“Mom, we haven’t been dating that long,” I tell her, trying to highlight any kind of reason that explains why marriage isn’t on my radar besides“Ew, gross, Mom. I don’t think I’ll ever marry Brent? He can’t even remember what kind of sandwich I want for lunch.”
Instead, I settle with, “We’re both still in college.”
“So? Your father and I were married right out of high school.”
“Yeah and look how that turned out,” I mutter as quietly as I can. My parents are still together, but they really should have divorced a long time ago. But that would be a scandal, and Hawthornes don’t have scandals. Or believe in happiness, apparently.
I hate that I’m going down the same path as them. Hate that I can’t seem to find the courage to speak out or be myself completely. Hate that if you’re not comfortable in the status quo, you’re a threat to the system.
I could at least be rebellious toward my mother, but there’s a tiny piece of me that is still holding onto the idea that I can earn her love somehow. Be the person she wants, not cause any drama or let anyone see me fall, and she will give me the love and affection a daughter needs from her mother. And it’s that tiny part that makes it hard for me to tell her how I really feel or think.
“He’s a good alpha,” my mother says suddenly. “And who knows if you’ll ever be able to pull an alpha again?”
I practically flinch at that, defiance bubbling underneath my skin. “What do you mean by that?”
“Betas don’t get to be with alphas often. This is a good opportunity for you.”
I fight hard not to roll my eyes. No wonder I’m a master at hiding my emotions. The number of times my mother invokes this anger in me is astounding, and practice makes perfect.
Why should my goal be snagging myself an alpha? Why can’t she be more concerned with my grades or if I’m going to have a job after graduation? Why can’t I focus on my passions rather than worry about whether or not I’m going to marry a stupid alpha? I haven’t seen her this interested in anything else in my life in a long time, and that makes my heart ache in an indescribable way.
“Okay, Mom, well…” I spin my keys on my finger and point at the door. “I’m going to go.”
“Say hi to Brent for me,” she says with a smile that’s a bit too sweet. I bite my tongue and step away, my body itching for something more satisfying than cheerleading or galas or my mother’s white kitchen. I’m ready for grime, for dirt, for the sound of wheels screeching against asphalt.
I’m ready for something worthwhile.
FIVE
Playing: “Dangerous Love” by James Laurent
When I driveup to the abandoned track, excitement thrums in my veins, and as I veer closer to the makeshift parking lot, the smell of booze and bonfire meets my nostrils, like a hit of ecstasy on a cozy autumn night. There’s already a giant crowd forming, groups mingling with beer cans as they march inside. I find an empty parking spot hidden in the woods behind a bush and claim it, hoping no one will see an unfamiliar vehicle gathered at this secret event.
The wired fence that used to guard the perimeter is now beaten into the dirt, twisted shards poking out of the ground in sharp points. I wince as I step over it, knowing that one prick would probably send me straight to the hospital. As I pass the vacant concessions and walk up onto the ramp, I notice how everyone stares. My pink dress and designer coat make me stand out, but I hold my head up high. This is my first Oakson Lake race and I’m not going to let anyone ruin it.
The bleachers travel all the way down to the track, whichseems a bit dangerous, and I suspect might be why the official races that took place on this track stopped a long time ago. Everything is doused in darkness except one huge bonfire dancing in the field in the center of the oval track. I can almost feel the flames from here as it towers high and proud and dangerous. My skin prickles with the beauty of it before someone runs into my shoulder and sends me to the ground.
My knees scrape the concrete and—despite how embarrassing it is—I let out a yelp of pain. I turn over onto my ass and look at the new marks forming on my knees, red droplets peeking out between the cracks. I know it sounds silly, but my immediate thought is that I’ll have to wear leggings under my cheerleading skirt for the next week so no one will ask questions. I look up at my assailant with a glare, flinching when I see the body standing over me.
“Oh, Stacey. What a surprise.” William Tack looks down at me, a happy gleam in his eye after recognizing exactly which Greenwood resident he sent to the ground. Three or four other Oakson residents flank both sides, completely blocking the light of the fire from coming our way. “What are you doing on this side of the bridge? Mommy must be so worried.”
I roll my eyes, disappointed. Will was always an ass, but he looks like he’s taken that role too far these days. His collar is popped up on his shirt and he has a ridiculously large golden ring on his thumb that pulls the whole “I’m a twit” thing together.
After I graduated high school, Will’s family got caught up in some financial scandal. Something with tax fraud that affected his dad’s job. They moved to Oakson not long after, like criminals being banned from the inner circle. It looks like he still hasn’t let it go, like he’s still angry Greenwood tossed his family out like trash.
And it looks like he wants to take it out on me.
“I didn’t peg you as the type of guy to knock a girl down, Will,” I say, getting up from the ground and dusting off the dirt from my coat. “But, things change huh?”
He grits his teeth at my insinuation and takes a step forward. His methanol scent hits me with full force and I try to hold back a gag as he gets in my face. “Things do change. But not for Little Miss Perfect, huh? So, why are you here? You’ve never given a shit about anything in Oakson Lake before.”
I shrug. “I like cars.”
That makes a humorless laugh escape him. “Well, the spoiled ones always do. I have a great ride around the corner, maybe I can show it to you. It’s fast.”
“I bet it is,” I say, sneering at him. “But I’m not interested. Now… I’d like to enjoy my night, so if you don’t mind?—”
I try to walk around him but his buddies move closer, caging me against the cold railing that leads up into the bleachers. “I don’t know. Greenwood inhabitants really aren’t allowed in. I’m afraid we’re going to have to escort you off the track.”
