Crossing the parking lot behind Bernie’s, I notice a guy slumped against the brick wall, facing away from me. There are only two lights in the vicinity, and neither of them is close enough to shed clarity on this homeless guy.
“Hey, man, you all right?” I ask, checking to see if he’s just another drunk. Most drunks pass out, can’t be awakened, and are tough to move.
And this one definitely isn’t moving.
“Bro, you all right?” I ask again, moving closer. I grab his shirt sleeve and tug. His body rolls toward me enough that I see the dreads. Oh, no. “Jake? Can you hear me? Jake, wake up!” “Jake, Jake, JAKE,” I call over and over again . . . and over and over again I don’t receive a response. He’s blacked out from his run-in with Big P earlier, that’s all, I tell myself. Deep down, my stomach clenches, as if it knows this isn’t normal. This isn’t something that happens after you get a beat down.
I take one step to the left and a beam of light from the parking lot illuminates Jake’s face. I wish I hadn’t. Jake’s eyes are wide open, staring at nothing.
Blank. Void. Dead.
But his eyes aren’t the worst part. The knife handle securely frozen against his stomach is, and it doesn’t catch my attention as much as the piece of paper pinned underneath. Holy shit. Jake’s abdomen was used as a bulletin board. I have to bite my tongue from screaming for help. Fresh tears nip the backs of my eyeballs, and I refuse to let them fall. He didn’t deserve this.
I should be running to the police by now, running and never looking back. Let them deal with his murder, my conscience says. But the note is calling my name, begging me to read it. Hesitantly, I pluck the paper loose from the knife, find some light, and read.
Bring me the money, or you’re next.
P
Damn, it was meant for my eyes. Why didn’t he just sign it “Big P?” Because that would make him too easy to find. Of course he wouldn’t leave a literal paper trail back to his place. So, instead, he leaves a real initial, just in case the police, or someone else, found Jake before I did.
I have absolutely no idea how I’ll come up with the money I owe him. I already know what the amount is: five G’s. Five fucking G’s. How does a homeless guy locate that much money? The answer is simple: he doesn’t. He’s offed, axed, fucked, erased—whatever one wants to call it. I need five thousand dollars, or I’ll end up like Jake.
Briefly, Lucas’s face flashes across my mind, and I know I can’t die; he needs me to be his big brother. He needs me to watch out for him, to have his back, to just . . . be there. If I don’t get my shit straightened out, I’ll never see Lucas or my parents again. The thought sickens me. Because right now, these are the only people who matter in my life, the only people who care what happens to me. And Charlie—he cared enough to stop me the other day. Maybe that’s who I should contact right now, to take care of Jake. The station is only a few blocks from here, but with Big P out and about, I don’t want to be discovered.
Jake deserved so much more. He stood up for me, so it’s only right that I stand up for him.
Think, Logan, think.
I crumple the note and shove it in my pocket. I’m pretty sure fucking with evidence at a crime scene is illegal in every country of the world, but I don’t want the police investigation to drag out due to me. Jake needs to return home to his family, and they need to bury him. If the police see the note, Jake’s body will be stuck in autopsy for days, maybe weeks, and the police may not release him until they collect all evidence. I’m doing the right thing. At least, for now. This may bite me in the ass in the future, but I can’t think about that.
An anonymous call should tip the cops, which will work out perfectly. I can be back at the cottage before they arrive. Long gone, and out of sight.
“Rest in peace, my friend,” I say to Jake, and then head to the nearest payphone. The whole way I constantly glance over my shoulder, afraid of Big P showing up. Afraid he may be nearby and fuck with Jake’s body before the police arrive.
There’s a payphone a little past the intersection and down the street, and I don’t have a view of Bernie’s parking lot anymore. I dial the only three digits that can help Jake now.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“I’d like to report a murder.”
Seven • Chloe
“Can you believe it?” Mom shakes her head, tsking the TV screen. “Sandy Shores harbors a murderer. So unexpected.”
“Mom, every city harbors a murderer, even the small ones,” I say, sipping the lemonade she made for me.
“But not here, Chloe, not like this. Sandy Shores is known for its low crime rate and clean town. That’s why people like to vacation here; it’s safe.” She shakes her head again and returns to the kitchen. “Do you want another after that?” Mom asks, nodding toward my cup.
“Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks.”
She returns to the living room with her coffee mug in hand and sits down on the opposite end of the couch from me. Since Dad’s outburst last night, she’s refrained from wine or anti-depressants; instead, catering to my every need. It’s almost smothering. I know she means well—she’s just worried about me—but really, I’m okay. Yes, it was freaky and scary and I hope I never have to deal with my dad again, but I’ll pull through. It could’ve been a lot worse, but the point is, it wasn’t.
“I want you to stay inside until they find this killer,” says Mom.
Uhhh . . . no can do. “I can’t even go to the lake, which is, like, five feet from our house?”
“It’s much more than five feet, Chloe. And no, I’m forbidding you to go anywhere until they have this lunatic in custody.”
I discharge a frustrated sigh. “You can’t keep me on lockdown. That’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair that somebody lost their life last night, either.”
Gahhh. She always does that—makes me think on a deeper level than what I’m used to. Makes me feel sorry for the person I’m supposed to feel sorry for, and myself, for misplacing my caring heart every once in a while.
Then a thought strikes me: what if that homeless guy was Logan? What if he’s zipped up in a body bag at the morgue? What if I’m sitting here, sipping my freshly-prepared lemonade while he sleeps forever?
“Did they, uh, did they say who died?” I ask.
“They haven’t released his name yet.” She glances at me, sees the color leave my face, I’m sure. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I need some fresh air,” I reply.
“Oh, no you don’t. Crack your window if you need it that badly.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll crack a window.” Doesn’t she know I can easily slide down the lattice by our back porch if I wanted out?
All craziness aside, that dead boy might be Logan. I mean, what if he ran into the wrong crowd last night after he saw me and they did this to him? My stomach rolls over. This is not good. I can’t leave the house, I can’t go searching for him, and I don’t know what the name of the dead guy is.
Worst. Summer. Ever.
I open the window wide enough to stick my head out. I can’t breathe anymore, it seems like. Sandwiched between parents who hate each other and the fact that Logan might be dead, my throat feels like it is closing. Like, it physically wants to suffocate itself. How does that work?
I glimpse at the lake. Bright reflections of the sun glisten on the water, tourists steadily float downstream in fishing boats, and our neighbors two doors down eat breakfast at a small table on the lake’s edge. It’s way too early for me to be up during summer vacation, but this hasn’t exactly been a normal trip.
“Hey, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” the all-too-familiar voice calls from below. I just glare at him, at Logan. “Okay, fine,” he says. “I’ll come up.”
I’m too stunned to say anything. He’s alive? He’s . . . alive. He’s here, climbing up the lattice like he’s Prince Charming, rescuing a damsel in distress. Am I a damsel in distress? It’s quite possible these days sin
ce my stress level is way out there. He throws his backpack on the patio’s miniature roof as he finishes the climb to me. I step back to let him in.
Slightly out of breath, he says, “What? You’re not happy to see me?” He grins, but that fades when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
“It wasn’t you,” I say, and then slam into him, full force. This might be totally inappropriate, but who cares? I’m just happy he’s here.
His arms falter before finally circling around my waist, his chin resting atop my head. “No,” he says, “it wasn’t me. But I knew the guy.”
I pull back to look up at him. “I’m sorry to hear that. Were you close?”
He shrugs. “You could say that.”
Rushing over to my bedroom door, I lock it. There’s a sudden thrill coursing through my body, reminding me this is completely outlawed. If my mom catches Logan up here, he’ll be dead.
“Hey, keep quiet,” I say as Logan collapses onto my bed. “If my mom hears any added noise up here, she’ll be suspicious.”
Logan wiggles his fingers in the air and says, “Ooooh. I’m so scared.”
Hands on hips, I retort, “What’s with you this morning?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, resting on his elbows.
“You’re too . . . happy.” I frown; that doesn’t seem right. He just lost his friend in a murder and he’s up early and he climbed up to my window to see me. This guy has yet to be glad to see me. Even during our brief meetings he finds ways to avoid looking at me, or he cuts the meeting short. I narrow my eyes. “What’s really with you? I mean, did you shoot up, or whatever it’s called, this morning?”
He pushes off his elbows and sits at the edge of my bed. “You think I can’t just be happy for once?”
“No, I’m not say—”
“That because I’m a depressed, homeless, drug-addicted guy, there’s no possible way for me to ever have feelings again? That I’m forever stuck in this shitty limbo of needles, permanent roaming, and scavenging for food? Is that what you think?”
I shake my head and hiss, “Keep it down.”
He bolts off my bed and crosses the room. I let out a tiny squeal as he pushes me against the wall and covers my mouth with his hand. “Quiet,” he whispers, pressing his body against mine. There’s nothing separating the two of us but clothes, and I feel the heat radiating from his skin. “I have news for you, Chloe: I won’t always be a horrible guy. One day I’ll go back to being me, but until then, I am stuck in my own personal purgatory, tortured by demons you can’t imagine.”
He removes his hand, our lips only inches apart. I refrain from closing the distance between us, knowing it’s wrong; I set out to assist the guy, not torture him even more.
“I’ll help you, but you have to trust me,” I tell him, my chest rising and falling with irregular breaths. “I can’t do this if you aren’t on board one hundred percent, got it?”
He nods.
“First things first, take a shower,” I say, pushing him off me and wrinkling my nose for an added effect. He blushes a little. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed. I’m not judging you; I know you can’t help it. Now, go.” I hold out my arm, pointing toward the bathroom. “When you’re finished, I’ll wash your clothes.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says.
“We have an agreement, don’t we? I’m not going to let you just . . . rot.”
His eyebrows tighten together. “So, now I’m rotting?”
“Worse,” I say. “You smell like dry dirt and B.O.” I emphasize this with a yuck. “And yes, you might be rotting on the inside. There’s no telling what drugs have done to you.”
“Fine,” he says. “Have it your way.” Without breaking eye contact, he strips off his shirt.
And his jeans.
And—gasp!—his boxers.
Oh, holy mother. I can’t close my mouth, or avert my eyes. Pull yourself together, Chloe!
“Like what you see?” asks Logan, with a big, cheesy grin on his face.
“Just . . . shoo!” I turn my head away and wave toward the bathroom.
Logan laughs, deep and throaty. “You don’t want to join me?”
Don’t tempt me, son of Aphrodite! “Um, no.” I clear my throat. “Maybe some other time.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he says.
I jerk my head around to face him, eyes wide. “I-I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, you said it,” he adds promptly. “You said it, and there’s no Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card lying around, so guess what that means?”
I try swallowing the knot in my throat.
“It means your naked ass will be mine. Soon.” He still has that cheap smile plastered to his face as he closes the bathroom door behind him.
Eight • Logan
What am I doing? I mean, really. I need to grab a hold of my balls and act like a fucking man, not spend my time dicking around with Chloe. She’ll be gone within a couple of months, and if I don’t clean up before then, well, I’m shit out of luck. No returning home and patching things up with the fam. No playing football with Lucas on the front lawn. This is my life we’re attempting to transform. I need to stop jacking off and focus on what’s important.
But Chloe is too damn intoxicating. Yeah, I guess that’s the right word. Her hair smells like a cool ocean breeze and is as bright as the sun, and her curvy lips are just begging me to kiss them. That or it’s my fucked-up mind playing tricks on me. I could’ve opened her mouth with mine, let my tongue discover hers. She thought about it, too. I saw the way she watched my lips hovering three inches away; she wanted me to kiss her.
And I’m a fucking idiot because I didn’t. Instead, I had to conduct a striptease in the middle of her room and ask if she liked the view, or some shit. Why’d you do that, Logan? Why, why, why? asks one-half of my brain. The other half is saying, You want her as much as she wants you. Don’t stop.
No. This ends here, in her bathroom. Odd place, I know, but if I don’t stop myself now, I’m not entirely sure what will become of us later. And I don’t want to ruin her friendship, especially when she’s trying to help me get my old life back.
“Hey, Logan?”
I freeze. Her voice is barely audible over the running water. “Yeah?”
“I brought you a couple of towels. I’ll just set them over here.”
I have no idea where “here” is, but that’s nice of her. “Okay, thanks.”
She closes the door, and I can breathe again. Funny how five minutes ago I didn’t care about showing my junk, but now I feel awkward in a shower. Probably has something to do with the fact that I’ve talked myself out of her pants. For now, at least.
I finish showering and dry off, wrapping a towel around my waist, and open the bathroom door, releasing the humid air. I hand Chloe my clothes, which she mixes in with her own dirty laundry so her mom won’t notice.
“What about your other clothes?” she asks, nodding toward my backpack.
I shrug. “Don’t worry about them.”
“Okay. I’ll be back,” she says. She snatches a towel out of her closet and wraps it around her head. “Can’t exactly walk downstairs with dry hair; that’d be tough to explain.”
After she disappears, I check out her room. The walls change colors between blue and purple, and the shift between the two fades like sidewalk chalk during a rainstorm. It’s a strange paint job, to say the least. She also has purple shelves attached to each wall; some hold books, some hold local souvenirs, some hold picture frames filled with memories. Those are what I scan through, seeing what her past holds. What I find saddens me, because the girl in these photographs is not the Chloe I know; the girl from the past is the real deal, smiling and laughing, and Chloe’s just a shadow. The girl from the past seems happy and vivacious, and the present-day Chloe is held back by fear and unhappiness, and maybe even desperation. Chloe’s reaching for something, but she doesn’t know what it is just yet.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe
that’s why she wanted to help—I’m what she’s been searching for all along. The thought stops my heart for a mere second. If that’s true, if fate is so fucked up as to bring us together under horrible circumstances, then she and I won’t have much time together. She’ll be gone in less than two months, and I’ll be Godknowswhere.
“I’m back,” she says, startling me. “Remind me to check on the clothes in twenty minutes or so. I don’t want my mom to accidentally pick up yours and interrogate me.” She rolls her eyes and unwraps the towel around her head.
I just stare at her. Who are you? I want to ask. Who are you and what have you done with the real Chloe? I want to meet her, the real you.
Instead, like the pussy that I am, I say, “Okay,” and leave it at that.
“So, while you were in the shower, I came up with a few ideas,” she goes on, picking up a piece of paper and sitting on the edge of her bed. “And since you won’t hand over your stash, we’re going to have to come up with a new plan of action.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Like, sports or outdoor activities, something that will keep your mind focused on anything but drugs.” There she goes again with that nose scrunching. “You don’t look so thrilled.”
“Um, sure. Sports. Yeah. Totally stoked.”
Shaking her head, she says, “At some point you do realize you’ll have to discard whatever needles and/or paraphernalia you have on you, right? This process isn’t going to work unless you go all the way.”
“We’ll deal with that later,” I say, gritting my teeth. I don’t want to think about what withdrawal will be like, for both our sakes. Right now I need to focus on how I’ll be coping when the withdrawal hits me, which won’t be pretty.
“All right. So,” she begins, glancing over her little to-do list, “what do you think about this weekend? For starting this routine, I mean.” She glances up at me, big blue eyes under thick eyelashes.
Last Summer Page 5