The Guy in the Middle (The Underdogs Book 3)

by Kate Stewart

  “I’m just trying to snap you out of this funk, Lance.”

  “It’s not a funk, Harper, this is my reality,” I hold my hands up. “This is inescapable, and I have to deal with it every day. So, while this may be a vacation for you, this is my future, and I’m here, day in day out, trying to hold onto it. I’m losing my father,” my voice cracks and it only angers me further, “to an illness I can’t afford to help him fight. My little brother has nothing, nothing, a guy his age should have. He’s still running on smiles and hand-me-downs, and even when he gets a job, he won’t have shit because we’re sticking every dime we have into a sinking ship. So no, Harper, I don’t want to go break free and have a few beers because it won’t help shit.”

  I leave her there in the middle of the field and head toward the barn.

  Harper

  Sending off a FaceTime request for the third time, René finally picks up.

  “Hey, Mami! How is Texas?”

  Just as I open my mouth to speak, my face crumbles.

  “Oh chit, Ricky told me it was home of da steers and queens, maybe I the one who chud of gone to Texas.”

  Laughter bursts from me as I try and suck up some of my disappointment. “Not exactly the saying, but if only that were true, it’d be a much happier place. Can you come?”

  “No can do. What’s wrong, sweetedheart?”

  “I need a rainbow day, bad.”

  “He’s still punishings ju?”

  “Yeah,” I look across the pasture at Lance, who’s slinging rope with Tony. Today was substantially warm for mid-winter, and I’ve been roaming the grounds by myself since Lance has spent most of the day avoiding me. “I don’t know how to get through to him.”

  “Come home. He came for ju once, maybe he do it again.”

  “He’s talking to me less and less. I’ve tried everything. He keeps telling me I’m acting like a child and that I think this is some sort of vacation.”

  “Oh chit. Dis is bad.”

  “He won’t let me get close enough to tell him the truth. He’s, I don’t know, he’s a steel wall.”

  “It can’t be all dat bad. Chow me this cow ranch.” I lift the phone and scan the ranch from one side to the other.

  “Lower,” I move the phone lower. “Ah, no wonder jour depressed. Oh wait, I see, lower, to the right. There, much better view.”

  It’s then I see what he’s fixated on. Lance has his shirt off and is rinsing some mud from his chest. I turn the phone back over to see several notifications that René has taken a photo.

  “René!”

  “What?”

  “I can see you taking screenshots!”

  “I’m not.”

  “You so are.”

  “Fine, I erase dem.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “We can fight about dis later, in de meanstime, why ju not snooping in his room?”

  “What? Why would I do that?”

  “Because ju don’t know him, not really.”

  “Yes, I do. We were together for months.”

  “Uh huh, oh months, huh? Do ju know I found out Ricky likes Pink Panther movies? Like really likes them? Tinks dey are funny.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “This is news. We’ve been together for years, Mami. Ju don knows that man. Snoop. Find his bones.”

  “Skeletons. And no way.”

  “Trust me and do it. I gotta go, I have a chif in an hour. Rainbows.”

  “Rainbows,” I say deflating.

  “Mami,” René looks on at me with a small smile. “Remember dis is not de case of dickedgood.”

  “What?”

  “Dickedgood. It means dis isn’t about sex. Ju aren’t some crazy ex with a sex crush. He came for ju. Dat means someting. Ju are dere to claim jour man, jour partner, be the ‘take no chit’ bitch I raised ju to be and win him backs. Make me proud.”

  I’m snooping. And so far, the only thing I’ve discovered is Lance uses dandruff shampoo.

  Detective freaking Holmes, right here, folks.

  I have no idea what I’m looking for. But I take René’s advice and look for his skeletons. Prying him for any information at the moment seems impossible. Current location—closet, and it’s huge. Inside, I tug on the light switch and see a stack of old notebooks along with his yearbooks. I pull one down and start flipping through. I find him easily, his face unmistakable as I trace it with my finger. He’s not smiling, in fact, he looks a bit pissed.

  “Can’t say much has changed,” I snort ironically. “Do ju have any bones, Prescott?” I mutter in René’s accent.

  I flip through his senior yearbook and see no signatures. He said he has plenty of friends but does he? He was known as the mute in college, gorgeous and broody. We never ventured out much in public, aside from his training, and he wasn’t quick to converse.

  I assumed it was all due to his temper. Didn’t he have any friends here? I shut the book and rifle through a stack of sweaters and find a bottle of whiskey and decide what the hell. Why would a grown-ass man have a stash of bourbon in his closet? Does he have a drinking problem? I decide to create one for myself because I down half of the pint in a few gulps.

  With the fresh buzz, I go through each shelf one by one, searching for clues as I nip at the bottle.

  Halfway through his jacket pockets, I find a dirt-encrusted utility bill envelope. It’s when I see the signature on the bottom that I tense up.

  Lance,

  I made a mistake. Please stop punishing me. Please meet me again tonight. I can’t stop thinking about you.

  Channah

  “Sounds familiar,” I spout sarcastically, flipping the top off the bottle and taking another swig of the contents.

  I flip through the yearbook until I find her name. Channah Dickson. Gorgeous. She was all the things, cheerleader, swim team, debate, and of course, prom queen. I hate her. Instantly I’m on edge. The more I think about it, the more I realize René is right. Lance never really spoke much about home, and he had a whole life here before he met me. What else don’t I know? Is she why he turned me down flat when I arrived? Then again, this letter could be ancient. I study the North Face jacket and don’t recognize it from our Grand days. I sink when I realize it’s relatively new.

  I rip through more hangers, feeling stabbed.

  I swore to myself I would never get wrapped up in any man like some needy nymph, and here I am in a freaking closet pilfering through his clothes and yearbooks, the jealousy in my chest burning as much as my cheeks, due to the whiskey. But I have to be mature about this.

  I toss back more of the bottle.

  “Yeah, no, freak that,” I hiccup, before finishing the last of his bourbon. The liquid no longer scorching my throat. And then I’m sorting through his clothes because who in the hell puts their jeans in the middle of their hoodies and shirts? It’s just not right. I’ve developed a drunken case of OCD. And why in the world does one man have such a big closet?

  “Bet Channah does, in her big fat vagina,” I hiccup again and FaceTime René.

  “Mami, I’m on a chif.”

  “He’s had sex with a Channah!”

  “What’s a Channa?”

  I flip open the yearbook and point to her picture. “This, this is a Channah.”

  “Ah, so we hate her.”

  “Jes!” I smart. “We hate her. See, this is why I didn’t want a damn man in the first place. Man-free, problem-free, but noooo, here I am, all hormonal and jealous as hell in a closet! A CLOSET!”

  “Calm down, Mami, if he was into hers, he wouldn’t have come to Ju York.”

  “But you were right, he has this past, and I don’t know a damn thing about it.”

  “Ju have not been honest with him either.”

  “I have about other people.”

  “He probably don’t want to hurt ju. Ju need to tink—”

  Lance’s bedroom door opens, and I cut René off mid-sentence hanging up on him.

  I shut the light off, h
oping that he can’t hear me stuffing the note back in his jacket and hanging it up before carefully taking a sweatshirt off his rack. I’m waiting like a drunken closet ninja clothes sorter, my hackles rising, as I pray that he bypasses me to get to the shower.

  The door opens a second later, and Lance gapes at me where I stand ready. I thrust the sweatshirt toward him. “I’m borrowing this!” He jerks back as I step forward, and a burp slips out of me right in his face. “Okay?”

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” He takes a step forward and pulls the bottle from the floor. “Drinking?” He looks past my shoulder, “And rearranging my clothes? In the dark?”

  “I just told you what I was doing. And not in the dark, I just turned the light off, duh.”

  After a long pause, he drops his head, his shoulders shaking.

  “Is that…laughter? Lord help me. The boy may be healed! Thank you, Jesus!”

  His chuckle slows. “You’re the worst liar in the history of ever.”

  “I told you that when we met.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I have a gay best friend.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “And he puts dumb ideas in my head.”

  “So, what were you doing?”

  “Why do you have hooch in your closet? Are you a closet drinker?” I snort.

  He rolls his eyes. “That’s Rock and Rye. It’s whiskey and lemon. I keep it for when I get congested and didn’t want Trevor to find it. And that bottle you drank was a hundred years old.”

  “Seriously?” I ask through another hiccup. “Will I get sick?”

  “Doubt it. Will that be all today? Or do you want to go through my bathroom shit too?”

  I hiccup again. “That was the plan. I didn’t get much time in there.”

  He steps aside. “By all means.”

  “You know,” I say, strolling through his room, “I didn’t want a boyfriend when we met.” I open one of his drawers and pull out his razor and carefully inspect it. He hasn’t used it in days, his beard growing in at a rapid rate, and I love it. He grew one when we were together back in college. A faint memory of the feel of it against my thighs has me rubbing them together. He crosses his arms at the door of the bathroom, as I continue my rant. “I didn’t want to be involved.”

  “I remember.”

  “You didn’t want a girlfriend, either,” I pick up his cologne off the side of the sink and inhale his scent. Big mistake.

  “Nope. I didn’t. What’s your point?”

  “But we happened anyway,” I pull out another drawer and find a platinum chain covered in years of debris. “Really?”

  “That’s old as shit.”

  “You really should clean your closet out. Lots of old shit in there too.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “As well you should.” The last of the bottle kicks in, and I turn to him, pulling an old Chapstick from his drawer. “Now, this is just disgusting.” I drop it in the trash next to his toilet.

  “I use that!”

  “Yeah, well, you’ll thank me later.”

  “Seriously, are you that bored? Or is this just a new hobby?”

  “Well, the cabana boy around here isn’t being very hospitable.” I hiccup. “Worst vacation ever, by the way. Definitely no room service.”

  “I can book you a flight in ten minutes.”

  “Nope, I’m good here, I just won’t be giving a high hospitality rating.”

  “Harper, I want to take a shower.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. Finally, some entertainment.” I pull up my phone and hit my Spotify playlist, circling my finger. A second later, “Boss” by Little Simz fills the bathroom. “Make this good.”

  “Bro,” Trevor walks in and looks between us with a goofy grin. “What’s going on in here?”

  “Nothing, trust me. I’ve had better dates with my gay roommate.”

  Trevor chuckles as Lance speaks up. “Harper is leaving.”

  “Oh no, I’m not,” I say, hopping up on the sink counter.

  Trevor studies me, taking a step into the bathroom, his smile widening. “You drunk?”

  “Lil’ bit. Rock and Rye apparently. I have questions.”

  Trevor leans against Lance’s bathroom door. “Fire away.”

  I look to Lance instead. “You said you had enough friends.” I lift my hands. “Where are they?”

  “What friends?” Trevor looks between us.

  “His friends from high school.”

  Lance clears his throat. “Harper, I need to shower. I have shit to do.”

  “Me too. So?” I raise a brow, looking between them.

  Trevor speaks up. “No one really stays here unless they have to.”

  He’s covering for him. I can tell. It’s a sibling thing, and I know it well because I have my own. “Is that so?” I say like I’m concluding a point, which I’m not. It’s then I realize I got drunk in my ex-boyfriend’s closet, snooped through his things, stole his clothes, and am currently interrogating his little brother for absolutely no reason. Whatever skeletons Lance has, he’s not about to give them up, save his nasty Chapstick. René is insane, and I’m officially on the same train.

  “Is that all?” Lance prompts, and I bob my head.

  “For now.”

  Trevor laughs as Lance shakes his head. “I see why you love her, brother. I really do.”

  “At least one of you has some sense,” I hop off the sink as the first wave of nausea hits. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to freaking throw up.”

  “Shit, grab her,” Lance says, just as I start sinking toward the floor.

  I wake up in bed in the pitch dark, unsure of the time, and hear the noise of dinner. It’s seven. Jeannie runs a tight ship. Mealtimes do not vary. Head pounding, I make my way to the bathroom to pee and check my appearance. I look like I feel. My complexion ghastly white. I don’t have drunk amnesia, I remember vomiting—very, very well—while Lance held my hair.

  Chalk resting in the back of my throat, I crank on the sink to get a quick drink and freeze when I see the color of my tongue. I lean in and inspect it to make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me.

  “Oh my GOD! OH MY GOD!” I scream as I begin to inspect my teeth. I hear the thunder in the distance of two incoming Prescott boys as I furiously rinse my mouth. “Oh my GOD!” I gag out while I squirt half a tube of toothpaste on my finger.

  Lance is the first to reach me and bursts into the bathroom on bated breath.

  “What, Harper? What is it?” He darts his gaze around the room as I furiously scrub my teeth.

  “Oh, God, Lance,” I’m gagging again, my heart thundering as I inspect my mouth. “Something’s wrong, Lance. Something’s so wrong!”

  “What? Harper, you’re scaring the hell out of me.” I furiously wash my mouth as he presses me, putting his head level with mine at the sink as I cup water into my mouth. I’m struggling to get more in as Lance stills me and pulls me upright.

  “Damnit, spill it.”

  “I think,” I gag again, “I think I ate a bug.” I stick out my tongue just as Trevor pokes his head in. “Is she alright?”

  “Out,” Lance says, closing the door on him, his back to me. Seconds pass, and slowly he lowers his head, pressing it into the door and rolling it back and forth before he turns to face me. And then he’s laughing. And though it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, I’m too busy freaking out to fully appreciate it.

  “It’s not funny! What if it was a spider?! A cockroach?!”

  “You didn’t eat a bug.”

  “Then I’m dying. My tongue is fucking black, it’s BLACK! And how would you know if I ate a bug or not? Haven’t you seen those videos?”

  He’s hysterical. “What videos?”

  “The ones where on average, a human eats such and such amount of bugs a year!”

  I squeeze the toothpaste into my hand and massage my gums with it as Lance wraps an arm a
round me, pulling me away from the sink, his chuckle slowing at my back. “Okay, calm down because I’m pretty sure you’re having an anxiety attack.”

  “My whole tongue is black! It’s black. I ate a bug! A very big bug! You don’t think it will happen to you and bam! Jesus, if I find a leg in my teeth, I’ll never recover.”

  “Harper,” he says through another chuckle. “Your tongue is black because I gave you Pepto tablets before you passed out, which, when mixed with acid, can sometimes turn your tongue black.”

  I still my fingers, my hand covered in toothpaste and glance over at him. “What?”

  “I gave you two Pepto tablets.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Probably because it was before you took a Rye nap.”

  “Right…,” I study my hands and the mess I’ve made at the sink. “Okay, well, that’s not common knowledge. I can’t be held responsible for that reaction.”

  “Can I go back to my dinner? Or are you planning on heading to the roof with a bottle of jack and a roman candle?”

  I swallow as my cheeks heat. “I apologize for my behavior today.”

  He sets me down and shakes his head. “I’ll have Trevor bring you some of the chili.”

  My stomach turns. “No, thanks.”

  He looks me over. “You need something in your stomach. I’ll figure it out.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He eyes my hoodie. And that’s when I look down to see it’s a Grand sweatshirt. “That feels like a million years ago now.”

  “Do you ever miss it?”

  He darts his gaze to the tile between us. “All the fucking time.” Before I can open my mouth to reply, he opens the door and knocks on the frame. “Get back in bed, I’ll see you in a bit.”

  I take a shower and brush my teeth for ten minutes, hoping, praying that the look in his eyes and the conversation was the beginning of an olive branch. I’ve been here nearly a week, and I haven’t made much progress with him at all. It’s when I make it back to my room, I see two hot pockets and a Diet Mountain Dew waiting on my dresser that my hopes fall away. He dropped the food and left like I’m some sort of prisoner. And I have to admit, loving him is starting to feel like a sentence.