In Jacob's Arms Read online

  Copyright © 2015 Alicia Rades

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission from the author except in brief quotations used in articles and reviews.

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

  Produced in the United States of America.

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

  To Rheanna, who has always supported my writing.

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  Most people aren’t defined by their childhood. Not the way I am.

  For most kids, the biggest event before they hit puberty is often a broken arm or a parents’ divorce. People tend to move past these life events in a few short years, and soon it stops affecting them. It rarely defines who they are.

  People probably don’t come up to you and give their condolences for your grandmother’s passing. After all, she probably died when you were six. They probably don’t ask to see the scar from your bicycle accident from when you were seven, either.

  It’s not like that for me. People are always coming up to me and asking me about my childhood. All. The. Time.

  The longest record I have before my blind date says, “Hey, I know you,” is eight minutes and 32 seconds. After college, Juliet was constantly trying to set me up on blind dates, but the guys always seemed to know who I was, which in turn caused them to act weird around me. It’s difficult to enjoy myself in this situation, which is why I stopped accepting her invitations.

  Those of you who don’t know who I am are probably wondering why I’m so special. I’ll tell you the truth: I’m not. There’s nothing extraordinary about me, but everyone seems to think I’m some superior being.

  Why? I started acting when I was four. By the time I was seven, I landed myself three major roles in hit films. Although I stopped acting after filming the third movie, people still know who I am.

  I sometimes want to just scream, “It was 20 years ago. Get over it!” Honestly, my acting career feels like a whole different lifetime. That’s not who I am anymore, yet people still use it against me as if it defines me.

  Perhaps people still recognize me because I never seemed to grow out of my childish appearance. I never grew hips, and I barely have boobs. Hell, I look more like a 12-year-old than a 26-year-old. Plus, my signature pouty bottom lip that made me so cute in my days of acting never seemed to recess to normal. I still style my hair with straight-across bangs because frankly, it makes me look adorable (and it hides my giant forehead). Perhaps the only thing that has changed about me is my height and the gradual darkening of my auburn hair. My colorless skin never even darkened, but you could say that’s my fault since I don’t bother tanning like Juliet does.

  It’s because of my past and the fact that so many people recognize me that I have a difficult time accepting Juliet’s latest offer. I just don’t want to go through that experience again.

  The problem starts when Juliet stumbles out of her bedroom, hair still in a mess and makeup smudged across her face, indicating the long night she had at her exhibit reception. I’m moving around the kitchen after pouring myself a cup of coffee, lounging in my usually Saturday morning attire. My baggy sweats and oversized t-shirt cover my small frame.

  Despite her tired appearance, Juliet is still stunning. Juliet actually has hips and boobs, and she’s about five inches taller than me with long, slender model legs. Her lengthy blonde hair cascades down her back to make her even more gorgeous. She’s the kind of woman who turns heads and makes every guy want her and every girl jealous. She could easily be a model, although she never pursued the career.

  Most of the time, I’m jealous of her beauty, but it’s the kind of jealousy that I feel against my sister, too, so it’s not like I hate Juliet or anything.

  “Long night?” I ask.

  She looks at me, rubs her eyes, and says in a tired tone, “Of course it was. Opening nights for exhibits always go late, and it’s even worse that I’m partially in charge of them.” It’s not that the reception itself goes late, but Juliet always stays later, admiring the artwork and celebrating with her coworkers. This only happens, however, when she doesn’t end up going home with a guy, and judging by her appearance, she slept alone last night.

  Juliet is an art geek and has paint easels and glorious artworks strewn across the apartment. While she doesn’t display her work often, she loves art and works as an assistant art curator at a small gallery just a few blocks from our apartment. The way she’s working her way up in her career astounds me, and she’s even managed to get one of her paintings accepted in an upcoming show at a different local gallery.

  Juliet takes a deep, refreshing yawn, extending her arms above her head and stretching her calves to her tip toes. She comes down from her stretch, and her face lights up. A big, god-awful smile forms across it. She leans her elbows on the breakfast bar and swings her hips from side to side, pivoting on one foot. She stares at me with that dreadful smile, and I know she’s just waiting for me to ask what’s up so that she can reveal her dirty little secret.

  My eyebrows come together. Does she have someone in her bedroom?

  “What?” I ask. “Did you get laid or something?” I take a sip of my coffee, not caring too much if she did or not. It wouldn’t surprise me, and it wouldn’t be anything new. She is currently in between men, so I suppose she’s in need of some. Then again, I’m the one who really needs to get laid, not Juliet.

  “No!” She squeaks. “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, your smile is kind of scaring me. I thought you might have gotten some or something.” And it is so like you, I think, although I don’t say it out loud.

  She giggles. “No, I didn’t get laid, but I do have news for you. Rather, an offer.”

  I stick out my right hip and place my hand upon it. My face transforms into an oh-no-what-do-you-want-me-to-do-this-time glare, and I roll my eyes at her.

  “No, no,” she insists as she straightens up, her hands outstretched in a way that implies that I should calm down. “Just hear me out.”

  I turn away from her and begin preparing myself toast. I again roll my eyes, hoping that she doesn’t have a ridiculous offer for me, like that she wants me to help pitch in for a Chihuahua or something, which I wouldn’t do in a million years. Yes, that is the kind of thing Juliet would ask for, but those tiny dogs are annoying as shit.

  “So there’s this guy I work with,” Juliet begins. “I mean, he just started working at the gallery helping with the exhibits and stuff, and I’ve gotten to know him pretty well and all. We got to chatting a bit more last night at the reception. He’s, like, totally not my type, though.” She rolls her eyes as she says this. “Somehow we ended up on the subject of you—�
��

  I spin around and stop her. Stunned, I stare up at her past the frames of my glasses. “Me? What were you talking about me for?”

  “Well, I was telling him about my paintings in the apartment, and I mentioned I had a roommate.” She waves her hand like it’s nothing.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “when I mentioned your name, he had no idea who you were—no indication of familiarity whatsoever—so I thought this would be a great opportunity for you to meet someone who doesn’t have any preconceived notions of who you are. If you will accept, I can set you two up on a blind date!”

  I raise my brows at her as if she’s mad. “Juliet, I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t set me up on any more blind dates.” She’d done this to me before, and each date seemed to turn into a disaster.

  She comes around the counter. “Come on, Siobhan,” she begs, bending her knees and giving a bit of a hop. “When was the last time you went out on a date?”

  “I don’t know,” I lie. The truth is, I haven’t been on a date in nearly two years, and I’m in desperate need of some intimate contact.

  “You’re always complaining about how there aren’t any good guys out there because they look at you like you’re still a child,” she argues. “This guy is so great for you, and he doesn’t have any biased ideas about who you are. I want to see you with someone for once, Siobhan. I want you to be happy. He’s a great guy.”

  She has a point, but I’m not keen on the idea. I argue against it. “Juliet, he probably just doesn’t recognize how to pronounce my name. If you don’t spell it out for him, he won’t get the connection.” It’s true. No one knows how to say my name. It should be spelled S-h-i-v-a-h-n or something along those lines, but I’m cursed with an oddly-spelled first name. “He’d probably recognize me once he saw me. I do still look like I did when I was five.”

  “No, he won’t,” she promises. “I casually mentioned your movies, and he’s never seen any of them. He doesn’t know you.”

  I throw my hand up. “Oh, now he does because you told him.”

  “No,” she insists. “I said I casually mentioned it. I didn’t say that you were in them!”

  I stand there in silence for a moment, almost considering the idea. If there is a guy out there, one who Juliet thinks is good for me and who doesn’t think of me as the same little girl I once was, perhaps there’s a chance with him.

  I quickly shake off the notion. Juliet isn’t that great at detecting “the perfect couple.” Hell, she can’t even land herself the perfect guy. How is she supposed to find the perfect one for me?

  As I contemplate this idea further, my toast pops, scaring me. I jump, and my coffee projects out of its mug and onto my t-shirt. Frustrated now, I slam my cup on the counter a bit harder than I should have and turn to grab the towel that hangs off the handle on the stove.

  “Please,” Juliet begs again, elongating the vowels.

  I tilt my head in frustration and glare at her over my shoulder. She’s leaning against the counter again, biting her lip impatiently.

  “I’d really rather not,” I tell her. Still, a thought in the back of my mind surfaces. What if this is my chance to meet a decent guy who won’t judge me for my past? I let the thought fall almost instantly. No. It hasn’t happened before. What would make now any different, especially with Juliet’s judge of character?

  "Come on,” Juliet says. “You can’t stay single forever.”

  My heart gives a painful jolt at her words, but I don’t let it show. I frown at her over my shoulder. “Maybe I want to be single.” A burst of laughter goes off in my head. Ha! If only that were the truth.

  “It couldn’t hurt,” she presses.

  I glower for a moment longer before turning my head away from her and throwing down the towel. I don’t want to have to deal with her ridiculous smile and constant pleading, and I know she won’t stop until I agree.

  Juliet is so controlling and bossy, and I blame it on the fact that her parents raised her an only child. I guess she’s kind of always gotten what she wanted and quickly learned how to play people.

  “Fine,” I say between gritted teeth, but I don’t look at her, slightly afraid to confront her. I’m annoyed at her persistence but still hope that there won’t be any serious consequences of agreeing. She and I both know that I’m much overdue for a date. My heart begins to race the moment I answer, but I’m not entirely sure why. Nerves, perhaps?

  I begin buttering my toast, my back still to her. “Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.” I spin around as I take an angry bite from my toast, except I rip off more than I intend, and I struggle to get the rest of the bite in my mouth. Juliet giggles at me, and I laugh along.

  “I have to go change,” I tell her as I laugh, gesturing to the fresh coffee stain on my shirt.

  Juliet may be a super controlling person, but I love her like a sister, and I always seem to have a good time with her.

  Juliet embraces me, though she’s careful to avoid the coffee stain on my shirt. “I’m so happy for you, Siobhan. Maybe for once you’ll be in a real relationship.”

  Gee, thanks for the kind words, Juliet.

  I free myself from her grasp and head to my room to get ready for the day.

  2

  My room is tiny, just big enough for a twin bed, night stand, dresser, and a computer desk. My walls are pretty bare compared to the rest of the apartment, which Juliet has practically turned into her own art gallery with her favorite paintings and photographs, both of her own work and of other artists. Most of the photos in my room are of me standing next to someone else—my mom, my sister, and Juliet.

  I slip out of my pajamas and pull a tank top and shorts out of my drawer and put them on. At my dresser, I take my glasses off and place my contacts in my eyes. I pause briefly, staring back at myself in the mirror. I take a moment to study my high cheek bones, bright eyes, and soft skin, yet I find myself cursing my pale complexion and flat chest. Perhaps I’m not as confident as I would have myself believe.

  I toss my hair up in a high ponytail. I don’t bother with my makeup because I’m not going anywhere. It’s the weekend, but even so, I don’t usually leave the apartment during the day. I typically sit on my computer working with clients on web development. Yep, that’s what I’m using my graphic design degree for, and no matter what anyone tells you about web designers, I love my job. I’m my own boss and don’t have to take shit from anyone. Well, that’s not true. Clients give me shit sometimes, but most of the time they’re easy to work with.

  I exit my bedroom and return to Juliet. She has her cell phone pressed to her ear, but I’m not entirely sure who she’s speaking with. “Awesome. Okay. She’ll be there,” she says, then hangs up. “You’re set for Wednesday night at Michelle’s at 7:00,” Juliet informs me. Michelle’s is a restaurant not far from here, but I’m surprised. It always seems so fancy and expensive when I walk by, although I’ve never been inside.

  “Um . . . Thanks for asking.” I stare up at her with a look of sarcasm. I suppose I did give her permission to schedule the date and simply tell me when and where, but I’m a bit annoyed that she didn’t ask me the details before confirming the date with . . . did she ever say his name?

  “What?” she asks.

  “How do you know I’m not busy?” I give her a tone of frustration.

  “Oh, sorry,” she apologizes with insincerity. “Are you doing anything Wednesday night?”

  Juliet knows that I never go out without her, so if she’s not doing anything Wednesday night, she already knows that I’m not. “No,” I admit.

  “Well, you are now. I’ve ordered you one romantic night with the beautiful Jacob Bishop.”

  God, I only hope he’s beautiful.

  Juliet turns and heads toward her bedroom.

  I stop her. “Juliet.”

  She pivots to look at me, but I can’t read her expression. I think it’s one of curiosity.

  “How will I know it’s him? If what
you say is true and he really doesn’t recognize me, he won’t know who I am, either.”

  “Oh,” she says, like she already knows the answer but just forgot to tell me. “He’ll be wearing a black cashmere sweater over a lavender collared shirt, and you’ll be wearing that black single-strapped dress you wore the last time we went dancing.”

  That thing! But that’s my sexy look-at-me dress. I don’t want to look that desperate on the first date.

  “Juliet,” I begin to protest, but she interrupts me.

  “Siobhan, I told him that’s what you’ll be wearing. You look hot in it; it’ll be fine.”

  “Fine,” I agree in exasperation. I say I don’t take shit from anyone, but I have a hard time disagreeing with Juliet. She’s been my best friend since college, and we’re practically sisters. I look up to her, and I can’t ever seem to win an argument with her. To be honest, I’m kind of scared that I’d lose her if I ever did.

  I remember meeting her for the first time. I had just moved to New York, ready to start working on my degree. I was seated at my desk early for my first day of freshman English, determined to do my best that semester. She sauntered into the room and plopped down in the seat next to me, her hair swaying and looking as gorgeous as ever. I was intimidated at first by the way she carried herself and by her beauty.

  Her expression was full of anger. “I will not put up with this shit,” she said under her breath.

  I couldn’t help but stare at her, amazed by this woman who seemed so beautiful and strong despite her frustrated appearance.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. I could see the irritation in her eyes, her eyebrows together in tension.

  “No, I am not okay. My roommate is a bitch.” She rolled her eyes.

  Immediately, we had something in common. I wasn’t too thrilled about my roommate either, who already had two different guys stay in our dorm room over the weekend. When she thought I was asleep, they’d make out on the loft next to mine. I was not prepared for this.