Page 1 of Landon & Shay: Part One

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Landon

I never meantto be a monster, but sometimes I wondered if certain people were born that way, born with a darkness that oozed into their bloodstreams and infected their souls.

My name was living proof that I should’ve been a better person.

I came from a line of extraordinary men. My mother named me after my uncle, Lance, and my grandfather, Don—two of the greatest men who ever lived. The name Don stood for noble, and Lance meant servant. They lived up to those names, too. They both fought in wars. They sacrificed their lives and their minds for others. They gave fully with arms wide open and allowed people to take and take from their good nature until there was nothing left.

Their names combined should’ve made me a noble servant to the world, but I was far from it. If you asked most of my classmates what my name stood for, they’d probably say asshole. Rightfully so, too.

I was nothing like my grandfather or uncle. I was an embarrassment to their memories.

I didn’t know why so much darkness sat heavily in my chest. I didn’t know why I was so angry. I just knew that I was.

I was an ass, even when I didn’t want to be. The only people who put up with my jerky ways were my core group of friends and Monica, the girl I was trying so hard to shake from my life.

There wasn’t anything noble or servant-like about me. I looked out for myself and the very few people who had enough nerve to still call me their friend.

I hated that about me. I hated that I wasn’t a good person. I wasn’t even decent. I did a lot of ugly things that probably had both Lance and Grandpa rolling over in their graves.

And why was I this way?

I wished I knew.

My mind was a puzzle, and I hardly knew how the pieces linked up.

I headed to the cafeteria after a pointless morning of pointless classes and grabbed my lunch tray. Senior year, one semester down and one to go before I could rid myself of small town Raine, Illinois.

As I walked toward my table, I grimaced when I saw Monica sitting there. For a second, I considered hanging back until Greyson, Hank, or Eric showed up, but she’d already spotted me and waved me over.

“Landon! Get me a milk—low fat,” she commanded, her voice sounding so high-pitched. I hated that sound. She sounded like a banshee, and I swore I’d had nightmares of that girl screaming my name.

I hadn’t remembered her voice irking me so much in the past. Then again, for our past interactions, I had always been drunk or stoned. We’d known each other for a long time. Monica and I were neighbors and two kids with kind of messed-up lives. I had my demons, and Monica had her own set of issues.

When our problems got too heavy, we used sex with each other to shut off our brains. There was nothing romantic about the hookups. Honestly, we didn’t even like each other that much, which was why it worked for me. I wasn’t interested in a girlfriend or anything emotional. I just needed to get laid every now and then to shut up my overthinking mind.

It worked for a while until I decided to go cold turkey on the alcohol and drug front.

Ever since I stopped using, Monica had so much crap to say about the matter. “I liked you more when you were high,” she’d stated the last time we banged.

To which I had replied, “I liked you better with your mouth around my cock.”

That wasn’t even true. I didn’t even enjoy sex with Monica. It simply passed the time. She had sex like the girls in pornos, and in theory, that should’ve been amazing. But in reality, it meant too much slobber, too many hit-and-miss strokes, and every so often, I ended up having to find my own way to a happy ending.

Monica slapped me the night I told her that, and part of me kind of liked the sting. My skin flushed and bubbled up from the sensation. It was a reminder that I was still alive, still able to feel, even though for the most part, I felt like dry ice—frozen solid and painful to whoever tried to hold on to me for too long.

Monica told me she wouldn’t screw me again until I was high.

Therefore, whatever disaster we were was officially over—for me, at least.

She hadn’t gotten the memo. I’d been trying to shake her from my existence for the past few weeks, but like the dedicated cockroach she was, she kept reappearing in my life, popping up at the worst times.

“Are you high yet? Did you relapse? Want to take a shot off my tits?”

The last thing I wanted to deal with that week was Monica, but I knew if I didn’t sit by her, she’d only grow louder.

I plopped my tray down on the table and nodded once toward her.

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