1. Plans
Plans
COOPER
“Please take a moment to admire the alphabetical glory of this list,” I told Mom, sliding her a piece of paper across the kitchen island. I had the same travel info saved on my phone, but Mom trusted paper more than technology. She even insisted on reading old-fashioned newspapers.
Today’s paper was on the island, the headline telling about yet another hate crime.
Man Assaulted in Suspected Targeted Attack—Authorities Investigate A/B/O Motive.
I rolled my eyes. Nothing made stupid people crawl out of their hidey-holes faster than someone whispering A/B/O.
Some people thought secondary gender was unnatural because the Bible didn’t mention it.
I snorted. Jesus had probably been an Omega—if he’d even existed.
“Cooper.”
Startled, I looked up.
Mom was watching me with a familiar mixture of desperation and fondness. She reached over to brush a stubborn curl off my forehead.
“You weren’t listening.”
“I was,” I lied, reaching for the coffee pot. “You told me to be careful out there.”
“A nice try, but not what I was saying.” Mom grabbed a pack of cookies from the pantry and ripped it open while I filled our mugs. “I was asking if you installed that app we talked about. The one that shows all the gas stations.”
“I’ve installed every possible app,” I assured her, taking a cookie and dipping it in my coffee. “Including Grindr.”
“Cooper.”
“I’m kidding. Grindr is gross.”
“What about the bear bell?” she asked.
Tilting my head, I grinned at her. “It could work, but I’m not really into hairy men.”
Mom sighed, but I could tell she was fighting back a smile. I loved to cheer her up. That was one of the few things I was good at—lightening the mood.
“I’ll buy bear spray,” I promised her. I had no idea why Mom thought I’d meet bears during my trip, but she’d always been overly protective. Maybe it was her dormant Alpha side. Mom hadn’t presented, but she belonged to the generation that had been tested by default.
“Good. I just want you to be safe. Actually, about that—”
“Have you talked to Grandpa?” I interrupted.
“Yes,” Mom said, biting into a cookie. “He knows when to expect you, and he’s already bought you a refundable ticket for the flight back. However—”
“Don’t forget the thousand dollars for my troubles,” I said dreamily. Grandpa, a widower for two decades, had recently remarried and followed his husband to California. He’d sold or donated almost everything he owned, but he didn’t want to part with his pristine, sky-blue Cadillac.
Enter my genius plan.
I’d drive the Caddy along Route 66, see the world beyond our zip code, and fly back. Grandpa would get his car, and I’d get a summer adventure and money for a car of my own. Win-win.
Mom put the cookie down.
“I’m so proud of you, Coop,” she said. “You’ve exceeded my expectations with how carefully you’ve planned everything.”
“Thank you!” I beamed at her. A surge of warmth filled my chest. I rarely got praised for being responsible.
Or for anything, really. That was okay, though, I knew I was chaotic.
The designated family disaster. I forgot things—like eating, or applying for dorm housing on time.
Shit! I was supposed to call the school office and sort it out.
Oh well. I’d call tomorrow. Anyway, it felt good that Mom had acknowledged my efforts.
Even Jack, my older brother, had been impressed.
But why was Mom looking at me like that? She had her pity face on—my least favorite of her expressions. I was just about to ask her when she opened her mouth.
“That said, there will be a minor change to the itinerary.”
I tightened my grip on the mug as the taste of coffee turned bitter on my tongue.
“What do you mean?” I tried not to let my panic show, but the fact that Mom wouldn’t meet my eyes was alarming to say the least. “Everything’s already planned!
” I pointed at the list on the island as if it were court evidence for my ability to travel responsibly.
Various scenarios ran through my mind, from Grandpa changing his mind about my fee to his not wanting the Cadillac after all.
But that wouldn’t be a minor change to the itinerary, right? That would be canceling the whole trip.
“Mom?”
She took a deep breath, and that’s when I knew it was going to be bad. She gave me a grimace that was now officially my new least favorite of her expressions. A direct translation of that look was, “Please stay calm and let me ruin your life for funsies.”
“You won’t be traveling alone,” she said. Her verbal killing blow made the cookie I’d been dipping in my coffee fall on the floor in a soggy mess. Too stunned to speak, I could only stare at Mom.
No. No no no. Absolutely not!
Mom’s words could mean only one thing. One person. Someone who’d turn this trip from a fun adventure into warfare on wheels.
Jon Beckett.
My brother’s best friend. My worst enemy.
I was fifteen when we met. I’d gone to the mall without permission, so broke that dreams were all I could afford.
I’d tried on several pairs of sunglasses and decided that Ray-Bans would look incredible on me, and I would totally have stolen a pair if I hadn’t had such an inconvenient conscience.
Then some middle-aged creep offered to buy them for me, but I didn’t stay to hear what he would no doubt have wanted in return.
I was used to pervy old men staring at me—or doing worse than staring.
The number of lewd suggestions I’d heard would make Mom start a neighborhood watch if she knew.
I was wearing my headphones like always.
Lost in the world of Selena Gomez, I stopped to check my reflection in a dirty window: a pink tank top, denim shorts, and a wrist full of rainbow bracelets I’d made myself.
I was happy with the way I looked, although sometimes I wished all my clothes didn’t come from thrift shops.
All of a sudden, a shiver ran down my spine.
Before I could properly register what was going on, five guys circled me, forcing me to back up against the brick wall.
The first one had red hair and an unsettling smile on his freckled face.
He called me Curly. I called him Firetruck, trying to hide my fear.
He reached out and twisted a strand of my hair around his fingers.
“So pretty. You could pass for a girl.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
He laughed and asked if I’d ever kissed anyone. I hadn’t, but I’d thought about it. I wanted to kiss boys. I just didn’t know where and how I could find a kissable one.
The next thing Firetruck said made me gasp in outrage.
He asked if I’d presented. Everyone knew you weren’t supposed to ask that!
And no, I hadn’t, and I doubted I ever would, but it was none of his business.
Even one of them flinched at the rudeness and said they should leave.
That someone called Jon wouldn’t like what they were doing.
Firetruck flipped him off and demanded to try on my headphones.
I refused, because I was sure he’d steal them.
What would I tell Mom then? She’d ground me, and I’d miss my best friend’s birthday party.
The bolder Firetruck got, the more uncomfortable I became—but then a sharp voice cut through the tension, and a sixth guy stepped in.
My jaw dropped. He was broad and tall and larger than life.
Crude tattoos marked his arms in fascinating patterns.
What impressed me the most was the way he moved—like he didn’t need to hurry because the world had already paused to listen.
He wasn’t as impressed with me as I was with him; his gaze stayed on me for less than a second before he turned his gray eyes on Firetruck.
The dismissal made me bristle. I was na?ve enough to want more. All his seconds. All his attention.
I had found a kissable boy.
He told Firetruck to back off, and when he didn’t, he punched him. Just like that, his fist slammed into Firetruck’s face with a wet-sounding crunch, and the red-haired jerk stumbled back, blood gushing from his nose.
After they scattered, he finally looked at me again. My stomach somersaulted with an ache to make him see me as someone who mattered.
That night, I wrote in my diary that his eyes looked like storm clouds before rain and that standing under his scrutiny was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I wrote that he could be a nightmare to someone but never to me. Because to me, he was a dream.
Yeah, I wrote a lot of stupid shit in my diary about Jon Beckett. I even described the way he lit his cigarette. How I craved one—not because I cared about smoking, but because I wanted him to lean in close enough to light it for me. I wanted us to share a cigarette and our lives.
In an embarrassingly squeaky voice, I asked if he was their leader. His smirk made my legs wobble.
“I’m no one’s leader,” he said, then started down the sidewalk.
I stared after him, my heart beating wildly, as I tried to figure out if I was allowed to walk with him.
And then he slowed his pace for me, and I followed him, and for the next three years, I would’ve followed Jon Beckett to hell and back if he’d asked me to.