A Taylor-Made Life

A Taylor-Made Life

By Kary Rader

A Taylor-Made Life

Kary Rader

© Copyright Kary Rader 2012. All rights reserved

Published by Kary Rader

Smashwords Edition

Editors: Valerie Mann/Danielle Fine

Cover Art: Dar Albert

wickedsmartdesigns.com

Ebooks/Books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

To Bret, Jill, and, especially, sweet Emma

To all those who have suffered from cancer, either in the bed or beside it.

Author’s Notes

The experiences of many reading this will differ from those in the book. Every journey is unique, just as every person is unique. This is the story of these characters and what happens to them. Based on my personal experience with cancer and various avenues of medical research, I have tried to stay true to the nature of the diseases and medical procedures, but as in all fiction some deviances from reality may have occurred. I hope this doesn’t become a stumbling block and that every reader can find something of value in within the pages. The story is meant to touch, encourage, and uplift. I pray it does.

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Notes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter 1

Mom, I want you to help me find a lover."

My hand instinctively flitted to my head as I watched my mother’s eyes widen in shock. I smoothed down the soft yarn hat resting where my hair used to be.

Mom laughed suddenly. The shock on her face gave way and relief eased her rigid shoulders. Oh Taylor, you crack me up. For a minute I thought you were—

Serious? I am serious, Mom. I willed myself to not break eye contact so she’d know I wasn’t kidding.

Tension lined her face again. She turned her head to gaze out the bay window of our formal living room. Neat and tidy, the area at the front of the house was reserved for unexpected guests and important conversations. Based on the fine lines around her mouth that had become more pronounced, it was dawning on her why I’d asked to talk here, in this room.

My heart thudded fast and heavy against my tightening chest, but I kept my eyes fixed on her, my fingers nervously pulling at the floppy brim of the pink cap on my head. Grammy had crocheted it for me after she’d joined one of those Red Hat Societies—the ones where the old ladies went on trips and got crazy drunk. When they’d found out about my illness, the ladies had made me an honorary member. Grammy had told me she’d joined the group because old age gave her the privilege to do whatever the hell she wanted. I understood what she meant.

The idea of having sex had sprung to my mind a few months ago. Funny how, when death came knocking on my door, the first thing I’d thought to do was lose my virginity. Well, actually, the first thing I’d thought to do was kick death’s butt then I wanted to have sex. I’d decided to wait, to see if a donor could be scoped out, thinking maybe I could get my life back at some point. The days had ticked away. Time was my frenemy, pretending to like me, all the while plotting its evil plan behind my back. Sure, it allowed me hope of finding what I wanted, but eventually would take it away.

Dying didn’t really scare me. I just didn’t want to lose my life to stupid, freaking cancer, and I, sure as heck, didn’t want to die a virgin. Most of my friends had already had sex at least once. Not that I’d want to try it based on their experiences, but it was one more thing cancer tried to steal from me. So I’d decided to settle for sex with someone who could make my heart race and other stuff.

Grammy said old age gave people a license for bad behavior. So did terminal illness. I didn’t give a crap what anyone else thought of my plan. Not that I’d post it on Facebook or anything. This was something I needed to do because if I didn’t, I knew I’d regret it.

Mom shifted on the couch and looked at me. I took a deep breath and stared right back. She needed to know I was doing this U2 style—with or without her. I could use your help. I want to start looking now. Maybe find someone before my birthday.

My mom had always been cool. All my friends said so, but this request would stretch her far beyond whatever coolness she possessed.

Honey…what do you think you’re going to do with a lover? She cringed, and I stifled a snicker.

You could have worded that differently, Mom. I arched my hairless eyebrows and grinned. What do you think I’m going to do with a lover?

She squeezed her eyes closed and lifted a hand to her forehead. I probably should’ve made sure she’d taken her blood pressure medicine before starting this conversation. She shot me a pointed stare. So you want a live-in sex slave or what?

God, Mom. My cheeks heated. Talking about sex with a parent was hard enough, but this was off-the-deep-end-bat-crap crazy. Still, I squared my shoulders. I was thinking along the lines of a one-night hook-up.

A hook-up? Mom heaved a giant sigh, a sigh that communicated more than just her acceptance of my wicked plan.

I inwardly fist pumped. I’d known she would cave and decide to help me. That was how Mom was. She would give me anything within her power. Anything. Including the very marrow from her bones. But her marrow wasn’t a match.

No one’s was.

Hundreds of donors had been tested. Cord blood banks ravaged. My time was running out, and we all knew it. Though we continued to look, the odds of finding a cure were slim because of some rare genes. What a time to be unique. The doctors had offered me one last-ditch chemo treatment but weren’t hopeful. Without a transplant, my chances of survival were next to none.

I’d refused the latest treatment and decided to stay home for a while. But Mom hadn’t accepted defeat, and, really, neither had I. Not yet.

She gazed past me and tapped her false nails against one another. I knew she was thinking I wasn’t ready for sex. Maybe she was right. I wasn’t ready to die either. But life didn’t always run on the ready-time clock. At least you wouldn’t have to worry about me getting pregnant, I said hopefully like that would’ve really made a difference. She didn’t look at me but rolled her eyes and frowned.

Before the cancer, I had been the youngest girl on our cheer squad, active in choir and French club. My life had been comprised of a steady stream of constant activities, football, boys, movies, and music. Since leukemia had invaded our lives, I’d been in and out of the hospital with treatments and surgeries. The disease consumed everything in its path like a giant tsunami crashing over us. Every waking moment became about treating the illness, fighting the illness, rearranging our lives because of the illness. Nothing else even stood a chance. It all washed away in the wake. I hated cancer more than I’d ever hated anything in my whole life.

Mom’s lip quivered. Crap. She was about to cry. The woman cried all the dang time. I’d once told her if she started collecting her tears in a bucket, we’d have enough for a trendy saltwater pool in the backyard. That, at least, had made her smile even if she had kept crying.

Will you help me? I grinned, coaxing her.

She narrowed her eyes. You know I will. Her shoulders sagged. "But where in the hell does one go about finding a hook-up for her seventeen-year-old daughter?"

Yes! Then I let my face go deadpan. EBay?

We burst out laughing.

* * * *

Gavin Taylor slammed his laptop closed. Damn that cheetdeath20, the only player in the world to best his score for CROG, the RPG he’d developed. His heart pounded with the exhilaration of the battle. He stood and paced to the window of his home office. Slick as silicone, the little pubescent twit had outwitted his game and logged off.

Wiping his sweaty palms against his favorite jeans, Gavin cracked a smile at his angst over the defeat. He’d never been a good loser, and today’s loss wasn’t the worst he’d suffered.

He blew out a long sigh, the sound echoing across his empty home—house. It could only be called a home if people lived there. If only cheetdeath20 were the girl of his dreams, she could move in and they could play side by side. The thought warmed a chill of loneliness. Then his competitive spirit kicked in. He’d demand a rematch whenever he damn well wanted to. Not that he would lose again.

With the end of the game, all his real-life troubles crashed down around him. The escape into other worlds never lasted long. His shoulders dropped, and he plopped back down in his chair, weighing his options. Too bad living wasn’t one of them. He fingered the awards lining his oversized executive desk and brushed the dust from them. College graduate at seventeen, CEO and billionaire entrepreneur at twenty-three, terminal cancer patient at twenty-five.

He leaned back into the supple leather and surveyed the office of his San Francisco brownstone. A wry laugh escaped his lips. Cancer gave a new perspective to everything. He had lots of money. Lots of things. Hundreds of employees, business associates, and acquaintances. But no time. No family, at least, none he spoke to, and only a few friends he didn’t have to pay. And if he took every dollar he had and dumped it over his head it wouldn’t add a single minute to his life.

Twirling a business card between his fingers, he stared at the attractive embossed lettering as it spun in his hand.

Marissa Owen, Celebrity Matchmaker. Helping the stars align.

What did he have to lose?

Now or never, Gav.

Pushing forward in the chair, he grabbed the phone and dialed the number.

This is Marissa, a sharp, professional voice said.

Marissa, my name is Gavin Taylor.

Hello, Mr. Taylor. I know who you are. How may I help you?

I’m looking for a wife.

She chuckled. A wife? That’s something I can certainly help with. She paused. But I have to wonder why you need my help?

I’m looking for someone very specific, but I have limited time. I’m dying.

I’m sorry to hear that. Her harsh voice softened.

An uncomfortable silence stretched, as it always did, when he spoke of his death. As if the listener expected another outcome, or maybe an explanation.

When he didn’t offer one, she continued, I assume this ailment is non-communicable.

It’s cancer.

Tell me what you’re looking for, Gavin.

He took a deep breath and pictured the girl of his dreams. I want a sincere woman who is kind and loving. Someone who knows how to make a home, and who’ll grieve for me when I’m gone.

He looked down at his reflection in the shiny lacquer of his desk. Fear reflected back at him. Fear that no one would miss him. That no one would care.

Looks?

Her business-like tone snapped him out of self-pity and helped him focus. Doesn’t matter. In fact, I’d prefer she not be perfectly proportioned. Only her heart matters.

A long pause on the other end. Age?

Any woman of legal age under forty.

Well, you’re at least making the preliminaries easy. Likes? Dislikes? Commonalities?

She has to like rum raisin ice cream and online computer gaming. He intended to spend his last few months making love and playing computer games with his wife. That was his hope, anyway. And the most important thing—she can’t marry me for my money or out of pity.

Now you’ve made my job more interesting. What are my time constraints?

I need this magical princess in two weeks.

* * * *

With Mom’s go-ahead, not that I’d really need her permission, I scoured the Internet, trying to find the perfect guy. Tall, dark and handsome, mysterious, funny, good dresser, MMX RPG player, especially LAION and Rist, smart and someone who wouldn’t mind a woman—I giggled—with no hair. Protectively my hand shot to my head, making certain my hat was still there.

I focused on the computer screen. I needed someone like Matt McCallum. My ex-boyfriend was a regular jock on a football scholarship now that he’d graduated. But he was hawt, and hotness was a big part of what I was looking for. If I hadn’t gotten sick, if Matt hadn’t broken up with me, he would’ve been the one. We’d talked about it. In fact, everyone had said we were the couple most likely to get married. I snorted. For better or worse clearly hadn’t been on Matt’s agenda. But during all those months in treatment, the memory of his kiss tied my life to normal. Like the ribbon on a helium balloon, it kept me connected to what reality away from leukemia was. That memory bound me to happy thoughts of days when my only problems were a geometry test and if the football team would win, but now, I wanted more than a memory. I wanted that knock-you-to-your-knees emotion again.

Jittery feelings of liking some new guy were what I needed to take my mind off other things. And the excitement of having sex—even though I was alone in my room my cheeks burned—could surely take my mind off things. Not that I personally knew what sex was like, but based on everything I’d heard, it seemed like a way to escape.

I settled in my desk chair with my can of Mountain Dew and flipped through another five pages of responses to my singles ad on Flirtbox, the only site that would actually let me sign up before I hit eighteen. I guess I could’ve lied, but it seemed wrong to go into the relationship on a lie, no matter how short-lived. Looking at the first three pictures, I grimaced. Maybe Mom would have more luck. Several ladies in her Bunco group had college-aged sons, but I could just imagine how she was gonna introduce that subject. So, Helen, how’s Tommy doing at TCU? Do you think he might want to have sex with my daughter? I spewed my Dew, but then I sobered. Remembering Tommy from the neighborhood Fourth of July party, I figured he wasn’t a bad choice.

There had to be someone for me out there. It wasn’t like I was asking to move the moon, and considering God had cursed me with wonky blood, he owed me one.

My phone rang, and I eyed the caller ID. Hey, Rach.

My best friend and partner-in-hospital crime had called every day since I’d been home. In the last year, Rachel had become my sole confidant in all things boys.

She’d had her bone marrow transplant a few days before and sat sequestered in the cancer ward of St. Andrew’s, hopefully doing well, but I didn’t ask. We had an unwritten rule—we never spoke about cancer. Everybody else in our lives did enough talking about it. With each other, we didn’t need to. But I knew Rachel felt guilty about finding a donor when I hadn’t yet.

So? What’ve you got?

Her perky voice made me smile because it meant she was doing good. Even if we didn’t talk, we could still worry. Then I studied my computer screen and frowned at the results. I’ve had five hundred responses since yesterday.

Holy crap, Tay. Anybody good?

I rolled my eyes. Well, there’s Bernie, who claims to be twenty-two, but according to his picture, he has more hair in his nose than on his head.

Ewwww. She made a gagging sound. So gross.

Or there’s Karl with a ‘k’. He looks young and would be pretty hot if he wore his false teeth.

Oh God. Rachel blew out a disgusted sigh. That’s rank. How’re you gonna find the right guy?

I huffed. No idea. All I know is I’ll know him when I see him. Just like I knew Matt was the one.

"Matt? The ass-wipe who dumped you in the hospital?"

Hey. If I hadn’t gotten sick, we’d still be together. I gnawed my cuticle and scrolled through more profiles.

And you’d still be blissfully ignorant.

Maybe. But I’ll know the guy when I see him. I clicked to the next page of messages. Do you know what BDSM stands for? Lots of dudes include it in their profiles, and they all seem to have tattoos. Where was I going to find a nice, non-perv who would—my body tingled all over—make love to me? Sigh.

"Oh my God!" Rachel hissed in my ear.

I winced. What?

I just looked it up. Delete all those and block them forever.

A shiver ran through me. I’m not even gonna ask.

Under normal circumstances, the thought of sleeping with Mr. Random Guy would’ve never crossed my mind. I grinned. Okay, it might have crossed my mind, but I would’ve never followed through on getting naked with a complete stranger. But the possibility of spending the night with a guy I didn’t know pumped that messed-up blood through my weakened veins at broadband speeds.

My excitement reminded me of how worked up I used to get at football games, literally making myself sick if the team didn’t win, and living on the top of the world if they did. The angst I’d had seemed silly after two surgeries and forty-four weeks of chemo, fighting a disease my body couldn’t beat. My hopes for finding a donor had been dashed so many times, I never thought anything would excite me again. Disappointment had become a way of life. But this—this plan put a spark in me. Even beating that cocky little twerp Ogger19 in a game of CROG didn’t thrill me like searching for the perfect guy to… I snickered again.

Hey, did you get your CanSM mentor yet? Rachel asked. I got mine yesterday. A lady lawyer from Georgia. She’s gonna come in next week and see me before the charity ball.

Wow. That’s pretty cool. I scanned and talked. I haven’t gotten mine yet, but I haven’t sifted through all my email either. The Cancer Survivor Mentoring Program. I’d forgotten all about signing up months ago. Didn’t those yahoos know we were on a short time leash? I had better things to think about.

I scrolled through more responses.

Crap.

I was never gonna find the right guy on Flirtbox. Even if the picture looked good, how would I be able to tell if the dude was perv or not? Rach, I’m beginning to have serious doubts about the viability of this plan. I need a way to find good guys to choose from.

"The viability? Ooh, getting serious. You’re using your big doctor words."

I laughed. Rachel always found a way to make a joke. Well let me translate for you. This site sucks, and I need to go in another direction.

There has to be at least one good guy out of five hundred. Rach’s voice rang with hope.

You’d think so, but so far it’s nothing but crap and crappier. I clicked through several more pages, barely scanning.

I wish I could help.

Yeppers. I wish you could, too. This would be my first time having sex—I tingled again—maybe my only time. I had to at least, find someone who met my minimum requirements. Like all his own body parts would be a good start. I could spend months weeding through profiles and never find what I wanted.

Maybe I could pay someone. My college fund was sitting there gathering dust. It wasn’t like I’d actually need it. And as long as my funeral was paid for….

The smile slipped from my face, and I stared blankly at the computer screen. Sometimes I caught myself off-guard when I thought about dying. So I usually kept my