Off the Rails Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Off the Rails

  ISBN # 978-1-78430-823-0

  ©Copyright Isabelle Drake 2015

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright September 2015

  Edited by Ann Leveille

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Sizzling and a Sexometer of 1.

  Make Me Over

  OFF THE RAILS

  Isabelle Drake

  Book one in the Make Me Over series

  High school reunion—three words that threaten to derail Madison’s life. Now she has only eight weeks to find the perfect guy, the perfect job, or a way to pretend she has the perfect life.

  Madison is less than thrilled when the invitation to her five year high school reunion arrives. When she refuses to RSVP with a yes, her best friend Tia reminds her of a pact they’d made—they’d use the reunion to show up everyone from school. But Madison can’t show up anyone. She isn’t the super famous superstar she’d bragged that she’d be. She’s an unemployed singer with no boyfriend and no job. Her only option? Find a way to fake the perfect life.

  Eight weeks isn’t much time. But it is long enough to get drunk and enter a bikini contest, redefine the term date-from-hell, get caught in an awkward ménage and win a bar fight. But will all this bad behavior help Madison snag the blond, blue-eyed geek who was foolish enough not to notice her in high school? No matter what it takes, she’s going to find out.

  Dedication

  For Malea Dawn Powell

  Conversation. Courage. Community.

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  American Express: American Express Marketing Development Corp.

  Crate & Barrel: Euromarket Designs, Inc.

  Hot Wheels: Mattel Inc.

  Transformers: Hasbro Inc.

  Hallmark: Hallmark Licensing LLC

  Starbucks: Starbucks Corporation

  United Dairy: United Dairy Farmers, Inc.

  Mission Impossible: Paramount Pictures Corporation

  University of Cincinnati: University of Cincinnati

  Facebook: Facebook, Inc.

  MENSA: American MENSA Limited Not-For-Profit Corporation

  Dream A Little Dream of Me: Fabian Andre and Wilbur Schwandt, Gus Kahn

  Versace: Gianni Versace S.P.A. Corporation

  Calvin Klein: Calvin Klein Trademark Trust

  Dolce & Gabbana: Dolce & Gabbana Trademarks

  Labatt Blue: 1793161 Ontario Inc

  Circle K: Circle K Stores, Inc

  Wild Ones: Flo Rida, soFLY & Nius, Sia Furler, Axwell, Jacob Luttrell, Marcus Cooper, Benjamin Maddahi

  We Can’t Stop: Mike L. Williams II, Pierre Ramon Slaughter, Timothy Thomas, Theron Thomas, Miley Cyrus, Douglas Davis, Ricky Walters

  Denny’s: DFO LLC

  Crest: The Procter & Gamble Company

  Levi’s: Levi Strauss & Co. Corporation

  Abercrombie: Abercrombie & Fitch Trading Co. Corporation

  RC Cola: Dr Pepper/Seven Up Inc

  Maglite: Mag Instrument, Inc

  Victoria’s Secret: Victoria’s Secret Stores Brand Management Inc

  iPhone: Apple Inc

  Anthropologie: Anthropologie, Inc

  IHOP: IHOP IP, LLC

  YouTube: Google Inc

  How The Grinch Stole Christmas: Dr. Seuss Enterprises, L.P. Geisel-Seuss Enterprises, Inc.

  Gone: Frequency and Alias

  Skyline Chili: Skyline Chili Inc

  Xbox: Microsoft Corporation

  Maxim: Maxim Media Inc

  University of Kentucky: University of Kentucky

  Craigslist: Craigslist Inc

  Variety: Variety Media, LLC

  Busken: Busken Bakery, Inc.

  Cadillac: General Motors LLC

  Bert: Sesame Workshop Corporation

  Ernie: Sesame Workshop Corporation

  Boil, Boil, Toil and Trouble: Macbeth, by William Shakespeare

  Jaeger: Mast-Jaegermeister SE European Company

  West Side Story: The Leonard Bernstein Office, Inc

  Hummer: AM General LLC

  Jaguar: Jaguar and Rover Limited Private Company

  Audi: Audi Aktiengesellschaft Corporation

  Heritage Mortgage: Realty Excellence, LLC

  Marlboro: Philip Morris USA, Inc.

  Cheetos: Frito-Lay North America, INC

  La-Z-Boy: La-Z-Boy Incorporated

  eBay: Ebay, Inc

  Hello Kitty: Sanrio Company Ltd. Corporation

  Pepsi: Pepsico, Inc

  Skype: Skype Corporation

  Netflix: Netflix, Inc.

  Graeter’s Ice Cream: Graeter’s Inc

  McDonald’s: McDonald’s Corporation

  Chapter One

  The Stinking Invitation

  Mail call!

  What’s in today’s stack?

  A stupid postcard from Cash’s car dealership with a tin key superglued to it. “If this key fits you could be a winner!”

  Are people who get laid off from stupid, lame ass call center jobs they didn’t really want in the first place winners?

  No, they are not. Madison whipped the ad into her hallway trash can, where it landed on top of yesterday’s junk. Back to the rest of the mail.

  An American Express statement. Madison hadn’t been anywhere in a long time, and everyone knows that AmEx is for travel, so she didn’t owe them anything. She whipped that one into the trash, too.

  Up next, a cute card from her four-year-old cousin, Lizzie. The wobbly pink and red hearts shouted, ‘Its February 14th!’ The purple scribbles might be, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’. Then again, they might be, ‘You’re unemployed! Whatcha gonna do now? Sell your Crate & Barrel living room set and move back home with Tom and Susan?’

  Little kids should be avoided.

  Especially when one is having a bad day.

  Madison leaned against her ap
artment door to shut it, crossed to her kitchenette, and propped the card against the fern on her kitchen table. The plant dropped five brittle leaves in protest. Apparently, the plant also was struggling to live the successful, fun, up-and-coming life of a singleton in the hip and hopping city of Cincinnati, Ohio.

  About the time Madison was going to throw away the rest of the really uninteresting crap she’d found crammed in her mailbox, she spotted the corner of a bright red envelope. The thick, glossy paper was heavy in her hand.

  Her heart thumped, even though she reminded herself that there was absolutely no man who would’ve sent her a valentine. The only cards she’d ever gotten from XY chromosome creatures were those silly ones in elementary school. Hot Wheels and Transformers were hardly the stuff relationships were built on. Besides, everybody knew the boys only passed out cards because they had to. Unfortunately for the single women on both banks of the Ohio, there were no stiff-faced teachers roaming the hilly streets of the river valley reminding guys to stop at Hallmark.

  She ran her fingertip around the edges, trying unsuccessfully to block out the impossible possibilities. Stupid, ridiculous notions that some guy had been admiring her every morning when she stopped at Starbucks. He was always busy making deals on his cell, so they’d never crossed paths. She hadn’t noticed him because he was what her mother would call a ‘big shot’ and always wore suits. And because she was ‘an idiot’, she was always looking at the rough-around-the-edges construction guys and figuring they must make more money than she’d realized if they got their java there instead of going to United Dairy for the ninety-nine cent deal.

  Madison tossed out the rest of the mail and, still holding the card, slid up onto her tiny kitchen counter. She flipped the envelope over. The back flap was flat and smooth. It was sealed with some serious envelope sealer.

  The return address was a PO Box.

  Urgh. It could be some demented sex freak.

  No. Too creepy.

  Who?

  Her dad.

  Um, no. That was not going to happen. He didn’t even remember his own wife’s birthday.

  Trevor? Thinking he was funny?

  Her brother was a lot of things. Funny wasn’t one of them. But cheap was, and that explained why he wouldn’t waste the stamp.

  She flipped the card over again. This wasn’t a cheap card.

  Oh shit.

  It’s from some singles group.

  Already imagining the perky wording across the top, ‘Alone and lonely on this day of love? Join us!’, Madison jammed her thumbnail under an invisible bit of loose edge, but got nowhere. The ring of her cell cut into the air. She checked the display—her friend Tia. Thank God it wasn’t the singles group calling to make sure she showed up to whatever humiliating event they’d put together.

  “Did you open it?”

  Tia has a webcam fixed on my kitchen?

  “You got a red envelope in the mail, right? Did you open it?” Her voice was frantic, shrill even.

  Madison frowned. It took a lot to make Tia lose it.

  Some freak had gone retro and sprinkled some microscopic nastiness into envelopes? Smallpox? Anthrax? Madison loosened her grip on the red paper and held the envelope as far away from herself as possible. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “But you didn’t open it? Right? Good. Don’t. Meet me at The Vine. Bring the envelope.”

  Okay. So the envelope was not contagious.

  Back to the webcam. “Is this being filmed for a new Mission Impossible? Because I am not going to work with Tom Cruise. He’s way too old and way too short. Unless I’m going to be the tough bitch that kicks his ass. Then I’m in.”

  “No comment.”

  “You say that too often. You sure you aren’t a publicist?”

  “Whatever. Bye.”

  * * * *

  The Vine was deserted for once. Even the stools in front of the counter that were usually filled with wannabe intellectuals were vacant, not a single University of Cincinnati student in sight. Everyone was probably at home, enjoying a hot and dirty Valentine’s Day fuck—or was too embarrassed to show their I-don’t-have-anyone-to-have-sex-with face.

  Tia was already curled into one of the deep-cushioned, orange couches that filled the back corners of the coffee house. On the low table in front of her sat a mostly empty coffee with cream, a full, black coffee and a red envelope. Close inspection confirmed Tia’s unfortunate red envelope had Tia’s address. The script was the same, and so was the unrevealing post office box return addy. All in all, the envelope had a weird, shredded look, as though somebody thought it might be their day pass away from a mental institution, but it turned out to be an extension of their stay instead. If the envelope could talk it would say “I was naughty.”

  Tia pointed to the black coffee. “You gotta save your cash, now that you’re, ya know, back on the job market. This one’s on me.”

  Madison picked it up and took a sip. Obviously, the official I’m outta this lousy place Facebook post had been read and reviewed.

  “That Mr. Thornton is a loser. You’ll find something better.”

  Madison dropped into the extra wide chair across from the couch. “Yeah. Whatever. It’s not like I wanted to spend my life answering calls about insurance.”

  ‘Nuf said.

  Gesturing toward the area behind Tia’s shoulder, Madison asked, “What time is the crew arriving and do I have to share a trailer with Tom? And please, no children on the set.”

  “Get over it.” She smirked and tossed one booted leg over the other. “Tom’s not coming, and you’re not going to be the new badass spy.”

  Madison slipped her envelope out of her backpack and set it on the arm of the chair. “At first, when you were freaking out, I thought somebody was sending around a mail-order plague, and you were calling to save my life by warning me not to open it.”

  Tia downed the last of her coffee and set her mug on the table with a heavy thump. “It is a plague of sorts.”

  “A valentine plague?”

  “That’s the catch. It has nothing to do with Valentine’s Day. Those bitches fooled everyone, I’ll bet. Open it.” She waved a hand at the envelope. “You’ll see what I mean.”

  Madison grabbed the envelope, and after again failing to get her fingernail under the flap, pulled a pen from her backpack and poked at the sleek red paper until a minuscule piece started to give up the fight and concede to the idea that it was actually designed to be opened. By the time she could see the card inside, also red, she’d pretty well torn the shit out of the envelope. If Tia’s envelope had been naughty, hers had been downright bad.

  The nauseatingly familiar crest of Indian Creek High School sat square in the middle of the front of the card. Inside, the details for a five year reunion.

  “What the hell? Who has a five year reunion?”

  “Snotty assholes who want to throw their I’m-rich-and-perfect lives in our faces.”

  Madison swallowed against the truth of her own life. “I can’t go to this! I don’t have a job! What the hell am I going to say? ‘Oh, yeah, I remember I said I was going to be famous, doing musicals on Broadway and gigs on Bourbon Street, but I decided to be a laid off loser instead.’ Shit.”

  “You don’t have to tell anybody you—”

  Madison cut Tia off with a sulky, evil-eyed scowl. “That’s easy for you to say. Everybody sees that stuff about you in the paper all the time.”

  “It’s only the Post,” Tia protested in a small voice.

  Madison lifted one eyebrow. “Have you seen what you drive? Have you seen where you live? Your life will totally make them all jealous.”

  “You don’t see me throwing all of your successes in your face. What about that show in Chicago? You left me here all last summer—by myself—and I didn’t give you a hard time.”

  “One show does not a career make,” Madison replied, staring into her coffee.

  “Your dad is a great guy, but don’t quote him. He doesn’t know
what the hell he’s talking about.”

  “He knows I’m an unemployed singer-slash-actress. Again.” Wincing at the whining tone in her own voice, Madison took a quick sip. “Why couldn’t they just Facebook us like normal people?”

  Tia pointed to the tattered red paper. “Probably trying to be impressive.”

  Madison scoffed as she poked at the shreds. “That really worked.”

  Tia pushed herself out of the cushions, grabbed her empty mug, and went to get a refill. With her gone, Madison was left alone, adrift in her personal cloud of gloom and self-pity.

  Snippets of conversations and Facebook posts played through her mind. If she had a remote to switch them off, she would have. But she didn’t. So she had to stew on the highlights of other people’s successes.

  Karen Williams just got married—at the Terrace Park Country Club—and they moved to Hyde Park, around the corner from the cemetery. They’re staying in the pool house until the remodel is done…

  Did you hear about Kitty Carter? She moved to L.A. Her mom says she’s about to do a movie…

  Marilyn Goodwin is the perfect stay-at-home mom! Her two year old is the youngest member of MENSA…

  There were more, and they all ran together into a disturbing blur of great career-great husband-great babies-great career-great husband-great babies. Even in the new millennium, that stuff still mattered.

  “Shut up and drink your coffee.”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “You’re about to.”

  Madison ignored the motherly frown on Tia’s face. “So? I can talk. This is a free country.” But she did clam up for a few minutes, and they drank in silence until the obvious solution popped into Madison’s head.

  “We don’t have to go. We could not go. We’ll just not go. There. Problem solved.”

  Tia gaped across her coffee mug. “The pact?”

  Madison feigned ignorance of one of too many drunken bathroom scenarios. Pretending she didn’t remember the fall of their senior year, hiding in the back stall of the girl’s bathroom while everyone else basked in the artificial beauty of the Fall Harvest Homecoming Dance while listening to the ever-perfect homecoming queen Sandra Williams sing jazz so amazingly, even the loser freshmen listened. Amazing Sandra stood on the stage, belting out Dream a Little Dream of Me like she was Ella Fitzgerald or some shit.