Chapter 3 #2
Not that those closest to me, like Case and Fletch, haven’t seen glimpses over the years. But it was always because I allowed it. The end game far outweighing the risk of them seeing too much—of them prying into things that are better left in the dark.
Knowing I have to give Casey something, I finally shrug, and say, “Just reminded me of a story I saw on the news years ago. About a kid who went ape shit on his abusive foster dad.” I pause, before adding, “We lived in the same area. Went to the same school.”
Not lies…just not the whole truth.
“So, it was more like self-defense…”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“And he was in the system like you,” Casey finishes softly, ensuring no one overhears us. He’s one of the very few people at Grady Prep who know this. Knows I was adopted.
With him, it was one of those “benefits outweighed the costs” things—I knew I needed someone to have my back. Someone to pity me and excuse my behavior whenever I struggled to keep up pretenses.
Plus, his dad’s a cop. Those kinds of connections are invaluable, as Quentin would say.
Jaw working, I give him a short nod.
“Did you…did you know him? Do you think it’s actually the same guy?” Were you abused too?
No, he’s probably not actually thinking that last bit. But then again, it’s not that far of a reach.
Still, I’m probably just being paranoid.
“No, and…no,” I say. “The odds of that are…” Straightening suddenly, I jump to a stand and turn toward the concession stands. Eyes darting around.
I forgot about Quentin. The phone call. He was headed over here, and then—
“Hey, babe!”
Startled from my search, I blink into focus the figure standing on the other side of the chain-link fence, fingers curled around the metal rungs.
“What are you doing here?” I all but growl as I close the distance, my voice harsher than usual. Behind me, someone makes kissy sounds—probably Casey, the dumbass—but I hardly pay him any notice.
Seth’s brown eyes widen, filling with something like hurt, before narrowing with a familiar flash of anger. “Nice to see you too.”
Blowing out a breath, I cover Seth’s fingers with my hand, trying not to be obvious as I glance over his shoulder. Softer this time, but no less distracted, I mutter, “Sorry, just lost in my head. You know what it’s like before a game.”
I forcefully shift my attention to the guy standing before me. “I thought you were gonna be late,” I say through numb lips, feeling like my pulse is seconds away from punching out of my throat.
Seth shakes his head with a quiet huff. “I texted you. Study group ended early, and…”
His voice fades into the background as I once again find my gaze sweeping over the crowd, words playing back through my head.
Ashwood…killed someone…twelve years old…
Would I even recognize him if I saw him? It’s been almost six years. Not long in the grand scheme of things, but given how much I’ve changed, it’s possible he did too.
Memories begin pushing their way to the surface, this time more vivid than they’ve been in years.
Pale, gray skin. Wide, vacant eyes.
Blood.
So much fucking blood.
There’s a wet, squelching sound, and my hand burns, it stings, flooding with warmth—
“V-Vale?”
And then more memories. Dancing on the fringe of that night, darker but no less vivid to my senses.
The thread of smoke curling up from the overcrowded ashtray, blanketing the room in the stale scent of tobacco.
From the old tube television across the room, a laugh track playing during some family sitcom.
I’m on the floor…on my back…
It’s itchy, grimy, and—
My eyes squeeze shut, and I barely manage to hold back my flinch.
This can’t be happening. Not now. Not after all this time.
“You’re hurting me.”
Releasing Seth’s fingers like he burned me, I’m only vaguely aware of him letting go of the fence and bringing his hand to his chest, massaging his knuckles.
“Sorry,” I mutter, lifting my hand to my face, ignoring the way it trembles as I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.
My gut hollows as I almost expect to find them wet and sticky and smelling of metal. Relief is instant when all I catch is a whiff of sweat and dirt.
“Are you okay?” Seth’s question somehow pierces the roar in my ears, and the sights and sounds of the field surge forward, the present once more returning to me. Sharper than they probably should be. Almost painful in their intensity.
Knowing he’s watching me closely, too closely, I will the tension in my shoulders to unwind, and my pulse to slow down.
It’s been so long since I let myself think about that time in my life, much less the boy who hides in the deepest corners of my memories. The one who lurked around the edges of my sleep, in that space between consciousness and that black pit where dreams should be.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, pasting on a look of indifference as I drop my hand back at my side. This time, I don’t break my boyfriend’s gaze as I plaster on a small smile and say simply, “Headache. Sorry. Came out of nowhere.”
Seth’s brow pinches like he’s not quite sure he believes me. Thankfully, it’s right at the moment Coach blows his whistle and shouts for us to hit the lockers.
Forcing a swallow, I shrug and say, “Gotta go,” and make to pull back my other hand.
Seth grips my fingers through the gaps in the fence, tugging me before I can get too far. Already knowing what he wants, I step forward and meet his lips through a hole in the fence in a quick, chaste kiss.
“Have a good game,” he says softly, my weird behavior from only moments ago already forgotten, just like that.
Typical, I think with a quiet huff. Not that I’m complaining. It’s moments like these I’m reminded why I’ve put up with him for so long.
My gaze flicks between his eyes as I nod.
Stepping back, I chance one last look over his shoulder, this time in search of Quentin.
There.
Just past the apparel stand, under the flourishing canopy of a tree, he’s once more got his phone pressed to his ear. He’s nodding, his face pulled taut. Eyes locked in the direction of the bleachers.
“Thanks,” I murmur absently to my boyfriend, bracing myself for what I’ll find as I follow Quentin’s gaze.
Or rather…who.
My heart pounds. Lungs strain for air as I hold it.
Only it’s…Mr. Jennings. My freshmen history teacher.
An odd sight to see at a football game, sure—he made it no secret about his distaste for jocks when I had him. Pretty sure he’s never attended a game before today. But why he’d be the focus of Quentin’s attention…the source of what’s got him uncharacteristically agitated…
I frown, searching those around Jennings, taking in those who pass by. But other than a short woman with bright red hair standing at his side, there’s no one else of note lingering about.
“Vale?” Seth, still standing where I’d left him, follows my gaze. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” And with that, I turn away, thoughts churning with questions that will just have to wait to be answered until the end of the game.
Reaching for my helmet where it rolled across the grass, I shove it over my head, providing some much-needed cover from what feels like more than one set of eyes watching me.
Seth.
My teammates still lingering nearby.
Perhaps Quentin now too, at having finally sensed how on edge I am…and why.
And someone else’s…someone’s watchful, piercing stare I tell myself I’m just imagining. Just a phantom sensation creeping out from the past I’ve done everything I could to bury.
It’s not him. He’s not here. There’s just no possible way.
Without looking back, I turn away and start jogging after my teammates, the tunnel to the locker room looming ahead just as music starts blaring from the speakers overlooking the field. People cheer, knowing it’s nearly time.
I let it all wash over me. The sights, the sounds…
The orange evening sunlight bearing down on me.
The fresh scent of grass and dirt burning a pathway up my nose.
The pre-game jitters buzzing through my veins.
I let it consume me and eradicate everything else as my cleats eat up the distance, putting me further and further away from my past. From the sinking gut feeling that tells me everything’s about to change.
After what he did, what the cops walked into…
The mess he left, the way he was laughing.
And then everything else that came to light in the days and weeks and months to follow…
It has to be a mistake.
There’s no fucking way fate would dare put Aston St. James back in my path.
No fucking way.