My Boyfriend's Back Read online

  My Boyfriend's Back

  Chrissy Olinger

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Chrissy Olinger

  Learn More About Chrissy

  http://www.chrissyolinger.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter 1

  BUZZ Cafe, Hammond MA

  Norman fiddled with the drawstrings of his hooded jacket, testing the release mechanism he had installed. He was finally getting his first assignment. Excited, nervous, but raring to go, he waited for his mentor to arrive with the file.

  "Stop fidgeting, Norman." Uriel smiled to take the sting off, sauntering up to the booth where his charge was sitting.

  "Hey, could you call me Normiel? I've decided to go by Normiel. It's more angelic." Norman grinned, rubbed his hands together, and made room for the archangel on the seat next to him. He'd found a corner table so they could spread out. The wings tucked into his hoodie were new, and itched a little.

  "I think I'm going to stick with Norman. Do you have enough room in that... err... jacket?" Uriel frowned, craning his neck to peer at the back of Norman's awkward attire.

  "Oh, yeah, see, I rigged this cool set of slashes in the back so I can pull the strings and let my wings pop—"

  "Norman," Uriel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  "I really like Normiel." Norman sulked.

  "Look, you're eager and that's great. But we would really prefer that you go by the book. No bells or whistles are necessary. You're delivering actual miracles. And we don't make up new names."

  "Right, right." Norman forced a smile. He knew he had a tendency to try too hard. It had gotten him in a lot of trouble in training. But he was determined to use his first real assignment as an opportunity to prove himself. "No bells, no whistles. Got it!"

  "I've decided to start you off with something simple, but powerful. How does that sound?"

  "I can do it!" Norman reached for the file, a manilla envelope with gold-embossing. Uriel snatched it back.

  "Wait! Please pay attention, Norman. I picked you for this assignment because I believe this plays to your strengths: an eagerness to help, and empathy for those who... err... well, those who... umm..."

  Norman stared, waiting, his face a study in earnest sincerity.

  "Let's call it socially challenged eagerness."

  "Oh." He tried not to let his disappointment show. "This is a nerd job."

  "There are no nerd angels. Only nerds who have risen above their mortal coils to become angelic." Uriel knew it was weak, but it was the best he could do on the fly. "I need somebody on this job who understands what it means to get a second chance. Norman, I need you. Jack Lynch needs you."

  "LynchTech and Lynchpin Media— that Jack Lynch? What could I possibly do for him?"

  Uriel smiled. "Read the file. Two nights from now be at the rendezvous location. It's a simple job, but a very important one. I believe in you, Norman. Don't let me down."

  Norman untangled his fingers from the drawstrings and he clutched the file to his chest. "I won't let you down," he said, and he meant the promise all the way to his newly minted celestial toes.

  Chapter 2

  Hammond Suites, Hammond, MA

  John Lydon adjusted the cuffs of his suit to hide a stain on the white shirt beneath. He was watching the elevators at the Hammond Suites from the lounge just off the lobby. John couldn't afford to stay at the only decent hotel in town. He was staying down the street at the Windy Hollow Motor Lodge in a musty room with a creaky bed. The cable was fuzzy; the ice machine was broken; the desk clerk was an old lady with a nasty wart on her nose.

  Things weren't going well for the former football star. He had been forced to resign from his job as a sportscaster at a small cable network in the boonies. A bimbo intern accused him of sexual harassment for nothing more than a little pat on her plump behind— next thing he knew it was "quit or be fired and face a scandal in the press." Chubby girls were supposed to be easy. She was probably frigid, he thought, crunching the last few cubes of ice in his glass of whiskey.

  This reunion— his twentieth— was his last shot. Jack Lynch, valedictorian, was somewhere in this hotel getting ready to speak to the class of 1991. Just as the Hammond High Harts had thrown their prom on Valentine's Day, the reunion was scheduled for the same weekend. A big banquet tonight, followed by a weekend of activities, and a farewell breakfast on Monday— Valentine's Day.

  John had three days. He needed a job or he was going to lose everything he had. Jack Lynch was a multimillionaire. He owned software companies, an internet search engine, and recently gobbled up a news media giant. One of the networks Jack now owned was Northeast Sports Television.

  This was his last shot. And fate wasn't in John's favor. He knew he was great-looking, charming, and admired. Glancing at the mirror above the bar, he tugged a perfect curl, pulling it into a careless-seeming swirl over his brow. If only Jack Lynch was a chick. He'd have a job by midnight, and probably an invitation to a much nicer bed in the good hotel.

  Unfortunately, Jack Lynch was a nerd, had always been a nerd, and most smart, nerdy people had good memories. If Jack remembered being called Flinch, being dunked in the fountain behind the gym, or any of those wedgies? That was going to be a problem.

  But hey, John thought, maybe Jack had matured enough to forgive and forget. It wasn't that big of a deal, right? Their names were so close alphabetically that they'd been in the same homeroom all through high school, and often shared study halls and gym classes. So yeah, okay, maybe the class nerd got picked on a little. And yeah, okay, maybe John had been the bully. It was all in good fun, right?

  Right? John looked into his empty glass and scowled. Twenty years was a long time. Maybe Jack Lynch had forgotten the last Valentine's Day weekend he'd spent in Hammond. What was one soaking wet wedgie between old schoolmates?

  A soft buzz began near the doorway of the lounge. John sat up, glancing back to the elevators.

  "Is that Jack Lynch? I heard he was in town. Ohmygod, it is!"

  The two women sitting nearby craned their heads and gaped. John made his move.

  ***

  Jack Lynch considered calling security, but shrugged the impulse away. Lydon was heading toward him, but he wasn't really worried about his high school nemesis. Bullies generally lost all their air pretty quickly in the real world, and Jack had a black belt, a fleet of lawyers, and a limo driver with a tazer. He was actually more concerned with the scrawny guy in the hoodie who had been lingering around for two days, seeming to appear every time Jack did. He looked harmless, but you never knew. The way he kept fiddling with the drawstrings on his sweatshirt was creepy.

  No hoodies in sight— good. He had almost turned down the speaking engagement, but his mom mentioned in passing that Rori McLeary was going to be there, and had asked for him.

  "Hey! Jack Lynch! What a coincidence!" John Lydon's voice was big, fat, and overwhelming— like his head. He was still built like a tank, still good-looking, and still obviously convinced he was irresistibly charming.

  He wasn't.

  "Hello, John." Jack nodded and kept walking toward the revolving doors, where his limo was waiting. He could see Sam, his driver, hovering by the rear door.

  John blocked his path, smiling a little too generously. There
was a pinched look at the corners of his eyes.

  "It's great to see you, Jack. Kind of great luck, too— at least I hope so!" The voice was a little too cheerful, a little too friendly, a little too loud. Forced

  "Luck?" Jack frowned.

  "Well, as bad luck would have it, my rental car broke down, and they towed it, but they didn't have a replacement available right away. I was wondering—"

  "You need me to get you a cab?" It was just a little cruel, but Jack couldn't resist. He knew John Lydon had just been forced out of his job for getting too cute with a college intern. He knew the former football star was down to his last dime. He knew exactly why John wanted to bum a ride from him.

  "Well, uh—" John squirmed, and Jack was a little ashamed of his pleasure at the sight. "Actually, Jack I was wondering if I could get a ride with you. I had something I'd really like to talk to you about, Jack."

  He's overusing my name, Jack thought. A bad sales tactic from the Reagan-era, generations of business people learned to schmooze and disarm by creating a false sense of familiarity and connection. It always made Jack feel like he was being sold an overpriced sports car. He was tempted to brush past the man.

  But it would actually be more rewarding to hear the pitch, look him in the eye, and turn him down. Get it over with, he thought, and then move on to Rori. She was all that mattered. This weekend was all about his second chance with Rori.

  Sam held the door open for his boss, a frown creasing his brow as he was shoved slightly by the big, bulky guy. Jack threw him an "ignore it" glance and was joined in the limo by John, who never paused in his rambling dialogue.

  Chapter 3

  Hammond Suites Hotel, Hammond, MA— Twenty Minutes Later

  Rori McLeary looked at her reflection and blew out a hard, noisy breath. Not bad, she thought. She was aware that her thirties were slipping away, but she could still rock a party dress. She said a silent prayer of gratitude to Beyoncé, J-Lo, and the Kardashian girls. It had taken twenty years for her figure to become fashionable. Curves that had been ridiculed— by her fellow cheerleaders, the mean girls, the insecure guys in study hall— were now her pride and joy.

  She ran her hands over the slinky folds of deep red material draping her hips. Twenty years ago she had worn pink to her prom, convinced she couldn't pull off her school colors: red and silver. She glanced at her old yearbook, dug out of her mom's attic. Scarlet red had faded to a deeper cordovan color, the profile of a hart— their school mascot— was raised in silver, its antlers rubbed bare.

  The ditzy girls of Hammond High translated the hart to "heart" and made Valentine's Day the date and theme for their prom over several years. Recent classes had broken the tradition, but old habits died hard. The class of 1991 was holding their reunion on Valentine's Day weekend. Lily Spense still thought H-A-R-T was an old fashioned way to spell heart. She never did understand why their mascot was a deer.

  Time healed all wounds, but there was nothing you could do to fix stupid.

  Twenty years. Tucking a tendril of dark hair into a diamond clip, Rori thought for the thousandth time that day, it seemed completely impossible she'd graduated from Hammond High twenty years ago. Maybe if she'd attended her fifth, tenth, or fifteenth reunions she'd feel differently. But when Rori had left Hammond after graduation she'd left behind nothing she regretted... nothing except Jack Lynch.

  She watched the bright hazel of her eyes grow brighter still with tears. Sniffing, she dabbed them away quickly to avoid smearing her makeup. No tears. No regrets. Jack was the only thing she had ever regretted in her life, and tonight she was going to ask for a second chance. Tonight she was going to make it right.

  Dabbing perfume at her wrists, behind her ears, at the nape of her neck, and between her breasts, Rori squared her shoulders. Diamonds sparkled at her ears. She'd left her neck bare, letting her cleavage speak for itself. Framed by slashes of red, her pale skin was all she needed below the chin. She wore her grandmother's ruby and diamond ring on her right hand. Her left was bare.

  All in good time, she thought, smiling once more at the voluptuous, hazel-eyed, raven-haired woman in the mirror. She wondered if anyone would recognize her at all.

  As long as Jack did, the rest of them could go to hell.

  Sitting at the desk by her hotel-room window, Rori glanced at the packet Ashley Anson and Lily Spense had sent out to the Class of 1991. On pale, dove-gray paper with silver trim, his name was embossed at the top. A slash of crimson text: GUEST SPEAKER JACK LYNCH, MOST LIKELY TO SUCCEED.

  And succeed he had. When the email had shown up in her in-box last spring, she'd been stunned he had agreed to it. Why would Jack Lynch, who had been treated with almost universal cruelty during their school days, give the time of day to the creeps who had tormented him? He was worth millions. He owned LynchTech, Lynchpin Media, and who-knew what else. The quiet guy in thick glasses— whom everyone knew would succeed— was now mentioned in the same breath with Bill Gates and Donald Trump.

  Rori loved his success all the way to her bones. A kind, sweet kid, Jack was obviously brilliant even in grade school. His parents were academics, and Jack had blazed a path through Harvard, later to set the technological world on fire. He had appeared on the cover of dozens of magazines before the age of thirty. She'd saved the 100 Most Influential Men issue— his familiar face (minus the glasses, thanks to lasik surgery) grinning out at her in a super-hero costume, with the bold headline across his chest: The Geek Crusader. She'd been so proud of him that day, standing at the magazine kiosk near her office, tears stinging her eyes. He'd come a long way from the kid they'd shoved into the fountain at prom.

  Had she come far enough, she wondered? The memory still stung.

  Rori picked up the packet and her tickets from the nightstand by the bed, glancing around her hotel room as she ran down the check-list in her head.

  Drop-dead sexy red dress— CHECK.

  Sleek up-do— CHECK.

  Diamonds, six inch heels, flashy little clutch— CHECK-a-rooni.

  Rockin' bod, successful career, brand-new attitude— CHECK. CHECK. Hell-to-the-CHECK.

  She grabbed her keys, gave her boobs a final shove upward, tugged her hem into perfect folds with a wiggle of her hips, and headed for the door.

  Twenty years was a long wait. It was time to get her boyfriend back.

  Chapter 4

  Jack Lynch's Limousine, en route to the Hammond High School Reunion

  "— feel really good about that, since media is, you know, media is the thing. What a great move on your part, Jack. I always knew you were smart, but come-on—"

  Was he still talking? Jack rubbed a temple and tried to hide his sigh. The suck-up-a-thon was hitting fifteen minutes. Couldn't this idiot get to the pitch so he could turn him down, tell him off, and move on to getting the girl? It was all growing stale and pathetic.

  "— not really interested in national markets. I was made a star by the local fans, you know? I feel loyalty to that smaller market. Like— well, for instance like your Northeast Sports Television. That was part of the Lynchpin Media buy-out, right?"

  Here it comes, Jack thought, relief flooding him. It didn't seem possible, but he'd actually started to feel bad for the guy. John Lydon was an asshat, but he was also clearly terrified, washed-up, broke, and down to his final chip, holding a garbage hand.

  He held all the cards, but he didn't really need to beat John Lydon any more. Glancing out the window, Jack's final thought was that he would let the jerk down easy. Maybe there was even a job for him— something in an all-male environment where he could limit possible damage. Maybe he could find him some kind of mentor...

  There was a terrible squeal. There was a terrible bang. There was a terrible sense of tumbling through the air.

  Everything went black.

  Then everything went white.

  ***

  "Fear not! I bring you tidings of... DAMMIT!"

  The white light surrounding Jack Lynch seemed to wai
ver a little. He felt hollow, somehow empty. The creepy guy in the hoodie was standing over him, back-lit by a pearly glow. He was tugging furiously on the drawstrings of his sweatshirt.

  "You bring me tidings of dammit?"

  "Hang on." More tugs. Something vaguely fluffy emerged from the back of the guy's sweatshirt with a floopf sound. "Hang on, I can get this."

  He gave another fierce yank, and with a pop, two wings burst outward on either side of him with a sound like a parachute deploying. Jack gave an indelicate yip.

  "Yesss! Um— fearnotIbringyoutidings— " the nerd gave a satisfied sigh of triumph, before adding "of JOY!"

  Jack gaped. "What the hell is?"

  "Shhh." Creepy Hoodie Guy glanced around. "Look, the dammit was a slip-up. They don't like that kind of language."

  "Who— what— where the hell am I and what the hell is going on?"

  Creepy Guy looked aggravated. "Now look here," he squared his shoulders, causing the wings to wobble a bit, "I know this is confusing, but there is no need to get hostile. You're only temporarily dead."

  "WHAT?" Jack scrambled to his feet, panic and confusion suddenly gripping him. "Okay, one more time— who are you and what the—" the hoodie guy made a hysterical gesture— "heck is going on?"

  "Um, behold, I am Normiel!"

  "Normal? Yeah, not exactly the word I wold go for."

  "Not normal, Normiel. Nor- Me- Ell. I'm an angel. Actually, my name is Norman, but I'm going to go by Normiel." Norman grinned as if to punctuate his resolve to adopt the new moniker.

  Jack glanced around. He was standing in a large bubble of soft, glowing mist. Beyond, as if he were looking through a thick fog, he could see a roadside, a limousine turned on its side, and flashing lights in the distance, growing closer.