College is coming soon, and Blake Warner is sure that his life is embedded into the dead-end that is Merritt Hills, Georgia. His mother has assured him millions of times, that money has nothing to do with where his future leads.
But whenever he lie...
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Blake stands there, blood pumping furiously through his veins, eyes blankly watching as Jackson sits beside Brooks, wiping at the tears falling from his best friends cheeks. Bullshit, he snarls under his breath. In only the two weeks Blake had spent getting close to Brooks, he'd already recognized his living situation.
But Jackson had known Brooks since they were just children, and still, he'd chosen to ignore the fact that his friend—best friend, was hurt.
Brooks wanted to deny, again. He wanted to act as though he had no idea that he'd ever even had the conversation, or rather confrontation, with Blake.
Jackson's fingers worked at Brooks' cheeks, his lips curling into a pout at the mere sight. "What's going on, B? What did he do—what did you do?" Jackson snarled at Blake's frozen figure.
He'd always hated seeing Brooks cry. Especially, whenever it was Blake's doing. Jackson turned to Blake, hands clenched, and heart beating so fast, he was sure he wouldn't be able to keep up with it, if he tried. "I'm sick and tired of you always doing something stupid, and making him cry."
Blake chuckled darkly, almost beginning a menacing step towards a seething Jackson. "Fuck off, Fuller. What I told him, he needed to hear it. He's needed to hear it for years."
Jackson's eyebrows were sewn together in pure confusion. "What the hell are you talking about? You really think you get to make up an excuse, as to why you've always been an absolute ass to Brooks?"
Blake's promoting shoulders shrugged, as his eyes practically dared Jackson to say something, or do something that would make him pounce. "My excuse? What's your excuse? I mean, maybe if you and the rest of the town's respected families would have said something out the second you knew about what was happening to your best friend, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Brooks was crying again, and he hated that mere fact. He wiped at with his sweater's sleeve, crying out. "Stop it, Blake!"
Jackson's heart clenched at the sight, knowing exactly what Blake was talking about. "It's complicated, and none of your business."
Brooks' heart broke just a little more, when Jackson didn't bother to deny it. He wanted to understand. He wanted to make excuses for Jackson, his best friend, who swore he'd always be there for him.
Blake laughed aloud, tossing his head back in the process. "Oh, my gosh, that's hilarious. Hilarious how a kid being hit by his dad, was none of, even Sheriff Hughes' business!"
"Just get out of here, Warner. You're not needed here anymore, and frankly," Jackson's lip curled unattractively, "you never were."
Blake's eyes flashed with memories of people saying this all of his short, delinquent, and preposterous life. His teachers, his father when he was still around, the first girl he'd ever had a crush on, Charles Sutton—but it would be a cold day in hell before someone wealthier than him spoke that way to him again.
He stepped up to Jackson, not even an inch away, and only seconds later—he threw the first, and only punch.
Jackson flew backwards, him holding his nose, while crying out. "W-What the hell, Warner!"
Brooks watched, absolutely, and positively frozen. He wanted to ask Jackson if he was okay. Wanted to lean over, and tend to eighteen-year-old who'd never been hit in his face before.
But he scrambled away from Jackson, as Blake took hold of his trembling hand, a crooked smile on those familiar lips. "Let's get out of here."
