3. Huckslee

Huckslee

" S mile for the camera, boys!"

The flash of a camera blinds me, and I blink rapidly to clear the dark spots in my vision, my cheeks sore from the pleasantly fake smile I've had plastered on my face since we pulled into the church. I really hate weddings.

"Come on, boys, smile," comes a shrill voice to my right, doing nothing for the headache I've had since this morning.

I turn to grin at Maisie, my new stepmom. She looks lovely, dressed in a white satin gown that sparkles and pools at her feet, the black hair she must have given Tay curling around her shoulders. Something's off about her, though. Something cold and withdrawn.

She has the same blue-green eyes as Taylor, which remind me of the ocean in summer, except her gaze glints with disapproval. They even share the same features—a delicate nose, and high cheekbones—but I think his lips must come from his dad because hers are thin, whereas his bottom lip juts out, puffy and juicy enough to bite.

Dammit.

My fist clenches as Dad pushes us shoulder to shoulder in front of the curtained backdrop, posing as one big happy fucking family. Except for Taylor, who's had a permanent scowl on his beautiful face all morning. He's hardly said two words to anyone, other than a few mumbled sentences to my dad when we'd gotten here earlier.

Today had almost been a disaster, and of course, it was all thanks to Taylor fucking Tottman.

We were supposed to be at the church by eleven, but ten-fifteen had rolled around, and he still hadn't shown up at the house. Finally, by ten-forty, he'd peeled into the driveway on his bike holding some scrawny orange cat. I'd just tossed the creature inside the house before shoving him into my Honda Civic.

Driving him hadn't been my idea, but I was trying to get back on Dad's good side before the next race, so I'd gritted my teeth and put up with the thirty-minute awkward drive, Silversun Pickups filling the silence. The only words he said to me were how ‘gay' my music was, but I'd just turned it up and ignored him. He hadn't said anything else or even looked my way, which was odd.

Now, here I stand in the reception hall, trying my hardest to keep my eyes off him. Despite the swelling in his face that matches my own, he looks fucking fantastic in his black tux and red tie, dark hair looking softer than raven's wings as it falls over his brow. His skin is paler than usual, but I chalk it up to the satin jacket washing out his tone. It makes the bruises peppering his face stand out, which had made his mother's eye twitch when she'd seen him.

"Smile, boys," Dad says as the camera goes off again. Maisie frowns in disappointment as she looks at her son. He's still scowling.

Their relationship seems...strained, to say the least. According to Dad, Taylor's father had custody of him for the last few years, and he and his mom are trying to repair their relationship.

Looking over at him, I do a double take, noting the tension in his shoulders and strain lines next to his mouth.

"What's up with your face?" I mutter, sweeping my gaze across the heavily decorated church.

He glances at me sideways. "You punched it, jackass."

"No, I mean the death glare you've been sporting all morning."

He just ignores me, and for some insane reason, I find that even more irritating than his usual snark. It's as if he's entirely different around his mom, and I don't know if I like it.

Dad claps us both on the shoulder. "Alright, enough photos for now. Why don't you two get something to eat? Huckslee can introduce you to some of the fam," he adds with a brow waggle, and inwardly, I groan.

Taylor simply nods, mumbling as he walks away, and Dad frowns after him.

"Not much of a talker, is he?"

I open my mouth to tell him something's wrong because the Taylor I know loves the sound of his own voice, but Maisie interrupts me .

"Oh, he's probably stressed with the move and all." She waves a hand, brushing him off with an eye roll. "He's never done well with change."

That sounds wrong. I've never seen the asshole exude anything other than rock-solid confidence in any situation, but since she's his mother, she'd know him better than I would.

"Go make him feel welcome, son." Dad gently pushes me forward with a shove. "Show him off to everyone."

For the umpteenth time today, I grit my teeth. Three years spent being tormented by this shithead, and now I have to play nice? It's not fucking fair.

Weaving my way through round tables covered in white cloths, I find Taylor in front of the dessert table, staring down into the cheesecake bites with a grimace, looking uncomfortable as hell. As crazy as it sounds, I kinda want to see that usual cocky smirk on his face again.

"Seriously, what's up with you?" I ask as I take a spot beside him, surveying the room. A pinkish glow illuminates the hall from lanterns strung along the ceiling, vases of red and yellow roses adorning each table. A tall figure waves at me near the buffet—my best friend Logan—and I wave back.

"Why do you care, Fuckslee?"

Ignoring his taunt, I shrug my aching shoulders. Why do I care? I really shouldn't. If anything, I should be getting joy out of his misery. Lord knows he's caused me enough of it to leave a lasting impression. And yet, as I watch him shoot daggers down at the cake with his eyes, I can't help how my stomach twists with sympathy. I've never seen him like this before. It's unnerving. Is the idea of living with me really that bad for him ?

Leaning in close, I try to keep my voice light. "That glare is reserved for me. You're giving it to everyone else, and I'm jealous."

Squinting incredulously, he narrows his gaze. "You flirting with me?"

"Uh, negatory," I scoff, even though I feel my cheeks heat. "Just trying to wipe that constipated look off your face."

We glare at each other before he surprises me by huffing a laugh, followed by a wince. Grabbing his side, he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fucking prick , but before I can tell him to say it with his chest, a hand lands on my shoulder.

"You look dope, dude," Logan laughs as he turns me around, humor dancing in his honey-brown eyes. "Like freaking James Bond or something."

"Yeah? You like this shit?" I grin at my tux before glancing around to ensure Dad isn't nearby to hear me swear in church.

"At least you get to look sexy. Well, other than the busted face." He looks down at himself with pursed lips. "I'm pretty sure this is the suit I wore at my great-aunt June's funeral."

"No, that one was blue," I chuckle, just as someone steps into my periphery.

"Thought this thing was for family only." Taylor stands next to me, glaring up at my best friend, who's a few inches taller than us. Logan's brows raise, and he looks at me perplexed, running a hand through his chestnut brown hair.

"Logan is family." I jerk my thumb at him. "His dad and mine go way back. We met when we played youth soccer– "

"I don't need to hear your dating story." Taylor cuts me off with a sneer, and I stiffen, glancing sideways at Logan. He doesn't know my secret, and I'd prefer to keep it that way.

Logan moves in closer, eyeing my new stepbrother with something like disdain. "You really want to start a fight at a wedding, Tottman? Inside a church?"

Taylor smirks, turning away, and just when I think he'll leave us alone, I'm being dragged away with his hand wrapped around my wrist.

"Hey, what the hell, man?" I look over my shoulder at Logan, who mouths what the fuck , and I throw up my free arm in an I don't even know gesture. I'm pulled over to the nearest table, where Taylor drops my wrist and crosses his arms.

"Let's get this shit over with," he mutters. "Introduce me to your family."

To be honest, I'd rather lick a light socket than do that. Something about presenting my enemy to my closest relatives makes my skin crawl, but seeing as I have no choice—Dad's good side, remember—I do as he asks.

And it's fucking weird. Because I've grown to know the asshole version of Taylor over the last few years, but as all my aunts and uncles and cousins ask him questions, he's actually, like...nice? Really nice. And polite.

He answers every question with a small smile, albeit fake, but there's no trace of venom in his tone. Not when they ask about school or football, his college plans, or if he's got someone special in his life. My ears perk up at that last question, even though I know his answer. He and Salem Vaughn have been dating since ninth grade .

The only time I see him clam up is when my grandmother on Dad's side asks him if he's been baptized, to which he replies with a strained yes . And when she asks if he'll be joining us for church on Sundays from now on, he gives her a calm, non-committal answer. I can tell he's uncomfortable, so I steer him away from the conversation.

The weirdest part of the night, though, is when he introduces me to his mom's side of the family. There aren't as many of them as on Dad's, and though they all seem like great people, the way they look at Taylor confuses me—as if he's a stain on their carpet or something. Even his own grandparents stare at him like he's a stranger, making me wonder how strained his relationship with his mother must be. They ask me all the same questions my family asked him, though they seem less enthused, and after that, the introductions are over.

Thankfully.

When I leave to sit with my best friend, though, Taylor parks himself at a table all alone, and fuck my conscience, dammit. Questioning my sanity, I slide into the seat across from him, immediately regretting it when he snarls at me.

"Go sit with your boyfriend, Fuckslee."

"He's not my boyfriend," I hiss through my teeth, "and shut the fuck up. You look pathetic sitting here by yourself."

"I don't need your pity." His ocean eyes snap up to mine, full of fire, the brightness of his irises driving me insane.

Blue and green, blue or green. Pick a fucking color.

"It's not pity. I'm trying to get ungrounded by playing nice with you. Don't flatter yourself."

He seems to relax at that. I hadn't realized he'd gone stiff .

The rest of the evening is spent in a strange, amiable silence as we ignore each other on our phones while everyone laughs and dances around us. The cake gets cut, the speeches are said, everyone sends off Dad and Maisie with a toss of rice, and finally, the most uncomfortable night of my life comes to a close.

At least, until Dad says, "Take Taylor home and give him the tour, son," before stepping into his Prius to take him and his new wife to the airport for their honeymoon.

That's when it hits me. I'm going to be cohabiting with Taylor fucking Tottman, alone, in my house, for a week.

And the thought just makes me want to disappear.

The drive back home is as unbearable as the one to the church, but only because Taylor grabs my aux cord without asking and immediately turns on his angry music, making me want to rip my ears off. Upon pulling into the driveway, he gets out without a word, grabs his duffle from the backseat, and stomps up the front steps of the wrap-around porch, waiting for me to unlock the door. Some small creature immediately starts screaming at my feet when I flick on the entryway light, and I stare in shock at a raggedy-looking orange cat .

"No one else could take her," Taylor mumbles as he bends down to pick her up, and then I remember how he'd pulled up this morning with her in his bag.

Right. Apparently, we have a cat now. Dad will be thrilled.

"We can run to the store later for cat stuff," I say as I lead him into the foyer. A mahogany staircase rises before us, leading up to the second level, living room on the left, and dining room on the right. Taylor takes in everything—the cream-colored walls and swirling lights that dangle from the ceiling. He looks less than impressed.

We cut through the dining room, where a large table sits with eight seats, tall-stemmed calla lilies taking up the center. Maisie's favorite flower, I guess, according to Dad. I walk into the kitchen but stop when I see Taylor eyeing the photos that line the mantle above the fireplace.

"Cute." He snickers at a picture of me with the Easter bunny when I was five, and I roll my eyes.

There are other pictures, one of Mom and me on Halloween when I was Buzz Lightyear and another of a family vacation to the beach in California, where Mom's parents live.

He picks one up. "These all gonna go in the trash now that Maisie is moving in?"

"What, no," I frown, noting how he calls his mother by her first name. "Why would they?"

He shrugs, staring at the photo momentarily before gently setting it down. "You look more like your dad."

A chuckle leaves my throat. "Yeah, I know. Same hair color."

"But not the curls, though," he replies softly, skirting by me into the kitchen. I cast one last glance at the picture of my mother, long curls blowing in the wind as she smiles at the camera, the sun glowing off her dark skin and a calm ocean behind her.

"Yeah. Not the curls." There's an ache in my chest as the memories of the day we lost her two years ago threaten to pull me under, but I shake my head quickly to dispel them.

Not right here. I will not fall apart in front of Taylor.

"So, does being a Bishop pay bank or something?" he calls from the kitchen, and I clear my throat to steady myself before following him in.

"No, Bishops don't get paid. It's voluntary only. Dad's still a realtor. Guess that's how he met your mom, she's a receptionist at his brokerage."

Taylor shifts the cat into his other arm to open the fridge, the entitlement of the act making my fists clench. Technically, this is now his house, too, but my brain is taking this invasion of my space as a threat.

"Figures," he mutters, slamming the door shut. "Not a drop of booze in sight."

"Well, my dad is a Bishop, so…no."

He scoffs before turning away, and I follow, unsure what to say. The vibe he's giving off right now reminds me of an animal stalking its cage. I don't want to provoke it.

His eyes light up for half a second when he spots the eighty-five-inch flat-screen in the living room, but he deflates instantly at the painting of Dad and Maisie hanging on the wall. Some artist friend of Dad's made it for them, but it always gave me the creeps.

Leading him up the stairs to the second level, I start down the hall. "Your room's the one at the end." But then I hear the hinges groan from my bedroom door, and I spin around to see Taylor's form disappear into my room. "Hey! What the hell?"

Quickly following him, I stop inside the doorway to see him snickering up at the mini statue of Cloud from Final Fantasy sitting on top of my trophy case.

"This your crush?" He snorts, and I choose not to respond because, well...yes.

"Get out of my room, Taylor."

Instead, he drops his cat on my unmade bed and studies his surroundings, taking in the sports posters and medals lining the walls. My shoulders are tense as hell while I watch him, my jaw tight enough to crack a molar. This is my space, and he doesn't belong in it.

His fingers brush along my desk, where the sketchpad I doodle on rests beside a pile of colored pencils. "You still draw?"

"When I have time." I shrug with an exasperated sigh. "Can I please show you your room?"

Before I can register what he's doing, his hand is on the drawer handle of my nightstand, and he's yanking it open.

Momentarily, I'm stunned because what the actual fuck? Who does that?! But when his hand reaches inside, I lunge at him, planting my hands on his chest as I shove him back into my bookcase. A few die-cast cars I'd made with Dad clatter onto the ground at our feet, and I'm in Taylor's face before he can even blink.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?! Haven't you ever heard of personal space? Get out of my shit!"

He flashes me a Cheshire grin. "Don't worry, bro, I wasn't going after your lube. What's this?" An orange pill bottle shakes in my face, and I blink, still pissed off at him for snooping. And yes, if I'm being honest, completely mortified at the bottle of lube he saw sitting in the drawer. He'll definitely find a way to use that against me later. Pun unintended.

"Lortabs," I grit through my teeth. "From when I got my wisdom teeth out in May. I never finished the prescription."

And what does this motherfucker do? He opens the bottle, pours a pill into his hand, and swallows that sucker down dry right in front of my God-given eyeballs. Just rawdogs a pain pill like candy. My face must reveal my shock because he simply winks before looking at something over my shoulder.

"You like Dethklok?"

What the fuck is happening right now?

I follow his gaze to where my Metalocalypse poster hangs above my bed and nod stiffly. I have several Dethklok shirts I wear to school regularly, but maybe he doesn't notice the clothes I wear like I do with him.

Well, of course, he doesn't , a little voice in my head reasons. He's not attracted to you .

Taylor simply hums, pocketing the pill bottle as if it belongs to him before scooping the cat up from where she's chewing on one of my shoelaces near the closet.

I follow him down the hall, feeling slightly dazed at our interaction, to be honest, because he's throwing me through a loop. He only glances at the bathroom briefly before pushing open the door to the room that's now his, which used to house all of my and Dad's sports memorabilia. We had to move it all down into the garage and let me tell you, I was not happy that day .

Right now, the space is pretty sparse. A full bed, nightstand, dresser, and an empty shelf line the walls. Other than that, it's a blank canvas for him to decorate as he wishes. My attention catches on the duffle bag he tosses onto the bed.

"Is that all you brought?"

Some emotion flickers across his face, but it's gone before I can process it.

"I left the rest at my father's place. I'll only be here a year, anyway."

Right. That makes sense.

"Your new home, Lasagna." He kisses the cat before dropping her onto the floor, and I can't help but laugh.

"Lasagna? Why not just call her Garfield?"

"Because I'm not a basic bitch like you." He unbuttons his tuxedo jacket, shrugging out of it as I'm about to respond with some witty comeback when my mouth slams shut. I'm across the room instantly, and he blinks in surprise as I grab his arm.

"Who the fuck did this?"

Dark bruises line his arm, almost black, peppered along his bicep. I can make out the impression of fingerprints against his skin, but before I can inspect them further, he's ripping his arm from my grip.

"You did, asshole." He shoves me back violently, those blue-green eyes blazing, and a sick feeling churns in my stomach.

"I did that?" Honestly, I don't remember grabbing him that hard, but last night's kind of a blur where the fight was concerned. I remember tackling him to the ground and hitting him, but...Jesus. Yes, he's got bruises covering his face from my fists, but for some reason, the ones on his arm make me ashamed. Make me want to puke.

Do I regret attacking him? No, not after what he said about Dad. Honestly, the fucker had it coming, but the fact that I could inflict that kind of damage on someone makes me want to throw myself off a cliff.

"Huck, stop," Taylor says suddenly, his voice rough. I meet his gaze, but he looks away with a hard swallow. "Look, I deserved it, okay? They're just bruises."

Just bruises. Right.

We stand awkwardly silent for a few minutes, unsure what to say. And even though I know I have no reason to feel guilty, it's starting to claw at my throat. So I quickly clear it and say, "Change into your moto gear and meet me downstairs."

Without giving him a chance to respond, I leave his room and return to mine, changing from the tux into clothes meant for dirt biking. Ten minutes later, I watch from the bottom of the stairs as he descends with his hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like he'd rather turn around and nap.

Too fucking bad.

I hurt him, even if he deserved it. What separates us is that I actually feel bad about it, so I need to make it right.

"I'm really not in the mood to ride, Huck," he mumbles, confirming my suspicions.

"We'll see." I jerk my chin toward the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow, and roll my eyes when he sighs heavily in annoyance.

Must be a bad day for him, though, or a good day for me because he follows without putting up much of a fight .

We round the island and cross over to the back door, where we step onto the covered deck accented with patio furniture, a brick-oven grill, and a lidded hot tub. Before us sprawls the back lawn, and I exit down the porch steps to cross it.

Behind the backyard, several acres of land make up Dad's property, which is divided by a fence. When we cross through the gate and onto the field, I glance over to see Taylor stop short as he takes in what I'm showing him, a grin pulling at my cheeks when his eyes almost bug out.

"Ta-da," I say lamely, throwing my arms out wide.

"You have a dirt bike track in your backyard." He huffs a dry laugh, raising his face to the darkening sky. "Of course you fucking do."

Yeah, I do. It's not the prettiest track in the world or the biggest, but it's mine, less than half a football field in length and complete with jumps.

"This used to be a pasture for the horses," I explain as I lead him further. "My mom trained them for a living. But after she died...well, horses were more her thing than Dad's, so he sold them and had this track made for me."

"Money really does buy happiness," he mutters, and I stiffen but force myself to ignore the comment.

What Dad did for me was a mercy. I was drowning after Mom's death, spending every day at the motorsports park trying to outrun the grief, and he wanted me to have a space of my own to do that. Yeah, we're well-off, but that doesn't mean my dad hasn't earned his living or loves me any less because of it .

Turning toward him, I freeze when I see the look on his face. There's a smile on his lips, excitement shining in his eyes as he takes in the track, and it reminds me of that day in PE three years ago when I thought I'd get to see that look on his face forever. I didn't realize until this moment that I'd missed it.

"You wanna go for a ride?" I ask hoarsely, low-key wanting to keep that light in his eyes for as long as possible.

He throws me a sideways glance, lips turned down. "With you?"

"Yeah, why not? This can be like neutral ground or something. A fake place. Like…Delaware."

"Delaware?"

I shrug, raising a brow at him. "Have you ever heard of that city? I don't even know where or if it exists."

Taylor's eyes nearly bug out of his skull. "Delaware is a state , dumbass."

I knew that. I just wanted to see if he knew that.

"What?!" My jaw drops in faux surprise. "See what I mean? How do we know it's even a real place? Seems fake to me."

"The people that live there would disagree with you," he huffs, gazing around us. "So, what, this track is a land of make-believe or some shit?"

Nodding, I do my best to toss him a megawatt grin. "Exactly. Out here, nothing has to exist. No fights. Just us. Just Taylor and Huckslee." Like I wish it could be. "What do you say?"

He seems uncertain, eyeing the track eagerly as he considers it. My heart starts to thump wildly in my chest.

Please say yes. Please .

After a silent moment, he steps away, slamming a wall between us. "I'm not playing pretend with you, Huck."

"Suit yourself." I shrug again, walking away to hide the disappointment I'm sure is plain on my face. Which is confusing as hell because why the fuck was I wanting to hang out with him, anyway? With Taylor Tottman?

Two days ago, he filled my backpack with milk while sitting behind me in the library, ruining all my homework.

Thankfully, that stunt had gotten him banned from there for the rest of the year, but after all his bullshit, what possessed my mind into thinking we could spend any amount of time together in peace?

I'm glad he said no. Really. Not irritated by it at all.

After grabbing my two-stroke from the garage, I bring it back to the track, pulling on my gloves before thumbing the throttle. I'm about to start it up when the sound of an engine reaches my ears, and I turn just in time to see Taylor fly by on his awful yellow bike.

"That's cheating!" I yell, laughing when he grins over his shoulder and flips me the middle finger.

Something warm floods my chest, an emotion I can't place, and as I race after him, a dangerous thought bounces around my brain.

Maybe, at least for the next year, things will be okay.

I couldn't have been more wrong.