Four Years Later

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 when 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 up. 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.

But I can’t afford to go visit her whenever she wants me to and I want to save up for Thanksgiving, when I have a week off. That makes more sense. Somehow, I need to convince her of that.

But how am I going to get a week off from my job at the diner? The tutoring comes to a stop because it’s school break, but it will still be busy at the diner. I haven’t even dared ask my boss for any time off yet, which is dumb. I need to prepare early. I need to stop being such a chicken …

I need to stop thinking about boys with pretty green eyes who think I’m a joke. I saw the amusement in his gaze at the diner. He probably laughed about me with his friends when they left. They might have asked who I was, and I bet he said she’s nobody.

Nobody.

I’ve always been nobody.

Why can’t I be someone’s somebody? I’m lying to myself when I say I’d rather be asexual or a lesbian or whatever other silly scheme I come up with. I want a boy with a sexy walk and glittering green eyes to like me. I want him to whisper sweet words in my ear that make me shiver. I want him to touch me. I want to know what it feels like to be cherished. Just once …

“Hey.”

I recognize him, recognize that one softly spoken word. Look at how he even haunts my dreams. His deep, rumbly voice moves through me, making me tingle, and I let loose a soft sigh. A sigh that turns into a barely there whimper when he touches my hair, his fingers tangled in the strands.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” His tone is tinged with amusement, and I realize I’m not dreaming.

His voice is real. His fingers in my hair are … real.

Crap.

I lift my head and blink my eyes open to find him standing right above me, a smile curving his lips, his hand nowhere near my hair. Did I imagine that? “Wh—what are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to meet you here, remember?” He peers down at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

“What time is it?” I push the hair out of my eyes, my vision fuzzy, my head foggy. I must have really fallen asleep.

“Six fifteen. For once, I’m right on time.” His smile grows and he leans his hip against the table. “I figured you’d appreciate that.”

He showed up on time to please me. And guess what? It does please me, more than it should. I’m such an easy target. “I fell asleep.”

“Clearly.”

I rub my forehead. “I don’t usually do that.”

“Maybe you should more often. I think you were sleeping pretty hard.”

Wariness fills me and I stiffen my spine. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, you have crease marks on your cheek.” He reaches out and traces them, his fingertips so light on my skin a shiver steals through me.

I cannot believe he touched me.

His hand drops and he pulls out the chair next to mine, settling in it like he belongs there. He’s not sitting across from me the way I usually meet with my students; he’s right next to me and I can feel his warmth, smell his intoxicating scent. Like smoke and spice, fresh air and crisp apples. He smells like fall.

Fall has always been my favorite season.

“You have those assignments?”

His question knocks me out of my distracted state and I pull a folder from the pile I have stacked beside me, the one that’s labeled Maguire, Owen. I flip it open and hand him the sheet of paper I copied for him earlier. It lists all the assignments he’s missed so far and the ones he’s completed, which aren’t many. “Here you go.”

The paper lands in front of him and he studies it, his brows crinkled with concentration, his lips pressed together. I stare at him unabashedly because I can. As though maybe I’m supposed to, because hey, I’m his tutor. I need to watch over him and make sure he understands what’s going on, right?

“Can I make up the tests?” His deep voice wraps around me, making me warm, and I nod, staring into his dreamy eyes.

“Yes.”

He keeps staring at me as if he’s waiting for me to say something else, and I realize I do have more I need to say.

“You must finish the assignments leading up to the three tests you’ve missed first.” Leaning over, I point at the four assignments he missed that are listed before the first test. “So you turn those in, then you can complete the test.”

“What about these?” His index finger joins mine on the sheet of paper, tapping on the missing work just below the first test, his finger almost but not quite brushing mine.

I hold my breath, count to five. My insides are a fluttering, riotous mess, all because our fingers are close to each other on a piece of paper. “Same thing. Turn in the work, then take the test.” I sound all breathy and girlish. Like I’m trying to flirt, which I’m not.

Owen Maguire just puts me into a breathless, girlish state.

“Mmm-hmm.” He glances back up at me and our gazes meet. A lock of hair has fallen over his forehead and I want to push it back. Test its softness. Why is he looking at me like that? There’s no amusement, no mocking, no anger in his gaze. He’s looking at me as if he might … like me.

Yeah, right—you have completely lost your mind.

“You’ll help me?”

“That’s my job.” I nod.

“You’ll meet with me twice a week? Monday and Wednesday?”

I nod again. “Yeah.” Clearing my throat, I sit up straighter. “Yes. I will.”

He smiles. I like his smile. His teeth are straight. His lips are temptation. “Then we have a deal, Chelsea. See you Monday.”

Before I can say goodbye, he’s up and out of the chair, fleeing the room in a rush. I can almost believe he was never there in the first place.

Almost.