Feuds and Reckless Fury by K. Webster

 

Canyon

The cool morning air is invigorating. With football, our games were always at night, and most practices were in the afternoon. The track meet, though, is early and on our home turf. Dew still coats the grass on the football field, and a small breeze keeps the late August morning from being suffocating.

I stretch while I wait for Alis to arrive. Somewhere over the course of the week, I’ve gone from hating him and wanting to ruin his life to looking forward to being in his presence.

As Naomi says, I’m a stalker.

I’m supposed to be terrorizing him. Ruining his life. Taunting him.

So why the hell would I rather pin him to my bed or the wall and have my filthy way with him instead?

The other teammates trickle onto the track, a sea of black shorts and jerseys with the Blood Gators logo in red and white on the fronts. Yesterday after practice, Coach passed out our uniforms. Somehow, he managed to get my same football number—09—which made me secretly happy. Alis’s number was 01, which doesn’t surprise me since he has to be the best at everything.

Today, I’m going to whip his ass on the track.

A smile tugs at my lips, just imagining how annoyed he’ll be to get beat. My body thrums with the need to compete. It’s in my blood to try to be the best, knocking everyone out of line along the way. Carrie’s the same when it comes to violin. But, where she can’t nudge over the perfect Alis Sommers, I will easily soar past him on the track.

Since it’s a home meet, the bleachers are mostly filled with black and red supporters, with only a few green and white from the opposing side. I learned this week from Coach Davies that the sport is pretty competitive where we live in Florida. Where most high schools across the nation have outdoor track seasons beginning in March, ours runs the entire school year. The tri-meets, quad meets, and invitationals will happen with everyone else in the spring; the fall season is more of a practice one for our area. With football lasting only a few months, I’m looking forward to being in an all-year sport my senior year of high school.

Someone whistles, and I jerk my attention to the entry gate. Alis struts in, body relaxed, with both our dads beside him. I’m filled with a mixture of unease, anger, and excitement at seeing them.

Dad’s eager grin nearly chases away my anger. It would be easy to slip into our old relationship—him being the supportive parent who encouraged me to do what I love. But then I think of Mom. How she’s not here, though she wants to be. Because she has to work.

Because. He. Left. Us.

“Looking good, bud,” Dad says, his blue eyes twinkling as he greets me. “It’s weird seeing you out here without your gear on, but I’m looking forward to watching you compete. Give Alis here a run for his money.” He playfully pulls Alis to him, messing up his hair.

The familiarity with which they act sours my stomach. It must be evident on my face because Dad’s smile falls, and Alis tugs out of his hold.

“Ready to lose, loser?” Alis asks, a taunting smirk on his face, effectively distracting me from all thoughts of Dad.

I try and fail not to look at his lips. Why are they so full and pink and pouty?

“We both know I’m going to beat you today,” I throw back with a smug grin. “You might want to get your number changed from 01 to 02.”

Quinn chuckles and gives Alis an affectionate squeeze of his shoulder. “We’ll be in the stands.” Then, to me, he says, “We’re going to head up to the meat market for some steak and chicken after this. Your dad is going to grill out. We’d love to have you over for dinner.”

“Yeah, sure,” I grunt out, avoiding Dad’s relieved smile.

As soon as they walk off, I take a moment to stare at Alis. His white-blond hair is messy and sticking up on one side. He keeps his hair longer than me, and it’s sometimes shaggy looking, hanging into his eyes and over his ears. The jersey is tight on his lean runner’s body and shows off his lightly muscled arms. When he stretches his arms above his head, and I catch a peek of his dark underarm hair that’s the same color as his eyebrows and roots, my mind wanders to where else his hair is dark.

“You can’t suck me off here in front of our dads,” he says, his deep brown eyes filled with mirth. “There’s always later…”

I smirk as my gaze roams down to the front of his shorts, a semi-erection evident beneath the black material. “You’re not going to get inside my head and mindfuck me before the meet.” I lick my lips, enjoying his sharp breath in response. “Though I must say, I wouldn’t mind having you on your knees right about now.”

He grumbles, bending over to touch his toes. We both know it’s an effort to hide how his dick perks up for me.

“Come on, Wonderland, you’re supposed to put up better walls than that.” I move to where I can see his ass while I stretch. When I was with Naomi, I always liked her ass. Seeing Alis’s, tight and muscular as the shorts strain over it, I realize I’m most definitely an ass man no matter the sex. A fine ass is a fine ass.

“Are you seriously checking me out in front of everyone?” Alis asks in an exasperated tone over his shoulder.

“Like you don’t know that ass is hot.”

“Whatever.”

“Did all those guys who fucked you appreciate it?”

“Go away.”

“Did they worship it?”

“Fuck off, Voss.”

“Did you let them bite it? I’d pay good money to be able to bite it and leave a bruise that’d have you remembering me every time you sat down.”

“You’re a dick of massive proportions.”

I laugh and shrug. “Most of that sentence is correct in the sense my dick is huge, but you already knew that.”

“Unbelievable.” He sighs and shoots me a penetrative glare. “What are we doing?”

“Warming up.”

“No, us.”

“There is no us.”

He snorts out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay.”

“Aww,” I tease. “You want to be my boyfriend, bro?”

His middle finger flies up, and then he storms off toward Coach Davies. I strut after him, pleased at riling him up. After Coach hypes us up and the meet starts, I lose myself to the sport, eager to see my teammates do well. Our football team was always exceptional, with a lot of the players moving on to play for the University of Florida. They swap out their black and red for blue and orange, but still a gator through and through. I’m just surprised to see the track team is also good.

A dude named Mikal, a six-foot-five black guy on our team, annihilates on the high jump. I’m so fascinated by his form and skill, I nearly miss being called out for my race. We line up, our school’s 100-meter dash runners alternating with our opponent. I’m in the second lane, and Alis is in the fourth. Everything around me turns into a blur as we ready ourselves for the whistle, hunched down and poised to spring forward. I’m hyper-focused, intent on only one thing.

Winning.

The whistle blows, and I launch into a sprint, pushing myself harder than ever. The pounding of spikes on pavement is all that can be heard behind me. When a flash of blond meets my peripheral, I dig deep and fly forward with a surge of determination. I cross the finish line and come to a stop not far away. The announcer calls out the winner.

“Senior Canyon Voss, for the Blood Gators in first for the 100-meter dash with an astonishing ten point nine seconds. In second place is senior Alister Sommers, also for the Blood Gators, with an impressive ten point eleven seconds.”

Coach is congratulating us as I try to catch my breath. My hamstrings and calves are on fire, but my heart is pumping like it’ll never tire. I double over, resting my palms on my knees as my gaze searches for Alis.

Is he pissed?

When my eyes meet his dark brown ones, pride shines in them, not anger. His smile is wide. He seems proud of me, which makes my heart twist painfully in my chest.

“Next time,” he vows, panting heavily. “I’ll beat you next time.”

“You can try.”

“You two are impossible,” Davies says with a chuckle. “Go grab some water.”

On wobbly legs, I walk beside Alis. My fingertips brush against his, but neither of us shies away from the other. We take a seat on the bench, side by side, our thighs touching. Despite sweating my ass off, his proximity sends a chill down my spine.

“Good job, Canny,” he teases, planting his hand on my thigh and squeezing. “Next time, maybe you can try running with a boner. See if it impacts your time like it did mine.”

I flash him a teasing grin. “I ran with full football gear on and cleats. I think I can handle my dick getting a little hard for you.”

“For me?” His dark brow lifts in question.

“It certainly isn’t getting hard for anyone else.”

The truth hovering around us like the thick, now-muggy Florida air is almost too much to take.

After a quick shower and change in the locker room, I head out to the bakery to see Mom and tell her the good news. I’ve yet to visit her because I thought she’d be ashamed of working at the grocery store, but now I realize it was my anger and shame preventing me from going, not hers.

I can be such a prick sometimes.

Mom would have loved to have gone to the meet if she could have. I can’t be upset with her for having to work, and it’s a dick move to throw in her face that she doesn’t need to work. I’m going to try being a better son and brother for Mom and Carrie. I have to be.

After I park my Challenger in two spots so no dipshit door dings me, I walk into the grocery store. I’m thankful I wore shorts and a light T-shirt since it quickly went from nice to stifling in a matter of hours. Once inside, I make a beeline over to the bakery. I’m peering into one of the display cases, eyeballing a chocolate cake with candy bar pieces all over it and wondering if Mom did this one, when a guy grunts at me.

“Can I help you?”

I lift my gaze, meeting the stare of a Hispanic guy with neck tattoos. His white apron is pristine and contradicts his menacing appearance.

Clearing my throat, I nod at him. “Yeah, I’m here to see Aimee. Aimee Voss.”

His brows furl as he studies me. “Who’s askin’?”

“Her son.”

“She ain’t here.” He runs his tongue over his teeth and smirks. “You need anything else?”

“I know she’s here.” I dart my gaze to the back. “She’s on shift today.”

“Naw, man, she ain’t.”

“Did she go home early?” My voice is so low, it almost sounds like a whisper. Or, maybe that of a scared child.

“I ain’t seen her in a couple weeks, kid. Not since she…” He laughs, lifting his chin at me. “I’m no snitch. Aimee’s cool. Tell her José says hey.”

“Since she what?” I grind out, my temper flaring.

“Not my business.”

He turns and struts back over to a pan of cookies. I glare at him for a few seconds before storming off.

A couple of weeks?

What does that even mean?

Do they have different shifts or something?

My mind buzzes the entire drive home. This has to be a misunderstanding, and that guy has to be lying. Mom would go to my meet, especially knowing how important it was to me.

By the time I pull into our driveway, I’ve calmed myself down. It’s Mom, for fuck’s sake. She’s not going to do anything to hurt me. I walk inside, barreling straight to her bedroom. I’m expecting her to be sick or something.

Not sleeping.

In her bakery uniform.

“Mom?”

“Mmm?”

“You feeling okay?”

“Just tired. Long day.”

Unease settles in my gut when I hear the slight hitch of her voice. Something’s off.

“How was the meet?” she murmurs, her head buried beneath the pillows. “Did you win your races?”

“Mom.”

Silence.

“Mom, look at me.”

Still, she doesn’t move.

“Mom—”

“Jesus, Canyon, I’m tired,” she snaps, sitting up to glower at me. “What do you want?”

I flinch at her harsh tone and study her disheveled appearance. Her hair is limp and slightly greasy. The makeup she put on is smudged. Dark circles ring her bloodshot eyes.

“Are you okay, Momma?”

“I’m fine. I just need sleep.”

“You’re just acting strange, and the guy at the bakery said—”

“You were checking up on me?”

“I wanted to tell you about the meet—”

“Did your father put you up to this?”

“Mom—”

“I wish everyone would leave me the fuck alone!”

I gape at her, feeling the slice of her words as they cut deep into me. Her own kid. She wants her own kid to leave her alone.

“You don’t even work there, do you?” My voice is low and rattles as emotion claws its way up my throat. “You’ve been lying—”

“Out,” she screams, pointing at her door. “Get the hell out!”

My eyes sting because I barely recognize the woman in front of me. This wasn’t the same person who attended every school function, baked the best treats at any holiday, or patiently taught me how to drive. The woman before me is someone else.

I clear my throat and swallow. “Okay.”

My heart thunders in my chest as I wait for her to apologize. To tell me she didn’t mean to be cruel. I pause, holding out to see if my mom will show her face again, chasing off this lady I don’t know.

She falls back onto the pillows, dragging one over her face. “Close the door on your way out,” she mutters, the sound muffled.

I step out of her room and quietly close the door behind me with a soft click. Pain lances across my chest, only to be chased away by anger.

This is his fault.

Dad.

He severed himself from our family, and Mom’s been on a downward spiral ever since. I’m left here to stitch it all back together again, and I can’t. I fucking can’t. I don’t know how to.

The familiar fury I’d welcomed in this summer and let fuel me comes surging in like a wildfire, decimating parts of me I’d thought were trying to heal. Wrath is like a beast roaring inside me, ravenous and bloodthirsty.

I want him to pay for taking away my mother when he walked away from us.

I want him to hurt like we do.

I want to destroy him like he did with me and Carrie and Mom, but worse.

So, back to my original plan.

Make him pay. Make them pay.

Starting with Alis.