Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (2 page)

His gaze darkens. “Yeah, I know.” He waves his hand dismissively. “She was a slut. She’s sucked half the dicks in the entire school. I don’t know what I was thinking, dating her ho ass.”
 

“I don’t either.”
 

He snorts. “You fucked her too, man.”
 

I shrug. “Well yeah, I mean she’s hot—slutty, but hot. I ain’t about to turn down easy pussy.” I point at Preston, who is on the ground, clutching his nose, writhing. I’m bleeding too, but I just let my shit bleed. “Now
his
girl, man…she was tight as hell. I’m not sure he ever actually tapped that ass, it was so tight.”

“She bleed?” Brady asks.

I shake my head. “Nah. Not that I noticed.”
 

“You know what? Whatever. I don’t care.” A shrug. “Like I said, I’m good, man. You come at me, I’ll take you down. But I’m good if you are.”
 

I’m not that much of a glutton for punishment that I’m willing to ignore the olive branch he’s offering. “Tell your pussy-ass friends to leave me alone.”
 

He turns away from me, ignores me, and then helps his friends get up.
 

I grab my backpack and jog away. Fuck that. Fuck them.
 

I make it to the end of my street before I slow down. My T-shirt is soaked with the blood that is still sluicing out of my nose. My eye is swelling shut, and I’m pretty sure my lip is split wide open. I run my tongue over the stinging lump on my lip; sure enough, I taste blood. Shots to the face hurt, man. I can take body shots all day long and not be fazed, I’ve packed on so much muscle over my torso that someone has to really hammer hard to get through. But there’s no way to toughen up your face. Your lips will split open. Your eyes will swell shut and turn black—and then yellow and purple and green. Teeth will get loosened. Nothing you can do about that shit.

Okay, maybe I lied: my fucking stomach hurts like a bitch, man.
 

But I’ve learned all this the hard way. I’ve been in lots of fights this year, which accounts for the nearly dozen suspensions I’ve had since September. I’m a big guy naturally. At seventeen, I stand six foot three in my socks. I work out a lot, because what else is there to do in this bullshit little town? So I’m pretty fucking ripped, which invites trouble, especially when you add in the fact that my attitude leaves something to be desired. Basically what I’m saying is, I’m fresh out of shits to give, seeing as I’ve got all I can handle just trying to pass my classes and keep my dad off my ass.
 

I cross through backyards, hop fences and sneak into my house via the back door. All is quiet. There is no sign of Dad or Mom, so I take the time to grab a bag of frozen peas, a can of Coke, and a handful of those crunchy peanut butter granola bars that end up leaving a pile of crumbs with every bite.
 

I almost make it to my room. Almost.

“Colton? Honey, is that you?” Mom is calling from the hall bathroom.
 

“Yeah.” I shove my bedroom door open. “Got a lot of homework. I’ll grab dinner later.”

She’s after me, though. I turn away as she approaches, pretending to dig in my bag so she won’t see my face.
 

“You sure you can’t come down for dinner?”she asks as she stands in the doorway to my room. “It’ll be ready in less than fifteen minutes. We’re eating early ’cause Kyle is going to a pool party with his baseball team tonight.”
 

I shrug. “Nah.” I lift the granola bar. “I’m good.”
 

“You can’t eat just a granola bar for dinner, Colton.” Mom still hasn’t spotted anything…maybe I’ll be able to avoid the have-you-been-fighting-again bullshit after all.

“Sure I can. Lots of homework to do. I’ll be down later, Ma.” I toss a history book on my desk, kick the chair back and sit down. As I hunch over it I see that blood is dripping onto the book—
pit-pit-pit-pit-pit
.
 

She sees it. Damn. “Colt? Are you okay? Are you bleeding?”
 

“Just bumped my nose. No big deal.” There’s a box of Kleenex on the desk. I wad up a handful and stuff it against my nose. “I’m fine.”
 

“Let me see.” She grabs my shoulder and turns me around. Gasps. “Oh my god! Colton Henry Calloway! What the hell happened to you?”
 

“Nothing. I’m fine, really.” I jerk away, turn around, and glance at the history book that sits unopened, a silent reminder of the fact that I can’t fucking read.
 

“Were you in
another
fight?” She kneels beside me and we are face to face. She prods my nose and my eye. Her hands smell like onions and fancy hand soap, and I can’t help but notice the pain and concern in her eyes.

“You’re getting bleach on me, Ma. You’re not helping.” I pull my face away. “I’m fucking fine.”
 

“Watch your language, Colton. What
happened
?”
 

“It’s nothing, I handled it. I’m fine.” I need to move, to do something.
 

I grab my backpack and start yanking shit out of it. Which, stupidly, includes the report card.
 

“You got your report card?” Seeing it lying on the desk, she reaches for it.

I want to snatch it away, rip it up. But I don’t. “Yeah.”

I dab at my nose with the red, sodden ball of Kleenex. I try to ignore her and pretend I don’t care. I ignore her as she opens it, ignore her as she unfolds the paper and reads it. I ignore the way her shoulders begin to sag.
 

“I thought you were going to do better this semester, Colton?”
 

“So did I.” I hurl the blood-soaked wad of tissue across the room.
 

It splats wetly against my closet door, leaving a reddish-pink trail on the white wood as it slides down and hits the floor.

Mom watches this happen. “Really, Colton? That’s disgusting.” She waves the report card. “I’m sorry to say it, but your father is going to be—”

I rip the paper from her and wad it up, chuck it angrily away.
“Very disappointed,”
I finish for her, mimicking my father’s stentorian voice. “I know. What a fucking surprise
that
will be.”
 

“Colton—”

“Is he home?”
 

“Yes, but I think—”

“Mom, I think you should go find something else to do.” I walk across my room, un-crumple the report card and push past her. “You’re not going to want to listen to this.”
 

“Maybe you should wait until after dinner—”

“He’s not going to be any less disappointed in me on a full stomach, Ma.”
 

She just sighs. “Maybe you should change your shirt first?”

I glance down. My Rage Against the Machine T-shirt is heavily stained with my blood. I shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
 

Since there’s nothing more she can say, she lets me go in silence.
 

Dad is down in his office, which is no surprise: on the occasions when he’s at home, the great senator is always in his office working.
 

A public servant’s work is never done, son
, he’ll say.
 

Yeah, well, neither is a father’s, but what do I know?

I hate his goddamned office. The French doors from the foyer open inward, revealing a battleship of a desk. It’s made of polished dark wood, spotless but for a few things: computer, keyboard, mouse, a desktop blotter/calendar, and a fancy silver pen in a stand. Bookshelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with hardcover copies of classic literature along with four-inch-thick law tomes in equal number. Thick pile carpeting underfoot. Blinds drawn to keep the room cool and in constant shadow. An antique vinyl record player sits under his framed degrees from U of M, Brown, and Harvard. Yeah, he’s got an Ivy League doctorate, but he doesn’t talk about it very often. He doesn’t go by Dr. Calloway. He’s humble that way.

As I enter the room I see his face is lit by the computer screen, a whitish glow on his classically handsome features; he’s a real silver fox, my pops. Even home on break, he’s dressed nice enough to stroll into any five-star restaurant. Pressed and creased tan slacks, crisp white button-down, slim navy tie.
 

We couldn’t be any more different. I’m in baggy khakis—which have blood, ink, and oil on them—and a bloodstained rock band T-shirt. I’ve got tattoos on my biceps and on my forearms. I’ve got diamond studs in my ears. My hair is shaggy, uncut, messy, and sweaty.
 

Shit, my eye is black, my lip is split, and my nose is crusty with dried blood.
 

He glances up at me, frowns. “Don’t bleed on my carpet, son.”
 

“Yeah, thanks, I’m fine.” I cross the carpet, lift the hem of my T-shirt and dab at my nose with it—the shirt comes away dry, so I guess I’m not bleeding anymore. “Here.” I toss the report card on his desk and turn to go.
 

“Wait.” It’s a command, the sharp crack of a man accustomed to being listened to.
 

I stop with my hand on the doorknob, hearing the paper crinkle as he smooths it out on his desk. I can see the motion in my mind’s eye, palm sliding over the paper, pressing it against the desk compulsively; he hates mess, hates things out of order. Everything I am, basically.

“This isn’t acceptable, Colton.” He says this with a long-suffering sigh. “We agreed you were going to apply yourself this final semester.”

I don’t bother arguing. I don’t bother pointing out how many hours I’ve spent in my room, studying, doing homework. I
have
applied myself. I guaran-fucking-tee you I’ve worked harder than anybody else in the entire school. I’ve worked my ass off just to get
those
grades. But he doesn’t see that. He doesn’t care.

“Calculus, C plus. Not bad.” Of course he’s going to go over every single grade, and make a snarky-ass comment about each one. And I just have to stand here and take it. I’m shaking with anger. Ten more seconds. I’ll listen to his fucking bullshit for ten more seconds and then I’m out of here. “History of Western Civilization, D-minus. Barely passed that one. Fundamentals of Reading and Comprehension, E-minus. Lowest grade there is. I mean, it takes talent to get a grade that low. Jesus, Colton. How do you manage that? It’s baffling.”

“By being fucking
dyslexic
?” I spin back to face him, palms slapping on his fancy-ass desk. “What part of that don’t you get, cocksucker? I—
cannot
—
READ
! It doesn’t matter how hard I try—and I fucking swear on your dead mother’s soul I’ve worked like a dog my entire life—I’ll never be able to read the way you can. It’s not laziness, there’s something wrong with my brain that can’t be fixed.”
 

“You’re just lazy. You’re blaming your failure on a minor disability that could be easily overcome if you cared to apply yourself.” He’s not even fazed by my shouts, doesn’t even hear me. My vulgar insult doesn’t register. He’s used to them by now. “Let’s see…Human Anatomy, C. Independent Study in Advanced Automotive Repair, A plus. Economics, D.”
 

I twist the knob and pull open the door. “Finished?”
 

He stands up; I hear casters rolling on the plastic mat underneath his chair. “No, I’m not finished.”

“Too fucking bad. I don’t wanna hear any more.” I haul ass for the back door, for the old barn at the back of the property.
 

He follows me. “Get back here, Colton Calloway. I have more to say to you.”

“You always have more to say, you old windbag. I quit giving a shit a long time ago.” I turn and walk in silence across the manicured backyard, through the hedge and into the stand of woods hiding the barn that is my workshop.
 

I feel him behind me but I don’t bother looking back. I hover over the combination lock securing the only door to the barn, twist it to the correct numbers, and yank it free. I push aside the latch, squat, and shove up the roll-up door. I switch on the lights, which flicker-flicker-flicker, then catch with a hum, bathing the workshop in a fluorescent white glow. The exhaust system for the Camaro is laid out in pieces on the workbench. A brand new Flowmaster American Thunder. Once this bitch is on my Camaro, it’ll be even more powerful and a shitload louder. This baby will snarl like a damn lion. Not as good as a custom exhaust system would be, but that’s a little out of my reach just yet.

I go to work, pull the cover off the Camaro, toss it aside, grab the tools I’ll need along with one of the exhaust parts, then I lay down on my roller board. I slide under the Camaro, which is pulled up onto a set of blocks to allow for a few more inches of clearance.
 

Dad just watches me for a while. “If only you could apply yourself to school the way you do this car.” He sounds honestly morose. Sad.

I don’t stop working. “It’s not about applying myself, Dad. If I wasn’t applying myself, those grades would all be E’s. If I wasn’t applying myself, I’d be captain of the football team. I’d be playing ball with my friends right now—shit, if I wasn’t applying myself, I’d
have
friends. If I wasn’t applying myself, I wouldn’t spend four or five hours a day on fucking homework. I don’t go to bed until after two in the morning, Dad. Doing homework. And then I’m up again at eight, and I spend my lunch breaks in the library, studying. I see a tutor on Wednesdays…” I trail off with a sigh. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He knows all about it. He just doesn’t care. “I’m fucking trying. I’m sorry my best isn’t ever going to be good enough for you.”

“You spend all your time in here, working on this car.”
 

“Because it’s the only thing in my life that I actually enjoy. It’s what I’m good at.”
 

“But you’re a Calloway. You’re
my
son.”
 

“Nothing wrong with working a trade, Dad. I can take apart an engine and put it back together with my eyes closed. I can name every single part of a car, from bolts to headers. I can custom tune any car you put in front of me.”