A bitter scoff escaped my lips. Maybe I should torch the paper and be done with it. After all, the report card wasn't a keeper, not even literally. All too soon, I'd be getting a final one in the mail.
Just as I'd decided that I wasn't the torching type, I happened to spot Brody's truck parked along the curb of the very next block.
I flicked off the lighter and kept on walking as I eyed the vehicle. It was definitely Brody's. I'd seen him driving it in the school parking lot so many times, I'd recognize it anywhere.
It was a big red, rusty thing with an extended cab and a long dent along the side. From bumper to bumper, the truck was old and ugly. But hey, I wasn't one to judge. At least Brody had a vehicle, which was more than I could say for myself.
Me? I was still taking the bus.
Not today though.
Today, I'd actually done the unthinkable. I'd skipped my final class to leave school early.
I didn't even know where I was going or how I'd be getting back to my grandparent's place. I just knew that I was about to pop – or burst out crying – and the last thing I wanted to do was cry in class.
That class was chemistry, where I'd be sitting in the same classroom as Brody. Or at least, we would've been sitting in the same classroom if only both of us hadn't apparently decided to be somewhere else.
By now, I'd reached the familiar red pickup but saw no sign of its owner. Still, he couldn’t be too far away. The truck's windows were rolled all the way down, as if Brody might return any moment.
Or maybe he always left it open like this.
Either way, it only went to prove how careless he was, even with the little things.
I stopped walking and took a long, silent look around. By now, I'd traveled maybe a dozen blocks away from the school.
The area was pleasant and peaceful, with big, beautiful houses and nicely kept yards.
Was this where Brody lived?
The house nearest to his truck was a two-story bungalow with neatly trimmed hedges and a wide, welcoming porch, complete with an old-fashioned porch swing and pots of red flowers lining the front steps.
Weird.
For some reason, I'd always envisioned Brody living someplace a lot rougher. But hey, it just went to show, huh?
Never judge a book by its cover and all that.
As I stared at the house, a wave of bitterness washed over me. Somewhere nearby, a lawnmower was humming along, and the scent of freshly mowed grass lent a sweetness to the air that might've lightened my mood if only all of my plans hadn't just gone up in smoke – and I meant that literally.
As my thoughts swirled, and my anger burned, I looked once again to Brody's pickup. If I were a different kind of person, I'd light my report card on fire and toss it into his truck, maybe leave a nice burn mark where his ass met the upholstery.
To my surprise, I was actually considering it.
My hands were loose at my sides, and I was still holding the lighter and the printout. The lighter was off, and the printout was fluttering in the breeze.
Was it fate that had carried me here?
I stared long and hard at the truck before finally shaking my head. No. It wasn't fate. It was stupidity. And whatever else I might be, I wasn't stupid, even if I was stupidly angry at everything Brody had cost me.
I sighed. Talk about pathetic.
Even when it came to revenge, here I was, still playing by the rules, for all the good it did me.
I was such a sap.
But then, with sudden inspiration, I raised the lighter and the paper. With one hand, I wadded up the paper into a nice, tight ball and then flicked on the lighter.
I held the wadded paper to the flame and watched as the flame caught. With a bitter laugh, I tossed the flaming wad not into the cab of his truck, but into the bed of it, where it would do no damage whatsoever.
It was a pointless gesture, and yet, it did make me feel just a little less pathetic. Maybe the paper would burn to ashes. Or more likely, the flame would sputter out, leaving a semi-burnt blob for Brody to find the next time he ventured into his truck bed.
Either way, I was done with the whole sordid thing.
I turned and began walking once again down the peaceful street. I'd gotten maybe two full blocks before an odd burning smell made me stop and turn back to look.
My eyes widened. Oh, my God.
Brody's truck. The whole truck bed was in flames. What the hell?
At the sight, my stomach lurched, and my heart skipped a beat.
Had I done that?
I hadn't meant to.
Without pausing to think, I plunged toward the truck, intending to put out the fire somehow, maybe grab a garden hose or –
Or nothing.
I was still a full block away when his truck literally exploded, sending flames shooting not only from the truck bed, but from the passenger area, too.
A split second later, Brody emerged from somewhere behind the house. He rushed toward his truck, and then stopped short in the middle of the front yard, as if realizing that his truck was already beyond saving.
He looked around and spotted me almost immediately. As our gazes locked, something slipped from my hands.
The lighter.
With a muttered curse, I leaned down and scooped it up. By the time I stood with the lighter in-hand, Brody's expression had gone from shock to raw hatred. He was still glaring when I shoved the lighter back into my pocket.
Why I bothered, I had no idea.
I was so busted.
Already, neighbors were rushing out of their houses to gawk at the flaming pickup. Within just a few moments, a small crowd had gathered on either side of the formerly quiet street.
In spite of the surrounding commotion, Brody's gaze didn't waver. And neither did mine.
As our gazes held, I felt myself swallow. Should I run away? Or walk toward him and face the music?
It took me only a moment to realize that running was useless. I mean, I'd already been caught red-handed. And he knew who I was. I might as well try to explain, or help, or something.
I hurried toward him, for all the good it did. By the time I reached his side, he was already doing what I'd only thought of doing.
In the short time it had taken me to clear the final block, he'd strode to the nearby house, yanked a garden hose from among the shrubbery, and rained water down on his truck – or rather, what used to be his truck.
Now, it was mostly a burnt-out shell.
Bracing myself, I sidled next to him and said in a horrified whisper, "It was an accident, honest."
He was still hosing down his truck. His jaw clenched, and without so much as a glance in my direction, he said, "Right."
"You don't believe me?"
At this, he turned and faced me head-on, even as he continued to spray the smoking vehicle. In a tight voice, he said, "Does it matter?"
"Yes. It does, actually."
His expression darkened. "Why?"
"Well, because…" I bit my lip. "I guess I'm in big trouble, huh?"
The words had barely left my lips when a police car, quickly followed by a fire truck, screeched up to the smoking remnants of Brody's pickup.
With a sound of disgust, Brody told me, "Go."
I wasn't following. "What?"
"Go," he repeated.
"Why?" I scoffed. "So you can tell your side of the story and get me in even more trouble?"
With a cold smile, Brody said, "You think that's how I’m gonna deal with this?"
His smile made just a little bit nervous, and I gave the police car a worried glance. Already, two officers had gotten out of the car and were warning the small crowd to back away from the smoldering truck.
Into my silence, Brody said, "You're gonna get it, alright. But not from the police – so if I were you, I'd get the fuck out of here while you can."
It was so tempting. Still, I hesitated. Was this a trap? Or maybe some sort of trick?
If I left, would Brody send t
he police chasing after me, to be cuffed and stuffed like a common criminal?
My shoulders slumped. Cripes, probably I deserved it.
More to myself than to him, I said, "It really was an accident."
With that same cold smile, he replied, "Yeah? And when I get payback, we'll call that an accident, too."
"Payback? Like revenge?"
His only answer was a half shrug.
Again, I felt myself swallow. "What kind of revenge?"
"Trust me. You'll know it when you see it."
Fast forward six years, and here I was, enjoying the fruits of Brody's long-delayed revenge – except he'd already told me that he knew nothing of my connection to the house.
What did that mean? Revenge was still somewhere on the horizon?
I shuddered to think.
As far as the truck, I still had no idea why it had exploded like that, or what he'd told the police. I just knew that I never got in trouble, not even a little.
And for some reason, that made me just a little bit nervous.
Chapter 34
Arden – Present Day
As the memories swirled, I looked from brother to brother. Neither one of them looked happy. But hey, I wasn't happy either.
I tried again. "That whole thing with the truck, it really was an accident."
With a low scoff, Mason turned away, not bothering to reply. As he strode toward the house, he called back to Brody, "Just remember what I said."
It took me a moment to recall the last thing he'd told Brody. But soon enough, Mason's exact words came flooding back. "Don't come bitching to me when she torches the place."
I looked to Brody and said, "I wasn't lying. I didn't mean to torch anything."
Brody crossed his arms. "So you said."
"What, you don't believe me?"
"I saw what I saw."
"Which was…?"
"The truck in flames and you with the lighter."
"Yeah, well…" I winced. "I know it looked bad, but just listen. I'm walking by, and I happen to see your truck—"
"So you torch it."
"No," I said. "I just lit something on fire."
"Yeah. My truck."
I sighed. "I didn't mean your truck. I meant one crumpled piece of paper. It wasn't even that big."
When Brody said nothing in reply, I continued. "And this paper, well, I um, tossed it into the truck bed. That's all."
His voice was flat. "That's all."
"I didn't know it would blow up like that." My brow wrinkled at the memory. "And speaking of which, why did it blow up?"
"What, you don't know?"
"How would I?" I said. "I don't even know why it caught on fire."
He gave me a dubious look. "Is that so?"
"Okay, yes, I realize that my flaming paper wad had something to do with it, but the last time I checked, paper – even flaming paper – doesn’t burn metal."
"It does if there's gasoline in the back."
I frowned. "How much gasoline?"
"A five-gallon can."
"Oh." I paused to think. "But if the gas is inside the can, a little piece of paper wouldn’t catch the can on fire. Would it?"
"It would if I'd just filled it up."
I still wasn't following. "But why?"
"Why do you think?"
Once again, I tried to envision it. Thinking out loud, I said, "Is it because there was gas spilled along the side or something?"
"Probably."
"But you don't know for sure?"
His gaze locked on mine. "Hard to check when your truck's on fire."
"Okay, fine," I said. "But even if all five gallons did catch on fire, it wouldn't make your whole truck blow up." I bit my lip. "Would it? I mean, that was a pretty big explosion."
"No kidding."
"But why would the whole truck explode?"
"Because I'd just filled up the tank."
"You mean the truck's fuel tank?"
"Yeah. Twenty gallons."
"Oh." Finally, I saw what he meant. His truck had been old and rusty, so it wasn't that inconceivable that flaming fuel in the truck bed would've sparked a larger explosion in the main gas tank.
Reluctantly, I said, "I guess that makes sense."
Brody eyed me with obvious contempt. "Good to know."
Ignoring his attitude, I said, "But wait, why would you be hauling around gas in the first place?"
"Because," he said, "I was mowing lawns on the side."
He was? I tried to envision the scene from six years ago. "But I didn't see a mower in the truck bed."
"Right. Because I was mowing out back."
"Oh." His explanation was surprisingly simple. And yet, it wasn't what I'd expected. "So that's why you were skipping class? To work?" I stared up at him. "Seriously?"
"What, you're surprised?"
"Well, yeah, actually. I mean, I always figured you were cutting class for the fun of it."
"Want to know what I always figured?"
"What?"
His gaze hardened. "That I was done with you."
His words stung, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. The two of us had never been friends. And, as I'd learned the hard way in high school, just because we were working on a common project, that didn't mean we were working on the same side.
Still, I dreaded the idea of fighting with him for four long months while the house was being restored. It would be miserable for both of us – me in particular, since I was so much lower than him in the pecking order.
I gave him a pleading look. "Look, it's been what? Six years? Don't you think it's time we put the past behind us?" I forced a laugh. "I mean, you don’t see me complaining about my eyebrows, do you?"
His gaze flicked to my brows. "Hey, they grew back."
Talk about callous.
And besides, he was missing the point. As usual.
I tried again. "Yeah, but my grades didn't. That stunt in chemistry? It destroyed my grade point average. You do realize that, don't you?"
With something like a sneer, he said, "What, your perfect piece of paper?"
"It wasn't just a piece of paper," I said. "There was a lot more to it than that."
"Yeah? And maybe there was more to my truck."
I didn't doubt it. Still, a truck was replaceable. My scholarship wasn't. But Brody would never understand, and in the interest of mending fences, I tried to focus on the positive.
"Look," I said, "I know the truck was important to you. I get that. And I tried to pay for it. Remember?"
It was true. Being the kind of sap who always played by the rules, I actually did offer to pay for the stupid thing, even though I had nearly no money of my own. Embarrassingly, the offer was only possible because the truck was so old and crappy, it was practically worthless – even if it was an extended cab.
Still, I had offered. And I hadn't wasted any time either. I'd made the offer in class the very next day, only to have Brody tell me – and not too nicely either – that he'd rather have revenge than money.
The jerk.
At the memory, I felt the familiar pang of bitterness and frustration. Maybe he should pay me for the lost scholarship. But I never asked, whether due to misguided pride or the realization that Brody Blastoviak had even less money than I had.
Well, at the time, anyway.
Funny how much things had changed.
And now, he still hadn't responded to my statement. I tried again. "You do remember me offering to pay for it, right?"
His jaw clenched. "I didn't want your money."
Right. Because he'd wanted revenge instead.
So much for mending fences.
I glared up at him. "Well, goodie for you. So I guess you're pretty happy now, huh?"
He frowned. "Do I look happy?"
No. He didn't.
And neither was I.
Still, I had to say it. "Well you should be happy. You could buy a million trucks now if that's what you want, so w
hy are you still mad about that one?"
The more I talked, the more pissed off he looked. In a tight voice, he replied, "It was more than a truck."
"Yeah. And it was more than my eyebrows, too."
When his only reply was a stony look, I threw up my hands. "You know what? Forget it." And with that, I turned away, intending to stalk off toward the beach.
That didn't happen.
I'd taken barely two steps when I spotted Roy standing near the side of the house, almost directly in my path. He was holding that godawful video camera. And yes, it was pointed straight at me.
Terrific.
With a sigh, I turned in the opposite direction, looking to avoid Roy and his camera, at least while I regained my composure.
Maybe it was cheating. But at the moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Turns out, that was a mistake. In the process of changing course, I nearly collided with yet another brother.
Oh, for crying out loud.
I felt like a human pinball, bouncing from Blastoviak to Blastoviak. It was like they were crawling out of the woodwork or something. This latest one was the middle brother, Chase, who was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
Like Brody and Mason, he looked obnoxiously good, even in work clothes. And for some reason, I only found this more annoying.
It was like all three of them had been sprinkled with "lucky dust" or something. They were rich, famous, and so good-looking, they might as well be movie stars. But then, I remembered. They were stars – just of a smaller screen, that's all.
Well, goodie for them, too.
After the near-collision, I told Chase, "Excuse me," and made a move to go around him.
As I did, he said in a tone that was almost friendly, "So, you're the pyro, huh?"
My steps faltered. Pyro? As in pyromaniac?
Well, this was just delightful.
I stopped and turned to face him. "I'm not a pyro."
He grinned. "Hey, I meant it as a compliment."
It was vintage Chase. From watching the show, I'd seen enough of him to know that everything was a joke to him. But didn't he get it?
This was no joking matter.
With a stiff smile, I turned in the opposite direction, heading once again toward the beach, having decided that it was better to brave Roy's camera than to deal with anyone named Blastoviak.
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