Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (3 page)

“That’s great, Colton, but it’s no kind of future for any son of mine.” He sighs. “I just wish you could be more like your brother. He’s had straight A’s for the last three years in a row, and he’s
eleven
.”
 

I’m tempted to throw this fucking ratchet at his head. I take a few deep breaths so I don’t end up in jail for patricide; and, yes, I do know what patricide means. “Well, I’m sorry I can’t be more like your precious perfect golden boy, sweet little Kyle. I’m sorry to be such a
disappointment
to you.”
 

I note his lack of disagreement with my last statement. Or the one before it, for that matter. Kyle is perfect, and I’m a big disappointment.
 

I hear him exhale a breath of resignation. “Well, even with these grades, I’m sure with a generous donation and a few phone calls, I can still get you into NYU or Harvard.”

I laugh out loud. “Harvard? You still honestly think that? You must smoke more pot than me if you think that’s ever going to happen.”
 

Silence. He’s trying to decide whether or not to address my blatant admission that I smoke pot. “You’re going to college. Or you’re on your own.”
 

“Fine by me. I can make my own way.”
 

“I’m serious, Colt. You’ll get nothing from me if you don’t pursue your education. Not a dime. And you cannot take anything I’ve paid for. Which includes that car.”
 

Fuck him. I built this car with my own two hands from a rusty pile of shit in a junkyard to the mint beauty she is now. I’ve paid for every single part and tool with money earned changing oil and mowing lawns and shoveling driveways and cleaning out cars and mucking horse stalls. He paid two thousand bucks for the shell and the seized-up, rusted-out engine. It didn’t even have a transmission. It was more rust than metal or paint. And he’s gonna take it from me if I don’t go to a goddamned Ivy League university?
 

Fuck him.

“I have personal assurances from the deans of Harvard, NYU, and Stanford that you’ll be admitted as long as you apply by February at the very latest.
 

“Congress is back in session soon, but I expect you to submit your applications and the appropriate paperwork, including the essays, for the three universities we’ve discussed.” A pause. “You have three months from the graduation, Colton. Three months, and you’ll either head to college or you’re on your own.”
 

I’m still under the car but I hear him leave the barn; hear his feet crunch on gravel drive.
 

Except for the buzz of the fluorescent lights the barn is awash in silence.

He’s serious, deadly serious. Either I go to an Ivy League college, or I’m disowned.
 

What kind of choice is that?

Chapter 2: So Much For Choices

I graduated, passed all my classes except the reading for dummies bullshit. And I didn’t apply to any colleges, obviously. And I spent the summer cruising in my Camaro, working for Mr. Boyd—the Automotive teacher and the only adult who I’ve ever actually liked—with his summertime hobby, helping him restore a classic car. I learned a lot from him and he paid me pocket money, which I saved. Well, except for cigarettes and pints of whiskey and pot.
 

It was a good three months. Dad was gone most of the time, trips to Washington for who knows what reason. Mom left me alone and Kyle was away at football camp for most of the time, so I was on my own, which was cool with me. I kicked it with Lacey Myles for most of the summer. Hot stuff, that girl. Dumber than a box of rocks, but hot. Mouth like a Hoover. Apparently she had no problem with the fact that I’m a rougher sort of guy. Maybe it was the reason she kicked it with me in the first place—to get a taste of the wild side and stick it to her rich-ass parents. I mean, it wasn’t because of my stellar sweet-talking skills, that’s for damn sure. I was an asshole to her most of the time and that never changed from day one, so she can’t say she didn’t know it going in. I basically just picked her up at her house, watched her big juicy titties bounce around as she hopped down those four steps from her fancy front door to the sidewalk, and watched her hips sway as she approached my car. She always did this thing where she bent over at the waist, leaned into the open passenger window and gave me weird little wave where she wiggled her fingertips at me. I liked it, though, because she basically fell out of her shirt while she did it.
 

We would grab a bite to eat—another reason I liked Lacey is that she didn’t give a shit about things like chivalry, so she paid for meals seeing as she was loaded, even though I always said I’d get it because, despite being an asshole, I’m not a
complete
asshole—and then we’d cruise around in the Camaro. Maybe head way down to Woodward Avenue for a while, or Gratiot. Eventually, we’d find a quiet spot somewhere and she’d help me with my belt and I’d help her with her shirt, and she’d swing over and ride me like she was practicing for barrel racing at the rodeo.
 

Honestly, she was a sweet little thing. Never gave me shit. Never expected anything more from me than what I was offering, which was a ride in my car, a swig off my whiskey and a puff of my dope, and a ride on my cock. We didn’t talk much. We just cruised, smoked, drank, and fucked. But when she did talk she was sweet. She was just…ditzy. Not actually stupid, I don’t think, just…a bit of a space cadet—the reason there’s a stereotype regarding blondes.
 

But all good things come to an end. Lacey got ready to head off to MSU, probably to major in fellatio and journalism. Dad came home for the last break before the congressional season really kicked into gear in September. My complete dismissal of his demands for college apps three months ago teed off our big rumble. I knew I’d bitten off a pretty big chunk by refusing to apply to college; I was choosing disownment. Sucks. I was going to lose the Camaro, too, and that was, honestly, the hardest part to swallow.
 

At least they weren’t selling it to some jackass, though. Dad clearly respected my skills, even if he didn’t approve of them for “a Calloway”, since he’d decided to give my Camaro to Kyle when he turned sixteen.

I even have a little talk with Kyle about it. I’m working in my shop, tweaking things here and there, and in comes Kyle, fresh from football camp. Skinny little shit, all of eleven, almost twelve, black hair cut tight to his scalp. He’d be a good-looking son of a bitch, though, you can already tell.
 

He tugs a stool out from underneath the workbench, turns down my Metallica CD, and kicks his feet. I know he’s there, obviously, but I also know he’s got something to say, and will spit it out when he was ready. He never comes out here to my shop; no one does unless they have to, but Kyle especially. I caught him in here one day when he was nine or ten, messing with my tools, trying to help probably. I don’t know. I do know he’d fucked up a brand new set of spark plugs, though, and I lost my shit, told him I’d kill him in his sleep if I ever found him out here again.
 

A few minutes pass, and Kyle just watches me work, kicking his feet.
 

Finally, I set down my wrench, turn to face him, arms crossed over my chest. “Well? Whaddya want, kiddo?”
 

“Are you leaving?”
 

I shrug, nod. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

I sigh. “Hard to explain. Dad wants me to go to college, and I want to work on cars. And Dad said if I don’t go to college, now that I’ve graduated high school, I can’t live here anymore. So I’m leaving.”

“Where are you gonna go?”

“Hell if I know, bud.”
 

“When will you be back?”

I feel that one in the gut; I haven’t been the best big brother to this little squirt, but he’s a good kid. Better than me, that’s for fucking sure. I can only shake my head. “I don’t know. Shitty answer, but it’s the truth.”

“I heard Mom and Dad arguing about you last night.”
 

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? What’d they say?”

“Well Mom is mad that Dad’s making you leave, and he was all like ‘he’s made his bed, now he has to lie in it’, whatever
that
means. And Mom is mad because Dad’s not letting you keep your car, which I think is bullshit.”

“You’re not old enough to swear yet, kid.” I toss a washer at him, which he catches and throws back, hard. Kid’s got an arm, man.

“You swear all the time. And besides, it
is
bullshit. You did all the work on that car. Why can’t you take it?”

“Because Dad paid for the shell. I built the engine myself, put in the transmission, the exhaust, the stereo, the seats, everything. But he paid for the shell, so he technically owns it. I could take all that stuff out, but then I’d have the parts for the car and nothing to put them in. Doesn’t make any sense to wreck a work of art out of petulance, you know?”

“So what’s gonna happen to it, then?”

“You’ll get it.” I shoot him a grin I don’t really feel, but I can’t hold anything against Kyle since he’s innocent in all this.

“I will? Really?”

“Well yeah. You’re gonna be sixteen in a few years, and you’ll need a car. This way, they don’t have to buy a new one. Bonus for you is, you’ll have the sweetest ride at the entire school. Bitches are gonna be tripping over themselves to get a ride in it, bro.”
 

Kyle frowns. “You shouldn’t call women bitches, Colt. It’s not nice.”

I throw a hex nut at his head, not gently this time. “Neither am I, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Quick hands catch the nut, toss it aside casually. “You could be. You don’t have to be a jerk all the time.”

I rock back, stunned. “You think I’m a jerk?”

He shrugs. “Well, not to me, mostly. But then, you barely notice I exist most of the time. But you’re a jerk to Dad.”

“That’s because he’s a jerk to me. We don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, Kyle. Hopefully you’ll never have to understand that.”
 

I sigh, tug open the driver’s door, gesture for him to get in. He scrambles off the stool and slides into the driver’s seat, grabs the steering wheel with one hand, the shifter with the other.
 

“Man, this is so cool!” He grins at me. “I can’t believe I’m gonna get to drive this!”
 

“You better take care of it, Kyle. She’s a sweet ride, but you gotta take care of her. Any problems, Mr. Boyd will be able to help. He’s the auto shop teacher at the high school. Do NOT let Mom or Dad take it to some fucking piece of shit garage, they’ll just fuck it up. Take it to Mr. Boyd. Got it?”

He nods, serious. “Got it.”
 

I hesitate, then spit it out. “Kyle, it’s not that I didn’t notice you. It’s just…I had trouble in school, so I had to work a lot harder than everyone else at shit that comes easy to someone like you. And, honestly, I didn’t want to pull you into my mess. I haven’t been the best brother. I get that, and I’m sorry.”

He meets my gaze, nods. His expression is knowing, and serious, and understanding. “It’s okay, Colt. I could always tell that Dad’s a lot harder on you than he is on me. It’s not really fair, is it?”

I scrub my hands through my hair. “Not really. But he’s good to you, so that’s all you need to know about. I’m not gonna talk shit about Dad to you, because that’s issues between him and me. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, so don’t worry about it.”

“But he’s making you leave, and you don’t know where you’re going, or when you’ll be back.”

“Pretty much. Although, if I’d let him make me go to some Ivy League university, I could have stayed here, kept the Camaro, all that. But I can’t go to college. I just can’t. So I made this choice. And like I said, I just hope you never have to understand why I left. Just know…it wasn’t because of you, okay?”

A nod. “Okay. It sucks, though.”

“It does suck,” I agree. “Now scram, so I can finish this.”

He unfolds from the driver’s seat, reluctantly. Yeah, he’ll take care of my baby, that’s for sure.
 

“Kyle?” He looks up at me. “Make sure this gets started and run once a month, or have Mr. Boyd winterize it for storage until you’re old enough to drive. It can’t just sit here. Since it’s gonna be yours, you gotta start taking responsibility for it.”

He nods. “I will. I promise.” He lunges at me, wraps his arms around my waist, squeezes hard and fast, and lets go. “Bye, Colt.”
 

I don’t know what to do with the hug, so I just pat him on the shoulder awkwardly. “Bye, Golden Boy.”
 

An embarrassed grin. “Shut up.”
 

I watch him trot away with the boundless energy of an eleven-year-old, jumping to swipe at a low-hanging branch, tripping over a root and righting himself, kicking an acorn.
 

*
 
*
 
*

It all comes to a head three months almost to the day from graduation.
 

I’m hanging out on the dock, eight at night, pretty early for me, but Lacey has to leave for MSU first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve just dropped her off for the last time, and I’m feeling good about our rough and wild goodbye-romp. I’m high, but not too high. Coming down. Smoking a cigarette. Waiting for him, basically.
 

“Colton. Put that nasty thing out,” he says by way of hello. I flick the butt out into the water. “I didn’t mean throw it into the lake, you degenerate.”
 

I just wait. Slump lower in the Adirondack chair and watch the moon glint off the gently lapping waves.
 

“Well?” He stands behind me, tapping a toe, arms crossed.
 

“Well what?” I ask, not turning around.

“Which college did you get into?” He says this expectantly. “You had an easy in at three of them. Which one did you decide on?”
 

Asshole, acting like he doesn’t damn well know. Just wants to make a scene out of it.
 

I scuff the heel of my Wolverine boot on the wood of the deck. “I didn’t apply to any of them.”