Page 6 of Counting Quarters

Chapter Three

Kyle — Past

Raynerwasramblingagain. It seemed like that was all he did anymore. His hatred for the Quarters fueled his passion for a new political system in Beacon Grove. "The Movement," he called it, as if it were the most clever thing he'd ever thought of. It had consumed his entire personality, making him even less bearable to be around than he was before.

If it weren't for his childhood friendship with Mason Graves, we wouldn't have kept him around. But no one else could tolerate the little weirdo, and my best friends, Mason and Bonnie, had a soft spot for him.

“I'm telling you, Mase, it's going to turn these assholes’ worlds upside down…” he went on. I drowned him out again, slipping the headphones to my CD player back over my ears.

He was dreaming.

I get it; the Quarters were terrible. The last generation butchered his dad right before his eyes when he was younger and took his brother away to finish the job in private. But Watchtower and Beacon Grove were built on the foundation of having the four blessed families protecting it. It was what the gods intended—why they gave them their gifts.

No matter how powerful Rayner's hatred was, he could never muster enough magic to take them down. It was hopeless. I'm not sure why Mason still let him talk about it anymore.

He and Bonnie would occasionally give their input on things, suggesting he do this instead of that, or agreeing that it would be nice to have some freedom from the four jackasses that we were set to take over when they came of age.

Even my girlfriend and Mason's sister, Asher, would go along sometimes.

I refused to entertain it. That would be like feeding a stray cat—he'd always come back expecting more. Until suddenly, I was on the wrong side of some sort of anarchy.

I flung the headphones off my head and dropped the CD player onto the basement tile beside me.

“I'm bored,” I groaned, interrupting one of Ray's tangents.

He looked over at me and rolled his eyes when Bonnie and Mason shyly nodded their agreements. Asher mouthed, “thank you,” from her spot on the chair across from me.

“What do you want to do?” Mason asked.

Rayner loudly scoffed just as I opened my mouth to answer. I turned my body toward him, smiling when he shrunk back into the couch beside Bonnie.

“Problem?” I asked, flashing my teeth.

“Just because you're satisfied with life so long as you get to hang out in a house with running water and mooch off your friends doesn't mean you can interrupt us whenever you please.”

“What did you just say to me?”

I moved to stand, but Mason reached over from the armchair beside me and placed his hand firmly on my shoulder.

“Chill out, Ray,” he warned. But the little shit grew braver, with Mason holding me back.

“I'm serious. We have the resources to enact real change here. If you're bored, go count your mom's food stamps or something.”

Mason wasn't quick enough to stop me from lunging for him this time, and I'd just barely got one punch in before he slithered away and ran up the stairs. Asher and Bonnie shrieked behind me as I went to chase him, but Mason had recovered quickly and was already waiting at the stairs to push me back by my chest.

“I'll catch up to you when you don't have anyone to hide behind, Whittle,” I called up the stairs, then pushed Mason's hands off of me. “I'm cool. Why do we let that little shit around, anyway?”

Present

“It happened again,” Stewart mumbled from behind our town's newspaper, The Beacon, as I rounded his desk to get to my office. When I didn't bother to offer him a response, he continued.

“We aren't going to be able to keep them from reporting it much longer. I've already gotten multiple messages from Mark threatening to blow the whole thing open.”

I fell into the chair that was older than I was and rolled my shoulders back in an attempt to release the tension burning through my muscles, trying to refrain from stabbing a pencil into Stewart's liver-spotted hand. I hadn't caught a break since the Movement was disbanded, and he did nothing but pile on. I was tired of holding up the weight of this station while he bitched and moaned in the corner over not ever being elected sheriff in his thirty-year career.

“What are we going to do?” he urged, a little too desperately.

Maybe if he ever got his ass away from his desk and actually helped the community, they'd be able to stand him. I could swear his beer belly was wearing an indent into the wood. He considered me as if I were a threat, but I had my suspicions about him, too.

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