by Cora Kenborn
Barry convinced my mom that the look would make me seem innocent and remorseful. I don’t need visual sympathy to make me look remorseful. The fact that I wake up every morning wanting to climb inside a marble box beside my best friend pretty much covers that.
Judge Oliver hesitates, holding my eye, and it’s not because he’s enamored with me. I’ve winced over the harsh words he and the prosecutors have slung at me during my trial. The moment the jury delivered their guilty verdict of felony vehicular manslaughter, I could’ve sworn I saw a gleam in his eye. Today, the man looks like he wants nothing more than to send me to the chair.
I wonder what that would feel like. Would it be quick? I doubt they’ll give me a lethal injection. They probably think I’ll enjoy the rush too much.
Irony’s a bitch, isn’t it?
Judge Oliver takes his seat as the clerk clears her throat. “This is the sentencing for the State of California against Shiloh West.”
The pale redhead who I’ve nicknamed Little Bitchy Annie stands again and tugs on her navy blazer. “Paula Travers for the State of California, your Honor.”
I can only pinpoint four freckles today. She tries her best to hide them and fails miserably. I have to hold myself back from suggesting she ditch the drug store brand foundation and splurge on the good shit.
“Barry Broderick for the defendant, your Honor.” I look up at the confident set of Barry’s jaw. He’s not attractive but not hideous—in his late thirties, maybe early forties. I can’t tell. Los Angeles is filled with so much Botox I have no idea who’s real and who’s embalmed. One thing I know for sure is that the man is good at his job, although I’d expect nothing less from a man with that many zeros in his paycheck. He managed to get me released to my mother’s neurotic watch after only two nights in jail, so I can’t go full on Shiloh on him.
Silence fills the court as I focus on Judge Oliver. The man holds my future in his hands. Of course, I want to make it out of this unscathed, preferably without an orange jumpsuit. What I’m not sure he understands is that there’s no middle ground for me. Either set me free or kill me, because if he sends me back to jail, I’ll die anyway.
“Defense counsel and the State have been notified that I’m considering a sentence outside the normal guideline range.” Judge Oliver’s stony expression passes from Prosecutor Travers to Barry and pauses for dramatic effect. “Counselor, is your client prepared to proceed with sentencing at this time?”
Barry jumps to his feet again like an obedient little puppy. “We are, your Honor.”
“Miss West, have you read the presentence report?”
I let out a little grunt as Barry kicks my ankle under the table.
Presentence report. Presentence report.
I hope that’s the thick binder Barry brought over last night filled with pages and pages about my life and character and the personal interviews I did. If not, I honestly have no idea what I’m agreeing to.
I stand this time because I’ve always been a quick learner. “Yes, your Honor.”
I did read it, and honestly, I don’t believe there’s a chance in hell I’m not getting the chair.
Heaving a sigh, Judge Oliver runs his forefinger down the length of his gavel. It’s an odd gesture in the middle of a sentencing in my opinion, but this being my first and only experience in this situation, what do I know?
“Miss West, do you wish to address the court prior to your sentencing?”
Barry and I worked on a speech all last night. It was close to two o’clock in the morning before he finally closed the door to the penthouse, confident that I’d rattle off the self-deprecating monologue he’d written. Maybe that’s why his body language seems so relaxed seconds before I open my mouth and blow everything all to hell.
“Yes, your Honor. I realize that my actions have caused a hell of a lot of pain. There’s no way I can justify causing my best friend’s death. If I could turn back time, I would.” Barry’s eyes flash with panic as I turn around and face Kirkland’s parents’ tear-stained faces. “I swear I would.”
Judge Oliver bangs the gavel he seems to love so much. “Miss West, do not address the victim’s family directly.”
“Right, sorry. I can’t change what’s happened; I can only change how I act from now on.” An unfamiliar burn stings my eyes, and I blink repeatedly, determined to finish despite the abuse Barry’s fake Testoni dress shoes are inflicting against my shin. “I’m not a good person, Judge Oliver. Ask anyone who’s ever known me. I’ve done a lot of bad things, but I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to the Maynards. However long that may be.”
The minute I sit down, I feel Barry’s stare burning into the side of my face. He’s livid, and with good reason. In one thirty-second speech, I dismantled all of his hard work—weeks of tap dancing lessons down the drain.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
He just shakes his head. “Enjoy state prison.”
My stomach knots, and I grow old waiting for Judge Oliver to move his crooked finger from his lips and say something—anything.
Finally, he leans back in his oversized chair. “Miss West, please rise again.”
Stand up. Sit down. Fight. Fight. Fight. Go team West.
I can hear my mother sniffle to my right as I stand and I want to slap her. Bianca West is a bigger drama queen than me, and that’s saying something. After Barry left last night, it took me two hours to peel her off the ceiling fan long enough to crush up a Xanax in her White Russian. Looking at her now will destroy any composure I have left.
“Miss West,” Judge Oliver begins. “You’ve been found guilty of felony vehicular manslaughter. The guidelines for such an offense carry up to a year in county jail or four to ten years in state prison, as well as up to a ten thousand dollar fine and mandatory alcohol and drug treatment.”
Apparently, I wobble, because Barry grabs my wrist to steady me. My mother sobs louder.
“However,” he continues, reaching for his wire-rimmed glasses. “In the state of California, I have the power to issue felony probation. In reading the presentence report, I see you’ve had no prior incidences, you’ve sought professional and rehabilitative help, and your character profiles are very complimentary—contrary to your little speech there.”
Of course they were. My father owns seven marketing companies in the United States and three overseas. Need a character reference? Don’t worry, Daddy will sign the check with a flourish and never think about it again. Just like me.
Money talks. Bullshit walks.
Not once in thirty days did Alistair West fly in from his “extended” European business trip to visit me in the hospital. Not once did he FaceTime me to ask how my scars were healing. Not once did he attend a day of my trial. Flowers and jewelry were all I got. They’re all I’ve ever gotten my whole life. Sent by his secretary, of course. She knows all my favorites.
“Felony probation is an alternative to prison, Miss West. It would allow you to serve your sentence in the community under supervision. I don’t see prison as an effective rehabilitation option for someone like you. On the contrary, I foresee two tragic endings to this case rather than one.”
Barry moves closer and takes my hand. Normally, physical touch repulses me, but I gladly latch onto his fingers as vomit rises in my throat.
“Therefore, I’m sentencing you to three years felony probation. You must pay the victim’s family restitution, and you’ll perform a three-year sentence of forty hours of weekly community service at a location of my choosing. You’ll forfeit your license for five years, attend drug rehabilitation classes, and meet with your probation officer for mandatory drug screening.”
No jail. Holy shit, no jail.
My mind is reeling, and my mouth takes over my brain. “Are you shitting me?”
“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you,” Barry bites out between clenched teeth.
“Your Honor,” Little Bitchy Annie blurts out, her face beet red and ready to explode. “I h
ave to object to these terms. The defendant was found guilty of felony vehicular manslaughter. A woman is dead. With all due respect, this is a travesty.”
“Objection overruled. And with all due respect, Mrs. Travers, this a sentencing hearing and not a trial. I make the final decision and you abide by it. Are we understood?”
Little Bitchy Annie slinks back into her chair, her throat bobbing from swallowing what I assume to be her pride. “Yes, your Honor.”
“Miss West will be released to the supervision of her mother, Bianca West, while the paperwork processes, but once all legal documents have been signed and notarized, you will begin community service at the Elizabeth Kincaid Community Center.”
Can one’s heart stop and still be able to speak? Because I think mine did.
“I’m sorry, I thought I heard you say the Elizabeth Kincaid Center.”
“That’s exactly what I said, Miss West.”
“But that’s in South Carolina, your Honor.”
“Miss West, you’ve proven that living in Los Angeles provides illicit temptation for you. I’m taking it upon myself to eliminate that temptation.” I focus on his black robe so I don’t pass out. “You are to be transferred back to your childhood home in North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina where you’ll begin your service at the Kincaid Center. Should you violate any part of the probation I’ve set forth, all terms will be revoked, and you’ll be given the maximum sentence of ten years in state prison. Have I made myself clear?”
Gut punch. Kick to the ribs. Either would knock less breath out of me. I find myself thinking of prison. Would it be so bad? Would the chair? Would anything other than walking into that center?
“Miss West?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
Did I speak? I think I spoke. I have no idea.
“Good. The defendant is released and will report to her probation officer in five days. Court adjourned.” I can’t help but watch his hand as he reaches for the gavel and raises it higher than normal. He wants a big show—a loud bang to seal my fate—and he gets it.
My mother sobs louder, praising a God she’s never spoken to in her life, and Barry has a goofy smile plastered across his face I don’t understand. Why are they happy? I didn’t win my case. I may have escaped jail, but I’ve just been sentenced to something far worse.
Imagine answering for every wrong you’ve committed in your life. Facing every person you’ve turned your back on since you were a child. Returning as a freak to a place you graced as a queen.
As I’m led out of the courtroom, I brush my hand across my left cheek—the rough, jagged feel on my fingers wilting away any hope left of survival.
Judge Oliver sentenced me to my own judgment day.
Two
Cary
Present Day
“What kind of half-assed swing was that, junior?” Easily deflecting the right hook, I grin because it’ll piss Frankie off even more. He hates that nickname, and knowing he hates it only eggs me on. I bounce around the ring, the tape on my wrists pulling at my skin. “We gonna fight or hug it out?”
Running a forearm across his brow, Frankie licks a drop of blood from a gash on his lip. “Fuck you, Carrick.”
I laugh. Probably not the smartest move, considering Frankie has about three inches on me, but I admire the way he meets my dig with his own. Unfortunately for him, my given name means nothing to me.
Carrick Kincaid no longer exists. He died the minute she stole my future. I’m Cary, plain and simple.
“I wouldn’t mind a face full of those.” Off to the side, Romeo groans like a man saddled up at a stripper buffet. A hum of whistles and curses rustles in the background, but I tune them out. Frankie has that look on his face again, and I know laughing at him pushed him over the edge. I’ve taught him well.
“You’re finished, old man. You’re leavin’ here in a body bag.” Frankie bounces around, flaring his nostrils like I haven’t seen that move a hundred times.
Stopping mid-block, I raise an eyebrow and throw my arms out in a dumbass, vulnerable move. “You gotta stop watching The Karate Kid. You gonna sweep my leg too, Johnny?”
Frankie answers with an animalistic growl from the back of his throat, and I brace myself for the hit. He doesn’t disappoint. A solid, over-hand right punch lands square on my chin, swinging my head backward. Before I have a chance to recover, he’s on me, slamming into my left shoulder until he has me pinned.
“I watch Fight Club, old man. That Karate Kid dude is a pussy.” The words are barely out before he drives two hard punches into my gut.
I have to get up. Frankie and I are cool, but I also don’t feel like spending the rest of the afternoon getting my face stitched up. Plus, the incessant hollering from the sidelines is getting on my nerves.
Frankie’s fist pulls back for another gut punch when I find my opening and draw my knee in. With a hard heel to his ribcage, I knock him off balance and onto his ass. I daze the kid, but only momentarily. He’s not the one who’s just spent the last thirty seconds having his spleen shoved halfway up his esophagus.
That shit kind of hurt if I’m being honest.
Frankie shakes his shaved head like a charging bull, flinging sweat across the ring. The moment he runs toward me, I counter with a round-house kick to his jaw and…bam.
Lights out, junior.
Not really. Frankie’s just stunned. In seven years of training, I know what hurts, what maims, and what ends lives. No one fucks with me.
“That Karate Kid dude caught a fly with a chopstick, you cheesedick.” I lean down and offer him my hand. “That’s some real gangster shit.” After accepting my hand, we lock gazes and something passes between us.
It’s called respect. I have it—from Frankie, hell, from all of them.
Applause fills the gym as the boys give Frankie grief for losing to me and toss magazines at him as a consolation prize. Eventually the scowl fades from his face.
“Yeah, sometimes you just gotta let the old fuckers have their moment.” Flashing me a bloody smirk, Frankie holds the ropes open and motions for me to climb out. “Age before beauty, boss.”
Frankie’s a good kid, and maybe I give him special treatment because I see potential in him. It’s one of the reasons I’ve taught him to fight mixed martial arts. I push him on purpose because the kid’s temper goes from zero to blackout in the blink of an eye. The aggression inside him needs an outlet.
I should know.
I just hate I can’t give the boys a real MMA cage like they’ve seen on TV. That shit’s expensive, so a ring with ropes is the best I can do. But one day I’ll have the real thing.
One day.
Tired of the boys treating my community center like a shithole, I grab the magazines and toss them back, hitting Romeo and Tiny in the chest. “Clean this shit up.”
“Boss, have you laid eyes on that?” Tiny, whose nickname is a joke at almost six feet four inches tall and three hundred pounds, picks up one of the magazines and opens it to the middle spread. “Dude, it’s Shiloh West.” He grabs his dick and gives it a tug. “Can’t wait to get a look at her. I’d hit that so hard.”
The magazine is ripped from his hands as Romeo, one-fourth his size and named for his tendency to have a new girl every week, smacks him across the face with it. “What are you gonna do when that fifteen seconds is over?”
I’m quiet as they trade fantasies about what they’d do to the famous model as her half-naked body draws my eyes to the magazine in Romeo’s hands.
I listen, and I can feel my blood boil. Not because of what they’re saying. I don’t give a shit what they say about Shiloh West. My stomach churns because even though I hate her, I can’t disagree with them.
I want Shiloh down on her knees, offering herself to me over and over. I want her screaming my name so loud I go deaf—so loud that she’s hoarse for days from that one word.
She’ll beg me to fuck her.
Then I’ll tell her to go fuck herself.
&
nbsp; Because Shiloh West, international model and every man’s wet dream, ruined my goddamn life.
* * *
Eight Years Ago
December
“Carrick! Oh my gosh, it’s here!”
Ringing out the mop, I glance down at my mother from the second-floor walkway. She’s waving a white envelope in her hand and with every step she rushes up, my hold on the plastic handle tightens.
“Not now,” I mutter, slathering the wet mop inside room 246. “It’s almost check-in time and I still have to finish the floors and sanitize the room.”
Her smile fades as she brushes a piece of dark hair away from her face. “But, son, it’s the letter. Surely you can take a couple minutes to open it.” She shoves it against my chest, and it feels like liquid fire, incinerating my future from the outside in.
“Mom, I can’t. What if they rejected me?”
“Carrick Kincaid,” she says in that stern mother tone that makes me stand up straighter. “You’re just as qualified as any of those applicants. This is your destiny. I know it.” Her eyes mist as her lip quivers. “Your sister knows it too. Now, are you gonna disappoint us?”
This is it. I’ve studied my ass off. I’ve sacrificed any form of a social life. I’ve asked for the extra credit., I’ve aced all the tests, and I’ve gotten one of the highest SAT scores in Horry County.
But this one envelope holds the decision that will determine whether I fulfill a dream or run the Castaway Sands Motel for the rest of my life, catering to a bunch of over-privileged spring-breakers.
Propping the mop handle against the doorframe, I take the envelope from my mother’s hand, carefully sliding my finger underneath the glue along the back.
“Carrick, I don’t have many years left, son, please!”
Flashing her a grin, I rip the rest of it open. As I unfold the crested letterhead, I have to scan it three times before the lump in my throat dislodges enough for me to speak.
“I got it.”
“You got it?”
