Penny Clarke
Bang Out
A New Adult College Romance
Copyright © 2020 by Penny Clarke
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise withoutwritten permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distributeit by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it arethe work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localitiesis entirely coincidental.
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Contents
1. Kennedy
2. Kennedy
3. Spencer
4. Kennedy
5. Spencer
6. Spencer
7. Kennedy
8. Kennedy
9. Spencer
10. Kennedy
11. Kennedy
12. Spencer
13. Kennedy
14. Kennedy
15. Spencer
16. Kennedy
17. Kennedy
18. Spencer
19. Kennedy
20. Spencer
21. Kennedy
22. Kennedy
23. Kennedy
24. Spencer
25. Kennedy
26. Spencer
27. Kennedy
28. Kennedy
29. Kennedy
30. Spencer
31. Kennedy
32. Kennedy
33. Spencer
34. Kennedy
35. Spencer
36. Spencer
37. Kennedy
38. Spencer
39. Kennedy
40. Kennedy
41. Spencer
42. Kennedy
Epilogue
Thank You!
Did You Know…
About the Author
Also by Penny Clarke
In this Series
Nude Awakening
1
Kennedy
You know those scenes in romance movies right before the couple kisses? Where they gaze longingly into each other’s eyes and hold one another tight? The ripped male lead positively smolders. He’s yearned for it since the first act. The sassy female protagonist does that sexy lip lick thing. She wants it just as bad. Maybe he flew her out to his exotic private island for the dreamiest weekend ever. Maybe she turned down the promotion of a lifetime to run a quaint squash farm with him. And now, they consummately, unquestionably, absolutely must kiss.
This is not one of those moments.
Oh, sure, it has all the makings for chick flick potential. A gorgeous moonlit night. A secluded front porch with wicker chairs and twinkling lights strung from Craftsman columns. A whimsical porch swing built for two. A young couple. A man. A woman—i.e. me.
But let’s observe everything in the frame impeding it from silver screen glory:
It’s the middle of winter. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d prefer a tropical getaway (Redheads sunburn. Case in point: every summer family vacation photo where I am bright as a tomato), it’s hard to keep an ardent mood when I’m shivering in my coat.
Have you tried the lip lick thing while wearing lipstick? Granted, ‘Fresh Strawberry’ complements my features. But it doesn’t taste quite as appealing as the name suggests.
I don’t think anyone, ever, at any time, has known me and thought ‘That Kennedy Walsh, she’s one sassy lass!’
Likewise, I don’t think my co-star Pete can be distinguished as leading man material. Adorkable sidekick, perhaps. Possibly the courtroom lawyer who tries to convince the heroine that a squash farm is beneath her. Surely no one who smolders.
Unless that’s what he thinks he’s doing now, I realize when I open one eye to find both his staring back at me. Who keeps their eyes open when they kiss?
“Do you think, maybe, um,” I pull away. “Can you close your eyes?”
“Yeah, totally,” Pete says. He closes them, and I let him put his mouth back on mine now that I no longer feel like my every reaction to this kiss is being evaluated.
I squeeze my own shut, willing myself to overlook my last observation:
I don’t feel any sort of consummate, unquestionable, absolute need to kiss Pete.
In fact, when I first stepped into the house party tonight, I pegged him for an Ivy League wannabe, with his v-neck sweater and polo combo, artfully styled hair, and inclination to drop words like ‘ubiquitous’ into conversation. Turns out, when my friend Natalie introduced me to him, I hit it right on the nose. He’s a communications senior, who just applied to Dartmouth for grad school.
Which is not to say I don’t find all that attractive. As my roommate Rylie would say, he’s Kennedy catnip.
He’s just a little too much like the last guy I kissed: a pre-med student with the same cardigan in seven different colors. And before him, an econ major that favored bow ties.
Kennedy’s catnip is apparently the entire J. Crew men’s catalog.
Pete inches closer, and the porch swing sways. I shift my leg to stop the movement, but as previously established, it’s wintertime, and my boot slides on icy porch planks. The swing, well, it swings, and the sudden momentum causes Pete’s teeth to clack into mine.
I pull away again, pressing a finger into my incisors to dull the uncomfortable ache.
“Whoops,” Pete chuckles. He places both feet firmly on the porch and pats his thighs. “Here, how about this?”
“Get in your lap?”
“Exactly. I’ll hold you and keep the swing from moving.”
I frown, uncertain that will work. Cold wind drifts over the porch, carrying with it another shiver along my neck. I should have taken down my ponytail before coming outside. Why didn’t I bring a scarf? As it is, my ears will probably catch frostbite. I also can’t feel my butt through my jeans, the swing is that chilled. Maybe it’s just the cold taking me out of the moment. Maybe closeness—and body heat—will get me back into it.
So I climb onto him, though I’m not sure where to put my arms. Around his neck seems appropriate, but his coat comes with a furry, bulky hood. Should I unzip it to make space for my hands? No, that would be far too forward. I settle for leaving them
