Landon & Shay - Part One: (The L&S Duet Book 1) Page 2

  Then, there was Tracey. She was Jackson High’s sugar-pop queen. If you were looking for a girl with team spirit, Tracey was the one to feed it to you along with hearty helpings of glitter and rainbows. Currently, it seemed Tracey was trying to force her brightness down Reggie’s throat, and I wasn’t sure he had much interest in it. Reggie was the new kid on the block, having transferred in from Kentucky, and most of the girls were smitten by him due to his Southern accent. Honestly? He seemed like a basic douchebag to me who said y’all every now and then. I was a pro at spotting assholes.

  Takes one to know one.

  Tracey was too innocent for a guy like him. Though she could get a bit annoying and over the top with her rainbow cheer, she was overall an okay person. She meant no harm to anyone, which was exactly why she didn’t need a guy like Reggie in her life. He’d eat her alive, then spit her out like they’d never known each other.

  That was what us bad boys did: we fed on good girls and tossed them to the side once we were full.

  What Reggie needed in his life was a good ole Monica. It was a match made in Hell.

  The girls kept chatting, and I knew Monica was probably going on and on about this party I didn’t want to have. Shay glanced toward me with an uneasy, disdainful look.

  Hello, brown eyes.

  If that girl hated anything more than me, it was parties thrown by me, which was why she made it a point never to attend them. The moment we locked eyes, I turned away. We never crossed paths much, but if we did, we exchanged short words with each other. Most of the time, they were rude, too. It was kind of our thing. We both got off on hating each other.

  Except that one time nine months ago.

  Her grandmother, Maria, had attended Lance’s funeral, and Shay had come with her. They came to the reception at my house, and Shay walked in on me during one of my not-so-manly moments.

  I wished she hadn’t seen me that way: broken, disheveled, raw, real.

  I also wished Lance hadn’t died, but you know how it goes. Wishes, dreams, hopes—all fiction.

  “You sure you want a party?” Greyson asked, lowering his voice and pulling me from my thoughts about Shay. The other guys at the table were talking about basketball and girls, but Greyson seemed unfazed by it all. “With it being Lance’s birthday.”

  No one else really knew about my uncle’s birthday, and I was thankful for it. Greyson only knew because he kept track of important things. He was that kind of friend. He had a memory like no other and used it for good. Monica only knew because she collected any information she could somehow use as daggers to stab her victims with. She was the complete opposite of Greyson.

  I shrugged. “Rather be with people than alone, I guess.” He went to argue, but I shook my head. “It’s fine. I could use the company. Plus, I don’t see Monica letting up on the idea.”

  “I could host at my place,” he offered, but I declined.

  Besides, me throwing a party was one thing; Greyson throwing one was a completely different ball game. My parents would be annoyed to hear about the party but would shrug it off pretty quickly. If Greyson’s father found out about him hosting it, he would have a much harsher punishment. If there was anything I knew about Mr. East, it was that he had a violent hand and wasn’t afraid to use it on his wife or his son.

  He was lucky I’d never witnessed him laying a hand on my friend. That hand would’ve been chopped off quickly.

  A few girls came up to our table, giggling like the damn schoolgirls they were, and they waved our way. It was no secret that every girl had a crush on Greyson, and quite a few had a crush on me, too. It was funny because Greyson and I were pretty different in almost all ways. Greyson’s persona at school was the saintly good student. I was the damn devil, but it turned out, a woman could love the angels in the sunlight and still want to sin at night.

  “Rumor has it there’s a party at your house this Saturday, Landon,” one of the girls said, twirling her hair around her finger. “Can we come?”

  “Do I know you?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but you can get to know me at your party,” she said with a suggestive tone. She stuck her tongue into the side of her cheek and jabbed it in and out for good measure. Geez. I was kind of shocked she didn’t reach straight into my jeans, yank out my cock, and start slobbering all over it.

  It was clear they were younger than us—sophomores, probably. No one was more horny than sophomore girls. It was like one day they went from innocently playing with their Barbies to dramatically making Barbie and Ken bang. I understood why fathers worried about their high school daughters. It was like Girls Gone Wild: High School Edition. If I were a dad, I’d lock the kid in the basement until their thirtieth birthday.

  I shrugged off her provocative gesture. “If you can find out the address, you can come.”

  Their eyes lit up with excitement, and they giggled, hurrying off on a quest to find out where I lived. If they would’ve asked me, I probably would’ve told them. I was feeling charitable that afternoon.

  “So this party is really happening?” Greyson asked.

  I bit into my dry chicken patty sandwich and tried to get Lance out of my head and out of my heart. A party would work. It would distract me a bit.

  “Yup.” I nodded, one hundred percent sure. “It’s happening.”

  I glanced up across the space to see Shay talking to some band geek or something. She was always doing that kind of shit—talking to people in all social classes. People didn’t just love her; they love loved her.

  Shay was Jackson High’s royalty, but not the bitchy, asshole kind like Monica and me. People liked Monica and me because we scared them. People loved Shay because she was…Shay, the Princess Diana of high school.

  Which was exactly why I hated her. I hated how unapologetically happy she was, hated how she had a way of moving around with so much confidence and joy. Her happiness annoyed the living hell out of me.

  She looked like a princess, standing tall with bright chocolate doe eyes and plump lips that always smiled. Her skin was a smooth warm tone, and her hair was the darkest of black with light waves. Her body curved in all the right places, and my mind couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like without clothes on. To put it simply, Shay was beautiful. So many dudes called her hot, but I didn’t agree. Calling her hot felt idiotic and cheap because she wasn’t just hot like some girls at our school. She was a vibrant light. She was the spark that lit up the sky. A fucking star.

  As cliché and chick flick as it sounded, every guy wanted her, and every girl wanted to be her.

  She was friends with them all, too—every single person. Even if she dated someone, they never ended on bad terms. The split always seemed peaceful. Shay not only looked like a damn princess, but she acted like one, too. Cool, calm, collected. Poised. She never went without saying hi to anyone who approached her. She never excluded anyone from any activity. If she hosted a gathering, she’d invite the nerds, the band geeks, and the football players.

  She didn’t believe in separation by social class, which kind of made her an anomaly at our school and in life as a whole. It was as if Shay was born with a mind light-years ahead of the rest of us and knew high school status wouldn’t mean shit in the scheme of things. She wasn’t a piece that fit one puzzle. She was a one-size-fits-all person. She managed to find a spot in everyone’s world, and it all seemed so effortless. The geeks at our school talked about Shay the same way the goths did—with love and admiration. She was amazing to everyone.

  To everyone but me.

  I was fine with that, though. Truthfully, the idea of Shay being kind to me was enough to make me want to lose my lunch.

  I’d take her hateful looks over her gentle doe eyes any day.

  2

  Shay

  My father was the king of our castle, and I was his favorite little princess.

  Sure, I was his only daughter, which made me his favorite by default, but Mom always made sure to remind me. “Your father�
�s love is big, even though he sometimes doesn’t know how to show it.”

  That was a true fact. My dad wasn’t a good man, but he was a good father for the most part, though he never really showed his love in a straightforward way. He showed it in his actions and in his critiques. Once when I was younger, I remembered Mom studying for her nursing degree, and she asked Dad to help her study. He told her flatly that he wouldn’t, because she had to learn how to do it on her own, seeing how he wouldn’t be there to help her with the exam.

  I thought he was being cruel for no good reason.

  Mom disagreed. “He’s right not to help. He won’t be there for the test, therefore I should do it on my own.”

  She passed the exam without his help, and when she told him the news, he had a diamond necklace awaiting her in the living room as a congratulations gift. “I knew you would pass without my help,” he told her. “You’re smart without me.”

  They loved each other. From the outside looking in, it probably appeared that Mom loved him more than he loved her, but I knew better. My father was a complex man. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d heard him say he loved me, but he offered that love in his looks, in his short nods and his tiny smirks. When he was pleased with you, he’d nod twice your way. When he was upset, his ice blue eyes would pierce a hole through your soul. When he was very upset, he’d pierce a hole through a wall. When he was sad, he disappeared.

  My parents’ love story had years of challenges attached to it. Dad used to get into trouble when he was younger, dealing drugs in their old neighborhood. I knew it was an awkward thing to say, but my father was great at what he did. He was a solid salesman. Mom always said he could sell poop to a person and they’d use it as shampoo. For a while, we lived a pretty lavish lifestyle. It wasn’t until he started using the drugs himself that everything began to crumble. The worst thing a drug dealer can ever do is sample the product. As he partook in the drugs, his alcohol usage grew too, and he became even colder than before. Distant. Hard.

  Cruel.

  There were many nights he’d come home hollering drunk and high, slurring his words. There were other nights he simply wouldn’t come home.

  The turning point for him was when a buddy of his got shot and killed, and Dad got caught by the cops. He’d ended up in prison for a few years.

  He’d been out for a while now, and he’d gone clean from dealing and using drugs and alcohol after he was released.

  It had been over a year since he’d come home.

  A year, two months, and twenty-one days.

  But who was counting?

  Mom hated even talking about Dad’s former struggles. She glossed over it as if it hadn’t even happened. My grandmother, Mima for short, wasn’t as closed off to talking about my father’s past. She’d moved in with Mom and me when Dad got locked up for dealing. We needed the help around the house, and Mima stepped right in to help cover the bills. Honestly, I was thankful for that. For how cold my father was, my grandmother was the complete opposite. She was warm, open, and giving. Mima’s heart was made of gold, and she went out of her way to make sure the ones she loved were taken care of.

  When it was just the three girls, the house felt so light, so fun, so free. During that period of time, I slept so much easier, without fear of the unknown with my father. At least when he was locked up, he couldn’t get into any more trouble. At least when he was locked up, he couldn’t end up dead from a deal gone bad.

  It wasn’t a secret that my grandmother and father didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. When he was released, he came back to a home thinking he was just going to be in charge of everything, but Mima had a different point of view. They butted heads on the regular. Mom tried her best to keep our house a place of peace. For the most part, it worked. Mima avoided my father, and my father avoided her.

  Except for when we all came together to celebrate important days.

  If there was anything my family was good at, it was celebrating important milestones, and Mom’s birthday was one of them. She was thirty-two today, and I swore she didn’t look a day over eighteen. Often times, people confused Mom and me as siblings—boy, did she love that. I was certain I’d be grateful for those genetics down the line.

  My cousin, Eleanor, and her parents, Kevin and Paige, always joined us to celebrate birthdays and holidays. Uncle Kevin was my father’s older brother, but I swore he looked five years younger than Dad. Then again, Kevin hadn’t lived quite the adventurous, dangerous life Dad had. The wrinkles on Kevin’s face weren’t formed from stress and struggle—they were from laughter and joy.

  Mima set the birthday cake down on the table and began singing ‘Happy Birthday’ then everyone joined in. Mom grinned ear to ear as we sang out loud, just awfully. She sat next to Dad, and I watched as his hand gently squeezed her knee.

  Sometimes, I’d catch Dad staring at Mom with wonderment in his eyes. When I’d call him out on his longing gaze, he’d shake his head, and say, “I don’t deserve her. I never have, and I never will. Your mother is a saint, too good for me—too good for this world.”

  We could both agree on that. I couldn’t imagine the things my father had put her through. Mom would never tell me about those things, though. I was certain if I knew all their secrets, I’d end up hating my father, which was probably why Mom never told me. She didn’t want to damage my view on the man who’d raised me. But, I knew loving a man like my father wasn’t an easy task. It took a strong heart to deal with a man like him, and I knew Mom’s heart beat with strength. If there was one constant in my life, it was my mother’s love. I never questioned it in any way, shape, or form, and I doubt Dad questioned it, either. She was the definition of ride or die—loyal through and through. She gave her love wholeheartedly, even at the expense of it draining her own soul.

  Mima started cutting the cake, and Paige smiled her way. “You’ll have to give me the recipe for the cake, Maria. It’s to die for.”

  “Oh no, sweetheart. My recipes will die with me. I one-hundred percent plan to be buried with my cookbook,” Mima semi-joked. I had no doubt she’d take that book to her grave. Mom would probably be crazy enough to dig it up, though, just for one more taste of Mima’s enchiladas. I wouldn’t blame her, either.

  Mima’s food was like eating a bit of heaven, and I’d be right there with my mother, shovel in my hand, in search of the secret ingredient in her homemade tortillas.

  Dad stood up from the table after everyone had their cake in front of them. He cleared his throat. Dad wasn’t one for speeches. He was a pretty quiet man. Mom always said he thought all his words to death and by the time they were ready to leave his mouth, they came out mute.

  But every year, for every birthday, he gave a toast to Mom—excluding the years when he was away.

  “I wanted to raise a glass of champagne,” Dad declared, “and sparkling grape juice for the underagers. Camila, you have been a light to this family, to this world, and we are lucky to have another go-round with you. Thank you for standing for this family—for me—through thick and thin. You are my world, my breath, my air, and today we celebrate you. Cheers to another trip around the sun, and to many more to come.”

  Everyone cheered and drank and laughed. These moments were my favorite ones, the memories being created over laughter and happiness.

  “Oh, and of course your gift,” Dad said as he walked out of the dining room and then came back with a small box.

  Mom sat up a bit. “Kurt, you didn’t have to give me anything.”

  “Of course I did. Open it.”

  Mom shifted in her seat a little as all eyes were on her. If there was anything she hated, it was attention on her. As she unwrapped the gift and opened it, she gasped. “Oh my gosh, Kurt. This is too much.”

  “Not for you.”

  Mom held up a pair of diamond earrings that shimmered and shimmered.

  Mima raised an eyebrow. “Those look pretty expensive,” she muttered.

  Dad shrugged. �
��Nothing’s too expensive for my wife.”

  “Except when it is and you have a part-time janitor job and a part-time post office job,” she shot back.

  “How about you worry about your own finances, Maria? Let me deal with mine,” Dad hissed her way.

  And there it was, the tension that lived in the house. I swore the air grew thicker whenever the two of them fought.

  “Well, thank you, honey,” Mom said, standing up and hugging Dad. “Though, they do look expensive.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been saving up for it for some time. You deserve nice things,” he told her.

  Mom looked as if her mind was spinning with things to say, but she never spoke her thoughts. Most of the time, she simply overthought them. “Well okay! Let’s all eat some cake, drink some more champagne, and keep this celebration going.”

  The subject of the diamond earrings was put to rest, and I was thankful for that. It probably helped that we had guests that night, otherwise Mima and Dad’s argument would’ve escalated quickly.

  Eleanor sat at the table with a book in her hand, and her eyes danced back and forth nonstop.

  “I’m glad to see you’re not much of an introvert anymore, Ellie,” Mima joked, sliding her a piece of cake.

  Eleanor shut the book, and her cheeks reddened. “Sorry. I just wanted to finish the chapter before eating.”

  “I feel like you’re always trying to finish a chapter,” I said, nudging my cousin.

  “Says the girl always trying to finish a script,” she replied.

  Touché.