wavering glass next to the door. A little boy with a mop of blond hair raced by, holding something small and black above his head.
Dark hair flying behind her, a girl raced after him. “Rainn! I swear, if you don’t give that back . . .”
Ashton’s breath caught as a woman with salt-and-pepper dreads and a weary frown marched into the entryway. “Rainn, that’s enough. Give Willow her phone.”
Oh no.
He stumbled back from the door.
Turning on his heel, he leaped off the porch and ran into the tree line. Really? Of all the people in Gilt Hollow, why did it have to be them ? He’d once considered the Lamotts more family than his own. Until they’d ditched him too.
Blood boiling, he crashed through the trees, branches scraping, damp leaves smacking his skin. Soon the lights of a neighboring house cut through the gloom of the forest. He pulled back into a circle of spruce and squatted, lowering his head into his hands. No way was he spending another night hiding in that godforsaken tree house.
He could find shelter at the lone seedy motel in town or one of the multiple bed-and-breakfasts, if they’d take cash—doubtful. But that wasn’t the point.
He clenched his fists against his thighs. If it had been anyone else, he would have rung that doorbell and asked them to start packing. But the Lamotts had been the one solid he thought he could count on. He’d waited for months, hoping every visiting day, every holiday, every mail run would prove they still cared. Until one particular day, six months after his incarceration . . .
“Dude, you’re like a caged animal today. What’s your deal?” Toryn demands.
Ashton turns from the cell door and flops down on his cot, staring at the random bumps in the popcorn ceiling. “What time does the mail run again?”
“Same time as every other day, man.” From the opposite bunk, his cell mate releases a long sigh. “Four o’clock.”
Ashton sits up and swings over the edge of the bed, legs jumping, feet tapping a silent melody.
“Seriously, what are you expecting? An Xbox? A flatscreen TV? A bikini-clad girl jumping out of a giant cake? ’Cause if you are, I’ll blow off arts and crafts time to see that.”
“No, I . . .”Ashton trails off as the mail cart enters their hallway.
“Mallory!” Rumble. Rumble. Squeak. “Hudson!” Rumble. Rumble. Squeak. “Rozelle!”
Toryn rolls off his cot, takes the letter, and tosses it onto the desk. He turns to face Ashton. “See, no big. Just my mom ranting about my grades and what I’m planning to do with my life after this. Blah, blah, blah . . . You should be glad you don’t get that bull from your parents.”
I don’t get anything from my parents, bull or otherwise, Ashton thought. “I just hoped”—Ashton shrugs, swallows the baseball in his throat, and lies back on the cot, hands behind his head—“that somebody remembered my birthday.”
In that moment, it hadn’t been his real family he’d wanted to hear from. They’d made their disassociation clear. But a tiny part of him had hoped for something from the Lamotts. Some acknowledgment that he was alive. That he mattered. But mostly, that his best friend hadn’t forgotten him.
And now she lived in his house with no thought as to where he might be staying. Well, he didn’t owe her a damn thing. She could sleep on the street for all he cared. Shooting to his feet, he took several strides toward the house and stopped. He couldn’t do it. With a growl, he slapped a pine bough, needles and cones falling at his feet. Their rich, clean scent calmed him as he drew in a ragged breath.
If nothing else, he owed Adam Lamott that much. The man had been more of a father to him than his own. Ashton knew in his gut that if Adam were still alive, he never would have abandoned him. For his sake alone, Ashton wouldn’t try to force his family out on the street.
But he wouldn’t spend another night out in the cold either. Shuffling through the crisp carpet
Dark hair flying behind her, a girl raced after him. “Rainn! I swear, if you don’t give that back . . .”
Ashton’s breath caught as a woman with salt-and-pepper dreads and a weary frown marched into the entryway. “Rainn, that’s enough. Give Willow her phone.”
Oh no.
He stumbled back from the door.
Turning on his heel, he leaped off the porch and ran into the tree line. Really? Of all the people in Gilt Hollow, why did it have to be them ? He’d once considered the Lamotts more family than his own. Until they’d ditched him too.
Blood boiling, he crashed through the trees, branches scraping, damp leaves smacking his skin. Soon the lights of a neighboring house cut through the gloom of the forest. He pulled back into a circle of spruce and squatted, lowering his head into his hands. No way was he spending another night hiding in that godforsaken tree house.
He could find shelter at the lone seedy motel in town or one of the multiple bed-and-breakfasts, if they’d take cash—doubtful. But that wasn’t the point.
He clenched his fists against his thighs. If it had been anyone else, he would have rung that doorbell and asked them to start packing. But the Lamotts had been the one solid he thought he could count on. He’d waited for months, hoping every visiting day, every holiday, every mail run would prove they still cared. Until one particular day, six months after his incarceration . . .
“Dude, you’re like a caged animal today. What’s your deal?” Toryn demands.
Ashton turns from the cell door and flops down on his cot, staring at the random bumps in the popcorn ceiling. “What time does the mail run again?”
“Same time as every other day, man.” From the opposite bunk, his cell mate releases a long sigh. “Four o’clock.”
Ashton sits up and swings over the edge of the bed, legs jumping, feet tapping a silent melody.
“Seriously, what are you expecting? An Xbox? A flatscreen TV? A bikini-clad girl jumping out of a giant cake? ’Cause if you are, I’ll blow off arts and crafts time to see that.”
“No, I . . .”Ashton trails off as the mail cart enters their hallway.
“Mallory!” Rumble. Rumble. Squeak. “Hudson!” Rumble. Rumble. Squeak. “Rozelle!”
Toryn rolls off his cot, takes the letter, and tosses it onto the desk. He turns to face Ashton. “See, no big. Just my mom ranting about my grades and what I’m planning to do with my life after this. Blah, blah, blah . . . You should be glad you don’t get that bull from your parents.”
I don’t get anything from my parents, bull or otherwise, Ashton thought. “I just hoped”—Ashton shrugs, swallows the baseball in his throat, and lies back on the cot, hands behind his head—“that somebody remembered my birthday.”
In that moment, it hadn’t been his real family he’d wanted to hear from. They’d made their disassociation clear. But a tiny part of him had hoped for something from the Lamotts. Some acknowledgment that he was alive. That he mattered. But mostly, that his best friend hadn’t forgotten him.
And now she lived in his house with no thought as to where he might be staying. Well, he didn’t owe her a damn thing. She could sleep on the street for all he cared. Shooting to his feet, he took several strides toward the house and stopped. He couldn’t do it. With a growl, he slapped a pine bough, needles and cones falling at his feet. Their rich, clean scent calmed him as he drew in a ragged breath.
If nothing else, he owed Adam Lamott that much. The man had been more of a father to him than his own. Ashton knew in his gut that if Adam were still alive, he never would have abandoned him. For his sake alone, Ashton wouldn’t try to force his family out on the street.
But he wouldn’t spend another night out in the cold either. Shuffling through the crisp carpet
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