Mom rubbed her hands together. “You’re going to look great. Who’s driving?”
“I’m riding with Veronica and her date.” The answer wasn’t controversial. Parents liked Veronica. Veronica made straight A’s and dated the right kind of boy: boring, predictable Kyle.
“Are they taking her car or his? What does he drive?”
“A four-cylinder.”
“Is that fast?”
“Not enough to cause trouble.”
Mom’s face softened. Her eyes became dreamy, unfocused, and she sighed. “I met your Dad at a dance. I saw him and we knew.”
Sick.
“Life doesn’t always work out like that.” The first time she saw Chase was last semester. She knew she wanted him. He failed to notice.
The alarm clock buzzed a second warning, bringing Megan back to the present, back to her very fuchsia reality. She slapped her palm over the well-used snooze button and struggled for the zipper. The zipper hid out of reach. “Better get going.”
“Wait, I’m not done yet.” Mom produced a black knit sweater and slid it over Megan’s shoulders. “A shrug. So you won’t be cold.”
The acrylic scratched at her skin like it was angry at her for having to be paired with the dress. Megan twitched, wanting to rip the whole outfit off. “Um, I--” She felt trapped and her eyes stung with tears; tears for ugly dress wearers everywhere.
“I knew you’d love it!” Mom held up an over-sized navy jacket with a heavy lapel. “I got this blazer, too, for your field trip today. The temperature’s always too cold in those theaters.”
CHASE
M
usic jolted out of Chase’s phone, too loud and strident for this early in the morning. He grabbed his cell and muted the radio. “Hello?”
“Take me to the dance or we’re through,” Lauren said and giggled.
One date and she was already demanding more from him. His stepmother, Nancy, liked to demand things, too, and she usually got what she wanted. Her latest demand stood mounted at the end of the driveway: a garish cupid statue, eight feet tall. The driveway to his house was over a mile long but he could see the statue clearly even from here at the gate.
One chubby hand propped against the statue’s naked hip, and the other hand clutched a golden arrow with a basket of roses balanced on its tip. Yesterday, the gardener spent an hour washing the gleaming monstrosity, making it even harder to ignore, making his home an embarrassment--a shiny embarrassment.
Sunlight glinted off Cupid’s golden arrow and the flash blinded him. Blinking against the brightness, Chase gripped the cell phone. “Fine, we’re through.” He threw the phone on the dash, and hit the gas.
The driveway was long enough to test the Maserati Gran Turismo’s acceleration, zero to sixty in less than six seconds. The rush of speed blew away some of his annoyance. His shoulders eased, his fingers loosened on the wheel.
Something small and low darted in front of the driveway.
He was going to hit it.
Chase jerked the wheel left and the Maserati slid sideways. The motion pulled his body, sending the newspaper and his letter jacket to the floor. Chase braced his arms, stomped on the brakes, and tried to correct the car.
The tires squealed, filling the morning quiet with a high-pitched violent protest that ended with a crash as the Maserati’s front end slammed into Cupid’s concrete pedestal
.
Metal crumpled. The airbag whooshed out. All the forces combined knocked Chase sideways across the bucket seats.
Cupid, with his twisted grin and basket of roses, hovered above him, peering down through the windshield. As if in sympathy, delicate petals fell from his basket, landing in artistic drops on the glass, like red tears. The petals rained down faster, a red blur preceding Cupid’s bow to gravity. The statue’s weight cracked the glass and shards of windshield spewed down into the front seat along with the red petals. Chase closed his eyes and threw an arm over his eyes to protect his vision. The glass fell for what seemed like minutes, but could only have been seconds, then he was left in silence. Silence and a pounding heart. He breathed in the morning humidity, and slowly lowered his arm.
His abdomen stung where the tip of Cupid’s arrow had pierced his shirt, pinning the fabric to the seat. But his wound was only a scrape, an uncomfortable pressure. Chase, ignored the dig of the stone arrow, the ripping of his shirt, and pushed himself out the passenger side.
Stupid arrow.
Stupid statue.
He kicked Cupid’s head for a final push to freedom, snatched up his jacket, and the
Houston Chronicle,
then patted the crumpled hood in apology before jogging up the drive to find Dad.
Dad was downstairs in his home office with his stepmom Nancy. He shuffled papers at his desk and greeted him without looking up. “What’s that noise? Did you take out one of the lawn gnomes again?”
Stupid gnomes.
If the gardener stopped moving them, he’d stop hitting them. Chase tossed the paper, still inside its damp morning plastic, onto the table by the door. He leaned against the doorjamb. “I missed the gnome, but I wrecked the Maserati on the statue.”
Dad’s head jerked up. “You all right?”
“Yeah, I--”
Nancy said, “He’s fine. You know he smashes my gnomes on purpose.” She slicked another coating of gloss over her inflated lips and asked Dad, “Did you re-print the airline tickets?”
