The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

“Ratdick,” Nate calls him.

“Assface,” Nick returns.

“Pigbreath.”

“Dicknugget.”

“Rumpleforeskin.”

“Fuck knuckle.”

Before Nate can return yet another insult, I shove a piece of pizza in his face. Unrepentantly, he simply takes a giant bite of the pizza and winks at me over the slice in my hand.

“This movie is supposed to be about brotherly love.” I shove another slice toward Nick, and the insults die down as the movie starts.

“This looks like it should be in black and white,” Nick comments.

“With no sound,” Nate adds.

All is well in the world again. I settle back against Nate’s hard chest as we watch the three Curtis brothers fight, fall in love, and die. By the end of the movie I’m making good use of the tissues and even the Jackson boys are looking suspiciously tense.

“I’m calling you Ponyboy from now on,” Nate finally says after clearing his throat a couple of times.

“Better than Sodapop,” Nick retorts.

“No, I’m Darrel,” Nate says. “I’m the oldest.”

“You’d both be Socs,” I interject, throwing my tissues into one pizza box that the boys emptied by the middle of the movie. “Not Greasers.”

“We’d never be Socs, Charlotte,” Nick explains. “No one wants to be Socs, even the Socs.”

With a pointed look around the room, I pick up the box and head for the kitchen. The media room has theater seats and a projection screen that is the size of an entire wall. Ponyboy would just about die if he saw this place.

“Do you think we have too much?” I ask Nate, who has followed me out with the empty bottles and remaining pizza.

“All the time,” he answers. Taking the box from me, he throws it into the incinerator and places the rest of the food into the refrigerator. His words sound so fervent, as if our privilege is something he needs to apologize for.

“I can’t see you being mean to someone who wasn’t as fortunate as you,” I say.

“No, but I want to see if I can make it without the Jackson name or the Jackson money.” His eyes bore into mine with some deep meaning I can’t decipher.

“I believe in you.” I lean into him, and his arms curl around me. He buries his face into my hair, and we stand there, holding one another while the appliances hum quietly in the background. I don’t understand what he needs, so I give what I can—my heart, my faith.

“I won’t let you down,” he whispers, but while his volume is low his words are firm and commanding.

“I know. I trust you.”

He trembles almost imperceptibly in my arms, and I squeeze tight as if I can deliver all that emotion right into his veins and into his heart. Without another word, he lifts me in his arms like I’m a feather and carries me out of the kitchen, down the corridor, and into his bedroom.

“Goodnight, Nick,” he yells out.

“Glove up. I’m too young to be an uncle,” Nick yells back.

I bury my face into Nate’s chest, embarrassed that Nick will know exactly what we’re doing in Nate’s bedroom.

He sets me gently on the bed and crouches down in front of me. Rubbing the inseam of my jeans along my calf, he assures me, “Nothing happens tonight that you don’t want.”

But I’ve wanted for so long, it seems. I’ve always looked up to Nate, always viewed him as the ideal male. I believe we were born for each other.

“I want it all,” I declare. This time I have no embarrassment because it is Nate and this is right. He gives me a slow smile that makes me hot and excited. It’s not exactly the look his mother gets from his dad or my mom gets from my dad, but it’s close enough.

“All right,” he says, and those are his last words for a long time. He rises up and places both arms on either side of my body and fixes his warm mouth on mine. We fall back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. When his tongue slides over the seam of my lips, I part them and am rewarded with a hot, open-mouthed kiss.

Everything about Nathan feels different right now. His skin is warmer and firmer under my fingers. I glide over the curve of his shoulders and then down his back, where his muscles bunch under my touch. The weight of his legs against mine is even better when I part my thighs. He settles between them as naturally as if we’ve been in this position a hundred times instead of only one.

And he is thick and hard against my most sensitive region. My heart trips a couple of times in excitement and even a little fear. But the fear fades with each passing kiss and each caress. His entire body seems propped up by one strong arm bent at the elbow, while the other hand finds the delicate skin at my waist. I shake in response to that small touch.