Dropout (The Good Guys Book 3)

by Jamie Schlosser

  “Tolson?” She scrunched up her face and flung a lock of bleached-blonde hair over her shoulder. “Why on earth would you want to live in Tolson? There’s nothing in that town.”

  “Exactly,” I said before swiping my debit card.

  Most people didn’t want to live in a town with fewer than 400 residents. Most single, twenty-one-year old women wouldn’t voluntarily move to a place where eighty percent of the population was elderly.

  But I wasn’t most people.

  I wanted solitude.

  After three years of city life, I realized something—I wasn’t a city girl. The crowds. The constant noise. Public transportation. Some people loved the hustle and bustle of Nashville, but not me.

  I tried to like it. I really did. But in the end, I had to be honest with myself. I wasn’t happy there.

  Tolson was the perfect place to settle down. It was peaceful and quiet, which was great for my occupation. Plus, my parents were ecstatic to have me back in the area.

  “So, Jaxon’s still in the slammer?” Shayla asked, bringing up the one subject I wanted to avoid.

  My chest tightened, that old feeling of panic resurfacing. The sound of his name caused unwelcome memories to float up. A tight, bruising grip on my arm. A cutting remark about my imperfect body. The crushing weight of him pinning me down.

  Swallowing hard, I kept my response short as she handed me my receipt. “Yep.”

  Still not catching on to the fact that I didn’t want to chat, she continued. “I can’t believe he’s still in there. I mean, what happened with you two was ages ago.”

  My nostrils flared and I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. “Well, that’s what happens when someone is charged with attempted murder.”

  Shayla’s eyes widened, finally realizing she’d crossed a line. “Oh, I didn’t mean to make it sound like he didn’t deserve it. Of course, I’m on your side.”

  “Of course,” I said sarcastically as I picked up my bags, and made a promise to myself to avoid this store like the plague from now on.

  “Let’s get together soon,” she called at my back. “It’ll be just like old times!”

  Fat chance.

  I waved, but didn’t bother to respond as I walked through the automatic sliding doors, out into the summer heat.

  After putting my groceries in the trunk of my trusty four-door Buick, I started the ten-minute drive back to my new home. I rolled all the windows down, enjoying the way the wind blew through my hair.

  As my old hometown disappeared in the rearview mirror, I wondered who else I might run in to. Since I didn’t spend much time on social media I’d lost touch with almost everyone I used to know, so I had no idea who’d left and who’d stayed behind.

  It was probably smart to steer clear of Daywood all together. Although Tolson residents attended the Daywood school district, I hadn’t had any trouble hiding out in the tiny town.

  Back in high school, Shayla and I used to be friends. We weren’t close, but our class was so small it was hard not to know everyone. And she might’ve been welcoming now, but that wasn’t the last memory I had of her.

  After Jaxon and I broke up, everyone took sides. That is, to say, his side.

  People I thought were my friends suddenly became enemies. I ended up eating lunch alone in my car because no one would sit with me in the cafeteria. My house got egged several times, and someone vandalized my locker by writing ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ all over it with a Sharpie.

  And that was all before I shot the abusive asshole.

  Jaxon was lucky I had shitty aim. The bullet went clean through his right shoulder, so it wasn’t fatal. However, he wasn’t very good with the sight of his own blood because he’d passed out, giving the police and paramedics time to show up.

  The harassment from my peers got worse after ‘the incident’.

  Turns out, shooting someone could really ruin a person’s reputation. Good thing I was so close to graduation, or else I might’ve ended up needing to be home-schooled.

  When Jaxon was convicted, and put away for ten years, I thought people would move on. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case, and I knew I needed to get away from the only town I’d ever known.

  So, I ran.

  Before Jaxon, music was my passion. I got a guitar for Christmas when I was twelve, and I spent countless hours learning new chords and writing songs. I used to imagine myself in the spotlight in front of thousands of cheering fans. I even won a few talent shows in my early teen years.

  But Jaxon knew how to extinguish that ambition, knew how to make me question my abilities and my self-worth. People like him, they knew how to strip away your confidence one thread at a time, until there was nothing left.

  But screw that.

  My hopes and dreams weren’t going to chase themselves, and I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it.

  The summer after graduation, I packed up and moved down to Nashville to pursue a career in country music. However, it didn’t quite work out the way I’d hoped.

  Sometime between the loss of my innocence and the reclamation of my freedom, I developed debilitating stage fright. Open mic nights became my own personal hell. My anxiety was so bad that I froze as soon as I got up on stage. Needless to say, the audience didn’t like that much. They came to hear good music, and most of the time I couldn’t deliver.

  Within a year I was ready to pack it in, tuck tail, and run from the city.

  After all, running away was something I was naturally good at.

  But it didn’t go unnoticed that I rocked it in the recording studio. The same night I made the decision to leave was the night I met my manager. I’d gone to the studio for one last jam session, and Kelly listened in on one of my songs. She said my style was great, but not for country music.

  After a long talk, she convinced me to try my hand at songwriting, and she hooked me up with a popular punk band.

  And that was my big break.

  The female duet, known as The Princess and the Pariah, liked my style so much that they hired me as the full-time collaborator for their next album. The payout was good enough for me to buy a small house and start my new life as a hermit.

  And, so far, hermit life was good.

  My trip down memory lane was interrupted when I saw a large combine tractor blocking the road in the distance.

  In a rural area like this it wasn’t uncommon to get stuck behind slow-moving machinery, especially during farming season. But this tractor wasn’t moving at all. Smack dab in the middle of the country road, it appeared to be broken down, and a couple of older men in flannel shirts stood off to the side talking.

  I came to a stop behind an ancient station wagon. Judging by the three cars in front of me, I could guess the tractor had been in the way for a while.

  Feeling impatient, I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

  It wasn’t like I had anywhere to be, but the frozen food in my trunk was melting by the second. I would be sorely disappointed if my ice cream sandwiches didn’t survive.

  Just as I was about to put my car in reverse, my eyes zeroed in on the object hanging from the bumper on the vehicle in front of me.

  Wrinkling my nose, I scoffed.

  A ball sac. An oversized, wrinkly metal ball sac. The heavy testicle pendulum swung back and forth in the breeze.

  Disgusting.

  If you’re going to get held up in traffic, the last thing you want is to get stuck with that view. What kind of douchebag could feel good about driving around with that on display?

  Deciding I didn’t have time for this nonsense, I did a three-point turn and took a different road back to Tolson.

  As I pulled up to my house, I let out a happy sigh at the sight of the small beige bungalow. It wasn’t big, or new, but it was mine. All mine.

  The wooden shingles on
the roof were a bit rotted in some areas, and the windows needed to be replaced. The interior décor was outdated, but it still had the original woodwork. It had character, and the small front porch was a great spot for me hang out and play my guitar.

  Inside the front door, there was a staircase that led to two bedrooms. A living room with a wood-burning fireplace was off to the right.

  I took a left, veering into the kitchen, and set all the bags on my tiny round table.

  As far as eating spaces went, mine was pretty sad-looking, with barely enough room for two people. But honestly, that extra chair was overkill.

  I put the frozen items away first, but not before tearing into the ice cream sandwiches. Just as I took the first bite my phone rang, and my mom’s face flashed on the screen.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, honey. What are you up to?”

  Putting it on speakerphone, I set it on the counter.

  “Just got back from the store,” I said, shoving a few canned soups into the pantry.

  “You ran out of ice cream sandwiches again, huh?”

  She knew me so well. “How’d you guess?”

  “Seems to be just about the only thing you leave the house for these days.”

  “Are you saying you wouldn’t make a special trip to town for ice cream sandwiches?” I accused.

  “I absolutely would. You know that.”

  “Good. That means we can still be friends,” I joked. “I just can’t trust someone who doesn’t like vanilla ice cream mashed between cookies. It’s not right.”

  She laughed. “I hope you’re eating other things, too.”

  “I got a wide variety of food groups,” I informed her.

  “You can’t survive on just soup and Hawaiian rolls either.”

  Eyeing the items in question, I emptied the last bag. “I got chicken, too. There’s this Crockpot recipe I want to try.”

  “Alright, alright.” She sighed, and a long pause followed. I knew what was coming next. “When are you coming to visit? We’d love to see you.”

  “I just came over for dinner the other day.”

  “That was three weeks ago,” she pointed out. “I just thought with having you closer, you’d be over here more often.” Then she brought out the big guns. “Krista misses you. Her school year is almost over, and I know she’s hoping to see you more.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling guilty. “I’ll try to make it over this weekend.”

  “I thought about stopping by your house yesterday, but I’m trying to respect your privacy…” She trailed off, and I could tell there was more she wanted to say.

  “Don’t hold back on me, Mom. What’s the matter?”

  “We thought you never wanted to come home because we were still living in that house.” The words came out in a rush, like she’d been holding it in for a while. “One of the reasons we bought the new place is so you’d feel comfortable here.”

  Home visits were few and far between over the last three years. As much as I tried to overcome it, I couldn’t even think about that closet without experiencing anxiety.

  The new country property they bought earlier in the year was gorgeous, and I appreciated their relocation on my behalf.

  “I swear I’m not avoiding you on purpose,” I told her before popping the last of the ice cream sandwich into my mouth. “I’ve just been sort of unsociable lately. Living in the city, I was surrounded by people all the time. It’s just been nice to get some time to myself. Plus, I’m really on a roll with my writing.”

  “I can understand that. You’re my little girl, so worrying about you is in my job description. Just don’t be a stranger, okay?”

  “I won’t. And Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  After putting the rest of the groceries away, I sank down into my favorite chair. I had everything I needed—my guitar, my notebook, and blissful silence.

  The weight of the six-string Martin felt familiar in my hands, and a calm came over me as I plucked at the strings. Notes turned into melodies, and satisfaction flowed through me. This was the elusive peace I had been chasing for so long.

  I was home.

  CHAPTER 3

  JIMMY

  As I pulled up in front of Grandma’s house, a feeling of nostalgia washed over me. This place held some of my greatest childhood memories.

  My parents weren’t kidding about it needing a face-lift, though.

  The white brick exterior was a little worse for wear, and the metal porch overhang was rusted and sagging on one side. The landscaping was beyond neglected. Overgrown bushes and weeds lined the perimeter of the small one-story home.

  There would be no shortage of tasks to keep me busy. And out of trouble.

  I walked across the dandelion-covered lawn, and Grandma’s screen door opened with a loud creak. Her head of short dark curls popped out.

  “James Peabody Johnson!” she greeted with a huge smile.

  Slipping off my sunglasses, I laughed on the way up the porch steps. “Let’s go easy on the full-name stuff, huh? Maybe save that for reprimands only.”

  “Well, then I’ll get to say it at least once a day,” she quipped. “Come on in. It’s hot as hell outside.”

  When I walked through the door, the distinct smell of her arthritis cream hung in the air, reminding me that she was getting older. The same yellow and brown floral couch sat in front of the old box TV. Pictures of family and friends sat on the built-in shelves above the rocking chair in the corner. And I knew when I went into the kitchen, I’d see wallpaper with bright orange flowers, old veneer cabinets, and avocado-colored appliances.

  The whole house seemed to be stuck in the 1970s.

  No matter how many times my dad tried to convince her to upgrade, Grandma wouldn’t budge. She swore if she bought new stuff, it’d just end up breaking six months later. Said they didn’t make things like they used to.

  It was fine with me. I loved everything about this place. Besides, she was probably right anyway, and I wasn’t foolish enough to get into an argument with Grandma—I would lose every time.

  “You been knitting again?” I asked, running my hand over the new bright pink afghan on the arm of her couch.

  “Heavens, no.” She chuckled. “I had to put away my knitting needles for good. These old hands just won’t let me do it anymore. The little girl next door made it for me. She just moved in a month ago.”

  “That’s nice of her.” I smiled.

  Grandma looked the same as always, a firecracker in a tiny package. Her thick-rimmed glasses were a little too big for her face, and she was wrapped in a fuzzy pink housecoat that was way too warm for summertime.

  I dropped my duffle bag to the floor. Running my foot over the old shaggy brown carpet, I noticed it needed to be vacuumed.

  “So, what’s up first on my list of duties?” I spread my arms. “I’m at your service.”

  “There are no duties,” she said. “All you have to do is hang out with me.”

  Confused, my eyebrows furrowed. “Mom and Dad said you needed help. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  She lovingly patted my cheek. “Jimmy, dear. I just said that so you wouldn’t have to put up with their belly-aching all summer.” She smiled, and a smirk spread over my face.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope. I might have a couple projects to keep you busy, but I really just want your company.”

  Grandma was one sneaky devil.

  “Well, here I am.” I went in for a hug, wrapping my arms around her petite frame.

  After pulling back, she placed her hand in mine and passed something into my palm. I didn’t have to look down to know it was a twenty-dollar bill. The ‘shake ‘n slip’ had been her signature move for a
s long as I could remember. Mom and Dad frowned on her spoiling us, so she’d gotten sly about it. What appeared to be a simple handshake was really a way for her to give out $20, undetected.

  “You know I love you, right?” I put the money in my pocket. “I’ll do whatever you need. Mow your lawn, paint the house, anything.”

  Standing back, she smiled. “Can you do something for me right now?”

  “You name it.”

  “Take a shower. You smell like you’ve been sitting in a sauna all day.” Her nose wrinkled and I laughed. “Don’t you have air conditioning in that old car?” She gestured out the front window at the beat-up station wagon I bought off Craigslist a few years ago.

  I shook my head. “It broke.”

  The five-hour drive from Heyworth, Ohio to Tolson, Illinois wasn’t that bad, but with temps near 90 and no A/C, I spent most of it sweating my ass off.

  “Take it down to Hank’s Auto Shop soon. Those boys can fix anything. Now—” She placed her hands on her hips. “—if you’re gonna be staying here, I have to lay down a couple rules.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I wondered what kind of crazy shit she was about to say. Grandma didn’t have many rules.

  “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve always been lenient with you boys,” she said, reading my mind. “But you’ve grown up. The kind of trouble you can get into now is different. When you get older, mistakes are harder to fix. I gather you learned that lesson recently?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I learned the hard way.”

  “Good. You won’t forget it then.” She smiled. “Back to my rules. Number one—you know where the liquor is in this house and you’re welcome to it, as long as you use it moderately. And don’t ever get behind the wheel of a car when you’re drunk.”

  I held up my hands. “I don’t drink and drive. Besides, where am I gonna go? I’m stuck here in middle-of-nowhere Illinois.”

  “Rule number two,” she continued. “No hanky panky in the hot tub. I’ve never broken that rule and neither will you.”

  I made a face. “Grandma. No offense, but gross.”

  She shrugged. “Those are the rules.”