Bared Souls

  Other Titles by Ellie Wade

  THE FLAWED HEART SERIES

  Finding London

  Keeping London

  Loving London

  Eternally London

  Taming Georgia

  THE CHOICES SERIES

  A Beautiful Kind of Love

  A Forever Kind of Love

  A Grateful Kind of Love

  STAND-ALONES

  Fragment

  Chasing Memories

  Forever Baby

  A Hundred Ways to Love

  BOXED SETS

  The Flawed Heart Series

  Please visit Ellie’s Amazon Author page for more information on her other books.

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  Copyright © 2020 by Ellie Wade

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.elliewade.com

  Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Editor: 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.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944495-15-2

  This book is dedicated to my dad, whom I miss every day.

  To all the gentle souls.

  May you be stronger than your demons.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Epilogue

  Dear Readers

  Acknowledgments

  Other Titles by Ellie Wade

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Alma

  From the very start, he told me that he’d destroy me. He warned me that he’d rip my heart out. He might not want to, but it would happen. And I believed him.

  I knew he wasn’t lying, and yet I loved him anyway.

  There are many types of love. The raw, deep, soul-crushing love is rare. I craved it, that connection. I wanted him and all that entailed.

  Despite everything that happened, even now, I wouldn’t change any of it.

  For a love to have the capacity to destroy you, it has to be extraordinarily powerful—and that kind of love is impossible to walk away from.

  Regardless of the consequences.

  He loved me fiercely, and I loved him back.

  ONE

  Alma

  “This is you.” Amos nods toward the tan metal door.

  At first glance, the color seems drab and depressing, but I shake that negativity from my head because this is college. I’m finally starting my life. Everything about the next four years is going to be epic. Drab door be damned.

  I position the box I’m holding on my hip, securing it with one arm. My free hand extends out to my side toward my best friend. He repeats the motions with the box in his grasp and takes my pinkie in his.

  “This is it.” He grins, our pinkies entwined between us—our eternal sign of our best-friend status.

  I’ve been waiting for this day for years, ever since Amos told me about the magical place called college so many years ago. The first eighteen years of my existence were … interesting. My parents brought a huge set of challenges to the mix.

  I, Almalee Hannelda Weber, named by my wannabe-hippie parents, was raised by immature humans with a love for illicit substances. My parents had been mere babies during Woodstock and not yet in middle school when the whole peace-and-love era fizzled out in the early 1970s. Yet there aren’t two people who would look more comfortable driving around in a lime-green Volkswagen bus with bright flowers painted all over it than Alman and Lee-Ann Weber.

  My dad, Alman, was a first-generation American with parents who had immigrated here from Germany in the 1960s. My mom, Lee-Ann, was a first-generation American as well. Her parents had come here from Venezuela around the same time.

  They combined their first names to get mine, and my middle name is the combination of both of my grandmothers’ names—Hannah and Esmerelda.

  Utter geniuses, my parents.

  They love me, in their own way—though I’ve been reminded many times that I was an oops baby—but they love their free lifestyle more.

  My father’s priorities can be summarized by his two tattoos. The largest across his chest are the symbols for peace, love, and marijuana. Then, he has a band of ivy and daisies around his arm with my mother’s name scattered throughout the design.

  Lee-Ann’s philosophy on motherhood can be summed up in her favorite anecdote that she brings up anytime she’s reliving the story of my birth, and that is, “The first thing I told those doctors was that they’d better tie my tubes the second after they pulled that baby out, so I’d never risk having another.” She labels her emergency C-section as a gift because it allowed her to get the tubal ligation for less money since the doctors were already in there.

  It is what it is, and I love my parents. They love me the best they can even if I did practically raise myself. I’m just so grateful that the sweetest little boy lived next door from me, growing up. Without Amos, I’m not sure where I’d be.

  I’d probably be living on a naked commune. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my parents have taken me to enough naked camps in my life to scar me for life. One wouldn’t think that such a thing existed, especially with children in attendance, but I’m here to tell you that they do. Truthfully, I would never walk in my parents’ shoes. I was born, wanting to be what they weren’t and to do everything with my life that they hadn’t. I saw early on that I wanted more. It wasn’t something that had been taught to me. I just knew inherently that I needed more in my life.

  I’ve worked hard to get here. Neither parent attended a teacher conference or asked me if I did my homework even once throughout my schooling, and I still graduated with perfect grades. Amos and I were co-valedictorians of our graduating class. Years of hard work got me a full-ride scholarship to EMU, Eastern Michigan University. It’s not the most prestigious school in the state, but it’s completely paid for, room and board included,
and it ranks really well as a teachers college, which is my degree of choice. On top of that, it’s only about a twenty-minute car ride away from the University of Michigan, which is the most prestigious college in the state and where Amos is going.

  I was also accepted into the University of Michigan but was offered very little scholarship money. The fact is that they don’t need to hand out academic scholarships because the brightest students in the state are all clamoring to get in anyway, and many—like Amos—can afford it.

  “All right, let’s hope she’s cool.” I release my smallest finger from his and open the door to my dorm room.

  A petite blonde sits on a futon, painting her toenails and bopping her head to the music coming from her earbuds. Her smile widens when she spots me. She puts the nail polish brush back in the container and jumps up from her seated position, removing her earbuds as she stands.

  “Oh my gosh! Hi.” She quickly closes the distance between us and extends her hand. “I’m Quinn. You must be Almalee. Am I saying that right?” she says rapidly, her entire demeanor bubbly and sweet.

  “Just Alma is fine, and yes.” I return her smile.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. I was beginning to worry that you weren’t coming. My parents moved me in a couple of days ago, and it’s been lonely. I come from a family of seven, so I’m just not used to being alone for so long.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Look at me.” She raises her hand and moves her fingers against her thumb in the blah, blah motion. “I can’t shut up. It’s a problem really.” She giggles at her own expense. “Let me help you.” She reaches for the box in my hand and carries it over to the side of the room that’s empty of any personal belongings.

  The room isn’t much larger than my bedroom at home. There’s a twin-size bed and a plain wooden dresser on each side of the room. In between the two beds is a bright pink futon sofa.

  I’m sure Quinn brought it. She has also supplied the area with a small refrigerator, a microwave, and some colorful lamps.

  “I hope this side of the room is okay with you. It honestly doesn’t matter to me. We can switch if you want. Also, these beds do stack into bunk beds, but I didn’t know if you were a bottom or top bunk kind of girl, so I just figured this setup was our best bet.”

  I grin, so happy that my roommate is nice. I was terrified of getting some evil witch, and Quinn is seriously like the exact opposite of my worst fears. She’s gorgeous with her bright green eyes, big smile, and long blonde hair. She’s like a perky Barbie doll but shorter and with normal proportions.

  “Everything looks great,” I reassure her. “I would’ve been here sooner, but we spent a day getting this guy moved into his dorm.” I hook my thumb back toward Amos. “This is Amos. He’s attending U of M.”

  She nods. “Oh, nice. Pretty close then.”

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  Amos sets the box that he’s holding down and extends his hand out toward Quinn. “It’s nice to meet you.” He shakes her hand.

  “You too!” she replies.

  “Well, I’m going to go get the rest of your things,” Amos says to me.

  “I’ll come help,” I offer.

  He shakes his head. “No, stay here. Start unpacking. I got it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He smiles warmly. “I’m sure.”

  After he’s left the room, Quinn turns to me, her eyebrows raised. “Um, please don’t take this the wrong way, and I hope I’m not being too forward, but your boyfriend is, like, the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.” She bites her lip.

  I can only chuckle. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I tell her. “Lifelong best friends.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “You know who he reminds me of? I used to watch this show called Private Practice with my mom, and he looks just like the hot doctor on the show.”

  “Taye Diggs? Yeah, he gets that a lot.” I press my lips together, fighting a grin.

  “Oh, he’s so dreamy. I’m sorry. I must sound like an idiot. I told you I was lonely.”

  I wave her off. “It’s fine. He is absolutely gorgeous and the nicest human I know.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend?” she inquires a bit too enthusiastically.

  “No,” I tell her.

  “That’s surprising,” she says as Amos enters the room with two boxes stacked in his arms.

  He sets the boxes next to the others. “Only one more load, and then that’s all.” He shoots me a smile before leaving again.

  “I don’t have much stuff,” I say to Quinn. “Mainly clothes. I’m really glad you brought the futon and appliances. That was nice of you.”

  “Oh yeah, absolutely fine. It’s all hand-me-downs from my older sister’s time in the dorm. She’s a junior at Central Michigan University, but she’s sharing an apartment with some friends now, so she didn’t need any of it anymore.”

  “That worked out,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Quinn agrees.

  I quickly start putting away my clothes. The sooner I’m moved in and settled, the sooner I can walk around campus with my schedule and get my bearings. I want to know where all of the buildings are and how long it takes to get to each one.

  I’m kind of an obsessive planner. I suppose it stemmed, once again, from growing up with my parents. I never knew what to expect with them. So, I liked being able to control what I could, when I could. It tamed my anxiety and brought a calmness to my life that was lacking at home. School is my domain. It’s where I shine.

  Amos returns with the last of my things.

  “You want to go grab some dinner?” Amos asks. “Then, we can walk around campus and find your classes.”

  He knows me so well.

  My stare drops to the pile of stuff I have to put away.

  “You have two days to get that organized. You have time.” He chuckles. “Plus, you have to eat.”

  “Okay, you’re right.” I turn to Quinn. “You want to grab some food with us?”

  “Sure. You know, I had takeout from this local restaurant that was so amazing. It’s only a block away if you want to go there.”

  “Sounds good,” Amos says. “Let’s go.”

  TWO

  Alma

  It’s a hot August day with extra humidity, like most typical Michigan summer days. Growing up here, I’ve come to realize that residents must stay for the autumn and spring. The winters are long and frigid, and the summers are so muggy that one’s lips sweat.

  Trucks with sofas and boxes are parked in front of the dorms. Parents are all around, wistfully aiding their child with move-in day. We pass a father lugging a large chair, who looks unimpressed. His scowl and sweat-soaked face give the impression that he’d be willing to sign his child out of his life for some air-conditioning. Right past him is a mother hugging her daughter tight; tears are falling down her cheeks as the daughter tries to pry herself free.

  I look up to Amos, and he simply grabs my pinkie with his. We stay this way until we reach the restaurant.

  The mom-and-pop Italian restaurant, Giovanni’s, is fairly empty, as it’s still a little before the dinner rush. There are plastic green vines with plump, shiny grapes draping the walls around the restaurant. The fake foliage circling the hostess area carries a layer of dust, which, I’m going to be honest, freaks me out. Hopefully, the kitchen cleaning crew is more competent than the dining room cleaners.

  “Three, please,” Quinn tells the hostess, who proceeds to seat us right away.

  I open up my menu to read as Quinn tells us, “So, I ordered the focaccia bread in the appetizer section. It came with fresh basil and tomato and melted mozzarella. It was to die for, and I’m really craving it again, but I also want to try something new, you know?”

  “The mushroom risotto sounds good too,” I point out.

  “It all sounds good. That’s the problem,” Quinn adds.

  The waitress takes our order, and Quinn opts to try something new. Before the
waitress walks away, Amos adds the focaccia bread appetizer for the table.

  “Aren’t you the sweetest?” Quinn gives Amos a flirty look, which had I not told her that he and I were only friends earlier would have been a bit of a betrayal.

  I haven’t known my new roommate for long, but I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. I’d say Amos would be lucky to date her. She seems so sweet.

  What if my bestie and college roommate got married?

  Perhaps I’m jumping the gun a bit.

  “So, what are you planning on studying, Alma?” Quinn asks.

  “Teaching. Probably elementary ed.”

  She nods in approval. “Well, Eastern is a great school for teachers. What about you, Amos?”

  “I’m going to apply to the College of Business after I get my prerequisites finished,” he answers.

  “Oh, nice. Yeah, U of M has one of the best business programs in the country. My grandpa went there years ago, so we hear about his alma mater all the time,” she muses with a warm expression.

  “What about you?” Amos inquires before taking a sip of his iced tea.

  “I don’t know, honestly. I figure I have two years to get the basics done, and hopefully, I’ll have decided by then.” She shrugs.

  “Oh, tons of students do that. You have time,” I add.

  “So, you two have been best friends since you were young?” Quinn asks.

  I glance toward Amos and smile.

  “Yeah, my dad’s grandparents left us their house when they passed. I was seven. We moved in next to Amos and his parents,” I say.

  Amos looks to me. “The first time I met Alma, I was riding my bike up and down the sidewalk past our houses the summer before second grade. There was this barefoot girl with long, wild hair just sitting in her front yard, making mud pies, and her mother was belting out a ballad in Spanish. Her voice could be heard all the way down the street.” He chuckles at the memory.

  I nod. “Yeah, she was singing along with her favorite Mexican band, Maná,” I offer that detail as if Quinn would know who Maná is. I’m betting she doesn’t.