Shedeservedit, p.1
#shedeservedit, page 1
#shedeservedit
Synopsis
Liberty Center High School’s football team has a long history of success, and the dying small town has nothing else to cling to. But when Lance, the star quarterback, is found dead, Alex Wheeler becomes the prime suspect in his best friend’s murder. Alex thought he was the only one who shared Lance’s biggest secret—but someone else found out. How well did Alex really know Lance, and what else did he keep hidden?
To prove his innocence and figure out what really happened to Lance that last night, Alex starts connecting the dots and finds that everything leads back to the recent death of a cheerleader who may have been sexually assaulted at a team party. Did online bullying drive her to suicide? Or was she murdered?
Alex must come to terms with his own secrets and soon finds his future may be at risk, as he gets closer and closer to the horrifying truth about how far Liberty Center will go to protect their own.
Content advisory: This work contains references to sexual assault.
Praise for Greg Herren
Lake Thirteen
“Lake Thirteen is a nice, fun, young adult type of ghost story…I’d recommend the book to anyone looking for a good m/m YA ghost story/mystery.”—Love Bytes: LGBTQ Book Reviews
Dark Tide
“I highly recommend [Dark Tide] to anyone looking for a good m/m related mystery. There isn’t any direct sex in the book, so if that is important to you, you should move on, but otherwise, give it a shot. I think you’ll love it like I did!”—Love Bytes: Same Sex Book Reviews
Sleeping Angel
Sleeping Angel “will probably be put on the young adult (YA) shelf, but the fact is that it’s a cracking good mystery that general readers will enjoy as well. It just happens to be about teens…A unique viewpoint, a solid mystery and good characterization all conspire to make Sleeping Angel a welcome addition to any shelf, no matter where the bookstores stock it.”—Jerry Wheeler, Out in Print
“This fast-paced mystery is skillfully crafted. Red herrings abound and will keep readers on their toes until the very end. Before the accident, few readers would care about Eric, but his loss of memory gives him a chance to experience dramatic growth, and the end result is a sympathetic character embroiled in a dangerous quest for truth.”—VOYA
#shedeservedit
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Soliloquy Titles by Greg Herren
Sleeping Angel
Sara
Timothy
Lake Thirteen
Dark Tide
Bury Me in Shadows
#shedeservedit
#shedeservedit
© 2022 By Greg Herren. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-995-8
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: January 2022
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Jeanine Henning
eBook Design by Toni Whitaker
This is for every girl who was never believed
For I don’t understand what I am doing. For I don’t practice what I desire to do; but what I hate, that I do.
—Romans 7:15
OMG did you hear about Kayla?
No, what?
Go look at Joe’s Insta!
OMG, what a slut!
Well that’s what she gets for being a skank
#shedeservedit
Chapter One
Alex jogs down the gravel path, his rubber cleats making crunching sounds on the shiny, sparkling white stones. The field, still lit up from the game, looks forlorn and lonely. The sod is chewed up from impacts and cleats and falling bodies. Some debris—plastic bags, strands from purple and gold pom-poms on a stick, wrappers from cheeseburgers and hot dogs sold at the concession stands—blows around in the slight warm wind, heavy with coming rain. State championship flags snap and crackle on their poles on either side of the scoreboard. The janitorial team works their way up from bottom to top, picking up trash carelessly left behind by the crowd who’d filled the iron rows of seats.
The scoreboard still reads: HOME 48 VISITORS 7.
He’s forgotten his arm pads on the sideline by the bench. He took them off when Coach Musson pulled the starters from the game when the fourth quarter started because the game was already won. He didn’t realize he’d left them behind until Coach Musson’s short postvictory pep talk was over, and he went to his locker to take off his pads. His mom always says he’d forget his head if it wasn’t attached. Maybe she’s right. He could just get new ones, sure, but he’s superstitious about these arm pads. He’d worn them all season last year when they’d won State again.
He knows it’s stupid, but why risk jinxing things?
He’s coming down from the adrenaline rush of the game, beginning to feel tired. His arm pads are right where he’d tossed them, underneath the bench where the big orange coolers of Gatorade sit during the game. The pads are just lying there, graying gold, his name written in purple marker on them.
He’s thirsty but wants to just sit for a minute. Let the locker room clear out a bit before he goes back to shower and change.
The wind is picking up. The summer has been long and hot and dry, but it’s supposed to start raining around midnight. There’s a bruise on his right calf, purple outlined in yellow and orange. He doesn’t remember getting hit there. He never remembers the hits. The games go by so fast. He spends every Friday afternoon with his stomach knotted. The pregame warm-up seems to last forever. But once the whistle blows and the ball is kicked off the tee, time flies. Later, his muscles will ache, the bruises will come up, his joints will start hurting.
He knows he can’t sit for long. India, his girlfriend, is waiting for him. He’s hungry—he can never eat before a game. He wants to grab something to eat before he has to be home. He hates his stupid curfew, but as his dad likes to remind him all the damned time: My house, my rules.
“You pay some rent around here, and you can have some say in how things get run around here,” he always says, pointing his index finger at Alex. “Is that clear, hoss?”
He hates being called hoss.
He stands back up, his back cracking, his legs feeling like lead. He slips his arm pads back on and starts jogging back to the field house. It feels like he has weights on his feet. He starts to slow to a walk, but if Coach Musson sees him walking in uniform, he’ll make Alex run laps for not hustling and respecting the uniform. No matter what time it is, no matter how late. His dad says that’s why Coach Musson is a winner.
When he reaches the foot of the gravel path, he hears something behind him. He stops and turns around. The scoreboard winks out as he watches. The cleaning crews are still filling the big garbage bags with trash. He’s about to turn back around and head for the field house when he sees Lance Kidwell, talking to someone in the shadows by the side of the bleachers. Lance’s back is turned to him, but he can see the white number 7 on the back of his jersey. What’s he doing out there? It doesn’t make sense. Had Lance been in the locker room during the victory speech? He racks his brain but doesn’t remember. The person Lance is talking to turns to walk away, and for a moment, his face is caught by the stadium lights.
It’s Mr. Howe, their Government teacher.
What the hell? Alex wonders. Mr. Howe’s a good guy. He makes them work their asses off to get good grades, but he’s fair. If you do the work, study, and participate in class, you’ll get a good grade. He likes to mock Liberty Center High’s football obsession but comes to every game, even the away ones. He won’t take football as an excuse for not being prepared or not getting the work done. He’s one of the few teachers Coach Musson can’t bully into giving players passing grades. Alex likes Mr. Howe…but why would Lance skip out on the postgame pep talk to hang out with him?
Lance is doing lots of things that don’t make sense, these days.
Whatever. It’s none of his business.
When he gets back to the locker room, it’s calmer than before, but still crazy. A locker room after a win is a lot more fun than after a loss. Guys laughing and shouting and yelling at each other. The showers running. The hanging lights, obscured by a layer of steamy mist, their long bulbs hidden behind wire mesh, making tarnished rainbows. Locker doors slamming, guys tossing their pads around, towels snapping, half-naked guys wrestling and pushing and shoving and shouting, laughing as they catcall each other. He hears bits and pieces of conversation, all raunchy, nasty, dirty, talk about pussies and tits and whores and sluts and screwing and getting blow jobs, dancing in the fog above the rows of lockers.
Like always.
He walks down the row closest to the showers where the seniors are assigned lockers. He dials his combination and opens the door. He reaches under his jersey and unsnaps his shoulder pads. He turns to Jim Milosevic for help taking off his jersey. Shoulder pads make raising his arms over his head impossible, so he needs help. He leans forward at the waist. Jim is an asshole, a defensive tackle weighing over three hundred pounds, his face and back covered with angry purplish pimples, but he’s also one of the best tackles in the state and has college offers. Jim always makes him wait, pretending he doesn’t see Alex standing there with his arms up, leaning forward, and pretty much helpless—sometimes snapping him with a damp rolled-up towel, leaving a painful angry red welt. “Some help, Jim,” he says. He closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable pop of the towel, but Jim apparently decides not to be an asshole for once and tugs at the back of his jersey. “Here you go.” Jim tosses the jersey at him. “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks,” he mumbles, turning away so Jim’s naked body is out of his sight line. Alex doesn’t want to talk to him. Jim always wants Alex to talk about India and her body, how far she lets him get, talking shit about him not being man enough to fuck her. Like Jim ever gets laid, like he’s some prize all the girls line up for. His girlfriends never stick around long, and who could blame them? Sometimes he wishes he could move his locker. He hates dressing and undressing next to Jim.
But this is the last season he’ll ever have to stand next to Jim in the locker room.
He can endure it for a few more months.
Thank God for being a senior.
He finishes undressing as Jim heads for the showers. The row is almost empty, guys finished showering, toweling off, getting dressed. He’ll be one of the last ones out. Once he hangs up his helmet and shoulder pads inside his locker, he grabs his cell phone and texts India: sorry running late.
No worries take your time.
He unties and unlaces his yellow game pants with the big purple stripe down the sides, stained with grass and dirt, sliding them down and tossing them inside the locker on top of his other gear. The lights flicker for a moment, dead silence for a second, before a group whooooo, and the noise picks up again.
“Alex!” Ace Jones claps him on the shoulder. He’s heading from the shower back to his locker. Ace is the star running back, averaged 180 yards per game last season, already signed a letter of intent with Fort Hays State. He has his yellow towel wrapped around his waist. He is a little shorter and stockier than Alex, all sinew and muscle, deep crevices between the abdominal muscles. Ace has a nasty smile on his face. He leans closer and whispers, “You want to suck my dick?”
He wants to knock Ace’s hand off his shoulder. He wants to punch Ace in the mouth. But there’s no point.
Ace laughs at him. “There’s a party tonight,” he whispers, a smirk on his face. “At Joe’s. You want to come?” He leans closer and whispers, “Maybe I’ll let you suck my dick later.”
He wants to punch that smirk off Ace’s face, aware how close they are to each other.
He says, does, nothing. Just keeps standing there.
Ace laughs and walks away.
He puts his head under one of the showerheads and turns the hot water on, lets the strong spray pelt his already-tightening muscles. He lathers up his body and rinses off the soap, washes his hair, keeps putting his face into the spray.
Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let any of them get to you, he reminds himself. Only eight more games, and then the playoffs. At most, three more months and he is done with it forever.
He can’t wait for this season to be over.
By the time he finishes shampooing his hair, there’s no one left in the communal shower. He towels himself dry and wraps his big yellow towel around his waist. He heads back to his locker. Maybe four or five other guys are left in the locker room. It’s just after ten. He starts dressing as fast as he can, underwear, jeans, purple LCHS senior T-shirt. He sits down on the bench to put on his socks and shoes when he hears the outside door slamming shut.
Lance comes around the corner. He knows it’s Lance without having to look. Lance is their star quarterback. Lance is on track to get a full ride to Colorado State, maybe even a shot at the NFL someday. Lance is a golden boy, good-looking and tall and strong and popular, a good student who’s always polite to adults. Adults love Lance, always talking about what a role model he is, so well-mannered and respectful, studies so hard and works at McDonald’s even during football season, working two jobs in the summer to save money for college. The Kidwells don’t have money—they live on the wrong side of town, down close to the river in a development that went up during the postwar boom and is barely better now than a slum. His dad hurt his back at work and is now on disability, working part-time as a janitor—probably out there in the stadium right now, helping pick up trash. His mother, short and chubby and always cheerful, works in the kitchen at the county detention center Monday through Friday. Lance is ashamed of his parents, blames them for being poor. He drives his mother’s battered almost twenty-year-old Honda when she doesn’t need it. He can’t wait to get out of Liberty Center. Once he does, he always says, he’s never coming back. Once he goes, he’s gone for good.
He used to be Alex’s best friend.
Had been since they were kids playing T-ball.
“Help with my jersey?” Lance asks.
Alex pulls Lance’s jersey over his head. He hands it to him without a word and sits back down to put on his shoes. “What took you so long?” Alex asks. “You missed the postgame talk.”
“Nothing,” he snaps as he unbuckles his shoulder pads, tosses them on the tiled floor.
“Forget I said anything,” Alex replies. He stands up and starts shoving his uniform pants, his hip pad girdle, his jock and jersey and socks and undershirt into his gym bag. His backpack is already in the car. He gets out his phone and texts India, Be right out. Meet me at the car.
I love you, she texts back.
“Hey man, I’m sorry,” Lance says, leaning against the lockers in just his yellow uniform pants. He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” Alex starts to move past him. “India’s waiting.”
Lance stops him, planting both of his big hands on his chest. “I need a favor, Alex.” He swallows. “I need your help.”
“India’s waiting.”
“Please? You’re the only real friend I—I’ve ever had.”
“Lance…”
“Please, Alex.”
Alex fidgets. India’s waiting, and he’s taking longer than he should. He sighs. But the look on Lance’s face…
“One minute.” Alex crosses his arms and leans against the lockers. “You get one minute.”
Lance smiles, pushes an errant sweaty curl off his forehead. “I’m sorry. About everything. I know you didn’t tell Kayla.”
Too little too late. “I told you,” Alex replies.
“I know.” Lance swallows. “I was wrong. About everything.”
Alex taps his foot. “India’s waiting.”
“Promise me we can—I mean, I think we should talk.” Lance glances back over his shoulder. “But not here. Not now. This weekend, okay?”
“You said you needed a favor.” Not giving an inch, like he’d promised himself he wouldn’t all summer. If he ever got the chance.
“Please. I can’t trust anyone else.” He reaches into his locker and pulls out a red Adidas gym bag. He drops it on the bench. “I need you to take this for me and keep it safe. I’ll come get it from you tomorrow morning, okay?” Lance glances over his shoulder again. “And if anything happens to me, you need to keep this safe for me.”
“Keep it safe?” Alex looks down at it. It’s Lance’s gym bag, the same one he’s been using since Alex bought it for him as a birthday present when they were freshmen. The straps have been haphazardly sewn back on, and it’s battered, taped in places, dirty. He starts to ask what Lance thinks might happen to him but stops himself.
