The Wayward Sons: (Book 4) Starlee's Hope Read online

  Wayward Sons

  Starlee’s Hope (Book 4)

  Angel Lawson

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Angel Lawson

  1

  Starlee

  For people in a constant state of flux, the wayward sons process change and transition better than expected. At least, that’s what my mother tells me over a plate of farm-to-table eggs and bacon at the Epic Café a week before Valentine's Day.

  “I feel bad that I was so harsh to them when we first met,” she says, picking through her bowl of fruit for a fresh raspberry. “Especially Dexter. They’re really extraordinary boys.”

  This feels like dangerous territory. I agree, obviously, because the wayward sons are amazing in their own unique ways, but my mother doesn’t know the depth of our relationship and exactly what I find amazing about each one of them. I play it safe. “To be fair, we didn’t start off on great terms either. Dexter can be a little hard to warm up to.”

  You know, I want to add, with all the anger issues and baggage. I don’t, and not because I’m trying to protect him, but because he, and the other boys, are not the same as when I first arrived. The last eight months has changed everyone, me included. It’s hard to explain that to an outsider—even my mom.

  “Well, really, I’m glad I’ve been able to help them.” She smiles over her tea. “To help you.”

  Our relationship is still rocky—guarded. I’m afraid to let her too close in case she tries to take over again. She’s giving me space, I suspect out of a fear I’ll run again. We’re on a see-saw of emotions. A give-and-take as we work through our issues. Which is how breakfast at the Epic Café on Sunday mornings became a ritual.

  “I think if they’d had to move into different group or foster homes, things would have gone badly for them,” I say. “I definitely know they appreciate what you’re doing.”

  She smiles. “I’ve never been around so many teenage boys before. They’re a bizarre mix of smelly and thoughtful. That George is a handful for certain. He broke three plates the other day and spilled a drink all over Jake’s homework. I had to send Jake out on a run so he didn’t lose his temper.”

  I laugh. “Sounds right.”

  “So, what are your plans this week?”

  I shrug. “Nothing much. Basic school work. Helping Hands is organizing a Valentine's dance down at the community center for some of the kids that participate in their programming.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea. I love that you’re involved in this project.” She sets her cup down. “Well, I should get back over to the Wayward Sun. The cookie orders are piling up. Charlie and I are working on a database order form program to streamline everything for Dexter.”

  “You really like working over there, don’t you?”

  She grins, pushing her hair over her shoulder. It’s straighter than mine, less curls, and threads of gray are woven in with the red. She’s striking, though, always carrying herself with a level of confidence that I’m jealous of. I think the boys are in awe of her—not just because she took command of Sierra’s house and business when she left, but because of how easily she took them in stride. Frankly, I’m in awe, too.

  “It’s an interesting challenge,” she says. We both stand. I turn to wave at Tom behind the counter. He smiles at the two of us as we walk out.

  My mom links her arm with mine and as hesitant as I am about a lot of things, I’m happy she’s back up here with me. As we cross the grassy yard back toward the lodge and the coffee shop, I can’t help but think that what she said is the crux of it all; being in Lee Vines is an interesting challenge for all of us, but there’s no place I’d rather be.

  On Sunday the Wayward Sun closes at 2 p.m., and usually that time is set aside for homework or maybe a trek into the Sierras for a hike, if the weather holds. Today Dexter begged us all to come help him in the kitchen. He and my mother cooked up an idea to sell Valentine’s day cookies. They’re cute and funky, just like everything else in this little shop, and the orders pile in faster than anyone expects. That means the rest of us get roped into work.

  I’m the first to arrive, probably because I’m desperately avoiding my AP Psychology homework. I don’t mind though, because any alone time with my boys makes me happy. I’m met by the smell of freshly baked sugar cookies and the sight of Dex in his white apron. His hair is tucked under a black stocking cap and his fingertips are dyed red from the pink frosting he’s been mixing.

  “It looks like a murder happened in here,” I say, walking into the kitchen. His gray eyes meet mine and he wiggles his fingers in my direction.

  “I may die from cookie over-exposure,” he admits, shaking his head. “I have no idea what I was thinking.”

  “You always underestimate the appeal of your treats,” I say, walking over to his side of the worktable. I lean over and pick up a broken cookie, taking a bite. It melts in my mouth. “Holy crap, Dex, that’s delicious.”

  Dexter watches me eat the cookie—his eyes glued to my mouth. I lick the crumbs from my lips, feeling the heat rise between us. It’s always like this—it’s always been like this. Give us two seconds alone and things go from PG cooking or baking to, well, any rating above, depending on the circumstances.

  “I think you always underestimate the appeal you have on me and how I have very limited self-control.” He places the bowl on the table and reaches for me, pushing his hand behind my neck and pulling my mouth to his.

  His kiss is wickedly sweet. Slow, to a painful extent. He licks my tongue, my lips, teasing and taunting. This is the different side of Dexter, the one that makes cute Valentine’s cookies and holds my hand in the hall at school. The one that no longer gets in fights or simmers just beneath the surface with a low boil of anger. This Dexter is fun. He begs me to skip school and drive into the desert, stand over waterfalls and taste the air. He’s a different person, one that doesn’t have jail time hanging over his head or a judge watching his every move.

  This Dexter is even more dangerous than the other one, because that one had hard, fast rules. This one? He’s free. Exhilaratingly so, and I find myself wanting to get lost in that freedom more and more every day.

  “You’re right,” he says as the chime on the door rings, alerting us to the fact we’re no longer alone. “Those are delicious.”

  My knees wobble as he releases me and picks back up his bowl of frosting. I steady myself on the stainless-steel table, wondering if whoever walked in can hear my heart hammering as loud as I do. It’s not like they have to. The smirk on Dexter’s face tell the world what he’s just done and when I face George and Jake in the doorway, George frowns.

  “What’s on your neck? Is that blood?”

  I reach for the place that’s still warm from Dexter’s touch. Jake walks over an
d lifts my hair, sniffs my skin, then licks it.

  I pull back, laughing. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s food coloring,” Jake says, rolling his eyes at all three of us. “Way to leave a mark, Falco.”

  Dexter just shrugs, that same smug grin on his face. It’s so nice to see him happy, I can’t even get mad. Jake heads to the rack and grabs three aprons, handing me the black one that’s smaller than the others.

  “Where’s Charlie?” Dexter asks.

  “With Mrs. Jones,” George says, grabbing a handful of overbaked cookies and shoving them in his mouth. “Still working on that database.”

  Dex grimaces. “I guess I’ll give him a pass.”

  “It’s better than having him in here whining about stuff,” Jake says. Charlie isn’t the most patient kitchen assistant.

  “Truth,” George says.

  “You guys be nice. That database is going to save a ton of time.” I say, taking a tray of cookies from Dex. “We all have unique skills.”

  George snorts. “You sound like Sierra.” His eyes dart to Dexter after he says it, then curses under his breath for bringing her up.

  Talking about his sister leaving in a lurch is still hard for Dex. A hint of sadness flickers in his eyes, but he shrugs and says to me, “He’s right, you do sound like Sierra.”

  “Someone has to be the voice of reason around here,” I concede.

  “Right now, I need everyone to stop talking and get ready to ice two hundred cookies.” He raises an eyebrow. “Each.”

  There’s a collective groan, one that brings joy in my heart. There was a time, not that long ago, when we were split up and the twins were in danger. Those days are thankfully gone and I’m just glad they’re here, all of them, back in one place—one home.

  2

  George

  Mr. Clarke, my balding, boring, algebra teacher, looks up from the note handed to him by the main office worker and says, “George, they want you up in the office.”

  I glance at Charlie, who raises his eyebrow in question, and I shrug in return. For once in my life I’ve got no idea why I’m being called to the office. I can officially say I haven’t done anything that would get me in trouble.

  At least, I don’t think I have.

  I slide my book into my backpack and take the note from Mr. Clarke, heading out of the classroom for the office. To be honest, my stomach twists with paranoia. After all the trouble around the holidays and the situation with my dad, the past few weeks of smooth sailing has me on edge. Historically, things never really get better for the Evans boys—at least, not for long.

  As I pass the main doors I consider just running. Just getting out of here—avoiding whatever’s waiting for me behind the glass windows of the main office, but then I think of Starlee, her mother, and grandmother. They sacrificed too much for me to just walk away. I’m gonna have to face this moment and whatever comes next.

  I push through the office door, smiling at the receptionist behind her desk and hold up the note. “I got summoned.”

  She takes it from me and waves me toward the back. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room.”

  I shiver runs down my spine. The conference room is where the social workers always come to visit. Is that what this is about? Why didn’t they call Charlie in here? And who the hell are “they"?

  I walk down the hall and stop at the open doorway, pausing in confusion. Ms. Peterman, my art teacher, sits at the table with a woman with wild, white hair and about a million bracelets stacked up her arm. Definitely not a social worker.

  “Hey,” I say, stepping into the room. “You wanted to see me?”

  “George,” Ms. Peterman says with a strange grin. “I wanted you to meet Cassandra Sparks. She’s from the Berkeley School of Art and Design.”

  “Oh, hi,” I say, reaching out my hand. She shakes it with a surprisingly firm grip. “Nice to meet you.”

  That’s when I spot a portfolio leaning against the table. A different kind of nervousness rolls through my body.

  “Take a seat,” Ms. Peterman says, pointing to the chair next to her and across from Ms. Sparks. I jerk the chair back too fast and it tumbles, banging into the one next to it. As a reaction I lunge to stop it from falling completely, banging my elbow into the wall.

  “George,” Ms. Peterman says.

  “Huh?” I reply, straightening the chair.

  “Sit down.”

  I plop into the chair. “Right. Sorry.”

  My art teacher gives me a patient smile. “It’s fine.” She turns to the woman from the art school. “As you can see, George has a lot of energy, one that he channels into his artwork.”

  Ms. Sparks lifts the portfolio on the table and opens it up. Inside is all the pieces I carefully selected for the admission process. I’d applied to a few different schools, but Berkeley is on the top of my list. It’s not too far away and Charlie’s looking into their computer science and eSport program. With everything that’s happened over the last few months, and with our dad’s trial hanging over our heads, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave my brother right now.

  I swallow as she flips through the pages, stopping on a pencil drawing of Sierra. “I was driving through this area and realized that I would be close to your school. Normally these kinds of announcements are made through the mail, but since Ms. Peterman is an old friend and you’ve got such a unique talent, I wanted to take the time to speak to you directly.”

  I glance at Ms. Peterman. She smiles encouragingly. My palms and every other part of my body start to sweat.

  “We’re offering you admission to the fall semester at BSAD.”

  “Seriously?” I look between the two women.

  “Yes, seriously,” Ms. Peterman replies. “You got in, George.”

  I hop out of my seat and reach for my art teacher. She’s stuck by me through this whole process—forced me to apply when things seemed hopeless. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” she replies, her voice strained from how tight I’m hugging her. “You earned it.”

  I let Ms. Peterman go and rub my head. “Wow. I just, I hoped, you know, but after…you know, after everything, I just didn’t think it would happen.”

  Everything being my father. The man that told me over and over I’d never amount to anything other than manual labor. The man that shredded my artwork before cracking a bottle over my head. Embarrassingly I wipe my eyes, overcome with emotion.

  Ms. Sparks smiles. “It’s my understanding tuition may be a hardship for you. BSAD isn’t cheap, but there are scholarship opportunities for you that your guidance counselor can help you with.” I can’t even think about the money right now. I’m too buzzed. “I did want to tell you about a special program we have. Each year we invite ten incoming students to display and participate in a gallery opening. You’ll get real time feedback on your art and pieces are priced to market. One hundred percent of the proceeds goes toward your tuition. The event is this spring and you can submit up to twenty pieces that fit in the allotted space.”

  She pushes a brochure across the table. I pick it up, unable to read right now. My brain is on overload. I do manage to spit out, “Wow, this sounds amazing.”

  “It’s a great event. You’ll get to meet other students, professors, and get a taste of what it’s like on campus.”

  I’m totally stunned and unable to really speak. Ms. Peterman, as usual, comes to my rescue. “I think George is overwhelmed by the news and opportunities. He and I will work on ideas for the art show and make sure all the information is turned in.” She squeezes my hand and says, “Unless you have some other questions we can talk about this later, okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  She grins. “Go—I know you want to tell your brother.”

  I nod, standing, taking care not to knock over all the chairs. I grab my bag and say, “Thank you again. I’m really excited about this opportunity.”

  “You’re welcome, George. Your talent
is exactly what we’re looking for at Berkeley.”

  I step out of the room, my feet moving as fast as possible without breaking into a flat-out run. I dart past my algebra class, past Charlie, who will be fine learning about this later. There’s only one person I want to share this news with.

  I get outside Starlee’s Spanish class and check the time. Two minutes until the bell rings. I pace like a fool, a maniac, knowing Senor Valdez will not let her leave class just because I want her to. Thankfully, the bell rings and everyone shuffles out. Starlee walks out with Claire and I grab her arm, dragging her away.

  “Where are you going?” Claire asks, abandoned in the hallway.

  “Cover for her at her next class, okay?”

  I take her to the one places we always can find a little privacy. The janitor’s closet.

  “What’s going on?” Starlee asks, no doubt taking in my energy. She places both hands on my chest, something that usually settles me instantly. Not happening today. “Are you okay?”

  I wrap my hands around her wrists. “I got in.”

  “What?” Cute lines of confusion tug at her mouth. I want to kiss them away.

  “I got into the Berkeley School of Art and Design. They just told me.”

  The lines vanish and her green eyes grow so big I think they may pop right out. Her voice comes out in an excited whisper, “You got in?”

  I nod, reaching for her and pulling her close. “Yeah.”

  “Oh my god, George! That’s amazing. I knew you could do it.” Her face holds so much truth. Confidence. In me. I stare at her, holding her eyes, relishing the moment. “I’m so proud of you.”