Page 3 of Summer Lovin'

My last memories of my truck include making love to Julianna Capo, known to me as Jules—two weeks before graduation. My dumb ass told her I loved her that night. She, doe-eyed and mouth agape, stared at me but said nothing. No words of love or adoration said in return. Heartbroken, the next morning I went to the recruiters and signed on the dotted line. After we graduated, her family took a European vacation, and I haven’t seen or talked to her since.

My thought was to join the military, learn a trade, maybe get a few college classes under my belt, and make enough money to send home every month to take care of my mom, sister, and baby brother. I planned to get myself settled and then come home to prove to Jules I wasn’t just a piece of trash from the wrong side of the tracks.

Not that she ever called me a piece of trash.

Her family did, but not her.

But we left town with no plans to keep in touch. No plans to have a long distance relationship. It was then I accepted the fact that I had been her guilty pleasure. The guy she made out with behind the lockers during football games, but steadily ignored in the hallways during the day. I was her bad boy. Her rebellious act that she admitted to no one, not even her friends.

I never tried to contact her, and then when I came home a year ago—right before I went overseas—I read Julianna Capo was engaged to Peter Pareto, son of the governor. That’s when I knew I missed my second chance.

“I’ll need help getting my truck show ready.”

“Bring her by the shop on Friday, and we’ll roll out Friday night. You can stay with us at the cabin.”

I sigh—nostalgia from the old days when my dad was alive and our two families would celebrate every event with backyard BBQs flooding my veins. I miss these fools more than I care to admit. “Alright, let’s do this.”

* * *

We arrived at the cabin Friday night, meeting up with a half-dozen other guys from the club at a bar outside of the resort. The night got a little rowdier than I would have liked, considering I’m trying to keep my nose clean—as Mrs. Patel advised—but outside a bit of pushing and shoving, we got out of there unscathed. It’s Saturday morning, and we have our chairs and coolers set up on the fringe of the lawn behind our vehicles.

“Let’s check out the competition.” Frankie elbows me now that we’ve set everything up.

There are approximately fifty cars in attendance—a small classic car show, but a prestigious one for guys like us. We’re parked in the east corner of the parking lot off the main lodge, the cars grouped together by car club versus make, model, and year. There are ten of us from cHevy Hustlers, their placard on my car as an honorary member. I’ve been disassociated from this stuff for so long, I can’t remember many other clubs in the area outside of the Fabulous Fords, which was founded by Lorenzo Capo, Jules’s great-grandfather.

Our families’ hatred for each other runs generations deep.

As we round the corner into the main parking lot, my heart beats double time and my lungs expand as excitement wars with dread in my chest when I see a distinct dusk rose ‘57 Ford Thunderbird convertible. One look at the rare mint-condition convertible, and I know deep in my soul that Julianna Capo—my first love, the girl who still haunts my dreams—is nearby.

2

JULIANNA

My father has kept me close ever since I broke off my engagement with Peter Pareto—a man my family chose for me because he’s the governor’s son with his own political aspirations. He insisted I attend this weekend’s car show, an opportunity to show off his rare vintage collection of Fords and socialize with other enthusiasts.

The Capo family owns seven Ford dealerships east of the Mississippi, with my father serving as CEO for three of the seven. He has power and money, but wants to secure his friends in high places—and he’s willing to pimp his only daughter to assure those alliances.

I am wearing a Capo Ford of Roanoke T-shirt and a pair of slim fit jeans. It’s hot and humid today, so I have my hair up in a simple ponytail. Nothing eye-catching—I’m subdued compared to my cousin, Rosie, who wears a Capo Ford of Blackburg tank top that is at least one size too small.

“We should grab a lemonade or something,” she whines, adjusting her top to pull the neckline low. I know what she really wants to do—she wants to check out the men at the car show.

I glance at my father, uncles, and male cousins as they schmooze with other rich men and ogle each other’s classic Fords. As soon as we stand up, my father’s attention snaps to us, his eyebrow arched.

“Where are you going?”

Rosie fluffs her hair and then grabs a stack of shiny advertisements. “We’re going to grab a lemonade and pass out dealership coupons.”

“Good girls.” He nods. “You two stick together. Rosie, keep an eye on my daughter.”

“Sure thing.” She smiles and hooks her arm with mine, turning our backs to him. Then she murmurs under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, while rolling her eyes.Keep an eye on my daughter.

My father treats me like a little girl, despite the fact I’m twenty-three years old. Although he’s never asked me directly, he thinks my lack of a serious boyfriend in high school or college means I’m a virgin, and therefore a pure offering to his future son-in-law. I’m not, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that. Essentially, he promised me to Peter—a man I hadn’t even met at the time—when I was eighteen and a freshman in college.

Peter is eight years old than me and a special kind of douchebag. He’s been grooming his public image since before he entered college, knowing a life in politics was in his future. Therefore, he had no problemcourtinga college student like me, never crossing the line outside of a friendly peck on my cheek. He needs me to be his virgin bride, setting up the family portrait every governor and senator uses on the campaign trail.

Meanwhile, he’s sleeping with multiple women, paying them off whenever they become clingy. I’m pretty sure he hires prostitutes too, although he admits nothing, even though I practically caught him in bed mid-thrust. He wasn’t having sex when I stopped by finding the door to his apartment unlocked and slightly ajar. He was wrapped up in the sheets while she, whoever she was, took a shower. That was the irrefutable proof I needed to break off my engagement—the only excuse my father would hear for a half a second—even though I never wanted to marry Peter in the first place.

“That’s a beautiful car.” A deep voice, rich in timber, says.

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