by R. K. Ryals
Despite the heat, there was something about summer that made it my favorite time of year. Maybe it was how green everything was, the scent of honeysuckle on the breeze, the way the pine trees swayed slightly in the woods as birds flew back and forth. Or maybe it was the ever present smell of sunscreen and chlorine. Whatever it was, it called to me, and I ran up the porch, double checking the lock on the door before starting my walk to Frieda’s Dairy Bar down the road, my black messenger bag slung over my shoulder. There wasn’t much in it—a couple of paperbacks, an extra stick of deodorant, lip gloss, and a faux leather wallet—but it was mine.
The sound of something large tearing through the woods barely registered before a wet nose brushed up against my palm.
I pushed at it. “Stay,” I ordered.
The massive black mutt panting up at me, his tongue lolling out the side, ignored me, tripping me several times as I moved past two manufactured homes before stepping onto the road. The dog had only been with us a year. He’d been rooting around the woods near our trailer, and we’d made the mistake of feeding him. Mom said if we didn’t name him, we technically didn’t own him, but yelling at the “mangy beast” every time he chewed something to pieces resulted in him answering to it. Then, a few months ago, I’d caught my mom slipping a cheap bag of dog food into our buggy at the grocery store.
I’d raised my brows at her. “We’ve lowered our standards that much?” I’d asked.
Mom exhaled. “Beasts need to eat, too,” she’d answered.
I’d smiled all the way out to the parking lot, making her scowl at me over the hood of the car as she threw the dog food into the back.
Mangy Beast was a part of our family now, for good or bad.
“Stay!” I ordered again. We’d reached the row of mailboxes at the corner, and Mangy Beast whimpered.
“Extra kibble if you go home,” I told him.
He stopped, sitting back on his haunches as I walked past. He was the ugliest thing ever born, but he was ours, and I wouldn’t be able to stand it if someone ran him over. He watched me walk for a bit, but then shook his massive head and trotted back toward the trailer. I kept walking.
There wasn’t much on my trek to the dairy bar; just more trailers that faded into small houses. There were woods beyond that, and a winding blacktop road that led into a neighborhood full of wealthy, historical homes. A newer gated community was even further down the road, but the blue-blooded wealth was in the historical district.
I scurried past it all, my eyes on the square, white building in front of me. The exterior paint was peeling, and a hand painted sign hung precariously over a fabric canopy. The blast of cold air that hit my face when I finally walked through the dairy bar’s door was as refreshing as the bottle of water Frieda held out behind the counter.
“Like you need to lose any more weight,” she groused.
I gulped down half the water before I looked up, grinning. I’d consider her comment insulting in view of my lanky frame, but she said it to everyone.
“Mom needed the car today.”
Frieda harrumphed. “Got Beth out sick, and it’s Poppy’s night to work.”
I groaned. Beth was dependable as a rock, but Poppy spent more time hiding behind the counter painting her nails and texting than she did working. The only reason Frieda kept her on was because she was family.
“And it’s Friday,” I grumbled.
Pulling an apron over my head, I grabbed an order pad and stuck a pencil behind my ear.
Frieda took two phone orders from the wall and headed to the grill.
“You staying on after the summer?” she called.
She’d asked me the same question every day since high school graduation, and I still didn’t have an answer.
“Mom has a job interview today,” I said instead.
The answer seemed enough for Frieda.
The bell above the door jingled and Poppy sauntered in, her jaw working a piece of bubble gum, her currently fuchsia fingernails flying over the keys of her phone, Her hands paused only long enough to grab an apron before moving behind the counter.
“Too damned cold in here,” she grumbled.
It was always too cold for Poppy.
She plopped into a lawn chair next to the ice cream machine, her fingers flying. “Did you hear about Hudson Granger?” she asked.
Leaning my hip against the counter, I shook my head and waited.
Poppy did this gurgling thing she often did with her throat when she knew something no one else did. “Football scholarship. He might even have a shot at the pros. He broke up with Lindsey Cunningham.”
This would be an all night, one-sided conversation where Poppy talked and anyone near her just grunted in the affirmative. Between her cell phone and social networking, she was a constant source of information.
Two cars pulled into the gravel drive outside, a red Altima that had seen better days, and a Bentley. We saw all kinds of customers here, despite how simple the restaurant was. Frieda’s Dairy Bar was a large, one room building with white paneling and scarred booths. A counter separated the front from the back. A window unit AC constantly pumped cold air, and a single painting hung along the back wall, the canvas nothing more than a mess of jumbled colors. Frieda thought it added character, but honestly it didn’t help the place out at all. And still, the customers came because Frieda made the best milkshakes and burgers in the entire state.
The door jingled, and the next four hours became a chaotic blend of orders and tid bit gossip from Poppy. I kept worrying the end of my pencil with my teeth, my eyes straying to a black clock hanging above the freezer. Three o’clock. My shift started at eleven. Mom’s interview would have been long over by now.
Frieda handed me two plates, her eyes following mine. “Two more hours,” she said.
My thoughts preoccupied, I rounded the counter and ran into a young man, my eyes level with his chest. A pair of hands went to my bare shoulders. Only years of practice kept me from dropping the food.
“Careful there,” he said.
I mumbled an apology and moved past. The jumbled painting laughed at me as I served a couple sitting at the booth in the back, the colors bleeding into each other; brown on blue, blue on green. The day Frieda hung it, I’d made fun of her taste in art, but she’d looked at me and said, “Stare at it a while, Haven. You’d be surprised what it might show you.”
It had become a game. I often saw different things in the painting, sometimes a forest, other times nothing but mud or stormy skies. Tonight, I swore I saw a river.
Chapter 4
River
The private school parking lot was empty when I met Roman at his car the next afternoon. He barely spared me a glance.
“Maybe we should talk,” I said.
Roman snorted. “Which one of us? You or me?”
Reaching up, I gripped his shoulder, closing the door of his Porsche with my knee.
“Ride with me. We’ll get something to eat, and I’ll bring you back to your car.”
In the end, Roman didn’t argue. He might live life on the edge, his temper ruling his mood, but I was still older, taller, and bigger. I’d spent a lot of time working out in a boxing ring over the past year in an effort to forget things, uneasy things, and I watched Roman weigh his options before he finally threw his hands up and climbed into the Mustang.
He’d just barely gotten his car door shut when I asked, “What’s up with you, Roman?”
He scowled. “Nothing.”
I pulled out of the parking lot. “Flunking school and getting a girl pregnant isn’t nothing.” My eyes slid to his profile. “Do you love her?”
Roman snorted. “God, no! It was a fling.
Pulling out into traffic, I headed for the small dairy bar a few miles down the road from the school. “At least tell me she was a blue blood,” I said.
Roman groaned. “You’re just like them. All criticism. Does it really matter? And don’t give me that damned lecture about stand
ards. We’ve heard that enough from dad.”
Being from old money, it was generally encouraged we date deep-rooted wealth. It wasn’t a requirement, but long-standing, ingrained habits are hard to break, and these habits were several hundred years old.
I looked at Roman. “This isn’t about dating, is it?”
He avoided my gaze. It had been a little over a year since we’d lost our father, but grief—especially angry grief—hangs over people and changes them. Dad’s death never had to happen. He’d been murdered, held at gunpoint during a house robbery before being brutalized. He’d been the only one home at the time. I’d been the first to find him.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel, and I fought the memories.
“Acting out won’t bring him back,” I murmured.
Roman strummed the console between us. “And leaving home, cutting yourself off from everyone, will?”
I deserved that.
“I was at school.”
Roman held up his cell phone. “There are other ways to communicate.”
I threw him a look. “There are also better ways to deal with it.”
Lecturing seemed pointless. I couldn’t tell him not to drink, since I’d been drinking for two years. I couldn’t tell him not to have sex; I was guilty of that, too. The key was being smart about it.
There was only one thing I could argue with Roman about.
“Why school?” I asked him. “It’s your key to getting out of here. Keep your grades up, and you could go anywhere, do anything.”
The silence that followed was stony.
“Just doesn’t seem important anymore,” Roman finally murmured.
His words struck a deep chord within me. I knew that feeling. I struggled daily to stay ahead in college because I wasn’t focused. Somehow, before Dad’s death, school hadn’t seemed as hard, as tedious. Now, it felt like being stuck on a hamster wheel going in circles. School had been about pleasing our father. Our life had been about pleasing our father. We’d been bred to please him.
“Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean he isn’t here,” I said.
Roman’s eyes cut to mine as I pulled into the dairy bar’s parking lot. “Damn straight it does. I hate when people say that. Don’t be one of them. He’s not here.”
Roman climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the Mustang, his arms crossed, and waited.
At first, I didn’t move. I wasn’t Roman’s counselor, I was his brother, and I was dealing with many of the same issues he was. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do for him other than be there.
Climbing out of the car, I hooked my thumb in Roman’s direction before heading to the diner. Frieda’s was an old summer haunt for us. We’d spent many hot days there horsing around with friends. There wasn’t much to it, but it felt like summer. I doubted the owner made much income during the fall and winter months.
Cold air blasted our faces, followed by buzzing conversation. It smelled like sunscreen and grease. I had barely cleared the door when a petite girl with wavy, sandy hair and green eyes ran into me. She had on a black racerback tank over a cropped sleeveless white top and cut-off blue jeans. An apron protected her clothes, and she held two plates loaded with burgers and fries.
My hands went to her shoulders. “Careful there.”
She didn’t acknowledge me, just brushed past, her eyes distant. My gaze trailed her a moment as we approached the counter. She stopped at a booth in the back, her eyes going to an ugly painting on the wall above it.
“Yeah, what can I get you?”
My attention went to a blonde-haired girl with fuchsia fingernails leaning against the scarred countertop, her fingers flying over the keys of a cell phone, her cheek full of bubblegum.
Roman eyed the blonde. “A vanilla milkshake,” he said, leaning against the counter. “I have a thing for blondes.”
Blonde hair looked up, her blue eyes glacial until her gaze met Roman’s. She grinned, her iciness melting away, her glossed lips pursed. Roman’s effect on women was mind blowing,
I jabbed him in the back with my elbow. “Butterscotch for me,” I said. “Under the name River Brayden.” Grabbing my brother’s navy polo shirt, I pulled him backward toward an empty booth.
The girl’s eyes stayed locked on Roman. I was pretty sure she didn’t get my order.
“I got it,” the sandy-headed girl said from behind me. I turned sideways to let her pass, and her green eyes slid up to mine. She smiled. “Butterscotch. River Brayden,” she repeated.
Nodding, I watched as she moved behind the counter before I slid into the booth opposite Roman.
“Why did you bring me here,” my brother grumbled.
His face looked funny, strained. I didn’t remember it looking that way in the school parking lot. I’d been running late when I left the house and was lucky I’d made it before he left.
“So we could talk,” I answered.
“We did that on the way here.”
My brows rose. “Did we?”
He knew as well as I did that we’d skirted the issue. Roman was fast becoming a problem Marissa couldn’t fix, and one I didn’t have long to save.
“Is your only problem drink and women?”
He knew what I was asking, and his gaze moved to the window. A fly buzzed there, trapped between the thick inner glass and the screen beyond. I stared at it. The fly was a metaphor for our lives. Dad had died and left us trapped between a window and a screen. It didn’t seem right to put that much stock in one person, to blame the dead, but that was the cold reality.
“You’re much quieter than you were before you left,” Roman said.
My gaze slid to his. “And you’re not the brother I remember.”
I saw the anger, but I didn’t heed the warning signs.
“Marissa asked you to come, didn’t she?” he asked, rising from his seat. “I knew it.”
The erratic mood swing wasn’t expected, and I looked up at him. “No, I came because it’s summer, Roman, but I chose to stay because of you.”
My brother’s eyes moved over the small room. He’d garnered some attention, and it seemed to rile him more.
“I don’t need you to stay.”
I glanced around us, my eyes narrowing. “Roman, you okay?”
He pulled at his shirt and shrugged. “I’m fine.”
Something about his eyes looked wrong. A sick feeling invaded my gut.
“Roman ...” I leaned forward. “What are you on?”
It was the last straw. Whatever pain Roman was feeling was too much, and he clocked me just under my eye. I hadn’t been expecting the punch, and it sent me stumbling. I recovered quickly.
My hand went to Roman’s wrist, and I held him there. Someone shrieked, a kid maybe, but I kept my brother still, my fist like iron.
“Roman, what are you on?” I asked again.
He was calming down, but it wasn’t much of an improvement. He was sweating profusely.
“Two milkshakes to go,” a voice said.
Sandy hair was standing next to the booth, two cups in her hand, her eyes sharp.
“The police will be called soon,” she warned. She glanced over her shoulder, and my eyes followed hers. An older woman with brown hair streaked with grey was holding a cordless phone in her hand, her eyes on the table.
I tightened my grip on Roman’s hand. “Come on,” I ordered.
The police threat was effective, and my brother moved compliantly out of the booth. I waved off the milkshakes.
“I want that!” my brother argued, his eyes on the cups, but I wasn’t letting him go.
“The car. Now!”
Roman swore. This time I saw the punch before it came, and I stopped it, wrapping my arms around Roman’s upper torso before dragging him out the door. The lady behind the counter had dialed the police and was holding the phone up to her ear.
Sandy hair followed us outside.
“Look,” she said, her eyes on my bro
ther. “I’ll just put these in the car, okay?”
Roman spit on the ground, but slunk to the Mustang. I pushed him inside and let the girl hand him the milkshake before slamming the door shut.
“He’s not normally like this,” I defended, my gaze going to her face. She had flushed cheeks and light freckles on her nose.
She swiped at a piece of damp hair hanging on her forehead and held out a white styrofoam cup. “Might be wise to use the outside window to order from now on. Frieda has a long memory.”
After I took the cup, she waved at the car. “I’d hurry.”
There were sirens in the distance, and I didn’t wait to thank her.
My tires threw up dirt, and I backed out as far as I could before gunning the engine. Roman slumped in the passenger seat.
“What the shit have you gotten yourself into?” I fumed.
He looked over at me, his face calm. “Peace,” he said.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Sandy girl stood in the dairy bar’s gravel driveway, her hands shielding her eyes as we sped off. She wasn’t a blue blood—that was obvious—but it was a small town. Strange how I didn’t recognize her.
“I’m beating the shit out of you when we get home,” I growled at Roman.
He didn’t answer me. He’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat.
Chapter 5
Haven
Flying dust clung to my already damp skin as the tall, brown-haired boy peeled out of the parking lot. River, he’d called himself. There was something strong about his name, and he’d been a nice looking sort, well-built and confident. But it was his eyes that haunted me. I’d seen anguish there, and I knew anguish.
The bell above the door jingled. “Is he gone?” Poppy asked. She let the door slam, effectively cutting off Frieda’s warning yell from within, her fingers flying across her phone. “Damn, this is good stuff.”
Tires screeched on gravel as police cars pulled in, lights flashing.