Chapter 15
Reagan
The next day Mason finds me at lunch break. “Yo, Reagan, what’s up?”
I blink at my tray for a few seconds. “Hey.”
“Just checking on you after... You headed home alright?”
Why wouldn’t I? He drove me to the house himself. Why does he care in the first place? I just nod.
He makes more small talk. I don’t like it. Shane gets weird when Mason’s name comes up. I don’t know what the deal is with the two of them, but I don’t want to be a part of it.
He should go. How can I tell him that without being rude?
Maybe I should take my tray and sit somewhere else.
Everybody is staring at us. I know they’re whispering.
They must wonder why two biker boys who can have any girl they want are suddenly interested in this ugly nobody.
They must think I do something for the hot boys, something wrong.
They must think I’m a whore like Mother says.
Shane is right. I shouldn’t talk to or be with Mason alone.
“Happy birthday, by the way.” He smiles.
“How did you know that? Shane told you?”
“Yeah. He said you were out celebrating at the beach and—”
“Why…why are you here, talking to me when you never do, today of all days?” When Shane isn’t in town.
He swallows, staring at me, hesitation twisting his lips. “Listen, um, you ever had a boyfriend?”
“What? No. Why? Are you allowed to ask me that?”
“I mean, do you know what it means when a guy… You ever—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Shit. I don’t know how to say this.”
“Say what?”
He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Look, Reagan, you’re a good kid. You’re smart. And I hear things are rough at home, and Shane’s been helping you out, which is cool, but—”
My stomach twists with anxiety. “But what? Mason, are you hitting on me?”
“What? No!” He looks horrified. “Jesus, no. You’re like a—”
“A sister to you,” I finish for him, my voice flat.
“Just like I am to Shane.” That’s all I’ll ever be, so fuck this life.
Who gives a fuck? Who cares about boyfriends and love and all that shit when your biggest wish is to get through the day in one piece without a bleeding wound, a nasty scar, a broken bone or a sewn-up vagina?
He stares at me for a long moment. “Yeah. Exactly. That’s why I’m talking to you right now.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“Sometimes guys... Sometimes they want things. Things that aren’t appropriate.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Eww. What makes you think you can talk to me like that? What is this all about?”
“It’s about Shane.” He glances around, then leans in even closer. “Brothers and sisters don’t get hot for each other, Reagan.”
My blood runs cold. “What?”
“Last night. In the car. That wasn’t keys in Shane’s pocket, Reagan. Jesus Christ, you really that naive? Don’t you study that shit in Bio class? Look it up in one of your books, alright. How a guy’s body reacts when…you know.”
The cafeteria noise fades to a dull roar in my ears. My jaw hangs low as I stuff my books and journal into my backpack. “Shane would never—” I can’t even finish the sentence. My hands are trembling. “You’re disgusting for even suggesting—”
“I’m trying to help you.” Mason’s voice is urgent now. “You’re only fourteen. What I saw last night, the way he was holding you, the way he looks at you—”
“What do you think you saw?” I stand up so fast my chair screeches against the floor. Everyone is looking our way now. I lower my voice. “Because whatever it was, you’re wrong.”
“Reagan, please—”
“I’m not feeling well.” I grab my backpack, leaving my tray on the table. “I must be coming down with something from yesterday’s swim. I’m going home.”
“Wait,” Mason stands, too. “Let me give you a ride.”
“No.” I’m already backing away. “Stay away from me, Mason.” I turn and walk away, moving through the cafeteria as fast as I can without running. My vision blurs. I don’t know if it’s tears or panic or both.
Brothers and sisters don’t get hot for each other.
That wasn’t keys in his pocket.
“Reagan, wait up!”
Mason’s voice echoes behind me in the parking lot. I walk faster.
“Please, just hear me out.”
“Leave me alone!” I spin around to face him. “I don’t want your ride. I don’t want to talk to you. Just... Just go away.”
“Listen, if I’m wrong, that’s good. I hope I am, but if it’s true, I can’t just watch this happen and do nothing. I’m risking a lot of heat talking to you like this. If Shane finds out—”
“As he should.”
“What? No, Reagan, please. I don’t wanna stir shit. Just wanna open your eyes.”
I scoff. “You think I’m stupid?”
“I think you’re a kid who’s been through hell. Shane knows that, and he’s using it.”
“Well, he’s not the one who is into innocent schoolgirls.”
“The fuck, what?”
“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to split us up, me and Shane, so I wouldn’t have him to protect me from the likes of you.”
Mason flinches. “Yo fucking crazy?”
“Stay away from me, Mason. I mean it.”
“Reagan—”
“I said get away from me!”
He raises his hands in the space between us in surrender, defeat marring his face. “Kay, but if you ever need help, if you ever need someone to talk to who isn’t… Fuck this shit. Just...be careful.”
He turns and walks back toward the school, leaving me alone in the parking lot. I stand there for a long moment, my mind spinning.
That wasn’t keys in his pocket.
Brothers and sisters don't get hot for each other.
I walk home, understanding crashing over me.
My cheeks burn at the memory. The way Shane held me.
The way his breath hitched when I shifted.
The way he told me not to move, his voice rough and desperate.
The way he scolded me with his stare when I stupidly blurted out about something poking me.
How they laughed at how naive I was. How Mason looked at Shane in the rearview mirror.
I crouch on the sidewalk. Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Shane wants me. Not like a sister. Not like a little girl he’s protecting. He wants me the way a man wants a woman. My skin flushes hot and cold at the same time. My mind races with the implications.
The phone Shane gave me buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with trembling hands.
Shane: Howz my birthday girl doin 2day?
I stare at the screen, my heart pounding so hard it thumps in my ears.
He wants me. Shane Fletcher wants me. Not Brittany Johanson with her perfect hair and perfect body. Not the girls at the clubhouse who throw themselves at him. Not any of the women who look at him like he’s a god.
Me. Plain, scarred, worthless me. And God help me, I want him too.
I’ve wanted him since the night he gave me his cut. Since he climbed through my window. Since he held me in his arms and promised to protect me. Maybe even before that, when I was just a little girl watching him from afar, wishing someone like him would see me.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I say? How do I tell him that I know? That I understand now? That I’m not scared?
Me: Good. Miss you.
The response is instant.
Shane: Miss u 2, baby girl. Cant wait 2 c u again.
A strange, thrilling feeling spreads through my chest. I clutch the phone to my heart, closing my eyes. Then I exhale, collect myself and continue walking.
Dad isn’t home. Mother isn’t happy to see me this early in the day. She greets me with the nastiest of her vocabulary. She’s already helped herself to a couple of beers, and it’s not even noon yet.
I’m not especially ecstatic to be home early today either. I was planning on coming as late as possible. For thirteen years, she’s made sure to make my birthday the worst day of my life like it’s been for her. I don’t imagine this year will be different. Not until Shane.
But he’s not here today. I feel sick being near that woman when he’s out of reach. My stomach turns, literally.
I run to the bathroom and hurl my guts out. Sweat covers my face, and my temperature is rising.
“You disgusting piece of shit, are you vomiting in my bathroom?” The door bursts open, and my mother is standing there, glaring down at me as I crumple on the cold floor. “You sick or what?”
“Looks like it.”
“Don’t give a shit. You’re gonna clean that mess right away, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just what I fucking needed.” She curses her way up the stairs. Then the door to her room slams open and shut.
I drag myself up, clean the bathroom, make myself a hot drink and find the Tylenol.
A couple of hours later, I’m drowning in my own sweat, burning up in bed.
Fuck, a couple of over-the-counter pills won’t help.
I’m going to need antibiotics. That means a trip to the hospital. She’s not going to like that.
I force myself out of bed. The hallway tilts and sways. I grip the doorframe to steady myself, lean against the wall and take slow steps toward the stairs.
“Mom?” I make it to the bottom of the staircase and grip the banister. Each step feels like climbing a mountain. Halfway up, I have to stop, catching my breath. “Mom, I need—”
“What the fuck do you want?” Her voice cuts through my skull like a knife. The bedroom door flies open. She stands there, bottle in hand, her face twisted with rage.
“I’m sick. I need to go to the hospital.”
She laughs. “The hospital? For what? A little cold? You think I’m made of money?”
“Please, the fever is getting worse. I need antibiotics—”
“You need to shut your fucking mouth and leave me alone!” She takes a swig from the bottle, retreating to her room, mumbling as if I can’t hear her, “Maybe if I’m lucky, the fever will take you out and save me the trouble.” She slams the door so hard the walls shake.
I stand there for a moment, swaying on the stairs, my vision swimming.
I stumble back down, gripping the railing tight.
In my room, I grab my phone and shove it into my pocket.
The hospital is about two miles away. I tell myself I can walk there and make it.
Once I get there, they can call Dad to sign off on the meds. He’ll come. He has to come.
The cool air outside hits my feverish skin like ice. The world blurs at the edges. The sidewalk rises and falls beneath me. One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking.
I count my steps to keep myself focused. One. Two. Three. Four. How many steps to the hospital? A thousand? Ten thousand? Sweat drips down my face despite the January chill. My legs feel like lead. Everything hurts—my head, my chest, my bones.
The world tilts suddenly. I reach out for something to grab onto, but there’s nothing. My knees buckle.
The pavement rushes up to meet me. I try to catch myself, but my arms won’t cooperate. I hit the ground hard. Pain explodes through my shoulder and hip.
“Reagan!”
Someone is calling my name. The voice sounds far away, as if it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel. Footsteps pound against the pavement. Running. Getting closer. I try to open my eyes, try to see who it is, but my eyelids are so heavy.
“Reagan! Fuck!”
Strong hands grip my shoulders and turn me over. I want to speak, but the darkness is pulling me under.
“Reagan, stay with me. C’mon, open your eyes.” The voice shakes with fear.
I try. I really do. The darkness wins, though, and everything goes black.