The Right Kind Of Wrong Girl

A. C. Meyer

The right kind of wrong girl

Translated by Francine Ozaki

© 2019 - A.C. Meyer

Published by Tektime

The right kind of the wrong girl

The girls – Book 1

A.C. Meyer

Synopsis

Can love itself be stronger than the fear of loving?

Malu lives life at its fullest, as if each day were her last. Nothing seems to cause her courage or determination to falter. The only way she reveals fragility and sensitivity is through her delicate and intense art, as well as in the arms of Rafael – her best friend and safe place. This friendship brings up strong but, at the same time, frightening feelings – which both are unwilling to explore.

When desire overcomes reason, Malu and Rafa allow themselves to live a relationship with no restraints, but, at the same time, intense and passionate, which leads them through a roller coaster of emotions. Until the day fate sets a cruel trap ahead of them, so Malu must make a fatal and painful decision to protect the ones she loves.

The right kind of wrong girl

Copyright © 2019 by A. C. Meyer

Cover by: Luizyana Poletto

Translation: Francine Ozaki

All rights reserved and protected by Law 9.610 of 19/02/1998.

No part of this book, without the author's prior written permission, may be reproduced or transmitted whatever the means used: electronic, mechanical, photographic, recording or any other, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. Fonts used with Microsoft's permission.

Copyright infringement is a crime established by Law No. 9,610/98 and punished by Article 184 of the Penal Code.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination and fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, events or establishments is purely coincidental.

“In the end, everything will be alright, and if it’s not, that’s because it’s not the end yet.”

Fernando Sabino

To Sebastião Cantarino (in memoriam).

You left so quickly… and all that was left was longing.

Chapter one

“The wrong person must appear to everybody, because life is not right, nothing here is right.”

Luís Fernando Veríssimo

Malu

This is not the story about a princess who lived in a castle until, one day, she found prince charming, fell in love with him, and both lived happily ever, walking towards the sunset in a white horse. I’m not a princess, never was. That doesn’t mean that life hasn’t provided me with opportunities to be a little princess, on the contrary. I was born in a ‘conventional family’, so to speak. Conservative parents, traditional school. But I’ve always been the black sheep in this family, the one with colored hair and a shocking attitude. The one who smokes, drinks, swears and enjoys a bohemian life. The right kind of wrong girl. That girl mothers would never want as a daughter-in-law and boys don’t usually take home to introduce to their parents. That fun girl in the gang who is always ready for the next adventure.

Until that day when life knocked me down and made me realize that everything can change in a heartbeat.

It’s four o’clock on a Friday morning and I’m here, lying on this hospital bed. I look around and there’s Rafa, sitting on a chair right beside my bed, his eyes closed, immersed in a restless sleep. I can see his eyes surrounded by small dark circles, his unshaved hint of beard starting to show, his coat on the armrest. I watch him carefully: his brown hair, messed by fingers running through so many times; those expression lines on his eyes, which cause his eyes and lips to smile together, and on his cheeks, marking irresistible dimples. While I look at him, I realize how much his presence is important in my life and the only reason that I’m here, on this hospital bed, with all these things attached to me, is because of him.

Everything I wanted was taking that trip, at peace with whatever life prepared for me, but Rafa wouldn’t allow it. The only thing I needed to reconsider this decision was a shred of hope and that was exactly what I received.

To help you understand how things came to this point, we must go back about eight years in the past. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the first time I stepped into my college building. It was an extremely hot summer day, and the sun was burning. My neighbor and beer buddy Beto gave me a ride. Yes, I was only seventeen but already very fond of a night out. My friends used to say that I had an old, wise, and bohemian soul. I was in town for a bit more three months to study, guess what, Law. That was my last attempt to please my parents, who wouldn’t even consider the possibility of me not following the family career, since my father, uncles and grandparents worked in different Law fields.

Beto was a Social Communication student, a couple of semesters ahead of me, who lived in the apartment downstairs. He was the personification of every woman’s surfer boy dream, almost a walking cliché: sun-kissed and almost always messy blond hair; tanned skin; a dragon tattoo on his arm; an honest smile, and flip-flops on his feet. No matter where we went, he never wore shoes or sneakers: he used to say they hurt his feet. And, honestly, it was all part of his natural charm.

We left the car in a parking lot next to our campus. Beto’s old car clashed with most of the new ones from the playboys, as he used to call them, but he didn’t mind. He was in college as a promise to his mother, who died when he was fifteen. The only thing that really mattered to him, besides honoring his promises, was how good the waves were.

We headed to the majestic campus, which comprised five huge buildings and a whole world of people.

“Babe, that’s probably your building.” Beto showed me the construction a bit far ahead. “Mine is this first one. Are you okay?” he asked me, apparently worried, as if I was his little sister. Beto had always treated me as if I needed protection. That was just way he was, no romance from his behalf or anything like that.

“That’s ok, Beto. I’ll check the schedule I’ve printed. I’m sure the classroom numbers are written there.”

“Rad! See you after class then. If you have any problem, call me.”

“Cool,” I replied before heading to the building he showed me. After hanging out with him almost every day, I was sort of learning his surf slang and incorporating some things on my daily routine. I reached for my headphones in my pocket, and I put them on before walking through the campus, listening to rock music, and watching everybody around. There seemed to be all sorts of people: frat boys, bimbos, rockers, skaters and so on, which was good, because that made me feel less “different”, considering my unusual look.

My dark hair was asymmetrically cut, right above my shoulders, with purple tips. I was wearing jeans shorts, a black T-shirt showing the Brazilian rock band Legião Urbana and the drawing of a white guitar, sneakers and a backpack. I was sure that, if my mother could see me at that exact moment, she’d say I looked homeless. Overreacting much?

I reached for the printed piece of paper in my backpack. I was comparing the written classroom number and building name to the ones on the sign hanging from the building entrance, when a deep voice resonated behind me, which made all the hair in my body suddenly curl.

“Need help?”

I turned around to a vision that took my breath away. I wasn’t the type of girl who fell in love. I was more into hook-ups or, even better, single but not alone. I didn’t even believe in love, happily ever after or any of this shit. All I wanted to do was drinking, dancing and French-kissing. I still hadn’t had any sexual experience purely for lack of opportunity. The reason for that was simply the fact that the guys I used to date had never made me want to go any further, and not because I believed I had to save myself for the great love of my life, which I knew for a fact that was a likely story. But that guy standing in front of me was not like the other boys I knew. He was a man, in every sense of the word. His long hair was tied in a man-bun. His eyes were a shade of grey I’d never seen in my life. His brown skin, sun-tanned, contrasted with his bearded face and white-toothed smile. He was wearing a white T-shirt which hugged his body and washed-out jeans. Despite the bearded look and long hair, he didn’t seem sloppy, on the contrary. I shook my head, trying to organize my words.

“I was making sure my classroom is here.”

When he smiled, his expressions lines made his smile go all the up to his eyes.

“What is your course? Fashion design?” he asked me, looking at me from the bottom up. What a cliché!

“Law.” My answer came right away, which made him laugh.

“Another rebel! Welcome to the family!” he laughed and pointed out to the building. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

I nodded, feeling thankful, but suddenly realizing that I’d lost the ability to speak merely by standing next to that handsome stranger. He walked me to the building, craning his neck to look at my piece of paper to read the classes I was going to take.

“Constitutional Law! Your classroom is right over there.” He pointed to classroom 101.

“Thanks,” I replied, and he smiled back at me.

“Rafael.” He introduced himself and offered his hand.

“Malu,” I replied taking his hand.

“I’ll see you around, Malu.” He smiled one more time and winked at me before he disappeared in hallway heading for another classroom.

And that was the place, at the first day of boring Law school, that I met the man who stole the heart that I didn’t even know I had.

Chapter two

“Silvering the horizon, rivers and fountains shine, in a cascade of light.”

Lulu Santos

Rafa

I keep walking straight ahead through the boardwalk, feeling the breeze coming from the sea. Starry night and warm weather: perfect for today’s plans. Almost ten o’clock on a Friday night. I’m a bit tired after hours on court watching hearings to complete my credits. Even though I’m dying to stay in bed after a hard-working week, missing Malu’s birthday party is not an option. She’s the youngest in our group, but by far the most fun. By the age of nineteen, Malu is the life of our parties and no deal is the same if she’s not there.

Beto has arranged a luau at the beach near my house and the celebration has no time to end. I’m pretty close to the meeting point when my phone rings.

“Yes?”

“Rafaaaa! Where are you?” Malu asks me right away with music playing in the background.

“I’m on my way, Malu. Almost there.” The sound of her laughter is enough to make me numb.

At the same time Malu makes me feel overprotective, due to her fearlessness and sometimes even rashness, some aspects of her personality fascinate me. Her sexy laughter, the way she looks at me when she is not sure about what I’m talking about, her skin as white as moonlight contrasting to her hair, which is always dyed in a different fashion. From time to time, she changes her look to one that is suitable to only her and no one else: her hair tips have already been purple, green and blue. By the two years we’ve known each other, her hair, originally black, has already been colored red, brown and even blond. She looks like a small chameleon, changing colors according to her “state of mind”, as she usually says herself, even though I’d prefer her natural dark hair. Deep inside, I believe all those changes has something to do with her artistic spirit, as our friends usually say.

“Okay, I’m waiting for you.” she says and then hangs up.

She’s a sophomore student at Law school, and I know how unhappy she feels. She’s in college to please her family, who couldn’t care less about her, instead of pursuing her passion and studying what she really loves: art.

When I arrive at the kiosk we settled as our meeting point, I can see people swarming around at the luau. There are about thirty people at the beach, chatting or eating snacks offered by the kiosk on an improvised table. Even from afar, I can see Malu next to Beto and Merreca, a college friend who got this nickname for always being broke and having almost no money in his pockets, as he usually claims – merreca means very little money in Portuguese. She’s wearing a loose white dress, with her bare feet touching the sand, dancing to a ballad someone’s playing on a guitar.

Her hair is waved, not her usual straight fashion, running loose through her back. I’ve never seen her hair as long as it is right now. It makes her look innocent, something that doesn’t suit her exuberant personality.

There’s only friendship going on between us. Since I first met her, looking lost in front of our college building on her first day of classes, I kind of adopted her and introduced her to my gang. We’re just friends, because I believe she’s too young for my twenty-two years of age. I’m at my senior year, preparing for my Bar examination and, even though she may arouse some reactions in my body, she’s too young.

I step on the sand and feel cold grains touching my feet. I quickly take off my flip-flops and leave them next to other guests who are gathered in a corner. I greet some people and head towards the birthday girl. As if she can feel my presence, she turns around and smiles at my sight. Her eyes are shining bright, her lips are red, and there’s a cigarette in her hand.

“Hey, young lady! Smoking already?” I come closer to see a sour expression on her face while she stretches her arms to hug me.

“When you talk like that, you make me look like I’m fourteen, instead of nineteen. I’m a woman, Rafa, not a young lady,” she replies frowning her forehead but then she laughs and presses her body against mine. Is it just me or she’s been showing some curves lately?

“Happy birthday, woman.” I tease her, making her laugh even more while she gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, handsome,” she replies winking an eye at me, while her hands caress my face where my beard used to be. “I miss your beard.”

I sigh at the memory of having my hair cut the year before because of work. I had it cut, but not much, only enough to look suitable for my career, even though I can still feel some wild locks of hair near my neck.

“Me too.” I smile and let go of her body, which was still against mine. I reach for her cigarette when something on her wrist catches my attention. After putting the cigarette in my mouth, I hold her inner wrist up high so I can look at it. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?” she asks me while I look at the tattoo in her arm. An infinity symbol intertwined with a sentence from a Beatles’ song: You may say I’m a dreamer. “Oh! I had it done today. Do you like it?”

My eyes move from the drawing to her pretty face before I smile at her.

“It suits you.” She smiles back at me watching me take a drag on her cigarette. I don’t usually smoke, only when I go out to drink or when I’m feeling nervous. That day, I’m a bit of both. I’m certainly going to drink, but I also feel strangely restless feeling her body so close to me. She takes the cigarette out of my hands. “I’m going to talk to the guys and catch a beer,” I say, to which she nodded in agreement.

I say hello to the guitar guys and move away, heading to other friends who were already there. After I talk to everybody, I take a beer followed by Leo, my best friend.

“I don’t know how much further you’re going to resist this,” he says. I look at him curiously.

“Resist what?”

“This Lolita of yours,” he says laughing and looking at Malu, who’s dancing again.

“There’s nothing between us, dude.” I protest feeling downhearted. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh, I know… it’s crystal clear that she’s hitting on you and you’re into her.”

“She may turn me on, but she’s still growing up” I reply feeling my body react to the smooth swings of her hips as she dances. “But you know I don’t do dating nor want any of this shit.”

“Neither does she” Leo replies, making me nod in agreement. His words make me remember a conversation we’ve had, a couple of months before, when she told me about her parents’ fake marriage and her own lack of faith in love. “But that doesn’t mean you guys can’t hook up once in a while.”

Those words have an impact on me, stimulating a series of mental images that I have no idea where they came from. Our lips together on an urgent kiss, her naked body against mine. I shake my head trying to erase them from my mind. Bad idea, Rafael.

We change the subject when Cesar, a friend from the beach, arrives. The party is still going as the evening progresses. Malu spends the night going from group to group, talking to everybody, making everyone laugh and interact to each other. However, from time to time, as usual, we exchange looks, strokes, caresses. I can’t deny we have a strong connection. It’s like a magnetic field is always bringing us together.

By the end of the evening, I take her home, as I usually do when we go out together. I don’t like letting her go back by herself, especially at night. Malu’s absent-minded and always this close to let something happen to her because she’s not paying attention to any prospect of danger. We are pretty high on beers and capirinhas – a Brazilian national drink. Lucky us we live close to the beach, so we can walk home.

We walk through the neighborhood streets, holding hands, laughing and talking. Halfway through, she let go of my hand and hold me by the waist. Her soft and warm body makes her even more desirable to me.

“You didn’t even give me a gift, Rafa,” she says making a funny face.

“Your gift is at my place. I wouldn’t take it to the beach so you could lose after drinking too much, would I?” I reply, making her laugh even more.

“I’d never lose anything that came from you.”

We enter her building and take a lift to the seventh floor. There, I watch her while she gets down in front of her door, holds the doormat up, and takes a key from beneath it.

“What the hell?”

“What? My key…”

“Under the doormat? Fuck, Malu! Someone can find this key and get inside!”

“Better than taking it to the beach and losing it. Where was I supposed to keep it if I didn’t take any purse?”

“At the same place you kept your phone?” For the first time, I realize she doesn’t have any purse and her cellphone isn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe she lost it? “Where’s your phone?”

“Right here.” She sticks her hand in her cleavage and pulls out her phone, which was hidden between her breasts. That vision wakes up my whole body and makes my breath even heavier.

“I don’t want you keeping your key down there anymore. You must take it with you. If you don’t have any purse, hold it in your hand until I get there. I’ll keep it in my pocket for you. Or ask anyone else you trust.”

“You’re too bossy. You don’t even kiss me but want to give me orders?” I can’t tell if it’s her daring tone, her raised eyebrow or the vision of her in that white dress. Maybe it’s mixture of all of that with a lot of caipirinhas that impels me take her by the waist, hold her in my arms and press her against the wall, stealing a passionate kiss from those red lips.

Waiting for no permission, my tongue invades her mouth, provoking, punishing and arousing her desire. I can feel her pressing her body against mine even more, throwing her arms around my neck, kissing me back.

I can’t tell how long we stayed there, lost on each other’s lips, until a low moan coming from her throat tells me it was time to stop what we’re doing. The next step would be going to bed and I know Malu has no experience. She told me that herself and I’m the right person for anybody’s first time. I move my lips away from hers and realize that I was holding her hair really tight and that her body completely pressed against mine.

“Don’t you ever leave your fucking key under the doormat again, Malu. Do you hear me?” My voice sounds low, irritable by the fact she’s not worried about her own safety, and hoarse by all the excitement from that kiss. She smiles and nods in agreement. I let go of her and take the key from her hands. When I open the door, I push her inside, handing the damn key back, strongly recommending her to close the door and lock it after I leave.

“Bye, Rafa.” She says good-bye leaning against the door, her lips swollen by that kiss.

“Happy birthday, nut-head.”

Chapter three

“My life used to be whisky, tears and cigarettes.”

Pink

Malu

When I arrive home, slamming the door after passing, I see my eyes on the mirror, surrounded by mascara smudges and puffy for crying so hard. That is the last time I shed tears for them. This bond is definitively broken after what happened today.

Going back home is always extremely hard. I don’t even know if I can call going to the house of those who brought me into the world as going home, since that big house has never been a real home for me. The Honorable Judge Eduardo Figueiroa Bragança and socialite Mrs. Lucia Bragança, a.k.a. my parents, are not the definition of real parents. They’ve been married for many years in a sort of family agreement, once they’re belong to the elite of our small hometown high society.

My parents’ house is a mansion that, for me, feels more like a dungeon. Impeccably arranged with everything exactly in the right place, that house is extremely oppressing for a free spirit like myself. My parents are cold, indifferent, distant. The only kisses and hugs I remember came from the nannies or housekeepers who, surreptitiously, tried their best to give me a normal childhood. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so physically needy nowadays. I’m a tactile person, someone who likes taking, touching, holding, speaking through my hands and very fond of human affection.

When my brother, who’s two years younger than me, was born, I believed that finally I’d have someone to whom I could give all those things exploding in my chest. I figured he’d be someone to share feelings with me and be my friend. My mistake.

Eduardo Jr. – God forbid calling him Du, Dudu, Edu or any other nickname, which would mean the end of the world for him – is almost a small replica of my parents. He used to study very hard and, by the age of fifteen, he was admitted in one of the most applied to colleges in the country. All he wants is being a judge like my father, while I hate law and dream of studying and living from my art. Obviously, the perfect couple wouldn’t allow that. I had to come to Law school, with grades barely making through the semester and skipping more classes than watching. I feel trapped like a convict on the death row, who can’t catch a glimpse of solution to that problem.

In big city, I live in one of my parents’ properties and, obviously, they support me financially so I can graduate and, in the future, follow a career they’ve chosen for me.

Concurrently, I paint. As no one pays me a visit, I turned one of the bedrooms in an atelier where I spend hours and hours of my day finding happiness. I paint faces, landscapes, abstractions which come to mind while I sleep. As I must report my expanses and my parents would never allow me to spend money with dyes, canvases or brushes, I work at a bar in the evenings, waiting tables from Thursdays to Sundays, using the rest of the week to paint or, when I managed to get up early, to go to classes. I earn good money with tips, which allows me to invest in my art materials.