The Right Kind of Wrong Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE RIGHT KIND OF WRONG

  Jade Eby

  Copyright © 2013 Jade Eby

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold 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 are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Editing: Alfie Thompson

  Cover Design: B Design and Kyle Troutman

  Photo: © Masson

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1484031841

  ISBN-10: 1484031849

  For Grandpa Hankes—Without you, this story would not exist.

  and

  For Eric—Without you, this book would've slipped through the cracks forever, never to be seen by anyone. Thank you for pushing me harder than anyone has ever pushed me in my life simply because you believed in me. I love you.

  and lastly

  For Christie—The writing gods were watching out for me when they brought you into my life. Not only have you endlessly supported me, you’ve listened to me cry, whine and talk about the trials and tribulations of being a writer. My gratitude to you runs deep and I can say without a doubt that I love that you’re my critique partner.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I'm late. Not nine-months-comes-a-baby late. This is way worse. Dr. Brandish's unnatural obsession with punctuality is famous across campus so of course, I'm a half hour behind.

  Figures.

  I race across campus, pissed my source wanted to meet me on short notice. But I couldn't say no. And now, I can't stop thinking about my story lead.

  It's bound to land me a reporter position at The Sacramento Bee. I mean, really, when the Chief Editor, hears all about the scandal I've unearthed, he'll clap me on the back, congratulate me on chasing down such a fantastic story and the rest will be history. The piece will earn me awards and esteemed recognition as I make a name for myself in the world of investigative journalism. The headline will read: Lies and Fraud Rampant Among Sacramento State College Students.

  The congratulatory claps in my mind fade when I trip up the front steps of Maroney Hall.

  Out of breath and wheezing, I reach the classroom but a booming voice filters through the door.

  Great.

  I inch the door open, praying it won't make a squeak and step inside. The voice stops cold. Every single eye turns in my direction. My neck catches fire and radiates to my cheeks. I look to Dr. Brandish and his gaze penetrates through me. Being late has never made me feel so…criminal.

  "Nice of you to join us." His British accent is sophisticated. And particularly intimidating right now. "Find a seat."

  I scan the classroom, desperate to find an open seat among the thirty desks crammed together. I spot one near the back of the room and rush toward it. The chair creaks when I slide into it and I slink as far down as I can go. Maybe Dr. Brandish will forget about me if he doesn't have to see my face the rest of class. I reach for my notebook but a chill runs down my spine.

  Someone is watching me.

  I twist my head ever so slightly and lock eyes with a pair of baby blues. I know those eyes. They've haunted me for the past year and a half. If I didn't know who they belonged to, I might think they were the most gorgeous eyes I've ever seen. But nothing about Vince Gage is gorgeous. Despicable, maybe, but not gorgeous.

  He's wearing coffee-stained carpenter pants and a shirt that doesn't look like it's ever been washed. Five o'clock stubble darkens his neck and jaw, and he's smirking. I draw in a slow, steady breath but it doesn't do anything to stop the current of fury that's coursing through me.

  I don't have time to stare him down because Dr. Brandish picks up at the spot where I presumably interrupted.

  "After today, you and your partner will base your project around a unique story lead. I'm leaving the details to you, but by the end of the semester, you must present your project to the class as well as a panel of judges."

  The class buzzes with whispered excitement but Dr. Brandish holds up a hand, signaling he's not done.

  "Perhaps you create a compelling print piece, or maybe you will blow your fellow classmates away with a fresh, original film. I don't really care what you do, my bright students. All I care about is that you simply do. There's never enough ‘doing’ in this world."

  His voice. His vision. His theories. If Professor Brandish wasn't so much older than me, I might love him. He's practically a household name at The Sacramento Bee and Kyle David, the reporter I'm interning under says he owes his success to the man standing before me. Rumor says, if you impress him enough, he has the right connections to take you to the top. He's the reason I signed up for this class. Well, that and it's my only class left to take. I want to be his next prodigy. The next big thing since Katie Couric. Get the anchor chair ready; Kara Pierce is ready to take it all.

  "I should mention that the judges will award the winners a fellowship at The Schuster Institute for Investigative Journalism and $20,000. Let me make myself crystal clear—this project is worth your entire grade. I wouldn't put it off if I were you. You made your partner selections at the beginning of class, so most of you should be good to go. His gaze dances around the classroom and lingers on me long enough to bring the heat back to my cheeks. "Check your email periodically. I'll be sending updates on presentation times as they draw near. I assume most of you know that I run this class differently than most. This is the only lecture of the semester and I only require check-ins from here on out. Good luck."

  Dammit. Of course I missed something as important as partner selections. Falls right in line with my day. As Dr. Brandish packs his things, my classmates pair off. I bolt from my seat. There has to be someone good left. God wouldn't punish me for being late. Would he? The pairs filter out of the room until there's only one person left.

  You are punishing me, God, aren't you?

  I close my eyes tight and pretend this is just a nightmare. When I open them, I'll be cocooned in my bed, waking up from this horrendous pairing. I open my eyes. No cocoon. No warm bed. Instead, I'm face to face with Vince.

  "Looks like we're stuck together." His raspy voice hits a nerve and my fists burn
red hot. Not again. Not with this project. Not when my entire future is at stake.

  "Don't even think about it, Vince. I don't care what I have to tell Dr. Brandish. We're not working on this project together. Not after the disaster you caused in Jenkins' class."

  A chuckle escapes his lips. A freaking chuckle.

  "Good luck with that. You're already on his shit list. Although, you do like to blame other people for your own mistakes."

  I could kill him, but murder is not the way I want to make headlines.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. I repeat it until I'm calm enough to talk.

  "Get out of my way."

  He doesn't move at first but then he steps out of the way. "After you, Princess."

  I wish hatred could knock someone out because it's oozing out of me right now.

  I walk down the hall toward Dr. Brandish's office. I reach him just as he's locking up.

  "Dr. Brandish?"

  "Yes?" He turns around and when he sees it's me, the one and only person who dared to be late to his class, his smile morphs into a scowl.

  "I was wondering if it would be possible to do this project with another group of students, or by myself?"

  "Miss... ?"

  "Pierce. Kara Pierce."

  "Well, Miss Pierce, I believe this is a prime example of why punctuality is essential."

  "Yes, I know, but I've actually worked with Vince in a prior class. Let's just say it didn't work out too hot." I don't even know why I'm arguing. Do I need to give this man another reason to hate me?

  Dr. Brandish stares at me and I will him to grant me another chance. His gaze moves behind me, and I glance back. Vince is leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed.

  Dr. Brandish sighs. "I'm sorry, Miss Pierce. No can do. You have to learn to work with many different people. Perhaps this will be good practice. Good luck." He turns his back and I know there's no use fighting him. I regret even coming to him in the first place.

  I turn to leave and Vince's smirk taunts me. "Guess you're stuck with me."

  I grit my teeth and count to ten since it's the only thing distracting me from decking Vince in the jaw.

  "Let's get one thing straight. This project? It's a big deal. I'm not going to let you fuck it up. If I have to do the whole damn thing myself, I will. I'm not letting you drag me down this time around."

  He looks indifferent. "Guess you better keep tabs on me then." There's an edge of condescension in the statement.

  I'm dangerously close to following through with my previous thought and I dig my nails into the palms of my hand until it hurts.

  "God. You are so infuriating."

  There's beat of silence between us while I study his expression. "Meet me at The Bee around seven, tonight. My number is—"

  "I think I still have it." Vince pulls out his cell phone and scrolls down the screen. "Yeah, I do."

  "So then I'll see you later?"

  "I'll think about it."

  It takes all of my willpower not to pull his phone from his hands and throw it against the wall. Before I can say anything, he chuckles. "Jesus, Kara. Lighten up. I'll see you tonight."

  "Don't be late."

  He snorts as he walks away. I throw up my hands and look toward the ceiling.

  "Hey God, you there?"

  No response.

  "You must fucking hate me up there, don't you?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  "So what do you think?"

  Roderick Daniels, Chief Editor at The Bee stares at me from behind his desk, one hand on his forehead, his other flipping through my story proposal. He doesn't look impressed. But he should.

  "I think absolutely not. I commend you for chasing after what you thought was a good idea, but there's no story here. Identity fraud happens everywhere, every day, Kara. It's not an unusual thing."

  I shake my head. "I understand that, but half of us in college don't even have enough credit to get a car loan—"

  "And yet, most of you carry around credit cards and purchase things online, right?"

  "Well, yes, but the number of police reports being made on campus in the last six months is suspicious. And there's a pattern emerging. I even have a source that believes these cases aren't coincidence. We believe there's a good chance more of these reports will pop up in the next few weeks. Look at page six."

  Roderick sighs but flips to page six. He reads and flips back to the front page. He scoots the proposal across the table to me. "It's an interesting theory. One that might make a great novel or action film, but there's not an ‘underground identity fraud ring’ on campus. I'm not sure why Kyle had us set up this meeting in the first place."

  Fantastic. I look like an idiot.

  "Because he thought it was a good idea." I swipe the proposal off Roderick's desk, give him a half-assed thank you and walk out of his office before he can witness any more of my humiliation. I was so sure he'd think I was onto something. It was probably the only chance I had to show him what I could do with a lead like this. I guess this means I'll just have to dig deeper, try harder. Get Kyle to back me up more.

  I don't feel like rummaging through the Archives room to find the articles Kyle requested but after three hours, I'm so engrossed in the articles I'm going through, when I look at my phone it's already six forty-five.

  I shove another folder of articles in a cardboard box and close the lid, but a shiver crawls up my spine and along my skin. It's the same sensation I had in Dr. Brandish's class. I look up and a figure stands in the doorway.

  I gasp, slapping my hand to my mouth. But I know that figure, with his lanky, laid back slouch and stupid camera attached to his hand.

  Vince waves at me and I groan. "I still have fifteen minutes before I have to deal with you. You couldn't wait that long to annoy me?"

  "Yeah, that's exactly why I came. To annoy you. I see you haven't lost any of your narcissism."

  I laugh. "That's funny coming from you. Aren't you the same person who was so sure you could pass someone else's work off as your own? Oh, right, I forgot, you're Vince Gage. You're above the rules."

  He sighs. "You're never gonna let this go, are you?"

  My mouth hangs open. "You almost ruined my entire future! You want me to just forgive and forget?"

  His grip on the band of his camera tightens so hard his knuckles turn white. A pink tone creeps into his cheeks. "I don't suppose it ever crossed your mind to take some of the blame? Especially since you're the one that let things get as far as they did. But this project? It could be the big break I— I mean... we. The big break we need."

  I squint at him. He has a point. Winning the competition could change my life. Not only would Roderick believe I have what it takes to bring on fresh story ideas, he'd beg me to stay on staff. "Whatever. Just follow me. I have to find something before we can leave."

  He points inside the archive room. "In there? It doesn't look big enough."

  "It's not that bad once you're in. Hurry up, before anyone sees you."

  We slide between the narrow shelving—boxes filled to the brim with papers like they desperately want out. I move at a snail's pace. Knocking over one box is like setting this place on fire. My whole night would be gone, cleaning it up.

  Vince's elbow connects with my ribs. "Hurry up, will you?"

  "Serious—" I'm falling. I guess, tripping is more accurate. I didn't see the box and now I'm paying the price. My knees hit the carpet.

  "Ouch… Watch where you're going." I say from the ground. "There isn't enough room to be racing through here."

  His voice comes out choked, "Sorry. Claustrophobic."

  We move through the rest of the stacks without issue and the room opens up toward the back. A desk stands in the middle of the clearing.

  I sit down at the desk, trying to figure out which box I want to go through next. I pick through one with little attention. Vince's presence is distracting and I'm self-conscious with him here. I look up and catch his gaze. "What are you staring at?"<
br />
  He pulls my arm up and turns it over. I recoil in surprise. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "When did you get a tattoo? You didn't have that when we were in Jenkins' class."

  "None of your business."

  "Seriously? You're going to put something permanent in plain sight and expect people not to ask you about it?"

  "Most people aren't as nosy as you."

  Sharing any personal information with Vince seems wrong. It means letting him see a part of me I don't share with anyone.

  But in a way, I want him to know.

  "I got it last year after my grandfather died." I trace over the raised outline of a swirling infinity sign.

  Vince nods but doesn't say anything. Should I say something else? Neither of us speak and I regret telling him about the tattoo. He shifts and stares at the stack of articles on the corner of the desk.

  "What's that top article about?"

  The headline reads, "Wounded Soldier Comes Home." A washed out photo of a man, painted with defeat, his legs missing, arms gone accompany the headline.

  I hand it to Vince. The next article is similar.

  "Looks like this is the World War II stack. Why are you curious?"

  "My father built World War II battle scene replicas. I helped him mold, paint and glue the pieces together. Always been kind of interested." His voice is laced with tenderness. It's the first time Vince has shared anything personal.

  Why now? It almost makes me want to reciprocate. "Did he ever build Sherman tanks?"

  "Of course. They were classic tanks for World War II. Why?"

  "Oh, it's just, my grandpa was in that war."

  "That's cool. Maybe we should do the project on the World War II then?"

  It's not a terrible idea. "Yeah, maybe—" I stop when he starts shaking his head.

  "Nah. It's too predictable. And easy. Everyone does a World War II project at some point," he says.