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Forbidden Falls

a Liars Island suspense novel

V. J. Chambers

FORBIDDEN FALLS

© copyright 2021 by V. J. Chambers

http://vjchambers.com

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1

I hate Apple Shannon, and I am going to destroy her.

Who’s Apple Shannon? She’s my boss. She owns The Kitchen, which is a bakery in the town of Liars Island, my hometown. I work there most days after school and most weekends.

I don’t have to work, of course. My parents are loaded. They own Island Sports and Hunting, also here in town, and business is good. Also, my mother inherited money when my grandfather died. By all accounts, Granddad was a tightfisted asshole, but that only meant that when he died, most of his fortune was intact. I never met the guy. He died before I was born. Granddad’s money went into the business and into buying real estate. Did I mention this town is called Island because it literally is one?

It’s an insulated sort of place. Everyone knows everyone. So, it’s not easy to destroy someone without other people catching onto the fact that you’re doing it. It might have been easier years ago, when I was relatively unnoticed, but these days, people do look at me. Girls look at me, mostly. I’m seventeen years old, and I’m still in high school, and all the girls who snubbed me when I was scrawny and nerdy now gape at me.

I’m what people sometimes call a late bloomer. Which I don’t like, because the last thing I want is to be compared to a flower or whatever, but anyway, suddenly, last year, I shot up to six feet five inches tall, and I filled out. Before then, I was short and skinny and covered in acne. And then one day, like a switch flipped, I grew a foot and got shoulders.

But people still treat me like shit, and I hate everyone.

I know that’s a bullshit thing that people say all the time, that they hate everyone, but I really do. There’s not a single person on earth that I admire, not one. Maybe some dead guys or people in classical fiction, like Iago or Jim Jones, but mostly, people are pathetic.

Girls that wouldn’t give me the time of day now are eyeing me across the cafeteria or batting their eyelashes at me at parties—I mean, not that anyone really bats their fucking eyelashes, but… it’s an expression. They couldn’t have given two shits about me before, but suddenly, I look like this, and I’m interesting.

This does not make me like them.

Near as I can tell, anyway, girls are there to use and lose. And I have managed a few epic hookups in the past year. I nailed Brittany Smythe, for example, and she’s widely accepted to be the hottest girl in the school. I worked my way through half of the cheerleaders before they started talking to each other and cut me off.

So, I figure this body and clear skin and height that I have, it’s an advantage I should make use of. It’s the weapon I plan to use to take down Apple Shannon.

I thought about doing it other ways—destroying her, I mean. I thought about trying to burn down her business, or break into her house and steal all her electronics, or find some way to hack her computer and take control of her bank accounts and credit cards.

But I like this way better, because this way, Apple will blame herself, and that’s eloquent and complex. There’s layers to the whole thing.

Also, I really don’t know how to hack anything.

I was a geeky, nerdy sort of piece of trash for most of my teenage life, but that doesn’t mean that I was particularly into science and math stuff. I’ve always liked cooking, actually, much to my father’s chagrin, who doesn’t really want me doing anything that’s not ultramasculine.

Anyway, this way, it’s going to be much better, and I’m really excited to get started on this. I think this is going to be epic, the way I take this woman apart, piece by piece.

The plan is simple.

Step one: Seduce Apple Shannon.

Step two: Get proof that Apple fucked a minor, hopefully in the form of her having sent me nudes. If not, I’m sure as fuck going to send her nudes, and if she’s not too stupid to get rid of them, that’s child pornography right there.

Step three: Convince Apple to sign over The Kitchen to me.

Step four: Run The Kitchen while going to culinary school, create an empire, make enough money to buy my dad’s store and also ruin my dad in the process.

Well, that part of the plan is not yet set in stone. I’m working on that one.

But first, Apple.

Why Apple?

What has she ever done to me?

Well, she’s a bitch.

One time, I really needed to get the night off work so that I could go out to a party, but she wouldn’t let me have the night off, and I—being the kind of guy who keeps my word—showed up anyway and worked, and she didn’t even act grateful. She was just annoyed with me for trying to get the night off work at all. Even though I spend every evening and most weekends in her stupid store, and even though she would be lost without me, because I’ve been baking half of her bread for over a year now.

Another time, she was late with my paycheck, and she never even apologized for that.

Anyway, I figure it would be fun.

It’s a challenge.

I’ve never hooked up with an older woman, and Apple is like thirty or something. She’s not so old that she’s ugly or anything. She’s actually got a decent body for an old chick. It’s not like it’s going to be a hardship to have sex with her. I’m down for that.

Also, I want to see if I can do it.

I mentioned that I hate everyone, didn’t I?

I couldn’t give a fuck what happens to Apple Shannon. I want her to suffer, and so she will.

2

When I get out of school, Macy Idleman is waiting next to my car, like she usually does. Macy is an incredibly stupid girl who’s been following me around like a puppy since even before I went through my “blooming.” She’s got a huge crush on me, and no matter what I do to her, she never changes her mind about it.

I’m serious. When they say that chicks dig assholes, they aren’t lying. At least in Macy’s case, anyway, it’s very true. The more I treat her like a toilet seat, the more she worships the ground I walk on.

She’s leaning against the car, her backpack slung over her shoulder. Her brown hair is cut at her chin and she never wears makeup, which is fine with me, because I’m not really all that into makeup anyway. She’s looking up at me with her big brown eyes, and she’s biting down on her bottom lip. “Hey, Blake,” she says.

I ignore her and open the door to the backseat, which dislodges her from where she’s leaning against the car. I throw my backpack in there and slam the door shut.

“Are you going to need help with your trigonometry homework tonight?” she says. “Because I can come by after I close the hardware store.” Macy works after school at her dad’s hardware store. She’s good with tools and she’s kind of athletic. She’s got tanned skin and freckles on her upturned nose, and her body is lean and hard and still somehow soft and supple, and I can’t deny that I find her attractive.

“I never need help with my homework,” I tell her, opening the driver’s side door to my car—which is a brand new Lincoln Corsair. My father got it for me as some kind of testament to how great of a dad he is or something, but I hate my dad. A fucking car isn’t going to change that. “Sometimes I let you do it for me if you ask me nicely, though.”

She swallows, looking me over. “You’re such an ass, Blake.”

I get in the car.

She scurries over to the other side of the car and tries the passenger side door, which is locked.

I laugh at her, tugging my door closed.

She bangs on the window. “Open it, you fuckwad.”

I raise an eyebrow at her and make her sweat.

She folds her arms under her breasts. This, coupled with the fact that her backpack straps are pushing her boobs together, makes them very prominent. My mouth is dry. I unlock the door.

She slides in, glaring at me.

“Show me,” I say.

She drops her backpack at her feet and pulls on her seatbelt. “Show you what?”

“I told you not to wear panties today. Show me.”

She turns to look at me, and I see her eyes getting cloudy in that way they do when she’s turned on. We have this thing, Macy and me. She’s very compliant, and I like that, and she likes it too. She’s not my girlfriend or anything. She’s like my… plaything, maybe? I don’t know. It’s an arrangement. She looks away. “We’re in the school parking lot.”

“You want a ride or what?”

“Blake, fuck you, my bus already left. If you don’t drive me, I’ll have to walk.”

“Show me or get out.”

She rolls her eyes and makes an annoyed sound. But when she unzips her jeans and I see her bare, shaved mound peeking out behind her zipper, I know she went without panties like I asked.

I’m hard. I grin at her.

She lifts her chin, pressing her lips together. Deliberately, she zips back up. “I hate you,” she says, but her voice has gotten throaty in this way that I like.

“Ditto, bitch,” I say, and I pull out of the parking lot.

We drive.

She scrunches down in the seat and glowers at the scenery, and I can tell she’s stewing, and that she’s going to come out with some long spiel about how I need to treat her differently and how much of an ass I am and I can’t stand it when she gets like that. Her voice gets this whine to it that’s grating.

So, I start talking. “I have something I want you to do for me.”

“No,” she says. “I’m not doing your homework for you, not for anything.”

“I’ll use my fingers on you, no vibrators,” I say. This is a commitment on my part, because I swear to Christ, it takes Macy a good half an hour to have an orgasm from manual stimulation, and it gives me a cramp.

“No,” she says.

“You haven’t even heard what it is,” I said. “It’s not homework. It’s not a big deal. I just need you to have a conversation with Apple Shannon, find out some things about her.”

“Talk to your damned boss yourself. Why do you need me to do it?”

“I don’t need you, Macy,” I said. “I thought we were clear on that. I don’t need shit from you. You’re the one who’s desperate for me.”

She scoffs.

“Come on, babe,” I say, lowering my voice. “Say it. You know it makes you wet.”

“I need you, Blake,” she whispers immediately.

Inside my pants, I am throbbing. Fuck. I start talking in a hoarse voice, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles are white. “You’ll go in and talk to her—no panties, no bra—and you’ll find out exactly what it is she likes in a guy, what qualities she finds attractive. And then you’ll come and tell me, and I will rub your clit until you scream.”

Nothing from Macy.

I turn to look at her.

Her lips are parted, and she’s trying to decide whether she’s pissed off or horny. Probably, I think, it’s both. “Why do you care about Apple?” she says.

“Are you going to do it or what?” I turn back to the road.

“Do you have a thing for Apple?”

“What?” I make a dismissive noise. “Of course not.”

She is quiet.

“Are you jealous?” I give her a nasty grin, letting her know that I like the thought of tormenting her.

“Please,” she mutters. Our arrangement is not exclusive as long as we both wear condoms. At first, I think Macy wanted things to become something more, like she wanted me to be her boyfriend. But now she knows me better. I can see that she’s conflicted about that. She’s conflicted about me.

I couldn’t give a fuck what she thinks of me, as long as she does whatever I tell her to.

“I want you to finish me with your tongue,” she says.

Great. That’s going to add another fifteen minutes to the entire ordeal. But, fine, whatever. “Done.”

“Fine,” she says.

“Fine,” I say.

* * *

My mother is tutting over the state of her counters in the kitchen when I get home. She points at an invisible spot on them and regales me for at least ten minutes about how unacceptable it is.

“I tipped Hortensia for this without inspecting her work,” says my mother. “I’ll let her know that she won’t be receiving a tip next week and that if she doesn’t improve, I’ll have to find someone else to clean the house.”

You’d think my mother could find time to clean herself, considering she doesn’t have a job or anything. She spends all her time shopping, getting her nails done, and going to the spa, though, so that doesn’t leave time for things like cleaning or making dinner. And I guess I can see why she’d hire out the manual labor, because she can afford it, but I can’t excuse the fact that she has no time to do anything motherly either.

My dad and I don’t talk, and my mother talks at me instead of to me.

I don’t say anything to her about the spot or the maid or anything, but she doesn’t notice. She just keeps going on and on and on.

Finally, she takes a breath, and I say, “My day at school was fine. Thanks for asking.”

She laughs as if I’ve made a joke. “Very cute, Blake.”

I glare at her. “I’m going to miss dinner.”

“What?” She looks up at me now, with wounded eyes. You know who does wear makeup? My mom, and a lot of it. I guess she does it well—tastefully, or whatever—but I still wish I got to see her without it on, and I never do. That’s not the kind of thing Lucy Corbin shows anyone, not even her sons. “Why?”

“Homework,” I say.

“Oh, you can’t have that much homework.”

“I’m buried in sine waves,” I tell her.

“You’ll come to dinner,” she says. “I’ll write you a note if you need it.”

“That’s not how it works, Mom.” I’m already walking out of the kitchen.

“I expect you here at seven sharp, young man,” she calls after me.

“I’ll be above the garage,” I tell her.

There’s a finished room above the garage. It’s supposed to be for me and my brother. It’s got a pool table and some cool old arcade games. But I’ve claimed the room as mine.

When I get up there, I find my stupid younger brother Jake (yes, our names rhyme. Thanks, Mom and Dad. That’s adorable). He and his best friend Jacob are playing foosball, and I go over and snatch up the ball from the middle of the table. (The fact that their names are also similar is not lost on my mother, who sometimes calls them Jake-squared, which, you know, also adorable. Excuse me while I throw up.)

“What the hell, Blake?” Jake glares at me.

Jake and I are the same height now, but for two years, he was taller than me. I don’t know how that works, two brother maturing at different speeds, but then Jake and I don’t really look that much alike, and maybe one of us—or both of us—is the product of my mother stepping out on my father, who the hell knows? I wouldn’t mind if I found out that I did not carry that man’s DNA, I have to say.

“Get out,” I say to the ball, not him. I tuck the ball in my pocket.

Jake comes over and thrusts his outstretched hand at my chest. “Give it back.”

“You need to be gone,” I say. “Macy’s coming over.”

Jake turns to Jacob. “My brother’s out here assaulting the nice girl from the hardware store, and I’m suppose to let it happen?”

“She’s not a nice girl,” I say. I squeeze my hand into a fist and survey my knuckles.

It’s weird, because all that time when Jake was bigger than me, he was still afraid of me, and now that we’re the same size, he’s twice as afraid. It’s weird, because Jake is everything that my father would want in a son. He’s not into pansy-ass activities like cooking. He plays every sport under the sun. He gets up at the ass-crack of dawn to go hunting deer with my father. And my father still doesn’t seem satisfied with him either.

Jake’s face twitches. “If you hit me again, I will tell Mom this time.”

“Oh no!” I’m sarcastic. “Not Mom. She might… ignore you entirely and tell you that it’s normal for brothers to get into scuffles and then change the subject to what we think of her new shade of toenail polish.”

Jake makes a disgusted face. He knows I’m right.

“Let’s just go,” says Jacob quietly. Jacob is always quiet. “We can go to my house.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Jake gives me a withering look and stalks off.

Once they’re gone, I sprawl out on the couch and watch TV for fifteen minutes until Macy shows up. I dropped her off at The Kitchen, where she talked to Apple. By my count, we have an hour for her to give me the information and for me to get her off, and then we both have to go to work. I’ll drive her to the hardware store, and then I’ll go to the Kitchen. I’ll work until it’s time for dinner. Maybe I’ll show up. Maybe I won’t.

Sometimes, it’s fun to try to get under my mother’s skin.

Sometimes, it’s just disappointing to see how little she actually cares.

Macy bounces onto the couch and straddles me. She toys with the edge of her shirt. “Are you going to tell me why you wanted me to do this?”

“No,” I say. “It doesn’t matter.” I put my hand under her clothes, on her flat belly.

She slaps my hand away.

“Hey,” I say in a gravelly voice. “Who’s in charge here, me or you?”

She shrugs. “Do you want to know what I found out or what?”

I sigh. “Don’t be like that.”

She licks her lips. “Tell me why you want to know.”

“You wouldn’t understand why.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” I say slowly, “you’re too stupid.”

Her jaw clenches. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“I’ll talk to you however I want.” I flip her over on the couch, pinning her down, and I peel her shirt up to expose her small, perky breasts, which are bare under her shirt because I told her to do this without wearing a bra, completely bare under her clothes.

She makes a breathy noise and squirms, which makes her breasts jiggle, and I like that.

“Blake,” she protests, but all the fight has gone out of her, and she’s biting her bottom lip the way she does, and I like it.

I pinch her nipples.

She gasps.

“What did Apple say?” I unbutton her jeans.

“Nothing you’re going to like,” says Macy. Her voice is liquid.

“What do you mean?” I unzip her jeans.

“She said that she wants men to be independent and financially secure. She said that she’s been in a relationship with too many men who were losers and hadn’t done anything with themselves. She said it’s shocking how many men her age still act like they’re seventeen.”

I groan, flopping back on the couch.

Macy sits up. “You are trying to get with her.”

I reach behind my back and yank off my t-shirt with one hand.

Macy lets out a little sound of appreciation and she runs her fingers over my pecks and my stomach muscles. After going through my growth spurt, I may have started doing crunches and push-ups. I’m not an athletic kind of guy, but I consider having a muscular physique an asset. I don’t want my father to know, however. He’d see it as a victory over me, and he doesn’t get to win anything.

Macy’s face is close to mine. “Are you going to do something bad to her, Blake?”

I don’t answer her.

“Sometimes, you kind of freak me out,” she says. “I know that whatever it is we’re doing together is kind of fucked up, but I guess I blame myself for letting it go on, and I feel like it’s partly my fault—”

“It is your fault,” I interrupt her. “If you weren’t stupid and you didn’t think with your pussy so much, you’d never let me do the things you let me do to you.”

“I should just go,” she says.

I blink at her, waiting.

She doesn’t move.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” I order her.

She hesitates, holding my gaze. And then she does, and she’s naked, and I drink her in, all of her nude skin.

I kiss her.

Her eager tongue worms its way into my mouth, and we kiss in a frenzy for a long time.

Finally, I pull away, out of breath. I unzip my pants. “What else did she say? She must have said something else.”

“Just the regular stuff.” Macy shrugs. “A guy who’s got a good sense of humor. Who’s kind. Who has old-fashioned values but still respects her independence.”

I sigh.

“You know, I’m not jealous,” says Macy. “And, I mean, I think that’s a sign. Whatever it is that I’m doing with you, I don’t know if I should be doing it anymore.”

No, you dumb bitch, you shouldn’t. I reach between her legs and cup her vulva.

Her breath hitches.

I press the heel of my hand against her as I wrap my hand around myself and start to stroke myself.

She’s wet, and I can feel it all over my palm even before I part her folds to rub my finger over her.

“A deal is a deal,” I tell her. “We don’t want to be late for work.”

She moans.

I have to admit it’s hot when she moans. And despite how long it takes to get her off, and how annoying it is to have to use my mouth on her, I like it too. I find myself pushing my own climax right up to until it almost takes over and then backing off, letting myself cool down, so that when I do come, it’s whenever she does, and there’s something about the both of us going over the edge together that’s kind of powerful.

I don’t know.

Sometimes… sometimes I think maybe there’s something special about Macy Idleman.

But it’s usually when I’m about ready to bust a nut. After it’s done, I know it was only because I was close to having an orgasm.

3

So, I wanted to have some idea of the kinds of things that Apple liked before I seduced her, but that’s obviously not been a great strategy. I don’t know what I was expecting, anyway. People are usually really stupid about themselves. They think they want one thing, but they actually want something else.

Take Macy, for example. I’m sure she thinks she wants a guy who respects her and asks her opinion and does whatever she likes. But what makes her hot is when I treat her like trash, and she can hardly admit that to herself.

Maybe Apple’s the same way.

Maybe all women are the same way.

It worked on the cheerleaders, after all.

On the other hand, this is important, and I can’t fuck it up, so maybe treating Apple like trash isn’t exactly the way to go with this. I’ll be respectful, sure, but I’ll be commanding. I’ll be in charge. I’ll tell her what to do, the same way I tell Macy, and Apple will eat it up.

I’m fairly certain it’ll work, anyway.

If it doesn’t, I’ll have to try something else. I will make this happen. I can’t afford to fail. It’s very important to me. And besides, Apple deserves it, so it should be mandated by fate or something. I don’t believe in that shit, not really, but sometimes you got to hope the universe will help you out a little bit.

I’ve decided when I’m going to do it.

Apple’s got me working on an event we’re catering. She has a catering business on the side, even though mostly all she makes for the bakery is bread and sweets. But she’s a good cook, and she’ll occasionally take on a big event and make a whole meal. This one is pretty small potatoes considering, however. It’s basically tapas and finger sandwiches, but there’s a lot of them, and we’re going to make all the bread fresh, so it’s going to be something that’s going to take days. I’ll be working after school that week every day, right after school is out until whenever, and on Thursday and Friday, Apple and I will be alone together, which seems like a perfect time to seduce her.

I figure Friday will probably be the better day, because we’ll be finished then, and we’ll be in a celebratory mood. But if the opportunity arises Thursday, I’m not going to pass it up.

I’m not going to lie, I’m a little nervous about it. I feel like maybe I should have prepared better.

But I don’t think it’s in my best interest to be defeatist about it all.

I should be confident.

I should believe in my success. I know I’m going to make this happen.

I know it.

* * *

I stop in the doorway of the kitchen at the bakery, letting my backpack drop to the floor. “Michael?”

Michael Irving looks up at me from across the room. He’s at a stainless steel topped table that serves as counter space, spreading garlic aioli on hunks of French bread that will be used to make mini roast beef sandwiches.

Michael is twenty-five, and he used to live on the island here and work at The Kitchen, but then he moved away to start his own little coffee shop on the mainland. He’s been gone for over a year now.

“It’s, um, Blake, right?” says Michael, going back to the assembly of sandwiches.

“Why are you here?”

Michael spreads aioli. “Apple called me. She said that she’s got a big event on Saturday, and that she was short-staffed. I agreed that I could come out and give her a hand.”

“So, you’re going to be here tonight?”

“I said I’d work straight through until she needs me,” says Michael. “If that means we’re here overnight, I’m good for it. I brought coffee to brew.” He nods toward the front of the store, meaning he probably left it out there.

The Kitchen does brew espresso and make drinks for customers, but we’re not primarily a coffee shop. He’s probably left his stuff out there with the espresso machine.

I draw in a long, slow breath, trying to keep calm.

Okay, this was unexpected. Now, Apple and I are not going to be alone. I’m not happy about it, but if I let anyone see how annoyed I am, then it might be suspicious.

I stow my backpack in the far corner, where staff keeps their possessions, and I pick up an apron that’s hanging on the wall.

As I’m tying it, Apple comes in. She sees me and smiles. “Thanks for doing this, Blake. I know this is going to be crazy, but you should be able to go home at a decent time now, since Michael will be here.”

“I was willing to work all night if I had to,” I say to her.

“Well, you have school,” she says. “That’s got to be your priority.”

“I was looking forward to the extra pay,” I say. Sullenly. Too sullenly.

She arches an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you were in dire financial straits.”

I square my shoulders, narrowing my eyes at her. “My father is of the opinion that we all need to earn our keep in the household.”

She considers this for a minute and then shrugs. “Well, good for him. It’s good to teach you responsibility. And don’t worry, you’ll still be putting in the hours, and you’ll get some extra pay. But I’m not keeping you past 10:00 tonight. With Michael here, I may not even need you on Friday.”

What? She won’t need me?

This is a disaster.

She’s not even looking at me anymore. She’s hurried over to look over Michael’s shoulder.

A loud beep rents the air.

“That’ll be the sourdough loaves in the oven,” says Apple. “Blake, can you get those out and leave them to cool? I think there’s some other loaves of cranberry orange bread ready to go in after that.”

“Sure thing,” I say, and I go for the oven, shaking my head and swearing inwardly.

What the hell am I going to do?

I work and I seethe, annoyed at how badly this has gone.

My first thought is that I’m just going to put the whole thing off, but I’m not sure when I’ll be alone with Apple again, and I don’t want to put it off. I’m chomping at the bit to get this all going, and it’s not fair that Apple did this.

Apple has me working on a batch of double chocolate muffins. I go through the steps and watch Michael and think to myself that everything is his fault. If he weren’t here, everything would be going according to plan. I try to think of ways to get rid of him, but I don’t know what that could be.

Maybe I could somehow get Macy to call his phone and fake a personal emergency?

Except I don’t know his phone number, and I don’t know what would be a personal emergency for him. And he would figure it out quickly enough to be back tomorrow.

I watch him across the room, with a knife, cutting the roast beef into paper thin slices. He’s good at it. Better than those meat slicer machines that I’ve seen people use at the deli. We don’t have a machine like that because we don’t do a lot with meats.

Once upon a time, Apple used to sell sandwiches at The Kitchen, but she decided she was spreading herself too thin, and that she needed to focus her brand on baked goods, and she jettisoned the sandwiches, which would be made in the morning and wrapped in plastic and set out for people to buy throughout the day. Even then, there was no meat slicer.

If Michael happened to be using something like that, then all I’d need to do would be to jostle him, and he might slice off his own finger. And then he’d leave. He’d go to the emergency room, I guess. We’d put his missing finger on ice and wait for the ambulance. They can reattach limbs.

If only he’d slip up and cut his own finger off with that knife.

I glare at him grimly, over the muffin tin I am filling, imagining it happening.

Then I wonder what would happen if I did jostle him. Would he cut himself?

But it leaves too much to chance if I do that. It probably wouldn’t work, and then I’d have to try something else, and he might become suspicious.

I put the muffins in the oven and go to the walk-in cooler for an egg so that I can make an egg wash to brush on the apple tarts before I put them in the oven, too.

On my way back, I stop next to Michael and survey the pile of shaved meat he’s accumulating.

He glances at me. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m just thinking you might want a sharper knife.”

He gestures with the knife he’s using to the meat. “There a problem?”

“No, no,” I say. “You’re doing amazing, especially considering you’re using that knife.”

Michael sets the knife down. “There’s a better knife to be used? Where is it? I can’t find anything in here anymore. It’s all been moved around in the last year.”

I set down the carton of eggs next to him. “I’ll get it. Be right back.”

“Thanks.” He turns his back to the counter top and leans back.

I go to the other side of the room and sort through the drawer of sharp knives we keep there.

“What’s going on?” says Apple, who’s only a few feet down from me, working on pastry dough.

“I’m just grabbing something for Michael,” I say. “You reorganized since he came. He can’t find anything.”

She chuckles. She raises her voice. “It’s much more efficient this way, Michael. We tried to store things intuitively.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Michael, also chuckling.

“Did you get the muffins into the oven?” says Apple.

“Yes.” I select a knife with a huge blade and sharp, gleaming tip.

“Did you set a timer?”

“Yes.” I turn on her. “This isn’t my first time making muffins.” I happen to be amazing at muffins. Amazing.

Cooking is something that I fell into for selfish reasons, I suppose. I never had anyone cooking special meals for me growing up or anything. When my birthday rolled around, my mother would tell the cook to make what she wanted, and no one bothered to ask if I even liked the meals. It was festive and different, so I was supposed to pretend as if I was happy with it, and if I didn’t, I was punished.

I started learning to cook for myself. It was all about getting whatever I wanted and being able to take care of myself without the interference of anyone else.

But I soon learned that cooking could be useful. I could make delicious food and give it to people, and they’d be grateful. Grateful people would do me favors. I find this to be advantageous.

“Sorry,” says Apple. “You’re in a bad mood.

“I am not,” I snap.

She laughs. “Okay, fine. Sorry, Blake.”

I briefly entertain a very satisfying fantasy of strangling her. I imagine that she fights me but I slam her into the wall of ovens until she stops and then she surrenders entirely to me.

Taking a deep breath, I stalk back to Michael, pointing the knife down at the floor as I walk towards him.

This next part has to be done delicately.

It has to seem like an accident.

I get close to him, and then he reaches out his hand. “What have you got there?”

I pretend to have heard something, twisting my neck quickly and bringing up my hand with the knife in it at the same time.

I feel the knife make contact with him, but I don’t know where I’ve stabbed him because I couldn’t watch myself do it.

I turn back, my face a mask of horror.

His mouth is wide open. He’s shocked, and he looks incredibly silly, like a cartoon who’s just realized that he’s been running on air for ten feet.

“Shit,” I say. “Shit, shit.” I scramble for a towel and I shove it into his stomach.

Because that’s where I’ve stabbed him, right on the side. I think I’ve missed anything vital, which is good, because I want this to be serious but not too serious.

I push the towel into the growing red stain on his shirt. The knife is still sticking out of him, and I am still holding onto it. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought I heard something. I’m such an idiot. Oh, my God.”

Michael finally makes a noise. It’s a sort of groan.

Apple is there, standing next to both of us, her hands thrust into her hair.

“I’m so sorry,” I’m breathing. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know—”

“Blake, shut up,” says Apple.

I turn to her, and I try to make myself look afraid and apologetic. “Apple—”

“Shh,” she says. She swallows. “It was an accident. Let go. Let me look at him.”

I release the knife, and I manage to make my lower lip tremble a little as I take a step back. “I’ll take him to the emergency room. It’s the least I can do.”

Apple is nodding, examining the wound. “Yeah, you might need stitches, Michael, but I don’t think it’s bad. You should have someone look at it, though, make sure.”

Michael wavers on his feet and catches himself on the counter.

“Should I call an ambulance?” I say.

“No,” says Michael, looking down at himself.

“I’m so sorry,” I say him, meeting his gaze.

We lock eyes for a minute, and then he becomes uncomfortable and looks away. “It’s okay, Blake. You didn’t mean it. I don’t think it’s that deep.” He yanks the knife out. There’s an inch of blood on the tip.

“Should you have done that?” My voice is a squeak.

Apple is snatching up more towels, packing them against his wound. “I think it’s all right.”

“I don’t need to go to the emergency room,” says Michael. “Let me go and look at it in the bathroom.”

“You better go,” says Apple. “Let Blake take you.”

“But what about…?” Michael gestures all around at food he was working on.

“God, Michael, you can’t work with a stab wound,” says Apple.

“But how are you going to get this all done?” says Michael.

“I’ll come back,” I say. “I’ll make sure Michael’s all right, and I’ll come back, and we’ll work all night if we have to, and all day tomorrow. This is all my fault, Apple. I screwed up everything. You don’t even have to pay me. I’ll do it for free. It’s the least I can do.”

“The last thing I’m worried about is catering this event,” says Apple. “We need to be focused on Michael.”

“I’m fine,” says Michael, and pushes past us and out of the kitchen.

“Michael, let me take you to the hospital,” I yell after him. “Come on, if you don’t, I’m going to worry.”

4

Apple and I convince Michael to go to the emergency room.

He’s surprisingly resistant to the whole idea, having bandaged himself in the bathroom and decided that nothing is wrong with him at all. I could almost think he knows what I’m doing and he’s trying to further ruin everything, but luckily, Apple insists he go, saying he’s not thinking clearly, and that he’s in shock.

After I get Michael checked in, he tells me to go back to The Kitchen because Apple needs me.

I fight with him about this, telling him that I need to stay and make sure he’s okay, because this is all my own fault and laying on the shame pretty thick.

But he forces me to go, and so soon, I’m back at The Kitchen, and it’s Apple and me together.

I find her standing over the muffins I put in the oven, staring at them, looking agonized.

“Should I just cancel?” she says to me. “If I explain what happened, maybe they’ll understand?”

“Michael wouldn’t want us to do that,” I say. “He sent me back here.”

She takes a deep breath. “But if Michael is badly hurt…”

“He’s going to be fine,” I say, even though I have no idea what’s going to happen to Michael.

“Am I a horrible person for prioritizing this over a wounded man?”

“No!” I go to her. I put a hand on her shoulder. “This is your job. This is your livelihood. You provide valuable income for other people as well. And the people at this event are counting on you. You don’t have a choice but to deliver on your promise, and I’m going to help you.”

She looks up at me. “Oh, Blake, you’re a really good kid, you know that?”

I smile at her. Except for the fact that she’s calling me a kid, this is going pretty perfectly.

We have lost time because of Michael’s injury, both because I was gone helping him and because Apple was hesitant and worried while I was gone and not very productive. Then there’s the loss of his help in general.

We’re behind, and we end up working into the wee hours of the morning. Apple finally shuts everything down around 2:00 in the morning because there’s nothing else we can do now until the following day. We’ll need to make the rest of the food fresh if it’s going to be ready for Saturday.

She tells me that she really needs me directly after school, and I reassure her that I’ll be there.

But I don’t go to school. I show up at The Kitchen instead, and she’s too tired to argue with me about doing anything else.

The Kitchen is open for business that day, so Apple is trying to juggle the preparations for the event along with the regular day-to-day business of the place, and that’s a lot. We’re busy all day, and I have to admit that by the time we finish up that evening around 9:00 p.m., I’m exhausted.

Part of me wants to throw in the towel on this entire plan, because I don’t have the energy to try to seduce Apple.

But I come back to find her sitting down next to a sink of dirty dishes, a bottle of wine open and a glass in her hand.

Apple is the kind of woman who you might consider a little plump, but she’s got an incredibly small waist and wrist and ankles. She only swells in the places you’d want a woman to swell. Sitting there, her shirt unbuttoned, a hint of her cleavage showing, her hair falling in tendrils around her face, I’m struck by how attractive she is, and I suddenly have all the energy in the world for this plan.

I pour myself some wine.

“Aren’t you underage?” she says, arching an eyebrow.

I take a drink of the wine. “Did you wait until you were twenty-one to drink alcohol?”

She just laughs. “If you tell anyone that I—”

“I wouldn’t,” I say.

She sighs. “I can’t believe we pulled this off.”

“We did well,” I say.

“I talked to Michael on the phone. He got a couple stitches and he was told to rest up. It didn’t hit any of his organs or anything, but he was right to go to the emergency room.”

“Is he going to be okay?” I pretend to be very concerned about this.

“He’ll be fine,” she says. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up about that, okay? You didn’t mean it, and you’ve more than made up for it. I can’t believe you skipped school today. Are your parents going to be angry with me?”

“My parents won’t even notice,” I say.

She cocks her head to one side, and I see something in her eyes that I don’t like. Pity.

I grimace. I set down my wine and go around behind her. I take her wine glass from her and start massaging her shoulders. “You need to relax now. You’re home free. Everything’s done.”

She groans. “Oh, that’s actually good. Where did you learn how to do this?”

“I picked up some tips here and there.” I move her ponytail out of the way, draping it over her shoulder. My fingers are on her bare skin.

She shuts her eyes. “You need to go home.”

“So do you,” I say quietly.

“Mmm… I should,” she agrees. “I need to get some rest because I’ve got to deliver all this in the morning. It’s packed and ready to go, so I should go and be well rested and ready for the event.”

“Just relax,” I say. “Relax and celebrate a little.”

She’s quiet, and she lets me massage her.

Time passes. I massage her neck and her shoulders.

Soon, she’s loose and relaxed against me, and I’m able to move my fingers into her hair, to run them over her scalp. I undo her ponytail, and I run my fingers through her hair.

She lets out a breathy giggle. “Okay, Blake, that’s enough. I’m good.”

“No, you’re not,” I say. “You’re going to to let me do this. You deserve to feel good. Let me make you feel good.”

Her eyes are still closed. “You shouldn’t say something like that to me. Do you even know how that sounds?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t,” I say.

Her eyes open. She leans back, looking at me.

I brush my fingers over the back of her head, trail them over her neck.

She licks her lips. “That’s…” Her voice is barely there.

“That’s good,” I tell her. “Close your eyes again.”

“Blake…” She doesn’t close her eyes. She lets out a funny little laugh. “Do you know how old I am?”

“I don’t care about that,” I say.

She stands up suddenly, and she looks embarrassed. Her face is turning pink. She backs away from me. “You… this…”

I close the distance between us and I reach out to cup her cheek with one hand. I rub my thumb over her cheekbone.

She shuts her eye again. “Oh, fuck, I am so tired and just a little bit tipsy, and you are too pretty for your own damned good, Blake, but don’t. Stop that.”

“You don’t want me to stop,” I say in a guttural voice.

“I do,” she says, but there’s no conviction in her voice.

I lean in close, our faces inches apart.

She opens her eyes. “Blake, please.”

I kiss her.

She responds immediately, opening her mouth to me. She tastes like wine, and she twines her hands around my neck, pressing her body into mine.

Then she pulls away, letting out a little gasp. “Fuck.”

I reach for her again.

She holds out both hands to stop me.

I keep coming.

Her hands collide with my chest. “Stop.”

“Come on, Apple, there’s no reason to fight this.”

“Blake, you are a child.”

“I am not.” Now, I’m annoyed.

“You don’t think you are,” she says. “But I’ve been seventeen, too. I also didn’t think I was a child. Now that I’m actually an adult, I know that I was, though.”

“I’m not a child,” I say. “And there’s nothing about this that—”

“It’s really very flattering,” she says. “I mean, you have no idea.” She hangs her head, rubbing her forehead. “I… it’s been a really long time, and I’m handling this all wrong, and I should never have… Fuck.”

I need her to stop talking, so I close the distance between us again, and I try to kiss her again, but she ducks out of my grasp and runs to the other side of the room. “Blake!”

“It’s only that I feel like things were going well there,” I say. “And I don’t want it to stop.”

“Well, I do.” She gives me a pleading look.

“You find me attractive, though.” This is not a question.

“That’s not the point.”

“You liked kissing me.”

“That is also not the point.” She cringes. “I mean, no, I did not.”

I start walking towards her again. “You did like it. You want this. You want me. Let it happen.”

She shakes her head. She moves so that one of the stainless-steel-topped tables is between us. “You’re not on the schedule tomorrow, right? How about you take the whole weekend off, okay?”

“Why are we talking about work schedules?” I move around the table and keep coming.

This time, she holds her ground. She presses her fingers to her lips. The look she gives me would melt steel.

In two steps, I’m right next to her, but I don’t touch her. Instead, I look down at her, and she gazes back up at me. When I speak, my voice is raw. “Touch me.”

“No,” she says, swallowing hard, her eyes searching mine—for what, I can’t be sure. “Get out of my kitchen, Blake. Now.”

I lift my chin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then I’ll leave.” Abruptly, she turns on her heel and stalks through the kitchen to the back door, where we come in before the counter is open. She yanks the door open. “It’ll lock when you close it. Turn the lights off?”

“Wait, Apple,” I say.

She doesn’t.

* * *

Maybe Apple isn’t like high school girls.

Maybe ordering her around was not the best strategy.

I don’t know, though. I can’t say it was a complete failure, because she did kiss me, and she was tempted, and I think this can still happen. I can’t give up. Now is the time to keep at it, keep at her, until she breaks.

I sleep most of the day Saturday.

I know Apple told me to take the weekend off, but I come in for my regular shift on Sunday, and that’s when I see that Apple has changed the entire schedule around, and she’s made it so I never work at the same time as her anymore.

We’re like ships passing in the night. She leaves a half hour before all my shifts start.

She’s avoiding me.

This…

Well, I had intended to stay and insist on working my shift, to be as charming as I possibly could with Apple, and to wear down at her resolve until she falls into my arms.

But I end up looking at the schedule, jamming my hands into my pockets, and walking out of the store. If I stay, I’m going to start knocking things over. I have a fantasy about it—overturning the display case and sending the pastries and cookies flying, glass shattering with a satisfying crunch.

I know I can’t do that.

That sort of reaction to a schedule change is out of proportion, and people will think I’m insane and dangerous.

So, I go home and stew all day Saturday.

I kick Jake out of the room on top of the garage and I do push-ups—too many push-ups, because when I’m done, I’m worried I might have injured myself.

Macy shows up, and I’m sweaty and annoyed, and she gets that look in her eyes that she does sometimes, and she’s as good a receptacle of my aggression as anything.

When it’s done, she’s still draped over the back of the couch, ass in the air, out of breath and smiling, completely naked.

I put my clothes back on and sit down opposite her in an easy chair that used to be in our living room but got relegated here when my mother redecorated. I look at Macy’s rounded ass and her bare back, and it feels good to know that I can have that whenever I want it.

“I heard you stabbed someone.” Macy’s cheek is against the front of the couch’s backrest. Her eyes are closed.

I don’t say anything.

She eases her feet down to the floor behind the couch and then stands up and stretches a little bit, which is a view I don’t mind. Then she tumbles face first onto the seat of the couch and bounces on the pillows. She curls up, knees to her chest. “Did you do that so that you could get Apple alone?”

My lips part and my brows furrow, and I pay attention to her in a way I have maybe never paid attention to her before. “You’re accusing me of stabbing Michael on purpose? Really? That’s what you think of me?”

She gives me a confused look.

Shit. That’s probably not the way to play it with her, is it? Macy’s not my mother, and the way I treat her, she’s got no real illusions about me. Even so, I can’t have her thinking that I’m stabbing people on purpose. It’s time to turn on a completely different strategy.

“You’re denying it, then?”

I sigh, letting my shoulders slump, looking deflated. “I guess I can see why you would think that about me. I guess sometimes, I… when I’m with you…”

She sits up, and she pulls a throw blanket over herself to cover her.

I want to yank it away from her, because she can’t be getting her sweaty-sex juices on that thing, but that’ll mess up what I’m trying to do, so I force myself not to think about that anymore. I can always throw it in the laundry, after all. “I’m sorry, Macy. I don’t know why I feel like I can do those things with you—to you. But I’m not that way with other people.” I pick at my thumbnail. “I mean you’re not like this with other people either, are you?”

She considers, and then she looks away, shaking her head.

“I think it’s because I feel really comfortable around you,” I say. “I don’t have anyone who I can be with and let out this other side of myself with. Whatever it is that we have, it’s really important to me.”

She meets my gaze, then. “Look, Blake, the way I feel about you is complicated, too. But if you’re trying to tell me that you don’t have some scheme you’re trying to run on Apple Shannon—”

“I don’t!” I protest.

She snorts. “Whatever, Blake.” She gets off the couch, letting the blanket drop, and starts to fish her clothes up off the floor. “You’re always telling me how stupid I am, but here’s the thing. I’m not.” She gives me a smile I can only term wicked, and then she slowly pulls her clothes on, article by article, never looking away from me.

By the time she leaves, I’m hard again.

* * *

If Apple isn’t going to see me at work, that’s no problem. I’ll see her elsewhere.

Monday night, I show up at her house. I think about bringing flowers or some shit like that, but I decide not to. I decide that there’s no reason to think that my original mode of operation—being commanding and forceful—isn’t working. It’s maybe taking a little bit of time, but it did get her to kiss me. If I try to do something else, like bringing her flowers and stuff, it’ll only weaken me and make me look desperate.

She opens the door, but when she sees it’s me, her hand stops on the handle of the screen door, and she doesn’t open that door. “What are you doing here, Blake?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I say.

“Well, try,” she says.

“I think this thing with us, it’s meant to be,” I say. “I understand why you changed all my shifts at the store. It’s because you don’t want anyone to know about us, and I think it’s perfect, because now no one will suspect. No one knows where I am now, and no one will ever think—”

“There’s no us, Blake.”

I reach up to open the screen door.

She yanks on the handle, keeping it closed. “I think you need to leave.”

“No you don’t,” I say. “When we kissed, I know it was as good for you as it was for me. I know you think you want something else, but if you let me, I know I can satisfy you, Apple. Open the door.”

“Blake. Leave,” she says, and her voice is shaking.

That isn’t a good shake. Shit. I’m scaring her, aren’t I? I raise both of my hands and take a step back. “I don’t think you really want me to go.”

“I do.”

I hang my head. “Okay, but…”

“But nothing.” She slams the wooden door in my face and locks it.

5

Okay, to say that went badly would be an understatement.

Maybe…

Maybe I do need to alter my approach. Maybe being super forceful isn’t the way to go.

It’s only that I’m not really very good at being, you know, flattering and charming and a nice guy. But I spend all of the rest of the week thinking about it, and on Friday, I come in for my shift early, so that I’ll be able to run into Apple.

When she sees me, her eyes get wide, but I also see how her chest rises and falls and her cheeks get a little red, and I don’t think it’s a negative reaction to seeing me, not exactly.

I go to her, and I tell her, in a quiet voice that I want to apologize privately, and can she meet me later?

She seems flustered having me close, and she looks around the kitchen, at everyone else who’s working there, none of whom are paying us any mind, and she says, “My office.” She turns on her heel and walks away.

I follow her, excited at the prospect of making out with her on her desk or something.

But when I get in there, she makes me close the door and then folds her arms over her chest and says, “Okay. Apologize.”

Right. I take a deep breath. “Look, I maybe came on a little strong. I shouldn’t have come to your house.”

“No,” she says. “You shouldn’t have. But, see, this is the thing, Blake, you’re a kid, and these emotions that you’re feeling, they’re new and overwhelming. You don’t know how to deal with them, and that’s something you need to be working through with someone your own age. I thought that Idleman girl from the hardware store was your girlfriend or something.”

“She’s not.” I shake my head. “And… come on, Apple. Just because I’m young doesn’t mean that what I’m feeling isn’t real.”

“That’s not what I said,” she says. She sighs. “I only mean… you might not realize it, Blake, but you can be… intimidating.”

I fold my arms over my chest. This isn’t going well. “I don’t mean to be.” I sound sulky. Fuck. Why am I screwing this up so bad?

“I know you don’t,” she says. “Which is why I’m trying to tell you, gently, to take it down a notch. And I’m not interested, okay? I-I also mean that gently. You’re a very talented boy. The cooking you do here is amazing. And I do think you’re attractive as well. So, I don’t mean it as an insult. There’s nothing wrong with you and everything right. But you need to forget about me.”

I’m not sure what to say to this. I take several deep breaths, imagining knocking her desk over, smashing her computer screen. Instead, I make my voice even and low. “When you kissed me—”

“A mistake.”

“It didn’t feel that way to me.”

“I know I screwed up, Blake,” she says. “I need to apologize to you, too. I’m the adult here, and I behaved badly.”

“No.” I clench both my hands into fists. “I have a thing to give you. An apology gift.” I was supposed to work up to this.

“Oh?” She looks around. “Where is it?”

“It’s not here. It’s on my boat, and I thought if you would meet me later, I could give it to you—”

“No,” she says, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Come on, Blake. Seriously?”

“If you would just—”

“I think we’re done here,” she says, going to the door to the office and opening it. Meaningfully, she gestures for me to leave.

Seething, I do.

* * *

Everything is shit.

I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. This should have worked. It started out so well. When did it start taking a wrong turn? I’m not sure what to do. Apple seems dead set against me now, and I’m going to have a really hard time making this work.

I start to realize I’m going to have to destroy her in some other way, and I don’t know how I’m going to do that.

I’ve failed.

I don’t like being a failure. It feels like something dead has crawled into my body and that it’s decaying in there and seeping poison into my blood stream. I can hardly function.

After school the next day, I make Macy give me a blow job in the high school parking lot, something she’s very resistant to because we could get in trouble if we get caught, but I insist, and she does it, and it’s not even…

It should be a triumph, finally forcing her into submission like that, but it means nothing.

Later, Jake gives me a hard time about letting me have the room above the garage to myself, and I hit him. I’ve hit my brother before, obviously. We’re only a year apart, and we’ve spent our whole lives getting into fights and wrestling matches.

But this time, I don’t stop. I hit him and hit him, and he’s so desperate to get me off of him that he resorts to using his fingernails, which is a total chick move, but I do end up with a pretty deep scratch mark on my face. It’s bleeding.

Of course, Jake is bleeding, too, all over the place.

I let him up, swearing, and he’s practically crying as he runs back to the house.

I go into the bathroom above the garage and look at the place where Jake clawed me. There’s blood on my shirt. Not mine—Jake’s. I’m a mess.

My mother shows up. She’s shrill and I shut her out, locking the door.

I strip off my bloody shirt and throw myself down on the couch. I hug one of the throw pillows on the couch. I feel like crying too.

I lie there like that, almost crying, for a while.

Then my phone rings.

It’s my mother.

I dismiss the call.

She calls again.

I dismiss that one too.

But she won’t give up, so eventually, I answer. “What?”

“Your father wants you to come down to the store,” she says.

“So?” I say.

“I don’t think he’ll be pleased if you ignore him,” she says. “You know your father. You know it’ll only go worse on you if you don’t go.”

“Did you tell him about me and Jake?” My voice is high-pitched, in betrayal.

“You wouldn’t let me in,” she says, defensive.

I sigh. “What the fuck, Mom?”

“Language,” she says.

I roll my eyes.

“After what you did to your brother, you need more discipline than I could possibly give you.”

“Oh, right, because you’re a queen at discipline,” I say.

She doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks for nothing.” I hang up on her.

I have to go and get another shirt before I go down to the store. I drive down to Island Sports and Hunting, and I sit in the parking lot for a while, toying with the stereo and thinking about avoiding it all, but I know my mother is right. If I don’t go in there, it’ll just end up worse.

So, I get out of the car and I go in to the store.

It’s open, and people are shopping for balls and nets and darts and guns. I walk through the aisles, underneath the canoes dangling from the ceiling, all the way to the back, where my dad’s office is.

He’s hunched over his desk, wearing his reading glasses, sorting through papers. My dad is huge. Since I went through my growth spurt or whatever, I actually have an inch on him, but my father is practically as wide as he is tall, and all of it is muscle. His biceps are the size of basketballs. His neck is thick and his shoulders are massive. He always wears a suit at work, but he never looks professional, because he’s too brawny to look like anything other than a caveman, even with reading glasses.

“Blake,” he says in a mild voice. “Shut the door.”

I hesitate, shifting on my feet, and then I do it.

“Have a seat.” He doesn’t gesture to the chair in front of his desk, and he doesn’t look up.

I sit down, slouching, looking everywhere but at him.

“Sit up straight, son.”

I do. I look at him.

He takes off his glasses. “I got a call from your mother, which is why you’re here, but I want to hear it from you. Why did your mother call me?”

I lick my lips. “I just… I got angry.”

“Everyone gets angry, Blake,” he says. “Your mother wouldn’t have called me if that was all it was. No, your mother called me because you can’t control yourself.” He gives me a small smile and his voice is as mild as ever. “You are a stupid piece of shit who destroys everything you touch, and I’m ashamed to call you my son.”

I try not to flinch. I try very hard. I fail at that, too.

I hate my father.

“Now, let’s start over,” says my dad, “and this time, tell me why your mother called me.”

“I hit Jake,” I said. “I beat the hell out of Jake.”

He raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“I…” My face twitches in spite of myself. “I’m a, um…” My voice drops to a whisper. “I’m a stupid piece of shit who destroys everything I touch.”

He waits.

My voice cracks. “You’re right to be ashamed of me. I don’t deserve a dad like you.”

“Do you know how much I have tried to correct you when you fuck up? Do you know how much time I have poured into molding you into something that halfway resembles a decent human being?”

I hang my head.

“And you still spit in my face.” He shakes his head and he lets out a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I know you are,” he says. “But don’t be sorry, son, just don’t fuck up. Do you think you could manage that? Do you?”

I don’t say anything. He might want me to, or he might not want me to. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with him.

He’s getting up from his desk and going to the door, so I guess I was right not to respond. “Come on,” he says. “You’ve got consequences coming.”

I stand up. Right. The consequences. I’m kind of relieved, because once he decides what my penance is, he’ll be done with me, and it’s almost worse when he talks to me, for some reason.

My father has never laid a finger on me. Not for any reason. He’s never hit me. He’s never hugged me. I know he’s a shitty dad. I’m not stupid. I know I shouldn’t care about whatever the fuck he says about me.

I mean, I don’t care.

Of course I don’t fucking care.

My dad takes me through the store. He stops in front of a shelf. On one side, there are rows of camping supplies—air mattresses and sleeping bags and camping stoves in boxes. On the other side, there’s a bunch of fishing tackle and rods and things.

My dad surveys the thing and then heaves on it, and it falls with a resounding crash.

I jump out of the way to avoid getting hit by the shrapnel that’s falling—fishing hooks and lures and kerosene lanterns. It all tumbles and rolls down the other aisles and onto the floor.

A woman comes around the end of the aisle, eyes wide.

My dad chuckles. “My clumsy son.” He sets a meaty hand on my shoulder.

I swallow.

My dad leans close, whispering in my ear. “Clean it up. Tally up the value of anything that’s broken, and you’ll be paying me back with your earnings from that little bakery where you work wearing an apron. Like a sissy. Because that’s what you are, Blake. A worthless sissy who can’t do anything fucking right.”

6

It’s not so bad, the consequences, like I said. My dad leaves me alone to do that, and I’ve gotten efficient at cleaning up these messes he makes. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched my father knock things over like this.

Once, my mother had this stupid idea to have prime rib for Thanksgiving instead of turkey, and my father upended the entire table and all the food went flying. There were mashed potatoes on the ceiling.

Mom had to clean that up.

Jake and I weren’t supposed to help her, but Dad left, like he usually does after one of his outbursts, so we did.

Anyway, I clean up the shelves and put everything back and take the stuff that was broken to the checkout counter, where I scan everything and pay for it all. I have to check in with my father before I can leave, but he’s busy talking to some of his employees, (all of whom think he’s a great guy, by the way. He never does this sort of thing to them) and he just waves me out.

I go looking for Macy, but she’s not home. She’s working at the hardware store, and when I get there, she’s talking to some guy and gesturing to various packages of nails.

So, I leave there.

I don’t want to go home. I feel bad about hitting Jake. It’s not Jake’s fault. Jake is a little bitch, and he whines too much, but he has his own shit to deal with. You’d think it’d be easier for Jake, doing all the things that Dad wants him to do, not like me, who is everything our father hates. But I know it’s not. I should be nicer to him or whatever.

I could go home and apologize, but then I’d have to look at his face, and I remember how it was all bloody and swelling up, and he’ll look even worse when I get there, and I’ll have to stare at him while I say I’m sorry, and I don’t really think I can do that.

I go to The Kitchen.

There’s some guy in there with a box of cupcakes which he keeps slamming on the counter.

Mischa Clare, who goes to my high school and is this little freshman about five feet tall, is working, and there’s no one else out here with her. Every time the guy slams the box, she cringes.

I go around behind the counter, pushing Mischa out of the way. “There a problem here, sir?”

The man looks me over. “Who the heck are you? Do you even work here?”

“Yes,” I say.

The man looks at Mischa and then back at me. I’m taller than he is, which gives me great satisfaction. “Okay, well, look. I ordered peanut butter chocolate cupcakes, and I got this instead.” He slams the box again.

I peer into it. “They look to be caramel chocolate, sir.”

“That’s not what I ordered,” he says.

“It is, though,” says Mischa, suddenly, in a very tiny but very defiant voice. “I wrote it down on the top of the box. She points.

I open the box and look. “It does say caramel, sir, but that’s fine. We got it wrong, so I’m sure Mischa will get you six peanut butter cupcakes, won’t you?”

The man slams the box again. “I want my money back.”

“Fine,” I say, hitting a button on the cash register.

“And the cupcakes,” says the man.

I raise my eyebrows.

“It’s the least you could do,” he says. “After everything you’ve put me through.”

“Well, I can’t authorize that,” I say.

“Fine,” says the man, slamming the box again. “Who can?”

“Sir, if you slam that box of cupcakes one more time—”

“What?” says the man.

“I’m going to go get Apple,” says Mischa, and she scurries away, leaving me and the man alone.

I smile at the man. We’re alone now. I entertain various fantasies, most of which involve breaking things, breaking the man, chocolate smeared with blood on the floor in front of the counter.

The man sees my smile, and something about it unsettles him, because he takes a step back.

I smile wider, and I imagine myself vaulting over the counter and slamming him into the cooler behind us, shattering the glass that encases the sodas and vitamin waters and kombuchas. I imagine—

But then Apple is there, pushing me out of the way so that she can speak to the man. “Sir? I understand there’s a problem? You got the wrong cupcakes?”

“Who the hell are you?” says the man. “I want to speak to someone in charge, and all I see are high school kids and chubby women in aprons. Can you go find a me a manager or something?”

Apple ducks her head down, sucking in breath through her nose.

“She owns this place,” I say in a low, gravelly voice.

“Blake,” says Apple.

I glare at the man.

His gaze meets mine and then quickly flits away. He turns back to Apple. “I want my money back and a replacement for the faulty order I received.”

“You want free cupcakes,” said Apple.

“Because you got my order wrong,” says the man.

“Apple, he barely walked out of the store,” says Mischa. “He was right on the stoop and then he came back in, and—”

“It’s fine, Mischa,” says Apple. “Take these caramel ones and the peanut butter cupcakes. How about that?”

“And my money back,” says the man, stepping back up the counter.

“Sure,” says Apple, opening up the cash register. She counts out several bills and hands them to the man. “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard day, sir.”

“I wasn’t having a hard day until I came in here,” he says.

“Okay,” she says. “Well, I’m sorry we ruined your day, then.” She tries a smile. “You should have some chocolate to make up for it, in any case, right?”

He doesn’t smile.

Mischa comes back with another box of cupcakes.

“All right, then,” says Apple. “It’s all settled, sir? Are you pleased? Handled to your satisfaction?”

The man inspects the new box of cupcakes. He counts the money he’s gotten. He lingers at the counter for some time, and then he picks up both boxes of cupcakes and goes out of the store.

There are two small wrought-iron tables outside the store, each with two chairs. It’s really too cold to eat outside, but Apple always has us set them out, anyway. People sometimes will sit out there and talk on the phone while they’re waiting for an order or if it’s crowded inside.

The man sits down at one of the tables and begins to eat all of the cupcakes, watching us through the windows.

Apple watches him watch us for several long moments. I can see she’s unnerved, but she squares her shoulders and turns to me. “What are you doing here?”

“Am I not allowed to be here? Last I checked, this place was open to the public, right? Am I not the public?”

“You’re behind the counter,” says Apple.

“I’m so glad you showed up,” says Mischa, looking up at me with an adoring smile.

I give Apple a pointed look.

“Order something if you’re staying,” Apple decides. “You’re not working, and I’m not paying you for being here.”

“I’m not trying to get paid,” I say.

Apple glares at me and then glares at the man outside. Then she leaves.

I order coffee.

Mischa makes me a latte, which is fancier than I wanted, but I’m fine with it. She leans up against the counter and gushes to me about how great I was with the guy.

Who’s still outside. Eating cupcakes.

Ten minutes later, Mischa’s shift is over, and she asks me if I’ll walk her home, but I say I want to stay, because that guy is still out there, and I don’t want to leave Apple alone with him.

Mischa goes back to clock out, and Apple comes out to the counter. She usually works this shift alone, apparently. That’s the way it’s written on the schedule. I wonder if that’s because she had to move everything around into weird configurations to keep us from being at the bakery at the same time.

When Apple sees that the man is still outside, I can tell she’s alarmed.

“I’m going to stay until he goes,” I say.

“You don’t have to,” she says. “What are you going to do? You’re just a kid.”

“Hopefully, I’m not going to do anything,” I say. “Hopefully, he’s just going to leave.”

“The police station is just across the street.” She points. “I can go there if I need help.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” I say.

She looks as though she’s going to argue some more, but then she just sighs and shrugs and pointedly ignores me.

I buy more coffee, not because I need it, but just to give Apple something to do.

Eventually, the guy finishes all of the cupcakes. He’s just eaten a dozen of them. He gets up and leaves his trash on the table.

But he leaves. It’s starting to get dark outside, and we watch him walk around the corner, heading down the sidewalk.

I go out and pick up the empty boxes he’s left behind, and I throw them away.

“Okay,” says Apple. “I’m safe, all right? You can go.”

I think about trying to convince her to let me stay, but I’m just… done with all of it right now. I know I’m a big, fat failure, and I know Apple doesn’t want me around.

I leave The Kitchen, going out the front door. My car is parked in the back, but I still don’t feel like going home. It’s cold outside, but I think I might like a walk around the island, just to clear my head.

I walk down past the diner and Lotus Yoga, which is owned by that Aria woman who’s new in town, and the tea shop.

Eventually, I head back to the parking lot behind The Kitchen. I still don’t feel like going home, but it’s too cold to walk. Maybe Macy is done at the hardware store. I get out my phone to text her.

That’s when I see that the door to the back of The Kitchen is open.

I start over there without thinking, because it looks wrong, the door hanging half-open like that. When I get to the door, I hear voices from within, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I hear Apple’s voice, high-pitched, alarmed, and another voice, a lower voice.

I step inside the door, and there’s the man again. “… think it’s really interesting. I’d love to hear all about how bread baking is done.”

“Well, I’m a little busy at the moment, sir. It’s time for me to close the shop.” Apple is breathless and frightened. “So, if you could just go back out the door—” She gestures, and when she does, she looks at the door, and she sees me. “Blake.”

“How’s it going, Miss Shannon?” I say. I never call her that, but it seems like the right thing to say. “Just checking you didn’t need any help locking up.”

The man turns around to face the door. “You,” he says to me.

I lift my chin.

He glances at Apple and then back at me. “Well, I was just leaving.”

“Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” says Apple, too brightly.

“Have a nice night, sir,” I say, in a voice that is really a threat.

He narrows his eyes at me, but he comes to the door.

I step out of the way to let him through.

He bares his teeth at me as he goes by me.

I shut the door behind him and lock it and head for Apple. “Are you okay? Did he try to do anything? What did he do?” Despite the fact that I hate Apple, and I’m trying to destroy her, I feel genuinely concerned for her, and I don’t want that man to have hurt her in any way.

She presses a hand to her chest, her breath coming in gasps, her eyes wide. “No, no. He just talked. He talked a lot. He told me some story about how his mother used to make bread and how it smelled just like this and it reminded him of growing up in Tennessee or something. I don’t even know. I mean, maybe he was harmless, but—”

“He wasn’t harmless.” I’m right next to her now, and I take her by the shoulders. “You sure you’re all right?”

She nods. “Fine. You should go.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” I say. “I’ll stay until you lock up, and then I’m following you home in my car.”

“Blake—”

“I won’t come in!” I protest. “I’ll just make sure you get inside and that you’re locked up safe and sound. I couldn’t relax if I didn’t know that you were safe, that’s all.”

She cocks her head to one side, and then she sags into me.

I put my arms around her. I’m not meaning to do it, but it just happens.

“You’re a good kid, Blake. I think deep down, you really mean well.”

“I do.” My voice has gotten deep and a little unsteady, and I don’t know why that is. I try to concentrate on the way she’s pressing into me—her curves, her breasts, her heat. I try to make it just about sex and not about… about anything else, because there is nothing else.

She hugs me, her cheek against my chest, squeezing me tight. “I hear things about your dad, you know.”

“There’s nothing to hear about my dad.” Oh, fuck, is my voice trembling?

“You know, there’s more than one way to be a strong man. And being protective, that’s not a bad thing. So, keep that part of yourself, but—”

I pull away, extricating myself from her. “I don’t want to talk about my dad. There’s nothing to say about my dad.”

She nods. “Right. Okay.”

I kiss her.

She kisses me back.

We kiss for a long time, and she lets me untie her apron and run my fingers over her hips and her waist, and she throws her head back and offers me her neck, and I kiss her below her ear and over her clavicle.

She runs her fingers over my chest. She makes noises, and I like them.

I pick her up and sit her on one of the tables, so that she’s facing the ovens where we bake the bread, and I’m pressing into her, in between her thighs, unbuttoning her blouse.

“Blake,” she gasps. “Blake, wait a second.”

I don’t wait. I undo her buttons and I bare her bra. It’s black and it’s smooth, with no decorations. It has thick straps. Her breasts are huge. I can see how huge they are for the first time. I could never tell through her clothes. I’m incredibly turned on.

She pulls her blouse closed. She’s blushing. “Fuck.”

“Don’t do that,” I say, taking both of her hands in mine. “Come on, just… I kind of need… the day I’ve had…”

“Blake,” she says. Her voice is urgent and velvet. “That guy scared me, and I was feeling a little vulnerable and then you…” She shakes her head. “Do you really care about me?”

“Of course,” I say.

“You really want me to be safe?”

“Yes.”

“Stop this, then,” she says. “Stop trying this stuff with me.” She’s begging me. “I know I have no excuse for encouraging you. I know I should never have—”

“But you did,” I say. I reach out and cup her cheek with one hand. “You did encourage me.”

“Blake…”

“You want this,” I say. “And I need this.”

“Stop,” she says.

I ignore her. I push at the wide straps of her bra and I peel away the black cups and there she is. Her nipples are pink and so small compared to the size of her breasts. I gather them both into my hands.

She wriggles away from me, trying to pull her bra back into place, but her breasts are too big, and she can’t get away, not when I grab her waist and hold her in place.

“Blake.” There’s a different sound in her voice now. “I’m serious. Stop it.”

I kiss her again.

She struggles. She makes muffled noises against my mouth.

Something about that is incredibly hot, the most exciting thing I’ve ever experienced. I find one of her nipples and tweak it—hard enough that I know it hurts.

She cries out, horrified.

And my jeans are far too tight—painfully tight—no just the right amount of tight. I rub myself against her as she struggles, as she tries to get away, but I hold her in place, and then—

I come in my pants.

Yeah, it should be embarrassing, but it’s not, because she’s mine right then. She belongs to me. She wants to get away and she can’t.

I rain kisses over her face and neck and breasts. I burrow my face between the soft flesh there, sighing in the aftershocks of my orgasm.

She lets out a strange, strangled noise, which I think is a sob.

I pull away.

She is trembling.

I look at her.

She yanks her clothes back into place and slides off the table, putting her feet on the floor. But now, it’s more obvious how much taller than her I am, and it makes her seem weak and diminutive as she looks up at me. I am panting, and my breath seems to echo against the walls of the room, to bounce off the counters and the ovens and the sinks.

She is out of breath too.

Time stretches out, slowing down, and I savor this moment, this feeling. I have never felt quite so alive in my entire life. I have never felt anything so good. The fear in her expression… I could get drunk on it. It is so much more than just the sexual release, it’s the sheer power of it. I feel like a god.

I smile at her. “You about ready to go?”

“You’re not still going to follow me home.” I can’t tell whether she is terrified or disgusted or angry. Maybe all three.

“Of course I am,” I say.

7

The original plan was to get Apple to send me nudes, but I always that that might be a stretch.

And besides, what happened last night was better than actually having sex with her, even if she’d been a hundred percent into it. Having that power over her was good. So good.

But I know that there’s zero chance of Apple and I ever getting it on now, and that there’s no way she’s going to take pictures of herself naked and send them to me. It’s going to be very freaking hard to get proof that we had sex when we did not in fact have sex.

However, I wake up the next day riding the high of what happened, and I know that it doesn’t matter what actually happened or what proof I have. Apple just needs to believe that there’s proof, and she needs to stay afraid of me.

So, the first thing I do is take a bunch of pictures of my dick. I do this in the morning, right when I get out of the shower, but I let them sit on my phone for a few hours.

I go to school. I sit in class and the teachers drone on and I think about Apple making that little strangled sob and the way she was shaking.

I send the first one to her around noon.

Then I send another one every hour or so.

At first she doesn’t respond, but the hours roll on, and I wear her down.

What you’re doing is harassment, she texts back in response to the fifth dick pick I’ve send to her phone. And what you did to me last night was assault. I’m well within my rights to go to the authorities.

Yeah, I need to shut this down right now. She can’t think that she’s blameless here or that anyone would believe that she is. She is the adult, after all, and I’m not even legal.

I filmed us in The Kitchen last night, I text back.

She texts back very, very quickly. There’s no way you could have done that.

Were you keeping a close eye on my phone? I text. I wait. Watching it right now. Those noises you’re making while I’m kissing your neck? They sound pretty consensual.

She doesn’t respond.

I send her another picture. This one is a nude, but you can see my face in it. I’m rubbing myself and staring straight at the camera.

Stop sending those pictures, she texts.

I can’t help but laugh. I have no intention of stopping. I’m just getting started.

* * *

If I actually had a video of Apple and me making out, I would be home free. I’d play it for her and tell her to sign over The Kitchen to me right now.

But I don’t, so I need to create some evidence and some insurance. I need to plant some evidence, but do it well enough that Apple can’t get rid of it. I need to make it seem plausible that the story I’m spinning is real.

I have some work to do.

First things first, after school that day, I go to The Kitchen for my shift, and I tell Karen, who’s the manager working—because, of course, Apple is not there, not if I am—that Apple wants me to look at something on her computer, so can Karen please open up the office for me so that I can take a look?

Karen doesn’t even take any convincing and opens up the office right away.

Apple’s computer is a mess. The entire desktop is filled with icons for various files and apps, all spewed over it, not even in rows. It’s perfect. I couldn’t have asked for something more perfect.

I load all the pictures of myself onto the hard drive. I bury them in folders inside folders, and I doubt Apple will be able to find them, even if she goes looking, because I imitate the naming conventions she’s used for her files on recipes. I’m sure, however, if this computer were seized by someone looking for child pornography that they’d find them eventually.

I’m just finishing up when the door opens, and Apple’s standing there.

Karen is trailing behind her. “He said that you wanted him to look at something for you. I didn’t know…”

“Out of my office, Blake,” says Apple in a cold voice.

I smirk at her. “I’m all finished in here, anyway.” I unplug the cable I used to connect my phone to her computer.

“What the hell are you doing?” says Apple. She looks over her shoulder at Karen, and that’s when I notice that Macy is out there.

What the fuck is Macy doing in The Kitchen, especially back here in the staff area?

“It’s fine, Karen,” says Apple. “I forgot I said anything to him about it. I wanted to… clean before I let him in.”

Karen furrows her brow, looking confused.

Apple winces, as if she realizes how stupid that sounded, how much her behavior is going to give credence to the idea that she and I are having an affair if I tell everyone that’s the case. She gapes at me.

I push past her, trailing my fingers over her waist.

She gasps.

I saunter out of the office. “Macy, what are you doing here?”

She looks up at me. “Nothing.” There’s a look in her eyes, and it reminds me of the look she gets in her eyes when she’s turned on. But somehow, right now, I don’t like it, maybe because I know she’s lying to me, and she knows I know, and she’s not even trying to hide it.

If Macy were my girlfriend, doing that to me would mean that she got punished.

But she’s not my girlfriend.

* * *

I text Macy, ordering her to come over to my house later, but she ignores my texts.

This makes me kind of crazy, so I go over to her house. I never go to her house, because her dad doesn’t like me for whatever reason. And sure enough, her dad meets me at the door and tells me that Macy’s got homework and that it’s not a good time.

So, I go around the house and find her bedroom window and knock on it until she opens it up.

“Jesus, Blake,” she says. “What’s up with you?”

“You didn’t come to my car after school,” I say.

“I don’t always,” she says, which is true.

“You’re ignoring my texts.”

“I’m busy,” she says. “It’s not like you’re my boyfriend, you know?”

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

“No, Blake,” she says, but there’s a ironic lilt to her voice, “you’re just as sweet as ever.” She makes a move to shut the window.

“Wait,” I say.

“God, it’s cold out there.”

“I’m going to do a thing,” I say. “With my dad’s boat. It would be cool if you wanted to come along.”

“What kind of thing?” she says.

“Just… you know… something rebellious and destructive. Something indicative of the emotional difficulties I’m having.”

“What emotional difficulties?”

“Never mind,” I say. “You in or not?”

“Not,” she says. “I feel like all you ever want to do is use me, you know. And it’s kind of hot sometimes, but it’s also…”

“What?” Now, I’m offended.

“Well,” she says, “we’re both kind of damaged, I guess, but I’m starting to get the impression that you’re just way more fucked up than I am.”

I draw back. “Take that back.”

“No,” she says.

“Take the window screen out,” I say. “I’m coming in and we’re going to have this out.”

“No,” she says again, sticking out her tongue at me. “Go home and jack off and think of me, Corbin.” She slams the window closed.

I stand there and stare.

She pulls the window shade closed.

For a minute, I’m only stunned. How could she act that way to me? She’s never like that to me.

Then I start to get annoyed. I think about breaking down her damned window and crawling into her room, picking up one of the shards of glass from the floor as I come inside, pressing the sharp glass to her neck as I force her to suck my dick.

Which…

Admittedly, is fucked up.

So, I leave and go home.

I do jack off. I think about Macy making a sob like Apple did. I think about her looking at me with wide, frightened eyes. When I come, it’s explosive.

8

Well, it would have been good if I damaged the boat beyond all repair while I was out with a girl, but since Macy’s not into it, I decide that a party is even better. All I have to do is tell Anderson Sloan that I want to have a little soiree and to make sure quality people are there, and he takes care of the rest. Anderson’s good for that sort of thing.

It’s chilly, but we all take off the boat, drinking champagne and smoking cigarettes and heading straight for the part of the bay where I know not to take the boat.

When the bottom gets scraped up, I pretend to be horrified.

We limp home, the boat taking on water, and all the girls are screaming because they think the boat’s going to sink and that we’re all going to drown.

I meant to damage the hull pretty bad, but maybe I took it a bit too far, because the boat sits at the dock and sinks lower and lower in the water, and I wonder if it is going to completely sink.

By this time, everyone is off the boat, and the police are there, and my dad is standing at the edge of everything, eyeing me. I can tell he’s pissed off, but to anyone else, he seems like a concerned father. All he keeps talking about is whether anyone’s been hurt, and about making sure that any of the parents who are concerned come straight to him.

“He’s my son. He’s my responsibility,” he says, looking at me.

This is going to be bad with my father.

I know that.

But it’s necessary, because I have to get my mother’s attention, and she never pays much attention unless it’s pretty bad. Also, this needed to be super public. I needed to screw up in a very big way. I need everyone to know about it.

That’s for Apple’s benefit.

* * *

I’m sitting at the dining room table, and my father is pouring whiskey into shot glass after shot glass which are all set up in front of me in neat rows. He’s talking in a low, quiet voice. “You want to be an alcoholic, Blake? You want to drink too much and make stupid decisions and embarrass this entire family with your antics? That’s fine. That’s just fine.”

“Ken,” says my mother. She’s in the corner, watching this. “Are you sure about—”

“You’re going to drink,” says my father. “You want to drink, you’re going to drink. You’ll drink until I say to stop. You’ll drink until you vomit, and then you’ll keep drinking. You will drink until you see exactly what choice you’re making, and if you still continue to choose to be destructive towards yourself after this, well, I wash my hands of you because I’ve done everything I can do.”

“Ken, he could get alcohol poisoning,” says my mother.

“Lucy, shut up,” says my father. “You wouldn’t understand this. Don’t be a stupid cunt. If you can’t handle this, leave the room.”

“Mom,” I say, “I didn’t mean to do that to the boat.”

“Don’t talk to your mother,” says my father.

“If I was going through something, if something was happening to me, if someone was doing something to me, I couldn’t very well come and talk to you, could I? To either of you?”

“Oh, more of this,” says my father. “You’re such a pansy, Blake. You can’t handle anything.”

“What do you mean doing something to you?” says my mother.

“Don’t encourage him,” says my father.

My mother glances at him and then back at me

“It’s okay, Mom,” I say, and I take a shot.

* * *

It doesn’t turn out so bad, that consequence. I do end up throwing up after I have about ten shots. And then I’m woozy and falling into things, and my mother is crying, and I take another shot and then pretend to pass out.

I lay with my cheek against the dining room table while my mother timidly asks how we can know if I need medical attention. My father tells her I’m fine, and he hauls me up to bed. My mother insists he puts me on my stomach.

She checks on me no less than three times during the night.

I don’t think she’s ever paid so much attention to me in my life.

I should wreck the damned boat more often.

Anyway, everything has gone according to plan at this point. I do wish Macy would be around whenever I’m ready to celebrate, but she’s still distant. I’m not going to be a pathetic bitch and chase her around, though. I’m not going to text her or go back to her window. I don’t need Macy.

I’m almost to my goal.

I’m almost ready to get The Kitchen from Apple Shannon.

The only problem I’m having currently is that Apple refuses to meet with me. She isn’t responding to my texts, actually, and she won’t pick up the phone when I call her. I’ve tried talking to her while she’s working, but she blows me off then, too.

I realize I’m going to have to take things into my own hands.

I’m going to have to break into her house.

It’s the only way I’m going to get her to talk to me.

But I don’t really have any experience with breaking and entering. I order a set of lock picks off the internet. It takes two days to arrive in the mail. While I’m waiting, I watch a bunch of YouTube videos about how to use them on a door.

I get them and practice on my own door.

It’s hard.

But I figure it out eventually, and then I’m off to Apple’s house. I go during a time when I know she’s at work, so that I can take my time getting inside and getting myself situated. I manage to get her front door unlocked, but she’s also got a deadbolt, and I work on that thing for—no lie—an hour and a half before I get so annoyed that I start seriously considering breaking one of her windows.

The downside to breaking the window is that she’ll see that something is wrong straightaway. She might even do something stupid like calling the police, and that will fuck everything up.

Maybe if I break a window someplace where it’s not obvious.

I go walking around the house, trying to decide where I’ll do it.

I settle on a window in the basement, in the back of the house. It’ll be a pain in my ass climbing inside that thing, though, so I resolve to give the deadbolt another try before I resort to breaking glass.

I still can’t get the deadbolt open.

I kick the door, muttering a string of curses under my breath. My kicking pushes the mat aside.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

She keeps a spare key under the mat.

Oh, Apple, you are so adorably trusting and stupid. I pick up the key, and I think of all the time I’ve wasted trying to get into the house. It’s not as sweet a victory as it could be.

But it is a victory.

I let myself inside.

9

When Apple turns on the light in her kitchen, I’m sitting at the breakfast bar with two glasses and an open bottle of wine.

She screams when she sees me.

I get up and go to her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Apple. I only want to talk.” Of course, if she screams like that again…

I have to admit, it turned me on a little bit.

“How did you get in here?”

“Really?” I say.

“I knew I should have found a better hiding space than under the mat,” she says.

I put my arm around her shoulder and steer her over to the breakfast bar.

“For a while, I taped the key to the bottom of the bird bath in the yard,” she continues.

I sit her down in one of the stools.

“But then I forgot where it was,” she says. “And the one time I needed it, it took me over an hour to remember where I left it. So, I put it back under the mat.”

I pour her some wine. I pour myself some wine.

“Now, here you are, and this is happening, and I just…” She rubs her forehead. “Look, if you have to do it, can you use a condom? Because—”

“I’m not here for that,” I say. “I told you. I only want to talk.”

“I want you to understand that I don’t consent,” she says. “But if you’re going to rape me, I’d rather not be hurt, so you can do whatever you want, and if I cooperate with you, will you promise not to—”

“Apple.”

She winces.

I drink a little wine. “All right, listen. There are naked pictures of me on your computer at work.”

“What?” she says.

“In case you’re not aware, that’s child pornography,” I say. “I’ll also contend that you produced it yourself. If anyone finds those pictures, Apple, you’ll go on a sex offender list. You probably won’t be able to own a shop somewhere, not one that anyone will actually give their patronage to. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but those sex offender lists are public.”

“I never put any pictures on my computer,” she says. “I’m going to go and find them and delete them.”

“Even if you delete them, it’s next to impossible to really remove them from your computer,” I tell her. I did some research on this. Even if a file is deleted, it hangs around. Even if it’s deleted from the trash bin. Basically, the only way she could get rid of them is by writing over them, saving other files with the same names. But I’m not going to tell her that.

“What?” she says, her voice shrill. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“You might have heard that I recently wrecked my family’s boat,” I say. “You probably haven’t heard about how I beat my brother bloody lately. But my mother knows, and she’s very worried about the way I’m acting out. When I tell her that I’m being molested sexually by a grown woman—”

“I never molested you,” says Apple, her nostrils flaring.

“Well,” I shrug, “it’s really your word against mine, isn’t it?”

“This is bullshit, and if you tell these lies about me—”

“Then what will you do?”

Her mouth works for several moments, but no sound comes out.

“Why don’t you have some wine?” I say, nudging her glass towards her. I drink some more of my wine.

Apple only stares at it.

“Here’s the thing,” I say. “I don’t have to tell anyone what happened between us. I can keep it all to myself. If you’d like me to do that, it’s going to cost you. And I’m afraid it’s going to be expensive.”

“You’re blackmailing me?”

“That’s an ugly word,” I say. “But… well, I guess it’s about right.”

“For something I didn’t even do,” she says.

I drink more of my wine.

“I don’t have a lot of money, Blake. This is stupid. Your family has money. My money is all tied up in my business—”

“Oh, yes,” I say. “That is probably the most valuable asset you have. That’ll be fine then. Sign over The Kitchen to me.”

Her jaw drops.

“I realize it seems extreme,” I say. “But I’ve thought it through. You’ll receive information from a relative, who happens to be terminally ill and also incredibly rich. You’ll go to tend to them in their last days, and then come into so much money that you no longer are particularly concerned about The Kitchen, because you have so many other valuable assets to tend to. You’ll instead decide that I’m hard-working and industrious and that you see a bit of yourself within me, and so you’ll hand over the business to me. I promise you, Apple, I’ll take very good care of it. I’m going to make it flourish, and I’m going to use it to make a fortune. After I finish culinary school, I will be unstoppable, and The Kitchen will only be the first step in that process.”

She only stares at me. Abruptly, she picks up her glass of wine and gulps it down. “You’re insane. You’re completely unhinged. A crazy, violent teenage psychopath.”

“Do we have a deal?” I say.

She rubs the bridge of her nose.

“Of course we do,” I answer myself. “It’s not as if you have a choice. If you decide you want to fight me, I’m willing to take you down for molesting me, of course. And then you’ll lose the business anyway, and you’ll be forced to sell it for cheap, and I’ll make sure that my mother allocates a nice loan for me, so that I buy it. I’ll end up with it after all. Either way, it’s bad for you, but you have to see that one way is much worse.” I’m not actually sure about the loan business, though, and I don’t want to have to pay my mother back. I don’t want to owe anyone anything.

She pours herself more wine. “I need to think about it.”

I laugh. “You think I’m going to agree to that?”

She takes a thoughtful drink of wine. “I do. I think you will.”

I roll my eyes. “How long do you want to think about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“A day,” I say.

“Two,” she counters.

“Fine,” I say.

She takes another drink of wine. “You never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

I run my finger around the rim of my wine glass. “I don’t know. Because I can?”

10

The next day, in seventh period, I get a text from Macy which is a full-on nude, everything on display. I’m surprised by this, and I shift in my seat, feeling uncomfortable and aroused, but pleased as well.

I knew Macy couldn’t stay away forever.

Sure enough, she’s waiting by my car, just like usual. She’s leaning against the door, eyeing me, a sexy little smirk on her face.

“Hey, Macy,” I say.

She ignores me and goes around to the passenger side, waiting for me to unlock the door for her.

I do, and we both get into the car.

“Did you like my pic?” she says.

“I thought you weren’t cool with nudes,” I say. “I thought you didn’t trust me with pictures of your tits and pussy.”

She shrugs. “You know there’s a precedent for underage people getting arrested for child pornography?”

I turn to look at her. “What?”

“I mean, now you have child pornography on your phone.”

“What the fuck?” I say.

She grins at me. “I’ve been having some interesting chats with Apple, Blake. I’m kind of astonished that you’d be so devious, but I guess I can’t say I’m surprised. Like I said, you’re more fucked up than I am.”

My lips part. “What’s this about, Macy?”

“Let’s assume that Apple goes to the police and tells them that you sexually assaulted her,” says Macy. “Maybe if it’s her word against yours, and maybe with the evidence you planted on her computer, maybe they don’t believe her. But if I say that you assaulted me, and my story eerily matches Apple’s, well, suddenly the whole story gets more credence. And fuck going to jail, Blake, what the hell would your father do if you were arrested for that?”

My mouth is dry. “What are you…?”

“I own you, Corbin,” she says.

I try to swallow, but I don’t have enough saliva. “You’re playing me?”

She leans across the car and runs her fingers down the front of my chest. “Don’t wear any boxers tomorrow. I’m going to want to check.”

Fuck. I’m hard as hell. “You—you can’t do that to me.” There’s not a lot of strength in my voice.

“You,” she says in a sultry voice, “are going to do exactly as I say. Exactly.”

I’m speechless.

She starts to open the door to the car and then stops. She turns back to look at me. “On second thought, maybe I am just as fucked up as you are.” She winks at me before she gets out and slams the car door, leaving me alone.

I sit in the car as the parking lot empties out.

I sit there for a long, long time.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading!

Check out the other books in the Liars Island series by other authors here.

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If you’d like to try something else similar to this story by yours truly, you may like my psychological thriller Red-Blooded Heart.

“Look, I’m not a bad guy. It’s not like I’m proud of the fact that I built myself a peep room into her house. I only get violent when I get pushed too far. And I don’t kill people or anything. Well. Not many, anyway.”

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