Dumping Dallas Winston Read online

  Dumping Dallas Winston

  Dear Molly Book 2

  Jessica Bucher

  MF Lorson

  Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Bucher & MF Lorson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Preorder Catching Johnny Castle…

  Also by M.F. Lorson

  Also by Jessica Bucher

  About M.F. Lorson

  About Jessica Bucher

  I would be remiss if I didn’t start by saying that writing you is straight up stupid. You didn’t write Sloane back, and that girl is one screening of Sixteen Candles away from tattooing Molly Forever on her butt. If she hasn’t earned your correspondence, I’m sure that I haven’t.

  Here is the thing—I don’t care if you don’t write back to me. I just need someone to talk to. Have you ever been totally and completely the wrong person for a role? The script says, saucy latina, and you’re, well, you’re you? That’s how I feel, in life.

  My father is a cop. My mother is the president of the PTA, and my older sister is on a full scholarship to Yale. The Yale. I am basically Molly Ringwald cast as J-Lo’s younger sister. It doesn’t matter how many times I practice the accent. Someone else should be in that role. And the casting director should probably be fired.

  I’ve always known I’m a lousy Huntington, but lately it’s been getting worse. Some kids put a leash on a puppy and claim it followed them home. I do that with trouble. Right now, trouble’s name is Drake Carter.

  Confession: I’m not a John Hughes fan. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the whole girl-next-door-gets-rich-pretty-boy motif, it’s just that I much prefer my leading man to be the dark and broody sort. Give me a leather-jacket-wearing, motorcycle-helmet-carrying Outsider over Jake Ryan any day.

  Drake is those things. A very, very hot version of those things. There is just one problem, he doesn’t exactly possess the positive qualities of the Ponyboys and Dallas Winstons of the world. You know, qualities like loyalty.

  The kind of loyalty that would say, accompany you to the police station rather than shove a handful of spray paint cans into your open arms and sprint to the nearest alley at the first sign of flashing lights.

  Dear Molly, I am writing you this letter from the chair outside my father’s office and at the moment, I’m feeling a lot like dumping my Dallas Winston.

  Help?

  Harper Huntington

  Harper

  It’s hard to say when I fell in love with graffiti. Maybe it was kindergarten because I distinctly remember learning to write my name, and then learning that I got a much bigger reaction when I wrote it on the wall. I was super proud of my pink-crayoned Harper, but not nearly as proud as I was of tonight’s creation.

  “This is some of your best work,” said Drake. He took a step back to eye the wall in front of us. We had been working on a time crunch tonight, but I’d still managed to get a base layer down before overlaying it with a series of bright pink peonies.

  There were dozens of abandoned buildings along the Grover riverwalk, and a lot of them had been tagged by people who probably spent more time huffing the paint than they did learning how to wield it. It was my personal mission to transform their gang signs and four letter words into actual art.

  “You think?” I asked, before shaking the can of flourescent pink spray paint in my hand and adding one last stroke to the bottom of my central flower. Drake threaded his arms around my waist, pulling me in so that my back pressed up against the warmth of his chest.

  “A good boyfriend would buy you those things so you don’t have to paint them,” he whispered.

  I opened my mouth to respond, but he was working a quiet trail of kisses from my earlobe to my collarbone, and it was difficult to think straight let alone clap back with something witty.

  I turned and reached to wrap my arms around his neck. He rendered me speechless, but there were other things I could do with my lips.

  I expected to see his dark brown eyes peering into my own with a mixture of anticipation and hunger. What I didn’t expect to see was the reflection of blue and red lights flashing in the dark gleam of his pupils.

  This could not be happening, should not be happening. The riverwalk patrol wasn’t for another half hour. I’d listened to the police radio. They were supposed to be at Burger Barn, checking the back lot for dumpster diving transients, not shining their brights on us, and definitely not closing the door to the patrol car with a slam and briskly heading toward me.

  Drake shoved the plastic grocery sack of spray paint into my hand. His eyes were wide and frantic, and I knew he was waiting for me to give him permission to bail, but my lips just wouldn’t do it. Finally, he mouthed a quick sorry, before diving over the concrete barrier that separated the riverwalk path from the grassy bank of the river below and disappearing into the darkness. He was on probation, so he couldn’t afford to get caught. That’s what I told myself anyway as I considered the steaming pile of poo I had just stepped into.

  I should have dropped my bag and taken off running. At the very least stashed it in a nearby bush, but I didn’t because whether I made it home or not, my dad was going to know it was me. The only thing worse than getting caught by the cops, was getting caught running from them. Then not only was I in trouble, but whatever poor sap he had on patrol that night was busted too.

  Officer Nealson radioed the station. “Just kids messing around. No backup needed,” he said as he climbed up the gravel grade to where I stood.

  I gripped the bag tighter in my hand and waited for him to shine his flashlight in my face and make that ‘oh crap’ face they all made when they realized they were bringing in the boss’s daughter. A great burden of being a police chief's daughter was having absolutely no ability to go unrecognized.

  Officer Nealson frowned. “You know you’re making this a long night for me, right?”

  “Feels like a you-problem,” I said.

  Nealson was newish, which meant he didn’t remember me as the little girl in pigtails who marched around taking Girl Scout cookie orders every spring. If I had to be picked up by someone, he wasn’t such a bad choice.

  “In the car,” he growled.

  I made it a point to always ride in the backseat on these occasions.

  One: because riding shotgun with Daddy’s officers went completely against my carefully crafted, Harper Huntington: terrifying girl image.

  Two: because it ticked my dad off. Officer Nealson knew this, but he didn’t argue.

  I studied him from the backseat. He looked to be about twenty-seven, and judging by the way his uniform tugged across his biceps, Karen from admin was gonna try and talk him into posing for the police and fire calendar. I wouldn’t mind taking a peek, except I made it a point never to crack one of thos
e open. The likelihood of accidentally burning my retinas with the image of my father holding a strategically placed baton was a risk I couldn’t afford to take. Not even for Officer Nealson and his pretty, pretty arms.

  “Your dad’s in a meeting,” he said once we had arrived at the station. “You’re going to wait outside his door like all the other hooligans about to get a stern talking to.”

  I rolled my eyes, but my pulse was rising. The idea of ticking off Dad was a lot more glamorous than actually ticking off Dad.

  Dragging my feet, I crossed the office and slumped into one of the olive green chairs outside his door.

  “Ah honey, if you told me you were coming I’d have brought flowers.”

  My head snapped to the side. This could not be happening. Slouched in the chair beside me, one ankle crossed over the knee of his left khaki-covered leg was my sworn enemy. My eyes drifted up his neatly buttoned dress shirt to the cocky smirk he wore. Girls liked boys like him. They liked his clean cut, dirty blond hair and deep summer tan that made his teeth look impossibly white, eyes impossibly green. Other girls that is. I knew better.

  Of all people. Smarmy, entitled Landon Maxwell was the ‘hooligan’ I got stuck sitting next to?

  “This is not how I wanted to spend my Friday night,” I moaned.

  Landon

  Harper-freaking-Huntington.

  There were few things in life I truly took pleasure in. Driving my dad’s Maserati without his permission, a full takedown on the wrestling mat, and pissing off Harper Huntington.

  None of them were very hard really.

  The look on her face when she glanced my way in the police station was worth a plated-gold sports car, and I’d relive that moment a hundred times if I could.

  “Let’s leave our shoes on this time, okay?” I said with a toothy smile.

  “Keep your mouth shut and maybe I’ll let you keep your face,” she spewed with so much spite that I thought steam might actually start coming out of her ears.

  Harper hated me, and I mean really hated me. Don't get me wrong, the feeling was mutual. She ruined a perfectly pretty face with a bad haircut and piss poor attitude, but that’s what made torturing her so much fun. Before her best friend and my brother started dating, I didn’t quite have the opportunity I did now. But now...life was good.

  “What are you here for anyway?” she asked, squinting at me with judgement.

  I licked my lips and considered her for a moment. Should I be honest? Well, of course I should have, but did I want to? Of course not. Her dad would be walking out of that office at any moment, totally blowing my cover, so I might as well have had my fun while I had the chance.

  “You don’t want to know, Huntington. It would make you blush.”

  “You’re disgusting,” she spit back.

  I answered her with a wink that made her eyes roll as she turned away.

  “What about you? The new guy had to bring you in. I doubt he’s Ubering while on duty.”

  She scoffed at me but didn’t answer my question. Everyone knew Harper’s dad was Chief Huntington, or Hunt, as everyone in town called him for short. He was massive, loud, a true icon in Grover—not to mention one of the few people I actually admired. Hunt didn’t take crap from anybody and ruled every room he walked into. I wanted that.

  Which was why I was sitting where I was currently sitting.

  “How do you know he’s the new guy? How often are you in here?” she asked, flipping the one side of hair she still had out of her eyes. Harper must have thought she looked tougher when she chose to buzz everything from her left earlobe up, but it just looked desperate. And it only made her greenish-brown cat-like eyes look meaner. Why couldn’t she just grow it long and curl it at the ends like the other blondies at school? It would make her look way more dateable.

  Wouldn’t do much for that mouth of hers though.

  “I plan on being here a lot more. I’m turning over a new leaf.” I kicked out my legs and folded my hands behind my head. I caught her eyes drifting to the sliver of exposed stomach it created as I lifted my arms. My smile grew wider as her eyes rolled once again and she looked away. I kept my arms up and my abs exposed. Let her look.

  “Yeah, that’s smart. You’re not as rich as you used to be, so you might as well start racking up fines and bail bonds. You’re a genius, Landon.”

  A low, rumbling laugh escaped my lips, and it actually made her so uncomfortable that she slapped me with a stack of folded up pamphlets on the table in front of us with the words ‘I Got Arrested, Now What?’ printed in bold green letters.

  Yeah, it was finally public that my dad’s business tanked and we blew through the majority of his inheritance, but I was well-past caring about that. If I learned anything this year, it was that money may demand respect and attention, but presence could do that too.

  I mean...look at her dad. Dude never made more than six figs in his whole life, and I’d hand over my dad’s Maserati if he told me to.

  Whatever it was, he had it.

  My brother, Gabe, did not. He was too busy being a nice guy now, and he lost his smokin’ hot girlfriend because of it.

  Now that the school year was over, and I only had senior year left, I was determined to make sure everyone at Grover High knew that the pecking order had not changed. Having money was a crutch, one that I was not dependent on anymore.

  A moment later, the door to her dad’s office flung open and Hunt himself stepped out and stared wide-eyed at his darling little girl who suddenly cowered at the sight.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” he said in a tone that sent a wave of euphoria through my skull. How did I get so lucky to witness this? Whatever Harper did, he was pissed, and I could not wait to find out what it was.

  She straightened her spine again and focused her laser sharp glare at me, as if I was going to get it way worse than her.

  I winked at her again.

  “Maxwell,” Hunt said through a heavy sigh. “Sorry, to keep you waiting, son. Give me a few more minutes to handle this, and we can start the paperwork on your internship.”

  “Internship!?” Harper could have broken glass with the pitch of that scream.

  “In my office now,” he grit through his teeth at his daughter.

  Her head flipped back and forth between the two of us, her mouth hanging open as her dad held her by the arm and pulled her behind his door.

  “Take your time, sir,” I called toward them just before her murderous stare disappeared into the police chief’s office.

  Harper

  Rage was a really helpful tool for me. It definitely trumped fear. Approximately thirty-seconds ago my bottom lip was threatening to quiver its way to the land of tears and frustration, but now it was pressed into a firm line.

  I waited for Dad to take a seat behind his massive mahogany desk before planting my hands on my hips and locking in.

  “Landon Maxwell is the scum of the earth. It is your responsibility as Police Chief and decent human being to tell him so.”

  A smile ticked at the corner of Dad’s mouth.

  “Ahem,” he coughed, shoving a laugh down into the core of his bullet proof vest. “As Police Chief and hopefully decent human being I will need more information. Report?”

  I paced across the length of the office, the heels of my combat boots making hollow thuds on the carpet below.

  “2nd Grade. Reagan dropped a chocolate pudding snack pack on the cafeteria floor. It exploded, unsightly as you can imagine. Landon started a chant which turned into a rumor that Reagan pooped herself.”

  Dad squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

  “Need I remind you of your own 2nd grade antics?” he asked.

  I paused in my pacing, cocked my head to the side and raised one eyebrow. “I have further evidence to enter if you will be patient.”

  “Carry on.”

  “6th grade talent show, Natalie from my Girl Scout troop practiced all week to sing t
he song from Tangled, only to have Landon sweet talk Mom, the PTA president, into letting him run the music. Halfway through the chorus he changed the song to “I like to move it, move it.”

  Dad chuckled. “This evidence is not accomplishing what you hoped it would.”

  “8th grade!” I shrieked. I was ready to launch into a long story about a particularly despicable thing Landon had done in the girls locker room, but Dad was beginning to shift from mildly amused to irritated.

  “Harper,” he growled. “I don’t have time to listen to everything this kid has done that you disapprove of…”

  “Fine,” I replied, taking a deep breath. It was time to break out the big guns. The illegal guns.

  “Every year he throws parties with alcohol and minors.”

  Dad leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. “Go on.”

  “The majority of his relationships end with a sad girl crying in the school counselor's office.”

  Dad leaned slightly forward and squinted, “Are you one of those girls?”

  “Ew,” I replied, shaking the image from my brain before this evening’s dinner threatened to eject itself involuntarily.

  “Because that would be a reason I might consider withdrawing my offer of a job shadow. Pudding on the other hand.”

  “Pudding and alcohol,” I reminded.

  “Right, about that, how do you know there has been alcohol at his party? Were you there to see it?”

  I averted my eyes. Damnit, he had me.