Robin Constantine - The Promise of Amazing

I ran my finger down the front of his jacket, tugging on one of his pockets. “Don’t you want to um . . . hook up?”

“I like you, Wren. Not everyone gets in your head, do they? They have to earn it,” he said, snaking his hand into my hair. He kissed the tip of my nose, my cheek, my lips again. “I’d like that payoff.”

He couldn’t possibly be sincere . . . and even if he was . . . this was Luke. This was . . . wait . . .

“You’re doing the Brinker thing, aren’t you? Wow . . . you’re good.”

He backed off, chuckled to himself, and took the keys out of the ignition.

“Grayson told you everything.”

“He told me enough.”

His eyes held mine, steady, sure. “If I was doing the Brinker thing, you’d be undressed already.”

I swallowed. “Well, then, let’s go.”

I was out of the car before he could say anything else. He grabbed my hand as we walked toward the cottage. We were almost to the front door when he stopped short. The momentum made me jerk back and face him. He walked toward me, forcing me to walk backward a bit.

“How far are we going to take this game of chicken?”

Five seconds away from Grayson. Ugh.

“What?”

He put his hands on my waist, pulled me to him again.

“Wren, c’mon. You’re not the casual-hookup type. Grayson and Andy are right behind that door, waiting to what? Kick my ass?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Without warning he brought his face close to mine, as if he were going in for a kiss. I could feel the heat of his mouth, inches away.

“What’s so fucking great about Grayson Barrett?” he whispered.

“Luke!” Grayson shouted behind us. Urgent. Angry.

Luke smirked and stepped away, “He’s so predictable.”

My hand went up to my mouth. He’d known. He’d known the whole time.

Grayson pushed Luke away from me. “Are you okay?”

“Dude, we were holding hands.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, then looked at me.

“Let’s just get inside,” I said.

“After you,” Luke said.

“No, after you,” Grayson said, draping his arm over my shoulder. Luke sauntered through the front door. We followed.

My stomach sank; I just wanted this to be over. Gray closed the door behind us. A small table lamp cast shadowy light across the room. I thought about Eben’s warning about keeping the lights out, but I knew it wouldn’t fly. Besides, who would see us? No one was over at the Camelot, so as far as I could tell, we were good.

Luke stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets. Grayson stood in front of him, arms crossed. Andy and I leaned against the wall near the kitchen, as if we were waiting for a show.

“Okay, Barrett, I’m here. Now what?”

“I want out, Luke.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “And we’re talking about this in front of her, why?”

“You’re the one who brought Wren into this, thanks to the shit you pulled the other day.”

Luke looked at me, then at Andy. “Get her out of here.”

Andy pulled back my arms until it felt like they’d come out of their sockets. I lurched forward, trying to break away, but he had me in an impossible hold.

“Foley, what are you doing?” Gray asked.

“You didn’t think he’d tell me what was going on?” Luke asked, moving closer to Andy and me.

“Gray, dude, I’m neutral. Kiss and make up already. I’ve got a house party to hit by ten,” Andy said.

“Let me go.” I tried to wrench free from Andy. He tugged me back. Grayson took a step toward us, and Luke blocked his way.

“I’ll give you the necklace. Why don’t we just call it even?”

“Class act giving it to Wren, by the way. No. I want something bigger. What about those Marshall amps back there? Are they shit or vintage? What do you think we can get for them, Andy?”

“No!” I said.

“Not sure, can’t tell, maybe a couple of hundred,” Andy said, behind me.

“You can’t have them,” I insisted.

“Or,” Luke said, “maybe Wren should join us. Might shake things up, having a chick on the team. She was quite convincing. I think we may have shared a genuine moment.”

Grayson was on him in an instant. They tumbled into the end table, knocking over the lamp, which landed with a crack and went out. I screamed. Andy pulled me away from the commotion. I fought him the whole time, grunting, leaning forward, thrashing back, trying to kick my legs up or gain leverage on the wall as he pulled me into the kitchen and away from the door frame.

“Let . . . me . . . go,” I said, struggling. “They’re wrecking the place.”

“And what are you going to do about it? Just let them hash it out. It’ll be over soon.”

I huffed while a blur of Grayson and Luke passed before the doorway, followed by another loud rumble against the wall. Over soon was not something I was willing to wait for; they had to be stopped.

“Sorry, Andy,” I said, stomping down on his toe as hard as I could.

Andy dropped an F-bomb as he let go. I scurried out of the kitchen just as a loud crash erupted in the sitting room. Grayson stood in the center of the room, doubled over and gasping. Luke popped up from behind the love seat, brushing glass off his sleeve from the front window. I tried not to think about how I was going to deal with that and instead crouched down next to Grayson.

“Are you okay?” I asked. There was a dark, glistening trickle coming from his nose.

“I’m fine. Wren . . . get out of here . . . now.”

“You’re bleeding,” I said, moving the hair away from his face.

He stood up and grabbed my shoulders. “Please, just go.”

“Yes, Wren, get out of here,” Luke said, behind me.

I spun around and stood firm in front of Grayson.

“Stop, already,” I said.

“Move away,” Luke growled, coming closer.

“Dudes, really, enough,” Andy said, finally emerging from the kitchen. He stepped toward Luke but was greeted with a punch. He staggered back, holding his nose.

“Just take the amps, go!” I yelled.

Luke bared his teeth. Grayson gripped my shoulders from behind, shoving me out of the way.

Beams of light swirled across the floor, onto the ceiling, on Luke’s bloodied face, in my eyes.

I put up my hands and tried to squint the pain away, but the light got brighter. I felt Grayson’s hands around my waist, pulling me to him, and heard a loud, deep voice yell:

“Break it up!”

NO FEAR, AND SILENCE.

That was always our contingency plan—because when you’re screwing girls, swiping goods, taking the profit, and planning a monthlong party in Europe, you needed to know how to deal if the cops ever got involved. Sounds simple, until reality hits and you realize that fear part? You’ve got no control over it.

I stood about a foot away from Wren, hands over my head, willing my jackhammer heart to slow down. I wanted to hold her hand, tell her this was all going to be okay, but really? Another siren blared outside, short and loud. I didn’t know how many police cars were outside, but from the glow of the red and blue lights flashing strobic across our faces, my guess would’ve been a very unscientific shitload.

Luke and Andy were on the other side of me. Luke didn’t look particularly concerned—with the exception of the blood on his face and his hands in the air, he could have been waiting to get a haircut. Andy, on the other hand, looked as fragile as a preschooler about to hurl. He winced as he was patted down.

A cop pulled something out of Andy’s front pocket.

“What’s this?” he asked, bringing up a baggie to his nose.

Andy made a series of spluttering noises and looked over at us. The cop shook his head and reached for his cuffs.

Luke and I shared what was probably the first and last look of friendly agreement in a long time. I imagined the collective thought bubble over our heads would read:

Fucking. Bonehead. Stoner

.

I wanted to pummel Andy. Shake some sense into him. It was stupid enough for him to rat to Luke about what we were doing, but carrying a freakin’ dime bag around like a pack of Skittles? Luke muttered and looked up toward the ceiling. Andy was cuffed. We were screwed.

There were more voices and footsteps coming toward the cottage. Someone whistled long and low. Mrs. Caswell’s face appeared behind the shattered window, her eyebrows jagged lines of anger as she took in the empty space. She said something to one of the officers outside and put her phone to her ear.

Then Mr. Caswell walked in, followed by two more officers.

The officer closest to the door saw him and smiled. “Jimmy? Why’d they send someone from the prosecutor’s office?”

“Not here officially, Mike. Just here. Family business,” he said, patting the officer’s shoulder before taking a look around.

“Your father’s with the prosecutor’s office? Priceless,” Luke whispered, peering over at Wren. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Unless one of you wants to explain why you’re here, I’d keep silent,” said the younger cop who’d cuffed Andy and was standing beside him.

“Sorry, sir,” Luke said.

Mr. Caswell took in the damage, looking from the window to the lamp to the fallout on the floor. He crunched some broken glass with his foot and kicked it aside. Then he folded his arms and stood in front of us, eyes on fire like the fucking Chernabog.

That should have been my cue to tell him this was my fault. That I’d pay for the glass. That I’d steam clean the carpet. That Wren was the most innocent party in all of this.

Except my nuts pretty much slithered down my leg and crawled out of the building when his eyes landed on me. Your father was defensive tackle. No one could get by him. All I could think of was Pop’s description of Mr. Caswell. Fitting. Safe to assume my marginal cater-waiter skills would no longer be needed at the Camelot.

“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?”

“Dad—please . . . we were just hanging out . . . things got out of hand,” Wren said.

“Hanging out?” He motioned for one of the officers and took him aside to speak to him. The officer looked at Wren and nodded. Wren’s mom came into the cottage, her face grim as she took in the scene. Our eyes met. I had to look away. Mr. Caswell called Wren over.

“Wren. Go with your mother to the office. Now.”

I stole a glance at Wren. Her eyes were wide, sad.

Sorry, I mouthed.

“Don’t look at her,” Mr. Caswell said to me.

“Dad, it’s not Grayson’s—”

“Wren. Go.”

Mrs. Caswell put her arm around Wren, but she wrestled away and got closer to her father. “No. It’s my fault too. Don’t send me away.”

He gave her a look so forceful, I half expected Wren to crash into the wall behind her. “Take. Her. Out. Of. Here,” he said to Mrs. Caswell.

Wren relented, looking over her shoulder at me as her mother led her out.

Her father turned back to us. A half dozen cops were behind him . . . waiting.

“Seeing as my daughter was the only one without blood on her face, it’s safe to say she had nothing to do with this damage?”

“Yes, sir,” we all mumbled together.

“You’re Blake’s son,” he said, stepping closer. “Can’t imagine he’d approve.”

“No, sir.”

He crossed his arms again, staring me down. His eyes were the same shade of blue as Wren’s but without the openness. This look told me exactly what he thought of me. Not much. Again this was a moment to defend myself, us. My mind went blank.

“There’s a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of damage here, if not more . . . wanna tell me why you were here?” he asked.

At least the silence part of our original plan was intact.

“Fine then,” the officer who found us first on the scene said. “We’ll sort this out at HQ.”

I’d been to the police station once before, in second grade, to learn about fingerprinting and get my picture taken with McGruff the Crime Dog. Not much had changed. It was the same generic, white-walled office with fluorescent lighting and rows of desks. Except the computers were flat screens and took up less space. Oh, and I wasn’t there to “Take a Bite out of Crime.”

“Grayson Barrett.”

I sat next to the detective’s desk on what had to be the world’s most uncomfortable chair. Metal-framed with worn, brown cushions. A support bar dug into my ass. The guy taking my information wore a pale orange polo; an ID dangled in front of his chest on a thick, black cord from around his neck. He smiled, held out his hand.