1 Unus

Have you ever noticed that as soon as someone dies, they're suddenly a saint? Funeral processions are full of people that want to talk about what a good person they were, or how much they gave back to their community. People resurface from high school twenty years ago to wax poetic about the one fucking date they went on, or how they had so much fun on the football team together. You can't speak ill of the dead, they say.

A week ago, my dad was no one. He had a few good friends from around the city. He was widely assumed to be a degenerate, an outlaw. A man with a mean streak a mile wide who owned a motorcycle and wore leather. He scared the locals and chased skirt at the local bar.

People liked to forget he was also a businessman, running the only honest mechanic shop around. He had grease under his nails and calloused hands from the time he spent under cars making money to feed his family. But no one wanted to talk about how hard he would hustle for the people he loved while he was still breathing.

Those same people are here crying crocodile tears into their monogrammed hankies like they're burying their best friend. They're not. But I am.

This wasn't how I thought I would be starting my senior year at Hunter's Woods High School, which starts in three days. We've all been looking forward to this year for as long as I can remember.

You see, we're the cream of the crop. Cheer royalty. We win the crowns at homecoming and date the football players. Guys want to fuck us. Girls want to be us. This was always the plan. Now, all I want to do is crawl in that casket with my father and tell everyone else to fuck off. Fuck my senior year, fuck prom, fuck college, and fuck you, too.

"Sunday, we need to go back to the house afterward for the wake," my sister, Law, murmurs under her breath as she leans across the church pew. The priest has dismissed the crowd but I find myself cemented to the seat. I know that the moment I step out that door into the sunlight people are going to expect me to be "on." I don't have the energy to jump through hoops and perform for the masses. To be the picture of pretty grief they're expecting to see. Demure and understated when in reality I'm screaming inside.

"Yeah, okay," I tell her, forcing my feet to move across the worn green carpet and out of the chapel doors. I know she doesn't want to be here any more than I do. My sister Laurie came back from Harvard Law to take care of her little sister who now has no one else. That's me. The only other family we have is my uncle, and he can barely take care of himself.

We never had it easy growing up. Our Mom died years ago, leaving our father to raise two daughters on his own. Laurie worked herself raw to get a full-ride scholarship to college, and then into Harvard Law after that. She has big dreams in big cities– and none of those dreams include taking care of her little sister back in Salem. She's always wanted to be an attorney, which is why we've called her Law since she was in high school. I can hear the undertones of resentment in her voice every time she talks to me and I hate it.

"I'm riding with Veronica," I tell her, receiving a terse nod in response before I expertly maneuver past the tragedy circus through the shady lawn to find my best friends standing beneath an old ash tree to the side of the church.

Veronica's red hair is tied up in a perfect french twist, her tight little black dress fit more for a nightclub than a funeral, but her pearl necklace and large black cat eye sunglasses take it from Kim Kardashian to Holly Golightly. My friend Poe is beside her in her standard black pantsuit, looking every bit the country club girl she is.

"Hey. Law says we have to go back for the wake," I tell them on approach, unable to read their expressions beneath their oversized shades.

"No problem. I came prepared," Veronica says, pulling a fifth of Grey Goose from her oversized purse with a smirk. I'm relieved to see it. While we may not be known as the party girls around school, we have just as much fun as everyone else. We just don't talk about it. Growing up the daughter of a biker, I learned early on that life is about the picture you paint of yourself for everyone else.

I climb into the front seat of Ronnie's black Lexus. It's a little flashy for a high school student, sure, but it was a hand-me-down. Veronica's family is well off, but they're not rich. Poe's family, on the other hand, is a different story. Her father is the mayor, and a descendant of the founding families in Salem. The Caldwell name is on pharmacies, libraries, and rec centers. They even have a street named after them. Small-town royalty.

Pulling up to the stop sign at the end of the small road the church occupies, we watch and wait for a large truck hauling lumber to meander its way through the four-way intersection, surprised when the car suddenly lurches slightly forward.

"What the fuck?!" Ronnie says, her lips set in a hard line as she turns to look through the back window, finding a black Porsche tucked into the rear of her Lexus. While Poe and I are still shaking off surprise, Veronica has already mentally shifted gears letting rage light her features. A stereotypical redhead, she's quick to anger, throwing her door open and tossing her heel-clad feet out to the pavement, fully ready to kick someone's ass.

This isn't the first time she's had a road rage situation. She's a hot head. Although at school she plays the sweetheart and head cheerleader, she's as mean as a snake beneath the surface. Poe and I jump out to stop the inevitable trainwreck that we know is going to follow this slight fender bender.

Making it around the back of her car I see her stopped dead in the road, mouth agape, arms wide as though she was prepared to launch a tirade of swear words that would make a sailor blush. Panning my gaze about six feet to the left I see exactly what's stopped her.

I screech to an immediate halt, causing Poe to bump into my back. "Oh shit, sorry Sunday," she husks, but I'm already as lost as Ronnie is. The driver of the perfectly restored black Porsche is six foot four of pure muscle. Tight dark-wash jeans, a five o'clock shadow, and James Dean hair. Who the fuck is that?

"Is everyone okay?" the stranger says, his deep husky voice carrying on the slight breeze.

Veronica brushes her hands against her thighs before clearing her voice. When she finally finds her voice to speak, it's cheerleader Ronnie that comes out, sweet as can be. "Hi, yeah. We're just fine. Oh my gosh, your car!"

Poe and I exchange an entertained look before making our way to the other side of the wreck.

"Oh, it's not a big deal. It'll buff out," he says.

I look down at the shiny chrome bumper. It will buff out. "Sixty-three?" I ask, canting my head in consideration while I let my eyes caress the mirror-shine paint job and perfect chrome accents. This car is his baby, I can tell. I can practically smell the leather wafting from the open driver's side door.

"Uh, yeah. Good guess," he says, pushing his mirrored aviators on top of his head, exposing perfect amber eyes wrapped in dark eyelashes and the eyebrows of a greek god. Or an Italian God, anyway. He's inherited some good genes. His nose is prominent and his jaw is square but angular. Fuck, I'm staring.

"It's not a guess," I say, harsher than necessary. "My Dad has a shop if you…. Um, my uncle has a shop if you need help with the bumper."

I look up to find him holding me in his stare, assessing me in that way that you do when you feel like you know someone from somewhere but can't quite place it. His brows are furrowed, his plush red lips slightly pursed. Now he's staring. I lift a single brow at him, urging him to speak without calling him out on it directly.

"Oh, yeah. No, I do my own car work. I have everything I should need. The scratch on your bumper, though. Do…we need to exchange information? I just moved here so I don't really know anyone that owns a shop to offer you help," he says, joking. He's uncomfortable, but not overly so. He's playing it off well. I like the fact that I can read him easily. Then again, I can read everyone easily. It's a gift.

"Oh, welcome to Salem. I'm Veronica. The blonde is Sunday, and the other one is Lenore, but everyone calls her Poe."

I shift uncomfortably on my feet as I let my eyes wander his broad chest. His white v-neck t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, causing my tongue to dart out and wet my lips.

"Because of The Raven?" he asks.

Poe's mouth quirks up at the side. "Are you a fan?"

A lazy smile spreads across his face lighting his features in a truly dangerous way. "You could say that. I'm Oakley. Do you guys go to Hunter's Woods? I'm starting there in a couple of days."

He's in higschool? No fucking way.

My words come out breathy and suggestive despite my best efforts to hold my composure. "Yeah, we do. Senior year."

He nods, flashing me his pearly whites and stealing my breath from my lungs. "Perfect. I guess I'll be seeing you ladies around, then."

He gives us a wink before folding back into the seat of his car and driving off with a wave. Veronica turns her gaping mouth and wide eyes toward Poe and me. "What the fuck was that?"

I can only shake my head because I honestly couldn't tell her.