Page 38 of The Wicker King

As soon as they pulled up next to the field, August flew from the car and hit the ground running. The weeds and grass whacked at his jeans as he tore through the growth. He was glad that it hadn’t snowed here. He could hear Jack behind him. Coming up swiftly.

This wasn’t a race.

August sped toward the middle of the field, breathing the cold air quick, and Jack laughed. They thundered across, sneakers slipping in the dew, hearts pumping, throats heaving.

Caught. He could feel it. He was caught.

His lungs were crushed beneath long arms as they tumbled to the ground. Rolling rough, through green and gravel, biting and scratching like things that had claws and fangs instead of teeth and nails. August was pushed and pulled and rubbed in the ice-cold dirt, but he gave as good as he got.

“Call me ‘sire.’ Honor your king.”

August just laughed. Jack slammed him down hard with a strong hand on his back.

Oh. So it was like that.

He resisted for longer than a moment. But it was just resistance. Not rebellion. “You’re crushing me, sire,” August said with as much sass as he could manage. He panted loud and hot into the grit.

Jack’s gray eyes look light blue in the light. He let out a single breath that sounded like a smile.

POINSETTIA

His mom was upstairs and she was beautiful in red. Her hair was swept off her shoulders and she had earrings in her ears. She was even humming as she made Christmas dinner. August clung to her and kissed her cheek.

“Where’s Jack?” she asked, stirring cheese into the macaroni.

“His dad is coming home.”

“Are you sure? Call him before dinner starts.” She ran her fingers through his hair, then wrinkled her nose. It had been weeks since his last haircut. August rolled his eyes—of all things she’d notice, it would be that. But to his surprise, she just shrugged and patted him on the cheek. “You never know. Make sure to call.”

He hummed his assent and went to go phone Jack in the hallway. Jack’s cell phone rang until August was certain it would go to voice mail. But it didn’t.

“Did he come?” August asked.

Jack sobbed.

August put his shoes and coat on and went out into the cold.

GIFT

Jack lay on the floor next to August’s bed on top of an unzipped sleeping bag. He’d wrapped the comforter and sheets that August’s mom had especially reserved for him into a circular sort of nest and curled up in the middle of it.

She had even gotten Jack presents again this year, as if she’d expected him to come to Christmas all along. Even though they were struggling to get by and Jack could afford to pay for their entire Christmas dinner with the pocket money his parents left for him.

August peeked over the side of his bed and looked into the pile of covers. “Are you still awake?”

Jack didn’t respond. He wasn’t asleep, August knew that for certain. Jack snored like an engine full of glass and this was not that sound. This quiet, angry breathing was the sound of August being ignored.

August sighed. “If I ever see your father again, I’m going punch him in the face,” he promised.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

JANUARY

August sucked the cold winter air through his teeth, then put out his cigarette on the side of the building. He spit on the ground quick and looked up to find Roger and Peter standing there watching him.

“You look haggard,” Peter said bluntly. Roger pinched his brother and gave August an apologetic grimace.

“Well, it’s nice to see the two of you haven’t changed much over break.” August shifted his bag over his shoulder and started walking toward their school’s front door. They followed him.