Page 15 of Try Me
Ha. Maybe next year. Maybe never.
See you on the court, I guess.
Yeah.
Simple and to the point.
Right before freshman year of high school, my dad left the company he’d helped Mr. Farrow build, and our parents had ceased being friends, just like that. It proved a ruthless and unexpected karate chop to my longest friendship. My dad had never outright warned me against hanging out with Mark after that, but it was implied in everything he said about his family, the words he tossed around.Power-hungry, untrustworthy, asshole. But the way Mark avoided me suggested his dad had been far more explicit. And then school started and I got my first girlfriend, Marilyn, who was game for things I’d only dreamed of. Mark faded into the background, just a dude I’d once hung out with.
The last text I’d received from him before college came the morning after I’d crawled into his window:I’m sorry about everything with your dad. Wish it was different. You can come over anytime. I can sneak you in. But I get why you wouldn’t want to.
The next several messages had occurred right after Cam overdosed, telling me what hospital room he was in and ending with:Don’t contact me again.
I scrolled back down and erased my message. Fuck him.
* * *
“Heads up!”
I stuck my hand up and caught the wet rag just before it nailed me. A waft of fry grease lifted from the cloth as I shot a glare over my shoulder that dissolved at Luke’s stupid grin.
“Nice warning.” I lobbed the rag back at him, then grabbed a clean one from the pile beside me and started tackling the next fryer. Technically, I wasn’t even supposed to be cleaning the thing. I was a server. But the breakfast crowd was slow for a Monday, and the fryer had been acting funky all morning.
I lifted the handle, inspected the underside of the fry basket, and took a rag to the heating element, which was coated in sticky grease that clung to my nail beds.
“Pynch.”
Luke’s voice was way too close. I kicked my left leg back and grinned as he yelped.
“Yeah?” Baking soda. That was what I needed. I dropped the basket back down and straightened.
“Party tonight at Meecham’s.”
“Maybe.” I nudged Luke aside and dug beneath the prep table for the baking soda. “Got internship orientation this afternoon. Not sure I’ll be up for much after.”
Luke made a face that I ignored, then prodded my shoulder. He was a touchy fucker, and his poke inexplicably brought forth the memory of Mark, the slight give in his muscular shoulders last night when I’d grabbed him.
Once again, I deeply,deeplyregretted not answering Mark’s request to meet with the “fuck off” he deserved. We’d been like oil and water for years. That I’d had to force myself to peel away from his hard body and the thick cock throbbing so fucking ready in my hand was infuriating. I’d hooked up with plenty of guys. Plenty of straight boys testing the flexibility of their sexuality, even, which was often entertaining. I didn’t give a shit. Fun was fun and who cared whether or not the dude wanted to acknowledge you in public the next day?Mark Farrow isn’t every other guy, though, is he?No, I answered my own internal musings. He was much more dangerous. Engine of catastrophe. Frat boy extraordinaire. Wealthy beyond belief. And a douche. He was everything I should despise wrapped in a six-foot frame of casually honed muscle that probably came from pickup football or basketball with his bros.
“Yeah?”
“What?” I blinked at Luke, lost.
“Meecham told me he scored big.”
Oh. “I told you already, I’m not doing that shit anymore, haven’t for months.” Which meant I probably needed to stay away from that party. If Meecham had scored, he’d likely try to get me to help unload it like he had last time. I wasn’t that desperate now, though. I’d finally managed to get my shit together. Well, barring last night. But I’d count that as an exceptional instance of poor judgment.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and after a quick glance at it, I shoved the rag in Luke’s hand, telling him, “Wet it and put baking soda on it, then scrub that nasty shit off the element before Vic comes back here and raises hell.”
I ignored Luke’s lewd comment as I stepped out the kitchen exit and onto the back patio that shared space with a dumpster and an overflowing bucket of cigarette butts. Upnodding Jenna, who stood next to the bucket smoking, I ducked behind the dumpster and accepted the call.
“Hey, Corny, what’s up?”
My baby sis exhaled a dramatic sigh that was right at home among all the other histrionics that had invaded her vocabulary since she’d turned thirteen. “Mom’s stuck at work. Again. And I need a ride to the movies. Also, you know I hate it when you call me that.” She used to love it, used to erupt in a fit of high-pitched giggles that would make me laugh in response every time.
The dumpster in front of me caught the brunt of my frustration as I thunked my head against it. “Where’s Mrs. Fessenbein? She’s supposed to be checking on you every hour.” I’d met her a couple of times and couldn’t say I had much faith in her actually adhering to that promise, though. She’d always seemed far more interested in her three cats.
“She had to go get groceries.”