Only For You Read online

  Table of Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Other books by Genna Rulon

  Only For You

  by

  Genna Rulon

  Only For You

  Copyright © 2013

  Genna Rulon

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at Library of Congress

  ISBN: 0615868401

  ISBN-13: 978-0-615-86840-0

  Cover design by G. Relyea

  © Genna Rulon, 2013

  Cover Image Copyright © Viktor Kunz

  Used under license from shutterstock.com

  Dedication

  * * *

  To my loved ones (you know who you are)

  You supported and encouraged me to follow this dream.

  Without you, it would still be an idea in my crazy mind.

  Thank you for having faith in me and giving me faith in myself.

  Special thanks to my three incredible men.

  You sacrificed your time with me,

  allowing me to achieve this goal

  and didn’t complain…much.

  Prologue

  * * *

  Hensley Students Live in Fear

  * * *

  By: Matthew Smith

  Hensley University students have been afraid for their safety after a string of brutal attacks on campus began this past October. “Seven violent offenses have already been reported over the past six months,” Suffolk Police Det. Lt. Ray Cartone confirmed.

  Although the Suffolk County Police Department (SCPD) refused to release details pertaining to the attacks, presumably to discourage copycat behaviors, there are indicators that the same assailant perpetrated all of the assaults to date. “We are currently investigating the crimes that have occurred at Hensley, and we hope to apprehend the culprit expeditiously to prevent future attacks,” Det. Lt. Cartone said during a news conference on Monday.

  The female student body is concerned, demanding Hensley take more aggressive preventative action. Sophomore Marilyn Stokes said, “It’s my job to come to college and learn. It’s the University’s job to provide a safe environment for me to do so. They are failing.” Another student, junior Kelly Selonitakis stated, “I have fun, but I’m careful. I make smart choices. That’s not enough anymore. I am scared. I don’t want to be next.”

  Hensley is taking its turn in the hot seat, at a time when universities across the country are being scrutinized for their lack of response to rape and sexual assault claims from students. Schools are often accused of suppressing the volume and severity of registered complaints.

  The Night Is Ours, a local women's advocacy group, is pressuring SCPD to dedicate additional resources to the investigation stating, “They can’t sit back complacently in the hopes the epidemic will subside.” They have also called upon Hensley to be proactive in preventing violence against women, including increasing security throughout campus and providing free self-defense classes for students.

  We will continue to follow the events at Hensley University and report developments as they occur.

  Hensley University had no comment at the time of printing.

  Chapter One

  * * *

  "The world is not full of assholes. But, they are strategically placed so that you'll come across one every day.” –Unknown

  “Uggghhhhh!” I groaned and dragged myself from the warm cocoon of my bed, giving the alarm my most scathing stare. The red numbers illuminating the face mocked me as I finally registered the time.

  “Sam! It’s 6:30 in the morning! Have you lost your damn mind?” I shouted to my scheming roommate, who was undoubtedly responsible for my rude awakening.

  My bedroom door slowly creaked open, allowing my favorite coffee mug to materialize through the crack. Sam hesitantly followed, waiving her hand above the mug, wafting a heavenly aroma of freshly brewed caffeine in my direction. I sniffed dramatically, a bloodhound scenting the kill, as I made my way toward her.

  “No, no, no. You need to forgive me before I hand it over.” She raised her hand in an effort to ward off my attempt to steal the coffee.

  I stared at my best friend as I debated my options. She undoubtedly deserved punishment for her cruelty, but she possessed the steaming mug I craved. It was a difficult decision.

  “Alright. You’re begrudgingly forgiven. Now gimme!” I swiped the coffee from her unprepared hands and hastily swallowed a sip, reveling in the rich flavor.

  I eyed Sam resentfully. “Care to explain why you snuck into my room last night, moved my alarm, and set the bloody thing to scream me awake at 6:30? The sun isn’t even up yet! Why am I?”

  Sam ignored my resentment, unaffected. Having known me fifteen years, she was well aware of the consequences of waking me. She waited until I had ingested the majority of my mood stabilizer before offering an explanation.

  “You remember the self-defense seminar that Hensley University is sponsoring?” she paused, retreating a step before announcing, “I registered us for this morning’s session at 7:30 am.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Sam continued hurriedly.

  “It’s only ninety minutes once a week.”

  I shook my head. “Are you serious?”

  “The seminar’s only six sessions, and we even get credit from the University for participating. A credit we don’t have to pay for; it’s free money. You know how much you love free stuff.”

  I continued to scowl at her, unimpressed by the single credit that I didn’t need to graduate this May.

  Sam’s shoulders sagged as she looked at me with sincere eyes. “I’m scared, Everleigh, for both of us. The police haven’t succeeded in preventing the attacks. Every week another girl is beaten and dumped on campus. We need to do something to protect ourselves.”

  Her concerns were valid, and I was scared too. The brutality of the attacks and frequency continued to increase. Although few details had been leaked to the public, the tidbits we heard through the campus grapevine were frightful.

  I released an exaggerated sigh, wishing it wasn’t necessary to agree, but knowing I should participate. “Alright. I’ll do it if you promise to be my partner.”

  “Deal!” she quickly agreed, clearly relieved she would not attend the class alone.

  “And I’m going to find a way to pay you back for the early wake ups.”

  “I know you will,” she smiled, evidently unafraid o
f my threat. “We need to leave in twenty minutes, so hurry up and get ready. There’s more coffee in the kitchen—your current mood is bad enough without adding caffeine withdrawal to the mix.”

  I looked around my room formulating a plan of attack. I wanted to participate in self-defense classes about as much as I wanted to slam my hand in the car door. I was tempted to bury my head in the sand and pretend everything was normal, but ignoring the danger wouldn’t remove the threat. If I didn’t take the initiative to protect myself, who would?

  I glanced at the clock again—6:40 in the morning and I was awake. I glanced back at my bed longingly, struggling to contain my frustration with Sam. I reminded myself that she was my best friend, regardless of the inconvenient enrollment she made on my behalf.

  Samantha Elizabeth Magdalena Whitney, Sam, grew up in a mansion on the North Shore of Long Island surrounded by every amenity. She wanted for nothing, other than her parent’s attention and understanding. It was the same old story—her father was absent physically and emotionally, and her mother tried to micromanage her life. Sam emerged unscathed, no longer expecting her father’s regard and disregarding her mother’s propaganda. She followed her own path—living life joyously and without pretension.

  My mother was a ‘domestic’ at the Whitney estate, a title synonymous with housekeeper. It was an ideal position for a single mother, permitting her to work while I was at school and only required the occasional babysitter when the Whitneys hosted a special event. The salary was conservative, but she was provided with a car and her compensation included health insurance for us both.

  Mom and I shared a small two-bedroom apartment in an older complex—we only lived fifteen minutes from the Whitney estate, but we were worlds apart. My mom strived to provide all of my needs and as many of my wants as was manageable. She understood the importance of appearances to a young girl’s self-esteem and creatively protected me from peer scrutiny. I wasn’t outfitted in designer labels, but I never had to hang my head in shame, either. When we couldn’t afford store bought costumes, she sewed my Halloween costume from old clothing she found at garage sales until I had a couture masterpiece—I always had the winning costume at the school parade. As I grew older, she would find incredible vintage pieces at thrift stores, which my girlfriends coveted. I can only imagine the hours she must have invested to find each discounted treasure, motivated by her love for me. She even squirreled money away, enabling me to receive haircuts at a trendy salon, so my hair would ‘do its job to frame that beautiful face.’ She loved me fiercely and proved it not only in words, but also in actions. It was only in recent years I fully appreciated how blessed I was—what I lacked in trivial possessions was inconsequential compared to her steadfast love and devotion.

  Sam and I met shortly after Mom was hired by the Whitneys. The school called the Whitney estate to advise Sam was sick but her mom had plans to go shopping in New York City, so she sent my Mom to collect Sam from school and care for her. Since the school day was nearly over Mom brought me along, unable to arrange a sitter on such short notice. I spent the afternoon keeping Sam company, and we had been best friends ever since.

  The following week Sam demanded I join her dance class— according to Mrs. Whitney it was imperative that Sam study dance—and with no alternative to coax her participation, the Whitneys paid my tuition to accompany Sam. It was Mom who taxied us, watched our rehearsal, and brought us home. In fourth grade, Sam agreed to study piano if I joined her. Unbeknownst to me, piano was another critical life skill that Sam must acquire, which meant I would acquire it as well. In eighth grade, Sam refused to attend a prestigious enrichment summer camp unless I accompanied her. It was quickly understood that if the Whitneys wanted Sam to endure any extracurricular activity, it best include me to gain her cooperation.

  Sam’s choice to attend the same university as me was the natural progression. She could have attended any college in the world with her intellect, grades, and familial resources. We applied to the same Ivy League universities. Sam’s dream was to move as far from her parent’s oppressive shadow as her admittance letters could take her. My enrollment would be determined by the university offering the greatest amount of financial aid as I was unwilling to burden my mom or myself with student loans. I was accepted to all schools I applied, and Hensley was the highest-ranking institution to offer a full scholarship. Sam was accepted to the same universities, with the exception of Yale—a slight she would never forgive. When Sam learned I committed to Hensley, she shocked me by following suit. She wanted to share the college experience with me and, after fifteen years of friendship, virtually sisters, separating would be akin to losing a limb.

  The Whitneys were appalled at the prospect of Sam living in student dormitories. Consequently, they bought a two-bedroom condominium in the most prestigious complex near to the school. It was small, as all the apartments near school were, but luxurious. Ever generous, Sam insisted I room with her rent-free to eliminate on-campus housing expenses. I never could have foreseen Sam’s decision would be my saving grace.

  Two weeks prior to our departure for Hensley, my mom passed away—hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, sudden cardiac death. I was working at a local deli, one of my last days before school began, when Sam came in. She marched to the back without looking at me and spoke with my supervisor. When she returned with my belongings, she took my hand and guided me out. I didn’t ask questions, if Sam needed me I would be there. In her silence, I speculated a confrontation with her parents was the cause; a litany of possible disputes circled my mind. I knew enough to give her space until she was prepared to share what troubled her. She drove a few blocks to the beach, we walked along the shore until finding a relatively desolate section where she sat, and I followed her lead. After a few minutes, Sam turned to me and revealed what transpired. My mom had died at the Whitney estate while working. Mrs. Whitney had found her on the kitchen floor and called an ambulance, but she was gone by the time paramedics arrived. She was gone…just like that. Perfectly healthy and happy that morning; over breakfast we planned a shopping trip to purchase the final supplies I would require for school. Sam held me as I sobbed for hours, inconsolable and adrift. I stayed at the Whitney estate until school began, unable to face my apartment knowing my mom would never return. Mrs. Whitney was kind enough to arrange the funeral on my behalf. Sam and her brothers emptied the apartment, packing everything I would need for school, and placed the rest in storage for me to sort when I wasn’t as vulnerable and raw. I have spent every school break and holiday with the Whitneys since. There was no replacement for my mom, and the Whitneys were not nurturing, but at least I had a place to go when I would otherwise be alone. I will always be grateful to them for that gift.

  If not for Sam, I would have shattered irrevocably. She was like a sister, mourning the loss of her surrogate mother while helping me find a way to survive crippling grief. She pushed me when I struggled to maintain the grade point average my scholarship required. She brought me ice cream on the nights I cried with longing for my mom. She partied with me when I finally accepted I was not betraying my mother by enjoying life again. She was selfless and patient when needed, tough and bitchy when required, and entertainment director once I was able. I may never find the words of gratitude equal to all Sam did. I attempted once, but she cut me off.

  “I’ve done nothing for you that you haven’t or wouldn’t do for me. You have been my shoulder to lean on enough times—it was my turn. I loved her too—I lost her too. Helping you helped me heal, and it was the last gift I could give in honor of the love she gave me.”

  We were both orphans in our own way; the only true ‘family’ either of us could rely on was one another. I prayed I never had the occasion to repay Sam, but I would be there to hold her together if ever the need arose.

  I broke free of my melancholy and walked to my dresser to find a black sports bra, which I wrestled on. The battle was close, but I triumphed. I quickly dressed in my workout clothes and sneak
ers, ready to spar.

  In the kitchen, I refilled my mug with the rich black coffee I loved. Armed with my tonic, I headed to the bathroom to finish my preparations. I raked a brush through my medium blonde locks, taming the tangles, and then wrangled the mass into a convenient ponytail. I glanced in the mirror again and noticed my pale skin-tone. Late-January in New York didn’t lend itself to a golden tan.

  “All done, Sam,” I called while heading to the living room.

  In return, Sam bellowed, “I need ten more minutes.”

  I sank into the couch and turned on the news. The anchor was reporting on the escalating assaults at Hensley University over the past sixteen months. Joining mid-broadcast I missed the details, but assumed there was another attack last night. Spring semester at Hensley began today, offering a smorgasbord of potential victims to prey upon.

  The attacks began in October of my junior year. Initially they were believed to be isolated incidents of abuse, but as the frequency and severity of the attacks escalated, the connection became evident. What began as bruised faces became broken arms, which became internal injuries, and finally savage beatings with debilitating consequences. There had been no confirmation that victims had been sexually assaulted, but many assumed including the media outlets. All of the victims were female and students at Hensley, but no other commonality among the victims had been identified; the police suspected they were selected at random. Of the thirteen women attacked, three victims sustained injuries so severe they would suffer permanent physical disabilities. I was certain all thirteen would bear permanent psychological scars, even after the physical injuries healed.