Good Girl (Playroom)
Read Good Girl (Playroom) Online
Authors: Erica Chilson
Good Girl
Copyright © 2013
Erica Chilson
First Edition
: January 2013
Revised Edition: July 2013
License Notice:
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Publisher Notice:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Disclaimer
This is a work of erotic fiction. The author does not endorse nor condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel may contain explicit sexual situations that include but are not limited to, dubious consent, BDSM activities, bisexual acts, ménage, and multiple partners. If any of the above mentioned acts offend, please do not read. Readers, please play safely, responsibly, and consensually.
Titles by Erica Chilson
Erotica:
Mistress and Master of Restraint
series order
Restraint
Unleashed
Dexter
Dalton
Queen Omnibus*
Jaded*
Queened*
Checkmate*
King
Faithless
The Hunter (coming fall 2013)
Silenced (coming winter 2013
Integrated (coming winter 2013/2014)
The Playroom
Good Girl
Widow
Wayward (coming winter 2014)
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you to my Beta readers and my Readers. Your thoughts and observations are invaluable. ((Hugs)) Kris D, Amber D, Sass A, & Cassie H.
I love hearing from readers.
Please contact me via email:
[email protected]
Good Girl was written for fun. The first in a new series is an exploration. I was stressed while trying to write Queen’s omnibus edition. I took a step back, and Good Girl was born. Writing new without the rules, timelines, and structure of a series is a breath of fresh air. I never know where my story will take me. Good Girl was meant to be a short story, maybe a novella, and it has grown to a full-length novel with the possibility of a series. I hope you enjoy experiencing a walk in 18 year-old Willow Prynne’s scuffed sneakers.
This is a love story- learning to love yourself.
If you love the dynamic of the Playroom, let me know. Sometimes the biggest motivator for an author is fans screaming for more…
Table of Contents:
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Forty-Five
~
Chapter One~
“Mr. Kline,” I say to my boss as I whirl into
Revamped.
The store is warm and cozy, but the chill followed me in, along with a healthy dose of snow.
“Willow,” Mr. Kline
chastises me. “Me- Auggie. You- Willow,” he says caveman-style by pointing at his chest, and then mine. I can’t help but giggle at the display. His hearty, deep laugh makes him look like a gigantic teddy bear.
“It just feels strange c
alling you by your first name, sir.” I dramatically sigh when the heavy weight of my puffy coat is lifted from my shoulders. Mr. Kline tugs it down my arms and stows it under the counter.
I’ve worked at
Revamped
for a couple of months, basically since I graduated high school. There aren’t many options for a girl who falls in the middle. I wasn’t an athlete or a geek. I wasn’t an artist or a musician. I didn’t shake my pom-poms along with my ass. I was a good girl who got good grades and kept her mouth shut. I didn’t date my high school sweetheart and promptly get married the second I was handed my diploma. I’m not shiny enough to attract notice, nor dark enough to be a problem.
I don’
t have a tragic story that I sob about. My daddy didn’t leave us destitute and I’m not a victim of a bad neighborhood. I am middle-America, middle of the road, middle class girl with both parents fussing over their youngest daughter, who has no aspirations or goals. I have every opportunity to succeed- supportive parents, stability, and a strong upbringing. I’m wayward and everyone looks at me like I’m an alien.
My philosophy
: how should I know what I want to do with the rest of my life the day I graduate? How am I supposed to know the second I turn eighteen what I am destined to become? One moment you are a disillusioned seventeen-year-old with the world at your fingertips and the next, congratulations, you’re eighteen and you’re on your own.
“Don’t call me s
ir,” Mr. Kline says with a shudder. He really hates it when the sirs pop out my mouth. He always winces in pain.
“Sorry! S
orry!” I rapidly spit. “I can’t help it. It’s hard to break twelve years of conditioning. I see an adult and they are sir or ma’am. I still can’t believe that I’m an adult. It’s surreal.” I apologetically smile at my boss. “I’ll get to work. Go on and create.” My hands seek out Mr. Kline’s broad back and forcefully shove him into the back of the store where he spends his days. His warm laughter bubbles up his chest and vibrates against my palms. I rub the pleasant sensation away on my jean-clad thighs.
Mr. Kline- Auggie is a graphic artist. He had goals and aspirations when he graduated. He was the geek and the arti
st when he was growing up. He opened
Revamped
when he was only twenty with the money he earned selling comics at conventions. He isn’t wayward like me.
Revamped
is like me. It’s a quirky store filled with used everything- books, movies, old magazines, records, CDs and video games, comics, toys, and eclectic whatnots. We buy and sell anything that appeals to Mr. Kline. We offer new items that are exclusive to local artists. Mr. Kline’s designs are front and center. My brother’s works are here as well.
My brother Robbie
isn’t wayward, either. He’s an artist. Robbie makes my parents proud. He’s the middle child and I’m the baby. Every family dynamic is the same- the oldest is a type-a personality, the middle is artistic and emotional, the youngest is labeled lazy and uninspired as they live in their parents’ basement and mooch… I don’t actually live in the basement, but it’s close enough.
My sister is seventeen
years older than me and Robbie is ten years older than me. I was a menopause baby- a huge freaking surprise. After raising my siblings, my parents didn’t have the energy to inspire me. I grew like my namesake- I flowed in the wind. My sister is strong and resilient like her namesake- Clover. Nothing kills that shit in the lawn. No weed killer is strong enough for the force of Clover and neither were my parents. Clover thinks she’s my mother and she’s a pain in my ass.
My parents weren’t born in the right generation
. They were one decade too early to be hippies, but they succeeded by naming us cheesy names. I’m thankful I won the lottery of names from nature. Poor Robbie- Robin… yeah, he got beat up a lot.
And that
is where Mr. Kline came into our lives. My boss is Robbie’s best friend, and that is the only reason I got this job. I didn’t even earn this. It was handed to me like everything else. I’m good at it though because I don’t want to disappoint and I am thankful. It’s not like it’s all that difficult- a monkey could do it. Even I’m not a complete dipshit.
It’s early in the day. We don’t open until eleven a
.m. and we close at six p.m. There isn’t a huge market for the kind of stuff we sell. I think we buy more than we sell- inside the store anyway. Mr. Kline is allowing me to do online auctions for some of our more valuable merchandise. See- I’m not a moron.
I grab a random CD fr
om the shelf and its digitalized sound floods the store. “Good choice,” Mr. Kline’s deep voice resonates from the back of the shop. He chuckles, and it’s a nice sound- happy and sweet. “Isn’t this before your time?”
“You know I’m a random selector,” I laugh back at him. I don’t know who is singing but the lyrics are a trip-
cat scratch fever
… what the hell is that? Is it a real thing?
My eyes keep track of an auction ticking its time away on the screen of the laptop while I tidy up the store. It’s hypnotic and completely distracting. I barely dust a square inch before I refresh the browser to see if the bid went up. I snap the laptop shut and growl at it in frustration.
My sneakers had left tiny puddles from the front door to the counter. I grab a hand towel and crouch to swipe them up while humming to that ridiculously infectious song.
“Ow!” I hiss as the front door beams me in the head
and its bell dings for an eternity. I sit on the heels of my Converse and rub the goose-egg that’s forming.
“Oh, shit! I’m sorry,” a husky male voice spews in a panic.
“I didn’t see you down there.” I stare wide-eyed at the boy who’d hit me with the door. The blond and blue-eyed crush I’ve had since grade school. The boy every girl wants. The type of boy that never gave me the time of day. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve always had a thing for the quarterback- total cliché. I know he’s probably a dickwad with the conversational skills of wet cotton, but he is a fantasy. Kieren is a very gorgeous, boy-next-door fantasy.
