AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTERONE
LIAM
Fayetteville’s police station smells like burnt coffee and desperation. That’s my main focus—the unpleasant aroma currently burning my nostrils—as I hope and pray the stubborn Snickers bar I’m staring at will decide to finally fall.
Another bang on the plastic front of the vending machine causes a teeter. The brown wrapper wobbles, then stays right where it was when I walked over. An air conditioner rattles in the window to my left, wheezing out the occasional blast of cold air.
Empty-handed and three dollars poorer, I retrace my steps past the two college-aged girls talking with a uniformed officer and back into the waiting room that juts off from the right side of the building. It’s lined with uncomfortable plastic chairs resting on a rug that’s an unfortunate shade of brown. The air conditioning isn’t strong enough to fully erase the stagnant warmth lingering, but the smell of burnt coffee managed to find its way all the way in here.
The waiting room is even closer to empty than it was when I left a few minutes ago. The elderly couple that was my only company is gone. I hope that means they found the cat they were here for.
In the spot where the white-haired man was sitting, there’s now a girl who looks close to my age.
She doesn’t look up, either when I enter the room or when I take a seat two down from her. Blonde hair hangs like a curtain across the side of her face, blocking most of her profile. I lean back, spread my legs, and bounce my knee, pulling out my phone to see if I have any messages from Matt.
Nothing.
Just one from my mom, asking if I’ll be home for dinner. I shove my phone back into my pocket, not sure what to tell her. If I let her know I’m waiting for Matt at the police station, I’ll have a flurry of texts or a worried phone call to deal with.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten in hours. If I had any more cash on me, I’d walk back to the vending machine and try again. I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling, running through my schedule for tomorrow in my head. Lifeguarding at Glenmont’s country club. Running drills with my dad when I get home from work. Sam suggested we go see a new action thriller.
Bored, I glance to the left at the girl next to me. Her hair is still covering most of her face. She’s slouched over, scrolling through her phone. I can’t see her face, but nothing is blocking the view of her long, tan legs or the hint of cleavage as the neckline of her dress sags forward a little. It’s one of those wrap styles that looks modest but shows a lot.
Everything about her is flirty and girly, which I usually find off-putting. I have a twin sister, and we share a bathroom. Whenever Maeve has some special event to dress up for, I can bank on not being able to use the bathroom for hours. I find easy-going and relaxed attractive qualities, and that extends to appearance, I guess.
But for some reason, I keep looking at her, pristine appearance and all.
She’s hot.
Easily one of the most attractive girls I’ve ever seen. It makes the perfectly straightened hair and bubblegum-colored dress more palatable. Her fingernails are painted the same shade as her dress.
Her phone drops into her lap. Now, she’s slouched in a similar position to mine: legs straight out and head tilted back. Her nose scrunches as she picks at the pink nail polish, chipping away at the varnish.
Since I’m already stereotyping, I’d say she’s not the type of girl I’d expect to see in a police station, even a small town one. She’s a contradiction of casual and perfectly put together. Effortlessly cool. She stands out—especially against the backdrop of drab surroundings. I notice details I wouldn’t usually pay attention to and soak up more of her appearance than just the fact she’s wearing a pink dress and has blonde hair.
Until she catches me staring at her—and all I can focus on is the embarrassment of being caught looking at a stranger. Usually, I don’t pay close attention to anyone unfamiliar around me. I definitely don’t stare for long enough to get caught.
“What?” she asks, in a sharp tone that would pair better with a leather jacket and heavy eye makeup than a ruffled dress and faint freckles.
I shake my head, quick and insistent. I want her to look away before I do something even more stupid, like try to flirt with her. Most of the girls I interact with are ones I’ve known my whole life. I’ve never lived anywhere but Glenmont, Connecticut, and it’s aneveryone knows everyonesort of place. I’m not sure what I would say to this girl, which sounds like a great reason to stay quiet. “Nothing.”
She raises a brow before she goes back to picking at her nail polish. She definitely doesn’t try to strike up any more of a conversation with me.
I’m used to being passed over. I’m never the smartest or the most athletic or the funniest guy in the room.
I’m reliable.
Responsible.
Nice.
No one wants to be called nice. It’s a stand-in for other words like average or serious or ordinary, used by people who don’t want to be that cruel but can’t be bothered to come up with a more unique adjective.
The only time people pay close attention to me is when I’m on a football field.
Football and I have a complicated relationship. It’s a legacy I inherited. My father played quarterback, and so did his dad. Both were high school stars who helped turn Glenmont’s football team into the powerhouse I joined as a wide-eyed fourteen-year-old.
It was a role I’d started training for long before then. My freshman year was meant to be the beginning of something special, the payoff for years of extra practices and early weight sessions. I started high school confident—about football, at least—and it slowly eradicated over the course of the four years I spent failing to accomplish my main goal: beating Alleghany.
