#MNGirl (Midwest Boys Series Book 1)

by A. M. Brooks

  “Ready?” Matt asks, suddenly in front of me. I blink and bring his face back into focus. The volume on the bass turns up, and I want to look again. Something tells me that whoever is in that truck wants my attention, too, or else why would they be stalling to leave? Keeping my attention on Matt pushes my limits, causing my eye to twitch as I force myself to nod and answer him.

  “Yeah.” My voice sounds pinched in my throat, so I clear it, right as the engine revs and tires burn rubber on the pavement, before launching forward, speeding down the road and out of my peripheral vision.

  “Fucking-A, Ci,” Matt mutters. He turns to watch, and I finally let myself look, too, knowing that they’re gone. Did he say key?

  “Who?” I ask, my brow furrowing.

  “My nephew. Ciaran, or Ci. You’ll meet him tomorrow,” Matt says, while turning the lock and pushing open the door.

  Just inside is a small entryway with a staircase going up to the second floor. To the right, the room opens to a dining room and kitchen. The left side of the house holds a couch and two recliners, along with a huge TV and sound bar.

  “On the second floor, there is a spare room, third door on your left that is for you. A bathroom, the laundry room, and Ciaran’s room are also up there. Hope that’s okay. Kitchen is over there, feel free to make anything you want to eat. I grocery shop on Sundays, and there is always a running list on the fridge. The only rule is that if you’re up first, you make the coffee.” Matt lists everything off, while I follow him around the house. “Also, my room is in the basement, as well as my other projects. Nobody goes down there, okay? So when you have friends over someday, act like that level doesn’t even exist, got it?”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. One, I doubt I’ll make friends here or be here long enough to make friends, and two, the last thing I’m going to say to anyone is ‘hey check out my basement.’ Sounds like a B-Horror movie plot line. “No worries, Rogue,” I reply, taking it upon myself to use my mom’s nickname for him, hoping it will make things less awkward. Sure enough, it earns me a crooked smile.

  “Okay, your IDs will be ready in a few days. If there are any names you’re fond of, let me know ASAP, or else I’ll be forced to make something up. In the meantime, if you need a vehicle, use any in the garage. They’re all chipped with tracking devices. You have a bank account opened already and can use this card,” he explains, handing me a silver piece of plastic. I turn it over and read the name on the front.

  “Rogue’s Car Repairs?” I question, looking closer.

  “I give all my employees cards for their expenses,” he answers without blinking.

  “I don’t work there, though,” I point out, getting ready to hand back the card.

  “You’re still an employee. Use it until your new ID comes in, and you can set up your own card with the bank,” Matt instructs, and I nod. Just one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of things I do not understand.

  “Thank you,” I mumble anyway.

  “Since tomorrow is already Friday, I told the school you’d start bright and early on Monday morning. That gives you time to get settled and get anything you may need, sound good?” He asks and that pit in my stomach stretches a little wider.

  “Sure,” I tell him, pulling my eyes away from his. With a town population of a little over 700, I know, for sure, the student population at the high school is not going to be huge. All these kids probably grew up together since diapers, and, once again, I am going to be the new girl, just bulldozing my way into junior year. Reflexively, my fingers find the end of my braid. For the first time, I almost regret my decision to color my hair purple.

  I catch Matt’s eyes flicker over me in my peripheral. “You okay?”

  My shoulders lift. “It’s a lot to take in. I have no idea what half of the things you just said mean.”

  He laughs. “I’m not good at the orientation part. It’s been a long time since I’ve personally hosted anyone here. There is a lot to know and adjust to. I’m sorry. We’ll just take it one day at a time. If you have questions, ask.”

  I turn to face him, feeling marginally better. I nod in response but stay silent.

  “See ya in the morning, kid,” Matt says, before heading back down the stairs.

  I listen until I hear the basement door close, before exhaling. For the first time, since the incident at home, I am alone. The silence buzzes around me when my reality starts to sink in. I turn to the closed door Matt had pointed to, and with one twist of the knob, the door glides open, without making a noise. My hand searches the wall, before landing on the light switch. Thankfully, the light is attached to a ceiling fan and is bright enough to surround the whole room in a warm glow. My eyes travel over the plain wooden dresser, the standing mirror, twin doors that open to a two-rack closet, and finally land on the queen size bed with a wooden headboard. A dark blue and forest green comforter lays across the top of the mattress. The design in the middle has me curious and inching my way closer.

  “No way,” I mutter to myself, taking in the profile of a man hunting with a black lab sitting next to him. My hand reaches down to pull the comforter back, and, sure enough, the sheets are flannel and printed with ducks. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. The walls are bare; yet, it looks like someone cleaned in here recently. My mind drifts toward the blacked-out truck from earlier, and the nephew I have yet to meet.

  Exhaustion seeps in as a yawn is torn from my throat. I let my bag drop by the side of the bed and place the toiletries I picked up on top of the dresser. I have no pajamas, and, despite being on the top level of the home, the air feels slightly cold. There is one window in my room that overlooks the road in front of the house. The whole block is silent and dark. I pull the shade down, before moving toward the light switch. I hesitate, hating to plunge the whole room into darkness. There are no lamps or those plug-ins my mom used to get with the oil diffuser on them. If the light goes out, it will be pitch black. I won’t be able to see anything. Frustrated, I shut the door and turn the lock, before slumping down onto the bed. I move my body under the covers and pull them up over my head. My eyes close, and I try to breathe normally, only I feel suffocated and confined, which brings me back to the space under my bed, listening while those men beat and tortured my mom.

  “Ugh,” I moan into my arm and swing the blankets off my body. I curl to the side where I can keep my eyes on the door and angle the hood, on the sweatshirt I’m wearing, to block the light. My fingers tug at the extra material around my arms while I make plans. Tomorrow, I’ll venture into town and look for a small lamp or a night light and get some new bedding. If I feel up to it, I’ll even think about doing some laundry and figure out what clothes and jackets I’ll need. I know nothing about Minnesota and its weather, except that it’s cold, and it snows the majority of the year.

  It isn’t long before thoughts of snowflakes and cold weather calm my brain down, and I’m able to sleep. The light behind my eyelids eventually fades as well. I’m thousands of miles from the boogeyman tonight. I’m finally safe.

  A door closing and the sound of water running pull me from sleep. My eyes crack open, and I’m happy to see the sunlight filtering in behind the curtains. Rolling onto my back, the bed creaks slightly, and I pause, needing a few more minutes to myself, before facing my new life here. I can smell coffee being brewed from the kitchen while someone moves around the space. The water from the bathroom next to my room turns off, and the sound of an electric toothbrush buzzes next.

  I sit up slowly, stretching my arms and legs. My sleep was so deep last night that I didn’t move from the spot I balled up in all night. There was no way to tell the time without a phone, so I add an alarm clock to my list of things to get today. Quickly, I peel the clothes off that I slept in, making a face. I really need a shower and to wash my clothes. I grab the clean jeans and hoodie that sit on top of my bag and pull them on. Glancing down, I realize it’s the same outfit I escaped Manhattan in. Examining the cuff
s and sleeves, I notice that the dried blood has all been washed out. There isn’t even a stain left behind as evidence. I quickly throw my hair up in a top-knot on my head and glance around the room again. The silver bank card that Matt gave me last night rests on the nightstand. I grab it quickly and shove it in my back pocket.

  With no more reasons to stall, my shaky hand reaches out and twists open the door. Stepping out into the hallway, I can hear voices coming from the kitchen.

  “It’s not just me.” The voice I don’t recognize, but assume is the nephew, reaches my ears. “You know she’s different. This isn’t what we do.” The edge in his voice makes me pause mid-step. It’s cold and harsh; at the same time, it’s deep and powerful. His animosity toward me does not go unnoticed. My stomach swirls with annoyance. What the hell is his problem?

  “Silas needs to get over it. You both do. She’s staying,” Matt bites out, his voice lowering, as if he doesn’t want me to hear their private conversation. Doesn’t take a mind reader to know they’re talking about me.

  Holding my breath, I make my way down the stairs and let them know I’m awake and present. The last thing I want is for them to keep arguing about me like I’m not here. The air crackles with tension the minute I step foot in the kitchen. Two sets of eyes turn to look at me. Matt’s gaze drops back to his coffee while he handles the introductions.

  “Saylor, this is Ciaran. Ciaran, this is Saylor,” he says, almost sounding bored.

  My mind freezes, and my heart squeezes in warning. My body knows, even before making eye contact, that this Midwest Boy is going to ruin me. I can feel the waves of hostility rolling off him. Slowly, my eyes run over his perfectly white sneakers and black track pants, before moving up to his black sweatshirt with white writing across the front. I take in the way the material stretches across his broad shoulders. A mess of white, blond hair sits on top of his head, the unruly white locks clashing with his sun-kissed skin. Not many guys can pull off that look, but, on Ciaran, it works. He has sharp cheekbones and a square cut jaw that tightens when my eyes flick over it. He’s beautiful in an avenging angel sort of way. I blink before sweeping my gaze back up and locking with his blue eyes, the same color as the center of the hottest flame. Ciaran’s gaze singes my skin while he stares back at me with open disdain. A slight sneer pulls at his perfectly plump pink lips. I’ve never felt dislike so strong before. I want to take a step back. Somehow, though, part of me believes he’d see retreating as a sign of weakness, and Ciaran is not a person I want to be weak around.

  My spine straightens as I stand a little taller. It’s harder to do with my five-foot four stature, but I try. My chin lifts in rebellion. “Hi,” I throw out casually, as if this battle of dominance isn’t happening.

  Without speaking or acknowledging me, Ciaran moves his gaze over my shoulder, as if I’m invisible, and walks right past me. Standing frozen, I hear keys rattle, followed by the front door slamming shut. My lungs pull in air slowly, trying to relax. That was intense.

  “He seems nice,” I spit out, turning to Matt, who finally lifts his head from the newspaper article he’s been studying so intently.

  “He’ll be fine. Just give him some time,” Matt grunts, turning the page and bringing his cup of coffee to his lips.

  With Ciaran gone, I feel more at ease, so I move farther into the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee for myself. Eyeing a banana on the counter, I grab that as well.

  “What do you want to do today?” Matt asks me, even while he continues reading.

  “I was hoping to go to the store in town. I have a few things I want to get,” I tell him, watching his emotions play over his face.

  “You want me to go with you?” he finally asks.

  I shake my head. “No. I want to go on my own. I need to figure this place out.”

  Silence stretches between us, and I think he’s about to say no, when he sets the paper down and turns to me. “Get what you need and talk to people as little as possible,” he instructs, before digging in his pocket. Matt pulls out a cell phone and hands it to me. “There is no internet on here. A tracking system is installed, and our numbers are already programmed,” he tells me.

  “Thanks,” I nod in understanding, before pocketing the phone.

  “Don’t be gone too long,” he says, standing and heading out the same door Ciaran left through moments before.

  Part of me wants to rejoice at being alone and another part of me craves to have someone to talk to. Standing alone in the kitchen, it’s easier to take in the details I missed last night. Like the mile-long grocery list Matt mentioned that is filled with red meat, pizza, and other junk food. Wrinkling my nose, I take the dangling pen and scribble chicken breasts and veggies on there. I chuckle softly to myself, imagining Matt walking up and down the produce aisle. Judging by the list and what’s on the counter, these guys don’t eat healthy very often.

  Not wanting to wait around any longer, I run back upstairs and throw what’s left of the items in my old school bag, before slinging it over my shoulder and running outside to the garage. I hit the key fob and watch lights flash on the bulking tan 95’ Ford Bronco. I make my way over to it, even though I’m not sure how I’m supposed to drive it. The thing looks like a square box on wheels and probably doesn’t handle that well on the road. I barely passed my driver’s test, and I took that with a car half the size of this thing. For a second, I contemplate calling Matt and asking him to trade with me. My neck cranes out of the garage toward the street, looking for the car we arrived in last night; only, it’s gone. The curb is completely empty. “I don’t want to know,” I mutter to myself, and decide I could care less if anyone is around to hear me.

  Backing the huge end of the vehicle out of the garage seriously takes all my concentration. I’m going to have to talk to Matt about it when I get home. Somehow, though, I figure out how to maneuver it down the driveway and onto the road. I travel by memory back toward town, paying attention to road signs and street names, just in case. I turn on the radio and find the only station that plays actual music. I wouldn’t pick country to listen to by choice, but I do recognize the song as Blake Shelton’s “God’s Country” after it played everywhere earlier this year.

  The drive into town is shorter than I remember, and before I know it, I’m coming up on the main drag. I make the quick decision to park now, since I’m not sure where all the different stores are. It’s a nice day out, so walking won’t hurt me. The minute my feet hit the pavement, the world seems to slow down. People who are rushing by stop to look. Cars stop honking and even the wind turns to barely a breeze. At least some of the gawkers have the decency to hide their mouths behind their hands, even though I know I’m the object of their whispered conversations. Too bad for them I’m used to gossip and stares. I plaster on my fakest Miss America smile and make my way to the store that caught my eye last night. Rad Radioz appears to be the only electronic store on this strip. The banner advertises Beats, sound bars, dock stations and even records and turn tables in bright neon writing. Since my phone has no internet or apps, I look high and low for a device where I can download music.

  “Ah, excuse me.” I lift the box to the guy a row over, wearing a green vest and holding a stack of boxes.

  His head lifts up, as his eyes examine the product I’m holding. “That’s a great model. Can hold up to 4.7GB.”

  “Do I need to have an email to download or access anything?” My eyebrows lift in question.

  “How do you not have an email address? Do you live under a rock?” His mouth gapes at me, and I really can’t help but pull comparisons between him and Anthony Michael Hall’s Farmer Ted from Sixteen Candles.

  “Does this state count?” I ask and get a grain of satisfaction when his eyebrows pinch together, as if he’s in pain, and wondering how I manage to function through the day. Carefully, he sets the stack of boxes he was holding down on the shelf, before running long fingers through his short, sandy brown hair and walking over to me.

&nb
sp; “Hand it,” he says, holding out a hand. I set the box on his hand and watch as he pulls a smaller iPad from his vest pocket and starts looking up information for me.

  Up close, I notice the name Reed sewn on his vest. I then take in his appearance. He’s taller than me but not taller than most guys. Light green eyes scan over the screen, while he reads the information, scrolling quickly. He looks book smart in his white Vans, khaki pants and white shirt that hangs loose on his lanky frame. I’d bet my left arm he’ll be the class valedictorian someday. He must sense me studying him because his eyes snap to mine, and he takes a hesitant step back, before handing back the box.

  “The manufacturing site says you can use it without buying the subscription, which you would need an email to do; you just won’t get the perks of having the subscription, so like ads and stuff will run in between every couple songs.” He shrugs, keeping his gaze averted.

  “Okay,” I tell him. turning to the front of the store. “Can you ring me up then?” My head whips around the store, looking for other employees, but he’s the only green vest I see.

  “Sure.” He walks quickly to the counter, continuing to ignore me, while ringing up my purchase. When I hand him Matt’s business card, I swear he stiffens, before swiping the card and handing it back to me as if it’s on fire.

  “Here you go.” He hands me the plastic bag and is careful not to let his fingers touch mine when I take it. The old Saylor would have laughed and maybe flirted, just to make him more uncomfortable. The old Saylor would have taken a small piece of happiness that she made a guy this nervous. Not now, though. I have no email, no contacts, no social media, and I am getting a new identity. All the fire and last bubble of happiness in my chest fizzle and pop.