OUTCAST: A Good Guys Novel

by Jamie Schlosser

  “Let’s do this,” Aaron said, pumped up and excited. “I’m so frat!”

  God, that guy was such a douche.

  “Gentlemen, take your seats and repeat after me—Pi Kappa Epsilon. Loyalty. Dedication. Brotherhood.”

  We did as he said. The chant came out clumsily at first, and the concrete was cold and hard on my ass.

  “Again,” he ordered. “And again. Don’t stop.”

  Just like the other guys, I was sitting with my legs folded in front of me, but the crossed-legged style was uncomfortable for my knee. At the retreat, we’d figured out that it was one of my triggers. Shifting, I extended my left leg so it was draped over the right to get some relief.

  In the beginning, it wasn’t so bad. All we had to do was sit and say some words.

  But after what I estimated to be about thirty minutes, my joints started to ache and my muscles locked up.

  A couple hours in, our words became mumbled and slurred. My throat burned, and my voice was raspy from speaking for so long.

  My leg hurt. It didn’t matter what position I put it in—sitting on a hard floor for this long was breeching my limits, but I didn’t want to give up.

  Tonight would be over soon, and it was a small sacrifice for what laid ahead.

  After a while I could feel myself nodding off, but I was powerless to stop it. I struggled to keep my eyes open, but my shoulders slumped and my head fell forward.

  When Max wasn’t looking, Jeff gave me a hard shove, jolting me to awareness, and I sent him a look of thanks.

  I definitely didn’t want to fall asleep, because what happened when someone dozed off? They got the hose. Literally sprayed with ice-cold water. Patrick sat shivering across from me, his soaking wet clothes dripping a wet trail that led to the drain in the floor.

  The candles in the middle of our circle were long extinguished, but a few remained lit around the perimeter of the room and my eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

  Looking at Max, I wondered if he’d had to do this, wondered how far back these traditions went. He’d been pacing back and forth most of the night, drinking the coffee Cameron kept bringing down to him. I had no idea how he hadn’t needed a piss break yet, but I hoped for it. Hoped for just five minutes to stand and stretch.

  No such luck.

  More chanting. More time passed. How much time? I didn’t know. I’d lost all concept of minutes or hours.

  To distract myself, I resorted to my old pain-coping tactics—thinking about Kayla.

  I replayed what happened at the carwash no less than ten times. Remembered how vulnerable and soft her voice was when she told me she loved me for the first time. Thought about drawing her naked on my bed, hopefully in the near future. I envisioned holding her hand as we walked across campus, her beaming at me proudly as I sported the Pi Kap letters across my chest.

  I was startled out of my daze by the sound of the hose and I braced myself, thinking it was coming for me.

  I was wrong.

  Patrick sputtered as it shot over him, soaking his hair and clothes once again.

  “Come on, pussy,” Max taunted. “You think I want to be down here all night? You don’t see me snoozing.”

  With a growl, Patrick stood up. “This is bullshit!”

  Stunned, our words died away as we watched him wring out his T-shirt.

  The sight of the water made me thirstier, and I swallowed several times, trying to muster up enough saliva to quench my parched mouth.

  Max stepped into Patrick’s personal space. “This bullshit is what will get you into Pi Kappa Epsilon. This bullshit will make the next four years the best years of your life. Popularity, the wildest parties, the hottest girls. How bad do you want it?”

  “Not bad enough. You’re fucking crazy, man,” he spat before storming toward the stairs. Hesitating, he turned back to look each of us in the eye. “And the rest of you are crazy, too, if you put up with this crap.”

  The heavy stomping of his feet and the loud slam of the basement door was a welcome break from the sound of our voices repeating the same words over and over again.

  “Well then.” Max turned toward us, not seeming all that bothered at losing a potential member. “Anyone else want to commit social suicide tonight?”

  We all remained silent.

  “Good. Then get back to chanting.”

  If I’d have known what was good for me, I would’ve followed Patrick.

  If I’d have known what was coming the next day, I would’ve gotten up off that floor and left.

  But I didn’t.

  Trying to ignore the pain, I let the motivation of popularity and acceptance cloud my judgment as I endured the hours we had left.

  “You’re dating Ezra Johnson, right?”

  Megan’s question caught me off-guard, and I glanced sideways at her from where I was chopping lemons at the beverage station.

  How did she know that? She was a senior at the university and the most reliable employee at Rocky’s. From our limited interaction here, that was all I knew about her. We were always so busy we never had time to chat, and I was sure I’d never mentioned my love life.

  Reading my confusion, she shrugged. “He’s pledging Pi Kap.”

  Of course. I almost forgot that every girl on campus was drooling over him and that fraternity.

  “That’s right,” I answered tightly.

  Flipping her dark ponytail, she sighed. “Lucky girl. He’s so yummy.”

  Trying to ignore the uneasy feeling her statement gave me, I chopped the lemons harder.

  I probably should’ve been flattered by what she said, but uneasiness quickly morphed into anger. Would she have said the same thing about him three months ago? Where were all these people when Ezra was in high school? No one gave him the time of day, just because he wasn’t the picture-perfect guy. Now that he fit the mold, everyone seemed to want a piece of him.

  It was so… superficial. And annoying. And wrong.

  Oblivious to my stewing, Megan collected her tray of waters, plopping lemon slices in each one. “Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for being cool.” I looked over to see a sincere smile on her face. “You’ve seriously saved my ass here so many times by covering for all the no-shows.”

  My grip softened on the knife. “It’s no problem. I’m glad for the extra money.”

  With a nod, she left. Her compliment made me feel a little better, but I was still in a pissy mood.

  Since school started, it seemed like Ezra had spent more time with the frat than with me. Not like I could talk, though. I’d been spending just as much time, if not more, at work.

  But that wasn’t why I was on edge.

  Worried, I checked my phone before shoving it back into my pocket. Nothing from Ezra. No goodnight text from last night, and I hadn’t heard from him all morning.

  That wouldn’t have been too concerning, except he was late for our lunch date.

  I wanted him—needed him—to be here, but not just because I missed his handsome face.

  This morning the private investigator called, saying he had information for me. I told him to meet me at the restaurant around noon. I’d been getting antsy over the past few days, because it’d been a week since I paid him. Most people in the forum said he was crazy fast—like he could have answers in a day or two sometimes.

  The fact that my case took longer made me think something was wrong, and having someone to hold my hand through the meeting would be nice.

  It was a big information dump to drop on Ezra without warning, and I was basically high-jacking our date, but having him here would make it easier if it was bad news.

  I sent him a text.

  Me: Hey, where are you? I’m waiting for you at Rocky’s.

  Cleaning up the beverage station and closing out the last of the checks, I waited anxiously for his reply.

  But when the clock read 11:59 and the man I recognized as Ethan Smith strolled through the door, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.


  Watching him take a seat, I stalled. I washed my hands and hung up my apron. Checked my phone one more time—still nothing. Then I got a coffee for him and a water for myself and slowly approached the table. I didn’t even know if he wanted coffee, but it seemed like the courteous thing to do.

  I set our drinks down.

  “Mr. Smith?” I asked, and he nodded.

  “Miss Reynolds?” Nodding in return, I sank into the soft cushion of the window booth across from him.

  Ethan Smith—if that was even his real name—wasn’t as old as I thought he’d be. He was probably in his late twenties, with brown hair and a clean-shaven face. The dark blue suit and glasses made him look professional, though.

  “Let’s get right to business, shall we?” He leaned forward on his elbows, placing his hands over a white folder. “Your birth mother’s name was Melanie Barnes. She was born on December 7th, 1979.”

  Damn, he sure didn’t waste any time.

  As he spoke, I searched the sea of faces outside and the people coming in. None of them were who I wanted to see.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked patiently. “Moral support?”

  I gave one last peek down at my phone. A blank screen stared back at me. I’d have to do this on my own; that was how I’d wanted it in the first place, right?

  Giving Mr. Smith my full attention, I shook my head. “No, it’s fine. Please continue.”

  “She grew up in Wells, Montana, but for unknown reasons she didn’t graduate high school and left the state before she turned eighteen. The next trail picks up a few years later in Cleveland, Ohio, where she was arrested on prostitution charges.”

  I barely held in my gasp.

  “Someone bailed her out the next day, and she spent the following eight months at a women’s shelter in Cleveland until she gave birth to an infant girl—you—and chose the private closed adoption route, which you already know.” He shuffled some papers. “It seems that she didn’t plan it out ahead of time. She didn’t contact the agency until after your birth, but quickly decided on your adoptive parent, John Reynolds.”

  “And Rob Walsh,” I added, because it didn’t feel right to leave him out.

  Mr. Smith gave a small smile. “Yes. He became a second legal guardian in 2015. Were they together at the time of your adoption?”

  “Yes. They didn’t hide that fact from the agency. I guess I’m curious as to why they were chosen. I really want to ask her—Melanie—why.”

  His smile faltered, and he went back to the folder. “From there, the trail went cold for a few years. Ms. Barnes was arrested again on drug possession in 2008. After serving five months in prison, she returned to the same women’s shelter, but didn’t stay longer than a few weeks. She bounced around various homeless shelters and soup kitchens over the next several years until 2014.” A sympathetic expression passed over his face as he paused. “She was found deceased in an alley in Cleveland on January 14th, 2014.”

  “Deceased,” I repeated the word, in shock.

  He nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry, but she passed away.”

  “Passed away?” I parroted. It took me a few seconds to process it.

  He’d said was. Her name was Melanie Barnes. As in, past tense.

  Homeless. Prostitution. Drugs. Jail. Death.

  My eyes stung and my nose burned. It was like he was telling me the saddest story ever written. Only this was real, and it was the story of the woman who’d given me life.

  “You mean—” My breath hitched. “—she froze to death? Or she was sick? Or starving? Was she murdered?” The unthinkable questions tumbled from my mouth, each one just as bad as the last.

  I thought about Paul. How he wandered the streets, unprotected and alone. Dirty clothes and unshaven face. Unwanted by society.

  Then I pictured my faceless mother in his place. I’d never known her, but the thought of her dying, cold and hungry, was unbearable.

  “All scenarios are possible, but it was ruled natural causes, so homicide is unlikely. As someone living on the streets for that many years and for the time of year it was, malnutrition or exposure to the elements could be a correct conclusion. I’m sorry. This is never the kind of news I wish to deliver.”

  I was really wishing I had that moral support now. My hand clenched, wanting someone to hold it. Out of all the possible worst-case scenarios, this one had never crossed my mind. It’d never occurred to me that she was dead.

  Didn’t want to see me? Yes. Couldn’t find her? Yes. But gone? No.

  “Is there a gravesite I can visit?” I asked, my voice shaking from emotion.

  “I’m sorry, but no. When the body of a homeless person goes unclaimed for more than thirty days at the city morgue, they’re often cremated.”

  Letting out a sob, I broke down, quietly crying into my hands.

  Mr. Smith gave me a minute, allowing me a moment to lose my shit. I sniffed and wiped at my cheeks as I tried to get myself under control, so we could finish our meeting.

  A tissue appeared in front of me and he said, “You can take comfort in the fact that the shelter where she stayed for most of the pregnancy was a safehouse. She—”

  “Like a place for abused women?” I interrupted him. “Or recovering drug addicts?”

  Slowly, he nodded. “That’s not always the case, but yes, sometimes the women are recovering from domestic violence, trying to stay clean, or both. During her time there, she was well-fed, cared for, and sober. She was also very good about keeping up with the prenatal medical care. She stayed healthy for you.”

  A big piece of the puzzle was still missing. “So, my father… he was abusive?”

  “I wasn’t able to track down a father. There was none listed on the birth certificate. It’s possible he never knew about you, but the circumstances of your conception are undetermined. Some things only she could have answered.”

  Meaning, I would never know. Because I couldn’t ask her. I couldn’t talk to her. Ever.

  Conception. Undetermined. Such technical words for something so personal.

  My father could’ve been violent. Maybe I was a product of prostitution. Or rape.

  That made me feel dirty. If that was the case, no wonder she didn’t want me.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have done this. I should’ve left it alone. So many people in the forum had success stories, but others had warned me about this sort of thing—I just didn’t want to believe it would be my outcome.

  “Thank you for your time,” I whispered shakily.

  The folder he’d been sifting through slid to me across the table. “Everything I found is in here. May I suggest you take a few days to digest this news before going through it? Again, I’m sorry.”

  After he disappeared through the double doors, I clutched the folder in my hands and stood on unsteady legs. I went to the break room to get my backpack. I was in the habit of bringing my books with me in case I had to go straight to class, and today I would need to rush if I wanted to make it on time.

  I’d just made it past the kitchen when Megan was suddenly in front of me, looking genuinely concerned. “Hey, are you okay? Who was that guy?”

  Unable to answer her around the lump in my throat, I just shook my head and left the restaurant as fast as I could. I was in such a hurry that I almost ran into someone on the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry—” I apologized, then looked up to see Shauna. “Oh, hey. I’d wait on you, but my shift just ended. And I’m kind of a mess right now.” I sniffled. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m actually not here to eat today. I was hoping to catch you, though. Do you have a few minutes to talk?” Reaching out, she rubbed my shoulder and the physical contact was somewhat comforting.

  It was so like her to try to save the day when someone was in distress. I didn’t feel like talking about my problems, but she seemed worried about me.

  “Sure,” I relented.

  Following her over to a nearby bus stop bench, we both sat down.

&nb
sp; Her normally bright eyes held a hint of pain and her smile was forced. Nervous hands wrung together. “I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes followed something over my shoulder and I glanced behind me to find her watching Ethan Smith get into his SUV down the street.

  “When he came around asking about Melanie a few weeks ago, I knew. It’s not the first time a PI has come sniffing around the shelter. Usually I don’t give them the time of day, considering the information about our residents is confidential, but with Melanie no longer living, there was only one reason he’d be asking—you.”

  “I’m confused,” I told her. And I was. The information overload I’d just received was too much for my brain to comprehend.

  “I knew your mother.”

  My grief was temporarily forgotten. “You did?”

  “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, so I did a little investigating, too. I tracked you down. I told myself it would be enough to meet you, just once, then I’d let that man do his job. Maybe wait for you to come seek out more information on your own.” She shrugged guiltily. “But I couldn’t leave until I saw it through. You remind me of her. In the way you carry yourself. The way you smile.”

  The lump in my throat had diminished to a dull ache and my heart was racing. “So, you’re not in town on business?”

  “Oh, I am. That wasn’t a lie. There’s a soup kitchen on the outskirts of town and I’ve been helping them expand the place. They couldn’t figure out why I was sticking around for so long, but I didn’t want to leave until you got some answers.” She sighed. “When I saw you in there with him, I decided to wait for you out here. I have to admit I’m a bit ashamed of myself, because where I come from, we call that stalking.”

  She handed me a business card with the words ‘Women’s Transitional Shelter of Cleveland’ on it. Shauna Franks, owner, was listed underneath.

  I gasped. “You own the place where she stayed when she was pregnant with me?”

  Smiling, she nodded. “I didn’t own it back then. Almost twenty years ago, I was a resident there myself. Melanie and I shared a room. I got to feel you kick a couple times. You used to keep her up at night with how much you danced on her bladder.”