Page 128 of The Score

“…on impact.”

My head snaps up. It’s like Garrett’s words are spitballs that he’s firing at the wall, and the last two finally stick.

“What?” I ask stupidly.

His gray eyes are lined with sadness. “I said he died on impact. He didn’t suffer.”

I blink. Repeatedly. “Can you tell it to me again? What happened, I mean.”

He curses. “Goddamn it, why?”

Because I didn’t hear a word you said!I almost roar. I take a breath and say, “Because I need to hear it again.”

Garrett nods, albeit reluctantly. “Okay.”

I stagger to the counter and open the top cupboard. Good. There’s a bottle of Jack in it. I twist off the cap and take a deep swig, then join my roommates at the table. I sit next to Tuck, and the Jack Daniel’s gets passed around as Garrett starts talking again.

It’s not a very long story.

But it’s a gut-wrenching one.

Beau flew to Wisconsin this weekend for hisgrandmother’s birthday. I already knew this—he called me before he left. We made plans to grab beers on Tuesday night.

Last night, the Maxwells celebrated Grandma’s ninetieth at a restaurant in her small town. The roads were icy. They took two cars—Beau was with his dad. His dad was driving.

Joanna told Coach Deluca that dinner was a ton of fun.

On the drive back, Beau’s father swerved to avoid hitting a deer that darted out in front of their car.

The car hit a patch of black ice. It flew off the road, flipping over twice.

Then it slammed into a tree.

Beau’s neck snapped on impact.

His father didn’t have a scratch on ’im.

I swallow another mouthful of whiskey. It burns my throat and sets my insides on fire. My eyes are on fire too. They’re hot and stinging, and when Garrett finishes speaking, I scrape my chair back and pick up the bottle.

“Going upstairs,” I mumble.

“Dean—” It’s Tucker, his voice rippling with sorrow.

Tuck barely knew Beau. Neither did Garrett, aside from chilling with him at parties. Logan was close to him, I guess. I know he went over to Beau’s place to hang out. But me…I was one of Maxwell’s best friends. He was one ofmine.

Somehow, I make it up the stairs without falling over. My hand shakes so badly I nearly drop the whiskey bottle half a dozen times before I stumble into my room. I collapse on the bed and tip the bottle, pouring a stream of amber liquid into mymouth. It splashes my neck and soaks into the collar of my shirt. I don’t care. I just drink more.

So I guess Beau’s dead.

He was twenty-three.

I drink more. And some more. And then some more, until my vision is nothing but a fuzzy gray haze.

I’m wasted now. No, I’m beyond wasted. My brain don’t work so good anymore. Hands? Working? Fuggedaboutit. I try to set the bottle on the nightstand and it crashes to the floor. For some reason, that makes me laugh.

I think time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s standing fucking still because Beau Maxwell’s neck snapped like a twig and now he’s dead. Dead. Dunzo. Dun-zo.

“Dean…?”

---