Keeping Her: The HEA Collection Read online

  KEEPING HER

  (HEA Collection)

  Rena Marks

  18+ ONLY

  The story depicted here is intended for mature audiences. It most likely contains coarse language and highly graphic depictions of sex acts meant to titillate and excite the reader. All copulating characters are 18 years or older.

  That being said, have fun!

  KEEPING HER

  Rena Marks

  My little sister Molly’s best friend has moved in with us for a year while she finishes high school. I had no idea the drama whispered between the two was real and Rachel was a real life, effing Cinderella.

  Now Molly’s gone off to college, and Rachel thinks it’s time for her to move on. But she has so much more to learn and school isn’t the only place to learn from. She has no idea I’m keeping her.

  Forever.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Rena Marks

  Chapter One

  “You know what they did to Rachel?” My little sister’s voice is outraged, as it usually is when she speaks of her new friend. They met last year when Rachel moved here, and spent nearly every day together during the summer. Well, as many days as they could, because according to Molly, Rachel’s parents are horribly abusive religious nuts and keep her chained to the kitchen, cooking and cleaning to make them look good in the cult-like church they attend.

  I figure going to church once in a while might have helped us.

  I’m six years older than Molly, and this is her senior year in high school. The only reason why we’re still in this podunk mountain town of Colorado is because I didn’t want to make too many changes too soon. Our parents died four years ago, leaving me and Molly right after I finished college. I sold the well established and paid-for house—thankfully, prices had soared ridiculously in Boulder County—for a cool four million.

  After that, I turned around and bought us a mountain home out of the city limits for pennies compared to the huge amount in my bank account, and invested the rest after using a small amount to start up my own app company.

  Molly has no idea how much we have, especially since I threw myself into my own company—and I’d like to keep it that way. I’d like for her to keep the cool head she’s always shown. And I’d like for her to have a normal life, not one of jet setting and designer clothes and worrying which boy likes you for you and which one likes you for your billionaire status.

  Nah, we’re not gonna live like that.

  I realize vaguely that Molly’s still waiting for my response.

  “What did they do to Rachel?” While we’d moved to Gilpin County a few years earlier, Rachel had just moved here last year from a southern town about three hours away. It was a horribly unfair move, Molly explained in her dramatic tone. Rachel had come home from school one day to find all her furniture and belongings packed up in a pickup truck with her mother standing on the front lawn with a stranger she’d just married.

  “Get in,” her mother had barked to Rachel. “I married your father and we’re moving to Central City.”

  I highly doubted the reality of the story, even though Molly swore Rachel had never met the man and had no idea her mother was seeing anyone. And to call him her father was ludicrous, in their minds. But I went along with it. Hell, somehow Molly concocted the idea that Rachel was some sort of modern Cinderella, working as abused slave labor. Teenage girls. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. They’re dramatic as hell, but Molly loves her. And Rachel? She’s a straight A student, and I’m hoping some of that rubs off on my C average sister, who’s a grade ahead, though they’re the same age. Rachel started school late, apparently.

  “They’re making her call him Dad. She says it’s so weird. She’s never had a dad before. And she has to say it in the right tone of voice, or they get really mad. Can you believe that?”

  “Nope,” I say automatically as her arms cross across her chest, even though I can think of more abusive things than being forced to call one’s stepfather Dad.

  “And you remember that scary movie we watched? The one with the stepfather named Jerry? Where he killed his stepfamily and then would marry another mom with kids and do it all over again? Well, his name is…” she sighs dramatically. “Jerry.”

  Good lord. The one pleasure in life we have is cheesy slash and slice horror movies. Apparently, my ill upbringing of my sister is beginning to show.

  I pull into the garage. It’s getting cold outside, despite the sun. There should be snow tonight.

  After dinner, I work for a couple of hours. Molly is distracted, texting with Rachel. I refrain from pointing out an abused Cinderella wouldn’t have her own cell phone. Later, I poke my head into her room. She looks worried.

  “I can’t get a hold of Rach.”

  “Maybe she’s busy, bug.”

  “Maybe,” she agrees. Her voice is quiet.

  “I’m heading to town to stock up on food in case the storm hits. You want to come?”

  “Nah.” She shivers delicately. It always takes her a month or so to acclimate to winter.

  “All right,” I laugh. “I’ll be back soon. Text me if you need me.”

  “Uh, huh.” But she’s already distracted, texting Cinder-Rach-ella again.

  I head back down the mountain as fat snowflakes begin to fall. It’s dark out and I take the winding mountain roads carefully. Maybe I’ll swing by Rachel’s house and snap a picture for Molly just so she can know everything’s fine.

  Our small grocery store is packed with people preparing for the storm and it’s already nine-thirty by the time I leave. I text Molly after I start the car to get the heat running. It’s bitter out, temperature shows minus 2 degrees.

  Leaving now. Did you reach Rachel?

  Her phone pings back within seconds.

  No. I’m really worried.

  I’ll swing by and see if the lights are on or off.

  Would you? I swear, Nick, you’re the best big brother ever.

  A warm feeling fills my chest. I’m doing something right. Despite my misgivings about their crazy ass abuse theory, I’m glad I offered. It won’t cost me anything but an extra bit of time.

  I know where Rachel lives. We’ve given her a ride home once or twice when Molly insisted. Rachel was nervous the entire time and Molly told me later that she preferred the bus. The ride took much longer for her to get home and she didn’t want to have any extra time at home by arriving earlier by car.

  Apparently, she is just as dramatic as Molly.

  I drive slowly down Rachel’s street. The lights are off inside her house. Huh? Nine-thirty. I know Molly said churchgoers and all, but really? The first day of winter break and no school tomorrow?

  I turn off the side road to head back up the mountain and my headlights catch a small figure on the side of the road.

  A small, half-naked figure is running on the side of the road, fat snowflakes flying everywhere. She’s wearing a white undershirt and skimpy shorts that look like sleep shorts. Barefoot, no coat, nothing.

  Rachel.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  Chapter Two

  Earlier that same day…

  I try to keep up my mood as Molly and I wait for the school bus to arrive. They never come on time and I have a feeling Molly tells her brother to pick her up late each day so she can sit with me for that
half hour.

  I can’t help a sick feeling that settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s the last day before winter break—and I really hate not being able to go to school. School is my one solace, a break from my home life.

  “Were the creepy bible thumpers at your house yesterday?” Molly’s face is entranced as she eats her sandwich. She always packs an extra one and we share it after school.

  “No,” I whisper.

  “Maybe they finally decided your parents are beyond redemption.”

  The suited-up men had knocked on the door earlier in the summer. Everyone in our neighborhood avoids their visits and they usually leave after inserting a pamphlet in the door.

  Not my parents. No, they couldn’t be that normal. Instead, they invited the two in. Now the four meet regularly, sitting at our tiny dining room table as they all proceed to study the teachings of the bible.

  And argue over the meanings of the bible.

  Both my mother and my stepfather—though I’m not allowed to call him step—are opinionated, domineering, and love to argue for the sake of argument. I have a sense that’s why they invited these two in for “discussions.” The two men are obviously younger than my parents and I’m sure my parents think they can intimidate them. Everything is a power struggle with my parents. In any case, the study sessions never end—each person trying to save the other’s soul, I guess.

  The bible thumpers’ names are Buddy and Terry—I can’t remember which is which. One wears a thick mustache like he tries to appear older than his twenty-four or five years. The other one—has a glass eye. It’s not the best job, and I have no idea what happened to his real one…all I know is it stares at me when I walk in the room. He’s looking down reading and it stares at me. I walk around the table, nodding a quick greeting so I can to get to my room, and it stares at me. When I was introduced to him, I had no idea where to look because that one eye stares straight ahead.

  I shudder at the recollection. I don’t feel too mean about being afraid of that singular eyeball, because when I’d told Molly about them, she was just as creeped out.

  “My mom was sitting at the table alone. Waiting for me.”

  Molly’s eyes grow round. She chews on a carrot stick, waiting for me to go on.

  “Alone?”

  I nod. “Like she’s June Cleaver.” Molly gets it. My mom and I don’t have that kind of relationship and never have. We don’t discuss things like normal people. No, I came home from school one day to find my home uprooted and my mother’s no-nonsense tone that said we were moving to the mountains of Denver with her new husband. No discussion. No whining. No tears. It was hard to hold my sniffles and eventually, they made me ride in the back of the truck with the furniture for not obeying.

  I was okay with that. I discovered the blessing of solitude.

  “What did she say?”

  “Sit down. We need to talk.” I mimic her voice as best I can. “Then she sat me down at the table and folded her hands across it. I was so scared, I thought I was gonna throw up.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Molly says.

  “I waited and waited”—a tactic I now know too well as intimidation—“and then she said…” I lean in, all the horror I felt splayed across my face, I’m sure. “And she said…Terry would make a fine husband.”

  Molly gasps. “Oh, god! What is this? 1970?”

  My stomach roils. At seventeen, I’ve never even had a date. I don’t want to get married. Certainly not to an old…old man bible thumper. He’s like, as old as Molly’s brother. Though Molly’s brother is at least hot.

  “What did you do?” Molly’s voice is a horrified whisper.

  Mine turns sheepish. I’m not sure if it’s nerves or stress—but my reaction wasn’t typical.

  “I asked her which one was Terry.”

  “Huh?” Her mouth hangs open.

  “Well, I can’t remember which is which! The one with the big fake mustache or the one with the big fake eye. And I’m horrified it will be that one…but then I’m just as horrified it’ll be the one with the big hairy mustache.” My voice ends on a wail. I’m revolted by the thought of my husband kissing me with that thing. “It’s gotta feel like a big, hairy vagina.”

  And Molly starts laughing. And then I snicker, and then we’re both laughing, clutching our sides and turning purple.

  “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Molly chants and her voice is raw from laughter. “What will your kids look like? Girls with a Tom Selleck mustache? Or Cyclops babies?”

  We erupt into more laughter.

  “Bug!” A voice shouts from the parking lot. Molly’s brother is here. I don’t think he likes me much. He usually has a frown pinned on his face whenever he sees me.

  I try to avoid looking directly at him, afraid he’ll see how I feel plastered on mine. Because Nick Anderson is so hot. So very hot, half the time I feel like I’ll combust when I see him. My panties get instantly wet and I squirm, wondering if everyone can tell.

  “Thanks for the sandwich!” I hug Molly and she heads for the parking lot as I head for the bus that’s still loading.

  “Make sure you text me tonight!” Molly says. “We gotta find a way to get your parents to let you spend a night at my house.”

  I agree though it’s with a heavy heart. I’m not sure that’s for the best idea. It’s not easy to miss what you don’t know and the relationship between Molly and her brother is so wonderful. It’s just the two of them and they have movie nights and take turns cooking dinners. I can’t imagine being around that and then having to return to the hell I know.

  The bus pulls up to the main stop where I get off. I trudge home down the winding mountain road with heavy feet, hoping against hope he won’t be home. If it’s my mom home alone, it’s not so bad. She’ll just have me cook and clean and clean some more until I’m exhausted and drop into bed.

  But when he’s home? That’s when the issues start. He’s decided he doesn’t like the way I say the word dad when referring to him and I’m not sure what it is he hears. I guess when I say it, it could be a little awkward…but it’s because I’ve never used the word. Not once. My mom’s been a single mom my entire life. And I’m terrified I’ll make a mistake and his hand will whip out…

  Despite my brief cheering up sharing laughter with Molly, my luck’s run out. There in the driveway, his truck is parked. I look up at the swirling sky that’s gotten colder. A storm’s coming and apparently, he’s home early to avoid the winding mountain roads of death. Not that I could be so lucky.

  Damn this little town of Central City. The only thing I’ve enjoyed about moving here is becoming friends with Molly. She’s a grade ahead of me, but after that? I’m going to CU, too, and we’ll be roomies. Life will be perfect then.

  I drop off my book bag in my bedroom. The house is quiet, which is a good thing. I plunge into my daily chores, hoping to avoid any episodes. After the kitchen is spotless, I start the spaghetti for dinner. After dinner, I’ll have to clean again, which seems like such a waste of time. Do the dishes, wipe the counters, wipe the walls, wash the windows, sweep the floors, and finally…mop the floors. Twice a day, every day. Once a week I have to clean all the door jambs, baseboards, and light fixtures. The cheap chandelier is a bitch, because it takes nearly the same amount of time as the rest of my chores combined. I guess I’m lucky the house is small. It could be worse. Arrgh, what if I had to clean their room? My nose wrinkles in disgust as I wonder if they have sex.

  We were supposed to have a dinner guest—one of his friends from the church. But with the threat of snow approaching, it’s apparently canceled according to the note on the fridge. Dinner is just the three of us. I pick at my food, and as soon as they finish eating, I jump up to clean the kitchen. If I could get it done fast, I can be in bed by nine. And the day will have been uneventful. I strive for the uneventful days.

  I mop the last section of floor quickly, barely skimming the surface. How dirty can it be? I’d just mopped it two hours earlier. Ho
oking the damp mop up on the nail hammered into the wall in the closet, I rush to my bedroom. I turn off all the lights except for my nightlight, so it can appear I’m asleep. Then, in the dim light, I hurriedly undress. I throw on some soft shorts to sleep in—they’re too short because they’re a couple years old. And a cotton tank top that goes with the set and crawl under my covers.

  It’s too early to sleep so I stare out the window at the bright moonlight. It’s a full moon tonight. That’s when I remember my cell phone. I’d left it in my book bag earlier. I promised Molly I’d let her know I was all right. She may be thinking the bible thumpers are here to ask for my hand in marriage. I allow myself a small smile because it’s quiet. I’m about to toss back the covers and tiptoe out of bed to get it when my door is flung open.

  “Rachel, come with me. Your father would like a word.”

  No, no, no. I was so close. So close to having the uneventful day. I scramble out of bed, afraid of keeping him waiting. Afraid it’ll be worse.

  I follow her into the living room where he sits straight-backed in his chair; his face is mottled with fury. I can’t even imagine what’s set him off this time. My mother wears her displeased face, her nose turned upward as if she is the queen of the manor.

  I wait for him to speak.

  “Mrs. Ager mentioned that you almost called me by my first name when you were at church one Sunday.”

  God, it was possible, but when could that be? It might have been before he even laid down the law for me to refer to him as dad.