Scott (Owatonna Book 2)

by RJ Scott

  “I doubt that,” I snapped before I could stop myself and never saw his hand move until it connected with my face, the slap hard and full of hate. I saw tears in his eyes. I wanted to hug him. I wanted him to listen to me.

  I wanted my dad.

  He climbed into his car without another word and didn’t look back at his only living son. Everything had crashed spectacularly. I’d hurt my best friend, my steroid abuse had been exposed, I’d earned a year’s suspension, and fuck knows where I would go now. I was lost, alone, homeless, and I probably had all my worldly possessions in a suitcase and I still couldn’t cry. I didn’t have that emotion inside me. I was as frozen as the ice I skated on.

  Hockey wasn’t in my immediate future. Neither was a home. And standing there, bundled up against the cold, I was shocked, horrified, and exhausted.

  But mostly I was relieved.

  Two

  Hayne

  The sky required purple. A touch, right where the jagged edges of the skyline kissed the night. The brush gathered a dollop from the top of the palette table, moving as if it were a living thing, the synthetic hog hair bristles releasing just the right amount of plum to the ebony I’d applied just a moment ago. The strokes melded perfectly, giving me the shade of midnight summer sky that I’d envisioned when I’d woken up with this picture in my mind an hour ago. It was a small oil, a nightscape of an imaginary city, nothing as large or bold as I used to paint, but it was a start.

  I took a few steps back from the old porcelain-topped table Mimi had found for me at a garage sale ten years ago. The top was covered with fresh oil colors—blues, purples, golds, and of course black. I never used a handheld palette. It was either this table or my hands. The bigger works, the ones that covered walls, were always done by feel. The colors were too big for a simple brush. The wall oils had to be connected hand to canvas, for them to be right.

  I tipped my head to the left, trying to see where the first silver skyscraper would go. Long, brown curls fell over my eyes. Blowing them away, I moved around my attic studio, reveling in the fact that I’d woken at midnight with the urge to paint something not mired in sadness. It had been far too long.

  Barefooted, I stood at the easel, my sleep pants sliding down. I yanked them up with fingers coated with azure and ebony. The painting waited as my third eye searched for the inspiration to go further. Mimi had been the first person to tell me about the third eye, or the inner eye some called it. It was an esoteric concept to be sure, but my grandmother believed. She said that creatives all had a third eye, one that witnessed the human condition and retold it through words, music, or paint. Mimi had it. My mother did too. Mimi played violin. Mom wrote poetry. Supposedly, the Ritter blessing only passed to females. I could trace creative women as far back in my family tree as I could climb. Healers, authors, artists, poets, musicians. Then there was Hayne. Maybe the Fates thought, since I was this skinny, gay kid who hid behind the headful of wild curls and was lacking most masculine traits like size and aggression, I was feminine enough to bless with the eye. The Fates were bogged down in gender norms, it seemed.

  The sky wasn’t right. It was missing life. I closed my eyes, the floor cold beneath my bare feet, and let myself see the city in my mind. The music playing out of my paint-speckled old stereo helped me touch the scene as I’d dreamed it. Mozart’s Concerto No. 21 in C Major bounced off the tongue-and-groove walls of the third floor of the old rental house. I’d grown up with classical music. It was as much a part of me as oil and turpentine were. Mimi teased that she’d played the greats while Mom was pregnant to ensure the precious babe inside her daughter would have an appreciation for the arts. It must’ve worked. I lived and breathed music and painting.

  The first hard thud on the door scared me. My eyes flew open, and the shiny silver city of my dreams disappeared into the ether. Pop! Like the dream that had spawned it, the vision was gone.

  “Ritter! You fucking freak! It’s ten after one in the fucking morning. I have an abstract algebra test tomorrow. Turn that shit down, or I will come in there and cram whatever stupid painting you’re creating up your sparkly ass!”

  “Sorry,” I shouted, then ran across the bare wooden floor to turn off the stereo. My roommate Craig thundered back down the stairs to the second floor.

  I lived up here, in the attic, and rented the rooms out below to help cover tuition and food. Craig and Dexter were this year’s roomies. I tended to drive people away, for some reason. Mimi and Mom said those without the inner eye were uncouth tools who didn’t deserve artistic friends. Craig was a math guy and Dexter a football player. Both were straight and found no use for the arts at all. They hated my music, my paintings, and my homosexuality. Their phobia was worse when they were mad at me. I tried not to push people. Or talk to people because when I talked to them, I somehow made them mad. Then they called me names or pushed me into walls or shoved me into lockers. Being the artsy introvert wasn’t exactly fun. Even now in college, with only half a semester left before I graduated, I was still the wallflower. I hated it but knew of no way to overcome being a shy freak who smelled like citrus turpentine.

  Knowing the spurt of creativity was over, I cleaned my brushes and the top of my palette table, the soft sounds of sleet hitting the massive skylights drawing my attention. I hadn’t heard the storm when I’d woken up. After washing my hands in the small sink in the corner, I turned off the overhead lights with a flick of a switch and then slid into my bed. It sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by oils, easels, and my palette table. On clear nights I could see the stars and the moon. During the day, sunlight streamed through, giving me the perfect natural light to paint. Tonight, the thick panes of glass were coated with small balls of ice. I wriggled into the thick mattress and pulled the down comforter Mom had given me as a freshman up to my chin.

  The pitter-patter of the sleet was soothing, and I soon drifted off, waking when the alarm on my cell phone sounded. Blinking to consciousness, I saw that the skylights were covered with snow and sleet. I snuggled down into the bed, listening to my phone as it serenaded me with some beautiful violin and piano music from my studying playlist. The wintry mix made me think of Jay-Jay, and I smiled. He had loved winter weather like this. There had been a time when I couldn’t smile after losing my childhood friend. That time hadn’t been all that long ago. Jay-Jay had battled his leukemia hard, but it had finally taken him. That was just eight months ago, in the spring. I’d fallen into a pit of depression that had lasted the rest of that semester. When I’d gone home for the summer, Mimi and Mom had sat me down. We’d talked, we’d cried, I’d cried a lot more than they did, and they’d taken me to the doctor. She’d given me a physical and some antidepressants. She’d also strongly recommended counseling and/or grief counseling. The summer had been rough, but over time the meds had started to lighten the dark clouds inside my mind.

  Mimi had told me that creatives like us were prone to feeling things more deeply than the non-creatives. That our souls were sponges, much like our hearts. That was why we could pull words and prose and music and images from deep within. And why, at times, our works took a bit of us with them. I wondered who would take the new cityscape I’d started and what part of my heart would go with it. There was plenty of heart left inside me. I’d only ever loved three people: Mimi, Mom, and my Jay-Jay. Someday, I hoped, someone would enter my life and see past the hair and the oddness to find Hayne. Sighing dreamily, warm and moderately happy, I fantasized about that man for a moment. Then the hot water pipes rattled under the floor, signaling that Dexter and Craig were up and showering. The gauzy image of my dream man slipped away. Dexter bellowed about coffee, and I yanked the cover over my head.

  Willing my roommates away never worked. Soon they were thundering up and down the stairs, bitching about classes and women and whatever. I tried not to get too close to the guys who lived here with me. This house, four blocks from campus, was my refuge. My grandfather left me a small amount of money for school, but my
talent had won me grants and scholarships, so the tuition was covered. Books, food, clothes, and incidentals were not. I’d used his money to rent the house outright, the contract was mine, but that wasn’t financially sustainable and I had finally been forced to share my space. It went against my hermit nature, but I had to eat. And buy paint and canvas. God knows the pittance I made working in a little coffee shop in the basement of the English department building didn’t cover much.

  “Hey, Ritter, you got any soap stashed in there?” Dexter shouted through the crack in the door. “Hey. I need soap. Craig used it all. Ritter! Wake up!”

  “Right, okay.” I ran to my wardrobe, found a bar of green soap, and padded reluctantly to the door. Unlocking it carefully, I cracked it open and looked up at the mountain of defensive end staring down at me. “Here. It’s the last bar I have, so can you replace it. Please?”

  “Yep. Thanks.” He flashed me a killer grin, patted my head, and jogged down the narrow stairs, whistling some stupid song.

  “Note to self. Buy soap,” I said as I closed the door.

  Two days later, I was making my usual dash from the tiny art department building to the financial aid building. My head was down, my hair whipping my face, snow and wind blowing over the campus with the latest Canadian locomotive cold front. Winter in Minnesota was fun. Dying of exposure moving from class to class was a real possibility. I struggled with the door, the wind swirling around the old brick building so violently it ripped my scarf off and carried it to the heavens. Probably Thor’s goats now had them a cute pinkish-purple scarf to play with. We were in Minnesota. Viking heritage ruled.

  “Hey! Hold that door!” I glanced over my shoulder, and a huge guy came barreling at me through the blizzard. “Christ, what the hell is with this stupid snow?”

  He pushed around me, his dark hair coated with snowflakes, as were the shoulders of his athletic jacket. A gust hit me in the face. I stumbled back into him, my eyes and nose packed full of snow.

  “Step aside.” He nudged to the left and gave a mighty yank on the door. Even with his size and strength it was a chore to get it open wide enough for us to wiggle in. He shoved me inside as I was still sputtering and wiping at my face. He slipped through sideways, his shoulders far too wide to enter normally.

  I stumbled into the foyer of the financial aid office. He rushed in behind me, shaking his head like a wet dog. Melting snow flew in my face. I mumbled under my breath and turned away from the jock. That was my usual modus operandi with athletes. Putting as much space between his fist and my face as possible. There was something about a puny artist that just brought out the bully in his type.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t blow away with your scarf. Here.” I looked back at him slowly. He had my scarf in his hand. “I had to backtrack nearly to the science building to catch it.”

  “Oh, uhm, thanks.” I took it from him gently, my movements slow, in case he decided to snap it back or hold it over my head and make me jump for it. I wrapped the cold and soaking wet scarf Mimi had knitted for me around my neck.

  “You know where the grief counseling group meets?”

  I blinked up at him. He was beautiful in a classic way. Dark hair, incredible bone structure, hazel eyes that burned with a sadness only few could recognize. He smiled, but there was no joy in his grin.

  “Second floor,” I replied, wishing he was less attractive or less manly or less pained. “There are rooms up there. The LGBT Coalition I go to also meets up there every Thursday.”

  My eyes flared when I realized what I’d said. So now he knew I was a rainbow guy and would either slowly creep away or deck me for admiring his bone structure.

  “Yeah? Huh. I didn’t know they had one of those here.”

  I lowered my chin so my nose and mouth were covered with sodden scarf. He had a Grecian nose, long and straight. I had to say something.

  “It’s a group for gay people.”

  Ah, brilliant, Hayne. Well done! Clap, clap. Shall we just sprout rainbow wings and fart glitter to ensure the football player pounds you into mush?

  “I kind of figured.” He hefted a big bag up onto his shoulder and yanked at a case on wheels. “You here for grief counseling?” I nodded. He studied me for a minute. “Mandated?”

  “Voluntary,” I mumbled into my scarf. Was it possible that the yarn still smelled like sheep? Was that me? I hoped not. I’d bought and used soap. Daily.

  “Oh, hey sorry about the smell.” He hoisted the bag up higher. “My hockey gear is in here.”

  Hockey. Not football. The sport where they beat people up with wooden sticks. Super. Time for the queer arty guy to make a hasty exit.

  “I’m heading up.” I jerked a thumb at the elevator.

  “Mind if I ride up with you? This is my first time and we kind of know each other so…” He let it dangle. I wasn’t sure that a shared door battle really made us bosom buddies. Still, he did run after and return my scarf, and he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen in all my twenty-two years. And he did possess the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. All of that was too much for my spongy heart to take.

  “Sure. Okay.”

  I spun around and walked to the elevator, my arms cinched around my middle. He came up beside me.

  “My name is Scott, in case you were wondering.”

  “Hayne.”

  The doors slid open, and we stepped inside. Then we both turned to face forward. I hugged myself more tightly and kept my eyes on the floor panel. There were only three, so the ride went quickly.

  The bag on his shoulder really smelled bad. I wanted to pinch my nose, but he might’ve taken offense to that.

  The ping sounded, and a push of fresh, warm air rushed into the elevator. I scurried into the corridor, glanced up and down the hall, and then saw where the student counselor was this week. The office changed, depending on who was still at work in financial aid. Today, lots of staff had left early because of the winter weather dumping snow on the region.

  “Down here,” I said. He followed me, looking uneasy. We got to the open door, and the aroma of coffee met us like a long-lost neighbor. “You might want to leave that bag out here.”

  “No, can’t do that. All my gear is in it. My skates and pads. You know how expensive those are?”

  “No,” I said and shook my head. Several damp curls fell over my left eye. I blew at them, but they were too wet to fly, so I shoved them behind my ear.

  “Well, they’re really expensive, and I’m really broke, so they go where I go.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t going to press the point. I walked into the room and gave Monica, the student counselor or therapist, whichever term worked, a smile and a wave. She was a nice woman, older and pudgy, with brown hair and a caring smile. I’d been coming to this group since the semester had started and found it really helpful. Lots of kids on campus took advantage of the groups and on-campus therapist. Not just for grief, but for other things like stress, anxiety, and support dealing with addictions. That was a different group, but I knew a few kids from the small shop where I worked, who went and raved about how it was helping them with the fight to stay clean.

  I sat on a chair, buried my nose in my scarf, and pulled my legs into my chest. Scott gave the small group a look that screamed trepidation, but to his credit, he lowered his ass into the chair beside me, dropped his foul bag to the floor between us, and began working on his lower lip.

  “Hello, everyone, my name is Monica. Looks like we have a small group tonight. That’s fine, makes it cozier.” Monica gave us all a happy little smile. “Since we’re freshly back from the Christmas break, let’s talk a bit about how we dealt with the loss of our loved ones during the holidays. This is always a difficult time when we’re working through our grief. Would anyone like to go first?” She studied the skinny black girl on my left, then me. I hid inside my scarf. I never went first. Ever. “How about our new member? Why don’t you tell us who you are and how your holiday season was?”

  We
all turned to look at Scott.

  Three

  Scott

  Everyone turned to stare at me, and I’d never felt more exposed.

  I’d burned a hell of a lot of bridges to get to this point. The last two weeks had been the longest of my life. I hadn’t seen Ben yet. He’d visited home for Christmas, and he hadn’t contacted me over the holidays or come to find me since he’d come back. He’d texted me a couple of times since New Year, but I wasn’t ready to see that I’d destroyed our friendship, and apart from the first line that showed on my preview screen, I didn’t read the rest and deleted them immediately. Same as I did for several messages from the rest of the Eagles.

  What they wanted to say to me could stay unseen until they talked to me and I could face their accusations head on.

  I knew for certain Ben was back at college because I’d seen him heading into the rink, along with Jacob and Ryker. I got the message. I’d fucked up big-time, probably left him with a vicious scar, and lost another friend along the way. Nothing more than I deserved, really.

  I wondered if Ryker was angry with me as well. We’d become friends in the summer, and he had my number. What if I spoke to him? Maybe I could crash at his and Jacob’s place.

  In their tiny dorm room, with the pushed-together beds. Yeah, right.

  Jacob had texted me five times, wanting to talk apparently, then saying in his last terse message that he was there if I needed him. At least one of the team cared, I guess, and he did sign the first one I’d actually read from him and Ryker both. Coach was still in touch, but I was pulling away, from him, from hockey, from the team, from it all. In fact, I was shoving all my hopes and dreams into a box that I wasn’t planning on opening ever again.

  And now this group of strangers wanted me to tell them how I’d spent my Christmas?

  I’d used up my savings getting a cheap motel room. That summed up what I’d done for Christmas. That, and buying a charger for my phone because Dad hadn’t packed mine. I had the sum total of thirty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents left in my bank, and even though I’d picked up shifts at work, I wasn’t pulling in enough to cover rent anywhere. I needed to get to the rink in town and see if they had any kid coaching positions, or hell, I’d sweep up after parties and events. Anything for money.