Winter (Four Seasons #1)

by Frankie Rose

  ******

  As usual, through diabolical and nefarious means, Morgan gets what she wants and later that night I find myself pressed up against a horny leprechaun-ette and a shirtless guy who’s torso is panted green. Whether that’s an Irish thing or not I don’t know, but he certainly smells of whiskey. When their make out session develops into heavy petting, I decide enough is enough. Morgan is talking to Tate by the kegs, laughing behind her hand the way she does when she’s flirting. She thinks her smile is bad because her lower teeth are slightly crooked. She should be thanking her lucky stars she wasn’t forced through the nightmarish dentistry ordeals I was as a kid, just to satisfy her mother’s vain pursuit of possessing the ‘perfect’ child. Yeah, that’s right—possessing. Like I was an inanimate object or something.

  Morgan and Tate have had an on-off thing for the past six months, and watching them skirt around each other, pretending to be only vaguely interested, is getting really boring.

  “I’m leaving,” I announce when I manage to shove my way through the crowd towards them. Morgan drops her hand from her mouth and scowls at me.

  “No way, we just got here!”

  “It’s one thirty. We’ve been here three hours, and I’m sick of random douche bags with green face paint grinding on me and calling me darlin’. No one can pull off a decent Irish accent when they’re wasted.”

  “There are a couple of Irish people here. I bet they can,” Tate interjects.

  I hitch an eyebrow. “Regardless of any genuine, bone fide Irish people in attendance at this party, it’s still time to go home.”

  Morgan jabs me with her index finger, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to tell me I’m ruining her chances of a night of fun with Tate. “You’re a complete buzz kill, young lady.”

  “Don’t worry, you can stay. I’m all right to walk back on my own.”

  “No way. Didn’t you read the college orientation and safety handbook? No walking alone at night.” Morgan shoots Tate an apologetic look and shrugs. “Maybe we could catch up tomorrow night instead?”

  Tate looks put out as Morgan slips her arms through the sleeves of the jacket she’d already been holding in her hand. He’d clearly been about five seconds away from getting lucky. “Sure. We could rent a movie. Night, ladies.” He turns and disappears into the press of bodies leaping up and down to the sounds of Jump Around by House Of Pain, and Morgan pokes her tongue out at me.

  “I could strangle you sometimes.” She grins as she says this, though, and I know she’ll forgive me before we reach our building.

  We don’t get that far. Halfway down the steps leading from the frat house, a police car pulls up on the sidewalk, the red and blues rotating, throwing tall shadows across the street. The girls in tiny green mini skirts and high heels, smoking outside, scatter when the siren buzzes, squealing like morons.

  “Shit!” Morgan mutters. “Can we get by without them talking to us?”

  “Don’t freak out. It’s probably just a noise complaint.”

  “No, Ave. I don’t wanna get caught up with these guys tonight.”

  I know Morgan doesn’t exactly have a healthy respect for the law, but there’s no reason she should be so worried about getting a three-second telling off. “Don’t freak out, it’s going to be fine.”

  I immediately regret my words. When the doors of the police car open and the two officers step out, my stomach falls through the floor. “Oh, shit!”

  “What? What?” Morgan grips hold of my arm so hard she cuts off the circulation.

  “Nothing, it’s just…”

  Luke Reid. Luke Reid is what. I haven’t seen him in his uniform in almost four years, but he still looks smoking hot in it. Luke was the all-star hero of Breakwater High. Girls dropped at his feet like swooning maidens in distress in the hope that he would catch them as they fell. I’d been dazed by him in the same way most fourteen year olds are dazed by god-like seniors. People had actually mourned when he’d graduated, students and teachers alike. He’d passed on a full ride to college courtesy of a football scholarship to join the police force. He kept in touch with me after he left for one reason and one reason only. A reason I don’t want to think about right now. A reason I’ve tried to forget all about in the three months since I moved to New York City and successfully managed to avoid him.

  His black hair is shorter than usual but still a little longer than it probably should be. Same deep brown eyes. Same strong jaw line. Shock registers on his face when he catches sight of me. He pauses for a second as he walks around the car, taking a moment to rein in the surprise of me tripping down a set of frat house steps in one of Morgan’s impossibly short tube dresses. I cringe at the look on his face. He doesn’t seem too impressed.

  “Iris?”

  My whole body shrinks away from that name. I glance at Morgan and see the surprise in her eyes. I told her my real name, but she’s never heard anyone use it. “Iris? Does this guy know you?”

  “I’ll explain later,” I whisper. Doing my best to pretend I am one hundred percent sober, I take a deep breath and face Luke. “Hey.” I give him a weak ass smile. “Been a while.”

  “Yeah…” He looks quickly from me to Morgan and back again, clearly trying to piece everything together in his head. “I went back to Break a couple of months ago. Stopped by Brandon’s but he said your mom had shipped you up here to college. I did a search but I couldn’t find you registered anywhere.”

  My cheeks redden. He searched the police database to find out which school I was attending? Does the police database even contain that kind of information? I shiver and pull myself closer to Morgan. She is as stiff as a board, staring straight at Luke. I nod, biting my lip.

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t have. I changed my name. I didn’t want…I didn’t…”

  “I understand,” he says, saving me from saying it. Loud shouts and cheers leak out onto the street as the doors fly open and three girls teeter down the steps behind us. They immediately freeze, their hyena-like laughter paused as soon as they land eyes on Luke and his partner. At first I think it’s because they’re cops, but the tallest one, a brunette with smoky, dark, fuck me eye make up squeals and rushes forward, placing a well manicured hand over her ample cleavage. “Oh my god, you’re Luke Reid, aren’t you?”

  Luke looks seriously uncomfortable. Like he just got caught with his pants down in a big way. His partner rolls his eyes. “Here we go again.”

  Luke clears his throat. “I’m on duty, ladies. Have you been drinking tonight?”

  The smile drops from the brunette’s face. Her blonde friends grab her by either arm and start guiding her down the stairs. “No! No way, officer. We were just leaving,” one chuckles nervously. From the look on the brunette’s face, she might just be willing to get busted drinking underage if it means she gets to stay and talk for another minute. She’s walking backwards, mouth open, as her drunk buddies drag her away.

  I can’t help it. I have to ask. “What the hell was that?”

  Luke rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away. “I’ve played a couple of times in a few bars. Sometimes people recognize me.”

  Luke’s always played guitar, not that I ever really got to hear him. When we were at school, it was enough for most of us love sick teenagers to sit and observe him and his friends from a distance. He always seemed pretty shy about playing, anyway. Always did it somewhere far from lunch crowds. And now he’s apparently playing in bars? “What, like in a band?”

  Luke’s partner answers before he can even open his mouth. “Yeah. Reid’s quite the celebrity. We got us some One Direction shit right here.”

  Luke bites down on his jaw, his embarrassment suddenly gone. In fact, he looks seriously pissed off. “Can you just shut the hell up? Go inside and scare some teenagers, will you? Fuck.”

  His partner shrugs, completely unaffected. “Whatever you say, man.” He stomps up the steps, one hand on the hilt of his night stick like he’s planning on making use of
it any second now. Cheering blares out into the night again as he lets himself inside. Luke rubs at the back of his neck, staring at my feet.

  “So, uh, you’re tearing up the place, huh? We’ve had five phone calls about loud music and disturbance at this address.”

  I look back at the house, seeing all the drunk people, painted green, laughing and swigging back beer inside. It doesn’t look great that I’m stumbling out of the building, especially since those girls a moment ago weren’t the only ones not old enough to be drinking. “We were just leaving, too, actually.”

  “Oh.” Luke stares at me for a moment, his dark eyebrows twitching like he wants to frown. “Hey, why don’t you guys wait until we’re done here? This’ll only take a second. I’d really like to talk to you, Iri—” He breaks off, and I catch the hurt look in his eye. He doesn’t know what to call me.

  “Avery,” I say quietly.

  “Avery.” He nods. “It’s nice. I’ll get used to it.”

  I send him a faintly apologetic smile and clear my throat. “We’re in a rush to get home. I have to be up real early. Could we catch up another time?”

  The radio over Luke’s breast pocket squeals, making Morgan jump out of her skin. Static fills the air for a second before Luke leans down and speaks into it.

  “Unit 23 responding to noise complaint. Copy.” He looks torn as he allows another couple of girls to skitter off down the street. “I really have to sort this out. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  Morgan’s fingernails dig into my arm. What the hell is her problem? “Tomorrow’s fine. I have to study for my midterms, but yeah…”

  “Okay, tomorrow. Write down your number.” He hands me his notebook, which has his police number and an embossed golden badge on the front. I flip it open, looking up to find him watching me as I quickly scribble down my cell phone number. I give it back and he purses his lips. “Thanks.”

  We pass on the steps as Morgan and I descended and he goes up, and I see that look in his eye that always makes me dread our ‘catch ups’. It’s pity. I hate being looked at like that. As Morgan and I make our way back towards campus, I wish I’d been sober or smart enough to write down the wrong number.

  Two

  Rosito’s