Page 1 of Edge

EDGE

PROLOGUE

2013

Jory

Shitty day.Shitty people. Shitty life.

Jory rolled over on hisbed, gazing up at the ceiling as he contemplated what to writenext. His diary lay beside him filled with a collection of musings,ideas for songs, and, of course, his new addition: a rather saucyhistory of sexual conquests.

Being seventeen and aboutto go to university meant he was adult enough to record the menhe’d been with and relive each exciting—or boring ashell—moment.

He nudged the old teddybear sitting on his bed, staring at him with black button eyes.Reggie had been a part of his life since the age of ten when hisdad had won it for him at a local fair. His younger brother Larkhad always coveted the stuffed animal, but it was the one item Jorycouldn’t part with—not even for Lark.

I can’tbelieve Roger wants me to go with him on this stupid campingtrip, he grumbled to himself as he twirledhis favourite writing pen between his fingers. I had plans to go see Christie again, have pizza, and get ablow job. He sat up, scowling because hehad to travel to Daisy Nook to learn “survival skills.” He madequote marks in the air as Reggie looked on. Daisy Nook was acamping site in the Medlock Valley. It was pretty enough and indifferent circumstances—with his mates, a few packs of beer, and atoke or two—he wouldn’t’ve minded.

But to have to go withhis guardian, Roger, an ex-soldier friend of his father, and a manwho ran their household like a barracks on steroids, who wasn’tfond of mouthy teenagers, made the prospect unpalatable.

“Thank GodI’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks, Reg,” he murmured to hisbear. “Out to learning all about music, being with my friends, andfinally getting out of this hellhole.”

A stray piece of rockmusic from next door drifted into his room, along with the sweetscent of spring, and Jory hummed along with it. He strummed animaginary guitar as he did, closing his eyes and pretending he wason stage in front of his adoring fans. He could almost hear theirscreams of adulation, hear the bass guitar thrumming in his handsand the clash of the symbols and beating drums.

“Jory, whatthe hell are you doing in there?” The door to his bedroom flew openand Roger came in, face stern.

Jory shot up and glaredat him. “Jesus, knock much, you wanker? What part of a closed doordon’t you understand?”

“I don’t needan invite to enter your room.” Roger stared down at the diary onJory’s bed and his lips curled in disdain. “Are you writing in thatponcy diary again? Haven’t you got something better to do, such asmow the lawn like I asked you to do an hour ago?”

Jory’s temper flared andhe picked up the diary and closed it. “I told you I’ll get to it.It’s not like the grass is going anywhere.” He slid the diary intohis desk drawer and closed it. “Diaries are a great way of lettingyour emotions out, and I get inspiration from the personal stuff Iwrite to create song lyrics.”

For him, solace also camein the routine of writing in his journal, trying to put sense inthe events of his life.

Roger sneered. “Oh yes,the great musician hoping to make it big and become a rock star oneday.” He shook his head. “What the hell happened to having a trade,a good honest living rather than pipe dreams?”

Jory closed his eyes andcounted to ten to control his anger. He opened them and Roger wasstill standing there, wearing an expression filled withdisgust.

“Some of usaspire to more,” Jory said evenly. “Some of us follow ourdreams.”

Roger snorted. “Good luckwith that. You think university is going to teach you much? It’smerely an excuse for you young people to fuck around and drink toomuch.”

“Fuck off andtake your homespun wisdom with you,” Jory snapped. “I’ll come downand mow the damned lawn in a few minutes.”

Roger gestured to thedesk drawer. “Right, after you’ve finished laying your soul bare inthat stupid book like a weakling. You need to grow apair.”

Jory couldtake no more. He jumped off the bed and went to Roger, pushing himtowards the door. “Get out,” he fumed. “I won’t have you make funof what I enjoy, and what helps me to cope. My mum was the one whogot me writing in a diary, when she told me I needed somewhere tokeep my secrets and get my frustrations out. My dad did the samething as a kid. Do you think hewas a weak person, given he was a fellowsoldier?”

He pushed Roger again.“Get. Out.”

Roger turned at the doorand gave Jory a thin smile. “Secrets, hey? What kind of secretscould you have? How many men you’ve fucked? How many times you’vebeen upset and needed to cry into your diary?”

It was so close to thetruth Jory wasn’t sure what to say. He ignored Roger and slammedthe door shut.

It didn’t stopRoger. “Perhaps I need to read those diaries. See what secretsyou really have.”

The taunting comment sentchills down Jory’s spine. He’d never considered having to hide hisjournals before, but now it looked as if he’d need to.

“Piss off,” heyelled as he searched his room for a safe place to hide them.Perhaps the air vent would be suitable, but then again, in themovies, that was always the first place someone looked. Thank Godhe only had another couple of weeks left then he’d be out of thehouse and it wouldn’t be a problem.