Right Kind of Wrong Read online

  Right Kind of Wrong

  Chelsea Fine

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  An Excerpt from Best Kind of Broken

  An Excerpt from Perfect Kind of Trouble

  Newsletters

  Copyright Page

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  To Kristen, who knows me so well and still hangs out with me.

  You’re the best “Jenna” a girl could hope for.

  Acknowledgments

  This series has been a whirlwind of fun and excitement to write and I couldn’t have done it without my amazingly supportive readers. From the bottom of my heart, thank you! With every page you’ve read you’ve given me a gift I could never have imagined. I love your guts!

  Thank you to Brett, my incredible husband, for being my soul, my spirit, and my sanity in this adventure we call life. You are better than I deserve and the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Thank you for loving me. I’m yours forever.

  Thank you to my sweet babies, who are no longer babies but almost tweens. You are the brightest lights in my life and I chase my dreams for you. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for being proud of me. Thank you for all the things you give to me that are too big for words. I love your sweet souls with my whole heart.

  Thank you to my wonderful mama. You have stood by me through all the many dreams I’ve chased and never doubted I would catch one. And look at me now! Dreams in my hands, spilling all over the place. Thank you for always believing that this day would come.

  Thank you to Kristen, who is my “Jenna,” for being a constant friend to me in all my seasons, and for making me laugh my head off. Seriously. I’m surprised my head is still connected to my body. Yours is the greatest friendship I’ve ever experienced, and I’m grateful beyond words for the joy you bring to my life.

  Thank you to my good friend and fellow writer Shelly Crane, who is my partner in things to hope for. I love your guts—all of them.

  Thank you to Suzie, my superstar agent. I couldn’t have done any of this without your brilliance and patience! You’re my superhero. For reals.

  And thank you to my fantastic editor, Megha, for loving my characters just as much as I do! You felt what I wrote and made this book come to life. And you tolerate my crazy—which is no small task—and for that I’m forever grateful. Thank you for believing in this story, and all the ones before. You truly are incredible.

  1

  Jenna

  “Look at you. Being all in love like a grown-up. I’m so proud,” I say, smiling at my best friend, Pixie, as we carry boxes into our joint dorm room. “And Levi,” I add, turning to address Pixie’s hot new piece of arm candy, “you’re welcome.”

  He sets a box down. “Am I now?”

  I nod. “If it weren’t for me telling Pixie to suck up her fears and just let herself love you, you’d still be a miserable handyman.”

  “I am still a handyman.”

  “Ah, but you’re no longer a miserable one.” I grin. “Thanks to me.”

  He pulls Pixie into his arms and kisses her temple. “Then I guess I should thank you.”

  As they start kissing, my phone rings and I’m relieved for an excuse to leave them to all their lovebirding.

  I slip out into the hall and close the door before answering my cell.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jenna.” The sound of my mom’s voice makes me smile. “How’s my baby?”

  “I’m good,” I say. “Pixie and I are almost all moved in. She came down here with her boyfriend tonight so we were able to get mostly unpacked. I just have a few more boxes left at the apartment, but I’m going to pick those up later. How are you?”

  She pauses. “Well I’m okay.”

  It’s the way she emphasizes the “I’m” that tells me exactly what this phone call is about.

  “Grandma?” I sigh in exasperation. “Again?”

  “I’m afraid so. She says she can feel the end coming close.”

  I sigh. “Mom. She’s been saying she’s dying for ten years and she’s never even had a cough.”

  “I know, but she seems serious this time,” Mom says.

  Every few years or so, my grandmother announces to the family that she’s going to kick the bucket at any given moment. The first two times it happened, I immediately flew back to New Orleans—where she lives with my mother and younger sisters in the house I grew up in—to be by her side, only to find Granny alive and well without so much as a sniffle. The last time it happened, I took a few days to get organized before flying back to New Orleans, where I found my “dying” grandmother singing karaoke at a local bar.

  So as you can imagine, I’m not falling for her silly shenanigans this time.

  “No way,” I say. “I’m not spending my hard-earned money to fly out there again just so Grandma can get on my case about love and fate while belting out a verse of ‘Black Velvet.’ Tell her that I’ll come visit when she has a doctor’s note stating that she’s at death’s door.”

  “Oh, Jenna. Don’t be so dramatic. I swear you’re just as bad as your grandmother.”

  “I know,” I say, in mock frustration. “And it’s getting hard to compete for the title of Family Drama Queen with Granny declaring her impending death every two years. Could you tell her to just give it up already and let me be the shining star?”

  I can hear the disapproval in my mother’s voice. “That’s not funny, Jenna.”

  “Sure it is.” I smile. “And Grandma would agree.”

  “Please be serious about this,” she says.

  “I’ll be serious about Grandma’s death when she gets serious about dying,” I quip.

  A weary sigh feathers through the line. “Jenna, please.”

  “Why do we keep pandering to her, anyway? The only reason she keeps crying death is because she knows we’ll all come running to her karaoke-singing side to hold her hand as she passes—which she never does. Why do we keep playing her game?”

  “Because she’s very superstitious and believes dying without the blessing of her family members is bad luck for the afterlife. You know that.”

  Now it’s my turn to sigh.

  I do know that. All too well. Since I was a child, the deep roots of Grandma’s superstitions have wrapped their gnarled fingers around my family’s every move. If her Voodoo notions weren’t so eerily accurate and, well, creepy, maybe we’d be able to ignore the old woman’s ways.

  But unfortunately, Grams has a tendency to correctly predict future events and know exactly what someone’s intentions or motivations are just by shaking their hand. It’s downright spooky. And I swear the old woman uses our fear of her psychic powers as a tool of manipulation.

  Case in point? Her recurring death threats.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “She deserves a pleasant send-off. I know.”

  I hear my mother inhale through her nose. “She does. But even if that weren’t the case, your grandmother isn’t feeling well and she’d like to see you. Again.” When I don’t say anything she adds, “And wouldn’t you feel horrible if she was right this time and you missed your chance to say good-bye?”

  The guilt card. A nasty tool all mothers use on their children.

  “Fine,” I say. “But I’m not shelling out the cash to fly there. I’ll drive this time.”

 
“All the way from Tempe to New Orleans?”

  “Yes. And I will save big money doing it,” I say. “I’ll get my shifts covered at work and leave in the morning.”

  “Excellent. Your grandmother will be so happy.”

  I scoff. “Happy enough for karaoke, no doubt.”

  She clears her throat. “I’ll see you here in a few days then. Love you.”

  “Love you too.” I hang up the phone and head back into the dorm room to find Levi and Pixie making out against the wall.

  “God. Seriously, you two?” I make a face. “I know you just got together in the middle of the road a few hours ago, but come on! There are other people here.”

  Levi doesn’t seem to notice me as he continues kissing Pixie’s face off, and Pixie takes her sweet time pulling back from her loverboy before acknowledging my presence.

  She shoots me a hazy smile and nods at my phone. “Who was that?”

  “My mom.” I exhale. “Grandma claims she’s dying.”

  “Again?” She bites her lip.

  I nod. “So I’m going to drive out there this week and try to be home before school starts.”

  She pulls away from Levi, just slightly, but it’s enough for him to stop smelling her hair—which I swear he was just doing. They’re so in love it’s almost gross.

  “By yourself?” Pixie’s green eyes widen.

  Pixie and I met last year, at the start of our freshman year at Arizona State University when we were assigned the same dorm and became roommates. When school let out for the summer and Pixie and I could no longer live in the dorms, we split up. She moved to her aunt’s inn up north—where she fell in love with Levi—while I moved into a local apartment with three of my cousins. It was a good setup, for the summer, but I’m happy to be moving back in with my bestie.

  She and I are both art students—she’s a painter and I’m a sculptor—so we have a ton in common and get along perfectly. She’s the closest friend I’ve ever had, so I try my hardest to take the concern on her face seriously.

  “Yep.” I put my phone away. “By myself.”

  Levi reluctantly steps away from his girlfriend and busies himself by unpacking some of Pixie’s things.

  She frowns. “That doesn’t sound like fun. Or very safe.”

  Levi glances at me. It’s one of those big-brother protective glances and I have to bite back a smile. Aw… look at this guy. He barely knows me, but he’s still worried about my safety. For the hundredth time, I silently rejoice that he and Pixie got together. She deserves a good guy who looks out for both her and her friends. A guy like that would drive me crazy. But he’s perfect for Pixie.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say to both Pixie’s big eyes and Levi’s concerned glance as I wave them off and grab my purse. “But I have to stop by work and then my cousins’ apartment for the last of my boxes. I’ll be gone a while, so you two can get back to smooching against the wall or whatever.” I wink at Pixie. “See ya.”

  “See ya,” she says with a concerned smile as I exit the room.

  Jumping in my car, I quickly head to the Thirsty Coyote, where I work as a bartender. It’s a decent job for a college student. Good hours. Good money. And it suits me. Pouring drinks isn’t my dream job or anything, but it gets me one step closer to finishing school and opening my own art gallery—which is my dream job.

  I let myself inside and head to the back. It’s just past dinnertime so the place is packed and I have to squeeze through the crowd just to reach the bar. When I get there, I lean in and call out to my coworker.

  “Cody!”

  He turns around and smiles at me. “What’s happening, Jenna? Thought you had the night off.”

  “I do. But I need to get some shifts covered this week so I thought I’d come in and sweet-talk my favorite bartender…” I bat my lashes, knowing full well Cody isn’t attracted to me at all. But he’s still a sucker for making money, and more bar shifts means more money.

  He grins. “I’m listening…”

  I whip out my schedule and show him all the days I’d need him to cover. He agrees like the superhero that he is and heads to the back to make it official in the schedule log.

  I wait at the counter, thinking about how long my drive to New Orleans will take if I leave tomorrow. Probably at least twenty hours. Ugh. Pixie was right. It really isn’t going to be any fun.

  My eyes drift over the crowd and fall on a tall figure in the corner. Gunmetal-gray eyes. Tousled black hair. Tattooed arms and broad shoulders. My body immediately goes on alert.

  Jack Oliver.

  It’s not surprising he’s here. He comes to the bar all the time, but usually he’s with his friends and in a good mood. Right now, though, he’s talking on the phone and seems very upset. His gray eyes are narrow slits and his jaw is clenched. But I’m not going to lie. Angry looks good on him.

  At over six feet tall, with his broad shoulders and endless tattoos, Jack looks intimidating. But really he’s a big softie. I hardly ever see him in a mood other than happy. So this angry version of Jack is a new experience for me. A very hot experience.

  He catches me looking at him and tips his chin. His anger dissipates for a brief second as a lopsided smile hitches up the corner of his mouth, but then he turns his attention back to his phone and clenches his fist before ending the call.

  In-ter-est-ing.

  He shoves his phone into his back pocket and heads my way.

  “What’s up?” I say. “You seem upset.”

  He shrugs. “Nothing. Just family shit.”

  I snort. “God. Yes. I have plenty of that.”

  He nods and our eyes lock and hold.

  One beat.

  Two.

  I hate this part of our friendship; the part that reminds me of what happened between us last year when we got drunk and carried away one very steamy night. The memory shouldn’t still turn me on like it does. But Jack and those gray eyes of his—eyes rimmed with pale green and flecked with dark flints, looking almost silver at times—are hard not to respond to.

  We never talk about it, which is better, but in moments like this, when his eyes are on mine with such command, I can almost feel his hands back on my body. Fingertips running the length of my skin. Palms brushing my curves—

  “Here you go.” Cody returns with the schedule book for me to sign and I silently bless the interruption.

  No good comes from me reminiscing about Jack’s hands. Or any of his other body parts.

  “I switched our shifts and marked you down as on vacation,” Cody says.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the book and initialing by my traded shifts.

  “Hey, Jack.” Cody nods at him. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Just a beer,” Jack says, sitting in the barstool next to me. He’s so close I can smell his shampoo. It’s a wooded scent, like sawdust and pine, and it plays at my memories in a way that makes my heart pound.

  He looks at me. “So where are you going on vacation?” His warm breath skitters over my shoulder and sends a jolt of hot want through my veins.

  Damn him.

  On second thought, damn me for being such a swooner.

  I’m not usually like this. I swear it. Guys are the last thing I give priority to in my life. It goes: chocolate, tattoos, a hundred other things… and then men. Because a woman doesn’t need a man to have a full life. And I’m living proof of that.

  I keep my eyes on the book. “New Orleans to visit my grandma.”

  He nods. “Is she dying again?”

  Even my friends know how ridiculous my grandmother’s yearly death threats are.

  “Yep.” I pop the p. “The drama queen just won’t hand the spotlight over gracefully.”

  He smirks. “Like you’d wait to be handed anything.”

  Jack and I met two years ago, when I first started working at the Thirsty Coyote and Jack was my trainer, but we became friends almost immediately and now he knows me well enough to know that I’m not very patient
, and if I want something I usually just take it.

  Cody sets Jack’s beer down and asks me, “Are you flying out tonight?”

  “Nah.” I finish signing the book and hand it back to him. “I’m driving there so I’ll leave in the morning.”

  Jack swings his head to me and a slight wrinkle forms between his eyes. “You’re driving all the way to Louisiana?”

  Jack and I are both from Louisiana. I’m from New Orleans and he’s from a small town just north of there, called Little Vail. The fact that we grew up so close to one another, yet met on the other side of the country at this bar in Arizona, was one of the first things we bonded over. That, and tequila.

  “Yeah. Pfft. I’m not spending hundreds of dollars on a last-minute plane ticket. Grandma needs to give me at least a month’s warning next time she decides to keel over.”

  Jack takes a swig of his beer, but continues looking straight at me, displeased.

  “What?” I snap.

  He shrugs. “That’s just a long trip to make on your own.”

  “Yeah, well. Good thing I don’t mind driving.” I look at Cody. “Thanks for covering for me. I owe you. Later, Jack.” I turn to leave just as a drunk guy stumbles into me, knocking me back into Jack’s chest.

  Jack’s hands instantly go to my hips, and my hips instantly want to yank his hands down my pants. My hips can’t be trusted.

  “Watch it,” I say to the drunk guy, giving him a little shove forward so I have room to pull away from Jack.

  Jack’s fingers slowly slide off my hips, trailing down just before ending contact with my body, and my eyelids lower in want.

  Clearly, I need to have sex. Not with Jack—that would be a disaster. But with someone. Soon. So I can sex Jack out of my system. Again.

  I’ve been trying to sex away Jack a lot lately.

  I blink up and find Jack’s eyes watching mine. He saw my moment of weakness; that split second of desire. Dammit.

  “Be careful, Jenn,” he says in a low voice, and his words trickle down my skin.

  Jack’s the only person I’ve ever let call me “Jenn.” Why? I have no idea. I blame his voice, all sexy and deep and brushing along the sensitive places of my ears.