Rebel at Spruce High (Spruce Texas Romance #5) - Daryl Banner Page 0,30

the motorcycle out of my pocket, return to the table, slap them down, then go back for the stairs.

Up in my room, I shut the door and drop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. The anger lives in my ears and my thrashing heart. I guess nothing quite beats the feeling of being a grown-ass eighteen-year-old child who just had his motorcycle taken away. I wonder if my parents’ next step is to put me in time-out when they have another chat with Principal Jack Whitman about whatever unruly act of heroism I pull at Spruce High next.

I can already tell my days here in this town are numbered.

I sit up at my desk and, avidly ignoring my English vocabulary homework staring me in the face, pull out my notebook and get to work on finishing up my drawing. I shade the remaining feathers on his left wing, gnawing my lip as I work. His smirk is looking more like a grimace, so I correct the line and give his lip a sharper curve. I mirror his smirk with a satisfied one of my own.

The voice of my mother outside my door calls me down for dinner. I barely noticed the sun being traded for the gloom of an early evening twilight through the window. After putting away my drawing, I head downstairs to join my parents at the table. My dad, a skinny, blond, mustached man who is always wearing his dress shirt, vest, and tie, even when lounging around the house or in the dead heat of a Texan summer, sits at the end of the table with a detached, pensive look on his face as he cuts a bite of steak with the precision of a surgeon. My mom doesn’t cook, so as usual, our meal was delivered from somewhere local she likely knows of. Also as per usual, she’s full of critical remarks with every bite. “Dry.” She tries something else. “Overdone.” A nibble of baked potato, then a shrug. “Not bad. A touch salty.”

“Have you made any friends, Donovan?”

The question comes from my dad. And I can already hear the implied expectation in his crisp tone. It isn’t so much a question as it is a demand for me to do my part in fulfilling his master plan for all of us here in Spruce. That I should finally find my place and flourish. That his lovely wife should work her way to the top of the socialite tree and make best friends with the wealthiest families. It is all so damned predictable, just like it was in every other city.

So I give a reasonable response: “It’s only been two days.”

“A lot can happen in two days,” he reasons back.

My mom clears her throat. And there is an ocean of judgment in that unassuming, miniscule noise. It’s a special talent of hers, to somehow bring up all the drama of my school day yesterday with a single, curt shifting of phlegm in her throat.

“You’ve barely touched your steak,” my dad notes.

I set down my knife. “I don’t like it here.”

My mom issues a nearly inaudible sigh of impatience as she picks up her glass for a sip of wine.

My dad’s mustache curls up with a smile as he chews. “Spruce may not be that big of a place, I know. It isn’t what you’re used to, but give it time. Your mother’s always spoken fondly of this town. Haven’t you noticed how gay-friendly they are here, too? Even the pastor at the church is gay. Or was that his son?” Before my mom can correct him, he shrugs it off. “I am certain you’ll find at least one or two acceptable young men to befriend here. Why don’t you invite one over for dinner sometime, Donovan?”

Another throaty noise from my mom, as if to discourage him from pushing that button.

He misses the hint, or deliberately ignores it. “I would like to see you make some friends here in Spruce. It’d be good for you. Healthy. We have all this space here, this big house your grandma left us. Wouldn’t it be nice to fill it with some friendly faces? Some life? Some joy? Just ask Mom. She hosted a graduation party here back in her day, didn’t you, dear?” He gives my tightlipped mother a pleasant smile as he cuts another bite of his steak, brings it to his lips, then chews with meticulous certainty, satisfied with himself.

My thoughts stray from the table