Will's Story Read online

  DEDICATION

  To my brother, Ken—one of the good guys.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from No Place to Fall Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Excerpt from Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit One

  Two

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Jaye Robin Brown

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Blue lights flash

  A girl by my side

  My brain’s half-baked

  What a hell of a ride

  The patterns in my textured ceiling aren’t doing their usual “let the buzz die by finding hidden faces” trick. All I can think about is Amber Vaughn walking home on the shoulder of the road as I three pointed the hell away from the blue lights flashing in front of her house.

  Shit. Smooth, Will.

  Amber Vaughn is not my girlfriend. But Amber Vaughn is the one I just had sex with. What’s even worse, or at least right up there with cheating on your actual girlfriend, I didn’t bother to drive her to her door. I let her out on the curb like a piece of trash. To be fair to myself, I really didn’t expect any of it to happen. It was just a ride home, a moment to chill. I mean, the girl had been given a detention on the first day of school. I was only trying to cheer her up by driving to the bald, pulling out my banjo, lighting the pipe. In the two years we’ve known each other, never once have we tried to hook up.

  I groan. And grin. Then . . .

  Fuck. My brother will hate me for treating his best friend like that.

  It was a panic move, pure and simple. If that deputy parked in her driveway had figured out I was stoned and word got back to my dad, the shit would fly fast and furious and my life would be screwed. It’s bad enough having concerned parents but add in the paternal career choice of judge and you are doomed to a life of great expectations and people, specifically those dreaming of their own day on the ballot, up in your business.

  Screwed.

  I close my eyes and think about the earlier part of the afternoon. The way Amber’s voice tangled with my banjo chords. The way her body felt knitted up next to mine. That moment of no return or better yet, her moment of consent, and damn, my lucky right hand travels south more than ready to let me relive the best part of my day.

  Devon flings open the door.

  “Dude!” I yank my hand back.

  “Were you . . . ?” Devon laughs until he sees my face. He steps into the room and shuts the door. “What the hell, man. You’re stoned? On the first day of school? Are you trying to end up grounded till you graduate?” He throws his soccer bag into the bathroom that connects our rooms.

  If I was brave, I’d tell him right now. Bro, me and your friend Amber? Well, we went up to the bald, played some music, talked a little, smoked a little, and well, she’s pretty cool and one thing led to another and . . .

  “Did you give Amber a ride home?”

  What the hell? Is this brother mind meld or something?

  He quickly clarifies. “Plain and Small, I mean.” His specificity is needed. My girlfriend, the one I haven’t done the deed with, is also named Amber.

  I scoot up against the pillows and grab my banjo from its stand. I’m not sure why my brother calls his Amber, Plain and Small. She’s anything but. The girl has a voice like Patsy fucking Cline and a body that doesn’t quit. But Devon would never notice that body, not his thing. I run the first phrase from “Dueling Banjos.” “Yeah, man, you told me to, right?”

  “Jesus, Will. I hope you weren’t baked.”

  “Quit being Captain Safety, Dev. Anyway, me being baked is the least of that girl’s worries right now.”

  “What are you talking about?” My brother folds into my desk chair, I guess making himself comfortable to hear me play.

  I pick out a little rhythm, finding comfort in the twang that my friends in our old Raleigh neighborhood love to mock. My guitar was cool. This banjo, not so much. Should I tell Devon the whole story? Shit. I can’t. The other Amber, my Amber Rose, will be furious. More than furious, she’ll be hurt. And Devon won’t let me take my time to figure out what to do. He’ll push me into a breakup or honesty or something that will have her crying and me feeling like the most colossal dick on the planet.

  “Her sister was in the process of getting arrested when I dropped her off.”

  “What?” Devon scoots forward in the chair.

  I shrug. “Yeah, cop car, lights flashing, handcuffs, the whole nine yards.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  He pulls out his phone and I freeze. Is there a chance Not So Plain and Small will tell Devon about what she and I did?

  Like some kind of mad karma, my phone rings. My Amber. Amber Rose Slagle, the girl who, for whatever reason, sees me as something more than a fuckup, is waiting for me to answer. And I cheated on her. Granted, our relationship is pretty brand-new, but I never thought I’d be that guy. I’m relieved when Devon gets up and heads to his own room to give me privacy.

  I stare at the phone. To answer or not to answer. Crap. The sooner I talk to her, the easier it will be. Whatever that means.

  “Hey.”

  “Whatcha doing?” Amber Rose is pretty much the cheeriest girl on the planet. And why wouldn’t she be. She’s got an amazing family, she’s gorgeous, she makes decent grades without trying, and already knows exactly who she wants to be in life. I’m still kind of flabbergasted she agreed to go out with me.

  “Nothing much. Messing with my instrument.”

  “Will!”

  I grin. It wasn’t what I meant, but her reaction is pretty perfect. “My banjo, Amber Rose.”

  She giggles and the shit feelings hit me square in the gut. No girl deserves a douche boyfriend. I try to bring the confession to my lips. I beg off the call instead. “Hey listen, can I call you later? My mom needs my help in the other room.”

  My life, which I’d been boo-hoo’ing to her about the day on the lake when we first connected, is finally turning a corner. Dad, though still convinced I’m a fuckup because of my unfortunate tangle with that dealer, Sammy, is only seventy-five percent pissed at me now. I’ve got a girlfriend my parents approve of, and except for the occasional slow burn on a Monday afternoon, I really am steering clear of anything but recreational relaxation.

  So why the hell did I hook up with Amber Vaughn?

  She’s been hanging out with Devon for two years, and yeah, I mean, sure I’ve noticed her, how could I not? But it’s been in more of a “you’re my brother’s cool friend” way, than in a “let’s talk about you and me” way.

  Today was a fluke.

  Had to have been.

  CHAPTER TWO

  An old country tune

  A wide gym door

  Got to open your eyes

  To see what’s in store

  Spanish class and I can’t stop thinking about the wrong Amber. In the commons before the bell, the right Amber’d had her hand tucked into my back pocket, her slender body snugged up against my arm. Then, the wrong Amber walked by, confident and self-assured. All soft and curvy. Sexy as hell. I need to breathe that thought away or I won’t be a
ble to walk to the assembly.

  But who am I kidding? When Amber Vaughn stopped and pivoted. When I thought for sure she was going to call me out right there in the commons, all she did was lift her chin, crack a smile, and say, “May the Force be with you.” There was no longing on her face. No wish for me. Nothing at all to make me believe that the thing yesterday had meant anything. Not that she’s one of those girls who hooks up like that for regular weekday kicks. She and Devon have been friends for too long and I’ve heard Dev talk about their ongoing and seemingly unsuccessful search for love. As far as I know, neither one has seen much action and I’ve never really seen her dating anybody.

  So what was yesterday about? I don’t know but I thought I’d be able to read something on her face when I saw her today. Figure out my next move. But if she’s acting like it was no big deal, pretty much ignoring me if the truth be told, maybe I should drop it. Maybe she regrets it.

  Maybe I sucked.

  I drop my head into my hands and circle my thumbs on my temples as Mr. Martinez drones on about irregular verbs. This is messed up. I under-the-desk text Amber Rose.

  Hey, meet me at the doors to the gym

  It’s almost time for our assembly, this cool college access day where schools come and set up booths and stuff. Her reply is immediate.

  :) !

  Sure enough, she’s waiting on me when I get downstairs and any unpure thoughts I’d had about Amber Vaughn get pushed to the side. Amber Rose wraps her arm through my elbow and does that thing where she hugs up against me. I notice a few people looking our way which doesn’t help my confusion. Her dating me, well, it’s fixing my stoner loner reputation. And though you couldn’t have told me I’d ever care about my rep, it honestly feels kind of good to be accepted by the locals.

  Two years ago, when we’d first moved to Sevenmile, aka Podunkia, I’d been freaked. Then pissed. Then downright angry. Figured as long as Dad was going to make us live out in the back of beyond, I might as well stay fucked up. I’d tried to get Devon to spiral down into stoner-dom with me, but he’d found Amber Vaughn, and even though being gay sure as hell hasn’t been easy in a town this small, having her as a best friend seemed to make it all right for him. Me? I chose to stay baked. And I’d bought the banjo. It was an ironic gesture that—in its own fit of irony—bit me in my latent bluegrass-loving ass.

  The thing about Amber Rose is she’s definitely a got-it-together kind of girlfriend. Bringing her home to meet the ’rents was the first glimmer of forgiveness from my dad for my tangle with the local felons. And now I’ve pretty much fucked it up before it’s even really started. What kind of asshole cheats?

  “Which college tables do you want to go to?” Amber Rose interrupts my thoughts, sliding her arm from my elbow to lace her fingers with mine.

  “I don’t care. You?” The gym’s crowded. Mostly small private colleges, a few state schools, all giving away free stuff.

  “Jess said they have cool water bottles at the ETSU table. And I definitely want to stop by and say hi at the Lees-McRae table.” Amber Rose has no doubt in her mind where she’s going, Lees-McRae, or what she’s studying, physical therapy. I like that about her, the confidence and self-assuredness. So maybe we don’t have a whole lot in common besides our palms touching, but I’m going to roll with it. Besides, from the way Amber Vaughn didn’t look at me this morning, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to be a thing.

  We load up on key chains and sticky notes at the Lees-McRae table. The admissions officer uses the “boyfriend/girlfriend” tactic on me, and under Amber Rose’s hopeful smile, I take his packet of information. At the ETSU table, Amber Rose jumps right in to get what she wants. “Water bottles?”

  “Sorry.” The guy manning the booth is a chino-wearing, bandana-less, Willie Nelson-looking dude. “We ran out a few minutes ago.”

  “Come on.” Amber Rose tugs on my hand but I’ve spotted something behind the table near the guy’s stuff.

  “You play?” I nod my chin toward the case sitting on the floor.

  The guy smiles and pulls a well-worn cherrywood fiddle out of the case. “Like a damn obsessed fool. You?”

  I take a step forward. “Yeah, banjo.”

  The guy tucks the fiddle under his chin and raises his bow, slipping into a sweet little G minor scale.

  Amber gives another tug on my hand. I let go and step even closer to the table. “‘Man of Constant Sorrow’?”

  The guy breaks out into a grin. “You got that, huh? So you really play.” It’s not so much a question as a confirmation. “Here.” He pulls a sheaf of papers from a stack. “Our Appalachian Studies program. We have a minor in country, bluegrass, and old-time music, but with any luck it’s about to become a four-year major. You interested?”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Amber Rose twisting her hair, but this feels as important as Lees-McRae is to her. “Totally.”

  The guy hands me a card. “I’m Beau Raskin. Some students do a little open mic thing on Sunday afternoons at the Fiddle Picker in Bristol. Come on by and bring your instrument. See what it’s all about. If you’re interested in the program, your guidance counselor can help you with the paperwork.”

  “Cool.” I slide his card into my wallet and fold over the paperwork he handed me, tucking it into my back pocket. “Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Will. Will McKinney.”

  The guy shakes my hand with one and claps my shoulder with the other. “Good to meet you, Will. Look forward to hearing you play.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Your sweet cry

  The way you feel

  Five smooth strings

  It’s my real deal

  “Come on,” I plead. “Ride up there with me.” Amber Rose is not caving to my pressure.

  “Will. I can’t. We go back to church at five. My parents won’t let me go.”

  That was one of the weirdest things for me when we moved to Sevenmile. In Raleigh, people were religious, but not RELIGIOUS. Here, it was one of the first questions people asked me, where do you go to church? Mom made sure we fit in, but what she hadn’t checked was which branch of Christianity was the right one. I’m cool with it though. The Presbyterian church we attend only requires once-a-week services, unlike all the local Baptists who go Wednesday nights and practically all day on Sundays. Sometimes you can have too much of a good thing.

  Devon is my next stop after I get off the phone.

  “You want to go with me to this music thing up in Bristol?”

  “Can’t. Me and Kush are headed out to the park for a pickup game. Want to come with us instead?”

  I give Devon the look.

  “What?”

  “He’s straight, you know.”

  “God, Will.”

  “What? I know your signs. You get all manic and spend a bazillion hours making your hair look the right amount of mess. You even jones over which socks to wear with your cleats. I’m just saying, I don’t think the new kid is your flavor.”

  “Whatever. I’m pretty sure my instincts are more honed than yours.”

  I hold up my hands. “’Kay. Just don’t come crying to big bro when he blacks your eye.” Which is a lie. Anybody messes with Devon and I will be the kick on their ass.

  In the living room, Dad stops me for the third degree.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Going to play music at a coffee shop in Bristol. It’s called the Fiddle Picker. I’ll be home for dinner.” Part of this new leaf I’ve turned is no more lying to my parents. Omit, maybe. Like the part where this is a bunch of folks from ETSU, not Carolina, my dad’s college of choice for me.

  “No funny business.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Six months ago, when Dad confronted me about the prescription bottle they’d found in that weed dealer, Sammy’s, car, I’d lied. Told him I don’t know how it ended up there. It wasn’t like it was serious narcotics, just an old bottle of Adderall. And it was empty when a cop fo
und it during the traffic stop. Lucky for me, lucky for Sammy, because my dad is not the kind of father who uses his position to garner favors. He’s the kind of dad who would have thrown my butt in the slammer to teach me a lesson . . . and he saw straight through my lie. Dad totally nailed it when he guessed I’d traded that old prescription for something more to my stoner tastes. But because he had no proof, I didn’t get jail time, or even lose my car. I just got a massive lecture, three weeks of house arrest, and a warning that if there was a next time, the Honda was gone. I’m still on papa probation. Every conversation comes with a look and a warning.

  “Have a nice time, son.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  I open the hatchback and gently lay the banjo case inside. It’s about an hour and fifteen minutes over the mountain, but I like the drive. The Avett Brothers’ “Incomplete and Insecure” comes on the mix and at first I’m listening to Seth’s finger rolls but then the lyrics start working their way in. It’s me. Waiting to start my life. Waiting to figure it out. When the line comes on about watching you and figuring it out, it’s not my parents or Devon or Amber Rose that pops into my head. It’s Amber Vaughn. What would it be like to play music with her again? Songs fly into my head that would work. Her vocals, my banjo, maybe Devon’s guitar. If I hadn’t screwed things up the other day by hooking up with her, I might have had Devon call her, see if she wanted to come along. But now, it’d be awkward as hell.

  Takes me a few wrong turns, but eventually I find the place. It’s an old gas station, fifties-style, that’s been converted but not really cleaned up. Low-key and gritty. The nearby parking lot is about half full. Most of the cars have music-themed bumper stickers. Through the big plate-glass window I see a few guys I know from this local rock band, Flat Trucker, and a bunch of other musicians I’ve never met before, gathered in a loose circle of chairs.

  I wipe my hand on my jeans, then push open the door. The guy from the college fair, Beau, sees me and motions me over, pointing out a deep upholstered chair to his right. I sink into the cushions. The couple on my left—a bearded guy and his girlfriend, a skinny brunette melted onto his lap—acknowledge me with smiles. When the fiddler and guitarist who were playing end their tune, Beau introduces me.