by Grace, Hazel
“It’s just Ben,” he advises with humor in his tone. “Nice to see you, Skylar. What brings you here today?”
I can feel her eyes on me, waiting for me to acknowledge her, but I can’t find the strength to be a cordial human being right now.
She’s stayed away from me up to this point so I thought my blunt text messages had finally sunk into her thick, oblivious head, but apparently not.
Shocker of the year.
“My sister invited me,” she gabs, ratting out Sawyer while not knowing any different.
Yep, I’m going to fuck her sister two times now after she’s sore from the first.
“How nice of her,” Ben replies. “But we’re just a boring bunch of folks, talking about baseball and—”
“I don’t mind,” she quickly inserts. “It was nice just to get out of the house and enjoy the evening.”
I force my gaze down the table at an empty seat next to Sawyer then pin my sights on her. She’s already observing my current situation here, the corner of her lips elevating in amusement.
“Your sister is waving you over,” I lie, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “Looks like there is an empty chair over there for you.”
Skylar slides into the one diagonal from me and sits. “She sees me enough. All she is going to do is hang on Dr. Hottie all night anyway.” I don’t even hide it, I roll my fucking eyes.
“Well, can I get you something to drink?” Ben offers, standing from his chair. I press him with a murderous look that he purposely ignores.
“Moscato, please. Make it a big glass,” she beams with a smile. Ben starts to round the table, but I clasp onto his arm, squeezing—hard.
“Two shots of Tequila, a beer, and throw it on your tab,” I grumble. The asshole that I just thought was a good guy chuckles and walks off.
“So, how have you been?” Skylar continues, wrapping one of her dirty blonde curls around her finger.
“Fine.”
“Did you guys win?”
“Yep.”
“Did you score?”
“Sure did.” Movement at the end of the table grabs my attention, and I crush the handle of my frozen mug.
Veronica is now shaking Dr. Pussy Whipped’s hand, dressed in a soft pink dress that cascades down her whole slender frame.
Well, mother fucking played, Bases.
“Hey, Skylar, you wanna leave?”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“Leave,” I assert. “Me, you, and a car.”
She quickly grabs her purse off the floor. “Yeah, sure.”
I stand, not giving two shits that Veronica can see Skylar and me leave the bar or the intentional slap I land on her ass before I let the door close behind us.
Apparently, Sawyer likes to deal with people crying.
Ten years ago
“Sawyer Boyd.” I peer up from my microscope, glancing around the classroom until my eyes fall on our assistant principal, Mrs. Adams. She stands in the doorway with a small slip of paper between her clasped hands. “Come with me, please.”
She motions with her hand for me to follow, so I do, dropping my pencil on my notebook while all eyes in class are on me.
Once we clear the door, I ask, “Is everything alright?” Mrs. Adams keeps walking down the hall, not bothering to turn around to acknowledge me.
“Everything will be fine.”
“Who am I going to see exactly?”
“Principle McMahon.” My heart hurls in my chest cavity.
Colson.
This can not be real.
“Um...for what?” I force myself to say.
I swear to God if he’s messing with me…
“Not sure,” she deadpans, turning a corner. Like a shadow, I follow her, not having a choice or say in the matter.
Colson is just a boy. A student here like everyone else. I can’t imagine him having so much power with the principle backing him. It’d be career suicide.
And I didn’t do anything.
I can’t get in trouble if I didn’t do anything.
Mrs. Adams graciously opens the school’s main office door for me, letting me stride into the stale air of paper and whatever they had for lunch.
“This way.” I peer over my shoulder to see her making her way down a short hallway and to a door. “Go ahead and knock.”
And with that, she retreats.
I stare at the basic brown door, soaking in the last three minutes.
There is no way he’s...with Principle McMahon?
I hover my hand over the door, afraid to knock, anxious to know what he did. I can’t even think of anything he could’ve blamed me for, my mind doesn’t work like that I guess.
The door abruptly swings opens, startling me and I’m met with a pair of brown eyes that are only a few inches higher than mine.
Colson’s finger swipes the corner of his lips, encouraging a smirk to play off them, and he steps aside.
“After you, Bases.”
His hair is messy, the collar of his shirt wrinkled, sending a hollow pain through my stomach. The look of pure victory washing over his face.
He did it.
He called my bluff finally.
I never bothered to ask Gavin about it because I didn’t think he was telling the truth. Plus, Colson is never a topic of conversation between us.
“Miss Boyd,” a feminine voice beckons from inside.
I hesitate before stepping through the threshold, careful not to brush against Colson in the process. If he’s done what I think he’s done, I’ll be sure to somehow return the favor.
The room smells like a mixture of flowers and Lysol. The walls are painted in a slate gray instead of the cream-colored ones in the main office. Pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the London Bridge, and various other famous landmarks hang from her walls in an attempt to make it homier.
It doesn’t do anything for me.
“Take a seat,” Principle McMahon requests, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk. It looks brand-new, not a scuff on the white surface dawned with a Dell laptop, her nameplate, a phone, and organized files and pens sitting on top.
Slowly, I sit in the chair, crossing my legs and clasping my hands together. “You wanted to see me, Miss McMahon?”
She gives me a genuine smile, closing her laptop to give me her full attention.
“I did.” She messes with her bun, which is slightly loose, before settling back into her chair. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve copied off a student’s paper in Mr. B’s class.”
“Copied?”
She nods. “Yes. An exact copy of another student’s paper on—” she looks down at a piece of paper. “—the modern works of the Egyptian architecture.”
“Yes, I wrote that last week,” I reply, feeling all the blood drain from my face.
Her brow raises slowly, challenging my words. “Did you, Miss Boyd? Because I have the exact copy of the paper you allegedly wrote on my desk.” I clench my teeth, furious, scared. She’s silently calling me a liar, and whatever just happened in this room swayed her to do so.
“I wrote a paper on this assignment,” I repeat slowly. “I don’t know what paper you have but I—”
“I have the evidence, Sawyer,” she states, readjusting in her chair. She lets out a soft exhale. “There isn’t anything else I can do but suspend you from one of your softball games and give you detention.” My mouth falls open, but I close it just as quick as I realize I’m doing it.
I’ve never had detention before.
I’ve never gotten in trouble before.
“I’d like to see this paper, please,” I claim, gripping the armrest of my chair. “This isn’t right.” Her nostrils flare with an irritated breath with my challenge but opens a manila folder, pulling out a stapled report.
Handing it over, I read the first sentence of the paper.
This.
Isn’t.
Mine.
But my name is typed on the top right with the d
ate of last week, double spaced in Arial font—the font I always used.
“Miss McMahon, I swear to you, I didn’t turn this paper in. I have it saved on my computer at home.”
Her brows furrow. “Then whose is it? Your name is on it.”
“I have a funny feeling whose it is,” I mutter. Whether she hears me or not, she ignores it. Her mind is made up already or was swayed to be constructed into her verdict. I’m going to go with the latter on this one.
“This is your first offense,” Miss McMahon reports tenderly. “You have amazing grades, Sawyer, and I’ve never had you in here before today.” She folds her hands together on the desk. “I know it’s your senior year, you’re anxious to graduate and—”
“With all due respect,” I cut in. “I like school, this isn’t about that.”
“Are you having trouble at home?” Irritation ticks at my last rational nerve. My home has nothing to do with what’s going on in this room. It has dark hair, a perfect jawline, and too much confidence that Principle McMahon is clearly catering to.
“No,” I grate out. “Why was Colson Hayes in here?” Her brows furrow, a deep grimace materializing on her pretty face.
Cancel your date, Bases.
I lose the breath that I was inhaling. I feel trapped, the realization that he’ll always have the upper hand on me weighs heavy on my mind. And what will be next on his agenda to make me suffer? This will never end, and I won’t be able to stop him.
Tears prick my eyes, I don’t bother hiding them, they’ll fall anyways whether I want them to or not. Because the awareness that I am so screwed hurls into me.
“I can’t speak about another student’s personal needs,” Miss McMahon replies, crossing her legs.
“Colson Hayes is framing me. He told me he’d—” Her raised brow cuts me off. I should know better, that they’d fall on deaf ears. She’s listened to his lies thus far, my saying anything isn’t going to change that. And I can’t risk accusing the head of the school of having sex.
When I don’t continue, she says, “He told you what, Sawyer?”
It’s in her tone, the warning. Titter tottering on the brink of confirming that what Colson said was true, and she had the power to make everything worse.
He was screwing our twenty-something-year-old principle and getting a two-for-one.
He’s screwing me over too.
Present day
I soak in the family room ceilings of my new listing, painted in white with oak beams making it feel roomy but cozy. A stone fireplace offsets the folksy feel, making it a perfect forever home for anyone lucky enough to land on it.
The sun’s natural light fills the space with the numerous windows that overlook around the house and out to the spacious deck leading to the perfectly kept backyard. This home is beyond perfect. Selling it would be a breeze, and it’s going to bring a really nice commission in the books for Dad.
Pulling some of my new business cards out of my clutch, I place them around the plate of cookies and a small veggie tray for the open house then slide my fingertips along the dark granite countertops, checking for dust. The sellers did exactly what I asked them to do, the smell of fresh lemons of cleaning products filling my nose to showcase how much they cared.
I’ve been running around all morning, gathering up the showings I had today, grabbing snacks from the local grocery store, and setting everything up. We couldn’t afford to hire another assistant, so I just had to wing it and do a lot of the work myself. That, and I literally can’t stand being around Veronica right now. I’m mixed with emotions that I locked into a box in my head a long time ago, but now, they’re starting to seep through.
Colson Hayes is a man whore.
He’s not part of my life anymore.
I run to the bathroom to double check my hair and makeup. Fingering my red locks over my shoulder, I study my eyes for any smeared mascara or eyeshadow, and straighten the collar of my jean jacket over my yellow spring dress that comes just above my knees. I see slight bags under my eyes due to lack of sleep from Jake hogging my damn bed and also the never-ending tossing and turning I did last night.
I jump as a knock at the front door sounds, followed by footsteps on the polished hardwood floors. I flick the light off, heading through the kitchen to the foyer. Only to freeze midstep at the sight of Colson walking through the space.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt, my shoulders cringing. Do I have some sort of supernatural power that summons him on the spot?
Literally.
At my job, in my air, within throwing distance. Of course, the possibilities were endless now that he’s hanging out in Freemont.
“I had an appointment,” he conveys, studying the crystal chandelier hanging in the foyer. “Can you have them take that with them?”
“Uhh...I could ask.” He steps deeper into the house, piquing my curiosity. Knowing he is looking to buy a house and stay here is also causing dread to channel thought my body. It was his hometown before mine, but he abandoned it, so I have dibs now.
Because that is super mature.
“I didn’t know you were staying,” I implore, trying to hide the panic in my voice. He hunches near the fireplace to look up the chimney.
“I took Coach’s job, he’s retiring.”
The room, my breathing, time, space, the Earth’s revolving all suspends.
No, no, no, NO!
I’m surprised those words didn’t set the whole house on fire because it’s as though the devil walked back into my life and I’ve been exorcising him for years.
Okay, maybe not purposely of course, God rest his mother, but I’m not supposed to be here either. I should be in Texas, in college, burying myself in books and stressing out about midterms.
Not standing in a house with my ex-whatever-the-hell-he-was.
I clear my throat, welding my hands together to keep my composure. “Well, the home has four bedrooms, a furnished basement, there is a fully stocked bar as well with—”
“How much square footage, is there a garage, and how much are they asking?” Colson cuts in, glancing up at the ceiling again, not looking impressed by the beautiful job the sellers did.
It looked like Chip and JoAnna Gaines walked into this place and worked all their country charm into it. But I’m assuming Satan over here would prefer black walls and an aura of misery floating around in the air.
“The asking price is a hundred and eighty grand, there is a two and a half car garage, and it's about twenty-one hundred square feet.” I watch him walk through the adjoining kitchen, all done in white cabinets, dark marble countertops, and backsplash. “All the appliances are a year old, they will stay with the home. They have receipts for everything.”
“Good, I’d like to see them,” he comments, already heading to the upstairs of the house.
Of course, you would.
I follow him up, giving him space to venture through the bedrooms alone. “The furniture can stay if you want or they will take it with them. The plumbing has been inspected already by the town, I have the reports downstairs. The only thing that hasn’t been done yet is the testing of the septic system outside. That’s being done Tuesday.”
Colson disappears into the master bedroom as I lean against the wall in the hall, waiting. Why he’d want a house this big is beyond me unless he wants to relive his old high school ways and throw large parties.
Toward me, he’s back to the persona I didn’t like him for, over something I actually did do.
On accident.
How many more years was he going to punish me for it? We were young, I was stupid, it was a miscommunication and if he would’ve let me explain, we wouldn’t be doing this monotonous back and forth. Which I was getting tired of.
Moments later, Colson appears out of the master bedroom and heads down the hall toward me. “I’ll give them less than their asking price.”
I furrow my brows. “How much less?”
“A hundred and fifty grand.”
/>
“This house will appraise for over two hundred thousand, Colson,” I vow. “Trust me.” He stops short of me, causing my body to inch closer to the wall.
“I did.” He takes a step down one of the stairs, but I clasp on to his forearm and pivot him around.
“I don’t think you should stay here. You have too many anger issues, you haven’t let shit go, and I’m already tired of you.”
He raises a brow. “Tired of me?”
“I don’t repeat myself, Hayes.” His eyes gleam at the nostalgic phrase as he starts back up the stairs, aimed at me.
“I think it’s more annoyance than tiredness,” he retorts, watching me retreat to allow space between us, much-needed and wanted space. “You must’ve forgotten how often I made you tired, Bases.”
I roll my eyes. “And here comes cocky Colson Hayes, ladies and gentlemen.”
He smirks. “You liked cockiness.”
“Stop, you’ll make your damn head explode and I’ll have to clean up the mess.” I inhale through my nose, feeling my body warm at the memories from an easier time.
He shakes his head, closing every inch of air between us. “It was more like don’t stop, if I remember correctly.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap. “Finish looking at the house.”
“I’m done.”
I straighten my shoulders. “Well, since you don’t like it—”
“I like it.”
Oh shit. God, please no.
“Wouldn’t you want something smaller?”
“No.”
“You want me to put the offer in?” His hand latches onto my forearm before he pulls me toward his body, electrical currents shooting through every fiber of my body.
“Sure,” he murmurs. The tips of his fingers glide down my skin, I take in a stuttered inhale, remembering the way his fingers felt all over my body. The way they could make me orgasm with his soft lips sealing around my skin.
I’ve dreamt about our past when I was lonely and missing him. When I wanted just a piece of him with me, even if they were just memories that filled a void that never went away.
He pulls my hand forward, my palm landing on something hard—his hard cock through his pants.
