Page 2 of The Best Kind of Bad

“How am I supposed to talk her into keeping the ground if she wants to liquidate?”

Carl shrugs. “Not sure, bud. But you’ll get your chance. She wants to meet the farm manager. That’d be you.”

One of Gus’s parting gifts was to give me a promotion. From farm hand to farm manager. Fat lot of good it will do if this lady sells the land off. I’ll be the farm manager of nothing. “She say when?”

Carl nods. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” That’s sooner than I expected. A heavy feeling settles on my shoulders. “Think she’d at least be open to renting the homeplace?”

Carl winces. “Hard telling, but I’d guess she’d sell it all together.”

“That means I better start looking for a new place to live.”

“I’m sorry, Dusty. Just seems like you kids can’t get a break.”

I look up, distracted. “It’s fine, Carl. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Carl pats me on the shoulder. Hoisting his jeans up higher, he nods a goodbye and saunters off towards the dance.

I hesitate by my truck, considering going back home. But I’m damn near out of weed and beer. Might as well stick around. Tossing the towels back into the truck, I turn towards the party.

I see my friends before they see me. My step falters. They call us the golden boys. Seemed like nothing could touch us.

Except it did. It came for me. Always did.

I just never let it show.

I wasn’t born with the silver spoon. Hell, I didn’t even get a plastic spork. I’m not sure what strange twist of fate put me alongside those guys, but if not for them, God only knows where I’d be.

Probably glued to the floor of a bar, just like Runner.

Sometimes fighting genetics is just plain exhausting. But that’s what I do. I fight.

I do it for me.

I do it for my sister.

And it takes everything I got.

Rolling my shoulders, I force them down from my ears. Throwing on a smile that only goes skin deep, I stroll forward, holding out my arms when my buddies see me. “The party has arrived.”

2.

Marnie

There’s something spooky about a small town.

So damn dark out here.

I pull into Uncle Gus’s farm and sit behind the wheel. Aside from the pale light shining down from an aluminum light over the barn, it’s pitch dark.

A wall of silver maples surrounds the house, their towering branches casting even deeper shadows over the house.

I have to go in there.

I have tosleepin there.

It’s been probably five years since I’ve been back to Uncle Gus’s farm. Another pang of guilt stabs through my chest. When was the last time I talked to him? Christmas, maybe. But even then, I had a mile long list of catering orders. I barely stopped long enough to visit my dad, let alone worry about my bachelor uncle out in the sticks.

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