“Shit!” I grunt again under my breath, this time throwing my phone on the passenger seat.
What if Linc wants to talk? What if he expects to hash out what happened that night? What if he’s having second thoughts and wants to go to the police?
“SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!”
I punch my steering wheel twice with my clenched fists, my frustration getting the better of me. This is so fucked up. Our lives did a one-eighty with just a mere snap of a finger. Because of one lousy night, our futures are now left hanging by a thread. I spent all summer in fucking denial, just so I didn’t imagine all the ways this one macabre incident could end up ruining and uprooting our lives so completely.
So mercilessly.
But it already did. It happened, and as much as I try to ignore it, there is no way around what we’ve done. And as a result, my best friend became an orphan.
Hmm.
Can you still be considered an orphan at twenty-two? I mean, technically he’s a grown-ass man. The orphan title always reminds me of those old movies Grandma had playing on her TV when I was a kid. Especially the one with the curly, red-haired girl that, for some reason, always felt the need to break out in song when she was getting herself in all sorts of trouble. What was her name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. What was it?
Fuck it.
It doesn’t matter anyway. Lincoln is the one with no parents now. We buried them right at the end of our junior year. Going back to Richfield tomorrow and trying to finish college with that boulder on our shoulders is not going to be fun. Not one bit.
A pound on the hood of the car makes me jolt in my seat, throwing me back to the here and now. My heart drums hectically in alarm and only settles when familiar, devious, gray eyes stare back at me from the front of my car.
“You break it, you pay for it, motherfucker!” I yell at Easton, who just shrugs nonchalantly, unleashing his best cocky-ass smirk, as if I were one of his late-night booty calls, ready to be fucked on his doorstep.
I’d roll my eyes at the asshole if I weren’t already so wound up from being here. I watch him lean back against the side of my car while lighting a cigarette, as if it were the coolest thing in the world, and not the cancerous instrument that is shortening his lifespan.
It’s a filthy habit. And I’m not saying this just because I’m one of those jocks that believe their body is a temple or some nonsense like that, but because my intellect is very aware of all the lethal chemicals my friend insists on puffing into his lungs. Between the nicotine, tar, formaldehyde, and arsenic, Easton willingly inhales a cocktail of poison on a daily basis. And as much as I get on his case about it, he just blows me off as quickly as he does the toxic smoke from his lips.
Sensing my accusing glare, Easton smugly blows a string of puffy gray rings in the air. I must admit the bastard looks like a dark James Dean when he does that sweet trick like its second nature to him. Always looking bored with the mundane, and unapologetically closed off to the world and its lectures, a person would think that nothing gets under Easton’s skin. Only the four of us know that’s a fucking lie.
“Are you going to stay in your car all day long or what?” he asks, his eyes up to the heavens, watching the smoke disappear into thin air.
I hate it that he’s capable of picking up on my hesitation without even looking at me. That’s another thing about Easton Price—he reads people like most do magazines. He doesn’t have to read the small print below each picture to know exactly what’s going on. A quick glance your way, and he can pinpoint all your flaws and imperfections. A trait I usually envy, but right now, it’s pissing me the hell off.
“Just need to send a text to my father,” I lie, picking up my phone from the side seat and tapping away on the screen as if the text I’m pretending to send was so damn fucking important.
“No, you don’t,” he quips back unceremoniously, taking another long haul of his cancer stick.
His tone is even and sure. And like with everything else Easton does, he takes his time enunciating each word. It’s almost as if the world decided to stop just to revolve around his inner clock, and everyone else would be wise to follow suit.
He’s always been the dark horse in our little band of brothers. Sure, he comes from money as we all do, but if you didn’t know his ripped-up jeans cost a few hundred, you’d think he bought them at a second-hand store. He probably would have—just to piss his stepfather off—if he wasn’t a vain fuck.
East might like the rebel aura he puts out into the world, but he likes to look good even more. Girls at Richfield aren’t known for fucking homeless-looking douches, but they will drop their panties in a hot minute when they realize you share the same surname with the bank their daddies deposit their weekly salaries in. Richard Price is Easton’s real-life version of Daddy Warbucks. A truth that East resents but doesn’t shy away from reaping the benefits of, either.
“Annie! That’s the ginger’s name!” I yell, slapping my forehead with the sudden realization.
“God, you’re such a weird freak. Get out of the car, Finn. Stop stalling.”
Instead of defending myself or sticking to my lie, I do as he demands and finally get out of the car. I keep my shades on because the blazing August sun is brutal on my light-blue eyes, even at this early hour. But mostly, I keep them because I can’t deal with Easton’s crap. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and in this moment, I’m not comfortable in letting any fucker see how tormented mine is. Not even East.
I walk over and lean next to him against the hood, turning my back to the large estate behind us that, at one time, felt like a second home to me.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I say, instead of the warm greeting that a friend would expect to receive after so many months apart.
“Well, that answers the question of whether you missed me at all this summer,” he goads, knowing full well I’m not the kind of guy who goes all sentimental over anyone, even if the circumstances we’ve found ourselves in might call for it.
Easton lets out a soft laugh and nudges my shoulder with his, and it’s enough to placate my nerves a smidge.
“Fuck off, you dick. I texted, didn’t I? Not like we’re dating or anything.” I tease him, getting another low chuckle out of my best friend.
“Who are you kidding? Even if we were, you’d be too busy two-timing me with every short skirt Florida had to offer,” he retorts amusingly, letting out one last puffy ring above our heads, before stomping the cigarette butt with his foot.
I laugh at the ridiculous comment, especially considering I was too busy over the summer to waste my time or even care about getting laid. But Easton doesn’t have to know that.
“You jealous?” I cock my brow mockingly.
“Little bit. Summer in Asheville sucked balls. You could have lightened it up.”
“When have I ever lightened anything up? I’m not particularly funny,” I reply lightheartedly, trying to deflect the conversation from the reason why his vacation was a total buzzkill.
Easton could have gone anywhere in the world he wanted. He could have wasted his summer days lying on a Polynesian beach drinking mai tais or sipping sangria off the coast of Spain. He could have gone just about anywhere that tickled his fancy, but he stayed put just to make sure shit didn’t hit the fan. He can be a dick like the rest of them, but he’s loyal to a fault. And in our world, loyalty is a rare commodity.