Better Have Heart Read online

  Better Have Heart

  Andy Gallo

  Anyta Sunday

  Better Have Heart

  Copyright © 2020 by Andy Gallo and Anyta Sunday

  P.O. Box 1654 College Park, MD 20741, USA

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art

  © 2020 Cate Ashwood

  www.cateashwooddesigns.com

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any for or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Andy Gallo, P.O. Box 1654, College Park, MD 20741, USA; visit www.andygallo.com; or send an email to [email protected].

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Next in the Harrison Campus series

  Better Be True

  About Andy

  About Anyta

  Also by Anyta Sunday

  From Andy

  For my husband Michael, for encouraging me to write and for allowing me to chase my dreams. And to ’lil q, my daughter, for keeping my life in balance. You both teach me the meaning of love.

  Chapter One

  Isaiah

  Isaiah Nettles’s fingers glided across the smooth keys, and his foot worked the pedal. Compared to the little banger he had back home, playing the grand pianos at Harrison felt like performing on Broadway. “Thunder Road” might be rock music, but hey, Springsteen on Broadway was a thing.

  He pounded out the middle of the song.

  Usually it took on a sad overtone. Reminded him of his father, beaming from his recliner, asking him to play another of his favorites. And another.

  Today, the piece mirrored his anxiety.

  He could still hear the condescending way President Jenkins’s assistant asked him, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  Yes.

  No.

  Yes, but not like this.

  He’d never expected his complaint to be chosen from the sea of grievances filed against the school.

  Had they told him sooner, he’d have spent the summer preparing. Given the circumstances, that was precisely why they didn’t tell him. The week before classes started, and he still didn’t have all the details.

  He quickened the tempo, frustration flooding the music.

  If only this wasn’t the last egg in his basket. If only he hadn’t focused—for two years—on this one opportunity to the exclusion of others. None were as good as the Gage Scholarship, but he should have left himself options.

  Notes clashed around the atrium as the song built to a crescendo. A sax blaring would’ve made it perfect. His playing was on point, even if it didn’t alleviate his pent-up energy.

  He ended the song abruptly and his gaze caught on a familiar figure lounging against the doorframe. Jackson Murphy clapped into the silence. “You sound great. Greatly annoyed, but great.”

  “A bit.” He smiled at his friend. Jack had been his first private yoga client. And his steadiest.

  “What prompted channeling angry Springsteen?”

  He laughed darkly. “The devil always shits on the biggest pile.”

  Jack’s brows shot up, waiting for him to explain.

  Jack was a good guy. Decent, hardworking, and enviously in love with his boyfriend, Ed—but he was also a trust-fund kid, and Isaiah didn’t know he’d get it.

  He slid off his stool and grabbed the bag stuffed with his yoga gear. Maybe after an intensive session he’d feel better.

  He swallowed a sigh and led the way across the stately campus. A few million beautiful bricks, and archways big enough to swallow even the biggest ego. And at Harrison? That was saying something.

  They bypassed all that and headed to the Frankenstein limb of campus—a sorrowful bunch of concrete buildings. But tucked in the farthest corner was his favorite house. An old Victorian purposed into a student cafe, club space, and—his home away from home—the third floor and the attic where he ran yoga sessions.

  Isaiah turned the key and shouldered open the stiff door to one of the private practice rooms. It led to a clean space with wooden floors, two slanted ceilings, and pokey windows. He cracked one open, and rich notes of coffee wafted in on a breeze. “Ready for the pain?”

  “Which one?” Jack snickered. “The pain you’ll inflict on me, or the one you’re nursing under that frown?”

  Isaiah shot out a laugh. “Touché. You have thirty seconds to change, grab a mat, and assume the lotus.”

  Jack kicked off his shoes and rounded one of the partitions, snorting. “Who’da thought the cute yoga guy would turn into a marine drill sergeant before every workout.”

  “You want easy, watch Netflix.”

  “Isaiah always comes with a side serving of snide.”

  “The fuck I do, assmunch.”

  Jack raised a pointed brow, and Isaiah grumbled under his breath.

  It was true.

  He’d end up a bitchy old bachelor for sure.

  Jack stretched and groaned. “Still sore from last time. Never thought yoga would be so hard. I swear I sweat more here than on the field.”

  Isaiah set out his mat, turned on some (hopefully) soothing music, and changed into sweats. Twenty minutes into the session, and still thrumming with frustration, he pushed them into more advanced positions. Jack was strong and coordinated; he handled it well. Mostly.

  “Why do I let you torture me like this?” he groaned.

  “Because I’m the cute yoga guy.”

  “Don’t even suggest that around Ed, or I won’t be allowed within a hundred yards of you.”

  “Let me mark that down. No suggesting Jackson Murphy thinks I’m hot.”

  “You can say I think you’re hot—you are—you just can’t say it’s the reason I hired you to be my trainer.” Jack winced as he took in the position Isaiah was flexing into. “He thinks you’re cute, too.”

  “Right. The guy stares holes in my chest every time I come within twenty feet of you.”

  Jack blushed. “Hey, he likes me.”

  “Likes you?” He relaxed, and Jack followed his lead. “He galloped into your fraternity house like a knight in armor just in time to save the day.”

  “Whatever.” Jack rolled his eyes. “There was no galloping. He rang the doorbell and walked into the main room.”

  Secretly, Isaiah swooned at the idea of a guy doing that for him. Not that it was
going to happen anytime soon. Especially not with a guy from Harrison. He’d dated a couple last year and they had more than outtooled the straight guys who ignored him.

  Why did rich guys have to be so entitled? Like this Darren Gage.

  Jack’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You said Darren Gage.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “What about him?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re friends.” Isaiah slanted him a look. “I want to keep liking you.”

  Jack grinned. “He’s my fraternity brother.”

  “Small frigging world.”

  Jack blinked at him. “Does this have anything to do with your salty mood?”

  Ah, what the heck—he needed to get this off his chest before he broke the news to his mom—oh Christ, he had to break the news to his mom. She’d tell him not to worry. C’est la vie. She’d give him that hoarse laugh she always used to cover her disappointment.

  He could picture her on the other end of the line, leafing through the monthly bills, smiling hard as if he could see her, fingers pinching desperately on those envelopes.

  “Yo. Breathe. You look like you’re gonna hurl,” Jack said, shifting onto his knees with a concerned frown.

  Isaiah lurched to his feet, hauling in a stinging breath. “I’m good. Just some bullshit going on.”

  Jack dipped a hand into his bag and pulled out two steel water bottles. He handed one to Isaiah. “You always forget to bring some.”

  “Thanks.” Isaiah drank half the bottle to avoid Jack’s question.

  “So . . .” Jack fixed him with a look. “What’s your beef with Darren?”

  “Remember how I told you the school didn’t open the Gage Scholar Program this year?”

  “Yeah.” Jack nodded slowly.

  “And I said I was going to file a complaint?”

  “You did.”

  Damn right he did. Just because he wasn’t one of the rich kids, didn’t mean they could get away with screwing him—or others—like this. The scholarship was supposed to be merit-based, not inherited. “Why the fuck should Darren get a yearly stipend, a guaranteed job in Mid-Atlantic Standard Oil’s management program, and grad school of choice on MAS’s dime? No strings attached. He doesn’t need any of those.”

  “And?”

  “Someone agreed with me.” He waited for a reaction, but Jack kept silent. “I have a meeting with President Jenkins tomorrow to discuss my participation in the program.”

  “That’s great.” Jack’s grin faded when Isaiah didn’t return it. “Isn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess? C’mon. This is what you wanted.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “But what?”

  Don’t be late, Jenkins’s assistant had said. You’ve caused enough trouble for the university already.

  “Jenkins didn’t appreciate my filing the grievance.”

  “Ha. I mean, you can’t be surprised.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” He’d expected his complaint would end up in the trash.

  His phone rang from his bag. Springsteen. Mom’s ringtone.

  A long time ago, his dad’s favorite song.

  “Mom,” he answered cheerfully as Jack ducked outside to give him a moment of privacy.

  “Isaiah,” she said with a warning in her voice, “you shouldn’t have. You need your money.”

  “Isabelle loves soccer, and she wanted to go with her team.” She also didn’t need to feel too poor to go to New York for the Labor Day tournament. Not at thirteen.

  “She doesn’t need to go to every tournament.”

  “Maybe not, but going to all of them can only help. Besides, the money’s nonrefundable.”

  “Isaiah. . . .”

  “Please. Let her go, okay?”

  “As if my wonderful son gave me any choice.” The smile in her voice made the extra classes worth the effort. “I’ll try to pay you back.”

  Isaiah swallowed. “Nah, Mom. It’s all good. I promise.”

  Fuck Jenkins. He was going to be the Gage Scholar.

  Chapter Two

  Darren

  Darren Gage was a disappointment. To his dad and to himself. And he wanted that to change.

  There were many reasons for being disappointed in himself. Like how he’d stood by Harper, biggest douche in their frat, and let him tear into Jack mercilessly for confronting him about cheating on his girlfriend. Or how he’d forced himself to laugh at cruel jokes because it was the path with least resistance.

  But mostly, he was a disappointment because he couldn’t tell Dad his attitude sucked since Darren had come out.

  At least Mom was taking to it.

  Sort of.

  Not quite the way he wanted.

  Darren stared at the message his mom sent and wished he’d jumped into the shower right after soccer practice rather than check his phone. Instead, he’d scooped it from under the folds of blankets that were puddled on the floor. He was too damn addicted to this thing.

  He plunked his sweaty ass on the corner of his bed and rubbed the end of the phone against his temple, groaning.

  Mom: Someone wanted to say hello and they wish they’d known you were gay last summer.

  He winced and tapped the attached video. It was Max Whateverhisnamewas, saying hello and smiling stiffly at him from the screen.

  Thing was, Max wasn’t smiling at him. He was smiling at Darren’s lineage. At Darren Josiah Gage Sr., the oil baron, not Darren J. Gage V., the student. Max and his parents wanted a husband with the right credentials. The measuring stick for “right” was how many generations the family had been wealthy. Clearly, the Gages passed the test.

  Even if Max was the hottest guy ever, Darren couldn’t stomach his family. They tried too hard to fit in. All he wanted was something genuine. Real.

  He stared through his open door into the bright hall.

  Piano music tinkered through the house, and he flung himself backward on the bed and bathed in the calming notes.

  He looked at his walls.

  His side of the room looked like a homage to Cristiano Ronaldo. He’d never been allowed to tape tacky posters on the wall growing up, and he made up for it here. The plastered walls were comfort. A glimpse of the normal guy under the shadow of Gage and all the generations of wealth that name represented.

  He snuck another look at Mom’s message.

  What would it be like to have someone smile at him for him?

  His fraternity brother’s panicked voice hurtled down the hall, breaking his thoughts. “I need two hundred and fifty dollars to get my car. I can barely spare fifty.”

  “Shit, Seth. I’m sorry.” Billy Dorgan sounded like he was wincing on Seth’s behalf. “I’d help out, but my parents haven’t loaded my spending money into my account.”

  “This is so cracked. I didn’t even unpack everything ’cause I didn’t want to leave my car there.”

  Annoyance sparked through Darren. Campus police only targeted the cars of people they knew couldn’t make a fuss. As if the rich kids didn’t double-park all the time. How many free passes had Darren got? And he didn’t think twice about what was charged on his card.

  Another unfair advantage that came with the name Gage.

  A door shut, muffling their voices.

  The music stopped, too, and he was left stewing in his own sweat, made worse by the fact he had to answer his mom.

  He imagined how he might reply.

  Hey Mom, stop trying to set me up with men who have “decent” last names. In fact, stop trying to set me up at all. Especially if they’re stuffed shirts. We good? Love you.

  Or, if he wasn’t quite that brave:

  Hey Mom, Max has a sister, right? How about playing matchmaker with Cody? He’s the son who needs to stop dropping trou at the first hint of a smile.

  He sent his mom a waving emoji. He
sure was well versed in taking the coward’s route. Like signing up for summer classes to avoid the annual trip to the family’s estate in Rhode Island.

  Yeah, he couldn’t stand an entire summer of his dad ignoring him.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat.

  Maybe Dad just needed time.

  Or maybe Darren first had to prove he wasn’t a complete disappointment.

  His phone vibrated. Not Dad. Never Dad anymore. He tossed it across the bed.

  Yeah, he needed to improve himself. Be better. Win Dad over.

  And himself over, while he was at it.

  “Calm down, Seth. We’ll figure it out.”

  “How?” Seth walked past his door, hands clutching his head, looking miserable.

  “Hey,” Darren said. The pair jumped and twisted toward his room. He cleared his throat. “What happened to your car?”

  They eyed him suspiciously. He couldn’t blame them. They were tight with Jack, and Darren had been particularly idiotic to the guy last year.

  Heat burned up his chest. Shame and guilt and the clawing urge for redemption. For people to know he was sorry. That he was trying to be better.

  Billy eyed him warily. “Campus security towed him. They didn’t tell us it happened, so it took a day and a half to find it. If you don’t pick up within forty-eight hours, they double the fee.”

  Darren rolled off his bed and dug into his bag for his wallet and keys. “I take it they don’t accept credit cards.”

  “Bingo, Big D.” He winced, and added, “And the forty-eight hours is up at three thirty.”

  Darren’s fingers closed on the cold metal key ring. He pulled it out and spun it around his finger. He knew the D wasn’t short for Darren. Still. He couldn’t repair things if he didn’t try. “No worries, we can make it.”