>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
