Sell Out
Fight for Truth, Book One
Tammy L. Gray
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Sell Out—©2015 by Tammy L. Gray
Kindle Edition
Cover Design by Sarah Hensen, Okay Creations
Cover Image by Dejan Ristovski, Stocksy.com
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the authors.
Dedication
For Abby
When friends become our chosen family
CODY
(January, Sophomore Year)
My breath, hot and rapid, drowned out the noises in the boys’ locker room: the drip of the showers, the buzz of the air conditioner, the ticking of the clock that hung above my hiding place.
I wedged myself further between the lockers, pulled my heels as close as the bend in my knees would allow. The space was only a couple of feet wide, and my oversized stomach struggled to fit.
A creak ripped through the silence and my sanity. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my slamming heart to quiet. Just once, Lord. Make it stop.
“Fatty James! We know you came in here.”
I knew that voice. My nemesis. My tormentor. My reason for contemplating an end to this miserable life.
More whispers. More voices.
Sneakers screeched against the concrete floor. Closer and closer.
Fear coursed through my veins like icy crystals slicing each artery. The darkness held no protection. They were mere seconds from finding me.
A face appeared, staring at mine in the shadows. Tom Baker, senior class president, all star wrestler, prom king, and bully to fat losers… like me.
“Now, now, what do we have here? A whale stuck in a hole.” His condescending “tsk-tsk” held a vicious promise. “Boys, we need to help Fatty James.”
The world spun in a panicked haze.
Multiple hands grabbed and pulled while I thrashed and kicked. But I was no match for the six boys who pushed me on my back, their knees pinning down my arms and legs. My elbows slammed against the rough, dirty floor, and fire tore up my forearms. I continued to fight, calling on non-existent muscles to work miracles.
A thunderous boom exploded in my ear, knuckles hard against my cheek. Then came pain. A pain that stretched beyond the throb of my jaw and into the pit of my stomach.
They didn’t need the blindfold they put over my eyes. Tom’s face was already a blur, much like the others in the room I had yet to identify. My mind retreated to a cave inside my soul, that place where they couldn’t hurt me.
Cold air wrenched me back. Back to their laughter, back to their jeers, back to the echoes of hate. My shirt was gone, tugged high above my head to expose the folds of body mass that defined my life.
“Wow, Fatty, you’re a whole lot of man, aren’t you? Let’s see what else you’re hiding under there.”
Insistent hands grabbed at my sweat pants.
I twisted, bucked, jerked, and flopped around until a foot slammed into my rib cage. Stabbing pain ricocheted through my chest and spread through my now paralyzed legs.
The pants came off with one agonizing yank.
Blood rushed to my ears, drowning out the screaming in my head.
“Jiggle him around a little,” one yelled. “We’ll call him White Jell-O Whale to match those tighty-whities.”
“Dude, check out his hooters!”
“No worries. I got his training bra right here.”
I didn’t see the line the Sharpie made, didn’t see the flashes of the camera when they took the pictures, didn’t see them dunking my pants into the toilet, didn’t see the scars that promised never to heal.
Tom kneeled and placed his mouth to my ear. “When I say no one talks to that two-timing slut, I mean it. Next time, Fatty, I won’t be so generous.”
His words lingered long after their laughter had faded beyond the gym doors. They ignited a rage that burned worse than the sharp cut on my lip. My hands clenched, the fury growing and morphing into desperation that rivaled the depths of hell.
If I had to sell my soul to the devil in a letterman jacket, then so be it.
There wouldn’t be a next time.
CODY
(September, Senior Year)
Muscles pulled and strained as I held him down, my weight pinning him to the floor of the wrestling ring. I shifted my leg, pushed hard against the rock solid back of my trainer.
I won’t give in, not this time.
I’d been working out with my personal trainer, Matt Holloway, for over a year and had never taken control so fast. Sweat dripped off my forehead and onto his shirt with each push. The stench of hard work and stale rubber pounded my nose, but it fueled me to fight harder. Those two smells were ones I’d come to relish. They meant victory.
Matt slapped the ground. The noise as welcomed as iced tea on a hot North Carolina day. I’d actually pinned him. A first using the three-fourths ankle lace technique, and a compliment considering Matt’s strength and skill.
I released my hold and stood, pain shooting through my quads and hamstrings. My arms were numb, the muscles spent from holding down a two hundred and twenty pound fighter. I rolled and flexed my forearms, trying to release the tension.
“You got it! Finally!” Matt jumped up, let out a whoop and clapped. Sweat blanketed him from head to toe, dripped down the layers of ripped muscles and black-inked tattoos. He was walking intimidation. The kind of guy you didn’t want to tick off or meet in a dark alley.
He tossed me a towel and a water bottle, still shaking his head. “Cody James, defending state champion and captain of the mighty Trojan wrestling team.” He paused, guzzling water between sentences. “Man, I’m proud of you!”
The guy rarely showed any emotion, so his excitement had me grinning through the fatigue. “Thanks.”
“How are the other boys taking to you being the head honcho? Any issues?”
I distracted myself by watching a pair of guys jumping rope in the corner and the others slamming gloved fists into speed bags.
“No. It’s all good.” I had no intention of telling him I was captain in name only. Blake Mason had been groomed since his freshman year to be the leader, while I was just a walk-on last year. A walk-on who’d won state as a junior and shocked the entire school.
“Did you know there hasn’t been a repeat champion in almost ten years? I’ve never seen anything like you, Cody. You’re gonna make history when you win again.” He slapped my back, and we headed to the treadmills for our cool downs.
I followed him, passing the small glass case that displayed three amateur trophies. There’d be more in there soon. Two of Matt’s guys had gone pro, and I heard he turned down new clients every day. Why he chose me, I’d never know. I’d come to him a month after Tom attacked me, and I begged to learn to fight. Promised him I’d give everything I had. He agreed, then helped me lose the weight and pack on muscle.
In truth, he had done so much more than just transform my body.
He saved my life.
My spine shivered, and a familiar ache flashed inside my chest. The memory of “Fatty James” was always near the surface, ready to torment me.
Never again.
Matt set our treadmills to a fast, steady jog. He talked about the different moves he wanted to show me as we approached the season, animating widely with his hands. A grin cut through his usual kill-them-all expression. “Thi
s is your year, Cody. I can feel it.”
I wished I could package his confidence. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” His eyes shot to mine. “Maybe isn’t going to win you one match. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I suddenly needed to run faster. I hadn’t expected the pressure that came with captain. I only wanted to make the team. Prove to everyone “Fatty James” was gone forever. “It’s just a lot, ya know? The pressure to win, not just for me this time, but for the whole team.”
“It is a lot. But that is what’s expected from a leader.”
“I know.” I ducked my head and focused on the digital numbers ticking down on the treadmill. Fifteen minutes to go. My life had become a series of countdowns. Seven weeks until the Super 32 tournament, nine weeks until our first division match, five months until the state championship, and nine months until high school was over and freedom was finally mine.
“So, what’s the plan of action? Coach have y’all in the gym yet?”
“We’ve gone through some drills. Most of the boys showed up ten pounds higher than their weight class. Blake and I seem to be the only ones who trained over the summer.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Kids can be so dumb.”
“Coach Taylor screamed and ranted the same thing just yesterday.” My heavy breathing didn’t hide the humor in my voice.
“Don’t you laugh that off, Captain. It’s just as much your responsibility as it is the coaches’ to get your team ready. You need to step up. Use the influence you have now to make a difference.”
Matt’s displeased growl brought a new round of guilt.
I didn’t want to be a leader, didn’t want to worry about whether or not the other guys took things seriously. I needed to win State, impress college scouts and stay out of trouble.
High school was prison. Do your time and get out. I wasn’t there to offer inspiration. I could hardly find my own.
*
I pulled into the senior parking lot still winded and sticky, despite having showered. After Matt’s leadership lecture, he ran me until my breakfast came dangerously close to making a second appearance.
I brushed a towel over my face and neck, hoping it would dry my anger as well. Matt expected too much. I made the team; I won state. I wasn’t Fatty James anymore. For me, that was enough.
Car doors slammed around me, and students flooded toward the building. Students I didn’t know waved and yelled, “Hey, Cody.” Not because they cared. I’d barely said two words to most of these guys. But because it was cool to be my friend now. Cool to talk to me in the halls. I’d penetrated the inner circle. Crossed the impossible barrier from outcast to superstar. And they all wanted my secret. It wasn’t a complicated one—win matches and do whatever the king of Madison High tells you to do.
I was halfway down the hall when I heard my name again.
“Hey, Cody.” The purr was from Jill Spencer as she leaned against my locker.
She was every teenage boy’s fantasy—long legs, big chest, and brown, shiny hair she liked to flip around as if starring in a Pantene commercial. Every morning the skirts seemed shorter, the blouses lower. And I’d look, which is why she kept coming back day after day.
But no amount of cleavage was going to erase the memory of her calling out “Jell-O Whale” when she passed me in the halls my sophomore year. She was one of many seniors with selective amnesia when it came to the boy I used to be.
I stopped a foot from my locker and waited. We’d done this song and dance since school started. Her hinting for more, me politely declining.
She sidestepped, giving me access to my locker, but barely. She smelled like peaches and honey, and part of me wished I had selective amnesia, too.
“How was your workout?” Her hand slithered down my exposed bicep. “I’ve been known to give amazing massages if you need loosening up.”
The image popped in my mind, making me feel like a traitor to my own convictions. I edged away from her. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“You know my dad has this charity event his company hosts every fall. The dinner is dull, but the after party is wild.”
Her tone dripped with sugar and promises. It reminded me why I stayed far away from this fire-breathing dragon covered in perfume and soft skin. She batted her eyelashes and pushed her chest against me, the silk material of her blouse barely hiding the black lace underneath.
“I’ll need someone to escort me…”
Her voice trailed off leaving an open door I had no intention of walking through. Black lace or not.
“I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a date.” I slammed my locker shut and stepped back. Two years ago she wouldn’t have shared a table with me, let alone her body. But Fatty James was dead, and I now held keys to the kingdom.
And that was what girls like Jill and what Madison High thrived on—power, status, and reputation.
The bell rang right as I slid into my chair for first period, earning me a scowl from Ms. Yarnell and a snicker from my other group members, Blake and Chugger.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?” Blake sat with his legs spread, arm perched on the empty chair back next to him. His relaxed posture matched the lazy smile on his face. He was famous for that smile. It was a look that did everything but melt off women’s clothing. I could practically hear the swooning.
Every year, the departing “king” picked a new senior to run the school. It was a tradition dating back sixty years when the school was an all boys’ academy.
This year’s royalty—Blake Mason.
“Mr. James, can you remind me what time school starts?” Ms. Yarnell sipped her coffee and waited for my reply. She was an easy-going, hippie type but a stickler on certain rules. Don’t be late to class, and Lord help you if she ever caught a cell phone in your hand.
“Eight thirty, ma’am.”
“Good. Remember that tomorrow.”
The rest of the class watched our group of three, but I was used to that. Being on the wrestling team meant instant popularity. Being friends with Blake meant superstar status. Chugger and I had both.
“Someone’s on the naughty list.” Chugger kicked back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.
I pulled my history book from my backpack and set it on the table. “Matt tried to kill me this morning, and then Jill cornered me at my locker.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Can’t that girl take a hint?”
“I still don’t get why you just don’t go out with her. She’s hot, man. I mean like, cheerleader hot,” Chugger said.
“He would know. He’s dated half of them.” Blake’s grin earned him a fist bump from his smug friend.
Every muscle on the back of my neck tensed. I’d heard more than I’d cared to about Chugger’s girls. They’d come to him hoping for a status boost and walked away with a trashed reputation. “She’s not my type.”
“Do you even have a type? I’ve never seen you with anyone.”
Blake snickered. “Oh, he has a type. Remember Vicky.”
Chugger licked his lips and sighed. “Vicky Donner. Yum. Whatever happened to her?”
“She graduated.” I wanted our trip down memory lane to stop. I’d gone too far with Vicky. Allowed things that went against every value system I had. Worse, I never called her after because I didn’t know what to say.
No one seemed to care that she cried at school for weeks. Or that I behaved like a jerk. They only cared that I’d been invited to Blake’s table at lunch and that I’d won two matches for the team. I even got a few high fives for the conquest. At the time, fitting in, being a part of the in crowd, and ending the bullying mattered more than my conscience. Now, I just wanted all the memories to disappear.
The room quieted when Ms. Yarnell began talking. Every day was the same. Twenty minutes of lecture. Thirty-five minutes of classwork. Ms. Yarnell said working together helped our social and communication skills. In reality, it was her way of forcing us all to participate. Luck
ily, we’d devised a system the first day of class that kept only one of us on the hook.
I slid the worksheet and book over to Chugger. “Your turn today.”
Despite the fact that he slept with everything in a skirt, my teammate was a smart guy. Most of us were, though, since Madison High was an elite private school with rigid acceptance standards. Of course, the fifteen thousand dollar tuition meant those brains had to come with money.
Chugger flipped the pages and wrote furiously. “Tell him about tomorrow.”
From a normal person, those words would be harmless, but from Chugger, they were loaded and bound to include some kind of trouble. I cringed. “What’s going on tomorrow?”
Blake flipped the pages of his textbook, pretending to search for answers. “Senior skip day. We’re heading to the lake. Jimmy’s folks have a house out there and two ski boats.”
Chugger looked up with a toothy grin. “Babes, bikinis and booze.”
I winced internally at their words. It’d been the scene all summer, and I was long past fascinated with it. “Coach will have a fit.”
“It’s senior skip day; he’ll get over it.” Blake shrugged and popped a mint into his mouth.
Blake had been popular since freshman year. Mostly for his looks, but also because his brother had been a football god and the king of the school the year before we started at Madison. Blake was the only freshman to ever sit at the head table, and the student body had worshiped him ever since. Even though he wasn’t technically the “king” our junior year, we all saw him that way.
Since getting the official title, he’d been pushing the limits with the faculty, too. Showing up late, leaving early. Anything to solidify his power. His charm typically earned him a smile and a pass from most of the administration, but Coach Taylor was a whole other animal—a rabid one.
“Senior skip day is supposed to happen at the end of the year.” When grades and teacher recommendations no longer mattered.
Blake pulled the sheet from Chugger and pretended to write. “Last year’s seniors had three of them. And, you know, I have to leave a legacy that exceeds Chuck Winston’s. He was seriously the lamest king this school has ever had.”
Sell Out Page 1
