Sempre
NOVELLAS
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright Ó 2014 by Jessica Mae Darhower
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Friends.
"Yo, DeMarco, get up."
Carmine grunted, his eyes slowly peeking open as something struck his leg, sending a sharp pain through his calf. "What the fuck?"
The cluttered room was dark, clouds of hazy smoke hovering in the warm air, muddying the view of the boy standing in front of him. Carmine blinked a few times, each second like slow motion as blackness obscured his vision before the unfocused scene once more came into view.
Inhaling deeply, the smoky air infiltrated Carmine's lungs, the woodsy aroma of marijuana washing over his body. His eyes drifted closed again as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness.
"Get up!" the person said again, raising their bare foot and kicking Carmine in the knee. "Lazy bastard."
Carmine sat up and rubbed his blurry eyes, trying to shake off the exhaustion that weighed him down. Glancing across the room, he watched as his half-assed aggressor strolled to the only window and shoved the makeshift curtain out of the way—a thick blanket, tacked there to keep the sunlight from streaming in.
Grimacing, Carmine raised his hand to block the blinding glare. "What the fuck?"
Laughter rang through the room—familiar laughter—as the form approached him again. Carmine stared at him, taking in the sight of the worn cargo shorts and dingy white undershirt, the blue ball cap pulled down low on the boy's eyes.
Nicholas Barlow.
He was in Nicholas's bedroom in the house out on Aurora Lake… that much Carmine knew… but how the hell he got there, or when for that matter, was beyond him. The last thing he remembered was… was… fuck, he couldn't even remember. "What the fuck?"
Nicholas laughed again as he paused right in front of him. "Is that all you know how to say?"
"No," he scoffed, running his hands through his chaotic hair. "Christ, what did we do tonight?"
"Last night," Nicholas corrected him, motioning toward the window. "It's daylight."
Carmine glared at the sunlight for a moment. "Well, I don't remember shit from last night."
"Not surprised," Nicholas muttered. "You were fucked up."
"I'm still fucked up," he grumbled, climbing to his feet and swaying a bit. "How am I still high from last night?"
"This morning," Nicholas corrected him again, laughing some more. "You don't remember getting up an hour ago and smoking?"
"No," he said. "Must've been some good shit."
"It was."
"Got any more?"
"Not presently."
Carmine frowned, looking around as he tried to clear his head and gather his wits. The room was a disaster—clothes strewn everywhere, trash spilling over the can, empty bottles cluttering the desk and every inch of shelf space. Certainly wasn't anything out of the usual in Nicholas's room… it reminded Carmine of his own.
Probably why it was the only other place in the world where he felt at home.
"Come on," Nicholas said, slapping him on the arm. "It's already after four o'clock. The weekend awaits."
"Saturday?"
"Friday," Nicholas said.
"Shit," Carmine muttered. "Guess I missed school."
"You and me both."
It was fall, memory of summer long gone, but the weather showed little sign of changing seasons. A perk of living in the middle of No-Fucking-Where Carolina: already late October and it was still sweltering during the day. Carmine had a hard time getting back into the routine of normality, with school and homework and all the other shit society expected from kids his age.
He would rather just sleep and fuck his life away.
Carmine stumbled out of the room, wearing yesterday's jeans and gray V-neck shirt, the sleeves shoved up to his shoulders, his Nike's untied and flopping on his feet as he shuffled through the house behind his friend. He plopped down at the kitchen table, the wooden chair legs scratching the linoleum floor, as Nicholas got them both bowls and slid them on the table with an open box of Lucky Charms. Carmine unceremoniously poured some into his bowl, still trying to blink away the haze, as Nicholas plopped down in the chair across from him with a carton of milk.
Nicholas poured himself a bowl of cereal and started eating as Carmine reached for the milk. He picked up the carton and shook it. Empty.
Carmine looked at Nicholas's bowl, nearly filled to the brim with milk, some sloshing out onto the table whenever he dug his spoon in. "You used all the milk."
"You snooze, you lose."
Carmine couldn't even be mad. Hell, he would've done the same had he been coherent enough to beat his friend to it. Shrugging it off, he plucked handfuls of cereal out of his bowl and tossed them in his mouth. Fuck it—he'd eat it dry.
Wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last…
"God, you boys are pathetic."
Carmine's focus turned from his evening breakfast to Amy Barlow as she strode in, wearing a hot pink two-piece bikini, the top untied and barely concealing her breasts, the bottoms covered by a pair of tiny unbuttoned jean shorts. Her tanned skin shined, a combination of baby oil and sweat from lying out in the sun. She was eighteen and gorgeous… or about as gorgeous as a girl related to Nicholas could possibly get.
Which, Carmine had to admit, was pretty fucking banging.
Nicholas's older sister—his only sister. A senior. Carmine had had a hard-on for her since the first time he laid eyes on the girl, but she was off-limits. The only girl he figured was off the menu for him, in fact. He was only sixteen, but he'd already had his fair share of girls over the years. If he set his mind to it, if he tried hard enough, he got it, but her? Amy?
You don't fuck with your best friend's sister.
It was an unspoken rule.
"Look who's talking," Nicholas grumbled, mouth full of cereal. "Don't you own any damn clothes? Walking around here half-naked. I don't wanna see that shit, Ames."
I do, Carmine thought, smirking. Instead of saying it, though, he stuffed a handful of cereal into his mouth. Safer that way.
"At least I don't stink," Amy countered, opening the fridge to pull out a bottle of water. She unscrewed the top and took a drink as she leaned back against the counter to glare at them. "Seriously, do you smell that? What reeks?"
"That's DeMarco," Nicholas said nonchalantly. "I showered already."
Glaring at his friend, Carmine raised his arm, instantly getting a whiff of his armpit. He involuntarily grimaced. Christ, he did stink. Smelled like stale bread and burnt fucking rubber. What the hell did I do last night?
He shrugged it off, though, going right back to munching on his Lucky Charms. He was too damn hungry to give a shit about hygiene.
"By the way, Dr. DeMarco called a few minutes ago," Amy said, her attention focusing right on him, a small smile tugging the corner of her lips that Carmine could tell she was fighting to restrain. Smug bitch. "Said something about Carmine not showing up for school today. He asked if you boys were around."
"Did you tell him we were sleeping?" Nicholas asked.
"No," she said. "I told him I hadn't seen Carmine."
<
br /> Nicholas groaned. "Jesus, Amy, why?"
"Because it's true," she replied, shrugging. "I was at school all day… unlike you two. And I'm not lying for you so you can sneak around, doing God knows what, God knows where, with God knows who."
"It doesn't matter," Carmine chimed in before they could start arguing. "Not like he's got the time to come look for me. I'm surprised he even took a minute to try to call."
It was only because the school had called him, Carmine figured. Had Principal Jack-Ass Rutledge not ratted him out, his father would have never known. Carmine's appetite was suddenly gone, dissolving at the thought of his father. He shoved his bowl away from him as he stood up, stretching his arms and grimacing once again at the odor that clung to him. "I'm going to shower."
"Please do," Amy said. "I can't take much more of that stench."
He flashed her his middle finger as he strode from the room, kicking his shoes off as he walked, leaving them lying on the floor.
He passed Nicholas's father in the hallway—a middle-aged man named Joshua, prematurely gray from stress he openly blamed on Nicholas for even existing. Joshua cast Carmine a disapproving look as he strode by, but the man said nothing.
He was about as fatherly as Dr. DeMarco.
It only took Carmine about ten minutes to shower, the perpetual cold spray in the old ass house with the prehistoric plumbing enough to jolt him wide-awake. He put on fresh clothes afterward—he had about as much of his shit here as he did at home—and made his way back toward the kitchen, slipping his shoes back on as he went, his shirt clutched in his hand. He could hear fighting off in the other side of the house, Nicholas arguing with his father about something-or-nother. Probably school. Or me. Who knows? Carmine didn't bother to investigate, knowing his friend preferred it that way. They had an understanding. They fought their own battles, no matter how ugly. It was just the way it was.
Instead of seeking out his friend, Carmine plopped back down in the chair at the table and eyed Amy as she washed out their bowls from breakfast. As long as he had known her, she had been more of a parental figure to Nicholas than anything. When their mother died, she had stepped up and taken on the role of woman of the house, taking care of her brother and her father. Carmine sympathized with her… he knew what it was like to practically raise yourself.
"Don't you have a house?" Amy asked, shutting off the water to turn around and look at him. "Don't you have your own family?"
Carmine stared at her for a moment, expression blank. "Why do you care?"
"I get a little tired of looking at you every day."
"Then don't look at me."
"You're here."
"So?"
"So?" She threw up her arms in annoyance. "The least you can do is put on a damn shirt."
Raising his eyebrows, Carmine glanced down at himself and rubbed his bare chest. He had gotten soft over the summer and was just now back into shape thanks to Junior Varsity football.
Football. That struck a chord with him, hazy memories resurfacing. They'd had a football game last night… hell, no wonder he stunk. He figured they'd won, since he'd partied so hard in celebration. Or else he was drinking to forget the loss.
Either way, it worked. He barely remembered any of it.
"You're not wearing a shirt, either, you know," he pointed out.
"Yeah, well…" She stepped closer, pressing her palms flat against the surface of the table as she leaned across it to look him in the eyes. "Unlike you, I'm grown. I can do what I want, little boy."
Carmine narrowed his eyes at her, purposely avoiding glancing down at her breasts as she practically thrust them toward his face. Such a fucking tease.
Amy stood up and walked away as a door slammed down the hall and Nicholas stormed in, ignoring his father's yelling behind him. Blah blah blah… stay out of trouble… yadda yadda yadda… mind your fucking manners… whatever whatever... I'm not running a fucking boarding house for your delinquent friends...
Nicholas immediately searched through the cabinets before groaning and instead opening the fridge. He pulled out two cans of beer—the American flag colored cheap shit that tasted like piss—but Carmine didn't complain when his friend tossed him one. He popped the top and took a sip. Best cure for a hangover was just to start drinking again.
And in the Barlow house? There was always an abundance of alcohol to be found.
"So what are we doing today?" Carmine asked.
"Same thing we did yesterday."
"And what's that?"
Nicholas raised his beer. "Getting fucked up."
Carmine chuckled. Sounded about right to him.
* * *
They were drunk again before nightfall, roughhousing along the sandy beach and commandeering a neighbor's jet skis, having no regard for anyone or anything. Fuck safety. They raced around the lake, shouting and dodging obstructions, before playing a game of chicken. The jet skis sped along the water straight at each other, neither one making any move to divert from the path.
Carmine gripped tightly to the handles, determined, as he raced straight at Nicholas. He wouldn't balk. Nope. Nicholas would have to.
Mere feet separated them, the distance closing rapidly, when Nicholas finally swung away, barely missing a head-on collision. The front of Nicholas's jet ski skimmed Carmine's, jolting him roughly forward and over the front of it as it skidded to an abrupt stop. His head slammed against the Jet Ski as he hit the water, pain tearing through his skull.
He treaded water, floating, ignoring the pain as he watched his friend crash straight into the dock, leaping off at the last second and flailing before he hit the water. Laughing, Carmine swam toward the shore as Nicholas did the same.
Nicholas grimaced as climbed out of the water, hobbling as he tried to put pressure on his right foot. "Fuck, I think I broke my ankle."
Carmine glanced down toward his friend's feet. "Looks fine to me."
Nicholas shot him a foul look, his expression contorting nearly instantly from annoyance to amusement. "Ha! You're bleeding, douchebag."
Carmine reached toward the throbbing along his brow, wincing when he felt the gash. "Hurts like a son of a bitch."
"Looks fine to me."
Carmine rolled his eyes, shoving his friend so hard he stumbled and fell onto the sand. Nicholas grimaced, all humor gone from his expression. "Seriously, DeMarco? Ankle? Remember?"
Reaching down, Carmine grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. "Whatever, pussy. Let's go get it checked out."
"Your dad working?"
Carmine shrugged. "Is he ever not working?"
They drove Nicholas's Chevy pickup truck to the hospital, mainly because Carmine said he wasn't letting Nicholas's wet ass soil the seats in his brand new Mazda RX-8. A gift for his sixteenth birthday just a few months earlier that felt a lot like a guilt-assuaging bribe from a failure of a father. Regardless, Carmine cherished the car. Nicholas, too, seemed to have an unhealthy attachment to his vehicle, but he didn't put up an argument when Carmine grabbed the keys and climbed behind the wheel of the truck.
They strolled—or limped—past the waiting crowd in the ER in Durante, straight to the lady working the check-in desk. She cast them a look but said nothing, motioning for the two of them to follow her straight back to an exam room.
"Ankle," Carmine told the woman, motioning toward Nicholas's foot, before pointing at his own forehead.
"Eyebrow, got it," the woman said, shaking her head. "I'll let Dr. DeMarco know."
Nicholas climbed up on one of the white hospital beds as Carmine strolled around the room, nosily looking in drawers and searching through cabinets. He found a container of lollipops on the counter and snatched a handful, shoving a few in his pockets before tossing a green one toward Nicholas.
Carmine tore the wrapper off an orange one and stuck it in his mouth, sucking on it as he continued to explore. In a drawer along the side, he found a pile of rubber bands. Plucking two out, he pulled one back and shot it tow
ard his friend. Nicholas ducked, the rubber band flying right by him just as the door opened.
Shit.
Vincent DeMarco stepped inside, words on the tip of his tongue, when the rubber band struck him straight in the chest. Vincent's brow furrowed as he halted mid-sentence, glancing down at the rubber band when it hit the floor before his eyes darted toward his son. "Sit down, Carmine."
Carmine mock saluted his father, cringing when he struck his wound. Damn, it hurt. He hopped up on the second hospital bed in the exam room when his father approached, grasping his chin to survey his face. "This is bleeding a lot, son."
"Head wounds bleed a lot." Man, how many times had Carmine heard those words spoken to him before right in this fucking hospital? Too many times to count.
"Yes, but this is more than normal," Vincent said, pulling out his small flashlight and shining it straight in Carmine's eyes as he nonchalantly toyed with the second rubber band.
Before Carmine could respond, Nicholas chimed in. "I'm sorry, Doc, but nothing about your kid is really normal."
Vincent turned to Nicholas, eyeing him peculiarly before shining the flashlight in his eyes, too. He said nothing, glancing between the two of them suspiciously.
Alcohol thins the blood. Carmine knew it. Hell, every one of them in the exam room knew it. There was certainly a reason his head wound was bleeding a lot.
"So, uh, you gonna fix us up?" Nicholas asked finally. "Or are you gonna, well… you know… just look at us?"
Vincent continued to just look at them for a moment before letting out an exasperated sigh. "I don't know what I'm gonna do about you boys."
"Fix us up," Nicholas said again, laughing. "I think I broke my ankle and Carmine, well… he looks like he stuck his head in a blender, but that's nothing new. He's always been an ugly bastard."
"Fuck you," Carmine said, shooting the other rubber band at Nicholas, this time hitting him straight in the face.
"All right, enough," Vincent said, shaking his head as he set down the charts he had been carrying. He pulled up a stool and checked Nicholas's ankle. "Just a mild sprain, I'd say. Stay off of it and you should be fine."