Risk: A Military Stepbrother Bad Boy Romance (11 page)

SARAH

Mitch wasn’t in school Monday. He had texted me the evening before, saying he wasn’t feeling well, that he might stay home, and so I didn’t think a thing about it. It all seemed totally normal. He was a bit of a hypochondriac, after all. He could find illness in a plate of spaghetti or some soggy fish sticks in the cafeteria, or even in a strange smell on the high school quad, one that he said was irritating his allergies.

Sure, Mitch, I had always laughed.

It was during lunch when I had holed myself up in the library, pouring over my AP Chemistry textbook, trying to make sense of all the things that seemed to have evacuated my mind ever since Damien arrived in my life: covalent bonds, the enormous variety of things that apparently contained sodium, and how the hell do we know that neutrons actually exist?

It was during this miasma of chemistry and semi-panic—after all, I had a midterm on it during the next period—that I decided to take a break and check my email. Mostly, the emails I get are composed solely of offers and ads—stuff from ModCloth, Urban Outfitters, Banana Republic, and other stores I like but that I never have money for.

But then, I saw one from Mitch. The subject line was a single word: “Sorry.”

I had a powerful and horrific sense of foreboding welling up in my stomach as I clicked on it. The message was laid out for me to see. He had BCC’d me on it, so I couldn’t tell who all he had sent it to.

“Dear family, friends, and lovers,” it began.

“This is the hardest thing I’ll ever write and the last. I’m crying as I type this but I can’t do this anymore. I hate this town, I hate my life here, and most of all, I hate the lies I have to live. I hate pretending like the person I love hates me, and I hate that the person I love has to pretend to hate me, has to beat me up so that everyone thinks he’s cool and straight. I hate coming home with bruises on my face and having him kiss those bruises and tell me he’s sorry. I hate it all so much.

“Mom and dad, I’m so so so sorry that I couldn’t have been better. I wish I were normal. I wish I were the good straight kid you had always wanted. Wouldn’t it be nice if I just played football and or basketball? Would it have been nice if I had just stayed in the closet till I got to college and out of this fucked up town? I’m so sorry but it’s not your fault so please don’t think that it is. It’s my fault for not being better. For not being a different person.

“Sarah. Your friendship is the most precious thing in the world to me. If there’s someone who’s going to beat the world, it’s you, girl. Don’t let this stop you. I’m sorry because I know this is going to make you cry but I also know you’re stronger than this. You’re stronger than me. You take punches and beatings better than I do. You’re a monster and I love you for it. Make them all scream in college, sweetie. Love you.

“You know who. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep up the charade. I’m sorry I couldn’t take your punches and mocking during the day and that I couldn’t keep it together when you sneak into my room at night (sorry mom and dad, TMI I guess) and that I wanted more of you than you were willing to give. Mostly I just feel bad for you. I’m free now but I know you’ll never be free. I know you’re going to keep living with your fake self, being the golden boy, chasing after girls and making fun of fags. Maybe you’ll change your inner self but I doubt it. I don’t think that part of us changes. I think we have to change the world around us or die. I hope, for your sake, the world around you changes. But if not, I’ll be waiting for you on the other side. XOXOXO

“I love you all and again I’m so so so sorry.”

That was it. I read it in silent shock, my heart pounding, my guts wanting to rebel, but unable to look away. I was in the library but I didn’t care. I called Mitch right away. It went to voice mail.

“Mitch, goddammit, call me back and tell me you’re okay!” I practically screamed into the phone, getting ugly looks from everyone around me. I didn’t care if I was drawing shade from everyone else doing last minute studying or, more accurately, trying to catch glimpses of girls and boys behind their study carrels.

A librarian was starting over towards me, a sour expression on her face. She could go to hell, for all I cared

I dashed out of the library, leaving my back pack, leaving my chemistry textbook and my precious notes. I charged down the stairs and through the hall ways. At one point, I felt so nauseous that I had to duck into the girl’s bathroom and found myself doubled over a toilet, dry-heaving and sobbing.

It couldn’t be true. There was no way it could be true. It just couldn’t be.

I arrived in the principal’s office, and found it full of grim-faced adults—the principal and vice-principal, the school nurse, a few guidance counselors, and Mr. Simmons, who was Mitch’s and my homeroom teacher. Or, I guess, had been Mitch’s teacher…

No. I didn’t want to believe it.

“I just got an email from Mitch Saint-Claire,” I gasped, tears slathered over my face, my mouth blubbering uncontrollably. I was inconsolable when I saw the faces of the grown-ups darken.

“We need to help him. He’s going to kill himself. We need to send cops or something to his house. Please. Where is he?”

Mr. Simmons took me by the shoulders. His kind face broke with mine.

“Sarah, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He hugged me tight. No one had to tell me that Mitch was dead. I already knew. I already felt it. I could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices as they turned to me, starting to heap their apologies on me.

I didn’t care for their kind words, though. I didn’t give a damn. What I wanted instead was for Mitch to be alive, to be well, to be whole—not for him to be dead. Goddamn it…

Why hadn’t anyone stopped the bullying? I felt anger rising in my belly and I turned it on the adults all around me.

“He was being bullied, damn it,” I cried out, my voice hoarse from sobbing already. “You didn’t care. No one cared. No one tried to stop him. No one tried to stop it. You all don’t really care.”

Maybe that was mean, maybe it was uncharitable… But I didn’t give a damn at that moment. I was angry, I was sad, and I wanted my friend back.

I was allowed to skip my chemistry test, thankfully, since there was no way I’d be able to go to class without breaking down. I was kept in the principal’s office, like a naughty child, waiting for my daddy to come pick me up. Of course, he never did. He had better things to do. He was at work. He wasn’t about to drop everything he was doing to come and collect his embittered daughter.

Finally, they let me go home by myself shortly after the school day ended. I dashed home, still half hysterical, and I found Damien in his room, strumming his guitar.

God, if only it hadn’t been such a painful moment, he would have been so hot. He was propped up on a pillow, his fingers lazily dancing over his guitar, a look of longing and boredom on his angelically diabolic face.

If only it had been a different time, I might have leapt on him, tried to tear his clothes off, try to do all sorts of nasty things to him. If only… But no. Now was not the time for that.

He held me as I cried. As my body rocked in his arms, my sobs wracking my flesh. He kissed away my tears, but more flowed down my cheeks to replace them.

“I’m so mad…” I whimpered as he held me, as we rocked. He kissed my forehead, kissed my hair, ran his fingers through it.

“I know… I know…” he whispered softly to me, his voice low and husky. “I know…”

He never asked me what had happened, and for that, I was grateful—I didn’t know myself and I didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about how he might have done it—how he might have wiped himself off of the face of the earth.

It was hard, but eventually, my breathing returned to normal. Eventually, I found myself shaking less, able to focus.

I told Damien about the email, about what was in it. He listened without saying a single word, his eyes giving me all the quiet caring and understanding I needed. His hands held mine, kept them from shaking, kept pressure on them, let me know that he was here, that he would be here, that he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Not like Mitch.

At least, that’s what I interpreted from his hands. I supposed I had no real way of knowing what was in his heart…

I was out of school for the rest of the week. I spent most of it asleep. I barely left my room. Maria made me breakfast and dinner, and I just didn’t eat lunch.

Damien came to visit every afternoon, even though I had nothing to say, nothing to talk about. He would sit next to me and hold my hand. We would just sit like that, and then he started bringing his guitar in, and I would listen to him play, letting my mind wander.

I knew I would have mountains of homework to make up after I came back to school but I didn’t care. I knew I would have tests to make up and classes to catch up on but I couldn’t make myself care. My best friend was dead. There was nothing that could change that, and no matter how many tests I took, no matter how many problem sets I turned in late, no matter how many book reviews or five-paragraph essays I wrote, it would never change.

I knew I could get into trouble here. I knew my grades might slip. I knew I might never get out of Laramie. But I didn’t care.

I didn’t care about anything at all.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite true.

I did care about one thing—the boy sitting next to me, strumming a tuneless song slowly on his guitar, his eyes looking out the window, worldlessly, our minds turned inward and our thoughts dancing over the horizon, never settling for more than an instant on any ray of light, but continuing the descent into that black spiral of pity and contempt for life.

DAMIEN

Sarah wasn’t well enough to go to Mitch’s funeral. I went, though. I barely knew the kid, but I felt like I owed it to Sarah, owed it to Mitch, owed it to… Well, I felt like I owed it. I just did.

It came out a few days after his death that he had done it by hanging. He had wrapped a belt around his neck, tied it to a ceiling fan in his bedroom, and jumped off a chair. It sounded like a terrible way to go, but there you have it.

I didn’t tell Sarah about that. I was sure she would find out somehow, some day. But I didn’t want to be the one to tell her. You couldn’t pay me to do that. Not at all.

The funeral was held at a Presbyterian church near the school where Mitch’s parents were parishioners. During the service, no mention of his being gay was made. No one said anything—there were bleary eyed students, older people—friends of his parents, I supposed, and other family members—and then teachers and administrators from the school.

And then I saw Ted. The bastard had the gall to be here. But he wasn’t with his friends. It was just him, dressed in a pair of khakis and a blazer too big for him—the same uniform that all teenage boys seem to have for formal events. I know I had one.

He didn’t have anyone around him. His face was surprisingly stony, even emotionless. It was a look of emptiness I found in his eyes, and I wanted to bash his face in for that.

After the service, as he was trying to leave, I cornered him in one of the side passages leading out of the church. His eyes widened when he saw me. He was a big guy, a football player, of course—but he seemed to shrink before me.

There was no one around us, no one watching. I grabbed him by the lapels of his blazer. He tried to struggle away, and so I threw my right elbow hard into his face. He stumbled back and I threw an uppercut into his stomach. He doubled over.

“You have some steels ones if you think it’s okay for you to show up here, you son of a bitch,” I growled as I grabbed him hard by the hair. I forced his head up, held him steady for a second, and drove my fist into his jaw, the force knocking him back into the wall.

“It’s not like that…” he gasped, wiping blood and tears from his face as he struggled to stand up. I kicked him in the gut. Hard.

“Stay down. Did I say you could stand up? Stay the fuck down.”

“I’m not saying I don’t deserve this…” he sputtered and I kicked him again.

“Did I say you could speak?”

He shook his head. I nodded.

“That’s right. You don’t fucking speak unless I say so.”

“Fine,” he gasped, struggling on the ground still. I glowered at him, but I didn’t say anything for a moment still—I gave him a few seconds to appreciate the helplessness of his situation, and for myself to calm my rage.

“Good. Now, speak. Cunt.”

He nodded, his voice coming out stronger now.

“Listen, I know I deserve this. I know I do. But the fact is… I was in love with Mitch.”

I was ready to drive my shoe into his face, no matter what he said—but this, I was not expecting.

“What?”

“I was in love with him. We were in love. I mean, we were dating. In secret.”

“So why did you bully him?” I asked, all but yelling. I looked around, making sure no one had overheard us: fortunately, we were separated from the emptying church by a wall and besides, no one bothered to come out the side door—everyone seemed to want to go to offer their condolences to the grieving parents too. I suppose that’s what I would have done, had I not decided to go after Teddy instead.

I had been to plenty of funerals for buddies killed in action. Both in the states and in Iraq—the services they held for soldiers, and then more general ceremonies, full funerals sometimes, for the local guys killed overseas while I was in training. And I always made a point of it to go up to the grieving family, offer my condolences, hugs, whatever would help them to make sense of what was really a senseless loss and move on.

But this was a situation that I hadn’t been expecting—not one bit.

“Because… Because…” he sputtered. I made like I was about to kick him again and he tightened up, holding his hands over his face. Good that he didn’t waste energy on trying to fight me anymore.

“Because what, you son of a bitch?” I growled. “Spit it out. You’re not going to say anything that’ll make me any angrier, I promise you that. We’re pretty much past that.”

“Because I was scared, okay? I have a reputation. I want to go to college and play football and shit. Gay kids don’t do that. Faggots don’t do that.”

“But you are gay.”

“I know, and I fucking hate it. My dad would kick me out of the house if he knew.”

“Sounds like your dad needs to get his teeth kicked in,” I murmured.

“Sure, just try it. Listen, you can beat me up—I admit it, I deserve. But my dad—he’s the fucking chief of police. He runs this town like a dictatorship. Him and… And your dad, actually.”

I cocked my head to the side. It took me a minute to realize he was talking about Harry.

“He’s not my real father.”

“Whatever. Your step-father. The two of them, they control everything that’s going on in this town… And…”

“And what?”

“And they’re not above killing people to get their way. Anyone who tries to stop them…”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what I mean.”

I grabbed Teddy again by the lapels of his blazer and forced him to his feet.

“Listen, unless you want every single fucking jock in the school to know about your bedroom habits…” I hissed.

“I don’t know anything, Damien, honest. I’ve just overheard my dad on the phone talking. Talking about the city, about money, about what they can get out of it… And about people in their way… But I don’t know what else. I don’t know, really, if they ever…”

“Killed anybody?”

“Right.”

I let Teddy drop to the ground. He landed in a heap, and buried his head in his forearms. I heard him start to sob.

“Damien, I loved him. I honestly did. I didn’t want to but I did. I don’t think I was a good boyfriend…”

“You weren’t any sort of a boyfriend. If you can’t be honest about it…”

“I know. I know. I hate myself. I hated myself then and I hate myself even more now.”

I sighed. This kid was beating himself up worse than I could ever hope to.

“Do you have a ride home? You’re a mess. You shouldn’t be out walking like this—someone will get the wrong idea. And that’s the best case scenario.”

He shook his head and I helped him to his feet. We left through the side door, without saying anything to Mitch’s family.

Like I said, I would have liked to, but I had to get this sorry son of a bitch home.

We drove in silence. I didn’t have anything else to say to Teddy and I doubt he had much to say to me. And besides—I didn’t want to hear anything that he had to say.

I kept turning over in my head what he had said about Harry and his father, the chief of police—Oliver Richards was his name, I remembered seeing in the newspaper somewhere.

Had they really been running some sort of conspiracy all these years? What the hell kind of conspiracy could you even manage in a two-bit town like Laramie? They wasn’t shit here—certainly nothing worth stealing.

On the other hand, they were two-bit kind of guys, so maybe it did make sense after all.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t any of my business. I was determined to get out of town as soon as I could. This was a toxic place. It was bad for me, as far as I was concerned—bad for my health. Hell, I had put on weight ever since getting here, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t just from my mother’s cooking.

On the other hand, her puttanesca sauce is nothing to sneeze at, so who even knows?

Of course, this town was even worse for Sarah. And it had been the worst of all for poor Mitch. Jesus Christ…