Johnny Read online

  JOHNNY

  A NEW-ADULT NOVEL

  BY RACHEL DUNNING

  Genres

  Coming of Age

  New Adult Romance

  Mature Young Adult Romance

  Copyright © 2014 Rachel Dunning.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Book Cover Design, Copyright 2014 Rachel Dunning

  First Edition.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Rachel Dunning:

  Finding North, #1 Naïve Mistakes Series

  East Rising, #2 Naïve Mistakes Series

  West-End Boys, #3 Naïve Mistakes Series

  Deep South, #4 Naïve Mistakes Series

  Red-Hot Blues, Standalone Novel

  Like You, #1 Perfectly Flawed Series

  Know Me, #1 Truthful Lies

  Find Me, #2 Truthful Lies

  Need Me, #3 Truthful Lies

  Christmas Comfort, #1 Hot Holidays Series

  Easter Sundae, #2 Hot Holidays Series

  Girl-Nerds Like it Harder, #1 Girl-Nerd Series

  Girl Nerds Like it Faster, #2 Girl-Nerd Series

  Girl-Nerds Like it Deeper, #3 Girl-Nerd Series

  Girl-Nerds Like it Longer, #4 Girl-Nerd Series

  For news of upcoming releases, visit:

  http://racheldunningauthor.blogspot.com

  Or connect with me on Facebook:

  http://bit.ly/RachelDunning

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A little warning

  PROLOGUE

  -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  CHAPTER ONE

  ~ The boy next door ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  CHAPTER TWO

  ~ Reputation ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  CHAPTER THREE

  ~ Problems ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ~ Cheating ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ~ The Docks ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  CHAPTER SIX

  ~ Separation ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ~ Touch ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ~ Jealousy ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  CHAPTER NINE

  ~ Clouds ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  -6-

  CHAPTER TEN

  ~ Relapse ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ~ Safe ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ~ “I’m ready” ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ~ Johnny and Cat ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ~ Love ~ -1-

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ~ Reparation ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  -6-

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ~ Change ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ~ Alone ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ~ Hidden ~ -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ~ Goodbye ~ -1-

  EPILOGUE

  ~ Childhood ~ -1-

  POSTSCRIPT

  ~ Explosion ~ -1-

  -2-

  A little warning

  If you’re not yet seventeen years old, please put this book away now and wait till you’re older. (Or until your parents tell you it’s cool to read it!)

  Good. That’s all I had to say.

  Oh, you’re still here?

  That’s what I was hoping.

  Let’s get on with the tale...

  PROLOGUE

  -1-

  Life can change. So quickly, so suddenly. One day you’re driving down the freeway, your face lit up by yellow sodium lamps, music blaring through the radio, and you’re singing, and the guy next to you is singing, and he turns to look at you, just for a second, a moment, that final smile lasting forever in your mind afterwards—

  And then you’re upside down, and there are screams and moans, a shattered windshield, spinning wheels, the glug-glug-glug of falling gas, and the man you love is next you.

  And he’s not moving.

  -2-

  My life has not been a shooting star. I wasn’t famous, I didn’t do anything important, I wasn’t “the chosen one” in any way at all. If anything, I was a little unpopular growing up. My life was that of a regular kid growing up in the suburbs. I had few friends, simply because I was never very gregarious, but mostly because I met Johnny at such a young age. Maybe I knew, even then, that he was the only friend I would ever need. No one had taught me about putting all your eggs in one basket, and I wouldn’t have listened to them either.

  -3-

  I loved you, I lost you.

  I hugged you, I dropped you.

  I touched you, I scoffed you.

  I held you.

  And you held me in return.

  I kissed you, I pushed you away.

  I stroked your skin, I held you at bay.

  I touched your ear, I said “Don’t stay.”

  I felt you.

  And you made me burn.

  You held me, I ignored you.

  You loved me, I implored you

  to leave me alone because the pain was too much,

  the fear was such

  that I had no one I could trust...

  ...but you.

  You kissed my breast, caressed my chest.

  You filled my soul.

  You were my pot of gold.

  You were my earth, my heaven, my stars.

  But now they’re yours.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ~ The boy next door ~

  -1-

  My name is Catherine Ramsey. Most people call me Cathy. Patricio Abreu, Johnny’s father, always called me either Catty or Cattehreen, but that was because of his accent.

  Johnny, however, always called me Cat.

  I loved it when he called me that.

  I have blue eyes like my mother’s, and her straw colored hair. My hair’s not my greatest asset. It’s neither flat nor curly, nor does it glow or shine. It’s more of a dirty blonde, and most times I just tie it back and hope it doesn’t get in the way.

  I met Johnny when I was six. He didn’t speak a word of English. He and his parents had just moved to the U.S. from Portugal, moved to Long Island. They were well-off. His father was in the shipping business, and they took the house across the road from us.

  My own dad was
your typical All-American middle-class male. He liked his American Beer and his American Cars and his American Football. He liked picket fences and streets that you waved across and said hello to the neighbors from, and he liked the occasional barbecue to show off his new grillmaster and maybe spin a few jokes, but that was it, buddy. He liked our gated suburban community, thumb-print required to enter it.

  It was deep winter, two weeks away from Christmas. Snow had blanketed our little suburban “hood” and dad and I were on our way, spades in hand (and, for him, a bottle of Heineken in the other), to build our traditional snowman in the front lawn.

  It was then that the boisterous frivolity of something across the street caught my eye—and ears.

  There was a child there, about my age, black curly hair, jumping, screaming, speaking in a very strange language that, to my inexperienced ears, actually sounded a little like Russian to me back then. The boy was elated, picking up handfuls of snow and throwing them inexpertly around, then up in the air and letting the snow shower down on him.

  Behind and to the left of him was a portly man with a bald head, extremely thick mustache and a very round belly. He had his arm around a very short woman. This woman also had a very round belly, and her hand was on that belly, rubbing it. She was pregnant, leaning back, and smiling joyfully.

  And then she waved at us. Even from across the street I caught the glint of raw elation in her eyes—a new world, a new life, a spark of happiness and joy that I’d never seen in any of the eyes of my American neighbors.

  The portly man beckoned us over, beckoned us to cross that sacred street, and come and say hello or maybe play in the snow with the psychotic boy who was still jumping around madly in it! By now the boy’s knees were down on it, his pants no doubt soaking wet, and he was screaming like a frenzied dog up at the sky!

  I thought it was cute.

  My dad’s hand was on my shoulder and I felt his grip stiffen. Had it not been for that, I would have run across the street and jumped on the snow as well with this kid and explained to him that, Hey, it’s just snow!

  Already I felt my lips tug into a smile.

  My dad waved back, ignored the call to come over, and hollered politely, “Nice to meet you.”

  I looked up at dad’s face and he had that smile on that he used whenever the postman came and dropped off a package and dad had to sign for it, and then when the postman started asking a question or two, dad would get this same smile and say, “Thank you for coming by,” at the same time closing the door as he said it, so that the “coming by” was usually said while the door was clicking shut.

  It was daddy’s “I’m being polite” smile. Daddy’s “Don’t get too close” smile. His “stay on your side of the fence, please, and we’ll all be happy” smile.

  Jack Ramsey was not one for small-talk, nor one for too much neighborly love.

  “Can we go across, daddy?” I begged.

  “No, sweetie. Best not,” he mumbled at me, still waving, still smiling, smiling, nodding, smiling. Waving. “Nice to meet ya! Yes, nice ta meetcha!”

  It crossed my little mind that we hadn’t actually met them yet...

  The mustache-man grinned like a young Santa Claus (and I remember thinking he could indeed even be Santa, except his mustache was brown and not white, and he needed a beard, but the rest of him looked pretty much like the real deal).

  The pregnant lady laughed at her son. The portly man shook his head, said something to her, and then did something that made my father’s hand clutch at my shoulder and pull me possessively toward him!

  With a large, welcoming smile, the portly man did the unthinkable.

  He crossed the street.

  -2-

  The portly man introduced himself as Patricio Abreu. His smile glowed with warmth and reddened his cheeks. His wife, Iliana Abreu, looked like a timid lady, but her smile was welcoming. She constantly stayed by her husband’s side.

  Mom and dad were close, but not this close. I think I even asked him this later, why mom was never under his arm during one of our barbecues like Mrs. Iliana was with Mr. Patricio. You know how kids are, saying the damndest things.

  Patricio had only a light accent. In later years I would recognize the accent as almost slightly British, an influence from the many years of practice he put into learning English; but the unmistakable Latin twang was interspersed into it. He seemed to sing a little when he spoke. “We’re looking forward to our life in America. It has always been our dream,” he said. “Friendly neighbors, good opportunities for our children.” He rubbed his wife’s belly. “We would love it if you could come over for dinner tonight. I won’t take no for an answer. Come over, please. It would be our honor to host you. My wife is an incredible cook.”

  She blushed, said nothing else.

  Her hair was a gorgeous fall of locks and ringlets of brown lusciousness. I remember being almost mesmerized by the beauty of that thick, rich hair.

  Johnny would grow up to have hair like that one day, never as long, but the same elegant, luxuriant mane of dark curls. And one day I would run my hand through those curls over and over, in the most intimate of moments.

  One day. But not today.

  Little did I know. Little did anyone know. (Except maybe dad. I think dads have a natural distrust for anything male when they have daughters, no matter how young!)

  My father was not a bad person. Maybe it’s just the curse of living in the USA. Now that I’ve experienced Europe, I can say that the people there are more open—open to a fault if I’m completely honest. My dad just took his time to welcome someone into his inner circle.

  He was uncomfortable. “Oh, no, not tonight, we have plans. Maybe another night. Sure, sure, another night. Oh, but not Tuesday. No, Wednesday is no good either. Let’s put a pin on it.”

  “Mr. Ramsey, I insist! You obviously have not tasted my wife’s cooking!”

  I started to wriggle against my dad’s grip, looking around Mr. Abreu’s large legs which were in my way, to look at the kid now going ballistic. He was even putting some snow in his mouth, downright eating the stuff!

  I figured he needed some help on the fundamentals of this stuff. I eased off from my dad’s side while he and Mr. Abreu haggled for a date for dinner. Patricio Abreu was truly insistent, and dad clearly distracted by it. I know this because, when I looked up at him and asked, “Dad, can I go over across the street?” he mumbled, “Uhm, yeah, uhm, sure...” but his mind was not really into it. I slid out from under his grip, and then I committed the second sin of the day. I crossed the street as well.

  I crossed the street to meet the boy who would one day come to rule my world.

  On that day, he was shy, not wanting to talk to me (a far cry from what he would become!)

  His elation died slightly when I arrived on his turf, and he looked over across the street at his parents forlornly. “They’re OK,” I said. “They’re talking to my dad. My dad is cool. Your dad is also cool. Is that a girl or a boy your mom is giving birth to? Do you know how to build a snowman? Come, I’ll show you. What’s your name? My name is Catherine.”

  He was suddenly still, suddenly aware of being in unfamiliar surroundings, a new home, white everywhere, cold. He held a mound of snow in his hand. It just lingered there, waiting.

  For a moment, even at the age of six, I was stunned by the haunting look of his eyes—a light green that looked like an ocean, contrasted with the black-black night of his hair and the light gold of his skin; skin which looked like it had been born under the sun. Interesting, I thought.

  And then the thought went away.

  It would be only in my teenage years that I’d come to ponder those eyes again. And a lot more than that, too.

  His mom Iliana hollered across the street in this funny language and gestured for him to play with me. Soon the boy seemed calmer and looked in my direction.

  “Come, let’s build a snowman,” I told the boy.

  The boy didn’t know what I was say
ing, so I started gathering snow and soon he joined me. We had barely started when my dad bellowed from across the street, “Cathy, let’s go inside. Come on, honey.”

  “But dad, we’re building a snowman! Only it’s on this side of the street, not that side!”

  “I know, sweetie, I just have a lot of things to do.”

  “But what about the snowman?”

  He paused, swallowed, waited. He took a sip of beer. “OK, fine, but, uhm, bring the little boy over here and we can build it on this side.” He looked at Patricio. Patricio’s face glowed with satisfaction. “If, uhm, that’s OK, with, uhm, the boy’s parents?”

  “Oh, of course it’s OK!” Patricio exclaimed.

  We crossed the street. Again.

  Three times and counting that street had been crossed this morning.

  I couldn’t remember when anyone had crossed it even once.

  -3-

  The boy’s name was João, the last part of it being a nasal-sounding dipthong that neither my father nor I could pronounce easily. And every time we said “Jew-wow” as if we’d stubbed our toe, Johnny’s dad laughed and finally said, “Well, it’s actually ‘John’ in English, or, as we always call him Joãzinho, the diminutive of the name, I suppose it would be the equivalent of ‘Johnny.’”

  And so that’s how Joãozinho thereafter became known as Johnny to all his American friends. You could say that my dad and I technically named him, because we were unable to pronounce his name.

  It was not long before Johnny and I were crossing that street every day, and then even more often than that, several times a day. He became my best friend, closer than any girl friends I had at school, and the only friend on the street that I actually enjoyed spending time with. In all fairness, the street had little competition: One snob that I avoided at all costs, and then a boy with braces and thick glasses who spent most of his time reading tomes that were probably written in the eighteen hundreds or something. I wonder if dad didn’t pick this place on purpose after seeing that there would be zero threat to his daughter’s maidenhood when the time would come.