Page 1 of Pieces of Me

CHAPTER 1

Scott Ashworth is beautiful. Everyone says so.

That boy is gorgeous!

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid that good-looking.

As a small child, it didn’t take long for Scott to learn the power his beauty gave him. Angry faces softened when they got a look at his big green eyes, and yelling voices gentled when he bit his lip and tried to look sorry. He figured out pretty quick it didn’t matter what he did, as long as he looked good doing it. Teachers, cops, friends’ moms…a contrite little smile with a hint of a dimple, a peep through long, thick lashes, and nine times out of ten, he was off the hook.

As Scott got older, his pretty face made it easier for people to forget his family was the poorest in town. Nobody seemed to pay attention to his faded and worn clothes, not when they could look at his dazzling smile instead. Scott could also pretend he wasn’t hungry, especially when the lunch ladies slipped him an extra slice of pizza, or a girl invited him to her house for dinner.

It was unfortunate that Scott’s charm worked on every female in a twenty-mile radius except his own mom. Heather made it clear she didn’t like looking at him, informing him he was a mirror image of that “rat bastard” who got her pregnant one night after a drunken screw behind Banana Bob’s.

“Fuckin’ Navy pilot piece of shit,” she liked to mutter into her ever-present tumbler of whiskey. “Ain’t no Officer and a Gentleman ending for this bitch.”

Scott heard all about how she wanted an abortion, but her own mother wouldn’t let her have one. Every now and then, he liked to gaze into the mirror and picture a man who looked just like him, only a grown-up, flying all over the world to exotic destinations, fighting America’s enemies. Sometimes when a fighter jet roared overhead, Scott would glance at it and give a little wave. Hey, Dad. His favorite fantasy, the one he hugged close to him at night, was that the jet would land one day in a squeal of tires and a puff of smoke before gliding to a stop. The tall, handsome pilot would stride across the tarmac to his motorcycle, still in his flight suit. He’d kick the bike up and roar off down Highway 90 from Pensacola Naval Air Station toward the tiny adjoining redneck town of Pace, Florida, and skid into Scott’s front yard, dirt and rocks flying.

“Scott!” he’d yell out. “I’m so sorry I left you here. If only I’d known!”

Scott would run out and climb on the back of the motorcycle, and his dad would take him away forever. Maybe Heather couldn’t have the movie ending, but why couldn’t he?

It never happened. Instead, month after month, year after year, Scott’s reality continued to be the run-down, old double-wide trailer in the woods and a mom who drank and smoked her days away while cashing welfare checks. Every couple years or so there would be a baby, a new half sibling born of Heather’s brief relationships with men who could put up with her shit long enough to get her pregnant and leave.

One day, though, when he was seventeen, Scott got home from school just in time to see a late-model pickup truck lumber down the dirt road and turn into their unkempt, weed-infested yard. The sight was so unusual that his knees went weak with sudden anticipation. Maybe his dad didn’t have a motorcycle, but a truck…

The man who got out from behind the wheel wasn’t wearing a flight suit or Scott’s face, however. Instead he was a big, barrel-chested man with a slight gut, a beard, and a kind face. Scott didn’t care about any of that, though, since he was dealing with the disappointment swamping him from the inside out, disappointment so crushing it caused tears to spring to his eyes. He dashed them away impatiently with the back of his hand and leaned against the side of the trailer with his arms crossed.

“Baby!” Heather cried, shoving the screen door to the trailer open and running out to fling herself into the man’s arms. They kissed, and Scott rolled his eyes. Her new fuck of the month. Scott would have to listen to them going at it like rabbits through the thin walls of the trailer for a few days, and before long the inevitable fights would start. The whole thing would end with black eyes, bloody noses, cops, and sometimes a new brother or sister. He shook his head and started to walk off into the woods.

Surprisingly, though, Heather beckoned to him with eager motions. “Scotty, come meet your new dad!”

Scott stopped in his tracks. “What the fuck?”

“Watch your language, boy,” Heather admonished him and tugged the man over to where Scott stood.

“Hey, Scott, I’m Bob,” he said with an easy smile.

Scott ignored his proffered hand. “No way. You ain’t my fuckin’ dad.”

“Of course I’m not,” Bob said gently, dropping his hand to his side, “but I’d like to be considered that someday.” He reached out and drew Heather against his side. “Your mom and I were married last week, and we wanted to surprise you.”

Scott’s mouth dropped open and he sputtered. “Oh, hell no! Are you insane?” He flinched when Heather stuck her hand out and whapped him on the side of the head.

“Can’t you even be happy for me?” she screeched. “I brought you a new dad and a new brother, you ungrateful little shit.”

There was another figure sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, gazing at them through the windshield. Scott couldn’t make out any other details through the glare as he exclaimed with a wealth of disgust, “That’s all we need, another damn kid around here.”

Bob’s eyes were kind and understanding as he said, “Rylan is close to your age, Scott. He’s an only child and looking forward to having some siblings. Come on. If we all work together, we could have ourselves a happy little family here.”

Scott gaped at him. Was this guy for real? “Have you met Heather, or just fucked her?” He sneered. “She don’t know how to be happy. All she knows how to do is drink and screw.” With another screech, Heather flew at him, her hand raised to strike. Bob caught her around the waist and pulled her back.

“Now, Scott, I won’t tolerate you speaking to your mother that way.” His voice was stern, and Scott gave a mocking shrug, resuming his lean against the side of the trailer, the picture of uncaring. He was surprised, though, when Bob said to Heather with mild reproof, “And, honey, let’s not cram all this down his throat, okay? He doesn’t have to call me Dad if he doesn’t want to.”

Heather glared at Scott with what could only be hatred in her eyes, and Scott twisted his lips up in a contemptuous smile. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough, Bob,” he said, “and I almost feel sorry for you. But you ain’t my dad and never will be.”

Bob opened his mouth to say something else, but the passenger door to the pickup truck opened, and a kid around Scott’s age climbed out. “Hey, son,” Bob called to him. “Come meet Heather and Scott, okay?”

The boy approached them warily, and Scott looked him up and down. Tall, skinny, pimply. Ordinary as fuck, yet Bob put his arm around the boy with an air of pride. All of a sudden, for some reason, Scott wanted to cry, or punch something.