Popping The Cherry

You only get one first time …

From driving tests to relationships, Valentina Bell thinks she’s a failure, with a big fat capital F. At this rate, she’s certain she’ll be a virgin for ever. So Lena’s friends plan Operation: Popping the Cherry to help her find the perfect man first time.

Yet somehow disastrous dates with bad-boy musicians and fabulous evenings with secretly in-the-closet guys aren’t quite working out how Lena planned.

Soon Lena’s avoiding Operation: Popping the Cherry to spend time with comforting, aloof Jake, her best friend’s older brother, who doesn’t make her feel self-conscious about still clinging to her V card. But could Jake show Lena that sometimes what you’re looking for most is right by your side?

A Forever for the twenty-first century

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Aurelia B. Rowl 2013

Aurelia B. Rowl asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472018052

Version date: 2018-07-23

AURELIA B. ROWL lives on the edge of the Peak District in the UK with her very understanding husband and their fantastic son and daughter, now aged six and four, along with the mad mutt who is happy to be used as a sounding board and writing companion. They are all used to her getting too caught up with her latest writing project … or five! … and she is guiltily counting down the months until she has both kids at school full-time. Her debut contemporary romance, Christmas is Cancelled, was released in December 2012 with book two in the series expected November 2013. She cannot wait to share her YA/NA story, Popping the Cherry, with you and hopes you’ll love the characters as much as she does.

I would like to express my deep appreciation for my husband, and thank him for his unwavering support. Life can be a bit chaotic as stay-at-home-mum to our two (mostly) wonderful children, but my husband is always ready to pick up the slack. Huge thanks must also go to my ABCs – my BETA readers and critique partners—for always being available and for keeping me on track and always having something positive to say. There are too many to mention individually but I couldn’t do it without them.

Thanks also to my editor, Anna Baggaley, for her brilliant vision and encouragement. With Anna’s guidance, this story turned out even better than I’d imagined, way back on that chilly afternoon on January ninth* but most of all, I’d like to thank Anna for taking a chance on me and my characters. I am proud to be an author with HQ Digital, the new digital imprint for Harlequin UK, and I look forward to a tantalising future with this dynamic, forward-thinking publisher.

I would like to give a special mention to Steven Mather, whose rather handsome face you will come to know if you follow me online, and also to Margaret Rowles, PR officer for Beaulieu Enterprises; I only wish I could have included more detail on a truly stunning location.

And on one final note, if you are over fourteen, or a parent/carer of a teenager, and you are looking a real and relevant guide to sex and relationships, please check out www.bishuk.com; there is even a free book you can download. I didn’t discover this fantastic resource prior to writing Popping the Cherry but the two seem to go hand in hand. Shame they didn’t have this kind of thing when I was a teenager!

* There I was, happily unloading the dishwasher before heading off on the school run, when the plot bunnies viciously attacked me with a fully formed story, complete with beginning and end, and then wouldn’t let me write anything else.

This book is dedicated to my wonderful husband—I couldn’t have completed it without him—and also to my children, just because they’re both awesome and make me smile every single day.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One: Dumped

Chapter Two: Intervention

Chapter Three: Stranded

Chapter Four: The Chase

Chapter Five: Rescue

Chapter Six: Crush

Chapter Seven: Propositions

Chapter Eight: Candidates

Chapter Nine: Kiss

Chapter Ten: Apology

Chapter Eleven: Driving

Chapter Twelve: Date

Chapter Thirteen: Panic

Chapter Fourteen: Family

Chapter Fifteen: Police

Chapter Sixteen: Revenge

Chapter Seventeen: Respite

Chapter Eighteen: Confrontation

Chapter Nineteen: Beach

Chapter Twenty: Torn

Chapter Twenty-One: Defeated

Chapter Twenty-Two: Halloween

Chapter Twenty-Three: Hero

Chapter Twenty-Four: Busted

Chapter Twenty-Five: Peace

Chapter Twenty-Six: Tinkerbell

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Waltz

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Gift

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

DUMPED

I, Valentina Bell, am a failure.

A failure with a big, fat, capital ‘F’ if today was anything to go by.

First, I failed my driving test, after skipping my last class to take the damn thing. English literature is my favourite class too, and it was my turn to read the part of Catherine in Wuthering Heights. Second, my boyfriend of four months and twenty-seven days dumped me, and then refused to drive me home because he didn’t want to waste another minute with me. Bastard! Third, I ended up missing the bus. Barely. The driver even gave me a snarky wave as he pulled away from the bus stop like it was the highlight of his day.

Great. Just great. Really!

It was gone ten o’clock at night, pitch black, frigging freezing for the beginning of June, and I had to try really hard not to cry. I didn’t want to give tossers like Damian and the bus driver the satisfaction, even though they couldn’t see me. More to the point, if I started, there was no telling when I’d be able to stop, and then my face would go all red and blotchy, my mouth would puff up, and I’d get a runny nose. I knew for a fact I didn’t have any more tissues because I’d used the last one to clean the dog crap off my shoes, which is what made me miss the goddamn bus in the first place.

Yeah, my life sucks.

Because screaming like a banshee would probably get me arrested, I groaned instead and stared at my mobile phone out of habit. At least I’d had just about enough battery left to get a call out to Gemma to come and pick me up. I didn’t even get chance to tell her why before my phone died; I’d run most of it down earlier, bitching to her about the rotten driving test.

Stupid examiner.

This was all his fault. If he had passed me, I’d be cruising home and everything would be fine. I had a perfectly good car stuck on the driveway at home—nothing flash, it was my seventeenth birthday present from my parents a couple of months back—and it’s just sat there, waiting for me, taunting me. But, then, if Damian had taken me home, as any decent ex-boyfriend would, it wouldn’t have mattered, so it was his fault too.

Well I hope karma turned around and bit them both on the backside.

Hard.

A set of car headlamps drew nearer so I dragged myself away from my one-girl pity party and lifted my head in time to see a purple Corsa drive past me on the opposite side of the road.

At last.

I pushed away from the wall of the bus shelter and watched the car turn off the main road into the next side street on the left, swing in a wide arc, then drive back towards me. It pulled into the bus stop, coming to a stop right in front of me. The window nearest to me rolled down and the cute brunette leaned across the vacant seat to speak to me.

‘Hey, foxy lady, do you take I-owe-yous?’ she said, smiling brightly.

Typical Gemma, always trying to be funny.

‘Hey, Gem.’ I reached for the handle to open the door, then flopped into the seat. ‘Thanks for coming to get me.’

‘What are best friends for?’ she said, flapping her hand at me. ‘But, umm … speaking of which, what am I doing here?’ Her grin faltered. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be at Damian’s tonight?’

Straight to the point. Something else I could rely on Gemma for.

‘I was.’ I busied myself with the seatbelt to avoid her searching gaze. ‘Until he dumped me.’

‘What? No!’ Gemma yanked up the handbrake and slipped the car into neutral. ‘Why?’

‘Because …’ I sighed and pretended to study my nails. ‘Because I wouldn’t sleep with him.’ There, I’d said it. Out loud. And it sounded pitiful.

‘You’re kidding me.’

I shook my head.

‘What a dick!’

‘Yeah, that about covers it. He called me a …’ A flush worked its way up to my cheeks until I was grateful for the open window. ‘He called me frigid and told me he was going to go and find a “real girl” instead, so he could “get some pu—”’

‘No, don’t say that word, I hate it,’ Gemma spluttered. ‘Nobody in their right mind still uses it,’ she said, her voice getting louder with each syllable. ‘It’s vulgar and horrid. God, you’re better off without him anyway, Lena.’

‘I know,’ I said, but my tone lacked conviction and tears welled in my eyes.

‘Look, just forget him. He’s a moron to let you go, and he’s so not worth your tears. You deserve much better.’

‘Thanks, Gem. What the hell did I ever see in him?’

‘He was kinda cute. You weren’t to know he was a prize twat. At least you found out now, not later?’

‘I guess …’ I sucked in a deep breath and blinked back the tears. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea and all that, right?’

‘Right.’ Gemma’s eyes took on a glazed look and her head tilted in such a way that spelled danger.

‘Gemma,’ I said, adopting my stern tone. ‘What’s going through that scary brain of yours?’

‘Hmm?’ she said, the picture of innocence.

‘Don’t give me that. I’ve known you too long; the butter-wouldn’t-melt routine doesn’t work on me any more.’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘You … that look … you were scheming again.’

Gemma dragged herself back from her stupor. ‘No, no, not scheming, just thinking.’

‘Same thing. Now spill!’ I said. She ignored me and slipped the car into gear, released the handbrake and pulled back onto the empty road. ‘OK, so what exactly were you thinking about?’

‘I’m not sure yet, Lena,’ she said, flicking a glance at me. ‘I need to sleep on it.’

‘Now you’re really scaring me.’

A smile broke over Gemma’s face and she laughed. ‘Just leave it with it me, OK? Right now, I’m more interested in getting you home in time for curfew.’

Damn it, she was right. I had only minutes left to get home, which meant I couldn’t keep pestering her about whatever plot was forming in that mind-boggling brain of hers. When she pulled up outside my house, I didn’t even have time to do more than shout goodbye and wave as I made a run for the front door.

I was still trying to figure out what she was thinking when the college bus dropped me off the next morning. Not paying attention to what was going on around me, I took a while to notice the girl blocking my locker. The shoes were the first thing I noticed. Nobody in their right mind wore three-inch peep-toe shoes to college. Correction: only one person would wear a pair of high-heeled peep-toe shoes to college.

A groan worked its way up my throat but I swallowed it back down. I really didn’t want to be proved right, but as I swept my gaze up and over a pair of skinny legs covered with thick nude-coloured tights, finally spotting a mini denim skirt that might as well have been a belt, teamed with a top she must have bought from the same shop I worked Saturdays in, the plunging neckline too memorable to forget in a hurry. I was in no doubt about who was waiting for me.

Alice Taylor.

Great!

I didn’t need to see the peroxide-blonde mane and trowelled-on makeup to confirm it: my eyes were already burning from seeing far too much of her. What the hell had I done to upset her this time?

‘Excuse me, Alice, I’d like to get to my locker.’ I figured it was worth a try.

Alice didn’t budge an inch. ‘You know, your parents totally screwed up when they chose your name: they should have called you Virginia instead.’ Her fake tinkly laugh rang out and her crones dutifully joined in, hovering around her like flies, their guffaws drawing even more attention to us.

‘Just do one, Malice,’ I said, in no mood for her bullshit. I looked her in the eye for the first time and had to stop myself laughing. She’d gone even more overboard than usual with the liquid eyeliner and resembled a panda. A panda who had been pulled through a hedge backwards judging from the bird’s nest that was her hair. The sad thing was, she’d actually be really pretty if she toned it down and wiped the permanent sneer off her face. ‘Why not run along with your little posse and find someone who cares for your little jokes?’

‘Aw, come on, don’t be like that,’ she said, her voice grating on my very last nerve. ‘Virginia has a far better ring to it, don’t you think? More suitable, like? You know. For someone like you.’

‘You’re hilarious. Really. I’m laughing so hard my insides hurt. Can’t you tell? Now will you shift so I can get to my locker? Please,’ I added for good measure.

‘Damian said you were a stuck-up bitch. No wonder he dumped you and came looking for me.’

Ouch!

‘Wow, really? He came looking for you? I could have sworn he said he was looking for a real girl. Mind you, he did seem more concerned about getting laid. Your reputation clearly precedes you.’ I wasn’t usually so bitchy but she’d caught me by surprise and pushed too many of my trigger buttons in the space of thirty seconds. Damian in particular was still a particularly touchy subject, after all.

‘And just what is that supposed to mean?’ Alice squared up to me as if she wanted a fight.

‘Let me put it this way …’ I said, matching her stance. Hell could freeze over before I let a troll like her intimidate me. ‘I’d rather be known as someone who doesn’t put out for anyone, than get a reputation as someone who puts out for everyone.’

‘You little bitch.’ She made a lunge to grab my hair but her expression and body language were far too easy to read, and her balance was hampered by her ridiculous shoes. I sidestepped and dodged her easily.

‘Come on, Malice, you can tell us,’ I said, raising my voice so that everyone in the rapidly filling foyer could hear. ‘Have you ever actually said no to anybody?’

Alice looked at the crowd gathering around us, then stared back at me with eyes filled with hatred. I’d really made it into her bad books this time.

‘I don’t have to put up with this,’ she spluttered, putting on a good show for the audience. She leaned in closer to me and dropped her voice. ‘You might just want to watch your back from now on, Virginia. Nobody pisses me off and gets away with it. Capiche?’

Did she really just ‘capiche’ me? Like she’s some hotshot gangster now? I would have laughed if her cloying perfume hadn’t already attacked my nostrils, giving me an instant pounding headache.

‘Yeah, whatever, Malice. You know, there’s a name for people like you, too, but it’s not nice so I won’t say it. You’ll just have to figure it out for yourself.’ I didn’t think her eyes could get any wider, or wilder, but, if looks could kill, I’d be a corpse already. To be honest, I was past caring. I just wanted to be rid of her and her revolting perfume so that I could draw breath again. ‘Now will you please get out of my way? Some of us are actually here to get an education.’

Gemma timed her entrance to perfection, the crowd parting to let her through, with Chloe and Piper in position as her wingmen. Gemma looked formidable, and ready for battle. There was no love lost between Gemma and Alice, not since Alice had made a move on Ben and fallen flat on her face. Ben had not only rejected her, he’d gone straight to Gemma and told her all about it.

‘Quick, somebody call the caretaker!’ Gemma’s stage voice rang out loud and clear. ‘There’s some trash here that needs to be taken out.’ She earned a chorus of laughs as she walked towards us, then came to a standstill right beside me. ‘Christ, it reeks, too,’ she said, pinching her nose. ‘What did you do, Malice? Douse yourself in the whole bottle? Oh, never mind. I don’t expect you to have heard of the adage “less is more”.’

Outnumbered and outwitted, Alice liked confrontation only when she had the upper hand. With a toss of bird’s-nest hair, she and her crones took off, strutting towards the canteen. Rushing from the same direction, Flick dashed into view, red in the face as if she’d been running. She arrived at just the wrong the time, shoulder-barged aside, bearing the brunt of Alice’s frustration.

‘Hey,’ Flick protested, giving Alice daggers before joining us at the lockers. ‘Don’t tell me I missed it again!’

I shrugged. ‘Yep, sorry, Flick. The show’s over.’

‘Oh, man!’ she said, flopping back against the locker theatrically.

After Gemma, Flick was my second-best friend, which was handy, seeing that she was taking two of the same subjects as I was, but even thinking in those terms was too much like primary school and wreaked havoc with my newly acquired ‘adult’ mentality. A grin broke out on my face when I knew just what to say next to cheer her up.

‘Don’t worry, Flick, I’m sure there’ll be an encore. Alice did the whole gangsta capiche thing on me.’

‘No way. She actually capiche‘d you? Damn it, I miss all the best bits.’ Flick fixed her huge doe eyes on me before taking in the rest of the group. ‘Please tell me I wasn’t the only one to miss it this time.’

‘You weren’t,’ Gemma said. ‘None of us saw that one. Alice would be sporting a black eye if I’d been here for it.’

‘That would go down well on your college record.’

‘Be worth it, though,’ Gemma mumbled.

Finally able to get into my locker, I grabbed the textbooks I’d need for the morning classes as the girls swapped theories about what they would like to do to Malice. I tuned out, noticing only when they fell silent, the collective weight of their expectant stares boring into my back. I closed the steel door and slowly turned to face the people I considered my closest friends.

A ricochet of pointed glances darted around the group until Gemma stepped up as spokesperson, as usual. ‘So what did she want?’

Time to face the music, then …

‘It turns out Damian went straight off in search of her—’ I nodded towards the corridor Malice had stormed down ‘—straight after dumping me. She was just gloating, that’s all. Trying to wind me up.’

‘Well that sucks.’ Flick said.

The other girls murmured their agreement and all four of them placed their hands in a line on my uppermost arm—I didn’t even remember having crossed them in a show of solidarity and friendship.

‘Thanks. You guys are the best,’ I said, forcing a smile onto my face. ‘So Gemma—’

The bell went, cutting me off before I could resume my interrogation. Thanks to Malice, I’d run out of time and lunch break was hours away. I very nearly screamed. Aside from Flick, the others were in different classes from me, which meant more waiting. Just what I needed.

After a hasty goodbye, Gemma, Chloe and Piper set off in their variations directions, leaving Flick and me to wander off to our French class. Walking beside her, I could swear she’d grown even taller since Friday. I shot a glance down at her feet but she was in her usual flats, going for Mary Janes today rather than ballet pumps. Her long legs were encased in skinny jeans teamed with a floral floaty top, and her ebony hair was tied loosely in a bun to highlight her long neck.

Yep, Flick was the epitome of your typical ballet dancer. There had to be some Latino in her family somewhere: the girl had a permanent tan to make us all jealous. Her natural grace and elegance was misleading, though, and, if you went by appearances alone, you’d think of her as aloof and snooty, when in reality she was more like a tomboy trapped in a dancer’s body. Between her and Gemma, it’s a wonder I had any self-esteem at all, yet somehow it worked, and we all complemented each other.

Gemma was the cutesy bombshell with the wicked tongue and quick temper, most likely to marry rich and become famous some day; Flick was the elegant dancer with a mischievous streak and a steely ambition to get into the English National Ballet; Piper was the brainy academic, complete with designer glasses, and could easily become prime minister one day if she overcame her shyness; Chloe was the cuddlier maternal figure with a heart of gold, the one most likely to be married and surrounded by children before she was twenty-five; as for me, I had somehow fallen into the role of sporty, not that I was affiliated with a club any more, nor did I have a clue what I would end up doing when I was older.

The five of us could have been the newest girl band, a rival group to the Saturdays or Little Mix, apart from the fact half of us couldn’t sing. Or dance. And certainly not perform in public, since Piper would have a coronary. That thought alone was enough to put the grin back on my face as I took my usual seat and pulled out my books.

‘Bonjour, mesdames et messieurs,’ said Madame Clarke, the last to arrive as usual, calling the class to order. She wore a particularly flamboyant chiffon scarf around her neck today that didn’t go with the rest of her outfit at all. Yet more of her eccentric charm on display. I caught Flick’s eye and we shared a knowing smirk as Madame Clarke scurried between the rows of desks to take up her position at the front of the class. ‘Pouvez-vous tourner à la page deux-cent-soixante-dix-neuf, s’il vous plaît?’

French went well, even though I didn’t give two hoots about what Chantal and Jean-Pierre got up to in La Rochelle, and I scored the top mark of eighty-seven percent in my last essay. Result! English was next up, language rather than my preferred literature, but we were learning about the iambic pentameter, which meant dipping into Shakespeare, another of my favourites, finishing up with Romeo and Juliet.