BoysLikeYou.indd (2 page)

and though Trevor and I were punished— we had to stay after

school every day for an entire week— it pretty much solidified

our friendship.

We bonded over our mutual dislike of Alex Kingsley and our

love of music and sports. Eventually, I forgave Trevor his thirst for all things country— he couldn’t help it, his parents were true hicks— and he learned to like my progressive ear. He was into

country music, bluegrass twang, and he also had a soft spot for

the New York Jets. I was all about the old classics my dad loved, hard rock, and loud guitars. I also preferred the Dallas Cowboys, but he was cool with that.

Somehow we gelled and our band is, or rather,
was
the hottest act in the area.

One mistake. One stupid- ass mistake and I ruined his life.

I would switch places with him in an instant if I could.

Maybe then the guilt would go away. Maybe then I could look

in the mirror and that empty hole in my gut would fill up with

something other than loathing.

It should have been my future in the gutter. But I was Jack

and Linda Everets’ son, and around these parts, that meant

something. Around these parts, it meant special treatment or a

second chance, even when you didn’t deserve it.

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I’d gotten off easy and I knew it. Everybody knew it, except

they used all kinds of excuses to cover up the fact that Trevor was lying in a hospital bed and I should be locked up.

Nathan
is
a
good
boy.

He’s never done anything like that before.

They
can’t be perfect all the time.

They
all
make
mistakes, even the good ones.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

None of it changed the fact that I’d screwed up huge, and I wasn’t sure what made me more bitter— the fact that I should be riding

a bench in juvie and wasn’t, or the fact that I should be the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed with broken bones that would

never play a guitar and a brain that might be scrambled for life.

My cell buzzed and I grabbed it from my pocket, frowning

when I saw my uncle’s name pop up.

Shit. I knew what this meant.

I started walking.

“Nathan, I’m going to be late.”

The Oak Run Plantation was about thirty minutes down the

road, and though the air was thick with humidity, anything was

better than sitting on my front porch, staring at a car I couldn’t drive and thinking about stuff that made me more depressed

than I already was.

“I’ll head over,” I answered.

“It’s hot as hell out there, boy. I don’t want you to have a heat stroke. Your mother will tan my hide if that happens.”

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My parents had gone north for the week in a bid to escape

the heat, so at the moment, I was stuck home with no wheels

and no one to take me anywhere. I could die of heatstroke and

they wouldn’t know until Sunday night when they returned,

because they never called when they were away— and I knew

not to call them unless the house was on fire.

I could say it was because cell reception was bad, but the

simple truth was, my parents really dug each other— still— and

they kinda forgot about the world when they went away.

I used to think it was gross— the way my dad would paw

my mom— but now I realize they have something special, and

that’s a hell of a lot more than I could say for a lot of my

friends’ folks.

“I’m good.” I grabbed a bottle of water from my bag and

emptied it over my head. It soaked through my hair, which

hung down to just above my shoulders, and splattered drops of

water across my white T- shirt. My dad hated my hair, but Mom

and my girlfriend, Rachel, loved it.

Rachel had told me once that if I ever cut it off, she’d dump

me— she was joking, of course, but for a while there I wasn’t

so sure.

It was hair; I didn’t see what the big deal was, but Rachel

thought it made me look like some guy on TV, and Rachel was,

if anything, all about looks. I guess when you are a hot little

blond, it’s not surprising.

“Thanks, Nate. You’re a good kid.”

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Tell that to Trevor,
I thought.

“The paint and brushes are already there, so you just need to

get started and knock off around five, or earlier if need be. It’s Friday, you got plans?”

Rachel had left for the lake about an hour ago with a group

of friends we hung out with including one of the guys in my

band, Link.

I could still taste her cherry gloss in my mouth. She’d come

by, wearing the skimpiest bikini top you can imagine, along

with the shortest jean shorts she owned. If I cared enough, I

would have given her crap about it, but since I didn’t anymore,

I said nothing.

She’d jumped from the car and into my arms, wrapped her

legs around my waist, begging me to reconsider and come with

them. She seemed almost desperate— as if she knew something

that I didn’t.

What
does
it
matter
if
you
blow
off
Mrs. Blackwell?

Your
job
will
still
be
waiting
for
you
on
Monday.

It’s not like your uncle will fire you.

“Nate,” she’d breathed against my mouth. “Come on, baby,

it will be a good time.”

A good time for Rachel was code for getting wasted and

having sex, which were two things I wasn’t all that interested in anymore. At least not with her. Not since that night.

“Nathan?” My uncle’s voice cracked through the cell.

“Nah, I’m taking it easy tonight. I’ll work ’til five,” I answered 11

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and then pocketed my cell. Or later. There was nothing for me

to come home to, and without the band or Rachel around, what

was there for me to do?

The walk to Oak Run Plantation was brutal. It was hot and

muggy, and by the time I got there, my T- shirt was long gone.

My feet were just as sweaty as the rest of me, and I was irritated that I’d decided to wear work boots instead of something more

sensible like my Chucks or sandals.

The driveway was impressive if you were interested in that

sort of thing, lined on each side by huge oak trees that were

generations old. Their branches spread overtop, reaching for the

other side like a canopy, and I enjoyed the shade as I walked

toward the main house.

Several cars were parked beside a small outbuilding to the

right, and at the last minute, I paused, because I was pretty sure Mrs. Blackwell didn’t live in the main house anymore. I spied

a smaller place on the other side, set back a good twenty feet.

There were flowers planted in the front, beneath the veranda.

Purple and white petunias just like at my grandparents. Old

lady flowers.

I decided to start there first.

I dropped my bag on the bottom step, took the stairs two at

a time, and rang the doorbell. A few minutes passed and I rang

it again, this time pressing hard for several seconds. I could hear it echoing inside and took a step back.

“Shit,” I muttered, glaring at the door— like that was going

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to make it open. I was hot, sweaty, and didn’t exactly feel like

searching a freaking plantation for some creepy burial site.

One more minute ticked by before I decided that’s just what

I was going to have to do, when I heard a scuffling noise and the door swung open.

I’d just tied a bandana around my head to keep my hair out

of my eyes, and with a smile plastered to my face, I turned back

to greet Mrs. Blackwell.

Only it wasn’t Mrs. Blackwell who stepped out onto the porch.

It was a girl. I knew that much. How old was she? I couldn’t

say exactly, because in that moment, I couldn’t even tell you if

she was pretty or not.

I was way too focused on a pair of eyes that hit me in the

chest like a hammer against stone. The color was unusual— a

light gray/green— and sure, they were pretty damn striking,

exotic even, but it wasn’t the color or shape that got to me.

It was what I saw inside them. Something indefinable and yet

so familiar because it was like looking in the mirror, and my first thought as I stared back at her, my smile slowly fading away?

Man, that sucks.

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The boy who stood on the porch was sweaty and half naked and

not the old guy I was expecting. At all.

I suppose he was going for some kind of badass look with

a red bandana wrapped around his head and his jean shorts

hanging so low off his hips I could see the top of his boxers,

but seriously?

Did all guys think us girls really gave a crap what brand of

boxers they wore? Personally, I thought the whole look was

ridiculous and couldn’t imagine what it felt like to walk around

with your pants falling off. Uncomfortable maybe. Ridiculous

for sure.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt either, and I’m sure that’s why my

eyes automatically focused on his tattoo. It was interesting to

look at— exotic symbols in black ink— starting from the top of

his shoulder and traveling down to just above his bicep.

I had never wanted a tattoo, but the summer before my

world went into the toilet, I’d wanted a belly ring. Badly. All the BoysLikeYou.indd 15

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girls at school were getting them, and I didn’t think they came

close to tattoos on the trashy scale, maybe a seven out of ten, but my mother was horrified at the idea. Her comeback had been,

“that’s something you can think about when you’re old enough

to vote.”

End of story, because my dad is a wuss and always sided

with her.

“Hey,” he said.

I didn’t answer at first and moved so I could peek around

him, but there was no old guy and he seemed to be alone.

“Are you here for the fence?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, most likely because I came off

sounding rude. But in my defense, he was late and had inter-

rupted my nap. And these days, napping was a pretty important

part of my day. Too important, according to my parents, which

was one of the reasons they’d sent me to Gram’s for the summer.

In the city, they were at work and I was alone— free to sleep as

long as I wanted to and free to spend my days in pajamas.

Gram didn’t let me hang in my pajamas. She might not have

figured out how to make me brush my hair every day, but she

sure knew how to guilt me out of my pajamas.

“Who are you?” he asked instead of answering my question.

“Who are you?” I shot back.

“I asked first.”

Okay, what are we, like, five?

He scrubbed at his chin and sort of sighed. I got the impression

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that he wasn’t exactly in a great mood, but then I wasn’t either, so I guess we were even on that count.

I’m not sure how long we stood there, staring at each other

with only the buzzing of the bees in the honeysuckle to fill the

space between us. I shifted my weight, suddenly aware that my

hair hung down the back of my neck like a limp rag. A limp,

tangled rag that hadn’t been brushed in days.

“Monroe,” I finally answered.

“Monroe,” he repeated, as if he didn’t believe me.

I tugged my cami strap back into place.

“You have a problem with my name?”

He shook his head, “nope,” and ran his hand across the back

of his neck. I’m sure he did it because it pushed his chest out.

Pushed his chest out and emphasized his abs. Not that I was

looking or anything, but it was kinda hard not to notice when

he was so…naked.

“I’m just here to do a job.” He stood back. “Do you know

where the family bones are buried or not?”

I considered lying, but what was the point? Gram wouldn’t

be impressed, besides, it’s not like I had to stay out there and

keep him company. The sooner I showed him where the crypt

was, the sooner I could get back to the important business of

having a nap.

“Follow me.”

I pushed past him and waited for the door to slam shut

behind me before heading down the front steps and out to the

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back of the house. His supplies were set on the back porch,

and I waited for him to grab them— a paint can and a couple

of brushes— before following the stone path that led into the

fancy gardens.

Gram’s plantation is one of the fanciest in Louisiana.

A Greek revival, it’s been used in movies a few times, and

while I don’t find the house all that impressive— it’s old—