Now Leaving Sugartown Page 4

  I stare at Sammy for entirely too long. He absentmindedly brushes a hand over his mouth, an attempt to remove crumbs that aren’t there. Because why the hell else would I be staring at him as if I wanted to give birth to his giant Viking children?

  “What?”

  “You’re a lollipop man and you work in a nursing home?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters around a mouth full of bread.

  “You’re like Mother fucking Teresa.”

  “Don’t start. Jake gives me enough shit over this stuff.”

  Jake lets out a chuckle that has me impaling him with a single look. “You haven’t even heard the best part yet.”

  “There’s more? What, did he create the fucking universe?”

  “Sam’s a volunteer firefighter.”

  OH. MY. EXPLODING. OVARIES.

  I think I just came a little.

  “Was a volunteer firefighter. Now they pay me for it. And I don’t think you can claim sainthood from an occupation.”

  “Dude. See that? That glazed-over look in her eyes right there? This is why you need to be telling bitches that shit when we go out to pick up. Look at her; right now she’s imagining sliding down your fireman’s pole. I’m telling ya, you gotta use that shit, man. It’s fucking gravy, baby.” He laughs again, and then says, “Or baby gravy, depending on which way you look at it.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Sammy says.

  Something occurs to me just then. Sam is a fireman. Okay just for a second, put aside the fact that you’re imagining those rock-hard abs all greased up and covered in soot, and ash, and splashed all over the month of January, and think about this. Sam is a fireman. Fireman S—

  “Holy shit!” I exclaim, so loud that every pair of eyes at the table turns to look at me. “You’re fireman Sam! We used to watch that show?” I implore, and then, because I don’t feel I’ve made enough of an arse of myself I sing the theme song, finishing with a pointed, “You are the hero next door!”

  Jake’s loud guffaw fills the room. “Fireman Sam. Dude, that’s fucking gold!” He shoves his hand in my face for a high five, but I flip him off and leave him hanging, turning my attention back to Sammy.

  “So let me get this straight—you help tiny humans safely across the road, you feed little old ladies their mashed peas and tuck them into bed, and you rescue kitties from the evil clutches of very high tree limbs.”

  “I love that you can completely emasculate me and my chosen occupations in a single sentence.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just wondering when you got so … so … good? You grew up, and became a regular … person. Who helps people.” My features twist in mock disgust. “I don’t know if I’ll ever look at you the same way again.”

  Sammy doesn’t look at me as he pushes the remainder of the food around his plate, and if old triggers are anything to go off, I know that he’s starting to get pissy at being the central focus of this discussion because his jaw tightens, and he slowly and almost imperceptibly grinds his teeth.

  “Some people are worth helping.” He pushes his chair back. The sound grates on my nerves. It’s one of those horrid triggers for me, and sends me right back to high school—to the taunts, the bite of the blade, and the darkness of those days. He’s right; some people are worth helping, and others are just like me: toxic, worthless, and all kinds of fucked up.

  Seven years ago

  MR SKILLETER slaps a wooden ruler against the corner of his desk in an attempt to bring the rowdy classroom down a few decibels. It’s the last period of the day, Monday afternoon, and much to my elation, the seat beside me is unoccupied, until it isn’t anymore. Luke Roberts pulls out the chair beside mine, the rubber stoppers scraping against the linoleum floor.

  “Nice of you to join us, Mr Roberts,” Mr Skilleter says, over the sniggers of the overexcited class.

  “I thought I’d just drop in. See what was happening,” Luke replies. His gaze zeros in on me, or more importantly, on my boobs straining against my uniform. I had an unexpected growth spurt over the summer, and it would seem that everyone but Sammy has noticed. And Luke is no exception to this rule. “How you doin’, Pepper?”

  The classroom erupts into titters and whispers before Mr Skilleter reins them in again, and begins reading through an excerpt from Romeo and Juliet. Luke and I have shared every classroom, from kindergarten to year ten. He’s an A-grade arsehat, but other than a handful of exchanges throughout this first week of term, he’s never so much as looked in my direction. Fine by me. Luke might be pretty, but he’s a complete douche. Besides, I’m not interested in guys my own age. I’m not interested in anyone unless they’re tall, blond, built like a Viking and answer to the name of Sammy Belle. I’ve never understood why girls fawn over Luke. He’s an idiot, for one, and two, he’s a kid; and Sam is most definitely not a kid.

  “Hey, can I borrow a pencil?” Luke whispers. I roll my eyes and shove my open case towards him. He takes his time picking out a lead 2B pencil. I’m not sure why, they’re all the damn same, but whatever. Then he leans in again and stares down at my doodling on the pad before me.

  “Sweet image. Can I borrow a piece of paper?” I cease the flowing motion of my pencil and glare up at him. He smiles back, this infuriating, stupid smile that makes me want to punch in his pretty teeth.

  “You wanna borrow my knickers too?” I whisper venomously.

  “Depends. Do they come with your hot little arse in them?”

  “To everyone but you, yes. Yes, they do.”

  Luke leans back in his seat, staring straight ahead at the teacher, though he’s obviously not listening. “You know, Lisa Gray said you’re fucking your brother.”

  My whole body stiffens. “That’s because Lisa Gray is a whore who’s probably fucking her brother.”

  Luke chuckles as he doodles on his page. I can’t see what he’s drawing because his arm is covering the paper in front of him. Still, it’s not like I really give a shit about what’s on it. “I like you, Pepper Ryan. You’re funny as fuck.”

  “Wonderful, I can cross ‘make Luke Roberts my bitch’ off my bucket list then,” I deadpan. And then, because even though the following is common knowledge within this town, it’s simply not reiterated enough, “And Sam is not my brother.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re not fucking him.”

  I shrug. Not because what Luke is saying is the truth, but because I want it to be, and I’m a big believer in that if you want something so damn much, and you focus all your energy into making it so, then it just might come true. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to put anything out into the universe that might mean I don’t get what I want. Because I always get what I want. It’s like Murphy’s Law, or at the very least it’s engraved into a stone tablet like the rest of those commandment thingies. I’m ninety-nine-point-nine per cent sure of it.

  Luke nudges me with his elbow and not-so-cautiously slides a note over to my side of the desk, tapping his finger on it in order to get my attention—because apparently the neon flashing sign above his head reading Douche Canoe wasn’t diversionary tactic enough. I let a curtain of my long red hair fall over my desk, attempting to block the teacher’s view of our contraband.

  When I open it I find a crude little drawing of two stick figures doing it doggy-style. The female has long straight hair that falls down around her grotesquely out of proportion stick figure boobs and the guy behind her has his hands thrown up in the air, as if he just won gold in the fuck-Olympics. Above the happy couple is my name written in seventeen-year-old boy chicken scratch with an arrow pointing to the guy and the words: “Luke Roberts. Also not your brother.”

  I glance up to find Luke smiling at me. It’s one of those shit-eating grins that I’m sure turn a heck of a lot of girls knickers to a soggy, wet mess, but I just find it cocky and annoying.

  I pick up my pencil, which I’d abandoned earlier, and I respond with a doodle of my own before handing it back to him. I watch his face carefully as he opens the note and s
tudies the paper a second, before guffawing out loud. Mr Skilleter’s annoyed gaze immediately locks onto the two of us. I glance at Luke, horrified that the note is about to become faculty property. But as my gaze rolls over him, I discover he at least had the brains enough to pocket it already. Thank god, because the image of me taking it from behind by an actual dog and the words, “Also not my brother, and far more likely to get near my pussy than Luke Roberts’ cock ever will” emblazoned above it in big capital letters with arrows all around it, is something you just wouldn’t live down in the hands of the wrong people. And high school is full of the wrong people. I need that note back.

  My hands curl into fists and my head begins to swim with panic. Why did I just write that? Why in fuck’s name would I draw that for him? I need to get that note back. I need to breathe. I need a goddamn bullet.

  Just as Mr Skilleter’s booming voice descends over the classroom, the bell rings. The teacher struggles to be heard over the shrill clanging and the sounds of kids throwing their crap together to escape the classroom for the remainder of the day. He eventually gives up. I throw my pencil case and my notepad into my bag and head for the door. Luke is hot on my heels and breathing down my neck.

  “Mr Roberts, Miss Ryan—you two will stay,” Mr Skilleter bellows, and his tone brokers no argument.

  After several minutes, in which I let Luke do all the talking, we both receive a lecture, and Mr Skilleter threatens to separate us in future classes if we’re going to be a distraction for one another. Luke promises that won’t be a problem—personally, I would have taken the separation gladly, but apparently I don’t get a say in it.

  Soon after, we’re dismissed. The second we’re out in the hall I slip my hand into Luke’s pocket, but he skitters away from me. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, baby. I know you’re hot for me, but how ’bout you buy me a drink first?”

  “Give me the fucking paper, Luke,” I demand.

  “No.”

  “Don’t be an A-hole. Give it to me.”

  “Say please.”

  “Please,” I snap, and I have to admit, I don’t sound very sincere. Luke takes the piece of paper from his shirt pocket and waves it before me as if it’s some precious trinket I really want. And he’s right in that. I do really, really want. I make a grab for it, but he snatches it out of my reach. He’s so much taller than me, and he holds it high above his head so I have no hope in hell of reaching it.

  “I’ve never had a girl send me love notes. I think I’ll hold onto it a little while longer.”

  “You’re a cunt.”

  His brows shoot up in surprise, and then he laughs. “Shit. I think I just fell a little in love with you Pepper Ryan.”

  “Fall in love with this,” I say, flipping him off. I know I’m not going to win here and the best thing I can do right now to ward away a panic attack is to just walk away. His laughter follows me down the corridor and I rush out into the hot summer afternoon, breathing in huge gulps of arid air to quell the panic burning my lungs.

  JACK’S BOOMING laughter sucks me back into the present. He’s taking a beating from my mother and laughing as he wards off her blows. My eyes drift over to Sammy, who’s standing by the outdoor bar—yes, my parents enjoy the finer things in life, like throwing keggers in the summer as if they were still in their twenties—sipping on a beer while he talks quietly with Uncle Elijah. His gaze locks with mine, and I offer a sheepish smile. It’s half-arsed at best, but it’s about as apologetic as I’m ever going to get. Despite all this time, Sammy Belle probably knows me well enough to know that that’s all he’ll get. He knows me too well. He shakes his head, closing his eyes as he takes another long pull at his beer. The corner of his mouth creeping up on one side tells me exactly what he’s thinking: What the hell am I going to do with you?

  I can think of a couple things, actually, I think, and then I mentally slap myself silly. I’m so damn pathetic. How long have I lusted after this guy? How many times and in how many ways have I berated myself over leaving, or imagined a blissfully naked, sweaty reunion only to shove the thoughts aside? It does kind of make sense, though. I’ve left a very long string of half-arsed relationships in my wake. I never connected with any of them beyond the physical coming together of flesh—even Stieg, who I’ve been with for the last year and a half. The spark was there; it just never caught fire the way it did with Sammy. But thinking like that is stupid. Thinking like that means that there was more to me just stealing an ice-cream truck and heading for home. Thinking like that means infinitely more.

  “If I join the fire brigade would you stare at me like that from across the room, too?” Jake whispers in my ear. He’s leaning over me, his chest pressed against my upper back. His lips at my ear cause goose bumps to crawl over my flesh. I’m equal parts disgusted and turned on right now, but that last part has nothing to do with the fact that it’s Jake’s lips at my ear. Right now I’d consider fucking the damn table so long as Sam never took that burning, licentious gaze from me.

  My eyes roam Sam’s long, muscular body as he leans up against the bar. I smile and whisper back just as quietly, “Not even if you were the last man on earth and I was hornier than a seventeen-year-old virgin boy in a whore house.”

  Jake straightens and says, “You two are fucked up, you know that? You think this thing between you is going to end well? He’s your brother, Pepper.”

  I don’t bother to deny that. Jake knows as well as I do that there are no blood ties between Sammy and I. “Then I guess incest really is best.”

  “Fuck me.” He shakes his head and slumps down in the seat beside me.

  “No thanks. I’d really rather chew off my own limbs.”

  He groans.

  “It’s not personal, Jake. You just disgust me.”

  “Right; the idea of fucking me is abhorrent, but you’ll fuck a dude who changed your nappies and took care of you like a sister.”

  “I would double time Uncle Elijah and Jack … hell, I’d even screw Cooper before I let you anywhere near my pussy, Jake. A girl has to have standards, after all.” I rise out of my seat and make my way over to the bar.

  My mother picks up a plastic fork from the table and bangs it against the side of her stubbie. Yeah, she’s all class.

  “Listen up, bitches. Jackarse and I have an announcement to make.”

  I sigh, knowing that with my mother she could take all damn day, and all I really want is to just ply myself with enough alcohol to escape this fresh hell called home.

  “Now that my misfit, wayward child has returned, we decided it was finally time to tie the knot. Or, Jack decided—I still think it’s a stupid and barbaric practice, but considering my cherry was popped long ago, I have a giant tattooed baby running around breaking boys hearts, and Jackarse will likely die soon and leave all his millions to some whore he’s got shackled up in the next town over, well, I may as well get something out of having to live with the douche canoe.”

  “Says the woman who did it doggy-style with every member of the world-famous band Taint. What I wouldn’t have given to be in that room. I bet Mum was even hotter then,” Jake says, from beside my shoulder. His creepy breath washes over me and I shirk away.

  “Don’t call her Mum, and it was one member, arsehole. Besides, even if your puny dick had been old enough, there’s no way in hell she’d have taken a second look at you.”

  The room is filled with excited chatter and congratulations, and I watch on from the sidelines in a haze. My mum and Jack have been together as long as I can remember. This isn’t a surprise to anyone—actually, scratch that, it is a really fucking big surprise because I spent my whole life knowing they’d never get married, because neither one of them said anything to the contrary.

  An arm snakes around my shoulder, and I turn and glare up at the beast of a man beside me, half expecting it to be Jake. I’m met instead with a pair of blue eyes, set into a wrinkled, tanned face, thinning greying hair, and an almost entirely grey beard. Bob smiles down at me
. It’s so hard to reconcile this man with being Sam’s dad. For one, they look nothing alike, and two, this man has been like a grandfather to me my entire life—which sort of makes it awkward that he has found me not once but several times completely naked and in compromising positions with his son.

  “’Bout fuckin’ time that nephew of mine made an honest woman outta your mother.”

  “If she got any more honest the CIA wouldn’t need truth serum—they could just tap Holly’s blood. They could bottle that shit. Make a fortune,” I reply.

  “How you doin’, kiddo?”

  I give him a wry smile that more or less says “I’m in Sugartown, how the hell do you think I’m doing?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “It’s different than I remembered. Everything seems smaller somehow.”

  “That’s ’cause you’ve gotten too used to the Big Smoke. They spoiled ya, with fancy buildings and indoor plumbing and shit.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t wanna say anything, but I couldn’t help but notice how bad Uncle Elijah smelled.”

  He chuckles, deep and loud, one of those sounds that I remember hearing so much in my childhood. “It’s good to have you back, darlin’.” Bob says, squeezing my shoulder. “Place hasn’t been the same without you.” He leans in and whispers in his whiskey-rough voice, “The boy hasn’t been the same without ya.”

  Jesus. Why is everyone so keen to tell me that I broke Sammy’s heart? He looks fine, and that frosty reception he gave proved to me that he hasn’t missed me much. If at all. He was probably glad to get rid of the pain in his arse who’d been following him around since she was old enough to walk. “He seems just fine.”

  “Sammy will always seem just fine, darlin’. But not everything is as it looks on the surface. You should know that better than anybody.”