Redemption (Redemption Series Book 1)

by R.K. Ryals

  ~Bezalial~

  The day passed too quickly, maybe because school was mainly spent arguing with my philosophy teacher who refused to let me do extra credit. My aunt had made good on her promise to talk to Mr. James. But, as I suspected, he wanted me to re-write the paper, and I refused to do it.  It put us at an impasse and neither one of us was budging.

  “You are looking at it all wrong, Ms. Blainey,” Mr. James growled.

  I leaned forward slightly.

  “Mr. James, I argued a point I felt strongly about, and I made sure to include references to back it. It was a good paper,” I growled back.

  Mr. James looked away from me, his fist clenched at his side. From where she sat, Mrs. Pierson, the so-called counselor, couldn’t see his restraint, but I could. With his golden hair, amber eyes, and muscled physique, he resembled a Greek god. His personality, however, resembled a pit bull. He swallowed hard.

   “The paper wasn’t about disproving Camus. It was about the man himself, his life, his philosophy,” Mr. James ground out.

  I shrugged.

  “I didn’t like his philosophy,” I countered.

  Mr. James’ face reddened and Mrs. Pierson sat up abruptly behind her desk. Now, she decided to intervene.

  “Now, now . . .” Mrs. Pierson soothed, but I let her voice drone on into the background.

  I simply wasn’t interested in being soothed. The whole argument was pointless. It was obvious we were at a stalemate.

  In the end, I ended up spending three hours in the counselor’s office having a teacher/student conference that resulted in me telling Mr. James to stuff his paper where the sun doesn’t shine and to covet the F he gave me if he wasn’t going to let me do extra credit. I simply refused to re-write a paper I believed in, one that I felt effectively disproved Camus’ stupid "Life is Absurd" theory. It was going to piss my aunt off royally. Not because the paper wasn’t good. It was. But because I wouldn’t change it to earn a better grade.

  I was so thoroughly irritated by the time I left the office, I slammed into the bathroom and stayed there. As a senior, I only had five periods, and Mr. James had wasted most of them. I slid down the restroom wall and pouted.

  “Smoke?” someone asked quietly, and I looked up to see Jessie Grey leaning up against one of the bathroom stalls. She must have been standing on a toilet when I’d come in. I’d checked under the doors.

  She held a cigarette out and I took it. I didn’t smoke but, at this point, it wouldn’t hurt to look like I did. I took a quick puff and handed it back, swallowing the cough that rose up in my throat.

  “Thanks,” I said tightly. She cocked her head.

  “It’s a bad habit,” she said before puffing on the butt.

  I didn’t know Jessie well. We were both seniors, but she was a loner who spent most of her time secluded. She didn’t do much to invite company, and, honestly, she was somewhat unnerving. I watched her a minute as she blew smoke toward the ceiling. Her torn jeans, loose black off-the-shoulder tee, and short black hair suited her. A red lacy bra flashed occasionally through the shirt, and I felt a momentary flash of envy. She looked like a C. I was barely out of an A.

  “You got probs today?” Jessie asked.

  I looked up and caught her eye. It seemed to twinkle a moment. I shook my head.

  “Nothing big,” I answered vaguely.

  She pushed away from the wall.

  “Whatev,” she said as she put the butt out and fanned the air with her hand.

  She reached into her back pack, pulled out an aerosol Febreeze can, and sprayed the room. It hinted of apples. I watched her pop the can back into her backpack and rolled my eyes. If only my aunt had to raise her.

  “You should watch your back, Blainey,” Jessie said suddenly.

  I looked up, startled.

  “What?” 

  “Just watch it,” Jessie repeated.

  Her face was empty, her eyes dark. The bathroom suddenly felt like a scene from a Stephen King novel. She leaned toward me.

  “He’s coming."

  What the hell? Maybe it was the way she said it, with no inflection, but an eerie feeling stole numbly over me. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but Jessie moved toward the door and disappeared into the hall, no backward glance, no wave goodbye.

  He’s coming. I looked down at the floor and sat in silence, my thoughts tumultuous as I traced the geometric shapes the tiles made on the floor.

  He’s coming. The bell rang, and I finally moved. Look toward the light, my dad’s voice whispered. I was going crazy.

  “You look beat,” Monroe stated sympathetically when I met her by her car.

  Conor was with her. He gazed at me a moment, leaned in close, looked like he was going to say something, and then flicked one of my curls playfully instead.

  “Hey, Red. Didn’t see much of you today.”

  “Likewise, Con."

  I wasn’t sure how to deal with the Conor situation just yet, so I ignored it. He peered into my face a moment and then began to move away. He knew us well enough to know when to make his exit. I watched him as he walked. He glanced back briefly and our eyes caught. He winked and I managed a quick wave. I couldn’t help but wonder what he and Monroe had been discussing. I inclined my head in his direction but Monroe shook her head.

  “Oh no! So not going there!” she huffed. “I’m way more interested in your day than anything else right now.”

  I got the feeling she didn’t want to break Conor’s trust, but the change in subject put me back in an instant foul mood. Aside from my aggravation with Mr. James, I couldn’t shake Jessie’s dead-panned comment. He’s coming. I shivered.

  “Uggg,” I mumbled as I slid inside Monroe’s pristine white Cadillac.

  Even her car was still stuck somewhere in the late 50’s and it was disgustingly clean. In my mottled state of irritation, I wanted desperately to mess it up. Monroe slid in beside me and gave me the "don’t even think about it" raised brow. I grumbled. It made me wish I’d driven my messy, old clunker.

  “Let me guess. You spent the whole day re-writing James’ paper,” Monroe stated before turning the key in the ignition and backing out of the parking lot. I gave her the evil eye.

  “You underestimate my stubbornness, dear Roe."

  She laughed. She knew better than to ask. I was so worked up, I could cry. And that made me even more upset. I tend to cry when I’m angry which only serves to piss me off more and make me cry harder. It made me feel weak, and I was NOT weak.

  “Oh well,” Monroe soothed. “It’s Friday. And, from what I overheard this morning, you have an interesting weekend ahead.”

  I saw the humor in her eyes, and I almost laughed. Monroe loved to re-invent moments almost as much as I did. She was in invention mode.

  “Your aunt has invited a mystery man for dinner,” Monroe began, her voice husky. It reminded me of the narrator off one of Monroe’s movies.

  “A recruiter,” I corrected.

  She gave me a look.

  “Let me have my moment,” she complained. I snickered.

  "Then, by all means, continue."

  “Ok, just imagine,” she said with a big wave of her hand.

  “He’s dark and elusive with a manly jaw covered in five o’clock shadow, jeans slung low on the waist, and no t-shirt. His chest is tan and muscled and, ten minutes into the meal, he offers to give you a private massage. Mmmmmm,yummy." She sighed dreamily, leaning over me just long enough to pull down the glove compartment. I ogled the bag of dumdums that stared back at me. God, she was terrific!

  “If it’s Mr. James, you can have the massage,” I said as I filched a sucker and popped it into my mouth. I closed the compartment with my knee.

  “I’ll take it! A man that uptight has to be passionate. God knows, we all have to find release somehow,” Monroe pointed out.

  I shook my head and snorted. I so didn’t miss the implication.

  “You missed you
r calling in life, writing hyped up, cheesy romance novels,” I goaded.

  She flipped me the bird. Besides, only Monroe would consider a recruiter "date" material. Her mother would hyperventilate if she knew Monroe was a glutton for older men and, when I say older men, I mean quite a bit beyond the suitable few years older age gap. Mature she called it. I insisted she just didn’t know a better word for geezer.

  “Feel free to be my stand in,” I said as we moved onto the lane that led up to the Abbey.

  “And have your aunt threaten to have my family burned at the stake. No thanks,” Monroe spat.

  I laughed. Monroe’s Wiccan upbringing made my aunt cringe. It had taken threatening my own conversion to Wicca to convince my aunt to let Monroe stay on Abbey property. The whole friendship was not debatable.

  “You think it’s serious?” I asked after a pause.

  I was worried. And I wasn’t really all that good at hiding it. Monroe looked at me askance.

  “I don’t,” she said. Her face was scrunched, her pitiful attempt at neutral. She noticed I noticed and shrugged.

  “I don’t know, Dayton. I honestly think you need to leave the Abbey. The vision . . . what Jacin said about Lady Ky's aura . . . it's all messed up. But, if I can’t convince you to leave then worrying about it isn’t going to get us anywhere. If it’s bad, we’ll figure it out,” she said as she pulled to a stop in front of the Abbey.

  I sat there a minute, my gaze staring but not really seeing a thing. My aunt was always vague. And I had made myself sick thinking about this whole week. Something just felt wrong. Finally, I moved.

  “It’ll be fine,” I mumbled, taking the dumdum out of my mouth before sticking it sucker down on the seat next to me. She didn’t notice, but she would later. Monroe patted the steering wheel.

  “That’s the spirit! Text me!” she said as I climbed out in front of the Abbey. I leaned in and flipped her back the bird.

  “Well then!” she gasped dramatically as I slammed the door with a laugh.

  We were a "flip the bird" and "roll our eyes" kind of group, mainly out of habit rather than a need to be cliché. There was comfort in habit. I grinned at Monroe as I backed away. It ended shortly when my back came up against a familiar stoic figure. I closed my eyes briefly, opening them only long enough to see Monroe’s sympathetic frown as she pulled away from the curb.

  “The school called,” Aunt Kyra said.

  I rolled my eyes before turning to meet her gaze.

  “I made one request, Dayton, and you not only refused to do it but clearly disrespected a teacher and me. What were you thinking? The things you said to him . . . Dayton, you know better.”

  I didn’t even attempt to argue with her. She’d not only give me fits about the whole ordeal, but begin a rather lengthy lecture on morality. She looked disappointed. I knew the look well.

  “Dayton, I’m only trying my best to look out for you."

  I just shook my head. Sometimes I think Aunt Kyra really tried, and I’m pretty positive that I wasn’t the easiest teenager to foster, but she never attempted to understand me. I wanted to be closer to her, but I didn’t want to sacrifice my own personality to do it.

  “Tell me what you want to hear,” I offered, preparing myself for a verbal bashing, but Ky surprised me when she pointed at the Abbey’s arched entryway instead. She wasn’t looking at me; though I could tell her lips were clenched tight enough they were turning white.

  “We’ll discuss this at dinner, Dayton. This weekend could mean a lot for you."

  She reached up and brushed a stray curl out of my face, her eyes watching me intently. I think I reminded her of mom sometimes. Not so much in looks, but in character.

  “Oh Dayton . . . the man you’ll be meeting Sunday . . . give him a chance, please. He’s not your average guest. He has plans for you. We all have plans for you,” Aunt Kyra pleaded.

  I narrowed my eyes. The mystery man again.

  “What kind of recruiter am I meeting?” I asked. She didn’t answer, just motioned to the Abbey again.

  “Just give him a chance,” she repeated as she brushed passed me and headed for the chapel side of the Abbey. It was probably to pray for my soul. It wouldn’t help.

  “A hint?” I asked sarcastically as she continued to move away.

  “I’ll see you at dinner,” she called out.

  Her silence on the subject unnerved me so much, I shivered. I was used to my aunt being vague but never this vague. Something was up. My imagination was working overtime, and as I opened the door to the inner sanctum, I began picturing Monroe’s shirtless male creation. It made me giggle despite the gnawing in my gut. Not because the scene was giggle worthy, but because the location was. A Mississippi Abbey love affair. Yeah right. My phone went off, and I looked down at the text message on my screen.

  Come stay with me if you need to, Day.

  I smiled as I moved to the stairs. Sometimes it seemed Monroe could read my feelings entirely too well.

  You better be txting at a red light

  I texted back as I pushed open the door to my room.

  Yes’m *Big Salute*

  I chuckled.

  Chapter 10

  The Other has me confounded. He is lawless but remains on the outskirts of his own kind. He seems to seek only to indulge himself with no ultimate goal. What could he want?