3. Busted
CHAPTER 3
BUSTED
NATE
"Nate, where the fuck are you?" Jay's voice grates against my already frayed nerves, each word like sandpaper on raw skin.
"I'm about ten minutes out." My jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth, the muscle twitching beneath my skin like a live wire.
"Hurry the fuck up, man. They're waiting and these people don't like waiting." The panic in his voice feeds the rage simmering beneath my skin, a pot about to boil over.
"Jay, relax." The words come out low, dangerous—a rattlesnake's warning before the strike.
"Relax? I'll relax when I'm dead, Nate. Which is going to be in about two minutes if you're not here."
"I'm hanging up now."
I end the call with enough force to crack my screen, watching as notifications flood the display like vultures circling prey. Missed calls, texts, demands piling up like bodies in a mass grave. Another buzz cuts through the silence—Jake, adding his voice to the chorus of people who think they own a piece of me.
Jake
Seriously, where the fuck are you?
Jake
Mom wants you home NOW.
Jake
Stop being a dick and reply to her calls.
I ignore it, letting it join the dozen other unopened messages from him, Mom, and Farrah. Farrah’s name on my phone screen feels like a bad taste I can't wash out. I still don't know why I've let her cling to me for this long.
The morning started with me hauling ass out of the house, escaping Mom's endless nagging about the Wells coming back this summer. She's been hammering on about it for days like it's some impending apocalypse, and just the thought of sharing space with them all summer makes my skin crawl.
Last time I saw the Wells family was nearly two years ago. The memory hits like a sucker punch. I was a fucking wreck when David died, and the guilt of blowing off his funeral still eats at me like acid in my gut. They're probably all still pissed about it, but showing up wasted and ready to explode would have been worse. At least, that's the lie I keep feeding myself to get through each day.
The truth sits heavier, a weight pressing against my lungs: I couldn't handle it.
Couldn't stomach a world without David, the one person who saw past my bullshit and still gave a damn.
Couldn't bear seeing Nora broken when I was already shattered beyond repair.
The Mustang roars to life under my hands, the engine's growl matching the chaos in my head as I point it toward the other side of Lake Eden. Today, my thoughts are a war zone, memories exploding like land mines with every breath. The human mind is a torture chamber, stuck on replay, obsessing over every failure, every promise broken like bones that never set right.
I try to steady myself because that's what everyone expects—good old Nate, always in control, always holding it together. But with everything I'm walking into, the tension builds like a sealed pressure cooker about to blow. Memories of two summers ago flood in, sharp as broken glass and twice as dangerous. I crank the radio, desperate to drown out the chaos, and fucking "Save Me" by Remo starts playing. I laugh, but it's a sound that would make devils flinch. The universe really knows how to twist the knife.
The bait shop looms ahead, its peeling Tack and Bait sign swaying in the humid breeze like a hangman's noose. Jay's already outside, a nervous shadow pacing the warped boards of the porch. His fingers drum against his thigh in a frantic rhythm that matches my pulse.
"About fucking time," he snaps as I kill the engine, but the fear in his eyes undermines the bite in his words.
We push past aisles of fishing gear, hooks glinting like tiny daggers in the dim light. The air is thick enough to choke on—a toxic cocktail of saltwater, mildew, and something darker. A tank bubbles in the corner, bait fish swimming endless circles, waiting for death. Felix, another lost soul caught in this web, cracks open the back room door. The hinges cry out like they're warning us to run. Inside, six of Monty's crew crowd around a plastic table that's one breath away from collapse, playing poker with the kind of stakes that end in blood.
The door snaps shut behind us with the finality of a coffin lid.
"Well, well, look what the country club dragged in." Monty's voice slithers through the stale air, each word dripping with a disdain that makes my skin crawl. He's all sharp edges and bad endings—a late twenties psycho with a body count inked on his arm like notches on a bedpost. Cross him and you're either out cold or becoming his next tattoo.
He pops a beer with his teeth and spits the cap at my feet. The metallic ping against the concrete floor echoes like a warning shot. "You rich fuckers think the world's got nothing better to do than wait on you, huh, Preppy?"
The rage in my chest coils tighter. "Family emergency," I lie through clenched teeth, tasting copper where I've bitten the inside of my cheek.
A smirk twists his lips as he stands, looming close enough for me to catch the stale stench of beer and weed and something darker—something that smells like violence waiting to happen.
"Family? Must be nice having one. Never knew mine. Didn't have a daddy to spoon-feed me gold and grease my path to the Ivy League."
His eyes glint with the kind of madness that's earned him every one of those body-count tattoos. The room crystallizes into sharp focus. Something dark inside me smiles at the odds: just Jay and me against his gang of six. The kind of math that ends in hospital visits.
"Are we gonna wax poetic about my so-called privileged childhood or your daddy issues, or are you gonna take the money?" My voice cuts through the thick tension like a blade, each word dripping with contempt. Part of me wants him to snap, to give me an excuse to paint these walls red.
He laughs, the sound low and menacing as a growling beast. "You got some balls on you, Preppy. Showing up late, making us wait, and now pushing me to hurry?" His eyes catch the fluorescent light like broken glass. "You're playing with fire."
The room holds its breath. Even the ceiling fan seems to slow its lazy spin. I feel Jay trembling beside me, his fear a tangible thing in the heavy air.
The attack comes faster than my anger-dulled reflexes can track. Monty's hand wraps around my throat like a python, squeezing until black spots dance at the edges of my vision. The rough concrete wall slams against my back, but I barely feel it. Part of me welcomes the pain, craves it even.
"Don't you fuck with me or my time again, you ungrateful little shit. Got it?" His breath hits my face, hot and sour with beer.
I stay silent—not from fear, but because the darkness inside me is enjoying this too much. Some sick part of me wants him to squeeze harder, to give me an excuse to unleash the hurricane building in my chest.
"Whoa, whoa, hey, Monty." Jay's voice wavers like a candle in the wind. "He screwed up, but he's got the cash. It won’t happen again.”
Monty's eyes narrow, shooting Jay a look that could strip paint from walls. Jay shrinks back, but his mouth keeps running, desperation making him brave or stupid—probably both.
“We’ll be early next time,” Jay stammers, words tumbling out like dice on a rigged table.
The grip on my throat loosens just enough for me to drag in a ragged breath. The room spins back into focus, sharp and mean as a knife's edge.
"Where's the fucking money, kid?" The word ' kid' comes out like poison.
I fish out an envelope from my back pocket, movements deliberately slow. Every eye in the room tracks my hand like sharks scenting blood. "It's all there—$1,500." Each word scrapes past my bruised throat.
"You owe me another grand by the end of the week for wasting my fucking time." His voice drops lower, a promise of violence wrapped in velvet.
"Felix," Monty barks, jerking his chin at me like I'm garbage to be taken out. "Hand him his shit."
Felix, looking young enough to still believe in redemption, passes over the stash with trembling fingers. I grab it, the weight of bad decisions heavy in my palm.
"And Preppy," Monty calls out as we turn to leave, his tone mocking but promising blood, "don't pull that shit again. Not even thirty seconds late next time, or I won't be this nice."
The muggy summer air hits like a slap when we stumble outside, reality crashing back in waves. My throat throbs in time with my pulse, a rhythm of rage and adrenaline.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Jay explodes the moment we're clear of the shop, his voice cracking like thin ice. He runs shaking hands through his hair, leaving it standing up like a startled cat. "What the fuck, Nate? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
I stride toward the Mustang, the rage still singing in my veins, drowning out his words. The stash burns in my pocket like a guilty secret.
"Shut up and get in the car," I snap, my patience a frayed wire sparking dangerously. "I don't have time for this."
"I don't know what's got you so messed up lately, but you need to sort your shit out." Jay jogs to keep up, his finger trembling as he points back at the shop. "That was too fucking close. Like, funeral close."
"You looking for a medal for the world's best friend or something?" The words come out sharp enough to draw blood, but underneath them lurks the acid taste of guilt. Jay's the closest thing to a real friend I've got, and here I am, treating him like everyone else treats him—like he's disposable.
"You're being a bigger dick than usual, you know that?" Fear makes him brave, makes him say what others won't.
I know, and it's not the first time I've heard that today.
"Do you need a ride or not?" I slip into the driver's seat, tossing the stash into the console.
"For fuck's sake," Jay mutters, slamming the car door hard enough to rattle teeth. "What's going on with you?”
"I don't pry into your life, so don't pry into mine." My voice comes out arctic, warning him off.
"Yeah, well, your 'not' friend just saved your ass back there." The 'not' drips with sarcasm.
"I had it handled." I reply dryly, the ignition roaring to life like an angry beast.
"Handled? Looked more like you were about to hand over your ass to that fucking psycho. Willingly.” Jay slumps in his seat, the adrenaline crash hitting him hard.
A silent question hangs between us like a noose: what if I had let go? What if I had let Monty finish what my own self-destruction started?
We drive through Eden's south side in silence heavy as death itself. These streets tell their own stories—broken windows, peeling paint, dreams dying slow in the summer heat. Jay's life, marked by hard knocks and savage breaks, sits in stark contrast to my gilded cage up north. I pull up to his place, a rundown dump that makes the bait shop look somewhat classy. The screen door hangs crooked on its hinges, like everything else in his world—slightly broken but still hanging on.
"Thanks for the ride," Jay mutters as he reaches for the door handle. His shoulders slump with exhaustion, or maybe it's just the weight of everything else he carries.
"How's your mom?" The question slips out before I can stop it, betraying more care than I want to show. Behind the walls of their house, I can almost smell the lingering ghosts of her latest binge.
He smirks, a flash of the smart-ass kid still alive beneath the scars. "Thought we weren't prying?"
Something in my chest loosens slightly, and the corner of my mouth twitches upward despite myself. "She's hanging in there. Better, I guess. You know how it is."
And I do know —his mom, a perpetual disaster, loves him in her own fractured way. She battles her demons and loses to heroin's sweet promises more often than not, leaving Jay to pick up the pieces. Just like I picked up my own mother's pieces after dad's rages, though our broken pieces came from different kinds of battles.
"Take care, Jay." The words carry more meaning than I'll ever admit. In another life, in another Eden, we might have been real brothers instead of just broken boys holding each other's secrets. He cracks a smile that makes him look his age for once—seventeen, and somehow still undefeated despite everything.
"You're still a dick." There's affection buried in the insult, like a flower growing through concrete.
"And you're still the pain in my ass I can't shake,” I call after him.
Without turning back, Jay sticks his middle finger in the air, waves it like a victory flag, and I can't help but laugh.
I linger until he's safely inside, watching the screen door swing shut behind him. The laugh fades as quickly as it came, replaced by a familiar heaviness. Some people you can't save, no matter how much you want to. Sometimes all you can do is watch them burn and hope they rise from their own ashes.
My phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with my mother's name like an accusation. The brief moment of lightness with Jay evaporates, reality crashing back in. Time to face the music at home, where the Wells family waits like an approaching storm I can't outrun.
Pulling into my driveway, dread hits me like a physical blow. The familiar Jeep wedged between the luxury cars stands out like a wound, and my heart slams against my ribs in recognition. My breathing grows shallow, thoughts spiraling into chaos as reality crashes in. The bruises from Monty's grip throb in time with my pulse, a reminder of the violence I just walked away from. Now I'm walking into a different kind of danger altogether.
My phone lights up again with another barrage of texts, each one stoking the rage already burning in my chest.
Farrah
Why are you not answering my calls?
Less than thirty seconds later…
Farrah
Babe, I miss you.
Farrah
Come over so I can show you just how much.
I scoff and chuck my phone onto the passenger seat like it's contaminated.
Not today, Farrah.
Not when I need my head clear, or as clear as it can be with the chaos already screaming inside it. I can't deal with her manufactured drama or anyone else's bullshit until I've dulled these razor edges of anxiety and silenced the demon that's been gnawing on my brain like a starved rat.
It's nearly five, and I haven't returned any calls or texts all day. The moment I step inside, the cold war at home will resume—nothing said aloud in front of guests, all the family drama saved for behind closed doors like the good little actors we are. The Wells family's presence turns our usual dysfunction into a command performance.
Taking a deep breath, the first real one of the day, I pocket the stash and force myself toward the front door. With each step, the laughter and conversations inside amplify like a crescendo of impending doom, squeezing my chest tighter. The bruises from Monty's grip ache with every breath, but they're nothing compared to the pain I know is waiting inside.
Let's fucking do this.
Then, a familiar voice cuts through the rest, pulling tighter on my already taut nerves like a violin string about to snap. I'm almost at the door when it swings open.
"I'll be right there, just need to grab my—" Her words halt with a sharp intake of breath that mirrors my own.
Before I even process it, my body reacts on pure instinct, lunging forward to catch her as she stumbles on the step.
She's safe in my arms, and suddenly the world begins to spin when she looks up at me.
Time warps as I hold her, everything slowing to a crawl like honey dripping from a spoon. The adrenaline that was surging through my veins from Monty's threats shifts into a different kind of heat, spreading wherever our bodies connect. She's different now, changed in ways that make my throat go dry and my pulse spike.
Holding her feels like revisiting an old favorite book; the cover's altered, the pages more worn, but the words inside still grip you with the same fierce intensity. Her hair, scented like honey and summer winds and tossed into a messy knot, hints at the beautiful chaos I know defines her. Gone is the awkward girl in baggy clothes. She's... stunning.
Christ. Stop it.
The crop top she wears exposes her lower back, my arms cradling her waist, skin against skin, igniting unwanted, dangerous desires that threaten to consume what's left of my self-control. I can't pull my eyes away from hers—those emerald depths still blaze with the wild spirit I remember, promising secrets and depths I'm aching to explore but damn well know I shouldn't.
"You missed a step," I say, a slight grin managing to break through, muscle memory of catching her like this a hundred times before making my hands remember places they shouldn't.
"Wouldn't be the first time," she replies, her smile disarming every defense I've built, gripping me for a second too long. I notice her catch her breath. I hope it's from my hold and not the stumble, then immediately hate myself for hoping.
"Guess some things never change," she adds, and the double meaning in her words hits like a punch to the gut, reminding me of everything I've broken between us.
We steady ourselves, though every cell in my body protests as she straightens up, and I do the same. Then something hits the porch with a clatter that sounds like a gunshot in the charged silence.
Shit.
Before I can move, she bends down, and I force my gaze away from the curves her movement reveals, focusing instead on the small bags of weed she's now holding in hands that once knew every callus on mine. Disappointment flickers across her face—a look that cuts deeper than any blade.
Thank fuck it's just the weed and not the pills.
Footsteps approach, and tension mounts like a storm about to break as my mom's voice carries from inside. "Nate? Is that you?"
I'm screwed.
So fucking screwed.
"You finally decided to come home, did you?" Mom's voice slices through the tension like a knife.
Nora presses against me, her proximity sending chaotic signals through my brain like fireworks. I yearn to touch her, to trace the lines of who she's become, but she leans back against me, holding out the bag of weed for me to take. Our hands brush as I take it, her warmth penetrating every fiber of my being like a brand. My eyes drift traitorously to the heart-shaped birthmark just above her lower back, visible beneath her crop top. She's grown up in more ways than one, and each way is another nail in my coffin.
"Nate was just helping me with my bags," Nora covers smoothly, her lie as practiced as my own. The ease of her deception triggers a memory of us covering for each other countless times before, back when we were partners in crime instead of whatever the hell we are now.
"Oh, good. Nate, can you get the rest of Nora's stuff to her room and help Kat too, please?"
"Sure," I manage, a half-smile playing on my lips as I stash the weed back in my pocket, trying to ignore how her presence has already dismantled every wall I've spent years building.
Mom heads back inside, her voice trailing like smoke. "Kat, let's open that Rosé while we cook," she calls back, leaving us alone in a silence that feels like a loaded gun.
"Listen—" I start, but Nora strides past me like I'm nothing but air, dismissive of the moment we just shared, of the electricity still crackling between us.
She grabs a bag from the backseat, and I pick up the other, watching her movements like a man memorizing his own execution. My gut sinks as I realize she's pissed, and this new Nora's anger feels dangerous as a hurricane on the horizon.
"You're just going to ignore me?" The irritation in my voice weighs heavy as chains, and I try to catch her eye, desperate for some sign of the girl I used to know. I shouldn't be irritated—I've got no right—but I am.
"Learned from the best," she fires back, her sass catching me completely off guard, sharp as a blade between ribs. There's something thrillingly different about her now, and damn if I don't find myself drawn to it. She's always been fiercely independent, but this version of Nora seems to have no use for me. Can't say I blame her, but it doesn't quench my craving for her attention one bit.
"Are you going to rat me out?" I probe, genuinely curious as we retrace our steps, each one feeling like walking deeper into quicksand. The question hangs between us, loaded with two years of silence and suspicion.
"What am I, five?" There's a new edge to her that I can't help but admire—confident, bold, lethal. She never hesitated to call me out on my bullshit, even as kids, but now her words carry weight like ammunition.
She halts suddenly, almost causing me to bump into her again, and the near contact sends electricity racing down my spine. Her piercing gaze locks on mine, stirring a flutter of unease in my gut that feels like falling. I'm on edge, unsure of what's coming next but certain it'll leave a mark.
"You know there are better things to spend your money on, right?" Her voice drops low, private—a reminder of conversations we used to have when she was the only one who could talk sense into me.
“I already have enough Rolexes.”
What. The. Fuck. Nate?
The words come out before I can stop them, dripping with the kind of privileged arrogance I hate in others. I want to snatch them back the moment they leave my mouth.
Her eye roll is monumental, like watching someone dismiss your entire existence, and she spins away, continuing forward with the grace of someone who knows exactly how to wound.
"Look, I just don't need you causing issues with my mom or Jake. It's nothing, really. I sometimes just need to??—"
She pauses again, her shoulders rigid as steel. Before she even turns, I sense the anger radiating from her like heat from a fire.
"You know, I'm trying really hard to see things from your perspective, but I can't quite jam my head that far up my ass." Her words are a soft hiss as she steps closer, invading my space until all I can smell is her honey-sweet perfume mixed with summer air. "Don't worry, Nate, your little secret? It's safe with me."
The pat on my chest feels like a brand, her smug smirk a promise of warfare to come. If I thought I was screwed before, now I'm certain I'm standing at the edge of my own personal hell.
"Besides," she adds, voice honey-sweet but laced with venom, "I think you can create enough chaos in your life without any help from me." She snatches the bag from my grasp and strides into the house, every step a declaration of independence, screaming that she's not just capable of tearing me apart, but also perfectly willing to leave me bleeding in her wake.
We're just twelve minutes into day one of summer together, and I'm already drowning in the undertow of everything she is now—fierce, fearless, and absolutely fucking dangerous to every wall I've built. The realization hits me like a knockout punch, this summer isn't just going to be long; it's going to be the death of every defense I've ever had.
My throat still burns from Monty's grip, but it's nothing compared to the ache Nora's presence leaves behind. She's always had that power—to make physical pain feel like a fucking paper cut compared to what she does to me just by existing. And now she's here, breathing this same air, carrying all our history like a weapon she knows exactly how to use.
Standing in the shadow of our broken past, watching her disappear into the house that holds too many memories of us, I realize I'm not just screwed—I'm standing on the edge of an abyss I've spent two years trying to convince myself I didn't want to fall into.
Fuck my life indeed.
The summer already feels like a minefield, and Lenora Wells isn't just another explosive to dodge—she's the one with her finger on the detonator, and something tells me she remembers exactly where all my weak spots are.
The worst part?
Part of me wants her to press that button.