Fallen Heir

  “Take it off, cheater,” Tough Guy taunts. He’s all false confidence now that Nate’s backing him.

  I smile humorlessly. “No.”

  Nate tugs on my arm, and I whip forward out of his grip. I’m not sure where it all goes wrong, but after that, it’s a blur. The table tips over. Money falls to the ground. Knuckles come out of nowhere and connect with my jaw, spinning me around.

  I jump up with my fists flying. I don’t know who I’m fighting or even why, but it feels good. I take a kick in the gut and two punches to my upper body, but I land even more. I fight even though sweat and blood are clouding my eyes and filling my mouth. I fight until a stream of cold water blasts across my face. Huh. More water. Second time in one day.

  “Enough!”

  I find myself on my back looking up into Tony’s angry face. He’s got the end of a hose in his hand. My ears ring from his shouting or maybe a blow to the skull. I give my head a rough shake, but the ringing doesn’t go away.

  “Time to go, Royal.”

  I pick myself off the ground and blurrily take in the scattered tables, the floor littered with cash, and the bodies lying around.

  “I didn’t start it,” I slur.

  “Don’t care. Night’s a bust thanks to you. Get out.”

  I plaster on a smile, even though it hurts like hell. “Aren’t you blaming the wrong party here? Who was that guy, anyway? I’ve been playing here for—”

  “Are you deaf, son? I told you to get your pretty-boy ass out of my basement. And don’t come back.” He roughly shoves me toward the stairs.

  The ringing persists. I stagger toward the exit, dragging myself up the steps. Man, my head kills.

  The house is mostly empty. Outside, there’re a few people hanging out on the porch. I give a hasty wave and stumble down the steps.

  The sidewalk shifts in front of me. I hold out my hand to steady myself but find nothing except air, and my forward momentum causes me to trip over my own feet. I fall to my knees.

  Laughter lights up behind me. Assholes.

  I push to my feet and then straighten. My bike is only a block away. Once I get there, I’ll be fine.

  I lurch down the sidewalk, weaving and tottering, but I make it to my bike. I throw a leg over and try to start it. The motor rumbles but sputters out after a few seconds. I slam my hand on the tank and restart it. This time it roars to life. Good boy.

  “Easton?”

  I swing my head toward the familiar voice. What the hell?

  Hartley Wright’s face appears in front of me, except there are like three of them. Three Hartleys to yell at me and be mean to me and soak me with water for having the nerve to want to kiss her. Awesome.

  “Are you following me around?” I mutter.

  “You wish.” The three Hartleys turn to leave.

  I ease off on the clutch and the bike rolls forward.

  “Wait.” She and her two doppelgangers return. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  “You live around here?” Even with my shitty eyesight, I can see it’s a place where no Astor Park kid lives. Not even a scholarship student would come from this shithole, right?

  “Come on.” She tugs on my sleeve. “If you drive off in this condition, you’ll hit some kid and ruin an entire family’s life.”

  “Thanks for your concern for me,” I say sarcastically, but a sudden bone-deep weariness washes over me. She’s not wrong. My head’s ringing, I’m seeing double or triple, and my entire body aches.

  Slowly, I back the bike against the curb and flip the kickstand down.

  Or try to. I make four attempts before she leans down and pushes my foot aside.

  “Why are you helping me?” I mumble.

  “I have no clue.”

  “You were a bitch to me at lunch.”

  “You deserved it.”

  She might’ve said something else, but my entire view turns black.

  Chapter 7

  The deep bass of Kendrick Lamar’s “Humble” pounding between my ears has me searching for the snooze button. I hate early-morning practices. Eyes still closed, I fumble on my nightstand for my phone, but instead of a hard wood surface, I find nothing but air.

  I reach out farther and end up dumping myself on the floor. The impact wakes me up.

  As I scrape myself off the carpet, I realize that I’m not home. There’s a dingy carpet underneath my feet and a ratty sofa behind me. Two folding chairs sit at a small wooden table to my right. Just beyond that is a tiny space housing a refrigerator, stove, and sink.

  The need to piss grips me. Two strides and I have the sole door in the joint open. The bathroom, like the rest of the place, is miniscule. A small sink, stand-up shower, and toilet fill the space.

  I use the can, wash my hands, and dry them on a surprisingly nice hand towel. I fold it in half and hang it on the ring where I found it.

  Back in the living space, I begin remembering last night’s events. I drove out to the slums on my Yamaha, played a few hands of cards, and then got into a fight.

  I must’ve blacked out from a punch to the head. No, wait. Something happened before that.

  Hartley.

  Hartley brought me here right before I passed out. I dimly remember her ordering me to move my ass and then climbing an unholy number of steps.

  But if I slept on the sofa, where did she sleep? This place doesn’t have another bedroom, and the sofa’s not big enough for two. She would’ve had to literally sleep on top of me, and given her aversion to me, I’m guessing she slept on the floor.

  Crap.

  I drag a hand through my hair. No, I’m not going to feel guilty about this. I never asked for her help, and I certainly didn’t ask to sleep on her couch even if I did need a place to crash last night.

  I find my shoes and my sweatshirt on the table. Inside my sweatshirt is about three grand, which means she found my money and didn’t take a dime. She should’ve taken a finder’s fee.

  I peel off a few bills and leave them on the table. Under my shoes there’s a note with a key taped to it.

  “Lock up and put the key in this envelope and stick it in the mailbox downstairs.”

  I tap the note against my chin. This girl is a mystery. Her parents live in an expensive mansion. Her dad is a big-shot prosecutor. Hartley, meanwhile, lives in the worst part of Bayview, where the walls are so thin I can hear the music her downstairs neighbor is playing, and yet she attends the best school in the state. What the heck is up with that?

  I figured my senior year was going to be boring as hell. Ella spends most of her time talking to Reed on the phone, texting Reed, or visiting him up at State on the weekends. The twins are busy with their lives. Gideon’s at college, and when he does come home, he only wants to chill with Savannah.

  I’m the odd man out and have been my whole life. Before Gid left home, it was the oldest two and the youngest two, with me futzing around in the middle.

  Mom said that this showed my individualism and self-sufficiency. I could always find something to do. I didn’t need my brothers. Plus, I made friends easier than any of them. I had dozens of friends. My contact list was full of them.

  Yet…I didn’t call even one person on that list last night. Instead, I tried to get on my bike and ride home like some dumb asshole whose brain is smaller than his ballsack.

  I leave Hartley’s apartment and lock up, but I pocket the key instead of sliding it into the envelope. Practice is in thirty minutes, which means I’m going to be late. So much for setting a precedent with yesterday’s early arrival.

  My cellphone shows a bunch of texts from Ella.

  Where r u?

  Callum looking 4 u

  Shit. At this rate, I’m never going to get in the air again. I really need to work on my decision-making skills in the future.

  I covered 4 u. Told him u left already

  I walk toward the stairs. The alley next to Hartley’s house smells like cat poop and dog piss and—well, it pretty much reeks like
every bad animal smell you can think of. It’s brutal.

  I text back, Thanks 4 covering 4 me. OMW

  * * *

  Everyone’s still in the locker room by the time I arrive. Practice this morning consists of drills, clubbing and running, bull rushing, and combo bag drills. My legs feel like jelly at the end of it.

  Now that Bran Mathis is heading up the offense, Coach is no longer taking it easy on us. I think he’d given up once our QB situation got so dismal, and didn’t want to risk injuring any of his remaining players for what was bound to be a write-off season. Now, all bets are off.

  Pash throws me a water bottle and then chugs his own. “Damn, I’m out of shape,” he gasps. “I did too much drinking and smoking this summer.”

  “Same.” I guzzle the bottle, toss it aside, and throw myself back on the grass.

  Pash collapses beside me. We both lie there staring up at the cloudless sky.

  Bran, looking fresh as a daisy despite the grueling practice, saunters past and chuckles at us. “You guys need to hit the gym more. I feel great.”

  I weakly manage to lift one hand—so I can give him the finger. “You only feel great because you’re straight-edge.”

  He laughs harder. “Is that an insult? Cuz, seems to me, being straight-edge means I’m not the one dry-heaving on the turf.”

  This time Pash joins me in flipping Bran the bird.

  Eventually, we’re able to haul our asses off the field and into the locker room, where I take a quick shower. I transfer Hartley’s apartment key from my jeans to my uniform trousers, then head over to the admin office.

  Mrs. Goldstein is there. Her wiry, tinted-blue curls halo above her small round face. Pink glasses are perched on the end of her nose.

  I prop an elbow on the counter. “Mrs. G, you look fine today.”

  She sighs. “What do you want, Mr. Royal?”

  Ignoring her obvious impatience, I tap the top of her monitor. “I stopped in because there’s a mistake in my class schedule. I went to first period and apparently I’m not in that class anymore. Some kid named Wright transferred in, and when he did that he took my spot.”

  The drawn-on eyebrows above her glasses crash together. “That’s highly unusual.”

  AKA I’m full of shit. Which I am.

  But I go all in on the lie. “I know, right? All I can say is, Mr. Walsh was like, ‘You’re not in this class anymore, Royal.’ And I was like, ‘What? That’s insane. How could this Wright person just take my spot?’ And he goes, ‘Well, why don’t you go to the office and ask.’ And—”

  “All right!” she cuts in, visibly exasperated. “Just stop talking. Let me have a look.”

  I hide a grin. “Thanks, Mrs. G. I really think the Wright kid is in the wrong class.”

  I wink after making my terrible pun. Mrs. G likes it, though. She presses her thin lips together to keep from laughing.

  “Let’s see what we can do.” She types a few things on her keyboard.

  I twist toward the monitor to watch what she’s doing—she’s just pulled up a record labeled Wright, H. Pushing her spectacles up to the bridge of her nose, she starts to read the schedule.

  Smooth operator that I am, I lean over the counter and quickly tap the print screen button.

  “Mr. Royal,” she yelps, jumping out of her seat.

  But she’s not fast enough for me. I vault over the counter with one hand and land right in front of the printer.

  “Thanks for printing this.” Beaming at her, I snatch up the paper and jog around the end of the desk.

  She grabs for me. “I didn’t print it for you. Easton Royal, you get back here!”

  “Your perfume smells great, Mrs. G,” I call over my shoulder.

  Outside the admin office, I look at the printout. There’s not one overlap, except for last period. In fact, most of Wright, H’s classes are at opposite sides of the building as mine.

  That’s going to change after today.

  I take the stairs two at a time. The lecture has already started by the time I breeze into Hartley’s first period class. All the chairs next to her are taken. She’s surrounded by a bunch of potted plants—the kids that suck up all the oxygen because of their self-importance. I walk over to one I know and don’t like much.

  I bend down at her desk. “Your car’s on fire.”

  “Omigod!” Cynthia Patterson yelps and sprints out of the classroom without a backward glance.

  With a smug smile, I pull out her abandoned chair and settle in.

  “Mr. Royal, what are you doing in this class?” the teacher asks.

  I have no clue who she is. Based on the lines in her forehead that she’s trying to Botox away, she’s in her forties. Too old for me.

  “I’m here to learn. Isn’t that what everyone else is doing here?”

  “It’s Feminist Thought.”

  I cock my head. “Then I don’t know why you’re discriminating against me. If we want more gender equality, shouldn’t this class be mandatory for males?”

  Teach makes one last effort to kick me out. “You don’t have the books necessary for the class.”

  “No worries. I’ll share with Hartley for now. We’re old friends.” I pick up my desk and move it right next to hers.

  “What are you doing?” she demands under her breath.

  “You have an amazing ability to whisper-shout, do you know that?” I drag one of her books onto my desk.

  “You have an amazing ability to piss me off.”

  “I’ve been perfecting this skill since I made my first appearance in the world.” I kick my legs out. “My momma told me that I came out punching. Thanks for helping me out last night.”

  Reaching into my pocket, I do a quick examination of the room, then slide my hand under the table and nudge Hartley’s thumb with her key.

  She startles for a second, glances down, and tenses. “I told you to leave it in the mailbox,” she mutters.

  “Figured this would be easier.”

  She searches my face. “You must have a deal with the devil. It’s the only way you look this good after a night of drinking and getting your ass kicked.”

  “I didn’t get my ass kicked.”

  “Really? Is that why you blacked out? You didn’t get hit so hard in the head that you couldn’t see straight?”

  “That’s right.”

  I get nothing more than a head shake after that. Her jaw remains stiff. At the front of the room, the teacher is droning on about third-wave feminism. She’s oblivious to the fact that hardly anyone is paying attention.

  “Why are you here?” Hartley finally says.

  “Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m in all your classes now.”

  Her head swivels toward me. “Oh my God.”

  “Well, except for music. I’m tone deaf.”

  “Oh my God,” she says again.

  “I knew you’d be excited.”

  She groans so loudly that everyone turns in our direction. “What was that, Ms. Wright?” the teacher asks pleasantly.

  Hartley is visibly clenching her teeth. “I just can’t believe that even in this progressive modern society, drug trials are still primarily based on male subjects, endangering the lives of women every day. It’s shocking.”

  “Shocking!” agrees our teacher. “And yet true!”

  The moment she resumes her lecture, Hartley scowls at me. “Switch your schedule back to whatever it was before, Royal.”

  “Nah.”

  She clutches the edge of the desk with both hands as if fighting the urge to punch me. “Fine,” she mutters “Then stop talking to me. I’m trying to learn something.”

  “What’s there to learn? Women deserve the same rights as men. End of story.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  I raise both eyebrows. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Obviously not.”

  I wink. “So does that mean you like me now because I’m super enlightened?”

  But my charm goes un
noticed, because her eyes narrow suspiciously. “I don’t know why you’re following me around, but you need to stop. I’m not interested in you and will not be interested in you in the future. And from what I hear, you have a line of girls about ten deep who are ready and willing to be whatever you want, so just—” She makes a shooing gesture with her hand. “Just go away.”

  I ignore everything she said except for the obvious. “You’ve been asking about me, have you?”

  She shuts her eyes and spins back to face the front.

  “What else have you heard? I like hearing gossip about myself.” I nudge her arm.

  She moves it away from me and remains silent.

  “My favorite rumor is that I’ve got a magic tongue—because it’s true. I’ll be happy to demonstrate for you at any time.”

  Hartley crosses her arms, still not saying a word to me.

  I glance down at the schedule. “I can’t wait for us to go to British Lit together,” I whisper gleefully.

  Her jaw tightens.

  This is fun. This is really fun.

  Chapter 8

  Hartley ignores me all throughout British Lit and then in Government, another class I’m not actually enrolled in but that I attend because it’s on her schedule. The teachers don’t even bat an eye at my presence; they just assume that if I’m there, then the office must know and is cool with it. Kind of irresponsible of them, if you ask me.

  I guess technically what I’m doing can be considered stalking, but it’s not like I’m hurting her or being extra gross about trying to get in her pants. She’s just fun to bug.

  Not that I’d be against getting in her pants. Or, rather, under her skirt, which covers the ass I’m currently admiring. It’s lunch, and I’m lurking behind Hartley in the cafeteria line. Her cute behind juts toward me as she reaches up to grab an apple.

  Yeah, I’d tap that.

  “Are you for real?” She spins around with indignation, and I realize I’d said that out loud.

  I’m not about to apologize, though. I’m Easton Royal. I say dumb shit all the time. That’s part of my charm. “What? You should be flattered,” I assure her. “I’m a hot commodity at this school.”