Smut: A Standalone Romantic Comedy Read online

  Smut

  A Romantic Comedy

  Karina Halle

  First edition published by

  Metal Blonde Books May 2016

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either 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.

  Copyright © 2016 by Karina Halle

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Hang Le Designs

  Edited by Kara Maclinczak

  For Scott and Bruce, the biggest dorks I know

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Amanda

  2. Blake

  3. Amanda

  4. Blake

  5. Amanda

  6. Blake

  7. Amanda

  8. Blake

  9. Amanda

  10. Amanda

  11. Blake

  12. Amanda

  13. Blake

  14. Amanda

  15. Blake

  16. Amanda

  17. Blake

  18. Amanda

  19. Blake

  20. Amanda

  21. Blake

  22. Amanda

  Epilogue

  STAY IN TOUCH

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Karina Halle

  Prologue

  Amanda

  New Year’s Eve

  “You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” Alan says as he leans in to place a soft kiss on my cheek.

  I pull back and eye him warily. “Ravishing? What are you, a duke all of a sudden?”

  His blue eyes turn strangely shy and he averts them from my face, clearing his throat. In the background, the music seems to build as happy couples dance to and fro. “I’ll get us another drink,” he says quickly.

  I frown as I watch him go, cutting across the dance floor and nodding at our friends. Ironically, Alan’s family is so wealthy that I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that somewhere along the line he’s related to a duke. It would explain why he walks around like he’s got a stick up his ass (hey, I’m dating the guy, I’m allowed to make fun of his posture. If he stood up any straighter, he’d be mistaken for a tree).

  Still, he’s been acting weird the whole damn night. I know it’s New Year’s Eve and all, which has always been a rather big deal for us, but even so, Alan Kingston is normally smooth and unflappable. It’s one of the reasons why we work so well together—I’m the (hidden) hurricane and he’s the calm. Tonight, there’s something a little bit off that has me, well, really wanting another glass of champagne. Or ten.

  The winter storm isn’t helping my nerves either. Outside, the wind batters the large floor-to-ceiling windows, causing them to rattle and shake. People let out little ooohs, coupled with nervous giggles as the rain pelts against the panes, like someone is throwing wet rocks. It’s also completely black outside which adds to the uneasiness. Beyond the stately lodge you know the beach is getting absolutely pounded by the ocean—you can feel the vibrations every now and then, even if you can’t see the angry waves.

  Tofino has always been one of my favorite spots, even though I’ve only been to the sleepy surfing town a few times in my life, so naturally when Alan said we were doing our annual New Year’s Eve party here, I jumped at the chance. Over the last four years I’ve been with Alan, we’ve done New Year’s Eve in a cabin on Mount Washington, in the streets of Vancouver, on the beach in Mexico, and now at one of the most beautiful resorts on Vancouver Island, famed for storm watching in the winter, and surfing and whale watching in the summer.

  Because last New Year’s Eve down in Los Cabos was so quiet and intimate, I was kind of shocked that he wanted to invite not only every single friend of ours, but his parents too. That set off a few warning bells that I really should have addressed because now I’m standing here, watching him get champagne from the waiter, and I’m deathly afraid of what’s going to happen when he returns.

  You know when you just get a feeling about something, and even if it’s something you won’t let yourself think about, it still festers somewhere inside you? I’m starting to feel as gnawed up as a rotten log.

  “Amanda,” Sarah Price says to me from behind.

  I let out a sigh of relief, eager for the distraction, and turn around, smiling at her.

  Sarah is a striking girl, tall and slender, with skin like polished marble and hair that flows like fields of silken wheat all the way to her waist. Her eyes are a rich, dark brown, shining like coffee. I know I’m going a bit purple prose over one of my oldest friends, but hey, it’s what I do.

  Tonight she’s wearing a rather daring dress, a low cut black velvet gown that clings to her slight curves, giving her the appearance of an old-fashioned mannequin. She’s turning heads as usual, even though we’re pretty much around the same people here as we have been since high school. It amazes me that she’s managed to stay single for so long. I know she says she’s picky, but there’s a world of guys out there that would give their left nut (and maybe their right one) to be with her. Sometimes I wonder how I might have turned out if I had stayed picky too. I’d be single…but would I be happy? It’s something else that I don’t dare think about.

  “I haven’t seen you all night,” she says. “How are you?”

  I shoot her a placating smile and run my hand over my updo, making sure it’s all in place. It’s true I haven’t really said anything other than hello to her tonight, and over the last few months I’ve talked to her less and less. I still consider her a great friend, probably my closest one in some ways. But even though we come from similar families and were raised pretty much the same way, ever since I started university, I’ve felt this fissure between us. I’m sure this continental drift is natural when you’re twenty-one and figuring shit out, but I’m becoming more and more aware of it.

  And it’s not just Sarah. It’s everything, including Alan and this party that we’re at. Once upon a time, these people were my world, but as time flies by, they’re starting to feel like strangers, and this world seems less like my own and more like a cocoon I’m supposed to shed.

  But lord knows with my parents, shedding anything they’ve brought upon me is next to impossible.

  Still I say, “I’m good. It’s kind of fun with this storm, eh?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Fun? It’s frightening.”

  “Yeah, but being frightened is fun,” I tell her. “Remember when we used to go on night hikes and I would take off with the flashlight and leave you alone in the dark?”

  “Oh yeah, real fun,” she says dryly. “You were the cruelest child, you know that? Scarred me for life.”

  I can’t help but smirk. “Oh come on, that’s why you liked me. Everyone else was too boring.”

  “Everyone else was normal,” she says and then blinks, as if catching herself saying the wrong thing.

  I’m not offended. I know that out of everyone in my private school for rich bitches and the silver spoon elite, I was the resident weirdo. I tried to hide it, and still do, lest I risk the look of utter disappointment on my mother’s face every time I slip into geekdom.

  “Well, normal is overrated,” I say. What I really want to do is open the giant glass doors and run out on the deck and into the storm, letting the rain ruin my makeup and hair and dress. I want to feel fucking alive from my fingers to my toes—I want to capture the lightning and hold it in my chest until I burst.

  “Are you okay?” Sarah asks, putting her hand on my shoulder.<
br />
  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re crying.”

  I frown, and only then do I notice her face is starting to blur. I thought maybe it was her airbrushed foundation, but no, it’s tears smearing my vision.

  “Argh,” I growl, and shove my finger into my eye. “It’s these damn contacts.”

  I normally wear glasses for my nearsightedness but Alan insisted I wear contacts tonight. I rarely wear them, so my eyes seem to reject them every second, and it could be one reason I’m feeling out of sorts. With my glasses I almost feel like I have a persona, like Clark Kent. Without them, I’m exposed.

  “I thought you were getting sentimental,” she says, and after I blink a few times and my vision clears, I notice this strange twinkle in her eye, a devious slant to her mouth.

  I swallow thickly, my gut all frothy again.

  “No,” I say slowly. “Over what?”

  “No reason,” she says, looking back to Alan who is gabbing with his father. The two of them both look my way and nod at the same time, like fucking robots. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Sarah nod to them and raise her drink.

  There’s something going on here. It’s in the air and it’s changing, and it isn’t the storm at all.

  Oh god, please don’t let tonight be that night.

  But you know it’s coming, I tell myself. You know he asked you what size ring you wear.

  “Oh god,” I whisper, my stomach turning into a whirlpool.

  “What?” Sarah asks.

  I look at her, pained. “What do you know?”

  “Huh?”

  “What do you know?” I hiss. “Sarah. You’re terrible at secrets. What do you know?”

  She gives me a funny look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But there’s a warble in her voice, an uncertainty. She knows something. “I have to go to the washroom. Excuse me.”

  I watch as she quickly walks off.

  Shit.

  I take in a deep breath, trying to fight the nausea, my hands wrapping around my stomach. My nickname in high school, aside from Amanda Panda, Lord of the Geeks, and Tits McGee, was Sir Pukes-A-Lot. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a sir. I still got sick every time I got really nervous, which led to many embarrassing moments during presentations, PE, and drama class. Clearly, having such a nightmare-worthy reflex defined my awkward teenage years, though I haven’t puked in an awkward situation in a really long time, and I desperately want to keep it that way.

  I wonder if I need to escape to the washroom to splash some cold water on my face, but before I can, Alan approaches me with the champagne.

  “Here we go,” he says, smiling at me with sparkling white teeth and handing me the glass.

  I hesitate, afraid to take it, afraid I won’t be able to grip the stem and it will shatter at my feet.

  “You all right?” he asks in that gentle, sweet way of his, and I try and let the familiarity ease me back to normal.

  I nod and grab the glass, taking a tepid sip. I can barely taste anything right now, but at least it should help with the bile.

  Deep breaths, stay cool, I tell myself as I meet his eyes.

  “Guess the storm has me on edge,” I tell him, watching him carefully. “You seem on edge too.”

  His eyes widen, brows pulled to the ceiling. “I do?” he practically squeaks. “No, no, not at all…I just…” He licks his lips and looks behind him at his dad who is now standing by a lectern that seems to have come from out of nowhere. His dad gives a barely imperceptible nod of his head.

  Oh shit.

  Alan turns back to face me. “Amanda,” he says, voice soft and full of something that sounds like hope. My gut clenches. “Just stay right here. Don’t move.”

  Oh god.

  He walks over to the lectern. Someone turns down the music. The lights dim. People stop dancing.

  I’m frozen in place. Stay right here? I couldn’t even run, even if I wanted to, even if I needed to upchuck in the toilet.

  Oh god, please, please don’t puke, I tell myself. Please don’t let this be what I think it is.

  Alan picks up the microphone, tapping it.

  “Testing,” he says, his voice way too loud and crackly over the speakers. “Sorry, sorry everyone. I know midnight isn’t for another hour, but I was wondering if I could have your attention.”

  Fuuuuuuuuck.

  I glance around and see everyone either looking at Alan or looking at me. His parents, dressed in their finest and wearing expressions that only sun exposure and plastic surgery can bring, are watching me. So is Alan. So is Sarah, who is coming through the crowd, giving me an exaggerated thumbs up as she takes her place among everyone else.

  “You see,” Alan goes on, “tonight isn’t just New Year’s Eve. It’s the fourth anniversary for Amanda and me. It’s a special night, one we usually celebrate by ourselves, so you’re probably wondering why I invited you all here to share in the night with us. I mean, other than the fact that we adore your company.”

  He flashes his smile at the room and some people chuckle. Lame asses.

  “Well,” he says, “I have an explanation. But it’s not for you. It’s for my shining star. My beautiful Amanda Panda Bear.” He gestures to me, and I swear I can hear the sound of thirty heads swiveling at once.

  I don’t know how I paste a smile on my face, but I do, even though the room is starting to spin and my head feels like it’s being put through an acidic spin cycle.

  This isn’t going to end well.

  Then, to my complete surprise, he steps away from the lectern, the microphone going with him. Piano music starts tinkling and he begins to sing.

  Sing.

  “I remember all my life,” he croons, wiggling his brow even as a drop of sweat rolls down. “Raining down as cold as ice.”

  Holy fuck. Is he singing “Mandy” by Barry Manilow?

  Alan comes closer, gliding toward me like he’s rehearsed this a thousand times, and then it occurs to me that it’s Alan, of course he’s rehearsed this a thousand times—he rehearses what he says to his parents before we roll up to their house every Sunday dinner.

  I mean, never mind the fact that he can sing, which is something else I had zero idea about.

  I’ve been with Alan for four years. I’ve lived with him for one. And I knew him for two years before that. I should be surprised that I didn’t know this about him, but the fact is, I’m not surprised at all. Because I don’t really know him. And he doesn’t really know me. And that’s why I know this whole evening, this whole horrible event flashing before my blurry eyes, is one huge mistake I’m going to have to deal with. Hopefully without tears or a side of vomit.

  I’m standing in the middle of what looks to be an epic proposal to a man that I love but don’t want to marry. Alan Kingston is the man my parents wanted for me. He’s the man that most women want for themselves. He’s smart, wealthy, sophisticated, loyal, good-looking, and kind. He’s the reason my mother looks at me with less disappointment, he’s the reason I’m treated with more respect by our peers, why we can get reservations at any restaurant, why I know I don’t have to work a day in my life if that’s what I choose. He’s the reason I should be about to break down in happy tears, overwhelmed with joy over the life we’re about to spend together, that he’s picking me, Amanda Tits McGee Newland, over everyone else. He’s picking the weirdo with her secret hopes and dreams.

  But it’s because of those hopes and dreams and everything that makes me tick that I know I can’t say yes. Because a life with him isn’t the life I want. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m young, so young, and I don’t even know who I really am. All I know is the person I am currently doesn’t want the life my parents have tried so hard to carve out for me. It wants something completely different. It wants to be free.

  Calm down, I tell myself, swallowing the brick in my throat. He might not be proposing anyway.

  Alan drops to both knees and actually slides toward me, microphone crammed drama
tically against his mouth as he leans back, eyes closed, and belts, “Oh, Mandy! You came and you gave without taking!”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. I’m doomed.

  It’s my fault, really. I’d been feeling trapped and claustrophobic for at least the last six months, and I’ve just been too much of a lazy chicken shit to deal with the problem. Besides, the unhappiness has been really good for my novel. It allows me to live in that fantasy world completely and without any guilt. I’m not sure I could actually write if I was happy.

  Well, you’re not going to be happy after this.

  I attempt to swallow again, my heart and lungs and stomach all doing a conga line inside me. My face is red hot and flushed. Everyone is staring at me, and I can’t stop staring at Alan, who is singing with both so much cheese and sincerity that I just want to melt right down into the floor.

  He finishes the song on his knees, down by my feet, and when it’s over and the music turns off and the room comes to a hush, I know he’s not getting back up.

  This is happening.

  He grabs my hand and I have to fight the urge to pull it away. He stares at me, but I’m not sure if he’s really seeing me at all, if he ever saw me, because my eyes are begging, pleading, for him not to do this.

  Don’t make me break your heart. Not here, not now.

  Oh, I’ve been such an idiot.

  “Amanda Rose Newland,” he says to me into the microphone, so I guess he’s saying it to everyone else too. “When I first met you, you were this strange, strange girl with your glasses and your nose in a book, always reading on the sidelines or spending hours in the library.” There are a few titters in the crowd, everyone clearly picturing that girl. “You had this ability to talk about characters in books and TV shows and movies like they were real, like they were your friends. You could spout random knowledge about trees and animals and countries like your brain housed an encyclopedia. I didn’t know what to do with someone like you, but I was charmed by the beauty beneath your brains.”