See No Evil

I park my Porsche in front of the opulent mansion, but instead of getting out of the car and rushing in as I’ve done for most of my life, I stay frozen still in my seat, gripping the steering wheel while trying hard to ignore the tightening of my chest.

It astounds me how a place that once held so much joy now fills me with dread. I’ve spent Christmases and New Years here. I played football on this very lawn while waiting for Thanksgiving di

I mean, it’s only natural, right?

I’m not a monster for not wanting to step foot inside the home that used to hold most of my favorite childhood recollections when none can compare to the last horrid memory it gave me.

But I guess what they say is true—a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime whether he wants to or not.

I shake my head, trying to avoid these thoughts that have been tormenting me for the past three months. Instead, I pick up my phone and pretend to fiddle on it just in case Lincoln can see me parked here from inside his house. Although, common sense tells me that Lincoln Hamilton has more pressing demons to face then waste his time gawking through a window at the scenery of his driveway. Still, I keep up my moronic pretense, hoping to gain some time for me just to man the fuck up and knock on my best friend’s door.

“Shit!” I mumble, aggravated for being such a fucking pussy.

But, fuck, it’s not like this shit comes with an instruction manual on what’s the best protocol to use with your accomplices. I haven’t seen Lincoln all summer, so who knows what fucking mess I’m going to encounter. Last night when he sent me a text, asking me to be here at first light, every fiber of my being wanted to pretend I didn’t see it, just so I could have another day without having to face him or the repercussions of what transpired here.

I don’t do feelings right.

I never have.

Touchy-feely shit is just not my thing, so I’m not exactly ecstatic for putting myself in a situation where I have to be someone’s support system. I mean, I suck at it. I’m not that guy. I might look all approachable and shit, with my light eyes and messy blond hair giving me that homecoming-king vibe, but five minutes in my presence, and everyone knows I’m a fucking insensitive prick.

I don’t hide it either.

Why would I?

I have no one to impress but myself.

But when life gets real, and I’m expected to talk about feelings and shit, I almost break out in hives. I don’t do heavy. The only weight I can deal with is clashing against the adversaries on the football field. Or better yet, when I have a hundred-pound jersey chaser on my lap, getting me off after a win. That’s as heavy as I’m willing to go.

Call me shallow.

Call me crass.

I don’t give a fuck.

But this is different. This is a whole other level of a clusterfuck. Worst of all, this is Linc, my best friend since we were in diapers, for crying out loud. I know the asshole needs me, needs all of us. Not only for support but also to keep our fucking mouths shut or face the consequences. And no way is that even an option. I’m too fucking pretty to go to jail. I’d be a hot commodity in the big house. Not exactly the kind of assplay I’m down with. Not judging or anything, but I like firm, hairless, peach asses in my grip, not the other way around.

“Shit!” I grunt again under my breath, this time throwing my phone on the passenger seat.

What if Linc wants to talk? What if he expects to hash out what happened that night? What if he’s having second thoughts and wants to go to the police?

“SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!”

I punch my steering wheel twice with my clenched fists, my frustration getting the better of me. This is so fucked up. Our lives did a one-eighty with just a mere snap of a finger. Because of one lousy night, our futures are now left hanging by a thread. I spent all summer in fucking denial, just so I didn’t imagine all the ways this one macabre incident could end up ruining and uprooting our lives so completely.

So mercilessly.

But it already did. It happened, and as much as I try to ignore it, there is no way around what we’ve done. And as a result, my best friend became an orphan.

Hmm.

Can you still be considered an orphan at twenty-two? I mean, technically he’s a grown-ass man. The orphan title always reminds me of those old movies Grandma had playing on her TV when I was a kid. Especially the one with the curly, red-haired girl that, for some reason, always felt the need to break out in song when she was getting herself in all sorts of trouble. What was her name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. What was it?

Fuck it.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Lincoln is the one with no parents now. We buried them right at the end of our junior year. Going back to Richfield tomorrow and trying to finish college with that boulder on our shoulders is not going to be fun. Not one bit.

A pound on the hood of the car makes me jolt in my seat, throwing me back to the here and now. My heart drums hectically in alarm and only settles when familiar, devious, gray eyes stare back at me from the front of my car.

“You break it, you pay for it, motherfucker!” I yell at Easton, who just shrugs nonchalantly, unleashing his best cocky-ass smirk, as if I were one of his late-night booty calls, ready to be fucked on his doorstep.

I’d roll my eyes at the asshole if I weren’t already so wound up from being here. I watch him lean back against the side of my car while lighting a cigarette, as if it were the coolest thing in the world, and not the cancerous instrument that is shortening his lifespan.

It’s a filthy habit. And I’m not saying this just because I’m one of those jocks that believe their body is a temple or some nonsense like that, but because my intellect is very aware of all the lethal chemicals my friend insists on puffing into his lungs. Between the nicotine, tar, formaldehyde, and arsenic, Easton willingly inhales a cocktail of poison on a daily basis. And as much as I get on his case about it, he just blows me off as quickly as he does the toxic smoke from his lips.

Sensing my accusing glare, Easton smugly blows a string of puffy gray rings in the air. I must admit the bastard looks like a dark James Dean when he does that sweet trick like its second nature to him. Always looking bored with the mundane, and unapologetically closed off to the world and its lectures, a person would think that nothing gets under Easton’s skin. Only the four of us know that’s a fucking lie.

“Are you going to stay in your car all day long or what?” he asks, his eyes up to the heavens, watching the smoke disappear into thin air.

I hate it that he’s capable of picking up on my hesitation without even looking at me. That’s another thing about Easton Price—he reads people like most do magazines. He doesn’t have to read the small print below each picture to know exactly what’s going on. A quick glance your way, and he can pinpoint all your flaws and imperfections. A trait I usually envy, but right now, it’s pissing me the hell off.

“Just need to send a text to my father,” I lie, picking up my phone from the side seat and tapping away on the screen as if the text I’m pretending to send was so damn fucking important.