Roosevelt.

One.

Chapter One: Actions and Their Consequences.

Roosevelt.

"What the hell were you thinking, Ross?" growls my father, right in front of my face, now that the police officer has given us some privacy.

I hear my mother's rehearsed sobs to my left, and I know I'm in deep s**t.

"I was drunk, didn't know what I was doing," I reply with a half-truth.

I had been drinking, yes. But I was sober enough to know that if I kept going, I could screw it all up.

And I wasn't wrong.

"The boy could have died. We'll have to pay a lot of money to silence that boy's family," my father finally steps away from my face, and I breathe normally again.

"Don't pay a damn thing then. Leave me here, I'll manage in juvie," I provoke him, because that's the best I know how to do.

Some people have talent for painting. Others for singing.

My talent is bringing out the worst in people.

A hard blow hits my cheek, making me wobble in my seat a bit, cutting off the flow of my thoughts.

The stinging quickly spreads across my face, and undoubtedly, there must be a huge red mark on my skin by now. For a moment, I think Joseph Donovan has reached his breaking point to hit me for the first time. But I'm totally wrong.

"Don't you speak to your father like that," my mother scolds me, her hand still raised, ready to strike my other cheek if I contradict her.

I sigh and blink rapidly, preventing the tears of anger from falling down my cheeks. I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

"Why go through this damn theater if, in the end, you'll silence the damn family and get me out of here without a stain on my record?" I ask wearily, noticing a vein twitching on my father's forehead.

I fantasize about the day he finally snaps and dies.

"Mr. Donovan," the lawyer interrupts before my father delivers another empty reprimand.

I wiggle my hands a bit, hoping the cop returns quickly and can release my wrists from the annoying handcuffs.

"Yes, Warren?" Joseph massages his temples, seeking relief from what is probably a stress-induced headache.

Stress caused by me.

And there isn't a single trace of guilt inside me.

"I don't think we can use the community service excuse in this case," explains Warren Adkins, the family lawyer since as long as I can remember. He runs a cloth handkerchief over his thick mustache before continuing. "We're talking about personal injuries, drug use, driving under the influence of said drugs, and it's likely illegal possession of weapons will be alleged."

That last part surprises me.

"Illegal possession of weapons? I don't have any with me," I state, drawing the attention of three pairs of eyes.

"They found a revolver in your car, Roosevelt. And you don't have a license to carry this, so it's a crime added to the list," Warren says softly, as if dealing with a child.

I'm far from being one.

I sigh, remembering how I agreed to stash Ty's new revolver just before leaving the party. I'm sure none of us thought the cops would find it.

"What were you doing with a revolver in your car, Ross?" my mother asks through clenched teeth.

Disappointment and anger shine in her eyes, and for a moment, I wonder if she really cares about me or only about Deputy Donovan's reputation and all the monetary benefits it brings.

"It's not mine. But since I can't prove it doesn't belong to me, it doesn't matter," I squirm in the uncomfortable chair, as the sheriff re-enters the small and excessively hot office.

Sweat trickles down my neck, and I'm completely sure the back of my shirt is soaked. Fortunately, I won't be here much longer.

"So, what's the decision regarding the family jewel?" Gaston Irvine, the county sheriff, taunts my father, knowing very well that everything will be resolved with a hefty bribe.

They accuse me of being a criminal when they themselves wipe their asses with the money of those willing to pay a considerable sum to avoid penalties.

Oh, the irony.

"We'll make a deal with the boy's parents," the lawyer speaks up, taking the lead since he's the one who will handle the whole affair. "We need to put out the fires quickly. We're still in time to prevent the news from reaching the media."

"Yes, it wouldn't be good if voters found out how great of a father our dear Deputy is," I intervene, almost expecting another slap from my mother, but she would be incapable of hitting me in front of a stranger.

At home, it's a very different story.

"Roosevelt, behave," my father reprimands me, then refocuses his attention on the lawyer. "My son will have to leave for a while. Until things calm down. Probably send him out of Mayton for the remainder of the summer."

"Mr. Donovan, with all due respect," the policeman inquires, scratching his chin, "his disappearance alone will only raise suspicions."

"Mr. Irvine is right about that. That's why I have a suggestion that could be very beneficial," there's a strange glint in Warren's eyes that makes me shrink in my seat.

I know, before the words leave the lawyer's lips, that I'm not going to like his proposal at all.

"And what's that?" my mother asks, giving my shoulder a slight warning squeeze.

The games are over, that gesture says.

For others, it could be just a comforting caress.

But for me, it's a sign that hell is about to unleash upon me.

"A spiritual retreat at St. Matthew's church. The parish leader is my niece's father-in-law, so I can arrange some kind of agreement with him to take Ross in," Warren replies, causing me to jump out of my seat.

"No f*****g way! I'm not spending the rest of the summer surrounded by prudes and stuffy old men!" I complain, arguing for something I won't have.

I know, because my refusal has made determination shine in my father's eyes.

"You'll go," he orders, looking at me disdainfully, then shifts his gaze to Warren. "Arrange whatever you need for him to leave. I'll handle talking to the family of the affected boy. We'll resolve this mess today."

His sentence feels like thousands of razor blades cutting my skin, and I want to refuse a little more. It's my life we're talking about.

However, I have no voice or vote on it.

At least, not until I turn eighteen.

Just ninety more days, I remind myself, as the handcuffs are removed from my wrists, after agreeing to the final details of my release from the police station. Ninety more days, and I'll be free.

But I had no idea that my plans for freedom were about to undergo a major change.

A damn big one.