Until You (Fall Away Series)

by Douglas, Penelope

  “I don’t understand how you can listen to this alternative crap, Tate.”

  I sit on the bed scowling at her but still unable to control the smile that wants release. I give her a hard time, but I love nothing more than to see her happy.

  And she’s so damn cute right now.

  “It’s not crap!” she argues, widening her eyes at me. “It’s the only album I have where I can listen to every song with equal enjoyment.”

  I lean back on my hands and sigh. “It’s whiny,” I point out, and she puckers up her lips while she plays air guitar.

  Watching her—something I could do every minute of every day—I know I’m all bluster. I would sit through a million Silverchair concerts for her.

  Things are changing between us. Or maybe just for me, I don’t know. I hope for her, too.

  What felt friendly and easy before is different now. Every damn time I see her lately, all I want to do is grab her and kiss her. I feel like there is something wrong with me. My blood runs hot whenever she wears the short, little jean shorts like the ones she’s wearing right now. Even her baggy, black Nine Inch Nails T-shirt is turning me on.

  Because it’s mine.

  She borrowed it one day and never gave it back. Or I guess I told her she could just have it. One night when I noticed that she was sleeping in it, I didn’t want it back anymore. The idea of my shirt on her body while she sleeps makes me feel like she’s mine. I like that I’m close to her even when I’m not here.

  “Oooh, I love this part!” she squeals as the chorus starts, and she rocks out harder on her invisible instrument.

  Even a little sway of her hips or scrunching up her nose makes my pants tighter. What the hell? We’re only fourteen. I shouldn’t be having these ideas, but dammit, I can’t stop it.

  I mean, shit, yesterday I couldn’t even watch her do her math homework, because the pensive expression on her face was so adorable that I had a strong urge to haul her into my lap. Not touching her downright sucks.

  “Alright, I can’t take it,” I blurt out and get off the bed to turn off the music. Any distraction to kill the hard-on that’s growing in my pants.

  “No!” she screams, but I can hear the laughter in her voice as she grasps at my arms.

  I shoot out and lightly jab her under the arm, because I know how ticklish she is. She squirms, but now I’ve touched her, and I don’t want to stop. We nudge each other back and forth, each of us trying to get to the CD player.

  “Alright, I’ll turn it off!” she yells through a fit of laughter as I move my fingers into her stomach. “Just stop!” she giggles, falling into me, and I close my eyes as my hands linger at her hips and my nose in her hair.

  What I want from her scares me. And I’m afraid it would scare her, too. I know it will definitely scare her father.

  But I’ll wait, because there is no other choice. For the rest of my life, I won’t want anyone else.

  It’s time to man up and tell her.

  “Let’s go to the pond tonight,” I say softer than I want. My voice cracks, and I’m not sure if I’m nervous or frightened. Probably both.

  Our fish pond is where it needs to happen. It’s where I want to tell her that I love her. We go there a lot. Picnics or just for walks. It’s not unusual for us to sneak out and ride our bikes up there at night.

  She leans back and looks at me with a casual smile. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

  My shoulders slump a little, but I recover. “Why?”

  She doesn’t look at me but pushes her hair behind her ears and walks to the bed to sit down.

  Dread stomps into my brain like a big, fat rhinoceros. She’s going to tell me something I don’t like.

  “I’m going to the movies,” she offers with a close-lipped smile. “With Will Geary.”

  I swallow, feeling the thump in my chest damn near break a rib. Will Geary is in our class, and I hate him. He’s been sniffing around Tate for a year. His father and Tate’s dad play golf together, and that’s one part of her life that I’m not involved in.

  Will Geary doesn’t have anything on me. His family doesn’t have more money or a better house. But his family is involved with Tate’s, and my parents are…well, not involved with anything. Tate’s dad had tried taking me golfing once or twice, but it’s never stuck. Fixing cars is where we bond.

  I narrow my eyes, trying to reel in the anger. “When did that happen?”

  She only makes eye contact with me for a second at a time. I can tell she is uncomfortable. “He asked yesterday when our dads played golf together.”

  “Oh,” I almost whisper, my face rushing with heat. “And you said yes?”

  She folds her lips between her teeth and nods.

  Of course she said yes. I took my damn time, and another guy swooped in.

  But it still hurts.

  If she wants to be with me, I guess she would’ve told him no. But she didn’t.

  I nod. “That’s cool. Have fun.” The pitch in my voice probably gives away how hard I’m trying to sound like I don’t care.

  I start walking for her bedroom door. “Listen, I have to go. I forgot Madman needs some food, so I’m off to the store.”

  She’s mine. I know she loves me. Why can’t I just turn around and tell her? All I have to do is say ‘don’t go’, and the hard part would be over.

  “Jared?” she calls, and I stop, the air in the room almost too thick to breathe.

  “You’re my best friend.” She pauses and then continues, “But is there maybe any reason you may not want me to go with Will tonight?”

  Her shaky voice is hesitant like she’s scared to speak, and the moment fills the room like a broken promise. It’s the moment when you know that you can have what you want if you’re only brave enough to say so. It’s a split second when everything can change, but you pussy out because you’re too afraid to risk the rejection.

  “Of course not.” I turn around and smile at her. “Go. Have a good time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  That night I saw Will kiss her, and the next day my dad called and asked if I wanted to come visit him for the summer.

  I’d said ‘yes.’

  “Eat.” James pushed a plate of meatloaf and potatoes in my face as soon as I sat down on the barstool.

  I’d fallen asleep on Tate’s bed listening to Silverchair and hadn’t woken up until two in the afternoon. Her dad pounded on the door to wake me.

  After I’d showered and gotten dressed in fresh clothes, I’d come downstairs to an even better smell than Tate’s shampoo.

  I sat at the center island in the kitchen and stuffed the food into my mouth like I hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal in years. Well, I guess I hadn’t. Before the summer with my father, my alcoholic mother wasn’t very nurturing. And after that summer, I wouldn’t let her be even if she’d tried.

  “Don’t you have work?” I asked before taking a drink to wash down the food.

  It was Friday, and I was missing school as well. I’d skipped yesterday when Madoc and I went to get tattoos, too.

  That seemed like so long ago now.

  “I took the day off,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  To deal with me.

  “Sorry.” And I honestly was. Mr. Brandt was a good guy, and he didn’t deserve drama.

  Leaning against the counter opposite the center island, James crossed his arms over his chest, and I knew a talk was coming. Fixing my gaze on my plate of food, I braced myself, because with Mr. Brandt, it was best just to shut up and take it.

  “Jared, your mom will be gone for at least four weeks. You’re going to stay here while she’s away.”

  “I’ll be fine at my house.” It was worth a try.

  “You’re sixteen years old. That’s illegal.”

  “Seventeen,” I corrected.

  “What?”

  “I’m seventeen today.” It was October second. I hadn’t realized until they’d dated my paperwork this morning at the jail.

/>   That information didn’t give James any pause, though. “I spoke to a judge. One that I know well. I worked out a treatment, of sorts, in order for that mess from last night to stay off your permanent record.”

  Mess from last night? That’s a strange way to describe it. “I nearly beat a guy to death,” I spit out sarcastically. How the hell were they going to keep that off my record?

  His dark blonde eyebrows pinched together. “If that’s true, then why haven’t you asked how he is?”

  I’d nearly beat a guy to death.

  Yeah, even saying the words, I still didn’t care. Would I care if he were dead?

  James continued. “In case you did care, he’s fine. Not great, but he’ll survive. Some broken ribs, a little internal bleeding that he went into surgery for last night, but he’ll recover.”

  He’d be in the hospital for a while, but I was glad I hadn’t hurt him that badly. To be honest, most of last night swirled in my head like water down a drain. The more it moved, the more I lost. I could barely recall most of the attack. I remember hitting him with the lamp and kicking him in the stomach several times. He threw some shit at me, but in the end, he was the one on the ground.

  Until that asshole cop showed up, and he stuck his knee in my back, pulled my hair, and called me every name under the sun while he cuffed me.

  Why had I called the cops again? I still wasn’t sure.

  “So the judge would like you to attend counseling.” I didn’t need to look up to know James was shooting me a warning look. “In exchange, you won’t have this latest episode on your record.”

  “Absolutely not,” I shook my head and laughed at his joke.

  Counseling? Most people pissed me off. And people up in my shit really pissed me off.

  “That’s what I told him you’d say,” James bowed his head and sighed. “Jared, you’re going to have to start taking responsibility for yourself. You did wrong and the world doesn’t owe you anything. I’m not going to wipe your nose just because you come from a broken home and you think that gives you a license to behave badly. I call it the “Fuck up, own up, and get up” policy. Make a mistake, admit it, and move on. We all screw up, but a man solves his problems. He doesn’t make them worse.”

  I should’ve just ate and kept my mouth shut.

  “Did you fuck up?” he asked, every slow syllable a challenge.

  I nodded.

  Would I do it again? Yes. But he didn’t ask me that.

  “Good.” He slammed his hand down on the counter top. “Now it’s time to get up. Your attendance and grades are in the garbage. You have no real goals beyond high school—that I can tell, anyway—and you suck at making responsible decisions. There’s a really good place for people who crave discipline and don’t need too much freedom.”

  “Prison?” I blurted out sarcastically.

  And to my surprise, he smiled like he’d just trumped me.

  Shit.

  “West Point,” he answered.

  I pinched my eyebrows together. “Yeah, right.” I shook my head. “Senators’ kids and Eagle Scouts? That’s not me.”

  What was he thinking? West Point was a military college. The best of the best went there and spent years building up their high school resumes to get accepted. I’d never get into West Point even if I was interested.

  “That’s not you?” he questioned. “Really? I didn’t think you worried about fitting in. Everyone else has to fit you, right?”

  Motherf…I sucked in a breath and looked away. This guy knew how to shut me up.

  “You need a goal and a plan, Jared.” He leaned on the island straight into my space, so I’d have no choice but to pay attention. “If you have no hope for the future or passion for what’s to come, then that’s not something I can instill in you. The best thing I can do for you is push you in a direction and keep you busy. You’re going to clean up your grades, attend every class, get a job, and…” —he hesitated— “go visit your father once a week.”

  “What?” Where the hell did that come from?

  “Well, I told Judge Keiser that you wouldn’t go for the counseling, so this was your only other option. You’re required to have one visit a week for a solid year—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me?” I interrupted, the tightness in my muscles so tense that I started sweating. There was no fucking way I could do it!

  I opened my mouth. “Absolutely—”

  “This is the ‘get up’ part, Jared!” he yelled, cutting me off. “You don’t agree to one of your options then it’s off to juvie…or jail. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in trouble. The judge wants to make an impression on you. Go sit in a jail, every Saturday, and see—not what got your father in there—but what being in there has no doubt done to him.” He shook his head at me. “Jail does two things, Jared. It weakens you or kills you, and neither is good.”

  My eyes stung. “But—”

  “You won’t do your brother any good if you’re sent away.” And he walked out of the kitchen and the front door, having made his point.

  What the hell just happened?

  I gripped the edge of the gray marble countertop, wanting to rip it out of the wall and tear the whole world up in the process.

  Fuck.

  I struggled to inhale, my ribs aching with every stretch.

  I couldn’t visit that cocksucker every week! There was no way!

  Maybe I should just tell Mr. Brandt about everything. Everything.

  There had to be another solution.

  Pushing off the counter and out of my seat, I ran up to Tate’s room, crawled out of the double doors, and through the tree to my own bedroom.

  Fuck him. Fuck them all.

  I switched on my iPod to Apocalyptica’s I Don’t Care and crashed onto my own bed, breathing in and out until the hole in my gut stopped burning.

  God, I missed her.

  The reality disgusted me, but it was true. When I hated Tate, my world got small. I didn’t see all the other shit: my mom, my dad, or my brother in foster care. If I only just had her here again, I wouldn’t be such a jumble of fucking breathing fits and outbursts.

  It was stupid as hell, I know. Like she should be around just for me to push whichever way I wanted.

  But I needed her. I needed to see her.

  I reached out to grab the handle on my bedside drawer where I kept the pictures of us as kids, but I pulled back. No. I wasn’t going to look at them. It was bad enough that I kept them. Throwing them away or destroying them had been impossible. Her hold on me was absolute.

  And I was fucking done.

  Fine.

  Let them think I played their game. My brother was the most important thing, and Mr. Brandt was right. I wasn’t any good to him in jail.

  But I wasn’t going to any fucking counselor.

  I exhaled and sat up.

  Scumbag father it was then.

  I slapped on some dark washed jeans, a white T-shirt, and gelled my hair for probably the first time in a week.

  Walking down my stairs and out the front door, I found Tate’s dad in his garage removing stuff from his old Chevy Nova. Tate and I used to help him do little jobs on the car years ago, but it was always drivable.

  He looked like he was clearing out the trunk and any personal stuff from inside.

  “I need to replace the spark plugs on my car,” I told him. “And then I’m going to Fairfax’s Garage for a job. I’ll grab some clothes on my way back and be inside in time for dinner.”

  “By six,” he specified, offering me a half smile.

  I slipped on my sunglasses and turned to leave but stopped and spun back around.

  “You won’t tell Tate about any of this, right?” I checked. “Getting arrested, my family, me staying here?”

  He looked at me like I’d just told him that broccoli was purple. “Why would I do that?”

  Good enough.

  Not twenty-four hours later I stood in front of another cop, getting patted d
own, only this time I wasn’t in trouble.

  According to Mr. Brandt’s judge friend, I didn’t have to start the visitations for a few weeks. They wanted my mother’s approval first, but I had no interest in waiting. The sooner I started, the sooner I’d be done.

  “Through those doors, you’ll find lockers where you can put your keys and phone. Get rid of that wallet chain, too, kid.”

  I eyed the Neo-Nazi-looking corrections officer like he could take his orders and shove them up his ass. He was bald, white-like-he’d-never-seen-the-sun, and as fat as a dozen Krispy Kremes a day will do to you. I wanted my shit on me, because I fully expected to turn around and walk out of here the moment I laid eyes on the sick bastard that was my father.

  My father. My stomached turned at those words.

  “How does this work?” I asked, reluctantly. “Will he be like in a cage, and we talk through some air holes or are there phones we use?”

  Asking questions wasn’t my style. I either figured it out for myself, or I shut up and fumbled along. But the idea of seeing the twisted fuck made my muscles tense. I wanted to know exactly what I was walking into. Looking like a helpless kid to this cop was nothing if I could walk in there like a man in front of my father.

  “Cages with air holes?” the Nazi-with-a-badge teased. “Watching a little Prison Break lately?”

  Fucker.

  He looked like he was trying to hold back a smile as he buzzed me through the double doors. “Thomas Trent isn’t here for murder or rape. No additional security needed, kid.”

  No, of course not. It’s not like he was dangerous. Not at all.

  Tipping my chin up, I walked calmly though the doors. “The name’s Jared,” I corrected him in an even voice. “Not ‘kid.’”

  The visitation room—if that was what it was even called—boasted a high-school-like common area. Benches, tables, and snack machines filled most of the room, and windows along the south wall brought in enough light, but not too much.

  It was Saturday, and the room was packed. Women held children in their arms, while the husbands, boyfriends, and significant others smiled and chatted. Mothers hugged sons, and kids shied away from the fathers that they didn’t know.