Four Years Later Read online

  It was nice. Looked real good in those tight jeans she wore, too.

  “If you can make it quick, I’ll meet you then. Say around six fifteen? Same room we met in before?”

  Relief floods me, making me feel like a pussy. I don’t give a shit about my grades, but Fable is gonna kill me if I don’t get my act together. “I can do that.”

  “Okay.” She takes a step backward, her foot poised to turn around. “I’ll see you later, then.”

  “See ya,” I say to her retreating back, not moving at all as I watch her walk away, pushing through the swinging door that leads into the kitchen.

  I hear my friends snicker behind me and I turn to see Wade and Des climbing out of the booth, stumbling over their feet. The food in their bellies did nothing to calm their drunken asses down and for whatever stupid reason, that pisses me off. I wasn’t as wasted as they were when we first got here and my buzz is pretty much gone. Finding Chelsea working here helped take it away.

  My drunken buzz. Seeing her, touching her arm even for that brief moment, gave me another sort of buzz I’d rather ignore.

  “So who is this chick?” Wade approaches me first, followed by Des.

  I shoot them both a look that says shut the hell up, and we exit the diner into the cold, early fall night. The house I share with Wade isn’t too far from the downtown area since we live pretty close to campus, and we start our trek down the side street that leads to our neighborhood. Des will crash on our couch like he always does.

  “Remember how I said my counselor wanted to meet with me?” I ask, stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets. I blow out a breath that I can see and hunch my neck lower in my hoodie to ward off the chill.

  “Yeah.” Des makes a skeptical noise. “What the hell was that all about? Like, whose counselor ever wants to meet with a student?”

  “Is she hot?” Wade asks. “Don’t tell me the sexy little waitress is your counselor, dude. ’Cos she’s hot.”

  Irritation fills my veins, making my blood ignite. “No, the waitress is not my counselor, you dumbass. My counselor’s name is Dolores, and I’m pretty sure she’s two hundred years old.”

  “That waitress was nowhere near hot,” Des says, kicking at a rock. It skitters across the broken sidewalk and lands on the side of the road. “Did you see what she was wearing? Black polyester sucks.”

  “How the hell do you know that she’s wearing polyester? What, are you in fashion design now?” Wade sneers.

  Fuck. These two love to go round and round. Wade is my oldest friend. Des is one of my newer friends. They claim to like each other, but sometimes …

  I wonder.

  “Knock it off,” I tell them both, not in the mood. When am I ever in the mood to hear them fight?

  “So who is she?” Des asks. “The not-hot waitress wearing polyester.”

  I wouldn’t call her hot. But she’s definitely not ugly. She’s … sweet. All clean, wholesome innocence. I bet if I looked close enough, she’d have a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “I met with my counselor, and Coach and Drew and Fable were there.”

  “Your brother-in-law was there?” Des’s mouth hangs open. He’s in awe of Drew. Wade’s not, because he’s known him forever, but Des and I only became friends early in our freshman year of college. The fact that my brother-in-law plays for the 49ers sends most guys into a dumbstruck stupor.

  “I’m failing a few classes,” I say, my voice grim. “They got me a tutor. The waitress?”

  “Is your tutor,” Wade finishes for me, shaking his head. “Man, you need to keep clean. No more dope for a while.”

  Weed. It’s been my problem for years. I’ve been smoking since I was in junior high, back when we lived with my mom and she didn’t give a shit what we did. Once Fable took over, she forced me to quit. Drew made me want to quit. But then …

  I fell back into my bad habits. I can’t help it that I like how I feel when I’m high. Nothing gets me down. My troubles don’t weigh heavily on my soul. And I’ve got them. Troubles. Most of them I created myself.

  Some I didn’t ask for at all. One, specifically, is my mom. She’s like that fly that keeps hovering around you and no matter how much you swat it away, it comes back. Bigger and louder than ever.

  Yeah. That’s her. A nagging, fat, irritating-as-fuck fly.

  “You probably shouldn’t have gone out tonight, either,” Des says.

  Since when did these two idiots turn responsible? “Listen, I’m gonna have to lay low for a while. Catch up on my homework, retake a few tests, and bring my grades up.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. I was totally against it earlier. Only because the tutoring sessions were screwing with my work schedule, and I need that money so Fable doesn’t know I’m giving most of it to Mom.

  But I talked to my boss earlier, before we went bar hopping. Got everything straightened out and a new schedule. I can do all of it. No problem. The tutoring is temporary anyway. Once I get my grades back up, I won’t need Chelsea’s help any longer.

  “You’re gonna be busy,” Wade says. “No time for chicks.”

  “When do I ever make time for chicks?”

  “A few weeks ago, when you brought that one girl back to the house. I know you thought I was asleep on the couch, but I heard you bang her brains out,” Wade says with a laugh.

  Sneaky, sick fucker. “You were listening to me bang her?”

  She’d been loud. Lots of ooh, touch me right there and yeah, I like it just like that. All of it had felt incredibly fake. Like she was putting on a performance and thinking that was what I wanted. I went with it. Encouraged her, even, with all the essential dirty talk she seemed to crave, but I hadn’t been into it. I hadn’t lasted long and when it was over, I kicked her out quick.

  I can’t even remember her name.

  “It couldn’t be avoided. She was a screamer.” Wade nudges Des in the ribs and they break into laughter.

  Bastards.

  “I get more pussy than the two of you put together,” I say, irritated that I’m making that some sort of claim to fame.

  “Considering Des is gay, that’s not saying much. Ow!” Wade rubs his arm when Des socks him in it.

  Same old shit, different day. Getting drunk and walking home. Name calling. Bragging about pussy.

  I’m getting sick of it. Sick of my life. Sick of me. I need a change. I need to leave.

  I’m talking to Fable about it tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 3

  Owen

  “You know I would love it if you came here, but Drew’s traveling a lot with the team for games and I’ve been going with him,” Fable says, her voice full of regret.

  I clutch my cell phone tight and close my eyes. I’m still in bed. It’s past one o’clock and I have a class at two. I need to get my ass moving. “You travel even with the baby?”

  My niece, Autumn, is their whole world. She’s three and a half months old and the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. She makes these little cooing noises whenever she sees me, which isn’t often enough. She looks just like Fable. Drew loves nothing more than holding his little baby girl in his arms and walking out in public like that. Paparazzi take pictures and they appear on the Internet, making girls swoon.

  Those photos make Fable swoon, too. It’s some crazy shit. Who knew women love a dude holding his baby?

  “Especially with the baby. Who knows how long I’ll be able to do this? Autumn will get older and next thing you know, she’ll be in school or whatever and I won’t want to go on the road with her. I’m taking advantage while I can.” Fable grunts a little; I can tell she’s juggling the baby because I hear Autumn’s little whimper. “God, she’s greedy.”

  I don’t even want to imagine what Fable’s doing right now. “I sort of screwed up my meeting with the tutor,” I admit.

  She sighs. “How?”

  I tell her what happened, then finish by letting her know about my meeting with Chelsea tonight. That appeases Fable, but I can hear the weariness in her tone w
hen she tells me not to blow this off and that I need to stick with it. I can’t run away from my problems by coming to live with them and blah, blah, blah.

  Huge mistake, thinking I could call and ask her if she’d let me stay with her for a while. I get off the phone quick and toss it on my bedside table. Close my eyes and let my thoughts drift …

  To the tutor. Chelsea with the big blue eyes and long dark hair. She hates me. And I should hate her. She’s one of those smart rich girls and I’m just one of the local scrubs who got picked up on a scholarship. Yeah, Drew is rich and he’s taken care of us—hell, he’s made more money now that he plays for the NFL than his dad ever did, and I benefit from that—but I can’t forget my roots. Where I came from.

  Mom suddenly hanging around again reminds me of those roots all the time.

  A girl like Chelsea would view being with me as slumming. Get with the rough bad boy and keep me her dirty little secret. And I bet she’s never slummed in her entire life. I probably scare the pants off of her.

  Don’t you want to scare the pants off of her?

  Hell, yeah. Though I shouldn’t. She’s not for me. Not my type.

  My phone buzzes, indicating I have a text, and I grab it, groaning when I see it’s my mom:

  I’m in front of your house. Are you home?

  Hell. She is the last person I want to deal with right now. Or ever.

  Crawling out of bed, I pull on a T-shirt and slip on some jeans, head toward the front door, and throw it open to find her pacing the sidewalk. She looks twitchy.

  Great.

  “Owen.” She smiles, but it doesn’t light her eyes. Has it ever? “Are you just getting out of bed? You shouldn’t sleep in so late.”

  Her attempts at mothering make me want to laugh. She’s a total joke. “I have class in less than an hour.” I don’t want her hanging around too long. She’ll end up asking for more, more, more.

  She always wants more.

  “What do you want?” I ask her when she doesn’t say anything.

  Mom flinches and sighs. “Fine, we’re gonna get right to the point? I need money.”

  Sure she does. She always does. Her part-time job doesn’t pay much. I can’t even believe she’s holding down a job, what with her crappy track record. When she bailed on us, she’d been unemployed, spending a lot of time with her loser boyfriend Larry and basically living at his place or their favorite bar. That had been over four years ago.

  Now here she is. Like she’s never left. Though somehow the tables have turned and I’m the one who takes care of her. Funny, considering she never really took care of me or Fable. “How much?”

  “Two hundred?” She winces, as if she hates asking, but it’s all a lie. She has no problem whatsoever asking me for cash. She thinks I’m an endless money train, thanks to Drew the stud football player Callahan. And that’s a direct quote, spit out with so much venom and bitterness I recoiled when she said it.

  Yeah. Mom and Fable do not get along. Hell, they don’t even talk. Drew’s never met Mom. And Mom has never seen her grandbaby, though she knows Autumn exists.

  My family is fucked up in every which way you could think of.

  “I don’t have that kind of cash,” I say.

  Her eyes go wide. Dull and green. Her overdyed hair is yellow and fried at the ends. She looks like hell. Fable would flip the fuck out if she knew I’ve been talking to her, giving her money for months. “What do you mean, you don’t have it? Your sister’s husband is a goddamn football player for the NFL! He’s loaded!”

  I press my lips together. Here she goes, even though she knows Fable doesn’t know we’re in contact. “Drew doesn’t give me money.”

  “He keeps you in this house. Bought your brand-new car. Paid for your education.”

  “I earned a scholarship fair and square. This house is a shithole, but I wouldn’t let Drew pay for some expensive place I don’t need. And he gave me that car when I turned eighteen.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, hating that I have to defend what I have. She looks at Fable and me and all she sees is dollar signs.

  “I need it.” She’s whining. “You’re telling me you really don’t have two hundred to spare?”

  “Not till I get paid,” I say, which is the fucking truth. I live on my own terms as much as I can. My extra spending money is what I make at the restaurant. It doesn’t come out of Drew’s bank account. I gotta man up sometime.

  “When’s that?”

  “Friday.”

  She glances down at the sidewalk and kicks at it with her beat-up Nikes that have seen way better days. Like five-years-ago-plus better days. “Tomorrow then? Can I come by and get it tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I bite out. “And bring some beer, would you?”

  “How can I bring you beer if I don’t have any money?” She glares at me. Those dull eyes sharpen with an edge of anger, that thin mouth set in a firm line. She’s the unhappiest person I’ve ever met. Mean for mean’s sake. Selfish and dumb, she makes the worst choices I’ve ever witnessed.

  I’m scared as hell that I’ll turn out exactly like her. The choices I make are terrible. I know better. Yet I keep doing it.

  Like mother, like son …

  “Come by tomorrow afternoon and I’ll give you extra so you can go grab some beer,” I suggest. That way I won’t be tempted to go out to the bars. I’ll stay home and drink a few brews with Wade and invite Des over. Maybe call one of the few hookups I have saved in my phone. Get a little drunk, get naked for an hour with a willing female, then slap her on the ass and send her away.

  Fuck. I’m a pig.

  “Only if you score me a J,” she throws back at me, and I grimace.

  Des is my weed source. He can score me an entire gallon Ziploc bag of joints if I ask him for it. “Whatever. If that’s what you want.”

  “Smoke it with me? We could talk. Like we used to.” She sounds hopeful, and I want to be sick. This is her idea of bonding with her baby boy. The two of us passing a joint back and forth, getting high.

  We did it a few times when I was thirteen. Before she ditched us. That’s our little secret. I never told Fable.

  She’d die. Worse, she’d want to kill Mom.

  “Maybe.” I shrug, and her eyes go even dimmer if that’s possible. “I gotta get ready for class.”

  “Class.” She sneers. “Have fun.”

  “Will do.” I watch her walk away, staying on my front porch long after she disappears.

  Our relationship is a mess. I hate that I keep this a secret. It’s eating me up inside. I want to tell Fable, but she’ll be furious. I’d love to confide in Drew, but he’d tell her. He’d have to. She’s his wife. And he’s so loyal to Fable, he’d freaking die for her if that’s what it took to keep her safe. To protect their relationship.

  So I can’t do that to him. Can’t expect him to keep a secret like that. It’s too much.

  Instead, I let it fester inside of me. Growing like a noxious weed, its long, grabby tendrils moving through me, within me, wrapping around my arms and legs and gut and heart and brain, clutching me hard in its grip until my secret is all I can think about.

  I need a fucking distraction, and quick.

  Chelsea

  I dressed for him. So ridiculous, but I went through my closet meticulously. Pushing aside each hanger, dismissing everything with harsh words I utter out loud. Easy to do since I’m alone, as usual, and no one is around to ask me what the heck I’m doing.

  Old. Ugly. Cheap. Bad color. Frumpy. Makes me look fat. Makes me look sickly. Makes me look like a slut.

  The last one I pull out is the slut shirt. I wore it on my eighteenth birthday. Kari dared me to buy it and I did. Back when I believed I could still afford frivolous purchases, though the financial ax fell less than a month after.

  It’s black. A halter top that dips low in the front, with a drapey neck and completely backless. I wore it that night at the restaurant Kari took me to with a few friends. I felt so daring, so grown u
p. We ate a bunch of food, then went back to someone’s house and got drunk on cheap beer and wine. That’s where I had my second kiss. A true make-out session on a couch and everything with a boy whose tongue wasn’t as disgusting as Cody’s, but who really didn’t know how to use it.

  At least, I don’t think he did. Not that I have much to compare it to.

  God. I’m so pitiful it’s freaking painful.

  I shove the slut shirt back into my closet and keep going. I can’t look like I’m trying too hard. Like I’d wear a halter top to school on a Thursday afternoon. I mean, really? But my wardrobe is seriously lacking, considering it’s mostly full of T-shirts. So boring.

  I settled on a cute pale yellow shirt I got last summer on clearance and throw my favorite black cardigan over it. My favorite pair of faded jeans. Gray Converses I snagged at Target, which means they’re not real Converses but close enough. I skip through classes with a restless energy that hums just beneath my skin. I finally recognize it as anticipation.

  If he knew, he’d laugh at me—I just know it.

  My one tutoring session before Owen’s is a nightmare. My energy isn’t in it and my student, a senior named Wes who’s been on a downward spiral with English since his freshman year, knows it. So he screws around and gives me crap, spends way too much time texting and not enough time listening to me until I finally end the session ten minutes early.

  Big mistake. Now I’m left waiting around for Owen Maguire for twenty-five minutes instead of fifteen. And considering how late he was yesterday, my wait will probably be longer.

  Feeling like a first grader told to take a nap, I cross my arms on top of the table and rest my head on them, closing my eyes. I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I’m super tired. I doubt I’ll sleep now, I rarely take naps or anything, but what else am I going to do to pass the time? Pace the room? Wait out front for him to finally show?

  Sounds like torture.

  I let my mind float. I think of Mom and how she wants me to come home. She misses me. I’m her only child and she’s super lonely. Her friends don’t come around much now that she’s in Concord and Dad is in jail. She’s got no one. She likes to tell me that every time we talk. No one but me.