ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏs (Book 1)

vi. midnight tears

"Colton!" Tyler called out as he snapped his fingers in front of Colton's face. Bringing him back to reality. When he simply gave him a look of confusion, Tyler repeated, "What's the plan?"

Colton blinked. "What?" He and his brothers were sitting around their kitchen table eating takeout pizza and drinking cold beers.

"With the mute," Tyler explained, slightly annoyed. "What's the plan?"

"Oh, umm," Colton sat up and cleared his throat, "there is none."

Kaleb and Tyler made a face of confusion. Around a mouthful of pepperoni pizza, Kaleb asked, "What? But you said—"

"I know what I said. But I'm saying now there is no plan for the mute."

"Why the fuck not?" Spencer chimed in. He was leaned back in his seat with a green beer bottle in hand resting on the table top.

"I talked to Clyde. He said no." Since Clyde was out of town and wouldn't be back until later that weekend, the only way of communicating with him—if absolutely need be—was through phone call. And the only one that had the number to his burner phone was Colton. Since he was the one Clyde named in charge whenever he wasn't there. Something most of the boys accepted—but not all.

"Why?" It was Ashton's turn to question. Tyler and Kaleb had already seemed to move on.

"I don't know," Colton shrugged with a mouthful pepperoni pizza. He swallowed and washed it down with his beer before continuing, "probably because she sticks out like a sore thumb. If it were any other girl maybe. But with her, people would ask questions—too many questions."

"So?" Spencer grated.

"Look, you don't like it? Then take it up with Clyde." Colton challenged. Knowing full well Spencer was too prideful to even speak with him.

Spencer glanced at Ashton who only shrugged. He rolled his eyes and stood suddenly, the legs of the chair screeched against the tiled floor. Without a word, he stalked upstairs. 

Sutton stared at the ceiling of her dark room. Watching the silhouette of raindrops run down from the windows. A wild storm brewing outside. It was nights like these that made her feel more irregular. A constant reminder of her abnormality.

Over the thick comforter, her hands rested on her stomach. Picking at the skin around her nails restlessly as she waited for sweet slumber to consume her. But—even after taking one of Carol's Ambien pills she had found in the medicine cabinet—it never came.

Instead, she was left staring into the darkness of room as her mind raced. Jumbled thoughts and distant memories. When she found herself thinking of that night—the thick red blood seeping on the white carpet—she screwed her eyes shut. Forcing herself to think about something—anything else.

With a heavy huff of frustration, she glanced at the digital clock propped on the nightstand. In bright red, it flashed ten 'o two. Turning her eyes blankly to the ceiling, her mind continued to wonder. She glanced at the wall splitting her and Jaime's room. She could almost hear her sisters' sobs.

Sutton pulled the blankets back and slipped out of bed. She quietly made her way to Jaime's room, where she laid, curled on her side, crying violently.

Jaime stiffened when she felt the mattress dip behind her.

Her wide eyes darted in the darkness of her room. Her bottom lip trembling.

She sucked in a shaky breath when she felt Sutton stroke her hair. Her body began to tremble like a leaf and she whimpered.

Spencer paced in his room. He curled his trembling hands into fists, unclenched, and clenched again.

It was late. Completely pitch black outside, probably past midnight by now, and yet Spencer couldn't sleep a wink. Not with everything going on in his head, at least. He hadn't even tried. Knowing for a fact if he laid down and closed his eyes it'd only make things worse. The quiet had a tendency of doing that. That's why he had his speakers blaring heavy metal. The constant ruckus drowning out the noise.

But for some reason tonight, no matter how loud he turned it up, he couldn't seem to muffle it out. He rambling thoughts ran wild.

And the more he thought, the angrier he got.

Frustrated, he chucked a book at the Bluetooth speakers. Knocking it over and sending it crashing to the floor. It broke instantly and he was left with nothing but silence.

He fell to the floor at the foot of his bed. His trembling hands ran through his hair as he brought his knees up. Propping his elbows against them so he could lean his throbbing head into the palms of his sweating hands.

The heavy pitter-patter sound of rain pelting his windows filled his room.

For days he has been feeling an overwhelming sense of perturbation—a building loss of control. Both mentally and physically. Day after day, it's like it was only getting worse. And it all seemed to start the day the new girl moved into town. Her familiarity bringing back unwanted memories.

Spence . . . help me . . .

Are you ready to ask for forgiveness?

He yanked at his damp-from-sweat hair. His already closed eyes squeezed desperately as he gritted his teeth. His fingers curled, and he slammed his fists against his head.

It'll be our little secret . . .

No! Don't think about that. Don't think about her. But against his will, random memories began to flood in.

Spencer was seven when he first witnessed his parents really fight. They always argued passive aggressively. But Ben, his pencil-pushing father, would never let it get out of hand. He never wanted to put the kids through that. Anytime he knew June had a drink or two (or seven) in her system, he'd simply walk away. Knowing alcohol only made her truculent.

But sometimes, she'd catch him in a mood or corner him in a room, and walking away just wasn't an option.

He watched, through a crack in their bedroom door, as they argued. Their hands flying and their voices roaring. It was the first time he had ever seen his father get red in the face with anger.

He knew he shouldn't have been eavesdropping. He knew it was bad. But with all the commotion, how couldn't he?

"You know what their fighting about, don't you?"

He turned when he heard his sister's voice. Amy was eight years older and towered over him like a skyscraper. She had jet black hair and icy grey eyes. Her arms crossed with one shoulder leaned against the wall next to picture frames of the family. Faked Photography, she'd call them. A picture said a thousand words, she'd say, but all theirs ever told was lies. A story of a seemingly happy, picture-perfect, family. But things weren't always the way it seemed.

When Spencer silently shook his head, she spat, "You," with a grimace. Just then, June's voice raised with audible anger. Amy rolled her eyes and pushed off the wall. Turning on her feet. "They always fight about you," she muttered under her breath as she went to her room. Slamming the door behind her so violently, the pictures on the wall vibrated.

His parents' door swung open suddenly and Ben stormed out with June's antagonizing voice taunting him. Frozen where he stood, Spencer heard the front door slam, and soon the sound of a car engine roared to life.

He slowly turned to his mother and found her glare at him with an utter look of disgust.

With a bitter tone, she grated, "What do you want?"