Lock & West
Page 1
Contents
1. Lock
2. West
3. Lock
4. West
5. Lock
6. West
7. Lock
8. West
9. Lock
10. West
11. Lock
12. West
13. Lock
14. West
15. Lock
16. West
17. Lock
18. West
19. Lock
20. West
21. Lock
22. West
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25. Lock
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27. Lock
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29. Lock
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31. Lock
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35. Lock
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43. Lock
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51. Lock
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53. Lock
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61. Lock
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63. Lock
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65. Lock
66. West
67. Lock
68. West
Also by Alexander C. Eberhart
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Lock & West
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-68454-186-7
Print ISBN: 978-1-68454-185-0
7 Sisters Publishing
P.O. Box 993
Jupiter, Florida 33458
www.alexanderceberhart.com
www.7sisterspublishing.com
Copyright © 2019 Alexander C. Eberhart
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction and does not represent any individual living or dead. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
I stare at the sticky note posted on the bottom corner of my laptop beside the trackpad. After a moment of psyching myself up, I close it, the details of reality seeping back into focus.
My lunch looks up at me.
Spaghetti tacos are new territory. My family isn’t Hispanic, and even though I’ve frequented my share of Mexican restaurants—a byproduct of my mother’s love for margaritas— I can’t imagine this is what the proud people of Mexico had in mind when they unleashed the glory that is the taco upon an unsuspecting world.
I try it anyways.
Hmm. Surprisingly, not terrible.
“Who are you?” the curly-headed blond boy across the table asks, looking both bored and confused at the same time. That must be difficult. I often find expressing one emotion too burdensome. He wears them like hats.
I realize he must be speaking to me. My ears burn.
“Lock,” I answer, though I’m not sure he cares. Most people don’t. It’s like when they ask how you are. You could tell them that you’re two seconds away from driving off a cliff and they probably wouldn’t bat an eyelash. People don’t care.
“Oh.” His eyebrows draw together like a bat-a-rang, and I wonder what it is about my presence that’s so confusing. “You’re new.”
It isn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
My fingers grip the hem of my shirt. The soft familiarity keeps me from freaking out over the fact that a stranger is talking to me. I don’t really do well with people. At least, real people. I much prefer those on paper.
“Where are you from?” The questions continue.
If I’d known I would be interrogated, I would never have accepted Shay’s offer to sit at her table. Then again, she’s the only person in this school who’s acknowledged my existence so far. And, although she’s typically a minimum-effort friend, this abandonment while she stands in line for a diet Coke is making me reconsider our relationship.
“Seattle,” I answer. My fingers work the cloth back and forth. I count the stitches I feel.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Counting helps.
The blond leans forward onto his elbows, tossing hair out of his eyes. They remind me of the Puget Sound. A deeper blue hiding all the things you never realize lurk beneath the surface. They make me ache for home. “No shit. That’s terrible.”
It is terrible. It’s terrible I’m not there right now, surrounded by people I know and streets that make sense. Nothing makes sense around here. Atlanta is a confusing, hot mess. They should never have rebuilt after Sherman burned it to the ground.
“Yeah,” I say again. Maybe if I keep this interaction brief, no one will want to talk to me again and I can get back to work.
But the dark-skinned girl beside him asks, “Aren’t you sick of rain?”
That’s a dumb question. It doesn’t rain as much as people think. Most of the year it’s beautiful. Not like here with the haze and heat that grinds you down. I’d take rain every minute of every day if it meant I didn’t have to sweat.
“Oh yeah,” the boy pipes in, turning to his friend. “I heard people off themselves all the time up there because it’s so dreary. It’s like, top five in the country. I read this article that said that the majority of—”
“My friend Amanda killed herself last year,” I interrupt. “But that’s because she had clinical depression and access to a lot of pharmaceuticals. Not from the rain.”
The boy pauses before giving a nervous laugh. His friend stares with her mouth open.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Why would I joke about suicide?” I ask.
Do they think it’s funny? I have trouble catching onto what other people my age find amusing. I laugh at obscure memes and nihilistic humor, not those who lost their battle with depression.
“O-kay then.” The blond one claps his hands to dispel the topic. “Forget I mentioned that. We don’t make light of that kind of thing, by the way. Right, Chels?”
“Yeah.” The girl nods, mouth closing.
To be honest, calling Amanda a friend is a stretch. I knew her, yes. We were in the same homeschool group for most of middle school. She borrowed the first book in my favorite series and never returned it. She always wore plaid skirts and a ribbon in her hair. I know she had two older brothers and a little sister. But knowing about someone’s life isn’t the same as knowing someone, and I don’t have any answers as to why she did it. Sometimes people are just broken, I guess.
“I miss the rain,” I say, not yet feeling the waves of awkwardness I’m sure they’re drowning in. “It’s too hot here.”
“You get used to it.” The girl, Chels, chuckles. It’s a nice sound, her voice is like music. If I was ‘normal’, I’d probably be into her. As I am not, I think she’d make a good friend. If I was interested in making friends. Which I’m not. Who needs that stress? “Another month or so and it’ll cool down. You know, at least a little.”
The blond boy jerks to his feet, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead as he strikes a pose. It’s all very dramatic. “Oh, Hotlanta! Thou art such a fi
ery mistress!”
“Shut up, West. No one calls it that,” Chels says, grabbing his hand to reign him in. The blond boy gives her a look. “Okay, fine, I’ll take it back, my uncle from Cleveland called it that. Once. But that doesn’t mean it’s a thing. Plus, my family shunned him until he stopped. And then we shunned him again when he went crazy and bought a yurt.”
“Hotlanta is totally a thing,” West replies, retaking his seat as if nothing happened. “Why else would they make all the shirts. There’s even a hashtag.”
The two of them continue to bicker amongst themselves. The back of my neck prickles because I’m not sure if they’ve excused me from the conversation. Should I keep listening? I get anxious when there isn’t closure.
Only when Shay gets back with her silver can do I finally release myself from the pressure of their two-sided conversation. It’s a weight off my shoulders.
“Everything okay?” she asks me, soda spraying to the sides as she cracks open the can.
I nod, thankful for the comfort of a familiar person sitting beside me. I’ve only known Shay for the short three months of my confinement here, and while we don’t really hang out, having her here next to me allows my hands to unclench the edge of my shirt. Familiarity is the closest I can come to comfort.
“Fine!” Chels suddenly shouts. “You can buy a Hotlanta shirt, but I swear to God if you try to wear it to my birthday party, I’m going to fucking kill you.”
I cringe. The casual swearing that gets tossed around the school is still abrasive. Maybe one day, my edges will smooth out, so they roll off without affecting me.
“Back me up here, Lock.” The boy—West—reaches his hand towards me like he’s expecting me to link fingers with him. I remain in place. “As the newest member of my Hotlanta squad, you have the final say.”
His squad? Interesting. I wasn’t aware people talked like this.
More eyes are on me than I care to think about. My fingers drop back to my hem as I stutter an answer. “I-I don’t think it really matters.”
“That’s a neutral response,” West says, lips curling in smug satisfaction. “Which means I totally win.”
I don’t follow his logic, but Chels just sighs and nods. “Fine, wear your stupid shirt. But don’t think I won’t set you on fire if you disgrace my home with your camo Crocs.”
Is this what ‘normal’ teenagers talk about? I can’t imagine ever caring so much about what I’m wearing. What am I wearing today? A hoodie. And jeans. And the watch Dad gave me two weeks before—
West’s hands find Chels’s, pulling them towards his chest. They exude an intimacy that’s foreign and terrifying. “Don’t worry about it. If I don’t pass the stupid Geometry test next week, my mother will murder me, and I’ll never be able to make the faux pas of choosing a tacky wardrobe.”
“Have you ever thought about getting a tutor?” Shay asks, sipping her soda, then tugging down the cuffs of her sleeves. A light lavender scent wafts with a flip of her hair. It’s calming. Everything about her is calming.
“I’ve tried. It doesn’t help.” He smirks like there’s a secret behind his words. “I always get too distracted.”
“That’s his subtle way of saying the last tutoring session ended with him sucking the guy’s dick.” Chels presents this information as if it’s commonplace.
My heart skips a beat, and suddenly, I’m preoccupied with counting the number of salt packets piled at the center of the table.
Twelve. There’s twelve.
“Jesus, Chels. Spill all my secrets, why don’t you?”
“It’s not like we don’t already know them.” She pokes his chest, grinning. “You’re an open book, West O’Conner.”
“And you’re a bitch,” West retaliates, pouting. But soon his lips quiver into a smile and he adds, “The best bitch. The greatest of all the bitches. The bitch queen. Queen bitch, the first of her name, buster of balls and defender of the—”
“We get it,” she cuts him off, giggling.
What a strange pair.
“I know someone who could help you out,” Shay says, seeming impervious to the complexities of their conversation.
West breaks away from his newly proclaimed bitch-in-arms. “Who might that be? And is he cute with red hair and glasses?”
“He’s adorable, but not a ginger, I’m afraid. He’s also sitting next to me.”
I crane my head in search of this attractive mathematical genius.
“Oh my gosh, Lock.” Shay’s fingers cover her eyes. “I’m talking about you.”
“Huh?”
West looks at me, brows knitting together once more. “Him? You don’t say.”
Betrayal.
This is a complete and utter violation of the unspoken agreement Shay and I have—I don’t get involved. It’s served me well the last sixteen and a half years. I shouldn’t question it.
Unraveling my system now could prove catastrophic.
“I-I-Me-There’s-I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I cringe at my stutter. Stupid tongue always getting tied. Mom says my brain moves too quickly for my mouth to keep up. I think that’s her nice way of saying I have a speech impediment.
“Why not?” Shay, the traitor, continues. “You’re brilliant. He really is, West. You’d be lucky to have his help. And weren’t you saying that you were looking for a chance to make some money after school, Lock?”
I’d meant I needed a job flipping burgers, or walking dogs, or scooping popcorn at the local AMC. Not helping dumb rich kids pass their classes so mommy and daddy don’t take away their Maserati.
Okay, that was harsh. But I can’t stand someone who doesn’t know their own privilege. Some of us have to scrape for what we have, and judging by the name brand labels displayed on his clothes and the Ray-Bans hanging from his shirt, West hasn’t scraped for much of anything.
West is looking at me again. “Is this true, Seattle? Are you Stephen Hawking reincarnated?” An eyebrow raises. “What’s your secret?”
“S-Secret?”
Darn it, tongue! Get with the freaking program.
“Sure.” West shrugs. “Everyone’s got a secret. The quiet ones are always juicy.”
He’s holding me now with bottomless eyes that just draw you in, deeper and deeper, until your face is hot and your head is itchy and your breath comes in short little gasps and there’s something wrong with your heart and—
“So, can you help me out, Lock?”
“Huh?”
West looks amused. Does he know what’s going on in my head?
“Can you help me study? I would be hella indebted to you. Like, something serious. We’re talking, name-my-firstborn-child-after-you status.”
Although my head is screaming Abort! Abort!, my mouth says, “Yes.”
“Awesome!” His grin spreads wide. “Are you free tonight? I need all the help I can get.”
“I have to watch my little brother,” I say. Thank God I have Jack as an excuse.
“I don’t mind. The more the merrier!” West persists.
I’m nodding as if this isn’t the worst idea in the history of ideas. What is wrong with me?!
Shay nudges my shoulder. “I can come over too if you need someone to watch Jack.”
I don’t remember telling her about my brother, but she knows his name, so I chalk it up to my latest social blackout. I’ll say anything if I’m nervous enough.
“No,” I decline, already dreading one person in the apartment. Another one might bring on full panic mode and no one needs to see that. “Thank you,” I add, hoping she doesn’t think I’m being rude.
She doesn’t seem offended. “No problem.”
West and Chels are back at each other’s throats over their latest conflicting opinion, as I stare at the mess of marinara leaking from my taco shell. My fingers find the hem of my shirt, and counting the threads is the only thing keeping my head from exploding. In just a few short hours, West will be in my home, and there won’t be anything t
o buffer.
Jesus.
Jack is everything I could hope for, a three-foot tornado of destruction vaulting over the back of the sofa with a pirate hat strapped to his head and a wooden cutlass clenched between his teeth. Our game of Pirates/Fish Hospital has blown up all over the living room, the corpses of our enemies and the mates we couldn’t save on the operating table strewn wall to wall.
The little monster’s made sure we’ve had zero time for studying.
“Lan, ho!” Jack shrieks, latching onto Lock’s leg as he gathers dishes from around the apartment. “Come play with us, Lan!”
“Not now, Jack.” Lock doesn’t speak unkindly. He bends down to remove Jack from his leg, setting him back on the ground with a pat on the head. Then he straightens, towering over us both. Has he always been that tall? Maybe it’s just the angle, but I swear he didn’t seem that big when I met him this afternoon. He’s got to have at least six inches on me.
He’s been preoccupied with chores the entire time I’ve been playing and seems a bit anxious. Or maybe he vibrates naturally? What a talent.
“Oy! That’s Captain Jack to you, scurvy maggot!” I toss a plush shark at his chest, but it bounces off. He gapes at me, incredulous. The wide set of his mouth twitches but refuses to give into the smile.