Cracked Kingdom

  Easton screws around a lot – 5.

  Easton likes his foster sister – 5.

  Felicity’s right about a lot of shit – 4.

  Unfortunately.

  The bell rings. I force myself to turn off the computer. The chair at the end of the table scrapes against the floor, catching my attention. I look up and meet some girl’s eyes. She gives me a quick onceover and then flounces off without a word.

  The urge to run after her and apologize is strong despite the fact that I don’t know her and don’t know why she’s mad at me. It’s possible I did her wrong before and can’t remember. Who knows how many boyfriends I’ve slept with, how many classes I cheated in, how many times I hurt people?

  The accident is the world’s slap in my face. Wake up. Wake up and do better. I straighten my shoulders. I don’t know who I was before, but from now on, I’m going to be a decent person.

  I head directly for the bus stop in front of the French Twist, only a quarter of a mile away from Astor. The route takes me to the shopping center and from there I can grab the No. 3 line, which will drop me off close to home. It’s a hassle, but it’s doable.

  As I’m walking along the sidewalk, I hear a honk. For the second day in a row, I look up to see Bran Mathis waving at me. From what I got during our conversation yesterday, he’s the new quarterback of Astor Park’s football team, isn’t filthy rich like everyone else at this school, and he seems like a really nice guy.

  He pulls over and brakes. “I was going to get some ice cream for my mom. Want some?”

  Chapter 14

  Easton

  “Do you want anything?” I ask Sawyer. We’ve been working on assignments for our missed classes for the past two hours and I, for one, am ready for a break.

  My brother looks better. There’s more pink in his cheeks. The bags under his eyes are more the carry-on size than the fifty-pound luxury steamers that were parked there for the last few days. Between Ella nagging him and me threatening him, he had two meals yesterday and got in at least six hours of sleep. Today, we’re aiming for three meals and ten hours of sleep. We’ve already had breakfast and lunch, played some Call of Duty on the PlayStation, and this homework.

  What would really be good for Sawyer is to get out of the hospital. Even better if he went back to school. If he needed to watch over someone, he could keep an eye on Hartley for me.

  I asked Ella how Hartley was doing. Her “I don’t know” was snippy but I chalk that up to her anxiety over meeting with the lawyer today. Anything that reminds her of her bio dad, Steve, sends her mood into the shitter.

  Sawyer shoves his chem book away and casts a guilty glance toward Seb’s bed, as if Sawyer isn’t allowed to enjoy anything while Seb’s comatose.

  I jump up and grab my wallet. “I’m getting a double fudge shake from IC’s.”

  Sawyer licks his lips. That’s his favorite.

  “Um…”

  “Yeah, I’ll get you a large,” I say, not giving him the option.

  The drive over to IC is fairly short. It’s halfway between the hospital and school. A ton of the Astor Park kids hang out here and I’m not surprised to see the small ice cream shop full when I arrive.

  Dom, one of my football teammates, is leaning against the counter along the window feeding his girlfriend, Tamika, from their shared banana split. “Yo, Royal,” he yells. “What’s up? You drop out?”

  “Been at the hospital.”

  Dom’s face becomes comically contorted as he tries to find the right expression. His girlfriend bops him hard in the chest. “Dom. Act civilized for once.”

  Not that he feels it. Dom’s two-hundred-fifty pounds of solid muscle. He’ll be at Alabama next year, throwing fear into the hearts of college quarterbacks. “Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles, and I don’t really know if that apology’s directed to me or his girl.

  “He’s sorry,” she clarifies. “His momma would be so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t tell her,” he says, looking horrified. “I was just making a joke!”

  “It’s fine,” I reassure him. “It’s crowded today.” I glance toward the line, not registering anyone in particular.

  “Yeah. Willoughby did a pop quiz in Government on Constitutional Amendments.” Dom looks ready to cry. And I get it. His mom is scary.

  “Sounds like I picked a good time to skip.” I pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later. I need to get back to the hospital.”

  I turn to get in line when a five-foot-three-inch body slams into me, spilling an ice cream cone down the front of my BAPE sweatshirt.

  “Oh my God, I’m so so sorry.” Hartley swipes her hand down my chest, leaving a smear of vanilla ice cream in her wake.

  Tamika pushes Hart out of the way and slaps some napkins into my hand. “Girl, you just ruined a fifteen-hundred-dollar sweatshirt with your messy self.”

  “Fifteen hundred?” Her jaw drops open.

  “It’s fine,” I assure both of them.

  Hart’s head pops up and her eyes grow saucer-big.

  “Is something wrong?” A new voice enters the fray. I look up to see Bran Mathis, a transfer student and the quarterback of my team, peering over Hart’s shoulder.

  “Yeah,” the girls chorus.

  “No,” I say at the same time.

  His eyes dart from the front of my sweatshirt to Hartley and then back to me, lingering on the stylized ape on the front. Unlike Hart, he recognizes the brand. It doesn’t matter, though, and I tell them that.

  “It’s no big deal.” I smile down at Hartley. “You look good. Taking care of yourself?” I check her over to see if there are any signs she’s still suffering—physically—from her accident or, God forbid, her dad hurt her again.

  I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. No bruises or cuts or scrapes. No winces of pain or stiffness in the way she moves. A section of her hair falls forward to cover her eyes. I reach out to sweep it back, but a hand comes down on her shoulder and moves her out of the way.

  Dom sucks in a breath. Tamika squeaks.

  I blink in confusion, following the male hand from my girl’s shoulder all the way up to Bran’s face. It doesn’t register at first—Bran’s hand on Hartley’s shoulder. Bran’s hand where my hand should be.

  Hart looks confused, too, like she’s not sure why Bran’s touching her. I reach out and shove his hand away.

  “Not cool, dude.”

  “Really? You’re telling me what’s cool? Come on, Hartley. You can have my cone.” He pushes his cone—one that’s already been in his mouth—toward her face.

  I’m not processing what’s going on here. Bran Mathis is all over my girl—touching her and telling her to put her mouth where his was? Hell no.

  “Thanks but I’ll buy her a new one.”

  “I don’t need—” she starts to say.

  “We’re actually leaving,” Bran cuts in. “I’ve got to get home.”

  Hart nods. She actually fucking nods. “Okay. I’m sorry about the sweatshirt. I can clean it for you.”

  “You can clean it for me?” I repeat like a dumb fuck.

  “Yes, if you want. I have your jacket, too.”

  The room tilts and everything’s off kilter. While I’m texting her nonstop, worrying about her every night, sleeping on the floor of her old apartment, trying to convince my baby brother to leave the hospital and go to school so someone can protect Hartley while I’m unable to, she’s getting busy with Bran-fucking-Mathis?

  Furious, confused and hurt, but refusing to show it, I slap my mask back on—the one I always wore before Hartley came along. “Bro, when I said we were on the same team, I meant football, not doing the same chick.”

  Hart says something, but the rage storm is thundering too loud in my head to hear. I don’t go to school for two days and she’s hooked up with the Astor Park quarterback? It’s like I’m the one that hit my head a week ago. I’m suffering hallucinations and my current timeline is some grotesque parody of what’s going on in th
e right-side-up world.

  “You’re just determined to fuck your head up even more, aren’t you?” I say to Hartley.

  She furrows her brow in confusion. “W-what?”

  “The doc said you’re not supposed to rely on other people’s memories.” I wave an angry hand at Bran. “You’re not supposed to listen to stories they tell you about yourself, your past—”

  Bran interjects. “Hey, I’m not telling her any stories—”

  I silence him with a glare, then turn to Hartley. “What you’re doing is dangerous,” I mutter, and then I leave, because if I stay one second longer, all of the chairs lining the plate-glass storefront are going to be through the window and lying on the curb. The urge to hit something, to drive my fist into something and hear a sickening crunch when the impact lands, is too strong. I jerk open my truck door, nearly ripping it off the hinges.

  “Why do you care what she thinks?”

  Hanging on to the side of the door, I spin to see Felicity standing a few feet away. She’s traded her Astor Park gear for some high-end athleisure. Silk Prada track pants and a cashmere bomber jacket. It’s an outfit that would look good on Hartley. I could buy it for her—I shove the thought away.

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “She’s not worth your time,” Felicity continues as if I haven’t said a word. “You’re richer than Bran. You’re better looking. You have better social status. It’s natural for the two of them to gravitate together. They operate on the same low sphere.” She waves her hand from side to side close to her waist. “You and I, Easton, we belong up here.” The hand moves above her head. “Together.”

  “I’d rather stick my dick in the exhaust pipe of my truck than in you,” I reply, and climb into my truck. Felicity doesn’t move and I end up having to drive up on the curb to avoid hitting her.

  That girl is operating on her last few brain cells if she thinks I’m ever going to get together with her. If she were the last woman on earth and I had to screw her in order to live, I’d throw myself into the nearest volcano.

  But she’s right about one thing. I do think I’m better for Hartley. It’s not that I have more money than Bran, although that’s true, too. It’s that I’ll fight for her. Bran showed some interest in Hartley when she first showed up at Astor Park but after one talk with me, he gave up. He doesn’t deserve a second chance. I’m not done with Hart. I’m never—I slam on the brakes, having missed my turn to the hospital. I jerk the truck into reverse and whip it around in the middle of the road, ignoring the honking horns and angry shouts of nearby motorists.

  I give them the one finger wave and shoot into the hospital driveway, leaving the truck in the valet lane. I toss the keys to the waiting attendant. “Easton Royal,” I say through clenched teeth and then whip through the front door without waiting.

  I’m still hot when I reach Seb’s room.

  “That didn’t take long,” Sawyer chirps when I storm in.

  I throw myself onto the rock-hard sofa and flip on the television.

  “Did you bring me a shake?”

  “You said you didn’t want one,” I growl.

  “I never said a thing. You told me you’d bring me a large.”

  “If you want one so bad, get it your own damn self.” I jab the channel button and flip through the options—none of them are good. ESPN? Who wants to watch bowling? USA? Is that Baywatch again? How old are these fucks? MTV? Teen pregnancy? Thanks but no.

  “What crawled up your ass and died?”

  Hart, I want to scream, but I don’t because I’m not a baby. I’m a man and I don’t get torn up about shit like this. About girls moving on to other guys. About people who you care about giving up on you. Those emotions are for the weak and stupid.

  I gave all that up when my mom killed herself. Her promise to love me forever lasted until I was fourteen. And Hartley never said those words to me. There are no oaths broken, no lies stated. She can’t even remember me. I’m that unimportant.

  “This fucking room did.” I fling the remote aside. “We don’t need milkshakes, Sawyer. We’re not ten. We need booze. That’s the only way we’re going to make it through this shit.”

  “Yeah?” He sounds intrigued. “But does the hospital allow that?”

  He whispers the last part as if talking about it is as illegal as drinking it.

  “How will they know?”

  “Where are you going to get it?”

  I grab my backpack and rip it open. Inside, at the bottom, are the two bottles of Smirnoff that have been clinking around in there since the last football game of the season. There’s only about a third left. I twist open the cap and offer the bottle to him.

  “You carry around a bottle of vodka?” Sawyer says in surprise, taking the booze and tipping it to his mouth.

  I feel a twinge of guilt, but I shove it aside. Is it that abnormal to carry around a little liquor? It’s not like I’ve drank anything in days—not since the accident. And I don’t plan to drive right now. I’m here until Ella shows up, and by that time I’ll be sober. A few ounces of Smirnoff won’t be getting me tanked. I might not even get a buzz.

  “There’s not much here.” Sawyer swipes a hand across his mouth.

  “There’s more in my truck,” I promise, because it’s true—I always stash a few extra bottles in the trunk compartment where I keep the car jack. Grinning at Sawyer, I tip my head back to pour the vodka straight down my throat.

  Chapter 15

  Hartley

  It all happens so suddenly. The ice cream falling off the cone. Bran’s hand resting on my shoulder. Easton storming out. Every eye in the joint seems to be stuck on me. I don’t think I was ever the center of attention before my accident, because it doesn’t feel comfortable. I glance down to double check that my zipper is up, only to see I’m still in my Astor Park plaid skirt.

  I’m all put together—at least on the outside. On the inside, I’m confused and shaky and want to sink into the floor. But in the two days that I’ve been back at school, I’ve learned quickly that a show of weakness is an invitation to be targeted.

  I straighten my shoulders, tip my chin up, and walk out. The afternoon sun hits my face and momentarily blinds me. I trip on my own two clumsy feet and nearly face-plant into the concrete. Chagrined, I slink over to Bran’s car and wait for him to join me.

  He does about five minutes later, carting a new cone for me.

  “Here. I didn’t want you to go home empty-handed.” He holds it out but I don’t take it, because I’m at the point where I’m concerned that taking an ice cream treat is a substitution for an agreement to go down a path I don’t want to travel.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  “What was what all about?” He blinks innocently while taking a bite of his own cone.

  I don’t appreciate him playing dumb and I give him a look that says exactly that. Since he’s not completely clueless, he rubs his lips together and glances away.

  “I thought you said we were friends,” I say. He’s lucky it’s cold outside or that ice cream would be dripping down his fingers.

  “We were. We are,” he says to the parking meter.

  “Then why are you acting like there’s something more between us?” I mean, it’s possible, but I doubt it. I’m not conceited enough to think that I’ve somehow managed to land the most popular kid in my bed, as well as the high school quarterback. All of this attention—the venom from Felicity, the treatment at school, this boy with the sunny smile carting me around town for the last two days—all of it stems from something that’s only loosely related to me. The center of the storm is Easton Royal. I’m just getting kickback from floating in the jet stream behind him. “What do you have against Easton?”

  My question flusters Bran so much he doesn’t answer right away, taking refuge behind his cone. I wait until he finishes it, which doesn’t take him long.

  “I like Easton,” he says. “He was a scary defensive end and I’m gla
d that I didn’t have to face him on the field for a game. He’s fun to hang around with, but...”

  There’s always a but. I’m starting to get riled up on Easton’s behalf. “If he’s a good guy, then maybe you shouldn’t be doing stuff that intentionally pisses him off. I’m not a game piece that you can move around to score points off of other people.”

  Bran scowls. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Then explain.”

  “Fine.” He folds his arms across his chest. “He’s a player, all right? I don’t want to see you taken advantage of in your condition.”

  Bran sees me as weak and vulnerable. A damsel needing saving. I might not be in top form at the moment, but I can fight my own battles.

  “I don’t know much about what happened to me in the last few years but I plan to figure it out, and that’s probably something I should do alone. Thanks for the snack and the ride.” I start to leave.

  Bran’s hand snakes out and grabs my wrist. “Hartley, wait. I’m sorry. It was a kneejerk reaction. My sister got dicked over by a guy like Easton, and I didn’t want to see it happen to you. That’s all.”

  Gently, I peel his fingers off my wrist. “I believe you, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m still taking the bus.”

  I leave him on the curb and walk off toward the bus stop. Taking those rides with Bran didn’t feel right before but I couldn’t figure out why. He was nice and nonthreatening. He didn’t make any moves on me. He answered my questions to the best of his ability, even the awkward ones about my cheating. But I never felt fully comfortable with him. It wasn’t until I ran into Easton that I realized why.