02 | distractions

ASHTON

Shit. I relapsed again, and I might as well be talking about a drug because Charlie's just as bad.

Rolling to the edge of her bed, my thoughts gather while she stirs. I shouldn't have slept here. Now it'll be a whole thing.

She speaks up once I've slipped my jeans on. "What time is it?"

"Dunno. Seven, maybe."

"Then get back in here." She flips the comforter up and exposes her naked body. Long, milky legs stretched out, that inked snake coiling down her slender thigh. She still looks good after an almost-sleepless night. I'll give her that.

"Tempting, but I gotta run."

"Why? We're going to the same place, we can just ride together."

I sit on the side of the bed to pull my frayed sneakers on. "I need to get home before my dad wakes up. He doesn't know I slept here."

"Ashton." Her arms wrap around my shoulders like cold tentacles. "You'd rather go home than stay here and fuck me?"

My misty brain considers it for a moment as her teeth nip my earlobe, but I shake the inviting image away. "I can't piss him off, Charlie. Not today."

Her whine splits the air and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I pull my shirt on before looking at her square in those icy blues.

"That was the last time. We're not doing it again."

She lets out a snort. "Feel like I've heard this before."

"I'm serious now. This, us... it's too much of a distraction." I grab my backpack off the floor, slinging it on. "Why am I even saying this? I told you weeks ago."

"Yet you keep coming back for more." She nestles into the pillows on the headboard, parting her knees enough for me to get a glimpse. "Hard to believe you're gonna give this up, just like that. Cold turkey."

"Yeah, well, time's up." I drag my eyes away from the bait, scooping up my skateboard. "So believe it."

❖❖❖

Skating through these wealthy-ass suburbs is always surreal. Big, fancy houses with vibrant grass that never seems to grow out of place, husbands in bathrobes fetching newspapers, pristine women sipping on coffee and peering out windows. Oh how the other half lives.

The fresh air whips through my hair and wakes me up in no time. I imagine Charlie burrowing back under those warm covers, replaying last night in her head. Thank god I didn't run into her parents on the way out. Not because I'm worried they'd be pissed or anything, but because they're the total opposite of how most parents would react to a guy sneaking out of their daughter's room.

The few times they've caught me short their attitudes are more like, 'You must be spent from plowing our daughter! Help yourself to some pancakes, ya little rascal!'. As someone who's had a shotgun pulled on me by a girl's father, it's bizarre how laid back they are in comparison.

But while Charlie's a decent lay, it's not serious with us. A couple hookups in high school spun into regular hookups over the summer, and that was that. It has to be over now, though. Distraction is the last thing I need this year.

In a picture-perfect neighborhood, a sudden image of imperfection catches my eye. Across the street, a girl is currently dragging two bulging trash bags on the sidewalk with so much difficulty it hurts to witness.

I scrape to a stop, folding my arms and watching with inexplicable intrigue. It could be the utter focus on her pretty, albeit strained face, that draws me in. Or the childish, cupcake patterned pajama pants a teenager is wearing, or the simple fact that her tank top is tight enough to show off a killer body.

Either way, I watch her struggle to the curb and rip a hole through one of the bags in the process; the contents spewing out onto the concrete. I expect her to give a huff of frustration. What I don't expect is the myriad of curse words and a hard kick to the trash can in a fit of unhinged rage to follow.

An involuntary grin comes over me as this girl fires off every filthy word in the English language, totally unaware she's not alone.

"Hey! Girl yelling at trash!" I call out, and she immediately spins around with wild eyes. "Try not to blow a fuse, cupcake."

The flush on her face deepens as her mouth opens and closes, searching for words.

"I'll—I'll have you know that I'm yelling at myself and not the trash!"

Bet that sounded better in her head.

If I had time, maybe I'd cross the street and help her out, chat her up, get a number. It doesn't take much. Christ, and minutes ago I was thinking about having no distractions. That fiery temper, that long, caramel hair and sun-kissed skin, that's enough on its own to distract me... imagine a conversation.

I chuckle and push off on my board. Good thing I won't be in this neighborhood again.

❖❖❖

My dad is thankfully still passed out on the couch when I get home. Loose chips on his stained shirt, empty beer cans on the floor. Typical Sunday night. Typical every night. Making him something for the inevitable hangover will put him in a good mood.

I comb through the sparse fridge and cupboards. Butter, eggs, half moldy bread. Egg fried sandwich it is. Scraping the mold off is a pain, but worth it if it prevents him from waking up in a shitty mood. I hear him grumbling when sizzling and buttery smells fill the room.

"Remember it's my first day, so I can't come to the shop later." He barely glances at me when I hand over the plate, fishing the TV remote from the crease between the cushions instead.

He nods to the static TV, and I give the top a smack. The thing is ancient.

"That's cool, right?"

Dad takes a lazy bite of the sandwich, his mood visibly improving. "Julian wants his car today."

"What? It's supposed to be Wednesday."

He scratches his thick stubble, looking me over. "Changed his mind. Just get it done this afternoon, man."

This is something he could easily take care of himself. Now I have to miss my shift at the gym, a third part-time job I picked up about a month ago. The pay isn't great as a cleaner, but the owner Lance lets me use the equipment after closing. I swear, that punching bag is as good as the therapy I'm probably in need of.

"Sure, yeah I'll have it ready."

I head for my room, but he calls me back. "Got a light?"

He sets the plate on the ring-stained coffee table, then catches my Zippo and tosses it back once he's lit his cigarette.

"Hold up. What's that?" He asks, tapping his neck. His gray eyes are settled on the same spot on my neck. Goddamnit, Charlie gave me a hickey. I know it.

Dad stands, his gaze glued to me as the tip of the cigarette glows. The skin on my forearms itches just looking at it.

"That from last night? Thought I told you not to bring sluts back here."

I hold his eye contact, my demeanor calm. "I didn't. It's from yesterday afternoon... she wanted it at the lake."

He mulls over my collected lie. My dad used to be able to tell when I lied as a kid, but it's second nature to me now. There's been a lot of practice.

A wide smile breaks over his chapped lips as he slaps my shoulder. "That's my boy."

❖❖❖

Nick is waiting for me in the parking lot of the culinary school. He's doing that impatient knuckle cracking thing that makes my skin crawl. It wouldn't surprise me if he's been here for an hour already.

He looks brighter than usual, charged. Jogging to catch up as I skate past him, he pushes me off the board and laughs when I stumble to avoid falling on my ass.

One of the positive perks of this next stage of life is that my oldest friend is going into it with me. Growing up in Cloverbrook, the culinary school is a constant presence in a kid's life. It's like this prestigious institute everyone wants to experience first-hand.

People trudge through school with this being their goal, and only a handful from my senior year actually made it. Nick was one of the lucky ones. Thank god, because I'd possibly lose my sanity without him here.

"We're finally here, dude." Nick rolls up the sleeves of his flannel as we walk through the main entrance. "Remind me what you said so eloquently at the bonfire again?"

I laugh, remembering my wasted-self running my mouth last week. "I'm gonna make this place my bitch. Something along those lines."

"Right, right. Still sticking with that declaration?"

"Course. Not like me to go back on something I said, is it?"

He clicks his tongue. "Nope, but it is like you to be overly cocky before you know what you're getting into."

"It's culinary school, Nick, not the damn army. What's there to get into?" I sling my arm over his shoulders. "It's not like this place can throw anything my way that hasn't hit me before."


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