THE BOY I GREW UP WITH Read online

  THE BOY I GREW UP WITH

  T I J A N

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Heather

  2. Heather

  3. Channing

  4. Heather

  5. Heather

  6. Channing

  7. Heather

  8. Heather

  9. Channing

  10. Channing

  11. Heather

  12. Heather

  13. Heather

  14. Heather

  15. Channing

  16. Heather

  17. Channing

  18. Heather

  19. Heather

  20. Heather

  21. Heather

  22. Channing

  23. Heather

  24. Heather

  25. Channing

  26. Heather

  27. Channing

  28. Heather

  29. Heather

  30. Heather

  31. Heather

  32. Heather

  33. Channing

  34. Heather

  35. Heather

  36. Heather

  37. Channing

  38. Heather

  39. Heather

  40. Heather

  41. Heather

  42. Heather

  43. Channing

  44. Heather

  45. Channing

  46. Heather

  47. Heather

  48. Channing

  49. Heather

  50. Channing

  51. Heather

  52. Heather

  53. Heather

  54. Channing

  55. Channing

  56. Channing

  57. Heather

  58. Heather

  59. Channing

  Epilogue

  A note

  Fallen Crest Bonus Scene

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Tijan

  Crew

  Logan Kade

  Copyright © 2018 Tijan

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  * * *

  Edited by: Jessica Royer Ocken

  Proofread by: Rochelle Paige, Amy English, Paige Smith, Kara Hildebrand, and Chris O’Neil Parece

  * * *

  Ebook cover image by Luis Rafael Photography

  Paperback cover image by Franggy Yanez

  For my sister.

  For Jonah.

  Prologue

  HEATHER

  First grade

  * * *

  Channing Monroe is a selfish prick.

  I could think that because I’d heard my mom use the phrase. If adults said it, so could I. So I said it, to his face. And I glared. I didn’t care who overheard me.

  Until I heard: “Heather Jax!”

  I tried to explain to Mrs. Buxton that he wanted to use my Trapper Keeper, but it was mine. I wasn’t giving or sharing or loaning, and when he’d growled at me, that’s when I hit him in the head.

  A girl has a right to defend herself was another phrase popular with my mom. I mean, she said it when she was grumbling to herself and smoking on our new house’s front porch.

  But back to what happened earlier today.

  Mrs. Buxton sided with Channing, for the first time ever.

  She never sides with Channing. He’s trouble, with a big T. See? Grammar. I’m learning. But anyway, he gets into trouble more than me. I only get in trouble when it has to do with him.

  Go figure.

  But I guess violence “wasn’t the answer.”

  I disagreed. So did Channing. He told me after class that violence could end any fight. That made it seem like it was always the answer. He whispered that to me at recess, and then he gave me a weird look.

  He stepped back, eyeing me, and before I could ask what was wrong with him, he hit me square in the chest. “You’re it!”

  He took off running.

  So did I.

  Game on, sucker.

  I chased him down, tackled him, and got in trouble again.

  Mrs. Buxton was everywhere! Or the chaperone for recess was, but still. Ev-er-y-wh-errrrre.

  After that, I had to promise something to get out of trouble. At that point, I was willing to promise anything, but when I told her I’d give Channing one of my brother Brandon’s old Trapper Keepers, she gave me a weird look too.

  Then she knelt down and whispered in my ear, “That’s very kind of you, Heather. Not everyone has the necessities at home.”

  Necessi…teeth?

  I didn’t know what that had to do with me needing new teeth, but I’d say anything to get out of a phone call to my parents.

  I was thinking about that promise as I got out of bed that night to go the bathroom. I needed to ask Mom about where Brandon’s old ones were. She’d been gone all day, even after supper and when we went to bed.

  I didn’t know where she went. Her bags and clothes were gone too, but I heard voices as I slipped into the hallway. That meant Mom was home.

  She was talking to Dad.

  I needed to pee, then go tell her about the Trapper Keeper thing. If I didn’t do it now, I’d probably forget, and she never got out of bed before we went to school. Mrs. Buxton would follow up with her threat and call home. No way, no sir!

  I was halfway to the bathroom when I heard my dad. “I am not disrupting their life any more than it’s already going to be.”

  “Come on.” A female voice.

  I paused. That wasn’t Mom.

  I didn’t know who that was.

  “You’re not thinking straight,” she continued. “Heather—”

  “If you’re going to tell me Heather is young, that she’ll bounce back, you can leave this house right now. Their lives are going to be uprooted enough. I’m not pulling them out of one school and putting them in a different one.”

  “You don’t have a choice. The district line—”

  My dad overrode her, again. He was speaking so harshly.

  “Manny’s is on the border. We moved here because of her mother. I will not disrupt her life again because of her mother. I have friends in the county office. I will pull in favors if need be, but I am not moving my children—not unless they decide they want to change.”

  Wait.

  What…?

  1

  Heather

  Present day

  I don’t even want to say how much later this is. I’m old. That’s when.

  Mid-twenties.

  Or early-twenties.

  Around that time frame.

  You don’t need to know any more.

  I’m old.

  That’s it.

  Wait—not that old.

  I mean…

  We’re done here.

  * * *

  “GET OFF HIS DICK!”

  Those words, being screamed at—hold on, I have to roll over—at six in the morning were what woke me up. I’d had a whole three hours of sleep—three hours after I sent my night manager home and said I’d close Manny’s, and three hours after I took pity on my entire night staff and sent them home too. I’d decided drinking a bottle of bourbon and cleaning was the ultimate adulting job to do.

  Stupidest. Adult. Ever.

  “Ugh.” I groaned as I pulled myself to a somewhat upright position. I couldn’t fully sit up because my stomach was threatening to come out of my mouth. Letting my head fall with gravity was the best option for not spewing out
the two pieces of toast I’d had before falling into bed three hours ago.

  I am an idiot.

  “I mean it!”

  A second scream, followed by a thump from below me.

  “Get off his dick! Get your dick out of her, you, you, you classless vixen!”

  “Holy fuck, Brianna—”

  “It’s Rebecca! Proper names are just respectful.”

  “Rebecca—holy shit!” my brother roared.

  Then came a crash, a second thump, and “STOP!”

  “Get her out of here!” said a new voice, more shrill.

  Even upstairs I could tell the new girl didn’t have the twinge of hysteria the first girl had. She wouldn’t cut it—not long term, not with my brother. Brandon moaned constantly about not finding his “girl,” but the truth was, he found her in a new female about three times a week. And I knew that because he brought them home to the house I shared with him—the house he and I had lived in all our lives.

  We were both adults now. We should’ve moved out and into our own places, but neither of us ever brought up the topic. Though, mornings like this, I was tempted to.

  ”HEATHER! HELP ME!”

  The T-rex roared. I almost felt the floorboards move. No. I peered closer. That was just dust. My breath made it move.

  I tried to yell back, but a garbled burp left me instead, and I nodded to myself.

  Totally can do this.

  Oh yes.

  My older brother needed my help fighting off his two one-night stands.

  “HEATHER!”

  “Shut up,” I yelled back, finally heaving myself up and toward the door.

  Wait. Backtrack. Grab the robe.

  I slept in the nude. We didn’t need that very awkward and uncomfortable scene—clearly it already was all kinds of that.

  I was up and making it down the stairs, trying not to tip over, but I wasn’t quite prepared for what I walked into.

  I could see Brandon’s bare ass in his doorway as he held a towel in front of his dick. Thank God.

  I must’ve grunted or made some sound because he looked over, and the relief was evident. His whole face relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to lower.

  “Can you help me?” He nodded toward his room, moving over so I could see.

  His bathroom door was shut, the light showing underneath.

  There was only one girl in the room, so I assumed the other had taken flight. She showed some smarts. Maybe he could keep her around for a second night.

  But the Get-Off-His-Dick girl was a problem.

  Hands on her hips, she stood with frayed and frizzy blond hair that was either a bad attempt at an eighties hairstyle or she was embracing the lion part of “I am woman, hear me roar.” Either way, this girl wasn’t one to screw over—dilated eyes, beet red face, and very bright and slightly smudged red lipstick.

  No hate against the red lipstick. I’m a fan of it myself, but it’s a weapon. And this girl had so much of it caked on that she was going for the desperate/stalker/you-better-fear-me-because-I’ve-got-a-slasher-knife-in-my-backpack-and-I-put-three-tracking-devices-on-you-before-you-even-talked-to-me vibe.

  I shifted back and gave Brandon a side-eye look. “Really?”

  He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “What? She was hot that night.” He muttered under his breath, “And I was tanked.”

  “Heather.” The girl flicked some of her hair off her shoulder in a haughty motion. “You can understand my frustration here, can you not? He courted me. He wined and dined me, and now I keep finding him with a new girl every night.” Her lip curled, and she threw a sneer at the bathroom door. “He could do better too. I’m at least an eight. She’s a six.”

  “I heard that!” Something thumped against the inside of the bathroom door. “You’re psychotic!”

  “I’m not psychotic. I take offense to that. I’m very classy.”

  “You’re delusional.” The bathroom girl huffed. “I’m calling the police!”

  Oh.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa.

  That gave me a jolt. Some of my hangover dissipated. “Let’s not be hasty here.” I raised my voice. “Right? No police need to be called.”

  Who wanted police called to their house? Hello. No one. Certainly not me. That’d been instilled at an early age by a chain-smoking mama before she ditched me, and enforced by an on-again-off-again boyfriend who had more than his fair share of run-ins with the cops. Not to mention, cops. They were cops.

  No one needed that attention.

  I turned and glared at Brandon. “This is your problem. Why am I fixing it?”

  He gestured to the crazy girl with a brisk wave. “I can’t do anything with her. She’s not moving. If I touch her…”

  Fuck. Shit. Fuckety shit, shit, shit. I had a whole slew of curses in my head, but he was right. Somewhat. This girl was the type to call assault if he touched her arm. She was talking like she had such class, but it was all bullshit.

  And how had she gotten in here?

  “You.” I pointed at Psycho Girl.

  “Me?” She adopted an innocent drawl, and just like that, the stalker vibe vanished. She even smoothed a hand over her hair, attempting a demure look. “You must see my side of this. I mean, it’s not proper etiquette to court one woman and then be involved in a sex tryst with a whore behind my back.”

  Shit like that set my teeth on grinder.

  I started for her. “It’s time to go. Now.”

  “I’m calling the cops!” The girl inside the bathroom hollered again. “So doing it. Right now. My finger’s on the nine as I’m speaking.”

  “And you!” I went to the door and slammed a fist against it. “You call the cops here and you’re banned from Manny’s.”

  I considered that the ace up my sleeve.

  She gasped through the door, “What?”

  Manny’s is the bar and grill Brandon and I run. It was our dad’s, named after him, but when he decided retirement and an RV caravan were his next mission in life, we took it over. I’m the official owner, but Brandon runs the bar. It’s another reason we’re both in this house. It’s right behind the place that is our life.

  Well…

  Full disclosure here: Manny’s is more my life than Brandon’s. He goes clubbing. He has friends. He has one-night stands, as is annoyingly obvious right now. This is because he’s more okay with letting the night manager close the bar for him, while I still struggle—hence three hours ago.

  All that to say, I don’t issue threats like that lightly.

  No matter who was inside Brandon’s bathroom, it would suck for her not to be allowed in Manny’s. I’m not being cocky; I’m being factual. Our place is popular in a town that houses a whole heap of millionaires. Most social circles enjoy getting drunk there.

  She sniffled, and a low, guttural growl followed. “You wouldn’t.”

  I would, and she knew it. So did Get Off His Dick, and I locked eyes with her. One problem done, the second soon to follow.

  “You gotta go,” I said it flatly, and then waited.

  “But…” She started to rally up a protest, but I shook my head.

  “I mean it.” I jerked my thumb toward the door. “You have a problem with Brandon, you bring it up to him later, when he’s fully clothed. You can be mad at him. I don’t give a rat’s ass, but not here, not on my time, and not when you know his dick is in some other girl.”

  “I didn’t.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and she stopped herself.

  Her eyes lowered. “I thought he liked me.” She sniffled, but no guttural growl came after. Her tone changed. There was no bullshit, no act. She was really hurt, and I looked back to Brandon.

  The girl in the bathroom wasn’t immune either. She murmured a pitying, “Oh.”

  A flicker of regret flared over Brandon’s face for a moment. His head dropped, and he coughed, clearing his throat. “I know this might be hurtful…”

  The sad girl vanished, and her head whipped back up. “You don’t
care!”

  Nope. It was an act. We were all suckers.

  Her eyes went wild. She jabbed her finger in the air at him, and then she launched.

  I saw it coming the second he opened his mouth, and I was ready. Stepping forward, my shoulder hit hers, slamming her body into the closet doors.

  “Move, Brandon!” I yelled.

  He lunged around me, and I kept going with my momentum.

  Grabbing her arm, I steered her to the hallway and placed a hand on her back, walking her toward the door before she realized she was being manhandled out of the house.

  “But—what?”

  “Time for you to go.” I kept a smile in my voice.

  Pet the hair. Make her feel good. Yes, yes. We’re just going out here for a present. That’s all we’re doing. That’s the feeling I gave her until I had the door open and could deliver one more hard nudge to her back.

  She almost stumbled to the porch, and I would’ve felt bad, seeing how bewildered she was, but the girl was crazy. When she was completely outside, I stood in the doorway and crossed my arms over my chest. I was a medium-height lady with tanned and toned legs and a kimono robe that stopped just below my vagina.