I shake my head. “Sorry. I just—”
“Stereotyped me. Yeah, you did.” He takes one of the chairs and pulls it out of the bag before setting it up. “I’m here on scholarship, and I’m going to Colombia on a scholarship. I don’t taking handouts, but someday, I hope to help some kid whose only parent that they ever knew can’t anymore.”
I set my chair next to his, and we both sit down.
“I guess I should be offering you the peace pipe, huh?” I ask, holding out the joint.
“How about you tell me? You can ignore the shit those bitches said about you, because you know who you are and what they say, and what they think doesn’t mean dick. Tell me you’re gonna get through with this bullshit school, maybe do the same thing I am, and tell me you really aren’t gonna push Heather to steal your file, because that will come back on me.”
“How will it come back on you?” I ask, lighting the joint.
He sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and looks over at me, his blue eyes narrowed. “Not all rumors are lies.”
I hand him the joint, and he takes a small hit then flicks the cherry off it.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
He slowly releases the smoke from his mouth, blowing it out, then asks, “You hearing me, Savvy? Not all rumors are lies, and not all buried truths need to be uncovered.”
“So, the rumor about you having some book that holds all the secrets to every student who has ever attended here and could ruin their lives is true?”
He shrugs. “If I did, I wouldn’t touch the fucking thing unless I had to.”
“So, what does that have to do with me?”
“You’re asking Heather to get your file. If the four of us get called on it, which we will, and Whitaker threatens to fuck up my scholarship, then I’m gonna have to open that file, and I don’t want to release that hell on anyone.”
A chill shoots up my spine, telling me to back off, but I can’t.
“I wanna know why this school is paying people to babysit my ass.”
He nods. “And what happens if you don’t like what you find?”
“It can’t be any worse than not knowing.”
“Trust me when I tell you it can.”
“How am I supposed to trust you? I don’t even know you.”
He leans back, sticks the joint back in his mouth, and lights it. He takes a long pull then hands it back to me.
As I inhale, he exhales and says, “Because no one but you knows that I have a fucking clue who my father was, and I’m trusting you to not say a word about it.”
“Yeah, well, at least you know,” I say then release the held-in smoke.
“You wanna figure it out? You do it without involving them. It’s none of their fucking business. I also hinted to the fact that I already talked with you, and that you decided they should be giving you a percentage of what they make if they want to keep their fucking jobs, on top of never disrespecting you again, and letting you come and go as you choose.”
“I don’t want their money,” I say, handing him back the joint.
He holds up his hand. “I’m good on that, but take the money, roll it up, and smoke it, or donate it to some kid in need, but fucking take it to prove that you have the upper hand.”
I like that idea, but I also need answers.
“I know you’re goddamn smart. You got in here after the deadline for application was closed. Hell, they didn’t even have room for you, but they still took you. If you want answers, you’ll find them. If you want help figuring shit out, talk to a friend who will give you nothing but the truth in what they see that you might be missing.”
I laugh. “I have no friends.”
“Not sure how that’s possible. You’re a fucking ray of sunshine.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
“You do that, but do me a solid and give me a heads-up before you lose your shit.” He smirks.
I stick the joint in the dirt to snuff it out. It’s strong as hell, skunky tasting, too.
“I’ll agree, but only if you can make a perfect s’more.”
He shakes his head. “Never made one, so let’s not—”
“Then I’m gonna teach you how.”
Chapter 7
"There's something so special about a woman who dominates in a man's world. It takes a certain grace, strength, intelligence, fearlessness, and the nerve to never take no for an answer.”
~ Rihanna
Patrick
Boston is definitely one of my favorite places in the world, and I’ve traveled to some insanely beautiful locations. My mother’s side of the family, the Patrick’s—thus my first name—is one hundred percent Irish; my grandparents first generation U.S. citizens. The Patrick side is much smaller than the Steel side.
The Steel side, Momma Joe, our grandmother, is first generation here in the U.S., and one hundred percent Italian; my grandfather, who passed away before any of me and the Crew were born, is a bit of a mystery. He was adopted as a small child, then his adopted parents passed when he was about fourteen, and then he was basically raised in foster homes until he joined the military and met Momma Joe in Italy. From what we gather from those home DNA kits, he was at least half-Italian, some Scottish too.
My Grandma Patrick didn’t work outside the home; my grandfather, who was a detective for the Boston Police Department, thought it important for her to raise their children; and when they were grown, she helped everyone in the neighborhood. Her place was home and community, and
