by Penny Reid
“Come on now, it can’t be that bad.” She placed her hands on her hips, reprimanding me, but also sounding winded.
I glared at her. Surely, death would be preferable to the intensity of pain I was experiencing. It was . . . indescribable. Unfathomable.
She glared back, her eyebrows lifting a notch as she fitted her lips between her teeth. It became clear a second later she was trying not to laugh as I writhed on the ground. After several minutes, Scarlet reached out her hand.
I moved my glare to it, suddenly reminded of that day last week when I’d accidentally knocked her down coming out of the men’s room. I’d offered her my hand then and she’d acted like it was poison. I suspected it was because she didn’t want anyone to see us together. The Wraith kids didn’t fare well if they were seen interacting with outsiders. I wasn’t exactly an outsider, but still. I understood.
Then, not five minutes later, she came walking out of the back hall and into the cafeteria, being pulled around by Ben McClure. Predictably, that had caused quite a stir. It was all the gossips at school had talked about for the last week, and though I was tired of hearing about it, I was also irritated no one seemed to be talking about the real issue.
What Ben McClure had done—pulling her through the cafeteria for everyone to see—had been monumentally stupid and reckless. That kind of thing would get back to her father, and he wouldn’t like it. I didn’t know Razor except for glimpses I’d caught of him at Wraith picnics and such when I was a kid, but I remember being convinced he was the boogeyman. He was the most terrifying bastard I’d ever laid eyes on.
And yet, this was typical Big Ben McClure. Taking what he wanted, whenever he wanted, and not thinking about the ramifications to anyone but himself. He’d always been dense and selfish.
I rolled away, deciding to stand on my own. Besides, Scarlet was significantly smaller than me. Her offering a hand to help me up was like when toddler Roscoe offered to help me paint the library.
I made it to my hands and knees, then my knees, then one foot, contemplating death the entire way to standing.
Scarlet stood too, wrapping her arms around herself and eyeing me with a wary expression that reminded me of Cletus’s dog. “I thought you hated the woods.” Her voice was soft, and for the first time since knowing her, I heard the musical quality of it. She really had a remarkable voice.
“I do hate the woods.” I glanced over my shoulder, again uncertain from which direction we’d come. Frustrating.
“Then why are you in the woods?”
Sliding my eyes back to her, I took a moment to inspect Scarlet St. Claire. The first thing I noticed—likely because I was a teenage boy—was that this Scarlet didn’t look much like herself anymore. But then, when was the last time I’d taken the time or had the inclination to look at her?
Scarlet and I had, on more than one occasion, played together as kids. Though play might not be the right word for it. Bicker is more accurate.
Presently, all of that seemed like a long time ago, because Scarlet definitely didn’t look like the Scarlet I remembered. Yeah, she still had her freckles and red hair, her light blue eyes, and her big old bossy mouth. But she was—what? Fourteen now? And she was one of those girls whose body looked older than her age.
Waiting for me to answer, she held herself tighter and shivered under my inspection. And that’s when I realized she was in a tank top and leggings—great for showing off her body, horrible for protecting against an uncommonly cold winter.
Ignoring her question, I asked, “What are you doing out here?” Cursing under my breath, I pulled off my coat and shoved it at her. “Take this.”
The redhead twisted away, dismissing my offer of warmth. “It’s none of your business what I’m doing, Billy Winston.” She still sounded winded, and with one last glare, she walked past me.
Scowling, I followed, knowing I’d have to ask her help to get out of here. For the time being I would have to follow, and following wasn’t something I particularly enjoyed doing.
“Fine.” I trailed after her, not sure what to do with my jacket. I didn’t want to put it back on, not when she was obviously freezing. It didn’t seem right.
Abruptly, she stopped and spun on me, her eyes crinkled and shooting fire. “You don’t own these lands and I’m allowed to camp wherever I please.”
She was wrong. Our property did extend back this far, or I was pretty sure it did. But I was tired of fighting—with Cletus, with Jet—and I needed to get home.
So rather than tell her she was wrong, I said, “Whatever.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not angry I’ve set up camp here?”
I didn’t want to lie and say everything was hunky dory, but I needed her help. Her daddy, Razor Dennings, was the president of my father’s MC club. Her momma was Razor’s old lady, Christine St. Claire. That made Scarlet Razor’s only semi-legitimate offspring. Razor had other kids, but none that he’d officially claimed.
The point was, her parents being who they were made her a dangerous person to know or associate with. I knew she and Cletus were friendly, and I’d warned him against the association more than once, but then he was always picking up strays.
I deflected with a question of my own. “Who’d you think I was? When I came into your camp?”
Scarlet lifted her chin. “I thought you were your daddy.”
I felt my eyes narrow, my mouth curve downward. “You thought I was Darrell?”
She gave me a cagey look. “Y’all have many similarities.”
“You mean I look just like him.” I hated the rising emotion clogging my throat as I thought and said these words. I beat it back.
“That, and how you’re both—” Scarlet frowned, stopping midthought. She turned abruptly and began walking again.
I fell in step beside her. “And how we’re both what?”
“Uh, nothing.” Scarlet lifted her chin, clearly fighting a shiver, and seemed to inspect me out of the corner of her eye.
I set my jacket on her shoulders, unable to stand her shivering any longer. “No. Not nothing. You were saying, and how you’re both what?”
Usually, I wouldn’t take the bait. Usually. But something about her voice, the quickness of her frown just now, and mostly that she’d known me her whole life and yet wouldn’t take my hand when offered last week had me pushing to know her thoughts.
Scarlet stopped, huffing, pushing my jacket off. I reached forward before she could and tugged the edges firmly together, buttoning the top button, then the one lower down. “Just take the damn jacket. Watching you shiver and turn blue is making me cold.”
That was true. I wasn’t cold in the car with Cletus, or standing outside with Jet, but something about her shivering made my bones ache.
Watching me warily, like I couldn’t be trusted and my honest concern was some sort of trick, she slowly fit her hands through the arms of my coat. “Well now. I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable,” she said firmly.
I lowered my eyelids by half at her statement, like she was the one doing me a favor by taking my jacket. Whatever.
“Just finish your sentence. What else do Darrell and I have in common?”
Taking a deep breath, she seemed to lean away, shift her weight backward as we stared at each other. “Just forget it.”
“No. Tell me.” My voice came out gentle, a hint of pleading there. But that was no matter. Perverse or not, I truly wanted to know how I was like my father. So I can fix it, change it, be better.
Scarlet’s lashes flickered and the hard, stubborn set of her jaw relaxed, just a little. “I was going to say, that you look like him, yeah. But also, you’re both real good at making folks feel their, uh, position.”
“Feel their position?” I searched her eyes and then her face, like I might find the meaning to her words written there.
“You know, their standing. Their pecking order. Whatever you want to call it.” She tucked the bottom half of her face inside my jacket, warming
her nose while she watched me watch her.
Feel their position.
Their standing.
Their pecking order.
Mystified, I squinted at her. “Are you calling me a snob?”
Her red eyebrows lifted, and she shrugged. Turning on her heel, she walked away. I stared at the spot where she’d been standing, and then I turned my head and stared at her back, wearing my jacket. Shaking myself, I jogged after her until we were mostly side by side again.
“That’s nonsense.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her shrug again, like she didn’t care whether or not I believed her. I grit my teeth.
“Darrell is a snob? Really?”
She nodded. “Yep. A big snob, actually. You’ve seen him at the club when we were kids, correcting folks’ English, speaking over their heads, making jokes at their expense and they have no idea. Your daddy is smart—real smart—better at most everything than anyone else in the club, and he doesn’t let anyone forget it. You know how often he brings up that he married your momma? That he’s better than everyone, more cultured? All the time. Everyone else is dirt and he’s a king.”
My tongue tasted bitter, because her words rang true. Darrell was like that with us before Momma separated from him. Superior is what Duane called it. And one of the main reasons Darrell disliked Cletus so much was because Cletus knew more than him and would correct him.
Nothing aggravated Darrell more than a person who was stronger, smarter, better-looking, more charismatic, more respected. More feared.
But I wasn’t like that.
Shoving my hands in my jeans pockets, I conceded, “Yeah, that’s Darrell. But that’s not me.”
I glanced at Scarlet just in time to see a small smile claim her face before she hid it. She said nothing, but the smile was enough to communicate her thoughts loud and clear.
“I’m not like that.”
“Whatever, Billy.”
Frowning, because whatever was what I said to Cletus when he ranted, or Duane when he was moody, or Beau when he had a crazy idea. No one said whatever to me.
“I’m not, Scarlet.” Breathing out my frustration, I stopped her again with a light hand at her elbow. “Maybe you just don’t know me.”
“Sure. Maybe.” Another quick smile as she peered up at me, there and hidden. Her gaze grew less wary and more candid. “But why would I know you? You’re Billy Winston. You’re a straight-A student, star quarterback of the football team, grandson of the illustrious John Oliver, destined for greatness, the envy of all who know you. You’re a king. And everyone else . . .?” She shrugged again, and this time when she smiled, she let me see it. “Sound familiar?”
“I don’t brag.” I frowned severely, her words making me defensive, uncomfortable. She doesn’t even know me.
. . . But why would she?
“You don’t need to brag.” Her smile widened and she looked at me like I was funny. Again, she turned, leading the way back to the camp and not waiting for me to follow. “That’s the difference between you and Darrell. He brags ’cause he ain’t so certain. His superiority is questionable, even to him.”
I walked behind her as she chattered on, each of her words reaching me just fine.
“But you? You’re certain. You don’t even think about it. It’s just who you are. So, no. You don’t brag. Because, why would you?”
I didn’t know which part of her claims to dispute first, it was all such nonsense. I was certain? Certain of what? Certain I was making a mess of everything? Certain I never had enough time to get everything that needed being done finished? Certain I lacked the knowledge and skill required to keep our house from falling apart?
I wasn’t certain. I was . . . drowning. And I almost said so. In fact, it was on the tip of my tongue as I followed her wordlessly through the woods.
I’m drowning. Everything is falling apart. Help me.
Instead, I pressed my lips together and rubbed my forehead, because asking Scarlet for help would truly be nonsense. We didn’t know each other, not anymore. And how exactly could she help? She was homeless for all intents and purposes.
And why was that? Why was she out here instead of at home? And how did she get Grandma’s blanket? And why was I talking to her or giving her opinion any weight? And why, until moments ago, was she someone I never wanted to know?
This last question was easy, and it had nothing to do with me being superior like Darrell and everything to do with keeping my family safe.
And yet, she couldn’t help who her parents were any more than I could.
. . . Do you want to know her now?
Glowering at the ground, I shook my head. Nothing had changed. I didn’t want to know her and that didn’t make me a snob. I wasn’t a snob. I was confused, that’s all. Tired and confused. I’d say I needed to go on a run, clear my head, except I’d already run three miles today during practice.
No. I didn’t want to know her. But I still needed to get out of these woods, which meant I would have to ask her for help. And once I was out, I’d talk to Momma about Scarlet’s camp, see if she could . . . I don’t know. Relocate her? Maybe get her in a shelter or something? There had to be something we could do to help. It was too cold for anyone to be sleeping in a tent.
“Here we are.”
I looked up, expecting to see Scarlet’s campsite, but was instead greeted by the end of the tree line, dead wildflowers, grass, and my family’s home in the distance.
“We’re at our field,” I said and thought.
“That’s right. I figured you didn’t want to camp with me, so I walked you home.”
I turned to her, searching her upturned face for . . . something. But there wasn’t anything. No problems for me to solve, no expectations for me to live up to (or down to). Nothing. Just Scarlet and her light blue eyes, freckles, and big old bossy mouth.
She met my stare directly, her features impassive. After a long moment, she stuck out her hand, giving me a small smile. It was genuine enough, but it wasn’t exactly friendly.
Inhaling, coming to myself, I looked from her hand to her face, taking the offered fingers. As my palm slid against hers, I stiffened at the little shock of electricity that passed from her to me, or from me to her, impossible to tell the direction. It was cold and dry. Little static shocks weren’t common, but they weren’t unusual either.
“Goodbye, Billy,” she said, holding my stare as our hands were held suspended between us, not moving. “Have a nice life.”
My eyes narrowed at the finality of her words and I felt the side of my mouth kick up a smidge. “I’ll see you at school, Scarlet.”
Her smile widened, like I amused her, but it still lacked any trace of friendliness. “No you won’t.” She withdrew her hand.
With that, she turned and walked back into the woods.
For some reason, I watched her go. I tracked her red hair until she was indistinguishable from the trees and bushes and grays and browns. Only then, when she’d disappeared, did I turn from the forest and make my way across the barren field for home. Tired, spent, her words still irritated me. But at the same time, I also felt strangely peaceful. Calm instead of just faking it.
She really does have an amazing singing voice. I wonder if she’s had lessons.
I doubted it. My sister had a pretty voice, but Scarlet’s was something else. Something more. It was angelic for sure, but in a wild sort of way. Robust was the word that came to mind. Someone should give her lessons.
I knew how to play the guitar. I’d taught myself in eighth grade so our momma wouldn’t make me dance. I played the guitar and sang while she forced Cletus and Beau and Duane to stand up with both her and Ashley. Roscoe got out of it only because he was still short. But when he grew up, I reckoned our momma would make him dance with her as well.
Oddly, I had the sudden urge to pick up my guitar tonight. I still had homework to do, chores, needed to check on Roscoe, make sure Cletus’s face was cleaned up, see if Ashley
survived her time with the twins. But I’d find the time. Maybe I’ll ask Ash to sing with me.
Yeah. I’d ask Ash. We’d sing, I’d play, and Momma and Duane would dance. He acted like he hated it, but I suspected he loved dancing. Out of all of us, he was the best.
Things settled, I gathered one more bracing breath of the winter twilight and jogged the last few feet to the house. It wasn’t until I was climbing the back porch steps that I realized Scarlet still had my jacket.
Chapter Four
*Scarlet*
“Certainly no one has ever died of an unrequited passion—it's usually the ones that are requited that get people in trouble.”
Mercedes Lackey, Four & Twenty Blackbirds
“Pssst.”
I paused shuffling the books within my locker and glanced over my shoulder. Cletus.
“Pssst,” he repeated.
Scrunching my nose, I faced him fully—not more than two feet away—and his pssst. “What is it?” I used my normal voice.
“Scarlet,” he whispered loudly, like he wasn’t standing right there at my shoulder, and I wasn’t standing right here in front of him.
“I can hear you just fine, Cletus Winston. So stop being a loony and just spit it out.” And hurry up. The next bell was about to ring and I needed to get these books out of my bag before the weekend started. No way was I carrying these suckers a mile and a half to the library, and then another five and a half miles in the opposite direction to my tent.
“You want to go to the library after school?” He leaned against the locker next to mine, shoving a mess of unruly hair out of his eyes. “I’ll walk you.” He grinned.
Cletus hardly ever grinned. He wasn’t really the grinning sort, which meant Cletus was in an unusually good mood. Further proof, his eyes were bright and glittery, reminding me of Fourth of July sparklers. I could guess why, probably for the same reason I was in such a good mood: Prince King and two of the other Wraith kids had been expelled on Wednesday.
The week hadn’t started off so good. It had been fine, but not good. Last weekend, I’d been faced with a quandary, as Cletus liked to say. I had Billy Winston’s jacket, but I didn’t wish to interact with him if I could help it. Luckily, since it was a letterman jacket, it had his last name written in big letters on the back.