Ace of Hearts Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Also by Ella Goode

  Connect with me!

  1

  Alice

  “This is darling.” Mom flips a garment over the dressing room door. I sigh when I see it’s another skirt.

  I push it away. She means well, but I’m not showing up for my first day of school looking like a Catholic school reject. “Mom, I told you. No skirts.”

  I want to look normal, which means T-shirts and jeans and Vans tennis shoes, not monogrammed skirts and blouses with pearl-encrusted collars that scream stuck-up rich kid.

  “I want you to fit in,” she says through the heavy wooden door. “You want to make a good impression on the first day.”

  “I know.” I actually agree with Mom that first impressions are important, which is why I’m not waltzing in wearing half the Gucci store like Mom thinks I should. I zip up the jeans I pulled off the discount rack. They have no logo and no fancy stitching or adornments, unlike the ones Mom picked out that have fringe on the side—which is cute, but definitely looks expensive. I tuck in the oversized white T-shirt that has a discreet designer label on the bottom corner that’s so small no one would be able to see it unless they were eye level with my crotch, which is not happening on my first day—if ever.

  I open the door and throw my arms out to the side. “Ta da.”

  Mom’s face falls. “Jeans an—and a T-shirt?”

  “Yeah, this is the style, Mom. This is what normal kids wear.”

  “Normal kids wear clothes like this, too.” She holds up a bejeweled sweatshirt with huge block letters spelling GUCCI across the chest.

  “No. No normal kids wear clothes like this to high school. If you want me to fit in and make friends, then let me pick out my own clothes.” I clasp my hands together. “Please.”

  She heaves out an enormous disappointed sigh and hangs the rejected clothes on a nearby rack. “I just want the best for you.”

  I link my arm through hers. “I know you do, but I promise this is the right outfit. Why don’t I wear it out and we’ll put my old stuff in a bag?”

  She nods and goes off to find a clerk. Meanwhile, I sort out all the stuff I’m keeping, which is mostly plain, oversized T-shirts, which I prefer because I have a big rack and prefer not to have all the boys making stupid-ass comments about it all day long, and skinny jeans. I did throw in a dress or two, just in case. Those will make Mom happy.

  I really do know what I am doing. When my parents told me last semester that Dad was taking a position as the director of some big hospital’s Cardiothoracic Department in Liberty and that I could either transfer to Franklin Universal High School, which is a school for exceptional kids, or stay at my prissy private boarding school, I immediately agreed to the move. I hated that boarding school because all the kids thought they were better than everyone else just because they had money. Newsflash: they were the worst people in the world. Money, in my opinion, makes people entitled assholes.

  I might be one, too, and haven’t realized it, but Mom and Dad keep things pretty down-to-earth. Yeah, we have a big house, but I don’t have a driver like most of the kids at my old school. We still fly commercial because private planes are the worst thing for the environment since the invention of plastic bottled water.

  Franklin U High isn’t exactly normal. The social structure there isn’t based on who has the fattest wallet. It’s skill-based. It’s a school for kids with special skills—could be music, could be art, could be athletics, or it could be book smarts. I fall into the last category and based on the results of the Instagram hashtag #FUHigh, it looks like everyone dresses like ordinary teenagers instead of trying to outdo each other with the latest designer clothes. Yeah, there are a few girls who are flexing with their Prada purses and their Dolce tennis shoes, but for the most part it’s regular kids trying to make it through their last years of high school—just like me.

  “All this shopping has made me hungry,” Mom declares.

  “Let’s go to the food court,” I propose. “I want a hamburger.”

  “And a shake?” Mom suggests.

  “Perfect.” At least we’re in agreement about our food. We grab our bags, pay for all the loot and head for lunch.

  As we get in line, we hear a whispered argument.

  “I can’t afford it, honey,” says the tired-looking mom to her bright-eyed elementary aged daughter. “It’s too expensive.”

  “Okay, I understand,” the girl says but her face is full of disappointment.

  The mom sucks her lips in and blinks rapidly. “You know I want to buy it for you, baby. I want you to have the world but it’s so tight at home with your dad and all.”

  “I know, Mom. It’s fine.”

  It’s the matter-of-fact way the girl says it, as if she’s the parent and she’s soothing the child.

  Mom and I exchange a glance. Whatever it is, we want to buy it, but we don’t want to mention it in a way that would make them feel bad. The thing is, we didn’t always have money. My cardio-thoracic surgeon dad who is now the director of the biggest Cardiothoracic Department in the state is actually my step-dad. My biological dad ran off when I was a baby. I don’t have any memory of him. Mom doesn’t talk about him much, but from what I gather, he was an abusive alcoholic and we are better off without him in our lives. Mom met Carl when I was ten and he wooed her for two years, not giving up despite her repeated rejections.

  When they married, he brought his massive seven-figure paycheck and his big fat family trust account and changed our lives. Up until then, Mom and I lived in a small apartment with used furniture and thrift store clothes. Essentially, the two in front of us were Mom and me seven years ago.

  The mom lays a hand on her child’s head. “You’re a good girl.”

  The child leans against her mom’s side. “You’re a good mom.”

  Tears prick my eyes. Mom gets into motion. “Ma’am, I think you dropped something back there,” she says.

  The lady looks around in a mild panic. “Oh no. What is it?”

  “Let me take you over. My daughter will watch yours.” Mom leads the other lady aside.

  I take the girl’s hand in mine and pull her up to order. “Get whatever you want,” I say.

  The little girl shyly orders one burger and nothing else so I pile on the extras, ordering an extra big helping of French fries and even an apple pie for dessert. “What flavor of shake do you like?”

  The little girl presses her lips together. “We can’t afford a shake.”

  “Well, I’m going to order one anyway so you might as well tell me your favorite flavor otherwise it’ll go to waste.”

  She’s starting to waver. I let her think about it for a minute and pretend to look for Mom. Instead, my gaze is captured by a pair of intense brown eyes belonging to a boy about my age with wide shoulders, a strong jaw and a nose so straight I think I could use it for a ski jump. If, you know, I was only an inch tall. His lips curve into a smile. It’s nice enough, if you’re into that, which I’m not. No boys this year, I decide. What’s the point? You’re going to graduate in less than twelve months and move on to college. I don’t intend to waste any emot
ional energy on the male species so I send the boy a scowl and turn to my new friend.

  “I guess I’ll order four strawberry ones even though no one really likes that flavor.”

  “I do,” she protests.

  I hide a smile. “What about your mom?”

  The little girl blushes. “She likes them, too.”

  I order four strawberry shakes and a bunch of other stuff, not sure what the little girl’s mom will want. By the time the order comes, Mom has returned red-eyed with an equally red-eyed woman by her side. The little girl detaches immediately and runs to her mother’s side.

  “Mommy, are you okay?”

  “Yes, dear.” She hugs the little girl. “I’m really good.”

  “I’ve got food,” I declare, wanting to stem the waterworks. “Let’s go sit over there.” I gesture toward an empty table with my elbow. We hurry over and grab the table.

  “This is Coral and her daughter, Carolyn,” Mom introduces. “Coral is a medical transcriptionist and has agreed to do some of your dad’s work.”

  “That’s awesome.” I unwrap my burger. My dad doesn’t need a medical transcriptionist because the hospital provides those services but Mom handles all the books there so she’ll find a way to get Coral in.

  “The health insurance is really generous,” Coral says quietly.

  “Well, we couldn’t be a medical institution without good health insurance,” Mom laughs.

  “Is everything going to be okay then, Mommy?” Carolyn asks. She doesn’t know quite what’s going on but she can read her mom’s mood.

  Coral reaches across the table and squeezes her daughter’s hand. “Yes. Everything’s going to be okay now. Let’s go get those light-up tennis shoes after lunch.”

  “But I thought we couldn’t afford them.”

  Coral casts a thankful glance over at my mom, who is busy munching on her burger. “We can now.”

  I wink at Carolyn, who beams at me. With a grin, I take a big bite of my burger. It’s then that I notice the boy is still staring at me. I set my burger down and wipe a thumb across my mouth. Do I have special sauce on my face? Why does he keep looking at me? Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe I’ve got my shirt on inside out or maybe I’ve spilled ketchup down the front and I haven’t noticed. I glance down but my shirt is still completely stain-free. I nudge Carolyn. “Hey, do I have something on my face?”

  She inspects me carefully. “No. Nothing.”

  I raise my chin and glare at the boy. Stop staring, I mentally yell in his direction.

  Of course, the jerk only smiles back. If it weren’t for Carolyn and the two moms, I’d have flipped him off.

  “Is something wrong, dear?” Mom asks, noticing my frown.

  Yeah, a penis keeps looking at me and it’s pissing me off, I think. “Nah. I think I just got a bad french fry.”

  Across the way, the boy gets to his feet and salutes me.

  What a jerk.

  He picks up his tray and walks over to the garbage. His jeans are slim and tight, showing off a tight ass and powerful thighs. My sex clenches.

  Fuck. He’s a sexy jerk.

  Those are the worst kind. The very worst kind.

  2

  Owen

  Mom’s in the kitchen layering the wide lasagna noodles in a pan when I arrive home.

  “You’re whistling. You must be in a good mood,” she notes as I lean down to give her a peck on the cheek.

  “You’re making my favorite meal for dinner,” I say and spin away to grab a milk carton out of the fridge.

  “No, this is more like a ‘wonderful thing happened in my life’ whistle rather than a ‘thanks for the tasty meal’ whistle.”

  I drain half the carton before replying. “I didn’t realize my whistles gave so much away.”

  “You can’t hide anything from your momma,” she teases with a swat of her wooden spoon against my hip. “And stop drinking milk from the carton. We have glasses, you know.”

  “I know, but you don’t drink milk so what’s the point?” I shove the carton back in the fridge.

  “Someday you’ll have a girlfriend and she’s not going to like it if you drink straight from the carton.” Mom finishes sprinkling cheese on the top and wraps the whole thing in foil. “Plus, I don’t want anyone thinking I raised you in a barn.”

  “I got you.” I swoop in and grab the container so she doesn’t have to lift the heavy pan into the refrigerator. She has a point. The girl from the mall enjoyed her shakes. “I’ll do better.”

  “I know you will.” Mom wipes her hands off and then pins me with a hard stare. “So what is the good news?”

  For a split second, I debate not telling Mom anything. I don’t know the girl’s name or where she goes to school, but that shit’s not important. What’s important is I got to see her heart and it’s made of solid gold and that’s the sexiest thing in the world. I shrug. I might as well share with my mom. She needs time to prepare herself.

  “I met the girl I’m going to marry.”

  Mom’s mouth drops open. I tap her chin playfully. “Better close this or you’ll catch some flies.”

  I grab an apple and toss it up in the air before strolling out of the kitchen and down the hall toward my bedroom. I swing into my room and leave the door open because I don’t want her to have a meltdown. I take a seat in front of my computer and wait for the inevitable explosion.

  “You met who?” She screeches loud enough that even though I’m two rooms away, the sound rings in my ears. I shake my ear and then open my laptop. Time to do some investigating.

  “You met who?” A breathless Mom sweeps into my room as I’m pecking out #FUHigh into the search bar.

  “Girl I’m going to marry,” I repeat. The hashtag populates hundreds of photos. I scroll through them, searching for a glimpse of my girl.

  “You’re eighteen, Owen. You can’t get married. How—why are you even thinking like this? This isn’t like you. You’ve got a whole future in front of you. I thought I taught you better!” Mom throws herself on my mattress in real distress.

  Absently, I reach over and squeeze her knee. “I know, Mom. I’m still on the same path. I’m going to get that football scholarship. I’m going to go pro. I’ll just have someone beside me the entire time. Someone besides you,” I add. It’s been Mom and me since before I was born. My biological father gave my mom a grand and told her to use it any way she saw fit which, to her, was putting it toward prenatal care and not the abortion that the dude probably wanted. “Damn,” I mutter under my breath. There’s not a hint of the girl in this hashtag. I type in the other high school but again draw a big fat zero.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asks, suddenly sitting up.

  I glance over affectionately. She went from upset to concerned in a nanosecond. She really is the best and I know she’s going to love my girl—as soon as I can find her.

  “My detective skills are failing me.”

  “You have no detective skills.”

  I lace my fingers together and flex them outward. “Mom, you’re supposed to have more faith in me.”

  “Are you looking for this girl you’re going to marry?”

  “Yup.”

  She sighs in relief. “So it’s a fictional girl. Like the time you had a crush on Thandie Newton.”

  “Still do! She’s on my celebrity list.”

  Mom whacks me across the shoulders. “You can’t have a celebrity list if you’re going to marry someone.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” I mentally apologize to Thandie and then cross her name out.

  Mom gets to her feet and brushes imaginary dust off her jeans. “Have fun with your girl.”

  I let her leave without correcting her assumption. She’ll meet the real girl soon enough. I grab my phone and text Carter Franklin, the quarterback of Franklin U High. Yeah, he has the same last name because his great grandfather or some shit founded this town. For a rich kid, though, he’s pretty cool. At least, he has been to me.


  ME: Can you get the incoming class list for FUHigh and Public?

  Carter: Sure.

  ME: Not going to ask what it’s for?

  Carter: Do I need to know?

  Me: Nope

  Carter: Cool. Send it in five.

  See? Pretty cool. I crack my knuckles again. So…my girl’s a little shy. No problem. What guy doesn’t like a little chase? I grin. And here I thought I was going to hate my new school.

  3

  Alice

  I fidget with the sleeve of my shirt, suddenly feeling nervous. I don’t know why. Since Mom and Dad asked me if I was okay with switching schools I was a hundred percent okay with it. It is my last year and all I want to do is get done with my classes. High school is boring. The classes are too easy and the boys are headache-inducing. It’s only a year and I’m sure I’ll have no problem blending in. I survived boarding school so this should be a piece of cake. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway to steady my nerves.

  “Sorry I have to drive you, darling.” My mom reaches over and pulls on the end of my hair. I have it braided to the side and she knows giving it a tug is the only way to get my attention once I’m lost in my own head.

  “I don’t mind.” I give her a puzzled look. Why would it bother me that she had to drive me? If it should bug anyone it would be her. “Besides”—I pick up the bacon, egg and cheese sandwich she made me for the ride—“I can eat while you drive.” I take a giant bite of it.

  “I know, but I don’t want you to feel”—she gives a small shrug—“uncool because your mom is dropping you off or something. It being a new school and all.”

  I roll my eyes. Not at her but at the idea of being uncool. “Like I care. Also no one says uncool anymore, Mom,” I say with my mouth still full of bacon. This time she gives me an eye roll. We both start laughing, which helps to calm me. I continue to eat my sandwich knowing that it’s probably the only thing I’ll have until dinner.