A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)

by Ginger Scott

  Kyle looks up at me as I lean into the window, and laughs. “Joss, this is as fast as this car has ever gone!”

  The car swerves as he looks back to the road, and my body shakes with the jerk of the tires along the shoulder of the road. The thrill of almost flying free fills my body with adrenaline, and I go from terrified to high in one heartbeat.

  The lights of Wes’s truck behind us are all I see. He’s flashing them and honking, and Kyle and I are laughing harder. I push myself to sit on the door frame again and hold my sweatshirt high, finally letting the hood slip from my fingers and watching as my shirt sails through the air, smacking against one of Wes’s headlights on its rapid decent to the roadway.

  “Oops!” I say, covering my mouth and laughing.

  “We’re not going back to get that,” Kyle says, each time he takes his eyes from the road, swerving more, sending more of that wonderful drug through me.

  “Joss!”

  I lean back, my fingers gripping the roof of Kyle’s car while I look to see who’s yelling my name. Wes’s head is out his driver’s side window, and it looks like Levi’s holding his wheel and pressing the gas.

  “That’s not very safe, Wes!” I shout, unable to be serious for more than a second, laughter taking over my chest quickly.

  “Joss, make Kyle stop the car!”

  “He wants you to stop the car,” I say, leaning down so Kyle can hear me.

  “Tell him to fuck off,” Kyle says, leaning forward against the wheel, trying to find one more level, to push his Impala just a little faster.

  “Kyle says to fuck off!” I howl.

  Wes purses his lips and slams his palm against the outside of his door, leaning into his cab again, defeated.

  That’s right, Wesley Christopher whoever the fuck you are. You are not our parent, and you can fuck off!

  The lights from town are but a bright haze off in the distance behind us, which makes the stars above even more powerful. With my arms stretched out, I lean back and look at the harsh line where the clouds end and the swirls of stars begin. It’s beautiful, and I want to live in this feeling forever, never to come home. I’ll disappear in that sky.

  I let my eyes start to close under the lull of the wind beating against my face from our sprint along the highway when the car swerves once more, and I feel my legs slide too far.

  The rush hits my veins instantly. It’s good. It’s amazing. It’s chilling.

  It’s death.

  It all happens so slowly, the stars above me sliding into beams of light as the car beneath me fights to grip the road and my body gives itself over to chance. Somewhere in the middle—I decide I don’t want to lose. My fingers are frantic, my arms frenzied as I hunt for something to hold onto, for my balance, and any way out of this that doesn’t end with my body on the road.

  And then Kyle’s car begins to pull to the left, the rough dirt of the shoulder taking it, pulling it into its control while Kyle struggles with the wheel. The car is losing. Kyle is losing. I am losing. I am going to flip from the vehicle; I can feel my legs losing their grip and my body sliding more off balance. I open my mouth to scream in terror just as Wes’s arms wrap around me. He’s holding onto his open door, his brother now in the driver’s seat, taking over control of his truck while he reaches for me. He kicks off from his truck, pulling my body against his tightly as we both roll along the sharp gravel of the road and into the tall grass and irrigation canal of the adjacent farm.

  Everything mutes, but the sound of Wes breathing. My fingers are deep in his back and sides, my face flat against his chest, my elbows bleeding and my legs skinned and bruised. His chest rises and falls in fast pants, and his hands keep a firm hold on me.

  It feels like we lie here forever, like hours have passed before my senses return. I hear my name, Taryn’s voice, and the sound of steam pouring from Kyle’s car. TK’s the first to find us.

  “Is she okay?” he asks.

  “I think so,” Wes’s voice vibrates against my ear, his chest still keeping its rhythm. Are we dead? Did we die? I cling to him harder, pressing my ear against him, searching for the beat of his heart, but I can’t hear anything over my own. I feel his hands run slowly up and down me, though, and I know he’s okay.

  “You’re bleeding, Wes. Fuck, man…we need to get you to the ER,” TK says.

  “That’s her blood. I’m…I’m okay. But she’s hurt. It’s her arms. Can you see? I can’t let go,” Wes says, and everything inside of me clings to those last words.

  I can’t let go.

  “Yeah, man. Hang on. I think she’s okay,” TK says, kneeling down until his gaze meets mine. “Hey, Joss. You’re okay. I’m just going to look at your arms, yeah?”

  I shiver at his touch and grip Wes harder, suddenly living eight years in the past—my dad’s car wrecked, my family ruined, my friends horrified, everyone looking at me. Wes’s hold is tight, and his chin comes to rest over my head as I lay on him, his body the only thing between the ground and me.

  “It’s okay, Joss. Let him look. I’ll stay. I’m right here,” he whispers against my face.

  It’s okay. I’ll stay.

  I loosen my grip, letting TK roll my arms side-to-side one at a time, taking his own shirt and wrapping it around one of my elbows to stop the bleeding.

  “She’s going to need to clean that up, so it doesn’t get infected, but it doesn’t look broken or anything. Maybe she hit her head though? Wes…we should take her in,” he says.

  “I know,” Wes whispers against me, and I grow rigid and clutch him again.

  “Oh shit! Joss! Joss!” Kyle’s voice is frantic and his run turns into a stumble at my side as he falls to his knees and pulls me from Wes’s grasp. “Joss, oh fuck, Christ! I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Please say you’re okay,” Kyle cries, holding me to him.

  “What were you thinking?” Taryn yells, not hesitating to shove Kyle, even though I’m in his hold. I take the distraction as an opportunity to retreat back to Wes, who is now sitting with his knees bent, picking debris from his clothes and skin. When he sees me scurry toward him, he pulls me in.

  “I don’t know. I…fuck, Taryn. I could have killed her,” Kyle says, fighting against himself to find his balance. He stands in the center of us all, his body swaying in circles, his hands folded on his forehead as he looks at his car. “Shit! There’s no way I’m getting that home.”

  “There is no way you are driving anything home,” Wes growls, holding me and lifting my body to a stand with him.

  “I know, I know. You’re right, man. I’m so sorry. Joss! Joss…” Kyle breathes, stepping into me, reaching for my face. Before he can get close enough, though, Wes turns me, putting his body between Kyle’s and mine.

  “Do not touch her!” Wes shouts, his finger pointing from Kyle to his truck. “Get your ass in the back of the truck. We’ll figure out how to get your car tomorrow.”

  “Don’t keep her from me, asshole. I need to see her and know she’s okay,” Kyle says grabbing Wes’s arm, only to be shaken off onto the ground.

  “You can see her tomorrow. You’re done tonight,” he says, anger radiating from every move he makes.

  “I did this,” I say, my voice almost croaking out quietly behind him, surprising him—surprising everyone. “Don’t be angry at him. I did this. I’m the one who always does it. I didn’t have to get in the car. I didn’t have to sit on the window. Be angry at me.”

  “Oh…believe me. I’m plenty angry at you!” Wes yells, his eyes leveling me with disappointment. I stand there under the scrutiny of his stare for a few seconds, my breathing still strong from the terror moments ago, my nostrils flared.

  I challenge him long enough that he finally shakes his head and swears under his breath, and I step toward Kyle and offer him a hand to stand up from the ground. I weave my fingers through his and walk with him to the truck, climbing in the back to sit with him. I’m about to lower my body to the truck bed when I hear the heavy thump of Wes’s feet step
onto the tailgate and move toward me.

  “You can call me whatever you want. You can be pissed and tell me I baby you. Whatever, Joss. I don’t fucking care, but you’re not riding back here. Not after we both just rolled down the highway. Not while my brother’s shirt is the only thing keeping blood from dripping down your arm. And certainly not while I drive this fucking cocksucker home. Now get in the cab!”

  Wes’s hat is off, thrown onto the ground on his way into the truck, and every movement of his muscles is forceful and strong. He’s actually showing an emotion, and it’s inciting the fight in me.

  “No!” I yell, kicking my sore leg at him, barely grazing him with my foot.

  He doesn’t warn me again, instead, bending over and lifting me over his shoulder, leaping from the back of the truck and pushing me into the cab despite the battle my loose arms and legs put up. When the door closes behind me, I grip the handle and work to push it open, but TK is holding it, his body leaning against it and his face full of pity. I fucking hate pity.

  I crawl to the driver’s side, hurrying when I see Wes bend down to pick up his hat, but everything hurts, and I wince with a pain on my side just as Wes climbs through the driver’s side door.

  “What? Your side? Is it your rib?” he says, reaching for the bottom of my T-shirt. I slap at his hand.

  “I don’t think so, asshole,” I yell.

  “Goddamnit, I just want to know you’re not hurt any worse, that you’re not bleeding internally or some shit. That’s it; we’re going to the hospital,” he says, pulling his seatbelt over his body and starting the engine, glancing over his shoulder to make sure all of our passengers are in the back.

  “No, I’m fine. No hospital,” I say, reaching over and grabbing his arm. Both of our eyes fall to where my hand touches him, and I let go quickly, scooting back to my seat. “Really…I hate hospitals. Please. I’m fine.”

  “You probably broke a rib,” he sighs, his head fallen to the side. I hold my breath and make a silent wish to go back to that brief second where I was under the stars and life felt free. I want to pair those few seconds with the feeling of his arms around me. Those few simple things are my happiness, as pathetic as they seem. His hold and the stars; it’s enough.

  I tug my shirt up my stomach to the edge of my ribs, and I push in with my hand a few times, pressing against the bones. The skin is tender, and there’s a deep bruise already forming, but I don’t think anything’s broken.

  “I’m okay,” I say, my voice coming out in a gravely whisper.

  Wes’s eyes scan down my body to the bare skin on my side then back to my eyes. He nods once and turns to face the steering wheel, closing his eyes and breathing deep before shifting his truck into drive.

  We get about a mile away from the crash when I remember my backpack and the empty bottle inside it. I don’t want that coming back to haunt Kyle.

  “My bag!” I sit up, turning to look out the rear window. Wes moves a hand to the top of my knee, recoiling as soon as I flash to him.

  “Levi got it. It’s in the back,” he says, swallowing hard as he stares into the rearview mirror.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, falling back into my seat.

  Unlike the last time I was in his cab with Wes, this time the passengers in the back are quiet. Nobody is having a good time with any of this. I meant what I said to him before—I did this. I always do this.

  We pull up to Kyle’s house first, and TK, Taryn, and Kyle all climb out.

  “Taryn will drop me off later,” TK says, reaching through the window to pound his knuckles against Wes’s.

  “Thanks, Wes. That was solid,” Kyle says, his eyes now showing their redness. He was too drunk to drive. And I’m too drunk to make smart choices.

  I did this.

  Kyle holds his fist through the window just like TK did, and Wes looks at it for a second before sighing and pounding his fist forcefully and speeding away.

  “I just have to drop Levi off, then I’ll take you home,” he says, his eyes looking everywhere but at me.

  “That’s fine,” I say.

  I take these few minutes to study him, to watch how he moves, to survey how badly he’s hurt, when I realize…Wes isn’t hurt at all. His jeans are ripped, and his shirt is soiled with mud and grass stains and small tears from the road. He has scrapes and some blood where his clothing was torn, but that’s it. He wrapped himself around me and took the force of everything when I fell, and it barely left a mark.

  Within minutes, we pull up to a small white house with a single porch light on and nothing else. There’s an old station wagon in the carport and a plump orange cat waiting to be let in at the front door.

  Levi pounds on the side of the truck when he gets out and holds up a hand. Wes circles around and rolls down his window, leaning out to talk to his brother. “I won’t be long. I just want to make sure she gets home. Tell them not to worry if they’re even up.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hey…” Levi answers, leaning up and in the window to gaze at me. “I’m glad you’re okay, Joss.”

  I want to thank him, but I know the only reason I’m able to speak at all is sitting right next to me. So instead, I smile tightly and hold up one hand to say goodbye.

  “A’right. See you later,” he says, patting the outside of Wes’s door as Wes rolls the window to a close and pulls away again.

  We’re only a few blocks from my house, so as much as I want to sit here in silence and escape any more judgment, I don’t want to waste the time.

  “You’re not hurt,” I say, pulling one leg up to the side so I can see how Wes reacts.

  “Uh,” he says, checking mirrors and then rotating his own arms and feeling along his chest and sides. “Yeah, no. I think I’m okay. Some cuts is all.”

  I wasn’t really asking, more just stating the fact. Wes isn’t hurt. I was sheltered in his arms and my body looks like it’s been fed through a shredder. He’s dirty. That’s it.

  We turn down my street, and I chew at the inside of my cheek, trying to decide what any of this means—he looks like Christopher, which means if it is him, that’s twice now that he’s saved my life. And he isn’t hurt. He isn’t hurt at all. The inside of the truck is spinning a little; my mouth feels cottony and dry, and I definitely didn’t eat enough popcorn to soak up what I drank. But I’m aware enough to know that I’m not imagining these facts, and that they’re adding up. I just don’t know what the equation equals.

  Any chance that I’ll question it tonight evaporates the second we pull up alongside my house, and my favorite day of the week rears its ugly head. My dad is on the front lawn on his hands and knees, heaving into the dead grass like a rabid dehydrated dog.

  “He said he wasn’t going to do that,” Wes sighs, shoving the car into park forcefully and leaping out before I can catch him.

  He said?

  I get out after him, and the soreness from the evening overwhelms me, my legs weak under my body. I clutch the side of the truck and watch helpless while Wes bends down and pulls my father to a stand, walking him inside quickly, neither of them looking at me.

  I reach into the back for my bag while he’s inside, and by the time I’m done looping my arms through the straps he’s walking back through the front door toward me as he talks to himself. I shut my eyes tightly—praying I can hold my weight up when I let go of his truck—and open them on my first step. Everything hurts, but I’m able to move. It doesn’t stop Wes from weaving his arm under mine and behind my back. He sweeps my legs up over his other arm and lifts me easily, kicking the screen door open with his toe and pushing the main door closed behind us with his elbow.

  “You can’t live like this, Joss. You guys…you’re killing yourselves,” he says. His words don’t feel like they’re for me, necessarily, though. He isn’t talking to me; he’s just talking. He’s narrating my pathetic existence.

  “Bathroom?”

  “That way. By my dad’s room,” I say, my eyes laser focused on his. He looks tired, a
nd he looks sad.

  I did that.

  He sets me on the edge of the tub in the bathroom and slowly unwraps his brother’s shirt from my arm, the cotton now soaked through completely with my blood. The sight of it makes my stomach turn a little, and I bring my other arm over my mouth, pressing the inside of my elbow to my lips.

  “You okay? You need to be sick?” he asks quickly, his hands under my arms, ready to move me. I shake my head and point to the shirt.

  “That’s a lot of blood,” I grunt out.

  He refolds the shirt inside itself, masking the stain some, then sighs. “Yeah. You’re gonna have a scar from this. That…what you did…” he says, his eyes flipping from my arm that he’s now holding under the faucet of the tub to my eyes, “that was stupid, Joss. I’m sorry, but that was just…”

  “I know,” I say, looking down. The water stings, and I don’t let myself look away from the blood washing down the drain. Wes has to brush my cuts with a wet towel a few times, cleaning out the dirt, tar, and rock from the road. Every time he pulls a pebble from me, more blood rushes into the water. I watch it all.

  After a few minutes, he shuts the water off and moves to our cabinet, pulling out the alcohol and boxes of ankle tape and bandages. We’re prepared for sprains, but not intoxicated leaps-of-faith it seems.

  “I’m going to have to use this; it’s all you’ve got,” he says. I lift my shoulders and move my arm to the sink where he wraps it in ankle bandages and tape, loosely enough that it can breathe.

  When he’s done, he pushes the empty boxes to the trash and moves the alcohol back into the cabinet, closing the mirrored door, but stopping when something catches his eye. My heart stops, knowing what he sees, and when his giant hand wraps around the three nearly-empty bottles of pills, I decide it’s better not to wait for his question.

  “When I was little, my dad caught my mom having an affair. He went bat-shit crazy and tried to hit the guy with his car. This kid I knew…” I flit my eyes to his, which are focused on the small bottles of Oxy and painkillers in his hand. “Christopher,” I pause again, studying him. His eyebrows lift with a twitch, and his eyes move to mine. “He pulled me out of the way. Kinda…just…in…time. I should have died. It sort of left me…I don’t know…broken? Definitely fucked up. I’m definitely fucked up. And sometimes, it all just gets to be too much.”