Tell Me Something Real Read online

  Colt’s eyes flick to Evie. “You heard me when I said he’s a rich prick, right?”

  Evie just raises a brow. “You’re kind of a prick, too, though, so maybe it just runs in the family.”

  A half smile lifts at Colt’s lips, and he leans forward like a total creeper. “Been hearing stories, Evie girl?”

  She punches him in the shoulder without much heat, and he leans back on a laugh. “Hard not to when half my teammates wax poetic about their night with you during one practice, and then complain and play like shit the next one when they realize you hit-it and quit-it.”

  Colt winces, and I snort out a laugh before draining my beer. “It’s not exactly like that, Evie, and you know it.”

  She stares at him for a second, and I swear, he stares right back the same way. But, then she shakes her head and motions back to Ford and Jacqueline, who are still surrounded. “What’s the story?”

  Colt shrugs and drains his own beer before fishing around in the cooler for another. When I hold my hand out, he hesitates. “I checked my levels and used insulin. Don’t mother me, Colton.”

  Grumbling, he passes me a beer and then gets his own. “Rich Boy got into trouble in Seattle. Mommy and Daddy didn’t know how to deal with it, so they sent him to live with his grandparents.”

  “Who are also your grandparents,” she says. Evie is putting together the pieces—ones that remind me why Colt hates his cousin so much.

  Albany is a small town—stories about people’s family don’t go away. And there are stories about the older Slaughter boys, and how they fell in love with same girl. One of them got the girl and moved away to become a billionaire. The other brother who wasn’t as book smart, and who wasn’t as fortunate to get an academic scholarship, instead got a local girl pregnant, married her at the insistence of his parents, joined the military and went to war, came home and got her pregnant a second time, and then killed himself after his fourth tour, right about the time his youngest son was old enough to understand what it all meant.

  Lore like that doesn’t disappear, not when this town is built off legends like the Slaughter boys. It feeds the town gossip wells for years, and the speculation never completely dies down. Now that Ford is here, the stories are sure to resurface at an exponential rate. I glance at Colt and see he’s already halfway through his new beer.

  “Hey, Colt. How come you didn’t tell me your cousin was in town? I would have come over sooner and given him a proper welcome.”

  We all look over to see Jacqueline and Ford standing a few feet away. Jacqueline is the girl that always looks like she’s stepped directly out of a magazine. Perfectly curled brown hair, short-shorts that display endlessly long legs, and a tank top that shows her rack.

  If I liked this girl even an ounce, I might be spurred to compliment her because she’s gorgeous, and I’m just the tiniest bit jealous. I don’t know if the tan is real or sprayed on, but it doesn’t matter because the perfect golden tone of her skin makes everything about her glow. But I don’t like her, so I don’t compliment her. Instead, I fall back on old faithful: the insult.

  “Well, Jackie, rumor has it the last boy you welcomed to town had to take antibiotics for ten days. We were just trying to save poor Ford here.”

  Jacqueline glares at me. “I heard that was you, Lincoln,” she shoots back. I just smile. “Looking classy as always. Goodwill having a sale today?” She swipes her eyes over my cutoffs, flipflops, and white tank-top, derision all over that thousand-dollar face—because in the way of the world, Jacqueline Foster does not have a blemish on that perfect skin of hers. No freckles, no pimples, no errant scar or mark. Smooth sailing—all of it.

  “Yeah, they told me you just dropped this stuff off, so I had to buy it.” She scoffs, rolling her eyes. I keep my grin on, and my body relaxed, tilting my can against my lips even though it’s empty.

  I hate this girl, and not just because she was Christopher Columbus when it came to finding new ways to terrorize everyone she deemed beneath her social status in middle school. She’s got it all, and still, it’s not enough. Having money and a family and friends and popularity and every other goddamn thing she’s ever wanted is not enough for Jacqueline Foster—she needs to be an asshole, too, just to prove she can.

  My eyes flit to the boy next to her. Ford looks ever the rich boy in his dark jeans and gray T-shirt with some sort of logo on it. Plain as they may be, it’s obvious these are no Wranglers or 501s with a Hanes T-shirt. Unlike Jacqueline, however, Ford does not seem hell bent on impressing anyone. His face is set in a straight line, and despite how Jackie girl keeps reaching out to pet him, his hands stay in his pockets.

  Colt sits forward, leaning his body between me and Evie while he takes another swallow from his can, laying on the country thick when he speaks. “Well, now, Jacqueline, the last time you and I spoke was in a dark corner at Grier’s party in June. You know, your boyfriend? Or is he an ex now? Anyway,” Colt continues. “My hand was in your skirt, and you were begging me to go faster.” His voice is nice and smooth, but it does the trick. Jacqueline’s face flames red, and her smile falls.

  “You’re a bastard, Colt Slaughter.”

  Jacqueline whips around, tugging on Ford’s arm. He follows her, and I wonder if it’s because he wants to, or because she’s really the only person he knows other than me and Colt. God knows Colt won’t be rolling out the welcome mat.

  We all wait a beat, watching them disappear to the other side of the bonfire. Ford takes a beer from someone, and soon enough, Jacqueline is back in her element, screaming and dancing with her friends, taking shots and making sure all the attention is on her.

  “Jacqueline Foster?” Evie eventually asks, turning her head to stare at Colt. “Why?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t discriminate, Evie girl. She was willing, and her skirt was small.”

  “So you lied. The stories the girls at practice tell me… it is exactly like that? You just do what you want with whoever you want, Colton Slaughter? Even the devil who terrorized you in middle school?”

  I raise my brows at Evie’s voice, not because it’s loud. No, she doesn’t make scenes like that. But it’s fierce, and her words… they’re pretty judgy. In all of our years of hanging out at parties or the lunch table, even the girl’s bathroom, Evie has never been the one to judge.

  Colt doesn’t react, just sips his beer, but I know him, and I know what he won’t say: sometimes, being with a girl like Jacqueline Foster, a girl who has everything we never have and has been more than happy to tell us about it, makes him feel in control. If he can get a girl like her to beg him, he can put her on his level and take the power away.

  Right or wrong, in the moment it’s not about the physical connection—or not just about that. It’s about how good it feels to prove that those people are no better than we are, not when it comes down to it.

  I know, because I’ve done the same. More than once.

  “Back off, Evie.” My words are just as fierce as hers, and her head whips to mine. “You don’t get to judge. Not us—not like that.”

  She stares at me a second, eyes wide and—maybe—a little hurt. I don’t budge, though. She and I may gravitate toward one another, but Colt is family. He will always come first.

  Without another word, Evie pushes off the tailgate, her feet carrying her quickly through the growing crowd and toward the mass of parked cars. Neither Colt nor I speak; we just watch her leave.

  “Is she right?”

  Goddammit. I shake my head, but Colt ignores me. “Is she right, Linc? Am I like that?” He doesn’t have to explain like what. I get it. Is he a bad person, taking what he wants without thought to anyone else?

  “If you are, so am I. Nobody here is innocent, Colt, least of all Jacqueline Foster. Did you force her?” I ask, staring straight at him.

  He actually winces. “Jesus, no. I would never do that. Not even drunk. Christ, Linc, you know I wouldn’t do that.”

  I nod.
“Yeah, well, so do you. Evie Wright is one of the good ones, Colt, but that doesn’t mean she knows us. She doesn’t know you—so don’t let her mess with you. If you banged Jacqueline Foster, it’s because you were both willing, and maybe it’s what you both needed in the moment. It’s not wrong to need something, or someone—not even if it’s a night with Jack-off Jackie.” This gets a small smile from him. “She’s not apologizing for it, so neither should you.”

  His face is all sorts of closed off for a minute—and I don’t break my stare. This… this is why Colt and I have always had each other, always needed each other. When other people who don’t know dick decide who we are, the other sets them, and us, straight.

  Finally, he nods and swallows. Then, he looks at my empty beer. “You really shouldn’t be drinking.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”

  He stops me before I can reach for another beer. “Did you do the math?”

  “Yes,” I snap. “Colton, back off. I’m fine. And just like Evie’s not allow to judge you for every stuck-up bitch you mess around with, you’re not allowed to judge me for every beer I have.”

  He stops, jaw working, and I know he’s deciding if he can trust me. I go to stand, and his hand on my leg stops me. “Linc.”

  “Stop.” He freezes. I hate the hurt I see in his eyes, but I hate his control more, and the fact that it’s gotten worse over the last couple of months. Colt… he’s floundering and desperate and determined to save me in the way he could never save his mom or dad. But I’m done being his project. “I own my disease, and I say where and when I don’t have to pander to it. Goddammit, sometimes it feels like that’s the only time I get to choose. Do you understand?” I ask, willing him to see. “We’re best friends, Colt. Nothing more. You don’t get to tell me what to do. Not now, not ever.”

  I reach around him and grab the small fifth of vodka he put into the cooler. But I don’t jump down and go find someone else—mostly because I know he’ll worry all night if I leave. Instead, I hold it out to him, one last peace offering. “Now, best friend, want to get drunk and make bad decisions?”

  After a second, he nods, tugging me down so I’m sitting next to him. “You read my mind.”

  It’s amazing how high school rituals are the same at the base, no matter the time, place, or money involved.

  Last year at this time, I was at a million-dollar home on Lake Washington. Despite the fact that the beer was IPA, the liquor top shelf, and the drugs designer, the outcome was a lot like what I see now: drunk and sloppy.

  I’m less drunk, and more pleasantly foggy, but the feeling is nice all the same. After two weeks of doing nothing but working all day, scrubbing the dirt from my body well after dark, and falling into a too-small twin bed, a tallboy of Coors and a few hits from someone else’s weed are a welcome reprieve.

  Even if they do come at the mercy of Jacqueline Foster.

  When she showed up at the farm earlier, she had some bullshit line ready for Beau and Maggie about how Colt had asked her to come and get me. I don’t think they bought it, even though Colt and I have calmed down from punching each other every day to hostile silence when we’re in each other’s presence.

  But, because I was desperate to get out, I latched onto her story and went with it. Beau and Maggie let me, which might mean they were just as desperate for me to go somewhere else. The entire seventy minute ride, Jacqueline yapped about everything she’d heard about me, how excited she was to meet me, and did I know she followed me on Instagram?

  It was a relief to finally get out of the car, but then we came face-to-face with Colt and Lincoln, and it was apparent Jacqueline had other motives when coming to retrieve me this evening: this girl was a shit stirrer of the worst kind.

  She was also desperate for attention and notoriety, and I was her current trump card—the rich boy she was going to drag around to use as social currency.

  I’d been a lot worse in my life. Like an almost-murderer.

  I roll my nearly empty beer can in my hands and wonder if I’m playing it wrong staying semi-sober. I usually like to be in control enough to remember everything that happens—especially when someone like Jacqueline has made her presence, and her affection, known. There are crazier things than girls taking advantage of rich guys and producing a positive pregnancy test down the road.

  If there’s one thing my parents agreed on when raising me, it was to tell me as often as possible how easy it is for some girl to take what she wants if I am not careful. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve never been the super drunk guy. A little buzzed, a little high, and a lot angry, but never the out of control, sloppy drunk.

  Which means, if I’m going to be here and be sober enough to hear everything, I’m going to need a break. Now.

  Tapping Jacqueline on the hip so she’ll stand up from my lap—a place she planted herself earlier—I stand from the camp chair near the back corner that I commandeered earlier. The ground doesn’t spin, and it only takes me a couple blinks to bring my focus back in full. Definitely not drunk.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Bathroom,” I say, side-stepping her. When she tugs on my hand and looks at me playfully from under her lashes, I try not to be too much of a dick when shaking her off. This girl was a savior from boredom, but I don’t do clingy. Or pushy.

  “Want company?”

  Her meaning is clear, and because I’m a guy who hasn’t had the company of anything beyond his hand in the past couple months, I consider her offer for a second. It’s somewhat appealing—but not yet. Not now, when I’m outside and still can’t breathe enough.

  “Maybe later,” I say, and walk away. She won’t follow me, but she won’t leave either. I know girls like Jacqueline Foster, have known them my whole life. If anything, that rejection will serve to gain me more later on than if I had said yes the first time.

  I make my way from one side of the bonfire to the next, staying near the perimeter to avoid people. As much as I needed out earlier tonight, I need space even more right now—space from the stares and looks and people hoping to latch on. Halfway through the maze of truck tailgates and chairs, I spot Colt in a darkened corner, a girl on his lap… who isn’t Lincoln.

  Maybe she got tired of his bossy ass, or just tired, and he’s stepping out while she’s passed out somewhere. Both scenarios are possible, but while I continue toward the edge where our campsite meets the trees, and then the lake, I hope it’s the first.

  I stand in the trees and empty my bladder, walking down toward the water when I’m done. I hear other people every now and then, and I walk away from their voices, needing the silence.

  It’s not the lake that impresses me—there’s nothing quite like the Sound at night, or riding the ferry to Whidbey or Orcas or the San Juans—but the water pulls me after days spent inland with only brown farmland to look at.

  I don’t miss Seattle—not in the way that I should. Doubles start on Monday, which means my old football team is getting ready to go back to work, and my friends are all coming home from vacation and planning their schedules for senior year.

  And I’m here, in bumfuck Oregon, with a cousin who would just as soon punch me as speak to me, and grandparents who walk on eggshells around me, as unsure what to say to the grandson they haven’t seen in eighteen years as I am to them.

  I hate it here, but I don’t miss it there. Not the people, the parties…my parents. Not the person I was, though fuck knows who I am here, if I’m different or just less.

  Since introspection is the one thing I don’t want, and it’s too goddamn dark to see the water anyway, I turn and head back to the party, thinking maybe a few more beers and a night of letting Jacqueline prove to me all of the ways she’s superior to Seattle girls is just what I need to forget about the pressure in my chest that makes me feel like I’m suffocating.

  When the campsite comes into view, I take the same roundabout way back, pausing when I see Lincoln sitting on Colt’s tailgat
e again, a beer in her hand while she hangs out all alone. For a second, I look at her and feel the slightest bit of envy, like she’s alone but not lonely.

  Pausing next to her, I follow her line of sight to where Colt is still sitting, the girl in his lap now straddling him. “Trouble in paradise?”

  Lincoln blinks once, twice, bright blue eyes slightly hazy when they look up at me. I incline my head at my asshole cousin when she’s unable to connect the dots. “I’ve upset him,” she says.

  “Seems to be all you do,” I tell her, and feel my stomach knot when she murmurs, “Lately, anyway.”

  A different girl from a different place flashes through my mind, and I can’t stop myself. “You know there are groups to help you, right? Full of women who have already been down this road.” The knot only gets tighter when her brow furrows in confusion. Anger that has no place inside of me spews up and out, and I have to work to keep my voice removed. “You’re what, seventeen? There’s still time to keep yourself from being a punching bag for the rest of your life if you’re ready. But hey, if it’s true love, who am I to stop you?”

  “You think that’s what this is?” she says, stopping me before I push away from the truck. I hate that her face looks irate—and that her confusion is genuine. “What, I’m so poor, so desperate for love, that I’m some weak girl who let’s Colt hurt me, use me? He’s your cousin, and you think he would do that?”

  “He’s nothing to me,” I say, and mean it. “Just like it looks like you’re nothing to him. It’s a power play,” I tell her before she can interrupt me and tell me how much he really cares about her, how he would never do that. She would believe it—the words are written all over her face, and I hate that she’s like every other girl I know: desperate, ignorant, willing to settle for less because she can’t see that there is more.

  Jesus, tell me there’s more.

  “My dad uses it all the time. It’s simple: all he has to do is find someone, pay attention to her, ignore my mom, show her just how easily replaced she is, and bam, she falls in line. Classic emotional warfare, and your boyfriend seems to know his way around the battlefield.”