Poughkeepsie Begins (The Poughkeepsie Brotherhood #0.5) Read Free Page B

know it then, but he knew it now. She’d been struggling to parent him around her illness. He’d applied the technique he was using on Candy to his foster mom the night he left.
    The night they took him. She’d been in her room again, shades pulled tight. She’d been crying, and that tore at his heart.
    The social worker who stood in the doorway that night had been a kind one. He’d had a million. Beckett had become a great listener, picking up on cues. He knew from his foster mom’s whispered phone calls that she had cancer. He’d pressed on her hand and hoped it could fix her. He’d cried when he was taken to the car to leave.
    It was the last time he’d cried over leaving a home. When he was transferred to yet another foster home when he was ten—this time for fighting in school—he’d requested his favorite foster mom again, hoping she was better. That social worker had told him unceremoniously that she was dead.
    Back in the present, he saw Candy’s eyes soften, as if she could see his memories. He let go of her hand and sat back. She took over and nodded. “This does help.”
    “Yeah. Until the meds kick in. It should.” He tapped her pencil on the desk.
    Mrs. Drivens stood when the assistant principal poked his head in the classroom.
    One of the dumbass Westlake kids from the locker room last week came sauntering up under the guise that he was going to sharpen his pencil. It already had a perfect point.
    He paused near Beckett and Candy. This wasn’t the guy Beckett had visited over the weekend, but maybe he should have been. Asshole. Beckett tried to find the fucker’s name in his brain’s back corners and fought a losing battle. He didn’t have long to wait.
    “Hi, Candy. I’m Zyler.”
    Fucking Zyler. Beckett rolled his eyes.
    “I see you fell in with a bad crowd already. It’s my civic duty to tell you this scumbag is a drug dealer. And a delinquent. And an asshole.”
    Normally the guy would be choking on Beckett’s fist by now. But he was trying to keep things quiet for Candy’s headache, so he just covered his mouth and shook his head.
    Candy looked from him to Zyler and back again. “Nice to meet you.”
    Zyler seemed to have every intention of settling into the seat in front of Candy when Mrs. Drivens’ voice rang out. “Zyler, you better have a broken pencil.”
    Beckett watched as the boy pressed on the tip until it broke before showing it to the teacher.
    “Of course, ma’am.” Zyler patted Candy’s desk twice before heading up to the sharpener.
    Beckett looked down at his fingers. He was used to being judged. Sometimes he deserved it. But not from that schmuck.
    Candy tapped her pencil on his desk. “Thanks.”
    He looked at her. Her eyes were captivating—one green, one blue, he noticed now that he was looking close. Her dark lashes were crazy long—like, princess long. He inhaled. She smelled like peaches, for fuck’s sake.
    Beckett knew these girls; they were everywhere. But like expensive bullshit behind the glass windows at the downtown shops, she was only meant to be looked at. One of the football meatheads would get her under his arm soon enough, and she might even let him get to second base. He’d of course go out and screw a slut while his balls were blue, but he would treat her reverently. She was somebody’s future wife, and probably a woman with her own plans too. She was just waiting on age to catch up to her.
    “No need to thank me. You’re going to do all the work.” He raised his eyebrows at the worksheet.
    “No, thanks for the tip about my headache. Useful.” She put the eraser on the end of the pencil to her mouth. Her damn lips were so full.
    “Here to help.” Beckett crossed his arms in front of him and watched the pencil spell out answers that appeared to be thoughtful and well-versed in the subject matter. It was soothing, the way she wrote: fancy print, slightly slanted. Before he knew it, he felt a hand on his cheek. He snatched her wrist