The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

“But they must have a lot of money if you are here.” He narrows his eyes at me, as if squinting will bring clarity.

“I guess. My mom runs an investment fund, and my dad’s in construction.” I sit myself in a chair opposite him.

“So what’re you here for?”

“Tumor. It’s excised. I have a shunt and am undergoing chemo/radiation.”

“With drugs not allowed in the U.S.?”

I nod.

“Ha, me too. Stem cell washing. Lots of drugs. And weed, of course.” He pats his lap where I see a small metal container.

“Weed?”

“Yeah, don’t you get any?”

I shake my head.

“Shit, your parents must be withholding from you. Poor girl. Let me know if you want some.” He wiggles the box at me.

“No thanks. Did you just get here?”

“Yeah, my cancer was in remission all of a year. Isn’t that grand? But now it’s back, and I’m here. I thought I’d be bored but maybe not.” The examination he gives me is rather insulting, but in spite of that I can see how we’re going to end up spending time together. There isn’t anyone else around. We’re on our own desert island.

“You looked great in the ad campaign,” I say lamely. “And you still look great. Really healthy.” That is no lie. His face is full, and his hair is shiny. He looks ruddy and built—not the slender gauntness that marks so many of us.

“Have to bulk up between bouts. Plus steroids and human growth hormones are considered appropriate treatment.” He flexes, and I see the outline of biceps. He’s not as muscular as Nathan or Nick, but I give him a smile of approval. I don’t want him to feel bad. Looking good is probably very important where he lives. “What’s your story? You got anyone back home?”

“Yes,” I nod emphatically. “His name is Nathan. You?”

“Nah, I’ll probably hook up with one of the nurses. Did my tutor the last time I was here. But maybe I’ll have other options this time.” This time his perusal makes me frown because I know what he’s suggesting and I’m not interested. “What’s your Nathan like?”

“Strong, smart. Very kind.” Wonderful but maybe not being entirely truthful with me. I don’t say the last part out loud. That’s between me and Nathan, and not to be shared with this rude stranger.

“No, I mean, does he have the hero syndrome, or is he a narcissist?”

“Neither,” I scowl at him.

He waves off my answer. “Don’t be naive. He’s either the hero because he gets off on this idea that he’s saving you—like a firefighter who starts fires so he can save people—or he’s a narcissist who gets off looking like a good guy by being with you.”

“You have a really dismal outlook about people. Nathan isn’t like that. We were friends a long time before we became a couple.” I don’t even know why I’m explaining myself.

“So you guys dated before you got sick?”

“No. We were friends. His father and my mother are in business together. His dad and my dad have been best friends since junior high school.”

He chews on his thumb. “Did you sleep together before you were sick?”

“No.” I pinken. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Then narcissist. He’s boning you because it makes him appear like he’s making a huge sacrifice. ‘See Nathan willing to have sex with the gimp. What a hero!’”

“I’m not gimpy,” I protest.

“Hey, it’s your funeral. I had a girl I dated before I got sick. She even shaved her hair in solidarity when I got the diagnosis. Everyone told her how brave she was. I was the one fucking losing my hair, but she’s the brave one. I punted her. Screwed her two best friends.” He stretches out his arm and cracks his knuckles. “Then I took her back and licked her tears of sadness. Best boner ever. Screwed her and kicked her out like the pathetic narcissist she was.”

“You’re really kind of horrible, aren’t you?” I say, feeling a bit shocked by his commentary. Then I remember seeing Internet articles about him during his first round with cancer. Many of the comments were that the girlfriend was so awesome for sticking by this guy as if she was doing him a favor. The memory chills me a bit.

“I’m a realist, sugar. And you will be too by the time you’re done with treatment.”

“So it’s a bitter party for one now?” I ask. I shift in my seat wondering if I should leave or face him down. We’re going to be thrown together because of language and age and illness. If I turn tail and run, he’ll needle me forever, but I’m not well equipped for this kind of fighting.

“It’s common sense, not bitterness. Who’s your tutor?”

“Sandrine Kielholz,” I say stiffly, feeling uptight and hating it as if I am horribly uncool. This famous boy has a way of making me feel awkward.