by Wood, Vivian
Bad Beginnings
A Redemption Beach Prequel
Vivian Wood
Author’s Copyright
Copyright Vivian Wood 2018
May not be replicated or reproduced in any manner without express and written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
I. Bad Beginnings
1. Prologue 1
2. Prologue 2
3. Prologue 3
1. A Taste Of Bad Behavior!
2. Bad Behavior
About Vivian Wood
Part I
Bad Beginnings
1
Prologue 1
1997, Redemption Beach High School
I’m walking along the cement breezeway between classes, examining the scuff marks on my ancient black Converse and listening to my friend Asher as he rattles on.
“The thing about my parents, is that they have a lot of money, but they’re so stingy!” Asher says. “They wouldn’t even let me go on that debate trip, because they said it wasn’t a good use of money.”
He rolls his eyes. I just nod. I’ve heard this story before, but I don’t feel the need to stop him or tell him that. Besides, we’re only a few minutes away from Ms. Harper’s math class
Asher’s always complaining about his parents, which makes sense, I guess. I mean, it’s kind of hard to hear, since my parents ditched me and my two little brothers ages ago. Now we live with my Grandma Jane. She’s nice and she means well, but she’s also really old.
Three years ago, I attempted to have my first sleep over at Asher’s place. Asher and I were only eleven, practically babies.
Asher’s parents took one look at me and decided that I’m a bad influence. No amount of arguing or pleading on Asher’s part would change their minds. They canceled the sleep over, and try to discourage us from hanging out anytime they can.
It’s hard not to hate them for that.
I glance at Asher. With his ironed blue dress shirt and carefully pressed Chinos, he’s pretty much the opposite of me. I’m wearing baggy jeans and a holey Nirvana t-shirt.
We are different in looks too, Asher with his blond hair smoothed back, me with my dark hair spiked up. I’ve always looked like a rebel, Asher has always looked like a choir boy.
That’s how we became friends, actually. Asher was the new kid in school, and he was a prime target for the playground bullies. I looked dark and edgy. That was enough for most of the kids at school. They didn’t want to mess with me.
I stepped in and kept him from getting his head dunked in the toilet. We’ve been friends ever since.
Asher elbows me in the side. “Don’t you think?”
“Err… yeah. Totally,” I say, even though I have no idea what he was talking about. I zoned out there, hard.
“I’m telling you, Zoe Waters got totally stacked over the summer break,” Asher says.
I roll my eyes. The only thing Zoe Waters has done is to start wearing a bra. Other than that, she’s as flat-chested as the rest of our ninth grade class. Believe me, I’ve looked.
We come up to the next building, the clear glass door only partially offsetting the fact that the ugly brown brick building practically eats all the sunlight. I swing the door open, holding it for Asher. Asher walks through, stopping just inside the door.
“Oof,” I say, running into him. “Watch it, dude.”
But Asher just gestures down the long hall, lined on both sides with lockers and classroom doors. At the other end Mr. Smith and Mrs. Song, the principal and school counselor, are walking straight toward us.
I glance around, wondering who is in trouble. I get nervous, even though I don’t think there’s anything I’ve done recently enough to worry.
“Hey, we better get going,” I whisper to Asher. “Come on. Ms. Harper will count us as absent, for sure.”
We start down the hall, but Mr. Smith spots us. An thin older man in black slacks and a pink and grey striped shirt, he looks at me with an intense expression. Ms. Song is a tiny, pretty blonde. She clasps her hands as we grow closer.
That can’t be a good sign.
I glance at Asher, and see the same look on his face as is on my own. He’s trying to figure out which one of us is in trouble with the principal.
“Mr. Hart?” Ms. Song says, her voice squeaky and chipmunk-like. “Could you come with me? I want to talk to you.”
My stomach sinks. What did I do wrong this time? I wrack my brain, but come up empty.
Asher looks at me, conflicted. He’s probably mentally wiping his brow, because it could’ve been either one of us that was in trouble.
“I should go to class, I guess,” Asher says.
“Yeah. I’ll catch up.” I shift my back pack on my shoulder as Asher darts to the side of Mr. Smith and Ms. Song.
“Let’s go,” Ms. Song says. I think I hear a note of sadness in her voice, but I’m not sure. “Come to my office, please.”
She turns and leads the way, her heels clicking on the tiled floor with each step. I am trying to think what this could be about. I’ve been hauled into the principal’s office plenty of times, but never Ms. Song’s office.
When we reach her office, not much bigger than a closet, she directs me to sit down in one of the orange bucket seats in front of her desk.
Mr. Smith closes the door behind us, then actually pats me on the shoulder, which makes me jump. I look up at him, startled.
“We have some hard news, son,” he says, looking woeful. “Your grandmother has passed on. She’s no longer with us.”
My jaw drops open. I feel… odd. Mostly I’m thinking, of all the things that he could’ve said, I was just not expecting that.
“You mean… she’s dead?” I manage.
Mr. Smith shoots Ms. Song a look, then nods to me. “I’m afraid so, yes. One of your neighbors found her. It looks like a heart attack.”
I slouch a little. “What… what does that mean for us? Me and my little brothers, I mean. Why… I mean… where will I go after school?”
My voice cracks on the last word. All I can imagine is that I’m going to walk in the door of Grandma Jane’s house, and she won’t be there.
Fuck.
“Well, we’ve contacted the department of children and family services,” Ms. Song says, coming over to put her hand on my shoulder.
“What? Why?” I ask, dazed.
“They will find a good place for you to stay tonight. And then they’ll help you figure out what the next step will be,” Mr. Smith says.
I look at him, my eyes starting to fill. “Are they the foster care people?”
I know all about foster care. Back when my mom abandoned us, until my grandma turned up, the three of us were in foster care for a few weeks. All of us were in different homes.
“Yes, exactly,” Mr. Smith says.
“I’m not going with them,” I utter, growing angry. My tears spill over, slowly leaking down my face. “They won’t even put me and my brothers together.”
“We should just see what they say,” Ms. Song cuts in. “They know best, I’m sure.”
I can imagine my brothers now. I can see Forest being told about Grandma Jane, Gunnar being told that we’re going to different foster care homes.
Gunnar is so young, he
won’t even remember me and Forest after a few months.
I clench my fists, standing up so abruptly that my chair tips over.
“Oh, Jameson—” Ms. Song says.
“Hold on there, son.” Mr. Smith grabs me by the arm. “You’re going to have to wait here for a while. The people from DFACS should be here soon.”
Tears are streaming down my face now, snot is oozing from my nose. “No, you don’t understand! I can’t go into foster care! I need my brothers to stay with me!”
“Son—”
“Fuck you! Don’t call me that!” I scream. But despite his age, Mr. Smith is still stronger than me. He manages to wrap his arms around me, pulling me deeper into the office.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“No it’s not! You just told me my fucking grandma is dead!”
I’m hysterical, clawing at him, grabbing fistfuls of his pink and grey shirt, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he just tells me it’s okay, over and over again.
But I know that it’s not.
It’s not okay.
My grandma is dead. My little brothers probably don’t even know yet, but her death marks a turning point in our lives. I know that DFACS will probably try to force me and my brothers into separate foster homes.
Already, I’m scrambling to figure out the details of running away, to make it on my own. Not just me, but my two little brothers, too. Life has taken enough from us, I’ll be damned if I let anyone split us up.
So no, nothing is okay. And I don’t know if it ever will be again.
2
Prologue 2
One Year Ago — Asher’s Engagement Party
“And that’s why I make a toast, here at the engagement party. To the happy couple!” Gunnar yells to the assembled crowd standing at the bar. I stand with my arm around my fiancée Jenna, smiling. My expression isn’t fake, but it is strained. It’s always a little weird to be the one toasted. “May you two live a long and happy life.”
Everyone says “hear, hear!” or “cheers!” and lifts their glasses. I raise my glass of champagne, making eye contact with Jameson, who is skulking over in the corner. He looks tall and brooding in his dark jeans and leather jacket, which is kind of his thing.
Cece, Jameson’s grungy surfer flavor of the week, downs her whole glass of champagne in one swallow. I personally can’t stand the bottle blonde, do-I-have-to-wear-shoes-here thing, but to each his own I guess.
He inclines his head towards me, then takes a sip. Jameson has been a serious prick about my engagement to Jenna, so the fact that he was even invited here tonight is a gift from me to him.
I sip my champagne, turning away from him. It made me uneasy to have these feelings about Jameson, who has been my best friend since we were kids.
“Honey,” Jenna says, handing me her champagne glass. She picks a little invisible speck of lint off of my white button down, smiling. “Could you get me another glass?”
“Sure. I could use something stronger, anyway.”
“Just be sure not to get drunk.” She straightens her black mini dress and flips her blonde hair. “I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression of you.”
“Heaven forbid,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“I’m serious! There are a lot of people here tonight, not just your grubby friends.”
I’m mildly offended, but glancing over at Jameson and his girlfriend, I can’t really say anything. They are making out now, Cece fisting his leather jacket and pulling him down to her level. Soon enough, they’ll disappear from the party for a while, probably to fuck in a closet somewhere.
I glance at Jenna, who has turned away. I’m almost jealous of Jameson in that regard. Jenna is an ice princess on her best day. But she also happens to be from a family that is wealthier than my family, and my family has money.
The fact that I bagged Jenna, and did it without their help, probably eats my mother and father up at night. That alone is worth ten Ceces, in my opinion.
I turn and head for the bar. The bartender goes to get my drinks, and I’m impressed by how efficiently he moves. Of course he does, I think. Jameson picked this place. Other than surfing, bartending is the only passion Jameson probably has.
Well, that and grimy former strippers.
Still, as I look around at the liquor bottles lined up so neatly, at the bartenders doing their job very diligently, I find myself jealous. If I knew anything about liquor, I would set up a bar in a heartbeat.
I even have a trust fund, set up by my grandparents. I’ve never touched it, afraid to spend even a cent of that money.
I sigh, looking to my right. My little sister Emma is sitting on a barstool at the end of the bar, staring off into space. I look in the general direction that she’s staring, but I just see Jameson and Cece making out.
My eyes linger on Jameson, and I remember my moment of longing. I have a lightbulb moment, of sorts. A fission of energy passes through me, setting my mind on fire.
I could have a bar like this one. Hell, with Jameson’s knowledge and my business prowess, I feel like we could really make something great.
I hesitate, because Jameson has really been a pain in the ass lately about Jenna. He’s been grouchy and downright antagonistic about her, which has led to icy silences and pouting from her side.
But the idea of running a bar with Jameson is so great; him carefully crafting the perfect old fashioned, me handling the day to day worries and the money.
The idea is too appealing to pass up. At the very least, I have to tell him about it.
I move swiftly, my mind made up. I get waylaid by a couple of Jenna’s friends before I can talk to him, of course. But I track him down eventually, before he can make his exit with Cece.
“Hey. You got a minute?” I say.
He swirls the whiskey in his glass and looks at me with amusement. “This whole party is for you. Of course I have a minute.”
“You wanna go outside?” I ask.
Jameson nods and tells Cece he’ll be back. I lead the way to the door, pushing it open. I step out of the air conditioning, trading it for the early evening sea breeze. We’re only a few blocks away from the ocean right now, if the tang of salt in the air didn’t give it away.
I lean up against the rough wood wall of the bar, and Jameson does the same. We both look out at the street while I gather my thoughts.
To my surprise, Jameson speaks first.
“Is this about Jenna?” he asks.
I look at him. He isn’t showing any emotion, but he must be all wound up inside if he thinks I called him out here for a showdown.
“No.” I make my word quick and vehement, so he knows I’m serious. “I mean, lay off Jenna. But no, this is something different.”
His brow knits together as he tries to suss out what I mean. He doesn’t say anything though, so I continue.
“I think we should start a bar.”
His expression of puzzlement is priceless. “You… what?”
“A bar. You set the menu, I handle the money. We both have a say in the atmosphere. Hell, I think your brothers can help run it.”
“What are you fucking talking about?” He turns to me, leaning on the wall.
“I just had this moment, this sort of inspired moment. I was sipping a drink inside, and I thought… we can do this better. I thought, ‘Jameson and I could really crush it if we had a bar’.”
Jameson looks at me like I might have a head injury.
“You are saying… you were standing at the bar, having what I suppose was a less than stellar drink… and it made you think that we should run our own place??” He looks totally thrown.
“Yeah, man. I have the money. You have the skills…”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m at the first job that I’ve worked for more than a year.”
“You’ve been there for like four years.”
“Yeah, and I only remember two of them. The first two were consumed by whiskey and cocaine. Even now, I s
till can’t stop wanting to fuck every hot chick that walks in the door.”
I grin. “Yeah, yeah. Convince me that you’re not the perfect guy to open a restaurant with. And what about Cece?”
He frowns. “What about her?”
“I thought she was… nice. And that you guys had a connection, or whatever.” My lack of sincerity shows, and he rolls his eyes.
“What about you?” Jameson asks. “You’ve never made anything more complex than a rum and coke. You’ve never been in the service industry. You’ve never managed anyone…”
“That’s not true!” I chip in. “What about—”
“If you bring up the summer before eighth grade right now, I swear I’m leaving,” he threatens. He knows me too well.
“Just think about what our bar would be like,” I say, switching topics. “We’d find a place on the beach. You could serve shit in fancy glasses, which you’re always going on about—”
“Not everything needs to be served in a tumbler,” he mutters.
“You could put on good music, turn down the lights, and schmooze your way into the heart of any girl there with just one line.” I wiggle my brows for comedic effect. “All you’d have to say is that you’re the owner.”
That appears to give him pause. He rubs the back of his neck, but continues frowning. I’m used to that expression, though.
“I don’t know,” he finally says. “It seems like a really bad idea.”
“But…?”
“That’s it.”
“You know, I’m going to roll with it. I think you’re more intrigued than you let on.”
He just squints at me silently. I reach out and clap him on the shoulder.
“You just wait,” I promise. “It’s going to be great.”
