I turned away from her and headed from the rain shower to the locker room shower, Lisa’s disappointed face already a thing of the past. I warmed up in the shower, talked to Clint a bit, grabbed my bag, and headed home. As I sped out of the parking lot, I noticed a beat up old Hyundai with a cute little brunette in the driver’s seat and decided to follow her home.
Holy fucking shit!
The Hyundai pulled into the driveway of none other than the town’s sheriff, Greg Skye. I didn't know if I should laugh or laugh harder. For one, the guy absolutely hated me, not so much because I got in trouble, but because I always got out of it on the few occasions I had been caught. Whether it was a speeding ticket, illegal parking, or a noise violation—I'd never had to pay for anything I had done. Not when Daddy was the sheriff’s boss. Definitely not. For the other…well…the guy did have a gun.
This was going to be interesting.
I didn't stop but just drove by a couple of times before heading home. My house was quiet and empty when I got there, so I cooked and devoured a pizza from the freezer, quickly finished up my homework, and then pulled out my sketchbook. I had a couple hours before Dad would be home, and I was almost done with the goalie picture. Just a few changes here and there—deepening the shades, softening the angles. When I was done, I pulled it out of the book and neatly trimmed the edges.
It actually looked pretty good, I thought. I narrowed my eyes at the paper, looking at it from different sides for a minute. I wondered if Ms. Mesut would like it…I mean, it was still a fucking soccer picture. Is that art? I shook my head a little before sticking it into my homework folder and placing everything into my book bag. I hauled the bag back downstairs and deposited it on the floor in the kitchen.
My phone started ringing, and I glanced at the name before answering.
“All fixed?”
“Yeah, he'll never ref in Oregon again, at least.”
“Good thing. Suspensions?”
“Wiped.”
“You rock.”
I hung up just as I heard the front door open.
“You fix your shit yet?” Dad called out from the foyer.
Good timing.
“Yeah, all good—no suspensions.”
“Good.” He dropped the mail on the kitchen table and started flipping through a carryout menu. “Homework?”
“Done.”
“Did you have a bunch of extra shit from those college prep classes?”
“Nah,” I said, “it's all good. I've already read the first book we're doing in English, and the biology stuff is mostly going to be lab work in school.”
“When the hell did you read a book?” he snapped. “You don't have time for that shit. I don't know why you're bothering at all. You aren't going to college. Pros or bust, asshole.”
“I know,” I said. I tried to walk out of the room, but he grabbed my arm.
“I asked you a fucking question,” he said. His cold blue eyes stared into mine. “I expect an answer. What book?”
“It's a Shakespeare class,” I mumbled.
“What the fuck, Thomas!” His grip on my arm tightened. I tried to keep my arm from flexing in order to ease the pressure because I knew that shit would just piss him off. I didn't need him angry.
“I figured it would be an easy A,” I told him.
“Little shit,” he grumbled. “Next, you'll be playing the fucking piano again like a pussy.”
My hands started to shake a little, and the tension crept up from my gut and down my arms. He released me, and I headed straight to the solace of my room. Along the way, I tried not to glance at the piano in the living room, but I couldn't help it. It sat there, lid down, as it had for the past six years. I locked my bedroom door, but the relief didn't last.
“Thomas! Get down here!”
Shit! What now?