Rev (2 page)

I STRETCH MY
legs out beneath my aging desk and eye the olive-colored rotary phone with great disdain. With a
quick look down at the paper with the name GRADY, CHEYENNE in the top left corner, and the student’s personal information below, I blow out a frustrated breath. I’ll give her father one more call before I give up.

Cheyenne Grady is a senior at Fort Bragg High School, where I am a secretary. We don’t have any permanent guidance counselors—rather, we rely on administrative personnel such as myself to aide the student body as best we can. When we can’t, the county’s traveling counselor will come in and help out. Unfortunately, after Cheyenne’s last meeting with the guidance counselor went south, he refused to schedule another meeting and instructed me to, “Figure it out.”

Up until last spring, Cheyenne was a solid B student. For reasons I haven’t been able to ascertain, her grades plummeted, she started cutting class, and her attitude has gone from mildly sour to just plain spiteful. And of course, Mr. Beck, our principal, saw fit to assign me Cheyenne Grady— his least experienced staff member with, in his opinion, his second-biggest problem student. Thankfully, my supervisor gets the honor of taking on Jeremy Whelan, the real thorn in Mr. Beck’s side.

I should have known something was up when he asked me if I knew Cheyenne’s dad. I said I didn’t, and Mr. Beck smiled so wide I thought his face was going to split in two. Like I said, I should have known then.

Since taking on Cheyenne’s case, I’ve followed protocol to the best of my understanding and thus have contacted
Mr. Grady seven times over the last several months. Twice his voice mail was full, so I sent letters to the residence listed. Once he hung up on me before I could even get halfway through introducing myself. The rest of the times I’ve left messages that he hasn’t returned. To his credit, he did return one of my calls where the only words he spoke were to ask if Cheyenne was safe. When I said she was, he hung up and didn’t answer when I tried to call him back.

N
ow, after five meetings with Cheyenne since last spring, and with zero improvement in her grades, I’m forced to contact Mr. Grady again. I’ve called twice and he hasn’t answered. According to Mr. Beck, it’s imperative that I get his signature to allow Cheyenne entry into the counseling program, which allows students to make up assignments and missed classes during Saturday school. If he doesn’t sign the form and things don’t change soon, she’ll be forced to attend the local continuation school outside of town that has an eleven percent graduation rate. When I first met her, she talked about going to culinary school at length, but these last several months she’s mentioned it maybe twice. Without a high school diploma or a GED, she won’t be able to enter a vocational program – and I don’t want that for her. No matter how big of a pain in the ass she is, I kind of adore the kid. She’s smart and funny, and when she’s in a good mood, she’s really kind. I can’t help but think that something’s going on at home that leads her to such self-destructive behavior.

A sharp knock rattles on my desk. Lifting my head, I force a smile as I face Mr. Beck’s red, aging face.

“
Holly,” he says by way of greeting. “How goes the Grady case?”

“
Not well,” I admit. “Mr. Grady is obstinate in his refusal to communicate with me. I just don’t understand how a parent can be so absent from his child’s education.”

“
Mr. Grady is a particular individual,” he says with a look on his face that I don’t understand. Every time we talk about Cheyenne or her mysterious father, Mr. Beck gets a wary look on his face that tells me that there’s a reason he gave Cheyenne’s case to me and isn’t handling it himself.

“
Yes, well, he’s particularly an ass,” I withhold the rest of my comment, but just barely. “How important is it, really, to get his signature? Can’t we get her into academic counseling without his help? I can’t even get the guy on the phone to tell him why I’m calling, let alone to talk about his daughter’s future with him.”

“
Two choices, Holly. Either get Mr. Grady’s signature acknowledging that his daughter will enter academic counseling or petition for her expulsion. We’ve waited long enough.”

“
I don’t want her expelled, Mr. Beck. Something’s going on here. Cheyenne is a good kid. We can turn this around.”

Mr. Beck sighs and shakes his head slightly. “You meet Mr. Grady
and you’ll understand a few things better. Cheyenne
was
a good kid once – they all were. But she’s on the fast track to the trailer park off highway twenty. Do yourself a favor and stop expending so much energy on this kid.” With that, Mr. Beck taps my desk again and walks away. Once I’m sure he’s out of earshot, I mutter a few choice words about his particular brand of leadership and refocus my attention to the problem at hand.

Leaning forward, I grab Cheyenne’s student profile and find her father’s phone number under the emergency contacts section. I practically have the number burned into my brain with how many times I’ve had to call. Mr. Beck may be convinced that Cheyenne is a lost cause, but I’m not. I hate the idea of giving up on kids, especially ones with such obviously screwed up parents.

I grab the receiver off the base and turn the dial, calling Mr. Grady one last time. The phone rings in my ear four times before the answering machine picks up.

“
This is Grady, make it good,” his deep, masculine voice sounds through the receiver. The first time I heard his voice in the message, I was slightly stunned by how rough and deep it is. Admittedly, it was an immediate turn-on. But now, I just like to imagine that it’s choking on his own bullshit that’s made his voice so husky.

“
This message is for Sterling Grady. My name is Holly Mercer and I am your daughter Cheyenne’s administrative advocate at Fort Bragg High School. Please return my phone call immediately as I need to meet with you regarding Cheyenne’s continuing education at Fort Bragg High,” I say in my most professional voice—the one I use to pretend not to hate the man’s guts. I leave him my contact information as though he’s going to actually use it and then hang up. Mr. Beck’s conviction that Cheyenne won’t be going anywhere in life gets under my skin. Between her clearly absent father and Mr. Beck’s lack of faith, I can’t help but wonder if this kid has anyone in her corner. I looked through her file, and there’s zero mention of a mother in any of the records. The idea that she’s just floating out in the world without anyone really having her back saddens and infuriates me at the same time.

Looking at Cheyenne’s contact information, I find her address—1370 Riverwood Drive. Just on the outskirts of town and off Sherwood Road, Riverwood Drive is a street I’ve only ever dreamed of living on. It’s all old battered concrete and dirt mixed in and shaded by a wealth of redwood trees and beautiful, sprawling homes, set hundreds of yards apart. If Mr. Grady has a home on Riverwood Drive, chances are good he makes decent money. The homes on the street were all built sometime after I was born, and before that, the land belonged to the county. Even when the parcels were first sold off, they went for a pretty penny.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I stand from my desk before I think better of it. Taking a single deep breath, I grab Cheyenne’s student profile and the parental acknowledgment form I’ve been trying to get Mr. Grady to sign for months and head out.

The trip to Riverwood Drive is pleasant enough despite my reasons for making the drive across town. As I angle down Sherwood Road and then toward Riverwood, I have to fight to keep my hands from griping the steering wheel too tight. My nerves are on edge, and my belly is flip-flopping. If I keep it up, my palms are going to callous over soon.

With a quick check for the house number, I park my white Jeep Grand Cherokee on the side of the road across the street from Mr. Grady’s home.

The house looks like a white single-story from the front. It rests atop a sloping hill and from the right angle, I can see an expansive bottom level that boasts a wraparound porch. To the left is an attached two-car garage, and to the right is a porch that leads to the front door and is supported by beams that jut out from the pitched ground below. The home appears to be well-taken care of and Cheyenne’s beat-up Volkswagen Bug sits in the drive.

Something I learned early on in my job as office admin is that sometimes it’s easy to spot signs of abuse or neglect. Some parents are obvious in their disregard by providing their children with inadequate housing, poor conditions, and a total lack of love and attention. Other cases, like this one, aren’t as obvious. While the house appears in good shape, there’s no telling what kind of disaster awaits inside.

While I’m certain I could get in trouble for doing it, I put the car in drive and pull into the driveway and cut the engine. I’ve committed to confronting Mr. Grady in person about t
he form I’d like him to sign, and now that I’m in his driveway, there’s no turning back.

Only, I don’t know when I decided to confront him.

I take several deep breaths and gather my wits before I climb out of the car with paperwork in hand and walk toward the front porch, smoothing my black pencil skirt the entire way and hoping I don’t look as terrified as I feel.

As I round the garage and catch sight of the open front window, I find several lights on inside the house.

Now or never, Holly
.

I lift my hand to knock then wait for the door to open, but it never does. I knock again, louder this time, and again, I wait. Still, no answer. Finally, I knock as hard as I can, determined to get a face-to-face with the man who has spent months avoiding me.

The door swings open and, instead of Mr. Grady standing before me as I expect, it’s Cheyenne. Her dark brown hair is up in a messy bun, and she’s wearing a pair of torn jeans and a dark red tank top with no shoes. Her expression turns flat when she realizes it’s me.

“
You were serious?” she whines. I had warned her once I’d show up here to meet with her dad, and she hadn’t believed me. Then again, at the time, I hadn’t believed me either.

“
Yeah, Cheyenne,” I say with a raise of my eyebrows. “Is your dad home?” To this she snorts.

“
Oh man,” she says, “Today is
so
not the day for a house call. Seriously, Dad’s going through some stuff.”

“
Listen, kid, I’ve been trying to meet with your dad for months now, and since he’s had trouble with his phone, I figured I better drop by before Mr. Beck goes through with expelling your ass.”

“
Okay, but he’s not here. So we should do it another day. I can let you know when he’s free.” Her eyes are wide and she blinks nervously the more she speaks. She’s a gorgeous girl, really. And as long as I don’t push too hard about her grades, she doesn’t give me too much lip.

“
And you’re actually going to give him the message?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes and huffs. I’m about to explain to her my next step should she not deliver the message to her father when the deep rumble of a motorcycle engine sounds from down the road. Motorcycles aren’t uncommon in Fort Bragg—we’re a coastal motorcycle town known for our hometown outlaw club. Being barely over seven thousand strong, we’re a big enough town to vaguely know everybody’s business, but not small enough to know all the gory details. My knowledge of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club begins and ends with two things: A.) They’re outlaws, totally disregarding of the law and its purpose; and B.) They party hard, loud, and don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of them. Other than that, I’m basically clueless about the club.

Despite sharing the same small town as the club for my entire life, I have avoided all things club-related. Still, I’ve always been curious about them and have even come to some conclusions of my own over the years. But in not one of them did I ever assume that a member would have any business in this part of town. I always figured they’d live in either the trailer park or in town in the less expensive housing. The roar of the bike nears as Cheyenne fidgets. I realize too late that the bike is pulling into the driveway.

“
Do you know this guy?” I ask Cheyenne, immediately worried for her safety. The large bulking man turns off the bike, removes his half helmet and glares at my Jeep. My hands clutch at the paperwork I’m holding and my breath catches. As he climbs off and stands to his full height, I’m able to fully appreciate his size. He’s tall, that’s for certain, but it’s the bulk of him that has my attention. He’s all muscles and tanned skin with a thick neck and black hair that curls slightly and tucks behind his ears. I move to stand between he and Cheyenne just in case he’s someone who intends to harm her. Though it would be a shame if he were that awful of a human being. So much pure male beauty wrapped up in one package to be a psychopath, but you never know.