The Broken Ones (Jesus Freaks #3)

by Andrea Randall

  Books by Andrea Randall

  In The Stillness

  Nocturne (with Charles Sheehan-Miles)

  Something's Come Up (with Michelle Pace)

  Bar Crawl

  Chasing Kane (Spring 2016)

  Jesus Freaks

  Sins of the Father

  The Prodigal

  The Broken Ones

  November Blue

  Ten Days of Perfect

  Reckless Abandon

  Sweet Forty-Two

  Marrying Ember

  Bo & Ember

  Nonfiction

  Become a Full-Time Author: Practical Tips, Skills and Strategies to Turn Your Writing Hobby into a Career

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the readers who never left my side. Who never stopped believing in me, or this book, during the fourteen months it took to get it here.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Duck and Cover

  Kennedy

  Breathe …

  Resonant tones from Tibetan singing bowls floating through the halls trigger an automatic response in me. It’s noon, and time for pre-meal prayer and meditation. I stretch out on my bed, setting down the C.S. Lewis book from Roland’s mom. She gave it to me during Christmas break. Before everything went to hell.

  Pushing those thoughts out of my head for a moment, I roll onto my stomach and rest my forehead on my folded arms, taking another deep breath before I begin my meditation. Meditating first helps me organize what I need to be praying for. After I’ve prayed, I’ll meditate again and listen to anything that might come from God.

  It’s funny, really, that since being here I’ve heard from God more directly than in my entire first year at Carter University. Here being a Buddhist temple wedged deeply in the nooks and crannies of thick green vines and masterfully overgrown bushes of a New York City block, where I’ve been for the last three and a half months. In hiding.

  The mid-May day is uncharacteristically muggy, but a resuscitating breeze flows through the window of my single-occupancy room, accompanied by a gentle sunlight that warms the back of my neck.

  An emotional chill whisks across my shoulders as I recall a similar heat that flooded my body when the Today Show aired photos that had been sent to them, anonymously of course, almost the second my live interview with Greg Mauer ended. An interview in which I discussed coming to terms with myself as a child of God and loving the people around me. One where I stood on my own two feet, not only as a student at CU, but as the daughter of internationally-beloved pastor Roland Abbot.

  The pictures, the heat on the back of my neck reminds me, were various angles of the same scene: Roland, Matt, and Matt’s dad, Buck Wells, exiting The Pink Pony—a strip club in Georgia near Matt’s home. It was pitch black, well after midnight, when the pictures were shot, but the faces were as clear as if it were noon. Even clearer were the people in the foreground of the picture: yours truly, and Jonah Cross. My good friend, and a good guy, caught in the crossfire. Coming back to the focus of my meditation, I run my hands through my hair, tightening them as I squeeze my eyes against the once-again flowing tears.

  Breathe …

  Tears that come unbidden and at the most inconvenient times.

  Breathe …

  Tears that remind me of all I’ve lost. Who I’ve lost.

  Breathe …

  Stopping the panic of that moment in Georgia from overtaking my body is sometimes a minute-by-minute exercise. I let it wash over me now as my stomach twists in knots.

  Sometimes the tears have to come. I’ve learned that each droplet contains a salve for my soul that I’ve been unable to cultivate from any tangible means: trashy TV, comfort food, throwing things … Nothing works like tears do. And I hate that.

  Jonah and I had driven to Georgia with Roland just after Christmas and stayed at the Wells family home the night before some national conference on family friggen values. The night before the conference, Matt went missing. Only Jonah and I knew, since it was after midnight. We tracked him down in the skeezy plaza that contained at least two pawn shops, a bail bond establishment and the bright yellow glow of a Waffle House sign.

  Step right up, get your girls and waffles …

  After several failed attempts to get Matt to leave on his own accord, Jonah and I called my dad. It was a last resort, and I can’t say I was surprised when he showed up with Buck. I mean, Matt is his child after all—regardless of whatever strained relationship they’re dealing with.

  I thought that night was as bad as things would get.

  I wish.

  Matt stopped talking to me. Altogether. Stopped looking at me. Made quick work of living as if I wasn’t. As if I didn’t exist and hadn’t ever existed. On a dime. I’d caught him in an act he deems as unforgivable, given he hasn’t forgiven his father for the same transgressions. At least he hadn’t at the time. I wouldn’t know now; I haven’t spoken to anyone from Carter University since a few days after those pictures surfaced.

  Allowing a long exhale to bring me to a sitting position, I pull my knees into my chest and allow the tears to fall. Continuous. I tuck my earbuds into my ears and turn the music almost as loud as it will go. Sometimes the silence is too much. Sometimes Pitbull is the only thing that crowds out the music I can still hear from inside The Pink Pony. It’s safe to say I’ll never listen to Britney Spears again, though I never really made it a habit to begin with.

  You promised you’d take care of her, my mother had sneered at Roland the night she picked me up to bring me back to Connecticut. Plucked me from school without an attempt to listen to any protestations from me, though I didn’t have any. There was nothing I could possibly conjure up to convince her why, after everything that went on over the past several months, I should stay there.

  Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if half of the student body hadn’t turned on me as well, as if they were following Matt’s silent lead. The attention I’d received after I was revealed as Roland’s daughter was nothing compared to the vile uproar of those labeling me as the heathen who’d poisoned two of their “golden boys.”

  Lead me…

  I clench my jaw, rolling to my side, wrenching with what I’m sure are loud sobs if I bothered to let myself hear them. I turn the music up as loud as it will go. What had happened with Matt was supposed to stay between the five of us there that night, and the members of the counseling staff Buck and Roland had spoken with. I can’t help but replay the look in Matt’s eyes the night he and his father arrived at Roland’s house for what would be my second media-induced mini-seclusion in my entire life. Never mind that it was only months after the first one. Venom poured from his eyes. Acid, boring holes in my heart as he stared at me until I had to be the one to look away.

  That was the very last time he looked me in the eyes.

  The song ends and I bring my pillow to my face, letting out a guttural, cleansing scream into my pillow. A knock on the door has me worried that I’ve disturbed the Zen—or whatever—of the guests, but my fears are quelled when the smiling face of Rao, the monk and retreat leader at the monastery, greets me.

  “Are you sure you won’t join everyone for lunch today, Miss Sawyer?” His smile is accented by the gold sash draped artistically around his deep maroon robe. “It would be good to see you eat.”

  He has the grace to look past my surely red and swollen face. He doesn’t ask me why I’ve been crying. He hasn’t ever. I’m sure he knows, but I appreciate the space.

  What I want is a burger.

  I don’t say that out loud. Not even as a joke. Ironically, the regulations around here are tighter than they ever were at CU. There’s no meat here at all. No fish, no chicken, nothing
that was once living with eyes is allowed here. I already had the modest dress requirement down pat before my arrival, so there was no adjustment period there, but I’ll be damned if I haven’t absentmindedly plotted how to sneak in a pepperoni pizza or some chicken lo mein.

  It’s not that I’ve never dined with the retreaters, as I call them. I just like to avoid excessive attention right now. I doubt most of the people here have heard of Carter University, let alone the scandal that befell the school when the strip club pictures erupted. Because they didn’t just surface. They splattered their lava all over us. I know I’m a special case here, and I hate that. Even though it’s allowed me the privacy and anonymity I craved. Even though that’s likely what I’ll be for a while, if not forever—a special case.

  But here at this particular monastery that has a name I can never pronounce, the staff is well aware I’m the daughter of Roland Abbot. It was an act of grace, maybe, that months prior to this debacle Roland became a leading member of an Interfaith initiative that had him making a few trips to NYC a month. Visiting various temples, monasteries, mosques, whatever.

  So, here I am.

  “Kennedy?” Rao’s voice turns on an edge of slight concern as he’s caught me staring into space yet again.

  I nod and swallow hard. “I’ll come. I’ll be right down.”

  With a pleasant nod, Rao turns on his heels. But before he takes his first step down the hallway, he turns back to me.

  “Miss Sawyer, if I may?” He asks permission to speak, stopping my closing of the door.

  “Of course,” I answer quietly.

  “Your worst enemy cannot harm you as much as your own unguarded thoughts.” The young monk quotes Buddha as his soft thumb wipes a tear away from my cheek before he glides silently away.

  Ha, I think, checking myself in the mirror before heading to lunch. Clearly he’s never met anyone from my side of the religious tracks.

  ***

  I throw my hair into a loose and messy bun as I make the corner for the dining room. It’s more of an atrium, really: fully lit by the sun through a glass ceiling and matching glass walls on three sides. Tables aren’t pressed against the windows—planter boxes are. Filled with wide-leafed greens, flowers of every color of the rainbow, and trickling water features. Tables abut these rich, narrow and fragrant gardens. Walking in here always makes me feel like I’m happening upon a secret garden rather than a cafeteria.

  While I do have a mini-fridge in my room stocked with hummus, cheese, and Brie, I’m hopeful there is something with a little more depth prepared for lunch today. The few times Roland’s visited me here, we’ve snuck off to a nearby burger joint. I can still feel the grease on my lips, but I push those very literal carnal thoughts out of my head as I wander toward the selection area.

  Hardboiled eggs. That, I can do. I scoop three of them on top of a bed of lettuce, add a few spoonfuls of walnuts, slivered almonds, and dried cranberries, and drizzle it with an admittedly gluttonous portion of blueberry vinaigrette. The ceremonious preparation of my lunch is almost in vain when I nearly drop my tray at the site of Asher sitting in the corner of the dining room with a bright and mischievous look on his face.

  I make a noise that sounds a little like “eep,” trying not to disturb the rather peaceful lunch experience, and scoot over toward him as quickly and gracefully as I can. His face melts into a wide grin, and when he rises, his broad shoulders expand even more as he holds out his arms to welcome me into a hug. After I set down my tray, I squeeze the living daylights out of him. I can’t help from bouncing up and down a little.

  Asher holds me at arms length for a second, taking me in before releasing me and taking his seat, gesturing for me to do the same.

  “No,” I say, my response bright. “Stand back up and give me another hug.”

  He complies and finally speaks. “If you insist,” he says quietly, covering me with another warm embrace. He smells like freshly ground coffee and whatever cologne he wears. It’s almost a little fruity, but it works in conjunction with his razor’s-edge exterior.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, finally sitting. “How’d you know I was here? Roland told you, didn’t he? Still, what are you doing here?” I’m vibrating. Alive with the excitement of seeing someone from my old new life for the first time in months. It makes me miss everyone else almost twice as much as I did this morning. I swallow back the tears, demanding they stay at bay for at least a few moments more.

  Asher’s eyebrows form a comical arch above his blue-grey speckled eyes. “You okay?” he asks sarcastically. “I’m just here to see you. It’s been a lonely few months at Word,” he says of the coffee shop he owns, and where I work. Or worked. His vagueness isn’t anything new, but still swirls some discomfort through my stomach.

  I laugh. “I’m sure Chelsea is excitement enough.” I say of my “alternative” coworker. Covered in tattoos and sour language. I love her dearly. Under normal circumstances I probably wouldn’t have much of an appetite, but I shove half an egg in my mouth and chew while I wait for him to continue.

  Asher leans back, crosses his arms in front of his chest and offers a non-committal shrug. We’ve had enough conversations in the past for me to recognize his signal that he’s going to make me do most of the work in this conversation. “What happened?” he asks innocently.

  “Broad question,” I counter, taking a swig of water. “I could be asking the same thing of you, right?”

  Asher leans forward, looking more like my boss than a friend for a fraction of a second. “I’m serious.”

  I don’t answer. I try a poker face.

  Then, he speaks again. Ruining everything. “K. Sawyer…” he pleads softly.

  As if thrown into a dream, the floor feels like it drops from beneath me and I’m falling down, up, and sideways at the same time. I grip the edge of the table as a wave of dizziness crashes through me.

  K. Sawyer.

  “I thought it might have something to do with that football player,” he says, correctly assessing my reaction to the nickname that only Matt called me. Because he gave it to me. It’s his.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to get ahold of myself. “Don’t be a jerk,” I whisper. “You did that on purpose.”

  Until winter break, Matt had spent almost every shift of mine at Word, “hogging counter space” Asher liked to tease me. Until I reminded him that Matt’s money was as good as anyone else’s. Still, he liked to give me crap.

  Asher doesn’t flinch at my emotional response, and I can’t decide if I’m angry. Clearing my throat, I attempt to redirect the conversation. “What happened is I make an easy scapegoat.”

  In the early aftermath of Photogate 2.0, allies were few and far between. No one seemed to know what to make of pastors and CU kids “hanging out” at a strip club the night before a major, national conference on family values. Despite initial intentions to keep the whole thing private, Matt’s night of infinite rule violations was fully exposed.

  “Explain,” Asher demands without offering an apology for the jerk move of using Matt’s nickname for me.

  I tilt my head to the side, and begin. Monotone. “The Office of Academic Affairs took mercy on me and let me finish out my freshman year via independent study. I’m on summer break.” I don’t really care for my own tone, but it’s clear he’s not here for a simple friendly visit.

  His left eyebrow twitches, unamused. “Irrelevant.”

  I sigh, pursing my lips before I speak. I let it out all at once. “Half the student body is convinced that it was Matt’s close relationship with me that led him to believe such a lewd form of entertainment is, in fact, entertainment. The other half seems to want to be on my side, or did. You know, the side of truth. But some of them are scared to admit it, and others have flat out told me their parents have told them to stay far, far away from me, or risk losing their college funding. In fact,” I pause for a brief sigh, “before my mom dragged me off campus, Bridgette was packing her bag
s because her parents demanded she be removed from my room. So,” I shrug, “here I sit. Orphaned by my life.”

  “Orphaned?” Asher questions through narrowed eyes. “Your mom? Dad? Stepdad? Friends?”

  “Mollie, my best friend from before my swan dive into Jesusville, hangs out with me here as much as possible. My stepdad, Dan, does the same. Especially if he has work in the city. Roland’s been here a few times, too. Business,” I answer all matter-of-factly.

  “And your mom?” he presses.

  “We’ve, uh,” I clear my throat, “have always had a complicated relationship. This hasn’t helped.”

  He waves his hand, instructing me to continue and, despite my annoyance, I comply without hesitation.

  “She blamed Roland for getting me involved in such nonsense. She was furious there were no plans to tell her about the incident at all. I think she truly enjoyed watching all the finger pointing at him and Carter that was going on in the first couple of weeks thanks to the Court of Public Opinion.” I grind my back teeth in anger.

  Asher chuckles. “I don’t buy it. I watched the news, too. She wasn’t absolved.”

  Of course there was talk over the conservative media about my mother’s choice to raise me without Roland. How she encouraged him to sign over his parental rights. Encouraged being their word. How she raised me in a liberal state, a liberal town, a liberal church, and, you guessed it, a liberal home. In the short couple of weeks the story was even a story, my mom’s and Roland’s relationship trajectory played out over and over again across the media.

  “Maybe,” I finally offer. “But she was all too excited to have an excuse to take me out of there early. She’s been sending me transfer info and contact information for Cornell and Yale ever since my school year officially ended. So, you see,” I turn up my sarcasm, “there is nothing in there about the football player that you didn’t already know. We were friends, he made mistakes, so did I, he hates me, the end.” I’ve practiced that list in my head many times. Our own trajectory.