Louder Than Words (Fall For Me)

LOUDER THAN
WORDS

(
a
Fall For Me novel)

By
Melanie Marks

Copyright
2014 Melanie Marks

Cover Image ©
iStockphoto.com
/
Geber86

All
Rights Reserved.

#Wars

Fall Forever

Finn’s
Fall

High School Boys

(It has book #2 of His Kiss)

CHAPTER 1

Furious, I text,
“Bring
me back my clothes. Now!!”

I’m in the school’s empty locker
room in only a towel, dripping wet. Freezing. And seething.

My nostrils flaring (probably), I
quickly text more,
“Blake, I
know
it was you. I SAW your smug face during swim
practice this morning. Bring. Them. Back. NOW!!”

Only
moments
later Blake texts back,
“I don’t have your clothes, Summer. Try the
thousands of other boys whose hearts you broke.”

I growl, making motions to throw my
phone. Only I don’t throw it.
‘Cause it’s my phone.

Shivering, I cringe realizing this
nightmare almost didn’t happen. I almost didn’t come to swim practice this
morning. Almost. I was so close to skipping it.
‘Cause
practice isn’t mandatory on Fridays.
Totally optional.
But I’d wanted to show Coach I’m as devoted to swimming as I am to
cheerleading. So I came. Then Coach didn’t even show.
Nor
most of the team.
Just a couple of guys.

So, I’d given myself a pep-talk.
‘At least I’ll have the girl’s locker room
all to myself,’
I told angry, tired me.

Seriously, at least there was that.
And I was actually sort of jazzed about it. A little bit.
To
have the outlets and a mirror all to myself.
(Silly, I know, but the
rest of the week I have to fight twenty [20!!] other girls for them. Twenty!!
All of us trying to get ready for school at the same time.
It’s a cutthroat madhouse.)

So, this morning when I hopped into
the locker-room shower, washing the pool’s chlorine out of my hair, I was
trying to be all upbeat, thinking: “Well, at least I’ll have the luxury of my
very own outlet to plug in my hairdryer.”

The thought didn’t exactly make up
for my lack of sleep this morning. But it was all I had, so I worked it. But
THEN!!! When I got out of my shower … my locker was empty. Empty!! Not one
scrap of clothes (or even my frickin’ hair dryer). Nothing!

I just had my phone ‘cause I took
it in the shower room with me so I could listen to my tunes in the shower. But
well, I couldn’t exactly
wear
my
phone, could I? I could only yell at my stalking ex-boyfriend, Blake, with
it—via text, ‘cause if I actually
called
him I’d get laryngitis from all my yelling.

“Blake—again—I know
it was you. First you steal my emails. Now you steal my clothes??? If you don’t
bring them back in the next three minutes you’ll be sorry.”

Blake smugly texts back:
“Sorry
how? … You’ll break up with me
?—
break my heart?
You’ve already done those things,
Summer
. You have
nothing else to threaten me with.”

I squeeze my phone, pretending it’s
Blake’s head.
“This is your last chance, buck-o. Are you bringing them back or not?”

“Not.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t.”

I crumble against my locker. I’m so
frustrated, I could scream. Or rip out all of my hair. (Well, Blake’s hair.)

Ugh! I’m close to crying. I won’t
do it, of course. Break down and cry. But Blake is seriously making my life
unbearable. He’s hacked into my computer many, many times—changed
passwords, stolen emails. (My advice
?—
never date
a computer geek … unless you have another one around to save you after the one
you dated goes berserk after you break up with him. And if you have a spare one,
don’t
date HIM or you’re
screwed. Like me.)

Ugh!!! School is going to be
starting soon.

I text my best friend, Zoey, asking
her to bring me some clothes, praying she gets my message on time.
Or at all.
I love the girl, but she has a habit of not
charging her phone. It’s enough to make me scream,
‘Just plug it in every night before you go to bed!’

Okay, I’ve screamed it at her a
couple of times. Emergencies come up where you need your best friend—like
when you get your clothes stolen.

She texts back,
“I’m
running late. But I have a spare outfit in my locker. Help yourself.”

Thank goodness!!

Ha-ha,
Blake!!
Zoey has way better clothes than me, so really—the joke’s on
him. Well, anyway, the joke kind of
backfired
on him. At least there’s that, right? Right???

I do Zoey’s combo, which I know by
heart, because she’s my girl. But then when I see her “spare” outfit, I about
have a meltdown. Not that the outfit isn’t attractive. It is. Big time. But now
I remember what it’s here for. It’s her giving-Riley-a-smile-outfit.
I mean, the outfit is … hot.
It’s a mini (not
super
short, actually [just letting you
know that]), but she wears it with these long, sexy boots.
‘Heart stomper boots,’
her boyfriend, Riley, calls them.

The boots get Riley to do whatever
Zoey wants.
Not that he doesn’t do that anyway.
Riley
is a sucker for Zoey. Always has been.
But with the boots?
He dissolves.

Slowly, slowly, I pull the boots
out of Zoey’s locker, wincing as I do it.

Great. This is so not what I
need—a jaw dropper outfit. Not at this moment in my high school career. I
mean
,
I’ve had enough drama with boys lately to last
me until I’m thirty. Seriously. Boys are crazy.

‘Well,
anyway
,’ I think as I hike the boots on, ‘
this’ll show Blake he didn’t win. That I’m not in any sort of panic or
despair over his stupid prank.’

In fact, instead of being able to
gloat about a victory, he’ll be eating his heart out. Big time. ‘Cause I
guarantee it, this look will make him drool. Only, unfortunately, it will also
make the rest of the male population at our school drool. And like I said, I
don’t exactly need that. Or want it. Ugh! Oh well, it’s not like I have a
choice—it’s either this, or the towel. (And the towel would let Blake
think he won.)

The thing is, though—I’m
curvier than Zoey. Wayyy curvier. So, what looks innocent and sweet and fun on
Zoey, looks, well—not sweet and innocent on me. It looks sexy. Bordering
on yowza. And makes it look like I want attention from guys. Which, believe me,
I don’t. I get way too much of it these days as it is.
Way
too much.

So, I look in the mirror and
shudder, knowing I’m in for a long day.

I plug in Zoey’s
blow-dryer
and I’m messing with my hair, giving it an ultra-body, sexy look to go with my
outfit. (‘Cause, well, if you’re going to go hot—make it burn, right?) All
the while, I’m fantasizing ways to get back at Blake. I mean, besides just
making him drool, ‘cause really I don’t want to do that. You know, since he’ll
like it. Instead, I want to make him see stars—from being knocked out, or
I want to blow things up … like his computer … or his head.

As I’m fantasizing that
stuff—violence—I get another text. This one’s not from Blake
though. Supposedly. The name and number come up as “Blocked.” The message says,
“Missing
something?”

I blink, staring the text. I’m
thinking:
Yeah, my clothes
.

Oh!

A chill runs down my spine as a
scary thought crosses my brain.

Suddenly, I’m wondering if the text
is actually related to this somehow—me missing my clothes.

I swallow down bile.
No. No way.

Still, I suck in my breath. And for
a second close my eyes. Then with trembling fingers I finally, hesitantly click
on the attachment that came with the text.

Oh
man
.

My stomach rolls.

I have to grip the sink for support
to keep from doing
a nose-dive
.

The attachment is a picture of me.

At my locker.

Wet and naked.

CHAPTER 2

Okay, just to be clear—in the
picture you can “tell” I’m naked. But you can’t actually “see” anything.
Not exactly.
The “view” is partially obscured by my open
locker door.

What I mean is, in the picture, my
locker door is open, partially blocking my body.
The major
stuff.
But, you get a “partial view”—which is way, way too much. I
mean
,
there’s a lot of skin.

I freak out.

And quickly text “anonymous.”
“You’re
so dead.”

The “person”—(Blake!!)—
quickly
types back.
“You’re so NAKED.”

Then he types,
“I could send this picture to the
whole school.”

“Do it and you’re even more
dead.”

He types: “
You think you’re so hot…. Seems
like you want me to send it.”

I text back:
“Seems like you want your face
smashed in.”

“Ohhh Summer, you’re going to get
what’s coming to you.”

My stomach falls to the ground.

I stare at the message, my heart
slamming against my chest. This really doesn’t sound like Blake. I mean
,
he’s truly gone off the deep end. Sure, he steals my
emails … and my clothes.
But taking pictures and
THREATENING
me???
He’s turned off
of Stalker Boulevard and on to Psycho Street.

“No, YOU’RE going to get what’s
coming to you!”

Shivering, I click off my phone.
Sort of terrified he means what he said—that
he’ll
send the picture out—to the whole school. But what’s just as
terrifying—or actually even way
MORE
terrifying is that he had been here—in the locker room. And had seen me naked.
And snapped a PICTURE of me naked.

The thought sends a shudder through
me.

Oh,
he is so dead!!!

CHAPTER 3

I storm out of the locker room.
Well, half-storm … but half-run. I mean, I’m mad.
Of course.
But I’m also scared. Scared the crazy psycho is still in the locker room with
me.

Until I got that dirty picture from
him, I just thought of Blake as a nuisance.
Very, extremely
annoying.
But fairly harmless.
Fairly.
Just your normal run of the mill stalker.
Pretty much. I
mean, sure he’s creepy. No doubt about it. (Though I strangely used to think he
was cute. I mean, before the stalking.)

But he’s definitely a proven
bona-fide psychopath stalker. Besides the fact he keeps hacking into my email
account and stealing messages to me from boys and friends—mostly boys.
Now he’s taking dirty pictures of me???
And
THREATENING
me?
Well, it’s too
much.
Way, way,
WAYYY
too much.
He has to be stopped. Right this second. But I don’t know how
to make him do that—how to make him stop … but Mason will. Mason
can
.

Mason is my secret weapon.

CHAPTER 4

I clomp around the school hallways
in my heart-stomper boots getting whistles (not even kidding) and leers and
risqué remarks from boys (some playful, some I’m not so sure) but I ignore them
all. I’m on a mission, hunting up my secret weapon, my ex-step-brother, Mason
Archer. (AKA: trouble.)

When we were in eighth grade,
Mason’s dad was married to my mom for about ten minutes. (Well, actually I
guess it was a little, tiny bit longer than that.
But not
much.
They didn’t even make it to their one-year anniversary.) But
anyway, Mason became dear to my heart during that short time.
Ultra-special and important and everything like that.
But
now … well, now we never talk. Ever. It breaks my heart, but … yeah, we stay
away from each other.

Anyway, when I’m almost to Mason’s
locker, I start getting trailed (and harassed) by one of Mason’s hockey
teammates, Jake Edwards. The guy is huge. And a loud-mouthed ruckus-maker (that
some girls fawn over for some reason. I have absolutely no idea why). The guy
makes my skin crawl.

“Heyyy, looking good, Summer.” Somehow
Jake backs me up against the nearest wall of lockers, getting way, way too
close.

I push at him, more annoyed than
anything else—though I have to say, big guys scare me. Especially when
they get too close—and back me against things.
My nerves
fray.

I clench my teeth and order (though
it sounds more like a yelp), “Get away from me, Jake.”

“Just admiring the view up close,”
he drawls, his gaze dripping down my body.
Gag
.

Immediately, he’s jerked away from
me—violently—by Mason.

“That’s my sister, Jake,” Mason
growls, sounding like
Watch it or I’ll
pound you to the ground.

Jake grins sheepishly, since he’s
been told by Mason many times to stay away from me.
Far away.
Jake juts his chin about the sister-thing (‘cause it’s not quite technically
true anymore), “Yeah, but she’s still hot, dude.”

“Still my sister.” Mason’s rough
growl has a dangerous edge to it—so not fooling around. (He’ll beat a guy
to a pulp for me—I’ve seen him do it. Many times. But like I said, we
never talk anymore. Ever.)

Mason pulls me with him towards his
locker with one hand, while using the other to shove Jake warningly (since
Jake’s somewhat trailing us and still eyeing me like I’m a piece of candy he wants
to devour). Mason’s eyes are an inferno. “Don’t look at her. Back off.”

We get to Mason’s locker, and he shoves
it open. For a minute it’s like I’m not even here. Then, without looking at me,
Mason says, “Summer, what do you need?”

That’s not the nicest greeting. It
squeezes at my heart, since we used to be so close. I purse my trembling lips.
“Can’t I just come here to talk?”

His eyes flicker to me a moment.
Then he shuts his locker with a throaty grunt. “You can. But I know you didn’t.
What do you need?”

I twirl my hair nervously. Something
I do a lot when I’m around Mason. ‘Cause he gets me all stirred up. He’s gruff
at times—achingly gentle at others. And he’s ripped and hot … and not
really my brother. Not really my anything anymore. (Just my secret weapon …
that I try to never, ever use. Ever. ‘Cause he’s a weapon of mass-destruction.)

I wet my lips, still twirling my
hair. “What makes you think I need something?”

He eyes my twirling,
then
his stare drags back to mine. “Because you wouldn’t
even be talking to me unless you needed something.”

Heat rips through me. Because what
he says is completely true. I try to avoid him these days. I do. Mason is
trouble. But now I seem to be
in
trouble and it seems Mason is my only answer.

I draw out a long breath, then
stammer out,
“Okay, yeah.
I need a favor.”

His eyes wash over me again, not
like before, when he was trying to do it subtly. Now he does it blatantly. Sparks
flicker in his eyes. “Did you dress like that for me?”

I gasp.
“What
?!
”

His eyes meet mine. “Did you put
that outfit on thinking: ‘
I’m going to
ask Mason for a favor
’?”

My jaw drops. “No!!”

He leans back against his locker
and closes his eyes. “Just checking.” Without opening them he asks again, “What
do you need, Summer?”

I hesitate—for a long
moment—then grimace. “Can you beat up someone for me?”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug.
Totally matter-of-factly, though kind of curious sounding, since I don’t
usually ask for that kind of favor.

His brow lowers. “Who?”

“Blake Johnson.”

Mason blinks, like he’s surprised.
Since Blake is known more as a computer geek than someone who needs his butt
kicked. But then Mason shrugs again like, whatever. “Where is he?”