Read Online The Promise of Amazing by Robin Constantine - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robin Constantine
Ads: Link
said, chuckling as he checked his IMs again. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re quite the hero. Doesn’t Barrett, like, owe you his life now or something?”
“Hardly.”
“C’mon, why the interest?”
“We hung out the other day. He seemed kinda cool, I guess. What?”
“You don’t want to get involved with a guy like that.”
“A guy like what? I thought you said you didn’t know him. You know, just forget it,” I said, leaning back onto his pillows and focusing on the yearbook again. I already had my own opinion of Grayson, and I didn’t need Josh reaching into his bag of slang to pull out something more colorful than douche nozzle . That was descriptive enough.
“Well, considered yourself warned.”
“I’m ignoring you, just in case you haven’t noticed.”
I thumbed through the yearbook, went directly to the juniors, to the Bs, scanned down the rows of boys, and found . . . nothing. At the end of the junior section, it read . . .Absent photo day: Grayson Barrett, Liam McNaught, John Skora.
Drat .
I flipped to the sports-and-activities section of the yearbook.
Pay dirt.
There was a full-size picture of Grayson, his face ruddy with exertion. He had his lacrosse helmet under one arm and was pouring water into his partially open mouth with the other. His dark eyes were trained on something. He was leaner, sharper, serious. If I had any doubt whether I was still attracted to him or not, my body answered with an instant hormonal rush that left everything buzzing. He was, in a word, smoking hot. Okay. Two words.
I took another sip of beer and sank deeper into Josh’s bed. The open book fell flat against my chest as I stared at the ceiling, confused. This was crazy. I couldn’t feel this way about someone I’d just met. Especially someone who thought selling term papers was just outsourcing. Business . Was that what he’d been talking about at the deli?
I mouthed his name.
Grayson .
Enjoying the way my tongue hit the roof of my mouth on the last syllable.
Would I ever run into him again?
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
SIX
GRAYSON
“ THIS IS GRAYSON, KATE’S SON FROM HER FIRST marriage.”
Mr. Motherfucking Home Wrecker introduced me to yet another member of his family, his voice dropping slightly at “first marriage,” like what he really wanted to say was, This is Grayson, worthless knob. I have no genetic ties to him . It was my first Thanksgiving Easton-style, and I played my role as the good stepson, pumping hands and fielding generic questions about school and life, all the while wishing I could tear the sweater off my back because it was itching like hell.
In the unofficial handshake over “little shit we don’t need to get serious about on legal papers,” Thanksgiving was my mother’s holiday. Pop’s one condition was that he had me in the morning to go to the annual St. Gabe’s/Bergen PointTurkey Day game to relive his glory days. Then in the afternoon, he’d ship me out to Connecticut to spend the day with them. For one reason or another, the Thanksgiving bondage with Mom and Mr. MFHW never happened. Until today.
Mr. Motherfucking Home Wrecker’s real name was Laird Easton, which can only sound cool if you’re a surfer dude and not an ass-clown investment banker. The first time we met was at a company outing at Yankee Stadium before my parents’ breakup. I was eleven and caught up in the total awesomeness of being in a luxury box—steak sandwiches, all the soda I could drink, cushy seats. Laird even got me Mo’s signature on a game ball. He shook my hand, told me what a valuable asset my mother was to the corporate-credit department. It was only later that I realized what he should have been saying was, Hey, kid, I’m balling your mom. Here’s a game ball for you. Why don’t we call it even?
Later that year, Mom stopped being Katie Barrett from Bayonne, New
“Hardly.”
“C’mon, why the interest?”
“We hung out the other day. He seemed kinda cool, I guess. What?”
“You don’t want to get involved with a guy like that.”
“A guy like what? I thought you said you didn’t know him. You know, just forget it,” I said, leaning back onto his pillows and focusing on the yearbook again. I already had my own opinion of Grayson, and I didn’t need Josh reaching into his bag of slang to pull out something more colorful than douche nozzle . That was descriptive enough.
“Well, considered yourself warned.”
“I’m ignoring you, just in case you haven’t noticed.”
I thumbed through the yearbook, went directly to the juniors, to the Bs, scanned down the rows of boys, and found . . . nothing. At the end of the junior section, it read . . .Absent photo day: Grayson Barrett, Liam McNaught, John Skora.
Drat .
I flipped to the sports-and-activities section of the yearbook.
Pay dirt.
There was a full-size picture of Grayson, his face ruddy with exertion. He had his lacrosse helmet under one arm and was pouring water into his partially open mouth with the other. His dark eyes were trained on something. He was leaner, sharper, serious. If I had any doubt whether I was still attracted to him or not, my body answered with an instant hormonal rush that left everything buzzing. He was, in a word, smoking hot. Okay. Two words.
I took another sip of beer and sank deeper into Josh’s bed. The open book fell flat against my chest as I stared at the ceiling, confused. This was crazy. I couldn’t feel this way about someone I’d just met. Especially someone who thought selling term papers was just outsourcing. Business . Was that what he’d been talking about at the deli?
I mouthed his name.
Grayson .
Enjoying the way my tongue hit the roof of my mouth on the last syllable.
Would I ever run into him again?
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
SIX
GRAYSON
“ THIS IS GRAYSON, KATE’S SON FROM HER FIRST marriage.”
Mr. Motherfucking Home Wrecker introduced me to yet another member of his family, his voice dropping slightly at “first marriage,” like what he really wanted to say was, This is Grayson, worthless knob. I have no genetic ties to him . It was my first Thanksgiving Easton-style, and I played my role as the good stepson, pumping hands and fielding generic questions about school and life, all the while wishing I could tear the sweater off my back because it was itching like hell.
In the unofficial handshake over “little shit we don’t need to get serious about on legal papers,” Thanksgiving was my mother’s holiday. Pop’s one condition was that he had me in the morning to go to the annual St. Gabe’s/Bergen PointTurkey Day game to relive his glory days. Then in the afternoon, he’d ship me out to Connecticut to spend the day with them. For one reason or another, the Thanksgiving bondage with Mom and Mr. MFHW never happened. Until today.
Mr. Motherfucking Home Wrecker’s real name was Laird Easton, which can only sound cool if you’re a surfer dude and not an ass-clown investment banker. The first time we met was at a company outing at Yankee Stadium before my parents’ breakup. I was eleven and caught up in the total awesomeness of being in a luxury box—steak sandwiches, all the soda I could drink, cushy seats. Laird even got me Mo’s signature on a game ball. He shook my hand, told me what a valuable asset my mother was to the corporate-credit department. It was only later that I realized what he should have been saying was, Hey, kid, I’m balling your mom. Here’s a game ball for you. Why don’t we call it even?
Later that year, Mom stopped being Katie Barrett from Bayonne, New
Similar Books
