Poughkeepsie Begins (The Poughkeepsie Brotherhood #0.5) (2 page)

Candy Cox

B
ACK
A
T
S
CHOOL
O
N
M
ONDAY
, Beckett was exhausted. Scaring the shit out of Dunns last night had taken far longer than he’d anticipated. The shithead had an angry cat, and while Beckett was happy to slap the crap out of a punk, he’d never hurt an animal—no matter how mean it was. In the end he’d gotten around it, and it seemed like Dunns had gotten the message, but damned if Beckett wasn’t sleeping while walking around today.

He slouched in his chair in the back of the room. English class was secretly his favorite—not enough to actually do the homework or any of that kind of bullshit, but the teacher had a bunch of spunk. And when she read out loud, he was fucking transported.

Lately she’d been reading to them—a book that made his veins pump. It was about a guy in jail setting up all his bullshit on the outside. He was taking licks but playing it smart. He had a plan.

Beckett had a ring of empty desks around him. That’s the way it was. It wasn’t like he was a fucking stinky bastard. But the other kids knew he was bad news. Trouble.

After Mrs. Drivens took roll, she asked for homework to be turned in. The kid two seats in front of him didn’t even bother turning around to collect his. Beckett looked at his notebook instead of his teacher’s disappointed face.

This damn school was going to be his last. He wasn’t looking to hurt anybody, but damn if shit didn’t make him mad. His notebook had the school logo on it. Free from the school. For needy kids. He was used to it. By his senior year of high school, he’d learned that teachers watched for kids like him. Kids that weren’t entirely sure how to pay for a field trip or an expensive book that was required reading. Not that he did the reading anyway. He’d lost count of the times he found a coat in his locker or gift certificate for a grocery store stuck in anonymously. They were good people. But it still pissed him off that his situation was so obvious.

His first memory as a child was standing in the freezing cold outside his mother’s apartment in his underwear. She’d said the word
Hell
just before she closed the door. It had started to rain. He’d been so damn young, it was crazy. Maybe four? He’d been going to a state-sponsored preschool. He’d loved the warm sweaters and the food they always had. Weekends had been hungry. School meant a full tummy.

The policeman who had finally picked him up and wrapped him in his very own coat had not been much of a talker. He’d sat Beckett in the front seat of his squad car and put the heat up full blast. Beckett remembered spreading his fingers in front of the hot air. It had hurt in reverse. Cold to hot was full of ouch. Through the rain-stained windshield he’d watched his mother yell in the face of the policeman—screaming about him.

“Nobody asked if I wanted the damn kid! No, I just fucking had him. Who worries about me?”

He’d been embarrassed that his underwear wasn’t white like the towel the policeman had used to dry his face.

His next flash was forward in time: the warm smell of bread baking, a fuzzy gray cat that licked his fingertips, a haircut that made him look
so handsome
according to the soft woman who worked at the salon.

Foster. He’d thought the mother’s name was Foster and the father’s name was Foster as well. Now he was fairly certain it had been about two months, but when he was a kid, it felt like forever. All the things they’d swaddled him with—affection, food, fresh sheets—had been new to him. They’d liked to keep him on a schedule. And he was a night owl, so he saw how often they came in throughout the evening to check on him—over and over, like he might melt away.

The teachers at preschool had been so proud of him, with his new backpack and his pictures of the kitty. And his smile. “I haven’t seen that kid smile since he’s been here. Let’s hope the courts get it right this time,” he’d heard one of them say.

The day Foster and Foster dressed him up and brought him to the church—No, it wasn’t. It was court—the woman Foster had had red eyes. She’d hugged him so much.

She’d started crying while talking to the man on the stage. Begging. Beckett had cried too when she started to beg.

“Please. He’s just our everything. Please.” Foster had gotten on her knees. Man Foster had picked Beckett up and put his other hand on Foster lady.

But the policeman of the court had taken Beckett away. He hadn’t been a talker either. The Fosters had been so sad.

Beckett’s mother had been in another room. She’d had a sideways smile when he entered. “I don’t want you, but they sure as shit can’t have you,” she’d said.

And that was that.

The teachers at the preschool had given him extra hugs when they saw him in the ragged clothes, the underwear that wasn’t white anymore. His hair had grown long, and his mother had left him on the front lawn again and again, but no one stopped her from doing it anymore.

Whatever the last straw had been, Beckett couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d had a break with reality like his boy Blake. Maybe he’d only screamed like his boy Cole. But however it had happened, he’d lost his mother. His next memory was traveling from one house to another, never settling for long. He was a handful, they always said.

Beckett stared at his desk in Mrs. Drivens’ class for a moment and closed his eyes. He supposed that term still applied to him—along with quite a few others. Everyone was seated and ten minutes into the homework review when the classroom door opened. All the kids looked up like animals in a zoo. He did too because curiosity and cats and all that nonsense.

She was pretty. And she was scared. He could read people, and that’s what he did. She had money. The backpack alone was worth a hundred dollars. The raven black hair had been cut at a salon. Nails manicured—either she was good at it or got it done.

Shoes were new looking. Short skirt, but not slut short. Soft cardigan. Several boys waggled their eyebrows at her. She had a nice rack.

Mrs. Drivens took her pass and welcomed her to the room. “Hey, guys, this is Candy Cox. Please make sure she’s feeling welcome.”

Beckett heard snickering around him, mixed with her name and some low wolf whistles. The unfortunately named Candy Cox blushed fast and pink. She rushed to the back of the room and sat down in the seat next to Beckett, her dark hair swishing.

Mrs. Drivens called the class back to order in a tone that said she was pissed. Everyone settled. A new girl in school was like a piñata at a party—everyone looking for a chance to hit on her. Poor Candy. Lucky him, he got to take the first swing.

He found a pencil on the floor next to him and jotted down a note:
Sorry about them. Welcome to Poughkeepsie East.

He slid the note to her. She looked shocked but finally glanced at him. He could see unease cross her pretty face: fancy girl slumming it next to the school stoner. He might as well wear a shirt that said
Back up and back off
.

Candy slid the note off her desk and into her lap. She was the most obvious note reader in the damn world. She tucked the note into her binder and nodded at the front of the room: good student paying attention.

That was that. By third period, four guys would pull her to the side and advise her to sit nowhere near him for the rest of her life.

She slid forward in her chair and held her head.

“And now I need you guys to break into pairs. We’re going to read chapters thirteen through fifteen and fill out the worksheet.”

Two guys got up and approached Candy. Mrs. Drivens cleared her throat. “Beckett can work with Candy.”

He picked up his desk while still sitting in it and waddled it over next to hers. “Don’t buy a lotto today,” he told her. “’Cause you just got seriously unlucky. I only read when someone else does it, and you just got here.”

He plopped his seat down and sat back, putting his sneakers up on the bar holding the table to the chair on her seat.

“What book is it?”

He pointed to the title on the worksheet Mrs. Drivens had just handed him.

Candy nodded. “I’ve read it. We’re cool.”

She began rubbing her head again.

“Headache?”

She winced like his words hurt. “Stress migraine. I get them when I go to a new school.”

The ambient noise in the room went up two or three levels as the groups began to talk.

“That happen a lot?” Beckett leaned over and rustled in his backpack. He had a book with the insides scooped out. He found the Excedrin quickly and palmed two. He ran a small pharmacy out of his bag for over-the-counter drugs. Girls would do a lot of interesting things to get their hands on a Midol at certain times. He pulled Candy’s hot pink water bottle out of her backpack and opened it.

“Here.” He slipped the pills into her hand.

She made a fist around them. “What’re these?”

“Headache meds.”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“Look, they have the name brand printed on them.”

Candy did her sneaky best to take the pills. After she choked them down, she gave him a hard look. “That stuff is not allowed in school.”

“Taking that stuff is not allowed without a doctor’s note, so looks like we’re both sinners.” He winked at her.

“So you’re, like, the school CVS?” She took the worksheet and printed her name on it with lovely handwriting.

“Something like that.” He bit his bottom lip while thinking about hers.

She passed the worksheet and her pencil to him. He jotted down his name in chicken scrawl. When she took it back, she laughed, her pretty pink tongue touching her teeth.

“Did I write something funny?” He liked her laughter, but got a spike of butt-hurt, worried she was judging his poor handwriting.

“No, I couldn’t remember if the teacher said your name or not, so this was my subtle trick to find out what it is. And it’s not going great.” She rubbed her temple again.

He crowded as close to her as he could with the furniture between them. He touched the top of her non-rubbing hand and pointed to the spot between her index finger and thumb. “I’m Beckett. Press this right here. Like, hard. It helps.”

“What are you, the Poughkeepsie witch doctor or something?” She tried what he said.

“Nah. Nothing like that. I just remember shit. Like this shit here?” He pointed at the classwork between them. “I can’t do that shit. But I remember stuff. Like that that part of your hand is an acupuncture pressure point and can help with fucking headaches.”

Candy pursed her lips and tried again at what he was explaining. He watched her for a minute, thinking about how soft her fucking skin was. He wanted feel all of it. He shook his head at her gentle attempts.

“Here, let me.” He pressed hard on her hand and watched her eyes.

When he was nine years old he’d had another foster mother who might have been his favorite. She was pretty, smelled good, and when he walked into a room like the little punk he was, she would light up for him.

Eight months in, she began having headaches. They’d grown worse and worse. She would retreat to her room, keeping the shades pulled down tight. He’d brought her medicine when she asked, careful to walk a full water glass up the stairs without dropping a bit. She’d told him about the pressure point while he watched her one morning.

He didn’t know it then, but he knew it now. She’d been struggling to parent him around her illness. He’d applied the technique he was using on Candy to his foster mom the night he left.

The night they took him. She’d been in her room again, shades pulled tight. She’d been crying, and that tore at his heart.

The social worker who stood in the doorway that night had been a kind one. He’d had a million. Beckett had become a great listener, picking up on cues. He knew from his foster mom’s whispered phone calls that she had cancer. He’d pressed on her hand and hoped it could fix her. He’d cried when he was taken to the car to leave.

It was the last time he’d cried over leaving a home. When he was transferred to yet another foster home when he was ten—this time for fighting in school—he’d requested his favorite foster mom again, hoping she was better. That social worker had told him unceremoniously that she was dead.

Back in the present, he saw Candy’s eyes soften, as if she could see his memories. He let go of her hand and sat back. She took over and nodded. “This does help.”

“Yeah. Until the meds kick in. It should.” He tapped her pencil on the desk.

Mrs. Drivens stood when the assistant principal poked his head in the classroom.

One of the dumbass Westlake kids from the locker room last week came sauntering up under the guise that he was going to sharpen his pencil. It already had a perfect point.

He paused near Beckett and Candy. This wasn’t the guy Beckett had visited over the weekend, but maybe he should have been. Asshole. Beckett tried to find the fucker’s name in his brain’s back corners and fought a losing battle. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Hi, Candy. I’m Zyler.”

Fucking Zyler.
Beckett rolled his eyes.

“I see you fell in with a bad crowd already. It’s my civic duty to tell you this scumbag is a drug dealer. And a delinquent. And an asshole.”

Normally the guy would be choking on Beckett’s fist by now. But he was trying to keep things quiet for Candy’s headache, so he just covered his mouth and shook his head.

Candy looked from him to Zyler and back again. “Nice to meet you.”

Zyler seemed to have every intention of settling into the seat in front of Candy when Mrs. Drivens’ voice rang out. “Zyler, you better have a broken pencil.”

Beckett watched as the boy pressed on the tip until it broke before showing it to the teacher.

“Of course, ma’am.” Zyler patted Candy’s desk twice before heading up to the sharpener.

Beckett looked down at his fingers. He was used to being judged. Sometimes he deserved it. But not from that schmuck.

Candy tapped her pencil on his desk. “Thanks.”

He looked at her. Her eyes were captivating—one green, one blue, he noticed now that he was looking close. Her dark lashes were crazy long—like, princess long. He inhaled. She smelled like peaches, for fuck’s sake.