Over the Hills and Far Away (NOLA's Own #1)
Read Over the Hills and Far Away (NOLA's Own #1) Online
Authors: Kelli Jean
Copyright © 2015 by Kelli Jean
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Terje Olsen, Renee Ericson
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing,
www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except
for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at
www.kellijeanauthor.com
For Liliana, Alison, and Patricia.
For Steph. For Sigrid.
For Elaine.
For Grandma and Makenna.
And most of all…
For Mom.
The Third Eye refers to the mysterious notion that there is access to places of higher consciousness. It is a concept that a hypothetical, imperceptible inner eye provides spiritual insight and awareness beyond what is ordinarily seen.
Those who utilize the Third Eye have the aptitude for precognition and are often referred to as seers. It is also associated with an ability to perceive chakras and auras.
Located in the center of the forehead, the Third Eye is often associated with the pineal gland.
Friday night, I was getting ready to go out with my two best friends, Alys Stuart and Liliana de la Cuesta. Liliana happened to be running a little bit late. The tedious ritual of putting ourselves together was made easier by blasting “Stairway to Heaven” while Alys and I belted out the lyrics at the top of our lungs. Well, I happened to find the ritual tedious, but Alys enjoyed it.
Led Zeppelin was a particular favorite of ours. We’d grown up listening to the groovy tunes our parents played nonstop and adopted them as our own. My mother was secretly in love with Robert Plant, and she’d passed that love onto me. I, too, secretly carried a torch for a twenty-something Robert. Even now, my mom would listen to
Houses of the Holy
at least once a day.
Our love for music defined my best friends and me more than anything else. It influenced all aspects of our lives—from the way we spoke to the way we dressed to the people we shared our lives with.
That, and there really was nothing sexier than a musician. Even the fugly ones were hot on some bizarre level. The fact that they had the balls to get up onto a stage and rock a crowd was so admirable. All my childhood and adolescent crushes had been on musicians. I couldn’t help it. They were my weakness.
Tonight, we were heading to Bougainvillea, a run-down three-story club in a backwater, before hitting the city limits of New Orleans. Rumor had it to be a bordello way back in the day. Now, it was a badass place where NOLA’s best up-and-coming bands could strut their stuff before heading on to bigger and better things.
It was an eighteen-and-over club, but our dear friend Jimi Reynolds worked the door on weekends. He was going to let us in a few hours early, so we could watch our favorite local band. Jimi was also our weed guy, and he had the best damn ganja in all of New Orleans.
Just hours away from turning eighteen, I was a whole year younger than my two best friends, but luckily, I had been smart enough to get a year ahead in my school career, and we’d all graduated high school together a little over two months ago.
With a sigh of resignation, I leaned close to the dresser mirror and started applying mascara. I absolutely hated wearing makeup. But Liliana would never let me out of the house to see our favorite local band without looking my absolute best. I had an unholy crush on the front man, Phil Deveraux, and Lili was a firm believer that one should always look her best in public.
I glanced over at Alys. She was slicking some lip gloss over her gorgeous massive lips—
dick suckers
as Lili and I affectionately called them. Alys had such a delicate-looking beautiful face with large hazel eyes, a cute ski-jump nose, and porcelain skin that bloomed with natural roses in her cheeks. Her light-brown hair was a bit on the fine side, but it was soft, silky, and shiny. She had it in a badass bob, a somewhat recent change she’d made, having cut it short right after we’d graduated.
“Who’s ready to tear this shit up?” cried Lili as she burst into my bedroom. Back-kicking the door shut, she pulled out a fat blunt and sparked it. “Ah,” she sighed, passing it to me.
“What took you so long?” Alys asked, deciding to wipe off the gloss. There was no need to gunk up the funk.
“My dad. He busted me and Matt making out in the van in the driveway. He was so pissed that he made me scrub the bathroom. I almost didn’t make it out.”
Lili’s father was hardcore religious. His belief was that his daughters didn’t need to know what sex or fun was until they settled down and married their Catholic husbands. It was the complete opposite from how Alys and I had been raised. Our parents were seriously open and encouraging when it came to sex and fun—maybe a little
too
open and encouraging.
“Are you still able to stay the night?” I asked, exhaling a nice fat cloud.
“I’m staying the whole fucking weekend. No way am I going home to grunt work before classes on Monday.”
Liliana had to be one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever laid eyes on. I always carried a smidgen of a girl-crush over her. Colombian, she had long black hair that curled to the waist, almond-shaped black eyes, a killer smile, and skin the delicious color of caramel. Even in the melting pot that was New Orleans, I thought she was just so exotic and drop-dead gorgeous.
She was only five feet tall, and I always felt like a great white Hulk standing next to her. That would be because I was six feet of great white woman. I’d reached this height during my junior year of high school, and I’d begged the gods to just make it stop.
My father, a massive Scotsman from Inverness who was six-three, blessed—
cursed
—me with this gargantuan height, and he’d also gifted me with hair that wasn’t quite ginger but a decent copper color. Wavy, I wore it to my rear to control the curl. My dark green eyes had come from my father, Sigmund MacGregor, too. Connor, my younger half-brother, had them as well. The only things I could see that I had inherited from my mother were her high cheekbones and impressive ability to tan because her grandmother had been a full-blooded Cherokee. Not many Scots had that talent.
As a giant female, I always had a secret longing to be small and feminine-looking. Well, it wasn’t like people couldn’t tell I was a woman. I was just a big one. The worst was the fact that my entire body was large, not fat, and muscular, and it was a bit of a letdown that I sported some pretty small Cs for tits.
Tonight was about rocking the fuck
out while letting loose and unleashing the spirit through some awesome music. The three of us were raging headbangers. For this evening’s purposes, the heavier the music, the better. Two of the bands playing were fucking awesome. First Blood was the opening band, a great choice for a warm-up. The headliner for the evening was a major disappointment though—Glory Hole, a band name worthy of the absolute garbage they produced.
However, the only thing that truly mattered was that we were going to see NOLA’s Junk. How they weren’t headlining was anyone’s guess. Those guys were seriously talented and young, maybe only a few years older than us. They had a sound between good ole Southern rock and absolute thrash.
If these guys didn’t make it big, then something would be very wrong with the world of music, and in that case, I wasn’t sure I’d want to live on the planet. For the last two years or so, we’d been going to every venue they played, mostly outdoor concerts where I could get in, and they’d done some awesome circuits. We’d bought all their demos and singles, and no lie, those demos were fantastic even though it sounded like they had been recorded in someone’s attic.
NOLA’s Junk was fronted by the six-five
beast Phil fucking Deveraux. On stage, he was this in-your-face, don’t-give-a-fuck cocky son of a bitch who simply dominated everything around him. A true front man, he would get the crowd amped up and ready to scream before they moshed and simply went savage.
He was sex on a stick. A sex-oozing god, Phil was just so…gorgeous. He had long dark brown hair shaved into a Mohawk of sorts, showing dream catchers tattooed on either side of his head. His eyes were deeply set, and I was pretty sure they were brown, not that I’d been close enough to actually see the color. With his chiseled hard jaw and sharp, high cheekbones, he had sculpted full lips that I’d fantasized having all over me.
The fantasizing must have been written all over my face because Lili cocked a knowing brow in my direction.
“Careful, Kenna. Keep those thoughts up, and you’ll have to change your underwear before we even leave the house,” Lili drawled.
“It’s all good.” Alys laughed. “Make him your birthday wish.”
“I just might do that,” I replied before taking another hit off the blunt.
We finished off the weed and gave ourselves one more check in the mirror. I couldn’t help but smile at our reflections. The three of us were so obviously best friends with our baggy wide-legged jeans, assorted tank tops, and hemp accessories. Even our footwear matched. Lili and I wore our beloved black Adidas sneakers while Alys had opted for black Chucks. Collectively, we looked like we were a couple of peace signs away from a patchouli stink.