Page 1 of Unholy Confessions
Chapter 1
Rhett James (Age 16)
"Must be nice being the kid of a world famous rock star and America's sweetheart." The words are pushed out of the gritted teeth of my opponent.
I smirk, tucking my fingers into my palms so that I'm prepared for the next hit. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"You know what it means."
His head is knocked back as I land a punch on his cheek. The rage coursing through me laughs as some of it calms down with the impact of the blow. This is the only way I can seem to clear my thoughts lately. Hurt and be hurt. "Yeah I do, and you know I don't take that bullshit lightly." With those words, I punch again, relief flowing through my body as he hits the ground. "Anyone else wanna go?" I question, looking around at the crowd that's gathered.
Back when we first started this little underground fighting club, there weren't many people who came to watch. Now, word has gotten out, and I'm slightly worried it's going to get back to my parents. When no one raises their hand, I shake my head and walk over to a bench.
"I hate that you do this."
The words are said quietly behind me, but I don't have to turn to see who it is. Montgomery Winston. We've been best friends since the first day we were introduced to each other. I'm a year and a few months older than her, and we were introduced the day she was born. Over the past year, it's started to grow more serious though. I'm starting to notice how fucking hot she is, and how much she seems to worry about my well-being.
It's nice.
Sometimes it feels as if she's the only one to care.
My older brother is always off doing something with the band he's put together. Although I want badly to play guitar with him, I'm not allowed to just yet. He doesn't seem to worry about me as much as he once did. We used to do things together, but somehow last year, the three-year age gap between us became too much. He just wants to be cool with his friends all the time.
Ignoring Montgomery's words, I tilt my head toward the door. "Wanna get outta here?"
Her blue eyes flash brightly at me. "Are you sure? Mom said I probably shouldn't be riding with you until you turn seventeen."
I grin up at her. "You always do what your mom says?"
"No." She shakes her head. "Let's go."
The cool evening air hits my face as we step outside the warehouse. My knuckles are still bleeding, but I don't give a damn. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving behind that familiar hollow feeling in my chest. It's there all the time now. Especially since I started having trouble concentrating and sleeping a year ago. Montgomery walks beside me, her long blonde hair catching the streetlight as we head toward my truck.
"You're bleeding," she says, catching my hand in hers. Her fingers are soft against my torn skin, and I have to resist the urge to pull away. Not because I don't want her touching me – hell, I want her touching me more than I should – but because I don't deserve gentleness. Not when I keep putting myself in situations like this so that I can tire myself out, or at least concentrate on one thing for more than a few seconds at a time.
"I'm fine." The words come out rougher than I intended.
She stops walking and turns to face me, those blue eyes of hers studying my face like she's trying to solve whatever seems to be broken inside me. "No, you're not. You haven't been fine in months, RJ."
The nickname hits different when she says it. My mom calls me Rhett, but Montgomery’s always called me RJ. Lately it sounds different on her lips. More intimate somehow.
"I said I'm fine, Montgomery." I yank my hand away and keep walking toward the truck.
"Don't call me that." Her voice is sharp behind me. "You only call me Montgomery when you're trying to push me away."
She's right, but I don't acknowledge it. Instead, I unlock my truck – a black Chevy Silverado that my parents got me for my sixteenth birthday – and climb in. She hesitates for a moment before getting in the passenger side.
The silence stretches between us as I start the engine. The radio comes on automatically, playing some mainstream pop song that makes me want to punch something again. I switch it immediately to a rock station.
"Where do you want to go?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Somewhere we can talk without you hitting people." She buckles her seatbelt and looks at me with those damn eyes again. "How about Hattie B's? I know you haven't eaten today."
She's right again. I haven't eaten anything since this morning, and even then it was just a piece of toast before school. My stomach growls at the mention of food, betraying me.
"Fine." I put the truck in drive and pull out of the parking lot.
The drive to Franklin is quiet except for the rumble of the engine and the occasional sigh from Montgomery. I can feel her watching me, probably cataloging every bruise on my face, every cut on my knuckles. She's always been observant like that. When we were kids, she'd notice if I was upset about something before I even knew it myself.
