Tricked Steel: A Friends To Lovers Standalone Romance

by Fields, MJ

Still feeling uneasy about the situation, I quickly tap out a text, telling Roach:

  10:05 p.m - Sending my location just in case you don’t hear from me again, Clue style.

  10:05 p.m - It was Easton.

  10:05 p.m - At Crystal Lake.

  10:06 p.m - Death by either drowning or I was burned at the stake like all the brave women who dared stand up to the man before me.

  10:06 p.m - Remember, this is MY place. Don’t you dare tell those twats where I am, and don’t show up or I will cut you in your sleep. I’ll message you when he leaves.

  I hit send then toss my phone on the seat next to me.

  “This should be fun.”

  After pulling up next to him, I hop out.

  “Got any chairs in that bus?” he asks as he sets the four pieces of wood against each other in a teepee shape.

  “I do. I also have some tinder and kindling.”

  He nods. “Guess they are right about you, huh?”

  “Who? Heather and Chloe? No. I’m nothing like Kimmy—”

  “No, Ziggy and Roach. I asked them where to find you, and they mentioned The Bean or the woods.”

  “Fucking traitors,” I mumble as I slide open the side door of the van.

  “Fucking idiots, but not traitors,” he says as he pulls a joint out from behind his ear. “They said to offer the Indian a peace pipe, and she’d be less vicious. Still idiots, though.” He tosses it to me. “Shouldn’t let you come out here by yourself. No place for a girl all alone.”

  “I don’t require a knight in shining armor. And seriously, stow the me Tarzan, you Jane bullshit. You don’t even know how to start a fire.” I toss him some twigs wrapped in twine then a baggy full of dryer lint.

  He chuckles as he squats down and pushes the twigs under the wood. “They also said you’re a manhater.”

  “Well, men make it so damn easy to hate them.” I pull two bagged folding chairs out from under the seat.

  “I was raised by a single mom who busted her ass to give us a home. She did just that and never really got a chance to enjoy it, because she was working all the time.” He pulls a lighter out of his pocket, flicks it, and holds the flame to the lint. “When she died, she still never had time to enjoy it.”

  He stands and wipes his hands on his faded jeans. “My father was an addict, piece of shit, who didn’t show up until she was gone, trying to get something from a woman wronged and a kid who he never gave a fuck about, Savvy, so you don’t have to sell me on how strong women are. I know. As for teaching me how to build a fire, no, she didn’t have time.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry. I just—”

  “Stereotyped me. Yeah, you did.” He takes one of the chairs and pulls it out of the bag before setting it up. “I’m here on scholarship, and I’m going to Colombia on a scholarship. I don’t taking handouts, but someday, I hope to help some kid whose only parent that they ever knew can’t anymore.”

  I set my chair next to his, and we both sit down.

  “I guess I should be offering you the peace pipe, huh?” I ask, holding out the joint.

  “How about you tell me? You can ignore the shit those bitches said about you, because you know who you are and what they say, and what they think doesn’t mean dick. Tell me you’re gonna get through with this bullshit school, maybe do the same thing I am, and tell me you really aren’t gonna push Heather to steal your file, because that will come back on me.”

  “How will it come back on you?” I ask, lighting the joint.

  He sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and looks over at me, his blue eyes narrowed. “Not all rumors are lies.”

  I hand him the joint, and he takes a small hit then flicks the cherry off it.

  “Dude, what the fuck?”

  He slowly releases the smoke from his mouth, blowing it out, then asks, “You hearing me, Savvy? Not all rumors are lies, and not all buried truths need to be uncovered.”

  “So, the rumor about you having some book that holds all the secrets to every student who has ever attended here and could ruin their lives is true?”

  He shrugs. “If I did, I wouldn’t touch the fucking thing unless I had to.”

  “So, what does that have to do with me?”

  “You’re asking Heather to get your file. If the four of us get called on it, which we will, and Whitaker threatens to fuck up my scholarship, then I’m gonna have to open that file, and I don’t want to release that hell on anyone.”

  A chill shoots up my spine, telling me to back off, but I can’t.

  “I wanna know why this school is paying people to babysit my ass.”

  He nods. “And what happens if you don’t like what you find?”

  “It can’t be any worse than not knowing.”

  “Trust me when I tell you it can.”

  “How am I supposed to trust you? I don’t even know you.”

  He leans back, sticks the joint back in his mouth, and lights it. He takes a long pull then hands it back to me.

  As I inhale, he exhales and says, “Because no one but you knows that I have a fucking clue who my father was, and I’m trusting you to not say a word about it.”

  “Yeah, well, at least you know,” I say then release the held-in smoke.

  “You wanna figure it out? You do it without involving them. It’s none of their fucking business. I also hinted to the fact that I already talked with you, and that you decided they should be giving you a percentage of what they make if they want to keep their fucking jobs, on top of never disrespecting you again, and letting you come and go as you choose.”

  “I don’t want their money,” I say, handing him back the joint.

  He holds up his hand. “I’m good on that, but take the money, roll it up, and smoke it, or donate it to some kid in need, but fucking take it to prove that you have the upper hand.”

  I like that idea, but I also need answers.

  “I know you’re goddamn smart. You got in here after the deadline for application was closed. Hell, they didn’t even have room for you, but they still took you. If you want answers, you’ll find them. If you want help figuring shit out, talk to a friend who will give you nothing but the truth in what they see that you might be missing.”

  I laugh. “I have no friends.”

  “Not sure how that’s possible. You’re a fucking ray of sunshine.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You do that, but do me a solid and give me a heads-up before you lose your shit.” He smirks.

  I stick the joint in the dirt to snuff it out. It’s strong as hell, skunky tasting, too.

  “I’ll agree, but only if you can make a perfect s’more.”

  He shakes his head. “Never made one, so let’s not—”

  “Then I’m gonna teach you how.”

  Chapter 7

  "There's something so special about a woman who dominates in a man's world. It takes a certain grace, strength, intelligence, fearlessness, and the nerve to never take no for an answer.”

  ~ Rihanna

  Patrick

  Boston is definitely one of my favorite places in the world, and I’ve traveled to some insanely beautiful locations. My mother’s side of the family, the Patrick’s—thus my first name—is one hundred percent Irish; my grandparents first generation U.S. citizens. The Patrick side is much smaller than the Steel side.

  The Steel side, Momma Joe, our grandmother, is first generation here in the U.S., and one hundred percent Italian; my grandfather, who passed away before any of me and the Crew were born, is a bit of a mystery. He was adopted as a small child, then his adopted parents passed when he was about fourteen, and then he was basically raised in foster homes until he joined the military and met Momma Joe in Italy. From what we gather from those home DNA kits, he was at least half-Italian, some Scottish too.

  My Grandma Patrick didn’t work outside the home; my grandfather, who was a detective for the Boston Police Department, thought it important for her to raise t
heir children; and when they were grown, she helped everyone in the neighborhood. Her place was home and community, and Grandpa agreed.

  My three uncles, Kaen, Keller, and Grady, all work private security, all in their forties, and none of them have ever married or had children. Every time we visit, they make mention that I should go into law enforcement, “real men’s” work. They say it to rile Dad up, but he doesn’t bite. Apparently, when I was little, he did, and he did it often.

  This was the first time my head wasn’t really in the trip, and after Mom called me on having my nose glued to my phone way more than usual, I set the shit down. Pretty fucking pathetic that it had been two days and I was still waiting on a reply from Savvy.

  After that, I felt more like myself.

  Grandma tells me she has been watching “my show.” I don’t have a fucking clue what she’s talking about until Mom whispers, “She follows you on TikTok.”

  I about fucking die. I mean, the shit I do on there, just fucking around, isn’t always something you want to share with your grandma.

  “You should have her on your show, Tricks.” Dad chuckles.

  I’m sure most teenage boys have at one point or another wanted to swing on their father. Until this moment, I wasn’t ever one of them.

  “I’m not thinking this is Grandma’s platform.”

  “I saw you all with Josephine doing that Savage dance.” She smiled. “I may be a few years older, but I have moves.”

  “You sure Grandpa will be okay with that? I know he worries about what we share on social media.”

  She grins. “I’m counting on it getting him worked up.”

  There are times when you wish you had a MiB Neuralyzer handy to wipe away your memories. This is one of them.

  “I say go for it.” Mom laughs.

  Grandma’s grin widens. “How about three generations of Savages?”

  “Perfect.” Dad laughs. “I’ll record.”

  And record he does.

  When I post it, she says to make sure I mention PSGrams. “PS is for you Patrick Steel.”

  Being their only grandchild, I get all the grandparent love. Always feel it deeply, too, but after the shit the other night with Savvy, I’m feeling it ten times deeper.

  Hugging her, I say, “Gotta promise to do another one at Christmas with me.”

  “Make it easy. I’ve been practicing this one for months.”

  While on my phone, I check one last time to see if she replied. She didn’t. And as soon as I post me and Grandma’s little dance, tagging PSGrams, I turn off my notifications and my ringer.

  “Let’s practice one together now.”

  She insists I do the dances as she videos them so she can practice. I show her the running man, the tkn dance challenge, and a couple others, at her request.

  We plan to stay another night, but when the real estate agent messages Dad, telling him the house is available for early possession, that’s all the excuse he needs to get us back home. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy our time here; he and my grandfather are always talking baseball. One’s a Sox diehard; the other a Yankees, yet they still get along. If only the entire world would see it’s possible.

  As soon as we touch down at Monmouth, a private airport twenty-five miles from Mantoloking, I turn on my phone and about shit myself when I see a message from Savvy.

  10:05 p.m - Sending my location just in case you don’t hear from me again, Clue style.

  10:05 p.m - It was Easton.

  10:05 p.m - At Crystal Lake.

  10:06 p.m - Death by either drowning or I was burned at the stake like all the brave women who dared stand up to the man before me.

  10:06 p.m - Remember, this is MY place. Don’t you dare tell those twats where I am, and don’t show up or I will cut you in your sleep. I’ll message you when he leaves.

  What the fuck? I think as I reread it. Then I spend the better part of the ride back replying and deleting my reply, waiting for a heads-up that she’s cool or he—whoever the fuck he is—is gone.

  By the time we get back, I have googled the directions. When I get out of the car, I tell my parents I’m going to hang with a friend.

  “Don’t blame you for wanting to avoid the Brand situation.” Dad laughs.

  It has nothing to do with Brand, but I’m not about to unload all these fucking feels I have going on when I’m not even sure of what they are.

  “I’ll be back later.”

  Mom gives me a kiss. “Just check in. And if you have a drink—”

  “Don’t drive. Got it.” I kiss her back then hurry to my Jeep.

  Thankfully, it isn’t blocked in.

  * * *

  Probably one of the dumbest things I’ve done in my lifetime, and if I make it out of the fucking woods I’m creeping into, like a damn idiot, it probably won’t be the stupidest thing I ever do. But apparently, for Savannah, I’m willing to do some shit.

  When I get to the end of the drive, I see an old-school Volkswagen Bus and an old-school Ford Bronco, both are badass, parked in front of a lake, with a campfire going.

  My stomach knots as I imagine Savvy and this Eastwood punk, or whatever the fuck his name is, playing grab ass.

  I even consider just chilling here but decide that would make me look like an idiot or, more accurately, more of an idiot.

  I ease on the gas and slowly make my way to them.

  As I get closer, I see whatever-the-hell-his-name-is stand up. She doesn’t move.

  I park the Jeep beside the van, turn it off, and get out.

  He lifts his chin to me, and I lift mine back.

  “She okay?”

  “Passed out,” he answers, walking toward me. He’s tall, about my height, and buff like Justice. The wonderful thing about hanging just above one ninety, whereas JT and this guy are over two, is that I’m quicker. JT and I scrap; I know I can hold my own.

  “You a friend?” he asks, now stopping about two feet from me.

  “Depends on who are you, and why she is passed out.”

  He arches a brow. “How about you tell me who you are first?”

  I lift a shoulder, keeping it casual. “Name’s Patrick.”

  He nods once. “Tobias.”

  Well, the name exchange hasn’t made me want to punch him any less.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and read his name from her text, “Easton?”

  He nods.

  “She gonna be okay with you being here when the smoke wears off and she wakes up?” he asks, eyeballing me just the same as I am him.

  “Gonna go with yes, since she sent me a text sharing her location.” And telling me you were the villain in her little Clue game.

  “Good. Try to get keep her ass calm and get her back to Seashore campus before they find out she’s been breaking rules since Wednesday night when she left without permission and gets tossed.”

  I nod once, careful to keep my tone even when I ask, “She been with you?”

  His lips curve up in slight amusement. “She’s been here.”

  Fucker didn’t answer the question.

  He turns to walk away, looks over his shoulder at me, and says, “She needs a friend. Be that guy.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” I call back as he walks away.

  “Dudes,” comes from behind me, and I turn to see Savvy pulling her knees up to her chest, hugging them, and then she mumbles, “Shut the hell up,” right before Tobias starts his truck and begins to pull away.

  I walk over and sit on the black, folding lawn chair. With the small bonfire taking some, but not all, of the chill out of the air, I could easily sit here, and possibly freeze, watching her sleep.

  The hood of her drug rug is all synched around her face, and she is wrapped up in some sort of sleeping bag that looks like it’s been around longer than either of us. Her insanely long, jet-black lashes rest against her skin. She looks a hell of a lot more peaceful this way … unlike any other time I’ve been around her.

  It’s nice. />
  She’s beautiful, no doubt. I noticed that right away. Anyone with a dick and two working eyes would straight up want to get down with her, but that’s not the part that’s got my insides zinging. She’s full of sass, spunk, and spirit. She’s fucking life and in living color.

  When any of my friends have used the phrase, “She’s different than anyone else I’ve ever meant,” I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes as I looked at the pictures of the object of their desire, and they looked like every other girl on IG.

  Beautiful? Sure. But not like Savvy, whose beauty is effortless.

  And she looks warm, which I’m not, not at all.

  “Why are you guys here?” she mumbles, her eyes still closed.

  “Not guys, just—”

  Startled, she jumps, and her chair starts to tip backward.

  I reach out and grab the chair, so she doesn’t get busted up, yanking it a little bit too hard. She comes flying out of her seat, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the force of my pull or that she’s indeed going to attempt to kick my ass. Laughable, but still.

  What the fu—

  When she falls, lunges, or what the fuck ever is going on, she ends up tipping my ass over and falling on me.

  “What the hell is wrong with you!” she screams as she tries to get up while wrapped up like a damn sausage, flopping around like a fish out of water.

  “Savannah, chill,” I say, unable to stop myself from laughing as I somehow roll us over so we’re untangled from the foldable chair and stop myself from crushing her.

  “My name’s not Savannah!” She grips my hoodie, making it … well, not impossible—I certainly could try to move—but her eyes darting between my lips and my eyes, giving me a look I’ve seen a hundred times, suggests otherwise. But when she realizes she’s holding me in place, my body over hers, my hands on the ground beside her head, hovering above her, she pushes me. “Get off of me!”