Rush: A Reverse Harem Romance Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.

  The authors acknowledge the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.

  © 2018 Editor's Choice Publishing

  All Rights Reserved.

  Only Amazon has permission from the publisher to sell and distribute this title.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor’s Choice Publishing

  P.O. Box 10024

  Greensboro, NC 27404

  Edited by All About the Edits

  Cover by Vocal Design

  Photos from Period Images

  WARNING: THIS BOOK IS NOT SUITABLE FOR ANYONE UNDER 18.

  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

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Sample of Encore

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter One

  Graham Lawson

  I’m screwed.

  No, actually, I’m fucked.

  “Mr. Lawson, we warned you over a year ago that you were at risk of falling below the required GPA,” the ancient Student Affairs lady tells me. “And you obviously didn’t take that warning seriously since it continued to drop even lower in the last two semesters.”

  “So, you’re saying that I’m not only losing my football scholarship, but you’re kicking me out of school?” I exclaim in disbelief while trying to wrap my head around my entire life’s demise.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow,” I mutter, as I slump down in the visitor’s chair and swipe a hand over my brow to mop up the sweat that’s starting to pour down it. I’m well and truly fucked.

  No. This can’t be the end! I need to find a way to convince her to give me another chance. Just one more is all I need.

  “Mrs. Berry, you know football takes up all of my time—”

  “Not in the spring, it doesn’t,” the skeleton who holds the keys to my future interrupts my excuse. “You were made aware of Freemont’s two-point-oh requirement for all student-athletes when you were accepted into our program your freshman year. We’ve given you several chances to improve your grades, and you refused to take them seriously.”

  “What did Coach Swanson have to say about this?” I ask, since I’m the team’s starting running back. Last season, I rushed for eight-hundred-and-ninety yards and had four touchdowns in just nine games! If not for the stupid hamstring injury in the summer that kept me out of the season opener, I may have even been invited to the scouting combine while I was a junior. Senior year will be my last chance to go pro, and now this old bird is saying that the school is just throwing me and my dreams in the garbage because of my lousy grades?

  “While Coach Swanson hates to see you go, he understands the policy is non-negotiable. Your current GPA is a staggering…one-point-eight.”

  Shit.

  “Please,” I beg. “I’ll do better in the fall. Straight A’s. I swear!”

  The raised white eyebrow Mrs. Berry aims at me says she was more inclined to believe pigs could, in fact, fly before I get an A in any fucking thing.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lawson,” she tells me as she starts to close my file, sealing my future at the same time.

  I cannot go back to Homestead, Florida and flip burgers for the rest of my miserable life, not when every cell in my body tells me that I’m meant for greatness on the football field! Football is my world. I’ve lived and breathed it since I was six years old, when my dad signed me up for the flag-tag league.

  “Wait!” I call out to momentarily halt her from slamming the brakes on my life. Thinking fast, I blurt out, “What about…what about the summer session? If I could take some classes and ace them, that would bring up my GPA before the fall, right?”

  Looking down her long, witchy nose at me, Mrs. Berry says, “You would need to take at least four classes and excel in each one, which will be very difficult. Summer courses are sixteen weeks of hard work crammed into just eight short, incredibly intense, weeks.”

  “I can do it!” I assure her, even though I have no fucking clue how I’ll pull off this Hail Mary. My previous plans for the summer included throwing a pool party every night with my two teammates-slash-roommates and get laid as often as possible. Giving all that up is a small sacrifice to make if it means keeping my football scholarship and having one last chance to go pro.

  The shrew still doesn’t look convinced, though.

  Getting to my feet, I brace my palms on her pristine desk to lean over and give her the full force of my baby blues when I say, “Just give me one last chance. Please, Mrs. Berry? I promise I won’t let you down again.”

  When her brown eyes meet mine, her pursed lips ease just a little, and I’m pretty sure I have her. Still, I hold my breath and wait for her to say the words.

  “Fine. Bring me a two-point-oh by the end of the summer session.”

  “Thank you!” I exclaim in gratitude as oxygen refills my lungs.

  “You have a long summer ahead of you,” she says before I turn to leave, ready to escape her office in case she changes her mind. “Honestly, Mr. Lawson, you should probably start packing your bags and saying goodbye to your teammates.”

  “Not yet,” I tell her with a grin.

  Now that I’ve made it over the first hurdle, I need to come up with a way to not only pass four classes but to pull As.

  I jog back to the party house right on the edge of campus that I share with Charlie and Tyson, hoping they’ll have some ideas.

  Sure, it’s going to take a miracle, but where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  The front door of our enormous two-story home is unlocked like usual when I walk through it, and the house is dead silent, telling me Tyson and Charlie are most likely lounging by the pool since both of their cars are in the driveway. Walking out the sliding glass door, I find both of them stretched out on goofy pool floats. The sight makes my stomach drop at the reminder there won’t be much relaxing in my immediate future.

  “Yo, how did it go?” Ty asks from his big white yacht float. His loud, sudden words cause Charlie to startle awake and nearly capsize his sea turtle.

  “I’m not done just yet,” I announce to them.

  “Nice! Congrats,” Charlie says,
as he flops over onto his stomach, using his hands to paddle his turtle over and park it at the edge of the pool next to Ty’s yacht.

  “We can’t celebrate just yet,” I start to explain. “Not only do I have to go to summer school, but I have to ace four courses.”

  “How the hell are you gonna do that?” Ty asks, running his fingers through his shoulder-length dirty blond hair. “No offense, but summer school here is no joke. It’s like regular classes on steroids. Only over-achievers with no life can sacrifice the time and effort it takes to pass four summer session classes.”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” I reply honestly, as I scratch my head in thought. “But at least I’m still here. I’ll come up with something.”

  “Oh yeah?” Charlie looks up at me and asks with a grin, flipping his jet-black hair from his brown eyes. “Like what? Paying someone to take the classes for you?”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I tell him. “Can I borrow some money?”

  “No fucking way,” Charlie grumbles. “Summer classes are small, and everyone on campus knows you, Graham Lawson, the Falcon’s starting running back. Sending a fake will get your ass thrown out even faster than your GPA.”

  “He’s right,” Ty agrees. “What about a tutor?”

  “Now that is something I can pay for,” Charlie agrees with a smile. His family is so loaded that his father built this house for us right next to the campus the fall Charlie decided to attend. There are rumors that his father also donated a shitload of money to get Charlie on the football team, but I’ve never had the balls to ask my friend. Besides, it’s not like it really matters. Charlie’s a third-string quarterback who never leaves the bench.

  “Too bad we only fuck ditzy girls,” Ty mutters. “Anyone know any smart chicks?”

  “No, no, we don’t know any smart chicks,” Charlie responds. “Sort of a shame too. It would be nice to have an actual conversation with a girl before screwing them, or even afterward…”

  “This girl I went to high school with, Skyler, was like, super smart,” I tell them. “She did all of my assignments because she had a crush on me or whatever.” My brow furrows as I try to recall the three-year-old memories of swinging by Skyler Sutton’s house each morning to grab my homework and walk her to school because it made her happy. Not that anyone knew it, but Skyler and I were actually friends. I talked to her every morning and every night, but never once invited her to sit at my table during lunch. Man, I was a dick, and now I feel guilty for being a jerk when I practically owe her for making sure I didn’t flunk out. “Actually, Sky’s the only reason I graduated,” I admit to the guys.

  “She still live down in Florida?” Ty asks.

  “Nah,” I answer, even though I don’t know for sure. “She’s probably halfway across the country at some Ivy League school or whatever.”

  Charlie sits back on his knees on his turtle and says, “But wait. It’s the summer. Maybe she’s home on break with nothing better to do than save your sorry ass…”

  “Shit, you’re right. Guess it’s worth a shot,” I agree, hoping that the bookworm is taking the summer off.

  And maybe, just maybe, she still has a thing for that stupid jock from Homestead High School.

  Chapter Two

  Skyler Sutton

  I’ve never been to hell, but I’m certain that it must be comparable to working in my father’s pizza joint in Florida every hot, muggy summer. Technically though, it’s still spring since it’s only the middle of May, but it’s already so hot, my face would likely melt right off into a puddle on the checked tile floor if not for my thick glasses holding it in place.

  I miss my tiny dorm room up in New York where the window air conditioning unit was rarely needed, with lazy afternoons and weekends reading in my twin bed. Even after three years living on campus, I hadn’t made any real friends. Let’s just say that my trust issues have trust issues. Usually, I at least get along with my assigned roommate, but this past year’s was a complete bitch. She had guys over most nights, but especially on the nights before a big exam. It was like the girl knew my schedule and wanted me to fail.

  I’ve always been an odd duck. In high school, I was incredibly dorky but not smart enough to hang with the geniuses and too lame to be friends with the cool kids and jocks. I’m an awkward human anomaly with strange quirks, and I haven’t met anyone yet who can handle my very own personal brand of weird.

  In just a little over two weeks, I’ll be celebrating my twenty-first birthday, and I’ve never even kissed a boy. God, I’m a loser in Florida and in New York. Just a few more states and I’ll conquer the entire East Coast.

  College was supposed to be a chance to start over and recreate myself, but my inability to open up to strangers just means reliving the loneliness of high school all over again.

  “Hey! Can I get another pitcher of beer sometime this century?” one of the annoying customers in the pizza parlor calls out to me.

  “Yeah, just a second,” I reply with a heavy exhale while juggling a stack of dirty plates.

  “That’s what you said about ten thousand seconds ago,” he points out.

  “It hasn’t been a hundred and sixty-six minutes. Maybe two minutes, but not a hundred and sixty-six,” I assure him with a huff.

  “Whatever,” the rude man grumbles as I scurry off to the kitchen to dump the plates and then rush over to the bar to fill up a pitcher from the tap.

  When it’s about half full, I hear a ding from my phone that’s stuffed in the front of my apron. Since there’s still time left before the pitcher is ready, I pull the phone out with my right hand to see what it says, while holding the nozzle with the left.

  There’s a notification across the screen showing me a new Facebook message from…Graham Lawson. No freaking way!

  Graham was the hotshot football star I went to high school with. Not only did he have the body of a Greek god, but he had this enormous smile that could light up the entire room. And then there were his eyes; well, his eyes were the deepest blue, like the ocean at sunset…

  I quickly swipe right to open the app and see the four incredible words typed in the chat:

  Hey, Sky! What’s up?

  Holy shit. Graham actually contacted me. I didn’t even know that he remembered we were Facebook friends for all these years that I’ve been silently stalking him and then boom, out of nowhere, he sends me a message!

  Oh, God. Is he writing to ask me to stop ogling him? No, he couldn’t possibly know the number of times I’ve scrolled through his photos or how long my greedy eyes have lingered on the ones of him and some equally buff shirtless friends hanging out by a pool.

  Oh shit!

  Now that I’ve clicked on the message, he knows that I’ve seen it and that I haven’t responded. I need to come up with a response, and fast. One that doesn’t make me sound like I’m the same loser from high school, even if I am.

  Think, Skyler, think!

  I belatedly realize that I’ve been standing around thinking for too long when beer starts pouring over the top of the pitcher and onto the floor.

  Crap!

  I release the lever and grab some towels to start soaking up the mess before someone…

  “Ahhh!” Bridget, our only other waitress, screams before her ass hits the ground.

  “Sorry, Bridget,” I start to apologize while slipping my phone back into my apron.

  “Shut up,” the younger waitress snaps while struggling to get to her feet again. “If this weren’t your father’s restaurant, you would so be fired!”

  That much was true.

  I’m a terrible waitress. The fact that I’m miserable must ooze from my pores in this place because my tips are always terrible. I’d rather be melting in the hot kitchen with three blazing brick ovens making pizzas than serving beer to rude customers. My father knows I’m not a people person but each summer he refuses to let me hide away in our apartment like the hermit I crave to be.

  Once I wipe up the puddle of be
er on the floor and clean the pitcher to dry the excess beer from it, I finally deliver it to the douchbags at table four.

  “About time,” the king of douchiness says.

  “You’re welcome,” I mutter before I head back to the kitchen to find my father. “Dad, I need a bathroom break!” I call out, but don’t wait for his response before I sneak into the women’s room and slide the lock in place. I need just a few moments of privacy with my phone.

  Sitting down on the closed toilet lid, I pull my phone out again to see if I hallucinated the message from Graham. Nope! It’s still there on the screen, so I bite my bottom lip while trying to decide how to respond. Unable to think of something better, I send back:

  Hey. How are you?

  The three little dots instantly appear, letting me know that Graham is already typing a response before it pops up.

  I’m great. Just wanted to catch up with you since it’s been a long time. How’s your summer break going?

  Since I can’t tell the hottest man who ever lived that my life still sucks every bit as much as it did when we endured high school together, I lie.

  My summer break is awesome so far.

  Awesomely boring.

  Graham then asks: Are you back home?

  Yes.

  Graham: Do you have any big plans this summer?

  For a second, I almost consider telling him that I’m going to the Bahamas with friends from college or try to make up some other amazing story but at the last minute, I decide to tell the truth in case Graham is back in town and wants to hang out. That’s too much to ask for, though, right?

  Not really, no. I’m just working a little for my dad. If a little is ten hours a day, six days a week.

  Good! Graham responds. You should come visit me up in North Carolina.

  Wait, what?

  Did he seriously just ask me to come to visit him at college several states away? This is like a dream come true.

  But dreams like this don’t happen for dorky girls like me. I’m sitting on a toilet in my father’s hot as fuck pizza joint, taking a break from waitressing. You can’t get much further from a fairy tale.