Ruthless Love (Ash and Innocence 1)

And what did helping her get me?

Trouble. The last fucking thing I needed more of.5KennedyI wiped sweat from my forehead and stared down at the little makeshift garden. Okay. That was a stretch. It was more like a patch of dirt where the diced up remains of some weeds lay. I modified the broom handle spear I’d used earlier and put one of those slotted spaghetti spoons on the end. It made for a pretty good weed-flinger. Within about half an hour, I’d managed to sling the majority of the chopped-up weeds out of the way, leaving just a handful of tiny, finger-tip length sprouts of greenery.

I had no idea what kind of plants they would grow to be. For all I knew, they were just a fresh batch of weeds. But if they were, they’d be my weeds, because I was going to water and love the crap out of the little things.

I dumped half a cup of water on them and was working on drinking the rest myself when a beat-up truck sputtered to a stop in front of my house.

I watched one of the football guys hop out. It was the one who was a little taller than Tristan with shoulders and arms like some kind of blacksmith out of medieval times. His hair was a curly tangle that fell carelessly over his brow, and he wore an impressive amount of beard stubble for a high school guy.

He was in a sleeveless black t-shirt and jeans. Nothing like the fancy, expensive clothes Tristan and his other friends wore.

“If you’re here to offer me more dick, I’m actually not interested, despite what Tristan says.”

The guy shook his head, wearing a grim expression. He stuck his hand out when he got closer, not seeming to care that mine was filthy. “I’m Logan, by the way.”

I shook his hand. “Kennedy.”

“I couldn’t help noticing Tristan seems to hate you already. And I wanted to make sure you understood who you’re dealing with.”

I frowned. “What, are you like his hype guy?”

Logan flashed a sad smile. “No. I’ve just had the misfortune of knowing him a pretty long time. Tristan is… He’s not the kind of person you want to be enemies with.”

“Great. Any other helpful advice?”

Logan folded his arms. “Look. I’m just saying you should keep your distance.”

“And why are you so concerned about my well-being, exactly? I didn’t see you jumping to my defense yesterday when he was claiming I was a ‘whore on wheels.’”

Logan walked to his truck and pulled the door open. He hung his head, then looked back at me. “He’s our QB. He needs a clear head if we’re going to make it to state this year. And I assume you’d prefer not to have Tristan Blackwood making it his personal mission to ruin your life. You keep to yourself and everybody wins. Sound good?”

I dug my makeshift weed-grabber into the ground. “Yeah,” I said dryly. “Sounds wonderful.”

Aside from my glasses, which I sorely missed, I had no intentions of ever going to Tristan’s house again. To be honest, I was starting to think I’d rather suffer round two of my mother’s wrath when she found out I’d lost them than go back there.

My mom came home from work that evening and flopped down on the couch, rubbing the arches of her feet. “These non-slip shoes they made us buy are miserable.”

I pushed myself around the kitchen on the kind of walker elderly people used—the ones with little tennis balls on the legs to help them avoid catching too much friction. It let me move around well enough to cook, and I always tried to have dinner ready when mom came home from work.

“Maybe you just need to break them in,” I suggested, trying to sound cheerful.

“More likely they’ll break me first,” she said, massaging her ankles.

“I made your favorite.” I pulled the tuna noodle casserole out of the oven. It sounded gross, in theory. Tuna made into a kind of salty gravy over wide, flappy noodles. The whole thing got a generous coating of crushed up ruffled potato chips and grated cheese on top before being blasted in the oven. Once it came out, it was equal parts gooey and crunchy. I served up a plate for her and set it at the table.

My mom came and sat down, taking a few hungry bites before she stopped to eye me suspiciously. “You hate draining the tuna. It always makes you gag.”

“I closed my eyes.” I served myself a plate, carefully maneuvering it and my walker to the table before sitting.

She was still watching me with her knife and fork in her hands.

“Eat,” I said. “It’s going to get cold.”

She cut herself another bite and laughed softly. “If you’re hoping I’m going to un-ground you, it’s not happening.”