Chapter One
Jett's POV
Age 15
The copper tang of blood pooled in my mouth, thick and warm. I spat it onto the pavement, narrowly rolling my shoulder to dodge a heavy-booted kick from Simon Devon.
Simon was a senior. Three years of height and ego over me. He made a career out of running his mouth at anyone who didn’t take up as much space as he did. Usually, I could ignore the noise, but today I’d mouthed back. One sharp retort had earned me a fist to the jaw.
“Think before you chirp at me, Jett,” he spits, his face twisted in a sneer that looked practiced in a mirror. “We all know where your mother’s mouth has been. It’s public record at this point.”
“Don’t talk about my mother,” I growl. I push off the gravel, my legs shaky but holding. “You don’t know a damn thing.”
“Jett! Simon! My office. Now.”
Principal Thomson’s voice cut through the air like a whip. The circle of spectators vanished into the hallways, leaving us exposed. Thomson glare at the two of us, though his eyes lingered on me with a weary sort of disappointment.
“Again, Jett?” he huffs, rubbing his temples. “Is there a single day where I won’t find you in the middle of a disaster?”
“Maybe when we elect a female president,” I drawl, wiping a smudge of red from my chin. “The world’s a chaotic place, sir.”
He rolls his eyes and storms toward the administration wing. Simon follows at his heel, wearing the dutiful expression of a practiced suck-up. I didn’t follow. Instead, I ducked into the bathroom to assess the damage.
I rinse the grit from my mouth and dab at the split in my lip, watching the pink water swirl down the drain.
By the time I reach the office, the air was thick with impatience.
“I said now, Jett,” Thomson growls as I lean against the doorframe.
“I had to decontaminate,” I retort, gesturing to my face. “Unless you wanted a crime scene on your Persian rug?”
Simon lets out a jagged scoff. “How is this guy still enrolled here? He’s just washed-up Southside scum. He belongs in a public school with the rest of the projects.”
Welcome to Brookshire Prep. I was a South Ashbourne kid in a North Ashbourne world- a scholarship student surrounded by the sons of senators, CEOs, and political dynasties. My mom called me the “smart kid who was going places,” but at Brookshire, I was just the stray mutt in a kennel of pedigrees.
Simon’s family, the Devons, sat at the top of the food chain. His father, Fletcher, practically owned the local political circuit.
“Watch the tone, Simon,” Thomson says, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You threw the first punch. Regardless of the provocation, you will both serve a week of lunchtime detentions.”
Simon’s jaw drops. “My mother isn’t going to be happy about this. You know how she feels about my record.”
“Right, wouldn’t want to upset Mummy,” I drawl, tilting my head. “Always there to coddle her sweet, innocent ‘Simmy’ whenever things get real.”
Simon lunges out of his chair. “Why don’t you go fucking back to the gutter where-”
“Enough!” Thomson bellows, slamming a hand on his desk. “Both of you, get out. Dismissed, before I turn these detentions into suspensions.”
I didn’t wait for a second invitation. I bolt out of the chair and head down the hallway, my sneakers squeaking on the polished linoleum. I knew it was coming- the heavy, rhythmic thud of expensive loafers behind me.
Just as I turn the corner, a shoulder slams into the center of my back with the force of a freight train.
“Asshole,” I grunt, the air leaving my lungs in a rush as I sprawl onto the floor.
I didn’t even look up; I just listened to the receding sound of his laughter echoing off the lockers.
The backdoor of Southbound Eats slams shut behind me, the heavy metal ringing in the humid evening air.
At fifteen, the “normal” kids were probably arguing over math homework or loitering outside the cinema. Me? I was punching a clock. This was my second shift of three. Three hours of scrubbing grease and food scraps for ten dollars an hour, every cent of it going straight into the envelope for the bills.
We lived in a trailer park on the edge of town. The trailer belonged to my uncle. A man who treated “family” like a debt collection agency. He blamed my mother for my father’s life as a bottom-shelf addict. In his eyes, she’d trapped a man with potential by getting pregnant with me.
My father could have left Ashbourne. He could have been something. Instead, he was a ghost we saw twice a month when he ran out of money for pubs and cheap motels.
Lucky me, I thought, the sarcasm a bitter coating on my tongue.
My mom was the only thing keeping us upright. She’d been working the kitchens at Ashbourne Royal Hospital since she was my age, and I’d spend every night of my life protecting her from my old man’s heavy hands if I had to.
I toss my bag into the basket by the door and step up to the sink. The dishes were already crowning over the edges of the basin. Fantastic.
"Evening, Jett," Donny calls out.
Donny looks like the kind of man you’d avoid in a dark alley, shaved head, a roadmap of tattoos, and a face that seemed carved out of granite. But I knew the truth. His wife, Summer, a Northside girl who’d traded her silver spoon for a life with a line cook called him “Teddy.”
“Hey, Donny,” I say, plunging my hands into the scalding water. “Busy night?”
“Doubt it,” he grunts, flipping a burger. “But I don’t mind the quiet.”
“How’s Summer?”
“Hangry,” he scoffs, though his eyes softened. “Pregnancy is a terrifying thing, kid.”
“This is number three, isn’t it? Seems like you’re at least fifty percent responsible for your own problems, Donny.”
Donny lets out a jagged bark of a laugh. “Okay, smart-ass. Get to work.”
The night drags on in a rhythm of steam and soap. Briony, the floor manager, shouted orders for “Southside Specials” and “Night Shift Melts,” but the rush never really materialized. By 9:00 PM, the kitchen was polished to a shine.
Donny and I stand by the back dumpsters, sharing a cigarette in the cool air.
“Don’t tell your mother I’m contributing to your delinquency,” Donny says, exhaling a plume of gray smoke.
“She’s on the night shift,” I reply, feeling the nicotine hit my tired brain. “Besides, I’m heading to the warehouse next. I need the wake-up call.”
Donny looks at me, his brow furrowing. “You’re going to run yourself into the ground, boy. How the hell do you maintain a scholarship with those hours?”
“I’m a natural-born genius,” I drawl. “Didn’t you know?”
Donny stubs his cigarette out on the heel of his boot and gave me a somber nod. “See you tomorrow, Jett. Try not to fall asleep standing up.”
I finish my smoke, hop on my bike, and pedal toward the Southpoint Warehouse. I pull into the loading dock just as a semi-trailer hissed to a stop. The driver hops out, squinting at me.
“Is there an adult around here?” he asks, looking right over my head.
“I’ll go find one,” I grumble. A ‘hello’ would have been too much to ask for, apparently.
I duck into the flickering lights of the main office. Isaac, the night supervisor, was sprawled across a vinyl couch, his eyes glued to a basketball game on a tiny TV.
“Truck’s here,” I say. “He needs a ‘grown-up’.”
Isaac turns his head slowly. His pupils were blown wide, swimming in a sea of bloodshot red. He smells like a skunk had died in a bag of Oreos.
“Heyo, Jett... when’d you get here, man?”
“Just now,” I spat, my patience thinning.
I watch him struggle to his feet. We walk out to the dock where Isaac clumsily operates the lift to unload the crates. Once the driver got his signature and peels out of the lot, Isaac leans heavily against a stack of pallets.
“Hey, Jett... you mind if I take a quick twenty? You got the unstocking, right?”
“I’ve got it,” I grunt, already grabbing a hand truck.
“Thanks, Jett. You’re the best, bro.”
“I’m not your bro,” I mutter under my breath as he drifts back toward his couch, leaving me alone with a mountain of freight and the long, dark hours of the morning.
