The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

The leader steps back, bounces around on his heels, and rolls his shoulder like we’re in some cage match.

“You toying with your prey?” I hear Nick say. He must have sent his opponent to a sweet sleep. “Dad wouldn’t approve.”

“Nah, but he’d think this was sweet,” I answer. Opening up my stance, I rise to the balls of my feet and, in one swift roundhouse kick, strike the asshole in the temple with my right leg. Shock widens his eyes before the lights go out in his brain, and he falls backward onto the ground. No one catches him. In fact, everyone moved out of the way.

A silence falls and then cheers erupt, probably from North Prep kids. Juliette hasn’t moved an inch from her lounger, although I see a few blood spatters on the cushion.

“Very nice,” she says.

“I’m guessing you didn’t tell them that your high school friends were sons of a professional fighter?” I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth, but there’s no blood there. It must not be mine. A quick check of Nick reveals he’s fine too.

She presses a finger to the center of her lips. “Hmm. I may have forgotten to mention that. Now which one of you victors is going to celebrate with me tonight?”

“That’d be me,” Nick says, bending over and scooping Juliette into his arms. I drop into the now vacated lounge chair, and someone shoves a beer bottle into my empty hand. This has the makings of an epic party. I place an arm behind my head and prepare to be entertained.

21

Charlotte

The video makes me sick. Literally. I watch it once and then a second time before running to the bathroom to puke up my fruit and yogurt breakfast. I shouldn’t watch it again, but I can’t help it. I return to the computer with a sore throat and the taste of acid in my mouth. The freeze-framed image on the still video is of Nate sprawled out on a bed with Greta and another girl I don’t know on top of him.

His jeans are down around his thighs, and his shirt is off. There’s a white substance painted on his chest, and I think it must be whipped cream by the bottle in the unknown blonde girl’s hand. Nate’s head is positioned away from me. I can’t see his eyes. I want to see them. I want to know what he’s thinking at that point. Did he even remember I exist?

The tears come now. Or maybe they’ve been flowing the whole time, and I’m just now feeling them. The salt and the acid mix in bitter harmony inside my mouth. I guess that’s what heartbreak tastes like.

I press play one more time and watch the whole three-minute video. It’s dark, and the recording is shaky. I don’t know who’s holding the camera. By the sounds of the harsh breathing and the barking laugh, I know it’s a man. Not Nick though. He comes in later.

For now it’s just Greta. She climbs onto Nate’s prone body, straddling him. She’s holding his hand as he reaches up to cup her breast over her shirt, and then she seems to help him remove her shirt.

“Fuck yeah.” It’s the camera man urging her on. Greta’s actions spur the other girl to climb on the bed, and she takes off her shirt and then her bra. She sprays her tits with whipped cream and leans over to offer one decorated tip to Nate. His face is turned away, but she when rises, the whipped cream is smeared. Bile threatens again. I press my thumb against my inner wrist, a technique I learned in treatment, to make it subside. It works about a quarter of the time, and I still feel sickness sitting at the base of my throat. I force myself to watch the rest.

“Come over and give me a taste,” the cameraman orders. Greta flicks him off, but the other girl obeys. The camera dips to the floor, and I hear the moans and pants of what sounds like a hundred people. I dash the tears away because they’re blurring my vision.

“You’re fucking up,” Greta hisses. There’s no action on the screen. Instead there’s a blurry blot, like the guy has pressed his camera phone to the back of the girl he’s snacking on.

“Fuck you,” he drawls but then rights the camera.

When Greta and Nate come back into view, she’s got her skirt rucked to her waist, and she’s hovering over Nate’s face, a leg on either side of him. “Don’t get my face in it,” she orders.

“Whatever, bitch,” the camera guy mutters but positions the camera so it’s just Greta from the neck down.

“Marie, come over and get some,” Greta says.

Marie, the other girl, goes over and takes up Greta’s old position, straddling Nate around his crotch. His boxers are still on, but that means nothing. Greta rearranges herself so that she’s facing Marie, and she pulls Marie’s shoulders until the two girls are almost touching each other. Nate is motionless this entire time, except when his hands creep up to stroke Marie’s legs and knees lightly once or twice before falling away.