Fool Me Once Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Playlist

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Nikki Ash

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Fool Me Once

  Copyright © 2019

  Nikki Ash

  All rights reserved

  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 coincidental.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Editing by Emily Lawrence Editing

  Cover design by: Jersey Girl Designs

  Cover photograph by: Taylor Alexander Photography

  Cover models: Alexa Shuster and Alex Norris

  Dedication

  To Heather, this book wouldn’t have even been thought up without you. Thank you for your friendship.

  One Time- Justin Bieber

  Beauty and a Beat- Justin Bieber

  Eyes on You- Chase Rice

  I Don't Know About You- Chase Rice

  Close to Me- Ellie Goulding

  Love the Way You Lie- Eminem (feat. Rihanna)

  Tough to Tie Down-Jordan Davis

  Beautiful Lies-Jana Kramer

  No Promises- Cheat Codes

  Listen to the playlist here!

  Blakely

  “Hey, can you talk for a minute?” my sister, Sierra, asks from the doorway of the bedroom we share.

  I lower the book I’m reading to give her my attention, confused as to why she wants to talk to me. She never does. No matter how much I beg.

  “I was wondering if you have any plans for spring break,” she says, causing my heart to expand slightly in hope.

  Is it possible? Does she want us to go away together? Is she finally letting me back in?

  But then she adds, “Some friends are going to Cocoa Beach, and Jordan said I can’t go unless you go because I’m still underage,” and my expanded heart—and hope—shatters in my chest.

  I should’ve known better. Of course the only reason she would ask if I have any plans is because Jordan’s forcing her into a corner. And of all places, she wants me to go with her to the same beach our parents used to take us to, so she can party with her stoner, loser friends. Create new, shitty memories to replace the meaningful ones. She knows how much that place means to me. To us. Is she really that far gone? Yes, I remind myself. Yes, she is. And there’s nothing I can do. I’ve begged and pleaded. I’ve gotten mad and thrown things. But nothing I’ve done has gotten through to her. I keep telling myself all she needs is time, but it’s been two years and she’s still shutting me out.

  “No,” I say, choking the two letters out.

  “No, you don’t have plans?”

  “No, I’m not going to Cocoa Beach with you,” I clarify, raising my book back up so she can no longer see my face, and I don’t have to see hers.

  “You seriously can’t do me this one damn favor?” When I don’t answer, pretending to be engrossed in my story, her footsteps stomp across the room. Just as my eyes lift to see what she’s doing, she yanks my hardback copy of Wuthering Heights out of my hands and flings it across the room. It lands on the wood floor with a thud with the spine pointing up. The pages most likely now bent.

  Standing, I step into her space, so close our noses are almost touching. I put up with a lot of shit from her, but I will not tolerate her touching my things. “One, not getting your way doesn’t mean you get to lash out and mess with other people’s stuff.” Shoving her shoulder, I stalk past her to grab my book off the ground. When I open it, just as I suspected, several worn pages are now bent. With my back to her, I run my fingers along them to smooth out the corners before I close the book. I shouldn’t have taken it off my shelf. It’s too fragile. When Mrs. Barnes assigned it as the required reading over spring break, I should’ve checked out one of her copies, instead of telling her I have my own at home. If anything happened to this book, I don’t know what I’d do. I make a mental note to go by her class tomorrow to grab a copy.

  “And two.” I swivel around and glare at my sister, who at least has the decency to look sorry over throwing the book, now that she sees which book it is. “If you ever touch any of my damn books again, I’m going to destroy everything of yours that means anything to you.” I take a deep breath, holding back the tears, which are burning my lids and begging to surface. “You want to push me away and pretend you have no family left? I can’t stop you! We both know I’ve tried. But don’t mess with all I have left of our mother.”

  Sierra steps toward me, and for a split second I see the sister I used to know. Her caramel-colored eyes, the same ones as mine, go soft, and her pink, heart-shaped lips, which are almost identical to mine—except mine are a bit puffier—turn down into a frown.

  “I’m sorry,” she says softly, reminding me momentarily of the old version of my sister. The one who wore her heart on her sleeve and loved with every ounce of her being. “I didn’t realize it was one of Mom’s books. Is it okay?”

  “It’s fine.” I swallow the lump in my throat. Sierra might’ve let her guard down for a moment, but I know all too well it won’t stay that way. She just feels bad because these books are all I have left of our mother. Of our old life. In a minute, her guilt will pass, and she’ll raise her wall back up to protect her heart. “You better go let your friends know you won’t be going to Cocoa Beach.”

  “B, please!” she begs. “I’ll do whatever you want. It’s the last trip before everyone graduates!”

  I halt at her nickname for me as my heart fissures, remembering the day we came up with our nicknames—or I guess I should say, the day we stole them.

  We were in our early teens and watching Gossip Girl, one of our favorite shows to watch reruns of on Netflix. Sierra pointed out that our first names started with the same letters as Serena and Blaire, the main characters in the show.

  “They’re best friends just like we are. We should totally call each other S and B just like they do,” she said.

  “We’re more than best friends,” I pointed out. “We’re sisters.”

  “Best friends and sisters.”

  We spent the next ten minutes trying out our new nicknames, as if calling each other a single letter was the best thing in the world. At dinner that night, Sierra called out my new nickname when she ask
ed me to pass the rolls. When Mom asked where that came from, Sierra explained they were our new nicknames.

  “Should we start calling you S and B as well?” Mom asked with a smile, while Dad chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Nope,” Sierra told her. “They’re only for Blakely and me. It’s a sister-best friend thing.”

  “Blakely!” Sierra yells, bringing me back to the present. “I’ll clean our room and bathroom, and do the dishes for a month.”

  “Why would I agree to go to the beach with you for a week? For what? So you can party every night until you pass out with your loser friends? No, thank you.” My response is a mixture of anger, hurt, and jealousy. Anger because I hate what she’s doing to her life. Hurt because she either doesn’t see or care how much she’s hurting me. And jealousy because I miss my sister something fierce.

  “Two months,” she counters, ignoring my comment. “I’ll do both of our chores until you leave for college.” Until you leave for college. That one statement has me feeling as if my chest is caving in and crushing what’s left of my heart. Until now, she hadn’t verbally confirmed that she’s not planning to move with me. That would mean actually speaking to me. Something she avoids doing at all costs. Unless she needs something, like right now.

  Sierra never planned to go to college. Her dream is—or I guess was—to one day open a restaurant or a bar—she loves food and music and having a good time—and since she can do that just about anywhere, and we couldn’t stand the thought of being away from each other for four years, we always said wherever I went, she would go too. But that was before the accident. Now, she can’t stand being in the same room as me. She’s just trying to protect her heart, I remind myself. She still loves you. The bond we share is stronger than what tore us apart. It will get us through these hard times, and one day I’ll have my sister back.

  My eyes meet hers, and a silent plea crosses from her to me, and I know I’m going to give in. Not because I condone her partying and wasting her life away, but because at the end of the day, she’s still my sister and I love her. And deep down, I keep hoping she’ll stop pushing me away and let me back in.

  “Okay, I’ll go.” Maybe being at the same beach where we spent every spring break during our childhood will help her to remember all the good times we had before our world was destroyed. Maybe time at the beach will be what brings my sister back to me.

  “Thank you,” she says, not even questioning why I changed my mind. She doesn’t care. She just wants to get her way, so she can continue to spiral downward.

  “What hotel are we going to?” I ask, hoping it’s near where we used to stay with our parents.

  She darts her eyes all over the room and clears her throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “It’s not the hotel they used to bring us to.” She can’t even say ‘our parents.’ It’s too hard for her. I read online that everyone handles grief differently. Some people cling to their loved ones, while others push them away. I tried to cling, but Sierra pushed.

  “But it’s on the beach,” she continues, “and you can bring your book and spend the week reading. I promise everyone will leave you alone. We have to share a bed, since I didn’t have enough money to get a separate room, but you can have it. I’ll sleep on the couch or floor.”

  I nod robotically, biting down on my bottom lip to stifle the sob that’s threatening to release as I listen to Sierra promise that everyone will leave me alone. Meaning she’ll leave me alone. At one time, we would’ve been planning our week together, making a list of everything we wanted to do. We would’ve been ecstatic to share a bed so we could talk all night.

  “That’s fine,” I choke out. “Whatever you want to do is fine.” My voice cracks on the last word, my emotions getting the best of me. It’s been a while since I’ve let Sierra see my hurt. When I realized my emotions would only push her farther away, I started to hold it all in.

  Sierra’s brows furrow in what looks like concern, and for a moment I wonder if maybe she does still care. But then her phone rings, breaking the moment. She pulls it out of her back pocket and checks the screen. Her eyes flit from the phone to me like she’s warring with herself. I hold my breath, waiting to see what happens next.

  “It’s Imani. She’s picking me up to go to a party.” Imani is her best friend. She’s also the biggest slut at school, and is known to do drugs and drink until she passes out every weekend. Therefore, she’s the perfect friend for Sierra because she doesn’t have to actually be a friend. She doesn’t have to open her heart up to her. Their friendship is fake and superficial, exactly what Sierra wants because it’s safe.

  “Okay.” I nod once and walk out of the room.

  When I get to the kitchen, Jordan is standing at the sink, peeling potatoes. “Do you need any help?” I ask her. The door slams closed, indicating Sierra left, but neither of us acknowledges it. Jordan knows we’re not speaking, but she doesn’t get involved. It’s not her job. She also doesn’t know how hard Sierra likes to party. I considered telling her, but was afraid instead of getting her help, she’d kick us out.

  “That would be great, thanks.” She hands me the knife, so I can cut once she peels. “Did Sierra ask you about the beach?”

  “Yeah, I told her I’d go.”

  “I’m sorry to put you in that position.” Jordan glances over at me, her lips curving into an apologetic smile. “It’s just that she’s only seventeen…”

  “I know… I get it.” Jordan is our foster parent. She’s not the most nurturing, but when everyone else only had room for one teenager, she was willing to take us together.

  Because I’m eighteen, I’m no longer the state’s problem. But since Sierra and I are only ten months apart, and both graduating in less than two months, Jordan agreed to let me stay here until graduation.

  “If you need some money…”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m good, but thank you.” Because of me being eighteen, Jordan no longer gets any checks from the state to help support me. She insists on still covering all my living expenses, including food, which is more than she has to do. Not wanting to take advantage, I work at the local bookstore for anything extra I might need. In May, when we graduate, I’ll be heading to South Carolina to go to college. I was accepted for early admission, so I’ll be starting my summer classes the same week we graduate.

  Between my academic scholarship and financial aid, I’ll have everything covered, including my food and housing. I’ll even have a little extra left over, which will allow me to focus on school and not have to work.

  I’m assuming since Sierra is no longer planning to move with me, she’ll continue to live with Jordan until she turns eighteen in August and then I’m not sure what she’s going to do. I don’t even think she knows what she’s going to do.

  After we finish the potatoes, I excuse myself back to my room to read, and Jordan tells me she’ll let me know when dinner is ready. While I’m lost in the love triangle between Catherine, Heathcliff, and Edgar, my cell phone dings with an incoming text. Since I tend to keep to myself, I know without looking it’s Sierra. Setting my book down next to me, I grab my phone from the nightstand and read the text.

  S: We’re leaving early Saturday morning, and Imani is driving. She said it’s cool if you ride with us.

  I roll my eyes at her text. Being that neither of us has a car, and I’m only going for her, it’s kind of a given I would have to ride with her friends. I mean, how else would I get there? By cab? By foot?

  Not wanting to fight with her, I reply with an okay, then drop my phone back onto the nightstand. I pick my book back up, but I’m no longer in the mood to read. The thing I’ve learned about Wuthering Heights is that you have to be able to focus when you’re reading it. It was written in the eighteen hundreds and the language is hard to understand. It’s my first time reading it, so I’m finding I have to read each chapter a couple times to fully grasp what’s happening.

  When I flip through the pages to make sure they’re all intac
t from the earlier tumble, a small piece of paper falls out of one of the pages and onto my chest. My heart thumps against my ribcage as I open the paper to find my mom’s handwriting. When I read over it, I recognize it as a grocery list. Milk, eggs, chicken, juice, tomatoes… I scan down the list, stopping on the last item: almond soy milk.

  She must’ve used it as a bookmark, and based on the last item on her list, it had to have been just before the accident. Sierra was going through a dieting phase and insisted on only drinking almond soy milk. Nobody in the house liked it but her. Hell, I don’t even think she liked it, since the diet—and almond soy milk—only lasted a couple weeks. Wow! She must’ve been reading Wuthering Heights.

  Lying down, I bring the book to my chest, wishing for it to help me feel closer to my mom. God, I miss her so much. Every second of every day. It’s so unfair. She was this beautiful, vibrant woman, who didn’t deserve to have her life stolen from her. Especially by her selfish, lying, drunk of a husband.

  As the tears escape my eyelids, I hold the book tightly, allowing the small comfort of knowing this was possibly the last book she read before she left this earth, to lull me to sleep.

  Blakely

  “Hey, Blakely.”

  The voice comes from behind me, so I turn to find Brenton Davis walking over to me. Like me, he’s fairly new to the school, has only been here a few months, but unlike me—and more like my sister—he’s already found his place, which is at the top of the food chain. Football is over, but if it were still in full swing, he’d fit in perfectly with the jocks. Athletic, cocky, good-looking. Yet he also seems to fit in with the book nerds. He’s smart and takes his academics seriously. We have a couple AP classes together.

  “I heard you’re heading to the beach with everyone.” He stops in front of me and his lips curve into a million-megawatt smile.

  “Yep, I’ll be there.” I grab my books from my locker and slam it closed since it likes to stick. Today is the last day of school before spring break, so I’m bringing some stuff home with me to work on while we’re at the beach all week—including the copy of Wuthering Heights that Mrs. Barnes loaned me so I wouldn’t have to chance my mom’s copy at the beach.