Authors: Brittainy C. Cherry

Loving Mr. Daniels (46 page)

The last mile down the road was the hardest. Memories flashed of the torture, beatings, name calling, drug binges.
I fucking hate this place.
I pulled up next to my stepdad’s and brother’s trucks, turned off the engine, and hopped out. It was like ripping off a damn bandage that was twenty years old and the wound was still not healed, oozing and festering with years of hate soiling the edges.

I could hear Mom’s screeching and cackling from the front porch and the distinct sound of a shotgun cocking. “It’s Walker,” I called through the shut door. “Chet, put the freaking gun away. If you shoot me, so help me God, I will kill you.”

The trailer door swung open to reveal my fat, graying, toothless mother, who smelled like she had forgotten to bathe again—this time, for weeks. I was just glad to see that the lights were still on. Tears filled her eyes as her face twisted into a semi-smile. I knew that was the best she could do. Her faded pink shirt had the hugest ever-loving pit stains, and damn her for going in for a hug. As I hesitated, I could hear my punk-ass little brother, fresh out of the pen, hissing his awful laugh in the background. After holding in my breath, scared the weeklong stench of sweat and body odor emanating from my deadbeat mother was going to make me pass out, I walked into the double-wide’s poor excuse for a living room.

The same faded green carpet lay limp and patchy on the creaking floor, trapped under the old red-blue plaid couch Dad got at Goodwill a few weeks before he’d decided enough was enough. My heart ached for the ten-year-old me, crying in that very spot for him to come back.
Mags has no idea how much we are alike, how much our baggage matches.

Chet, my miserable, old, shit-for-brains stepfather shoved off from leaning against the entertainment center and made his way over to attempt a handshake. He was so loaded that he missed my hand, jabbing me right in the ribs. His eyes were slits as he slurred, “What the fuck do you want?”

“Nice to see you too, Chet. Thought I’d come home to visit and check on the station. That’s all.” I rubbed the back of my neck, knowing they could smell the bullshit on my breath. “It’s been a while since I made sure everything was all right up this way.”

My cell buzzed in my pocket. Digging it out, I saw Buck’s goofy-ass grin light up on my screen. I ignored it and turned the damn thing off. There was no way I was ready to face that music yet. Looking around at the six eyes glaring at me, I knew that this was not my smartest of moves.

“So how the hell have y’all been?”

Silas’s bloodshot eyes and sweating brow told way too much about the amount of meth pumping through my little brother’s system. He hawked his load of dip out from his lower lip and took a swig of his beer, sneering at me. “Big-time war hero forgets about his roots then stumbles back up the mountain on a whim. Somethin’ ain’t sittin’ right with that, brother, so why don’t you enlighten us as to why you really came on home?”

There was something about my slimeball for a brother that irked me, just like the rest of the people in the room. So I turned on the heels of my boots and made my way for the door. He was right; this shit didn’t add up in my head either. Unfortunately, my wide mother took up the entire doorway. She had her feet planted firmly and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Walker Cameron Eastman, you go sit on the couch next to your daddy and have a visit with yer momma. Don’t mind Silas. He just missed you is all and has a funny way of showin’ it.” She glared at her youngest with laser beams that would kill, given the chance.

My eyes narrowed and my jawline hardened as I spoke through gritted, grinding teeth. “That man ain’t my father just as much as y’all ain’t my family. Blood don’t mean shit when it all hits the fan.” I stood toe-to-toe with the densest person on the planet. I knew she couldn’t understand why I hated her—and the rest of them, for that matter—but I had figured it out a long time ago. She enjoyed getting under my skin. And damn her for being so fucking good at it.

“Go wash up. Supper will be done in a minute. At least have a meal with us.”

I let my head hang as I walked into the back hallway to escape into the bathroom, like I had done countless times in my youth. Being with the scum of my past was awful, but nothing would compare to the feeling of hurting Mags again. I knew that this was my fate and all I deserved for everything I’d put my North through.

As I made my way back into the living room, the sound of Chet’s snoring rang out over the Bulldogs’ announcers blaring through the television speakers. I slumped down in a chair at the dining table, staring blankly as little blurring purple and red dots jetted across the screen.

“Man, y’all need a new TV.”

Silas snickered from the chair next to me as he shoved up. He made his way into the kitchen and dove in the fridge to get another Bud. He raised an eyebrow, asking if I wanted one.

“Yup. I’m here. Might as well.”

Out of Reach

by Missy Johnson.

Out now at all major online retailers. See below for an excerpt.

Synopsis:

My best friend was dying and I was in love with his girl.

Andy and I had been best friends since we were eight-years old.

Watching him slowly fade away, ever closer to his final breath, made

me so incredibly angry. I knew there was nothing I could do to change it--I had given in to despair, but Andy had not. He had one last hand to play.

He wasn't going to simply sit back and wait for Death to claim him--not Andy. He was going to live life until he couldn't hold his eyes open any longer.

Andy didn't want to die in some sterile hospital and asked me to take him and Emily to the beach. It would be our last road trip together.

Emily. Emily was a problem for me.

I harbored a secret that would have torn our friendship apart. I was in love with Andy's girl, and had been since she'd walked into our sixth grade class, so many years ago.

So what kind of person am I? My best friend is dying, and it's awful--but my heart still aches for his girl. I hate myself for thinking beyond Andy's death and whether there could ever be a future for Emily and I, but I can't help it.

I'm in love with her.

Excerpt

“Are you warm enough?” I tugged at the blankets covering Andy. I was cold. I wasn’t sure how he couldn’t be. He rolled his eyes and pushed the blankets back down.

“I’m fine, Em. Stop stressing,” he said. He reached up and traced along the side of my cheek. “You’re the one who’s cold. You’re shivering. Maybe you need some Andy loving to warm you up,” he teased. I leaned down to kiss him, forcing myself to smile at his joke.

“No,” I said, putting my hands up to stop him as he tried to push one of the blankets onto me. “Just do what you’re told for once,” I muttered, kissing him on the nose.

“Right, because you always do what I tell you to do,” he laughed.

“That’s different,” I replied smugly, folding his hand into mine. “You’re skin and bones. It’s not like you could stop me.”

“Harsh,” he said, a faint smile on his lips. “Em? Thanks for this. What you and Seth are doing for me means a lot.”

“I know it does.” My voice dropped. The tightness in my chest became more apparent. It was always there; a gnawing feeling, like I was just waiting for something bad to happen. And I guess I was.

I remember the day of his diagnosis like it was yesterday. I remember sitting in that surgery with him and Deb as the doctor explained how the melanoma they’d found between his little toe had spread to his pancreas. The prognosis wasn’t good, but it could have been worse. There was hope.

Until there wasn’t.

Terminal. Even hearing that word, I still clung to hope that a miracle would happen, and somehow the cancer would shrink. I’d lost my parents; surely life couldn’t be this cruel, could it? I felt awful even thinking about myself. I couldn’t imagine how he must have felt. He’d fought so hard for so long, and to be told there was nothing more they could do…how do you process that?

“Em,” Andy said, “Good thoughts, remember?”

I smiled, blinking back tears as I reached inside my jacket pocket and touched the small leather binder. Good thoughts. When it was obvious I wasn’t coping, I’d began writing down a list of memories, forcing myself to only focus on the good. It had been Andy’s idea, a way for me to remember time we’d had together. The time we had left. It was my way of staying strong for him, because the last thing he needed was for me to be a broken mess.

“Good thoughts,” I mumbled, squeezing his hand.

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