That Boy: The All American Boy Series

by Remy Blake

  That Boy

  THE ALL AMERICAN BOY SERIES

  REMY BLAKE

  Copyright © 2021 Remy Blake

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This novel is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to people either living or deceased, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  Cover design by JustWrite.Creations

  Edited and Proofed by Shauna Stevenson at Ink Machine Editing

  This book contains mature content

  The All American Boys Series

  Welcome to Merlot, CA, an idyllic all-American town in wine country where love is in the air, the boys are grown as fine as the wine, and the town is a breeding ground for second-chances, weddings, and brand-new beginnings.

  The All American Boy Series gives you a taste of 15 of your favorite bestselling authors’ original stories in this shared world experience. All books are standalone but may include cross-over in characters or scenes.

  Grab a glass of wine, put your feet up and let us whisk you away to wine country.

  The series includes the following books:

  Sierra Hill The Boy Next Door

  Poppy Parkes Boy Toy

  Evan Grace The Boy Scout

  Emily Robertson The Boyfriend Hoax

  Kaylee Ryan and Lacey Black Boy Trouble

  Kimberly Readnour Celebrity Playboy

  Marika Ray Backroom Boy

  Leslie McAdam Boy on a Train

  KL Humphreys Bad Boy

  Nicole Richard Hometown Boy

  Remy Blake That Boy

  Stephanie Browning The Boy She Left Behind

  Stephanie Kay About a Boy

  Renee Harless Lover Boy

  SL Sterling Saviour Boy

  PURCHASE THE WHOLE SERIES HERE

  Contents

  1. Cord

  2. Penelope

  3. Cord

  4. Penelope

  5. Cord

  6. Penelope

  7. Cord

  8. Penelope

  9. Cord

  10. Penelope

  11. Cord

  12. Penelope

  13. Cord

  14. Penelope

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  CORD

  Pain. It’s my first waking thought. Every inch of my body hurts with an indescribable agony. What the hell happened to me? I feel like I’ve been run over by a train. Twice.

  Trying to think is tiresome, like trudging through knee-deep mud. I can’t figure out the source of my suffering with my eyes closed, and I’m concerned with what I might find when I open them.

  Groaning out my misery and trepidation, I force my eyelids open into tiny slits. The bright light feels like someone has taken a hammer and chisel to my forehead. Gasping, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Cord, we’re right here.” I hear my mom’s soft, soothing voice, and emotion fills my chest. I push it down; now’s not the time for tears. I need answers and my parents can give them to me.

  Clenching my teeth, I force my eyes open, blinking repeatedly until the pain in my skull somewhat lessens. Glancing down my body, I realize I’m in a hospital bed. I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary—no casts on my legs, and I can wiggle my toes.

  Rolling my head to the side, I find my mom sitting in a chair. “Mom,” I croak, my throat is beyond dry.

  “Here, sweetie. Take a sip.” She brings a straw to my lips and I draw in a mouthful of water. It’s icy and almost too painful to swallow, but it provides instant relief.

  “Thank you.” I sound more like myself. Glancing over my mom’s shoulder, I find my dad standing there, silent and resolute as always. A hardworking farmer, he’s a man of few words. He’s a great role model for a son to have. I’m sure he wonders where he went wrong with me. Everything he stands for, I’ve rebelled against.

  “Where am I?”

  “St. John’s Hospital. You were admitted last night. How are you feeling?” Mom asks, concern wrinkling her brow.

  “I feel like shit. How do you think I feel?”

  “Son, watch your language,” Dad snaps.

  “Hey, Dad. No, don’t worry, I’m fine,” I droll. At least my sense of humor isn’t injured.

  “You have no one to blame but yourself. You’re lucky to be alive,” he barks.

  “Bill, settle down. Yelling at him isn’t going to help the situation any,” Mom jumps in.

  “Carol, nothing ever helps when it comes to him. He won’t be happy until he kills himself or someone else.” My dad’s angry with me, and judging by my current situation, it’s well directed. In my twenty-one years, I haven’t given my folks many reasons to be proud of me, but I can’t remember a time when they both looked so disgusted.

  Maybe they’ve finally reached their limit. I knew this day would come sooner or later. In fact, it’s long overdue.

  “What happened to me?” I ask.

  “You don’t remember?” my mother questions.

  “No. It’s all a blur and it’s too difficult to try to work through the fog in my brain.”

  “You went to a party to celebrate being done with finals, got drunk, then you drove home and wrapped your car around a goddamn telephone pole.”

  Jesus. “Did anyone else get hurt?” My voice shakes. I might not have much regard for my own mortality, but I don’t want to hurt anyone else.

  “No.” Mom places her hand over mine on the blanket. “Thankfully, no one else was involved.”

  I shutter my eyes, fighting the sting of relieved tears. A knock on the door has them snapping open, and a woman appears. My parents are quick to get out of the way, moving to stand by the windows.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Moody.” Stopping at my bedside, she smiles. “Do you remember last night at all?”

  “No, but my parents filled me in.”

  “You sustained a concussion and you’re pretty banged up. We couldn’t find any signs of broken bones or internal bleeding. Your CAT scan looked good. You’re a lucky young man.”

  “I don’t feel lucky,” I grumble.

  “How’s your pain today?”

  “Excruciating.”

  “How does your head feel? Any brain fog or trouble thinking?”

  “Yeah. I feel like my brain is wearing a knit cap. It feels heavy. Is that normal?”

  “It’s a common concussion symptom. You may have sensitivity to light and dizziness too. How would you like to go home?”

  “I can leave?”

  She smiles, nodding. “I’m going to discharge you with instructions you’ll need to follow. As long as you promise to take it easy, I’ll let you leave. Can you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Head injuries aren’t a joke. You need to take your recovery seriously. Once you’ve had a concussion it’s easier to become concussed again. So that means no sports or physical activities for two weeks at the minimum. At tha
t point, you’ll need to follow up with your primary care physician.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you’re having any complications before then, you should return to the E.R. immediately.

  Dr. Moody looks toward my parents. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “No. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure he books the appointment with his doctor,” my mom informs her, as if I’m still a child.

  “Great. She pulls a packet of papers and a pen from the pocket on her white coat. “Here are your instructions.” She hands them to my mom and turns back to me. “I need your signature.” She hands me the pen and points to the blank line.

  My eyes strain to focus as I write my name. I’m sure it’s barely legible, but she accepts it just the same.

  “If you have any questions, my number is included on the papers I gave you. Good luck and take it easy.”

  The ride home was filled with silence so tense it felt brittle. If one word was uttered, surely it would shatter the air around us into thousands of glass splinters.

  Once my dad parked his truck in the driveway, I couldn’t get out of the extended cab fast enough. I can’t remember ever being so happy to be home.

  Walking to the front door, my gait is slow and unsteady. I'm not sure if it’s an effect of the head injury or because I’m hurting in general.

  Crossing the threshold, I wordlessly shoot straight to my room. I know my parents are angry and they want to talk to me. My dad was practically vibrating with pent up anger for the duration of the drive. Obviously, I need to avoid having that conversation at all costs. I realize I fucked up royally and have no plans for a repeat performance.

  Sinking onto my bed, I lie down with a groan and toe off my sneakers. They make a dull thud as they hit the floor. One of the nurses gave me a pair of scrubs to wear home and I’m too tired and achy to change out of them.

  “We need to talk.” I blink a few times and rub my eyes. My dad is standing beside my bed. Gazing at the clock on my nightstand, I realize I’ve been home for more than an hour. I must’ve dozed off.

  Just great. My dad can’t even give me until tomorrow morning to tear into me.

  “Bill, can’t this wait until he’s back on his feet?” my mom asks, rubbing her hands together. I can tell she’s worried, and that makes my anxiety shoot through the roof. If my mom is concerned, then I should be too. My parents have a history of being firm but fair with me. Unfortunately, this latest stunt may have changed that. I can feel a whopper of berating just waiting to be delivered by my dad. I guess I should accept my lot and brace myself. There’s no avoiding the inevitable. My fingers curl into the comforter, gripping the plaid material.

  “Carol, there’s no good time for this discussion. He needs to know what’s going on as soon as possible,” my dad says calmly.

  Tears fill her eyes. What the fuck? Now I’m extremely curious and concerned for what’s coming.

  “If it weren’t for your uncle Ted, you’d be facing drunk driving charges.”

  “How could they prove I was drinking? It’s not like I was conscious and took a breathalyzer.”

  “Think about the bigger picture, son. You were brought to the hospital where they took your blood. Your blood alcohol level is now part of your medical record.”

  I look down at my arm, noticing the small bandage in the crook of my elbow. “I never gave them permission to take my blood,” I shout, panicked.

  “Sweetie, you were unconscious when you arrived at the hospital. They didn’t need your permission,” mom tries to reassure me.

  “You should’ve been this worried about drinking and driving. Then you wouldn’t be in this predicament,” Dad says. Throwing this in my face isn’t helping anything. All it’s doing is making me angry and defensive. Staring at the white ceiling, I draw in a slow breath and tell myself to relax. I’m not sitting in a jail cell, I’m home in my own bed. Things could be so much worse.

  “You have two weeks before your mother and I are taking you to your uncle Ted’s house. You’ll be spending the summer there to work off the debt you owe him.”

  “How much money is it? I have savings he can have.”

  “This isn’t about a magical number, son. Your uncle put his neck on the line for you. And now you’re going to bust your ass doing whatever he asks of you.”

  “I don’t want to stay there all the time. Why can’t I go back and forth a few times each week?”

  Dad throws his hands up in the air. “How could you possibly do that? It’s a four-hour drive. Not to mention you totaled your vehicle.”

  Oh, yeah. Forgot about that part.

  “Isn’t there another way?” I ask, trying not to sound emotional. I don’t want to spend the next eight weeks at my uncle’s. What about all my stuff? What about all my friends? What about my parents? Won’t they miss me at all?

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  My parents keep their goodbyes brief, and before I’m fully ready, I find myself trudging up three wide steps. I pause at the top, scanning my elaborate surroundings. I’ve been here plenty of times for family functions and holidays, but at this moment, I feel like a stranger, uncertain about what I’m walking into.

  Moving along, I smirk at the shrubs that have been made into fancy shapes by a master landscaper—some are extremely phallic looking. They must have to go to school to learn this shit. Everywhere I look, there’s greenery. There’s even ivy growing over the front entry of the sprawling stucco house. Despite the grandeur of this place, I’m already longing for the homey simplicity of the ranch house I’ve lived in since I was born.

  Standing in front of the large frosted glass door, I pull my shoulders back, determined to face this situation head-on like the man that I am.

  I ring the bell and wait, expecting to see my cousin, Leon, answering the door. Instead, my uncle’s steely countenance greets me. “Cord. I’d ask how you are, but I can see. You still look like hell.” His gaze lingers on the still healing cut above my eyebrow.

  “Thanks, Uncle Ted.”

  “Come in.” He steps back, swinging the door wide so I can fit through with my duffel bags hanging from each shoulder.

  The door shuts behind me. “Let’s head upstairs and I’ll show you to your room.” Carrying my large bags, Uncle Ted’s fast pace is difficult to keep up with. Of course he didn’t offer to help me. I’m on my own. I have a feeling that on my own could be the theme for the next two months. I’ve been at college for three years now; being away from my family doesn’t bother me. Except this time it’s different. This time, the weight of my parents’ disappointment weighs heavily on me. I could practically feel their relief when they drove away.

  By the time I reach the top of the staircase, I’m huffing and puffing. Uncle Ted directs me down the hallway to the right, opening the third door.

  Stepping inside, I’m pleased to find a queen-size bed that looks mighty comfortable. There’s also a TV, a large desk, and a tall bureau for my clothes. All the creature comforts and more than I expected, considering the reason I’m here.

  “Get unpacked and settled in. Tomorrow, we’ll talk and I’ll explain what I expect of you.” He walks to the doorway and throws a stern look over his shoulder. “Dinner’s at six sharp. Don’t be late.”

  I listen for the sound of his footsteps to retreat before closing the door. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I look around once more. So this is home sweet home for now. The sting of tears hits me hard and has me gritting my teeth. I like to think of myself as some hardass who doesn’t need anyone. I’m a grown man for fuck’s sake. But right now, I feel like a fraud because I’d give just about anything to be back at home and have my mom telling me everything’s going to be fine.

  PENELOPE

  It’s ten thirty in the morning, and the moving truck has just pulled into the drive. I glance around the empty living room, still in disbelief that I’ve managed to pack up my whole house, and pretty much my whole life, into nothing more than a dozen boxes.

&
nbsp; When Eric and I bought this house, I remember being on cloud nine.

  Leaving the city, winding down, and getting ready to start our family was everything I had ever wanted. I was high on all the future plans we’d made.

  But now, the four walls don’t hold the same hope, and any good memories we made have been tainted over and over again.

  The knock on the door stops me from thinking about the past and reminiscing about all that was, and all that would never be.

  I open the front door and come face to face with Nick Flatman, the owner of our local moving company.

  “Ma’am,” Nick greets.

  “For the hundredth time, Nick, call me Penelope. How are you?”

  He smiles softly, his features creasing with the change in his expression. “You’re the first and the last job of the day. A nice easy run.”

  “Thank you for doing this,”

  “Not a problem. Just wish it was under better circumstances.”

  I smile through the wave of awkwardness his comment brings. The reminder that in Merlot, California, everybody knows everybody’s business. Especially mine.

  Ending the conversation, and the possibility of talking about the ending of my marriage, I widen the door and shift my body to the side, so my back rests against the wood.

  “Please, come inside. Everything is ready for you in the living room.” Nick steps over the threshold and I point in the direction of where the boxes are situated. “It’s the first entryway to your left.”

  A few seconds later, his son Kobe jumps down from the truck, tips his head at me in greeting, and heads on inside to assist his dad.