by Leanne Davis
Wyatt
The Son Series, Book Two
Leanne Davis
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Next in Series
Excerpt
Other Books by Leanne Davis
About the Author
Prologue
WYATT
“WYATT! WYATT! WYATT!”
The crowd, the entire stadium it seems, chants my name. I hold the ball in my hands, along with the game, the annual championship, and what feels like the whole season. The stadium crowd roars and stomps their feet like a massive wave of energy and noise enveloping me. I glance up at the lights and scoreboard. All I have to do is make the next play. It’s simple. I practiced it. I can do this. The ball comes at me from the center, I catch and throw it after spotting my target downfield. It’s a long shot and the ball spirals and turns as it arcs, falling directly into the receiver’s hands. All the while, he’s running before crashing down into the end zone. Roars of applause and happy cheers fill my ears. Cheerleaders jump and spin and wave. The team rushes me. They lift me onto their shoulders. For that one shining, glorious moment, we are nothing less than gods.
I’ve never felt like that before.
It’s intoxicating. After our victory, I become a known factor. All because of a freak injury that the usual quarterback sustained. That’s what allowed me to fill in during this game. My one chance in which I establish myself as a legend so epic, I wonder with some apprehension if I can ever manage to live up to the myth. No. I doubt it. I can’t let this new, crazy, yet intoxicating popularity mess with my head.
I’m still Wyatt Kincaid. I was fortunate to play really well in a football game and also get noticed at the exact right moment.
My girlfriend, my parents, my grandparents, my girlfriend’s dad, as well as the citizens of my hometown came out in droves for this critical game and rooted for me from the stands. I didn’t miss all the signs and balloons, since they made a huge deal out of it.
After being released from the team and rushing into the growing crowd of admirers following the game, my family and friends hug, kiss, and congratulate me. Their pride is obvious, and they all seem ready to burst. When they eventually leave, that’s when the team’s real celebrating at an off-campus location begins.
It’s my night, and I’m a god. Golden. I know it’s not real. The girls who flirt and touch me so freely wouldn’t have given me a second glance yesterday. The guys who are suddenly my best friends weren’t so interested in anything I had to say last week. My girlfriend, Dani, isn’t even here. She’s back home, and I know the solid, shy, salt-of-the-earth Dani would roll her eyes at seeing so much predictable attention and shallowness.
With a smile, I greedily indulge myself in it.
Why? Because hell, this isn’t my usual routine. Being respected. Cheered. Revered.
It’s the best night of my whole damn life. And I’m only a sophomore. Imagine next year. I’ll be starting quarterback for sure since Corey will be graduating. I’ll be… it. The “it” man on campus. This is the best night ever.
Until it’s not.
I never tell anyone about it. I never tell single soul what happened to me that night. The only people who know what happened that night are the guys who did it and me. However, I vow to forget it. I bury it deep inside my psyche and never let my heart or soul retrieve a trace of it. I can do that. I can return to my former life and recount all my successes in both academics and athletics. I still have my family and Dani and all the Silver Springs citizens who cheer for me. Most people from the campus of the University of Northern Oregon also wish me well. Some even wish they were me. So what if a few try to spoil it? Or ruin it? Or ruin me? I won’t let them. Never. No. I’ll never give them that.
I try to ignore the truth, but I’m forever changed after that night.
Chapter 1
WYATT
“That doesn’t excuse this! Stop!”
Dani’s screams can’t penetrate the fog of rage that is clouding my vision and blocking my hearing. I swear, she seems very far away. Her touch… what is she doing now? Swatting at me? I don’t care. I can only concentrate on the epic asshole in front of me who is trying to reincarnate himself into me. He wants my dad and my mom to be his parents. As for me? Apparently, I’m no longer a factor in this equation.
Wesley. That fucker ruined my summer. All I could think about was going home where everything was the same. I wanted to forget the bad stuff that happened after the football game last winter. Instead, I had to spend my summer watching this blatant asshole sucking up to my parents and cozying up to my girlfriend. All the while, he kept trying to annoy me and get under my skin. Wesley showed up out of nowhere. He was a homeless runaway who robbed an old lady in town before hiding out in our barn. Dani Dawson, my girlfriend, discovered him and somehow, he conned everyone into inviting him to stay with us for the rest of the summer to work off the money he stole.
At this point, I’ve had enough. After he inched in on my dad and me while we were fixing Dad’s boat, a task I always helped him with, Wesley mumbled an asshole remark under his breath at me and now I’m done. I’m so done. All my life, I’ve been the nice guy. The first one that adults trust and expect to keep a level head. I’m a leader. From quarterback to straight-A student, I can always remain calm, cool, and collected. I was a super teen who became a young adult and still managed to defy all the stereotypes. Every last one of them. Maybe I did it on purpose. Or hell, maybe I’m just a smart, talented, accomplished guy who naturally accepted my place in society, knowing where I belonged and deserved to be.
I never hurt anyone. I never robbed old ladies like Wesley did. I never spat on someone or beat them up for no reason. The rush of emotions that flood my brain are overwhelming, and Wesley’s image seems to morph into five figures. The same five that hit me, beat on me—no! I step back and grab my head. No. This isn’t that. This is now. It’s just Wesley. This fucker deserves what I’m about to do to him.
Damn. I’m usually the biggest guy whenever I deal with adversaries. That includes my height, shoulder width and muscles. I lift weights. A history of training and coaching have sculpted my anatomy into a bulk most juniors in college can’t achieve. But damn, if my parents didn’t offer to shelter the only other bulked-up jerk after they heard about his former lifestyle and the rest of his shit.
“Noooo…” Dani is screaming now and tugging on my arm. She doesn’t faze me. I barely hear her.
I feel something too, but it doesn’t register in the honest-to-God red haze I see. I go after Wesley, our arms swinging at each other and raise my fist, preparing to smash it into his gut… until I hear a cry.
Not a masculine oof! of unexpected pain, but a feminine, soft cry.
Dani!
Oh, fuck! Fuck. Fuck! I just pushed down my girlfriend. I shove Wesley away and, with a knot in my throat, make myself look down at her. She’s still sprawled on her butt where she fell with her hands behind her.
I drop down beside her, Wesley and all of my rage instantly forgotten. I touch her gently. Lifting her upper arms with my hands, I am careful to keep my contact very soft and barely-there. I hug her to my chest. She’s small at five-foot-two and a hundred and ten pounds, narrow-shouldered and small-framed. I forcibly shoved her to the g
round. Well, maybe not shoved, but I moved my arm recklessly, causing her to lose her balance and fall. What if she thinks I did that on purpose? Or realizes it was just careless? Oh, God! What if I actually assaulted my girlfriend? I love her. I would never, ever dream of strong-arming her, let alone hurting her.
“Oh, God, Dani! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Are you hurt? Shit. Shit. Shit!”
I bring her closer to me and hold her. She stares up at me with round eyes and a serious face. Oh, God! What will she say? She could say a lot. I hang my head. She’ll never forgive me. She shouldn’t. I should be arrested. Here I was, blaming my dad for harboring Wesley after he robbed an old lady. At least he didn’t touch Dani or hurt her, and his bad behavior didn’t include pushing her to the ground.
She touches my arm. I want to beg for her forgiveness. And then I hear her words. Oh, God! “I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me. It just surprised me.”
I help her up as carefully as I would assist a cancer patient. She clenches her hand into a fist and pulls it from me when she’s back on her feet. Then she whips around and yells at me. At least she’s not afraid anymore. “You two morons! I wish I had gotten hurt! Maybe that would have put a dent in your psycho, stupid, alpha-male saber-rattling, and all the other bullshit.”
The asshole who started this says, “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean for you to fall.”
“Neither did I.” I fight the urge to bite him, my annoyance feels so tangible. To Dani, I soften my tone. “I should have backed off. I’m sorry.”
“What is the problem between you two? Explain it to me.”
I can’t. I have no words. All summer she asked me, What’s wrong? What's different with you? Did something happen at school? After Wesley entered the picture, she asked me why was I so upset with him? What did he ever do to me? What was it? What was wrong? Dani voiced her concerns in twenty different combinations. She deserved an honest answer and yet, I could not find a single word to describe what was eating at me.
That’s because I’m not sure what it is. Maybe what I told her was true: I was tired. Exhausted from a tough school year and football season. The constant pressure to excel as the perfect student and sports jock was relentless. And everyone assumed I would be better than most. I’m not sure where that expectation came from, me or my parents. I don’t really know. Maybe it’s a role I just assumed, maybe I like striving to become the perfect paradigm.
Maybe it came from a sense of guilt. Perhaps. Someone like Wesley would like to rub my nose in it.
Maybe it’s because I can’t get over what happened that night. No matter how much I’ve accomplished, some ugly, drunk, fat slobs denigrated me with one terrible word. Nothing changes that. Nothing. I’m reduced to their perception. And as I recall the things they did to me…
I stop my thoughts. No. No. Never. I vowed I’d never relive it, talk about it, or tell anyone it ever happened. No one. How could I tell my dad the truth? My mom already lives with some terrible shit so it would only hurt her to know the better life they tried to give to me was squandered in one night. And Dani? God, how could I tell Dani?
I can’t. It makes me sick to think about it. She’d care. She’d sympathize. She’d pity me. She’d only love me harder and better for it and yet, I can’t stand thinking about it. I don’t want any of that. I don’t want to remember it.
I turn and stomp out of the barn, muttering, “I just can’t deal with this shit!” allowing me to escape from Wesley and my jealousy, which I still can’t understand. I also escape from the goodness of Dani and the feelings of confusion I can’t clarify or explain to her. What feels so different with us? I love her so much. She’s everything good and kind and I love being with her.
Then again, I also harbor a bit of anger. Because she’s so good and kind, I sometimes want to scream at her. Doesn’t she know how shitty the world can be? She knows what I used to know. She realizes it happens in other places but not here and not to us.
But it did happen to me, and I still can’t make any sense of it. Those things stew in my gut like rotten meat, breeding toxic bacteria that’s making my whole outlook septic.
And now I’ve hurt her. Disgusted with myself beyond anything I’ve ever experienced, I get the fuck out of there before I ruin anything else. I did that a lot this summer. Escaping to different spots, sometimes along the river or up in the mountains around Silver Springs. I jogged for miles along the river. I hiked all the hills and trails in the area. The sudden exertion and bullets of sweat helped soothe the boiling anger that swirled inside me and sometimes felt like it would surely blister my skin. After such mindless, almost lethal efforts, the unbearable memories, thoughts, and feelings they evoked seemed to be purged from my mind. I could go home and feel more like myself again. And be the man Dani expects me to be.
She can never know, so I just try to be with her without losing my temper or my cool. Sometimes, I’m quiet and distant, something she notices at once as much as my anger towards Wesley. I can’t stop it, and I have to struggle to control my temper when I feel like snapping at her to leave me alone. I know it’s wrong, but the desire to do so never wanes.
JACEY
On my eighteenth birthday, my foster care case worker handed me a small chunk of money and a sweet card expressing kind sentiments, implying she’d never forget me and oh yeah, goodbye.
That was it. I was stunned to discover I was no longer a ward of the state of Washington. I was further shocked when I realized that only by the tick of a clock, I had become an adult. Officially, I was now on my own. They promptly discharged me from the group home where I lived for the last two years. That place wound up changing my life because it’s where I met Rachel Lesley, my therapist. Until my introduction to Rachel, I was doing lots of things I should not have been and acting out my resentment and long history of having no one give a shit about me.
The initial sessions she spent with me consisted of silence. I was just sitting there, sullen, my arms securely crossed over my chest, refusing to allow anyone inside my brain. Or maybe I was just a typical, rebellious teen. She merely sighed at my resistance, this overweight, black lady in her early fifties. How could she ever understand me? How could she ever help me?
Her choice of glasses were tinted and oversized, which I found instantly annoying. I felt like I was talking to someone without eyes. She looked so old and frumpy, obviously bored with her pathetic job. I had no doubt she must’ve had a few wins amidst tons of losses. I felt sorry for her when I imagined how depressing her job must be.
One day, she sighed as she removed her glasses. “Look, I probably shouldn’t say this, but you are one of the most intelligent and attractive teens I’ve ever met. With the drugs you insist on doing, it won’t be long before your teeth will rot, and you’ll start defecating on yourself no matter where you happen to be. But by then, you won’t even care anymore. Is that what you want from your life? You could probably get a job as a model somewhere. So, if you prefer to stick with your drugs and engage in dangerous sex acts, it’s your choice. I just have to say what a shame it is. A damn waste of a person as sharp as you. So if that’s your decision, why don’t you just tell me and quit wasting my time?”
No one ever called me out on my bullshit before. Or told me I was intelligent or pretty or sharp, except the men who wanted to have sex with me. I stared at her, perplexed. Mental health professionals didn’t talk like that. But she did. She just called me straight out on my shit. For real.
I was tongue-tied at first, but I replied, “Don’t you have to meet with me? The court ordered it.”
I got caught shoplifting while I was high. Being a minor, they sentenced me to two hundred hours of community service and a series of counseling sessions with this lady. To guide me into becoming straight, I guess.
“I’ll sign all of your slips. There you go, we’re done. I can’t sit here and waste my valuable time with your juvenile games and honestly, your time, too. So it’s entirely up to you.”
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I didn’t like getting the brush-off. She didn’t even try to convince me to listen to her. She wasn’t even doing her damn job. No matter how difficult I made her task, she should have at least tried. I stood up and confronted her.
“You can’t do that. God, I could leave here right now and go get high and… and maybe even hurt myself or someone else. But it would be your fault because you failed to do your job.”
“I could also say nothing, and it would still not be my fault. Whatever you choose to do is entirely your choice.”
“Then what is the point of me talking to you?”
“I can help you, but only if you want help. We both know you need it. But I can’t make you listen to me, and I refuse to keep hitting my head against a wall. So, sit down and talk if you want to try something different. But again. It’s entirely your choice.”
I stared at her in a long, and I mean long, staring contest of powerful opposition. But she never reacted, and I really don’t think she cared what my decision turned out to be. She wanted me to commit or leave, and I had no doubt she wasn’t bluffing. Whatever I decided to do was acceptable. Realizing my choice, I let my eyes rest on her, and the heat rose in my cheeks, but I sat down.
She nodded. “I’m glad you decided to stay. See? You are sharp.”
She became the catalyst in my new life of recovery. She helped me. I talked to her about everything. My childhood, my mom’s constant cycle of abuse and abstinence with drugs and alcohol that made her more like a visitor than a driving force in my life. We discussed the times I used drugs and alcohol. And the boys I slept with. I told her a lot about it. And she didn’t ever tell me what to do or think; she only helped me figure out what I really wanted to do or not do and advised me how to make that happen. Turns out, I was a doormat. I let people hurt me and take advantage of me. I slept with boys to boost my self-esteem, not from any attraction to them or desire for sex. I was a cliché: the sad, little girl with a junkie mom and no dad and predictably, turning to strangers to seek whatever I lacked at home. During most of my childhood, I never had a permanent home.
