by Nora Roberts
But nothing happened, and the holidays came and went.
He got his first real girlfriend in Ashley Kinsdale, a laughing-eyed blonde, honor student, soccer star, and his first real date when he invited her to the end-of-school dance in May.
Since they doubled with Micah and his date—fellow gamer and nerd-with-an-attitude Melissa—Mel—Riley—Dave volunteered to drive them to and from.
He had to get a new suit, new shoes, which he tried to pretend was bogus—but secretly he liked duding it up. Plus, he’d gained another two inches, not only in height, but in his feet.
He hated his hair—his father had decreed he wear it in a military cut, always reminding him military school loomed as an option. But otherwise, he thought he looked pretty damn good. He hoped to reach six-three by graduation, and maybe he would. That would put him eye to eye with Graham. Graham, who called Ashley “Zane’s Mick slut” when she wasn’t around.
His belly was still sore from the punch when he’d made the mistake of looking up the last time Graham had goaded him with that.
Two years, two months, he reminded himself. He’d be eighteen and free. They thought he’d go to UNC at Chapel Hill, study medicine. But no way. He aimed for USC. Not only was it on the other side of the damn country, but they had a solid baseball program.
He’d apply there, and at Cal State Fullerton, and Arizona State. Hey, if Arizona State was good enough for Barry Bonds, it was good enough for Zane Bigelow.
He’d use Emily’s address, and when he got that close, he’d tell her. She’d keep it zipped—he was pretty sure. He didn’t want to be a doctor; she’d understand. If he could get a scholarship, he could make it work. No way Graham would pay unless he toed the line, so he had to get scholarships.
He had a good shot. With the weighted courses he had a 4.2 GPA, and he knew his coach would get behind him on the baseball end. Math and science killed him, but he managed to hold the grades up.
He’d owe Micah for the rest of his life for that.
He’d gotten 190 on the PSATs. Only 50 in math, and the math score had earned him a backhand and a gut punch. He had to take it again the next spring, had to bring the math up, but he’d be better prepared.
He ordered himself to stop thinking about it. He had a date!
The knock on his door tensed his shoulders, then he remembered neither of his parents ever knocked. He opened the door to Britt.
“Jeez, look at you.”
“Pretty smooth, right? Except for the dork hair.”
“At least you don’t have to wear it in a ponytail every day, or pin it into a bun for dance class. Chloe got to get hers cut and punked up. It’s so cute. I’m thirteen now, and I have to wear it like I’m eight.”
“Micah and Mel got matching blue streaks for tonight.”
“Well, they’re weird.” She plopped down to sit on the side of his bed. “So … do you know Major Lowery?”
“Yeah, sort of. Freshman, basketball player. Made varsity. Why?”
She twirled the end of her ponytail around her finger. “No reason, just wondered.”
“Give me a break.” Zane snorted it out. “He’s in high school. You’re not.”
“I will be next year.”
“Aww, you got a crush on Maj.” Now he snickered. “Gonna practice kissing the mirror so you—”
“Shut up.”
As was his obligation as big brother, he made kissy noises. Then suddenly stopped, spun around. “Jesus, Britt, lay off there.”
“It’s none of your business.”
When, chin up, she started to rise, he waved her down. “Major’s black.”
Her eyes fired up. “If you’re going to be a racist, I’m—”
“Come on, Britt, you know better.”
Her chin inched higher. “I thought I did.”
“Do you hear how he talks about Ashley just because her grandparents came over from Ireland? Think about it, think about what he’d say, maybe even do, if he saw you hanging out with a black kid.”
She dropped back on the bed again. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he even knows I exist.”
If Graham even got a hint of it … “You’ve got to be careful. Smart and careful. Five more years. I know it’s forever, but it’s really not.”
“Mom’s saying I have to do all this stuff so I’ll be invited to the debutante ball when I’m sixteen. The ballet, the grades, how I dress, how I talk. At least you get to play baseball. White dresses and pearls—screw it, Zane.”
She jumped up again, throwing her hands in the air. “It’s not me. I don’t want it to be me.”
“You think this is me?” He tapped a finger on his hair. “Just be smart, be careful. When I go to college, especially.” He glanced toward the door. “I’ve been thinking about telling Emily before I go.”
“You can’t.” Fear jumped into her eyes, her voice. “He’d go crazy.”
“That’s just it. He’s going to go crazy when he realizes I’m not going to Chapel Hill, when he realizes I’m out of here. He could take it out on you. You need somebody here. Emily would help.”
“What could she do?”
“I don’t know, but something.” It gnawed at him, like a dog on a bone, constantly. “I’m not going to leave you without knowing somebody will help.”
“You can’t protect me forever.”
“Sure I can. We’ll talk about it later—not here in the house. We’ll talk it out. Maybe Micah’s parents, too.”
“Zane, you just can’t. They wouldn’t believe us anyway.”
“Dave’s an EMT. He knows Graham, and I don’t think he likes him. He doesn’t say, but I can tell. We’ll talk later,” he repeated. “But I’m not going to let him hurt you.”
She started to speak, then shook her head.
“What?”
“Nothing. We’ll talk later. If they hear us…”
He’d read about POWs, about how they’d work together in secret to try to escape. He figured he and Britt were like POWs in their own house.
But for four whole hours, he was a free man. From the time he climbed into the Carters’ SUV until he got out again, everything was normal. And fun.
Yeah, he had to go to Ashley’s door, and go inside, and have his picture taken with her about a million times. Even her grandparents were there, taking more pictures, and talking in their cool accents.
And Ashley looked really good with her hair all ripply—she said her mom crimped it, whatever that meant. He told her he liked her dress, and he did because the blue matched her eyes.
The dance committee had the gym all done up in a beach theme. Ride the Waves! Surf’s Up! He didn’t care about that, but the DJ and all the lights were cool.
And since Micah ranked as the worst dancer in the history of dancers, Zane knew his own moves came off pretty good. He especially liked the slow dances where he just had to sway, and Ashley pressed up against him.
She’d let him touch her breasts already—over her shirt, but he’d gotten his hands on them. He had hopes she’d let him get a real feel before too much longer.
And with the way she smiled up at him, he thought: Maybe.
She linked her arms around his neck, gave that little tug that meant she wanted to kiss. She tasted like gumdrops, smelled like flowers.
“This is the best night,” she murmured. “One more week of school, then summer.”
“Three and a half days,” he corrected.
“Even better. But … I’m going to miss you so much when you go on vacation to Italy.”
“Then you’re going to Ireland.” He held her close again. “I wish we were going over there at the same time. Then we’d be in the same part of the world.”
“You have to write me. I’ll write you. I wish you had a phone. I think we could text if you did.”
“I’m going to try to get one. The parents won’t go for it, but I think I could talk Emily into getting me one in her name, then I’d pay her for it.”
And hide it really well, like the notebooks.
“That would be so awesome! I can’t imagine not having a phone. You must feel so cut off from, like, everything. I mean everybody has one. Your parents are scary strict.”
You have no idea. “Yeah, they are.”
“Well.” When the song ended, she stood with her body against his another moment. “We’re going to be upperclassmen. Juniors. Maybe they’ll loosen up.”
“Yeah, maybe. Want to go outside for a while and…”
She smiled again. She knew what “and…” meant. “Let’s do that.”
Outside the night was lake spring cool so he gave Ashley his suit jacket. Other kids had come out to talk, to sneak a smoke, to sneak a joint. Or to “and…”
He stayed away from the smokers, the stoners. Not worth military school. And drew Ashley just far enough away, just enough into the shadows that they could get serious about kissing, enough so he could touch her breasts.
And just when he thought maybe, she pulled back. “We have to slow down.”
Her heart had been hammering under his hands, and her breathing was unsteady. He thought if he only had another minute, maybe just thirty seconds.
“I don’t want to.” She took his hand. “But we have to.”
“I really like you, Ashley.”
“I really like you, too. But we should go back inside. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not.” Frustrated, yeah, with a hard-on so big he wasn’t sure he could walk yet. “I get it. It’s just … I think about you a lot. And I think about being with you.”
Her eyes looked like the lake, he thought when she stared up at him. So soft, so blue, almost liquid.
“So do I, you know, about you. That’s why we need to go in. My granny, she was my age when she got pregnant with my dad.”
“Jeez!”
“I know. So, let’s go back to the dance.”
He hadn’t thought about doing it—or hadn’t thought of it in the maybe category yet. He wasn’t sure what to think knowing she had.
And knowing she had didn’t help with the hard-on.
“I just need to, ah…”
She glanced down, grinned. Her liquid blue eyes laughed. “Oh. Okay. Let’s just talk about calculus.”
“That would do it.”
He had the best time. When he walked Ashley to the door, he got a totally serious kiss. And had to think about calculus so he could walk back to the car without embarrassing himself.
He figured when he wrote it all down in his notebook, it would be sort of like reliving it. Plus, he’d have a whole entry where nothing shitty happened, where he didn’t write anything about tests, homework, or Graham’s put-downs.
“Thanks for the ride, man,” he said to Dave, exchanged low fives with Micah.
He headed toward the door, half wishing he could just take a walk around the neighborhood, think about Ashley, that last kiss. But he’d miss his eleven-thirty curfew.
Maybe he’d risk making a snack—strictly forbidden after dinner—since after all the dancing he was completely starving. He thought about risking a sandwich, but he half believed Graham counted the slices of deli ham.
Better not—keep the head down, he decided. Graham had been especially hard-assed the last few days. Not slapping or shoving, but snarling. It was like waiting for a barking dog to bite.
When Zane unlocked the door and went in, those teeth flashed.
“You missed curfew.” Graham stood in the foyer, a glass of scotch in one hand, eyes as cold as ice.
“Sir, it’s eleven-thirty.”
“Eleven-thirty-four. Did you forget how to tell time?”
“No, sir.”
“Time matters. Adherence to the rules matter. Leaving this house for entertainment is a privilege granted, not a right.”
“Yes, sir.” Two years, two months, he thought, repeating it like a mantra in his head.
“My time matters. Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait up for my son because he can’t be trusted to follow the rules?”
Instinct warned Zane to keep his gaze lowered because there was something here. Maybe it was the scotch, maybe it was whatever had been snarling under the surface for the last few days.
“I’m sorry. I guess it took longer to drop off the girls before—”
He’d expected the shove, or worse, so let the force take him back a few steps.
“Do you think I want to hear excuses? You should have been responsible enough to factor in the time, respected the rules. But since, as usual, you’re irresponsible and disrespectful, you’re grounded for two weeks. No phone privileges, no gaming privileges, no outside activities, including baseball.”
Now Zane’s head snapped up. “Sir, we’re going to States. We’re going to take the championship for the second year in a row. We—”
Smugness coated over the snarling. “So by your lack of responsibility, you let your school and your teammates down. No glory days for you. You’re a screw-up, Zane, always have been.”
Zane saw it, saw it clear as a sign in neon.
“Is that what this is about? You don’t want me to play, to be part of a winning team, maybe even to stand out. So you find any excuse to take it away from me. You—”
He hadn’t expected the backhand, only because he’d lost himself in his own rage.
“And there’s two weeks more.” Tossing the drink aside, Graham gripped Zane by the shirtfront, rammed him back against the door.
And in that moment Zane knew he was right. The four minutes was an excuse to take away something he loved. His hands fisted at his sides.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
Graham slammed him back again. “Don’t lie to me! Drugs?”
“No.”
“You snuck off to the bushes and stuck it to that little slut, didn’t you?”
“No! Ashley’s not a slut.”
“Just another slut, and you’re too stupid to see she’s trying to get her hooks into you for my money. Don’t come in here late, half-dressed, and tell me you didn’t fuck her.”
He’d taken off his tie, his suit coat—like every other guy at the dance. “I didn’t have drugs, alcohol, or sex. I went to a school dance.”
The punch to the gut hurt and winded him, but he’d braced for it.
“Not much of a man then, are you, if you can’t get in that little Mick slut’s pants?”
“Graham!”
He didn’t so much as glance around at his wife’s frantic call. “Shut the hell up. I’m busy.”
“Britt’s sick. She’s thrown up all over the floor.”
“Deal with it!”
“Graham, she’s throwing up, she’s hysterical. Do something!”
“I’ll do something, all right.” He heaved Zane aside, charged up the steps.
He watched almost dispassionately as Graham used his fists, as Eliza shouted and tried to slap back. Let them bloody each other, he thought, like a couple of goddamn animals. He only needed to get past them to Britt.
He started up the steps, calculating, but the shouts, the fists, the curses, had Britt running out. Pale as a ghost, she covered her ears. “Stop, stop. Please. I can’t take it. I just can’t take it.”
This time it was Britt who earned that vicious backhand. As he heard his sister cry out, saw her fall, something snapped in Zane. He streaked up the steps like fury, burning. Even as Graham spun to meet the attack, Zane’s fists flew.
“See how you like it.”
The muscles he’d trained for more than a year drove his fists, and the dark pleasure of seeing the shock on Graham’s face, the blood he spilled on it, drove him.
Screaming, everyone screaming. He wouldn’t stop, couldn’t, until the man who made his life hell was down.
Somewhere, far away, he heard Britt shouting for help, shouting the address. He felt Eliza’s nails rake down his face, but he didn’t stop.
Then he was falling, flying, tumbling. His elbo
w hit a tread on the stairs like a hammer hits a nail. He felt something crack, break, shatter, and the pain bloomed red as his head hit another.
Dazed, he tried to stand, managed to get to his knees, lifted his shaking fists to defend himself.
But Graham didn’t rush into attack. No one stood up the stairs. And Britt had stopped screaming.
Understanding that could be worse, he pushed himself up, fell again. Something wrong with his ankle, he realized, and began to crawl.
He’d made it to the base of the steps when Graham dragged Britt out—along the floor, by her hair. He had his doctor’s bag in his other hand.
She didn’t struggle, didn’t cry, didn’t move, and Zane feared, for the first time, for her life.
“Don’t you touch her again, you son of a bitch.”
“This is your doing.” His voice flat and calm, Graham started down the stairs. “It won’t be military school now. You’ll wish for that, but it’s too late.”
He stood over Zane, angled his head as he studied him. “You take after your mother’s side, in looks, in lack of ambition, in your poor attitude. I have serious doubts you’re mine, biologically.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The kick to Zane’s gut was almost casual.
“But legally, I’m your father, and a well-respected leader of this community. Actions have consequences. You’re about to pay the consequences for your actions.”
“Fuck you and your consequences. What did you do to Britt, you bastard?”
“Oh no, son, it’s what you did.”
Sirens wailed. Zane thought, thank God, thank God. Britt had called for help. She must have called nine-one-one.
“They’re going to lock you away.”
Graham chuckled, shook his head as he set down his bag, started for the door. “No one as dull-witted as you could possibly be my blood.
“Eliza!”
“Yes. Yes, Graham.”
“Do and say exactly what I told you.”
He opened the door, took a deep breath, then ran out.
“Here! Here!” Outside, Graham waved his arms for the police cruiser. He made his voice shake, forced a few tears into his eyes.
It didn’t surprise him to see chief of police Tom Bost leap out of the cruiser. After all, he’d cultivated the man as a friend. And considered him a useful idiot.