Secrets and Lies

“Oh my God, that’s Roy Fitzpatrick!” Carlie whispered. “Do you think he’s the new boyfriend she’s been hinting about?” Before Rachelle could answer, Carlie was dashing through the few vehicles left in the parking lot and Rachelle was beginning to think that her new rebellious streak wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Roy Fitzpatrick? He’d earned a reputation for smooth words, quick hands and fast goodbyes. Rumors of his sexual appetite had filtered through the hallways of Tyler High and there had been gossip of a pregnant girlfriend in Coleville. Lately he’d been dating Melanie Patton, his best friend’s sister.

Rachelle had met Roy only a couple of times—when she’d had to interview him for the school paper. She was probably the only girl in the entire school who didn’t have a crush on him.

Ignoring the apprehension that followed her like a cloud, she wended her way through the parked cars, careful of the vehicles backing up and trying to find a way out of the crowded lot.

The night was muggy, the clouds overhead dark and threatening rain. Over the odors of exhaust and hot engines, a thinner smell, of stale beer and cigarettes, wafted on the breeze that rustled the dry leaves dancing across the asphalt.

The Corvette’s glossy red finish shone under the glow of the security lights. Roy, the crown prince of Fitzpatrick Logging, was seated behind the wheel, his toe tapping restlessly on the throttle, the powerful car’s engine thrumming anxiously.

Scott McDonald, one of his friends, sat in the passenger seat and Erik Patton leaned against the fender of his metallic blue pickup.

“Roy wants to take us for a ride,” Laura said as Rachelle approached. She tossed her a triumphant glance, as if she’d caught a prize all the girls in town were wanting.

“Where?” Rachelle asked, feeling suddenly awkward. Though Roy and his friends were only two years older than she, they seemed so much more mature.

“Remember I told you I knew someone with a cabin on the lake?” Laura reminded her.

The Fitzpatricks did have a home at Whitefire Lake, but, in Rachelle’s estimation, it was hardly a cabin. The house had to be four or five times the size of the small cottage in which she’d grown up. But then Laura had grown up with higher standards. Both her parents worked and she’d never had to go without anything she really wanted.

And now, from the looks of things, Laura wanted Roy Fitzpatrick. As if reading Rachelle’s hesitation, she said, “Come on, Rachelle, why not?” Her eyes were bright and eager as she sneaked a peek at Roy.

Roy tossed them all—Rachelle, Laura and Carlie—his well-practiced all-American smile. His wheat-blond hair was clipped short, his athletic physique visible beneath the thin layer of yellow cotton in his polo shirt. “Yeah, why not, Rachelle?” Roy said, his gaze moving slowly up Rachelle’s body with a bold familiarity that caused her stomach to turn over.

She swallowed hard. Until the past couple of weeks since she’d begun hanging out with Laura, not many boys had noticed her, and certainly not older college boys who practically owned the whole town.

“Yeah, why not?” Carlie chimed in. “We already planned to ditch the dance.”

Laura had told Rachelle that if the dance was boring they’d go out cruising around town, maybe drive over to Coleville as none of the girls were dating anyone special from Gold Creek, then return to her house for a sleepover. But she’d never once mentioned going to the lake with Roy and his friends.

Rachelle hesitated. Everyone was staring at her. “Still the prude?” Roy taunted, and Rachelle’s cheeks flamed. How would Roy know anything about her?

“I told my mom we’d be at the dance—”

“So?” Roy cut in a little irritably. “What your mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Laura shot her a scathing glance. “We already worked out our story, Rachelle.”

Rachelle bit her lip. This was her chance. She’d always been considered a “brain,” a girl who’d rather study or work on the school paper or paint scenery for the drama club than show any interest in boys. But lately, with Laura’s help in the makeup and hair department, boys had been calling and asking her out. She liked the feeling. But she didn’t trust Roy.

“Well, what’s it gonna be?” Roy asked, his smoldering blue eyes touching hers. “A mama’s girl—or ya gonna have some fun? We can’t wait around here all night.”

“That’s right,” Erik agreed, glancing over his shoulder. His vintage truck didn’t compare to Roy’s sleek machine, but the Pattons didn’t have the kind of money that had been passed down from one generation of Fitzpatricks to the next. As long as there had been people in Gold Creek, there had been money in Fitzpatrick hands.

“Come on,” Carlie urged.

“Yeah, let’s go with the guys,” Laura agreed, smiling at the three college boys. She fanned herself with her fingers. “It’s so hot tonight. The lake would be great.”

Roy flashed his rich-boy grin—a slow-spreading smile that had been known to melt the most formidable ice maiden’s resistance.

Laura leaned against the fender of the Corvette, her hands braced against the gleaming hood of the car, her heavy breasts outlined against her sweater. “I know I would love a ride.”

“That’s more like it. I was beginnin’ to think that you girls were afraid,” Roy drawled, his blue eyes flickering devilment at Rachelle. He pushed the throttle with his toe and the Corvette’s engine rumbled eagerly.

“Yeah, come on, we’ll show you a good time,” Scott agreed. Whereas Roy was blond and blue-eyed, the all-American boy, Scott was shorter, more muscular and had thick brown hair and freckles.

Erik, unlike Scott and Roy, didn’t seem as interested in Laura or her friends. “Let’s get outta here,” he grumbled. “There’s no action. Everybody’s takin’ off.”

He was right. The line of cars that had been streaming from the stadium lot had dwindled to a trickle. Even some of the boys from the team, freshly showered, were climbing into vehicles and heading back to the school for the postgame dance, the dance Rachelle had promised her mother she’d attend before spending the night with Laura. But Laura, it seemed, was only interested in Roy Fitzpatrick.

“There’s action here,” Roy replied, sliding a cocksure glance Rachelle’s way. “All the little ladies have to do is say ‘yes.’ We’ll guarantee them the ride of their lives.”

“Now what kind of ride are you talking about?” Laura asked in a sexy voice, and Rachelle nearly choked.

Scott chuckled deep in his throat, and Erik looked embarrassed.

Rachelle was flabbergasted by Laura’s behavior. The girl was asking for trouble, more trouble than Rachelle thought she could handle.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Rachelle said, feeling Roy’s hot gaze on her. She didn’t want to be a wet blanket, but she could smell trouble. A walk on the wild side.

“Loosen up,” Carlie said in a soft whisper. “When do you ever get a chance to go joyriding with Roy Fitzpatrick?”

“Three of us, three of you—we could have a party,” Roy said.

“A private party?” Laura replied, flirting outrageously. Rachelle wanted to drop through the pavement, but she didn’t move. There was no place to go. By now the parking lot was nearly empty. Except for a lone motorcycle rider astride his thrumming machine.

Rachelle’s heart nearly stopped as she recognized Jackson Moore. He parked his bike about twenty yards away and didn’t move. Just sat there…waiting, the Harley’s engine idling loudly, the growl of a metallic beast.

Roy blanched at the sight of him. “Get lost, Moore,” he yelled, but Jackson didn’t flinch.

Rachelle couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“We didn’t finish our discussion the other day,” Jackson said, and his lips curled into a sardonic smile as he rubbed the bruise beneath his eye.

“We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Roy replied testily. “Get out,” he muttered to Scott McDonald, reaching over his friend and flinging the passenger door open. An old Doors song blared into the night.

Jackson didn’t let up. Over the rumble of engines and Jim Morrison’s deep-throated lyrics he yelled, “You and that old man of yours keep insulting my family.”

Roy pretended not to hear. As Scott climbed out of his car, Roy crooked a long finger at Laura. “Let’s go,” he said. He took up the conversation where it had been dropped. “You said you’re lookin’ for a private party, well you found one. Hop in.” His gaze moved quickly up and down Laura’s curves as she climbed into the convertible. Roy’s mouth twitched. “Now that’s what I like—a girl who knows her own mind.”

“We’re not through, Fitzpatrick,” Jackson reminded him.

“That does it. I’m sick of you, Moore. Just butt the hell out of my life!”

“As soon as you stay away from my family.”

“Your family? God, that’s rich. You’re a stinkin’ bastard, Moore. Or didn’t you know? Everyone in Gold Creek but you knows that your mother’s the town slut and that she probably can’t even name the man who’s supposed to be your father!”

Jackson’s expression turned to fury. “You lying—”

Roy tromped on the accelerator. The Corvette lurched forward with a spray of gravel. Tires squealed and Roy wrenched hard on the steering wheel, heading the car straight at Jackson and his bike.

Rachelle screamed.

Laura, in the seat beside Roy, turned to stone.

Jackson gunned the engine of his Harley, but not before the fender of the Corvette caught the back wheel of the bike. The motorcycle shimmied, tires sliding on the loose gravel. Jackson flew off. With a loud thud he landed on the ground and his bike skidded, riderless, across the lot.

Roy laughed, shifted into a higher gear and tore out of the lot. Rachelle started running to Jackson’s inert form. He can’t be hurt, he can’t be, she thought as panic gripped her heart. He lay flat and still on the gravel while the sound of a disappearing engine and the lyrics of “Light My Fire” faded on the wind.

Erik tried to grab her. “Leave him alone,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction and his face was sheet-white. “He’s okay. Only scared a little. That’s all.”

“I hope to God you’re right.” Heart in her throat, Rachelle jerked her arm away and ran to Jackson’s inert form.

With a groan, he rolled over. His jacket was ripped down one arm and his pants, too, were torn. “Bastard!” Jackson groaned. “Damn bloody bastard.” He slowly pulled himself to his feet and though he limped slightly, he headed straight for his bike.

Relief flooded through Rachelle’s veins and she managed a thin smile. “Then you’re okay?”

“Compared to what?” he muttered, righting his bike and frowning as he noticed broken spokes. Lips flattening angrily against his teeth, he winced painfully as he swung one leg over the motorcycle and switched on the ignition.

“But at least you’re all right,” Rachelle said, nearly sagging with relief.

“No thanks to your friend.”

“He’s not my—”

“Sure.” Jackson sucked in his breath, as if pain had drawn the air from his lungs, then shoved hard on the kick start with his boot heel. With a roar and a plume of blue exhaust, the Harley revved.

“You…you might want to see a doctor—”

“A doctor?” he mocked. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go check into Memorial. Have them patch me up.”

“It was only…a…suggestion.”

“Well, I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

Stung, she stepped back a pace. “I was just concerned,” Rachelle said lamely, flustered at his anger. “Look, I’m on your side.”

Dark, impenetrable eyes swung in her direction. His lips curled sardonically, as if he and she shared a private joke. “Let’s get something straight. No one in Gold Creek is on my side. And that includes you.”

“But—”

“You know Fitzpatrick, right?”

“Not really. He’s not my friend and—”

“In case I don’t catch up to him tonight, you can give him a message for me. Tell Roy-boy that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave my family alone. And that goes for his old man. Tell the old coot to quit sniffin’ around Sandra Moore. Got it?”

“But I don’t know—”

“Just do it,” Jackson ordered, his square chin thrust in harsh rebellion as he flicked his wrist and took off in a spray of anger and gravel. She watched him streak out of the lot and onto the street and listened as the bike wound through several gears. Her heart was racing as fast as the motorcycle’s engine, but she attributed the acceleration to the near collision of sports car and cycle and the fact that she’d been talking to the bad boy of Gold Creek. His reputation was as black as the night and anyone in town would tell you that Sandra Moore’s son was just plain bad news.

“Rachelle, come on!” Carlie called. She seemed to have shaken off her own fears that Jackson was injured and was deep in conversation with Scott and Erik.

With realistic fatalism, Rachelle glanced around the deserted parking lot. Aside from Laura’s car, the acre of asphalt was empty. Rachelle sighed and shoved her hair out of her face. She knew she was stuck with Roy’s two best friends. Not a pleasant thought. The wild side suddenly seemed like something she should avoid—unless she was with Jackson. Oh, but that was crazy. Jackson was no better than Roy and he carried a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Whitney. Uncouth, rebellious and just plain nasty—that’s what he was.

Still, she listened to the sound of the cycle, the engine whining in the distance. There was something about that boy that was just plain fascinating. Probably because he was so bad.

Despite the mugginess of the night, she stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her jean jacket and retraced her steps.

“Was he okay?” Carlie asked, looking worriedly past Rachelle’s shoulder to the spot where Jackson had been thrown.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“He’ll get even with Roy somehow,” Erik predicted, and Rachelle thought about Jackson’s cryptic warning. Erik looked nervous. He searched his pockets for his keys.

“Let’s get out of here.” Scott was already opening the door of the pickup and glancing anxiously around the empty lot, as if he expected Jackson Moore to come back and wreak his vengeance on Roy’s friends. “We’d better find Roy.”

“Roy? You want to find Roy after what he did? He nearly killed Jackson! On purpose.” Rachelle wrapped her arms around her torso and felt herself shaking from the inside out.

“He didn’t, did he?”

“No, thank God!”

“You don’t understand,” Scott said a little impatiently. “Moore’s been asking for trouble—begging for it—for weeks. There’s always been bad blood between Jackson and Roy. It goes way back. But it’s over tonight.”

Rachelle wasn’t sure. “Maybe not. Jackson could press charges.”

“His story against Roy’s.”

“But we all saw it. Roy tried to run him down!” Rachelle pointed out.

“If he would’ve tried to run him down, he would’ve,” Scott said. “Moore would be in the hospital now. Instead he and his bike are a little scratched up. No big deal.”

“But it was a big deal!”

Erik, sullen, frowned darkly. “Come on,” he ordered the girls. “Get in.” He must’ve seen Rachelle’s stubborn refusal building in her eyes because he added, “Unless you’d rather ride on the back of Moore’s cycle, but you don’t much look like a biker babe to me. Besides, he already took off.”

Carlie didn’t look convinced, but the night was drawing close around them. “We have to get hold of Laura.”

“We could call—” Rachelle ventured.

“No phones at the summer house,” Scott said.

“I don’t think this is a great idea.”

Scott lifted his hands, palms up to Rachelle. “Look, I’ll admit it. Roy’s a hothead. And when it comes to Moore, well, he just sees red. But that goes two ways. And Roy shouldn’t have scared the hell out of Jackson, but then Jackson shouldn’t have come nosing around, telling Roy what to do.” He offered Rachelle a smile that seemed sincere. “Look, it was a bad scene, but it’s over and everyone’s okay. Now let’s go and try to find Laura. If you want to come back later, I’m sure that Roy or Erik—” he glanced up at his friend for confirmation, and Erik gave a reluctant nod “—will bring you home.”

Carlie shrugged. Obviously her worry for Jackson was long gone. “I say we go.”

Rachelle’s only other option was to walk to the school and call her mother and explain why she was stranded, since Laura had the keys to her car with her and Rachelle’s overnight bag was locked securely inside the trunk. The thought of bothering Ellen Tremont and telling her about being abandoned by Laura in favor of a party at the lake wasn’t appealing. Rachelle would probably end up grounded for life.

“Looks like we don’t have much of a choice, do we?” Carlie asked, echoing Rachelle’s thoughts. “And once we connect with Laura, we’ll have these guys drive us back to the dance and no one will be the wiser.” Carlie was already climbing into the cab of Erik’s pickup. Her black hair gleamed, and she even managed a grin. “Let’s not let this spoil our fun.”

She had a point, Rachelle supposed, but it still didn’t feel right. She slid into the truck from the driver’s side and Erik followed her. Carlie perched on Scott’s knees, bumping her head, trying to avoid more intimate contact.

Erik started the pickup and Carlie was thrown against Scott’s chest. He was quick. His arms surrounded her and her backside was pressed firmly to his lap. Carlie giggled as Erik rolled out of the lot and turned east.

“Why is there bad blood between Roy and Jackson?” Rachelle asked, and Erik shot her an unreadable glance. She wasn’t about to be put off. “Well?”

“Yeah, why does Roy hate Jackson?” Carlie asked, but Scott was tracing the slope of her jaw with one finger.

“Jackson’s a nobody.”

“But Roy almost ran him over!” Rachelle protested, her back stiffening. She’d always taken the side of the underdog and though Jackson had started the altercation with Roy, she felt that somehow he’d been wronged. “You don’t run over a ‘nobody’ without a reason.”

Erik pressed in the lighter and fumbled in his pocket. He withdrew a crumpled pack of Marlboro cigarettes and lit up. “Let’s just forget it. Okay?”

Scott reached behind the seat to find a couple of bottles of beer. He opened them both by hooking the caps under the lip of the dash and yanking hard. Foam slid down the bottles and onto the floor. He tried to hand the first bottle to Rachelle.

“I don’t think so,” she said dryly.

“Your mistake.” Erik grabbed the bottle and began drinking as he took the smaller streets to avoid the center of town.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink while you’re driving,” Carlie said, but Erik just laughed.

“Boy, are you out of it.”

Rachelle’s stomach twisted into a hard ball. This was all wrong. She’d made a big mistake in getting into this truck and now, as they headed out of town, she didn’t know how to get out without completely abandoning Laura.

She abandoned you, didn’t she? Took off with Roy and left you with these two creeps.

She stared into the rearview mirror, half expecting to see a single white light from Jackson Moore’s motorcycle drawing up behind the truck. If the rumors surrounding Jackson’s temper were true, Roy and his friends would have to answer to him sooner or later, which was probably why sweat had collected on Erik’s upper lip. He took a long drag on his smoke, the tip of his cigarette glowing brightly.

“Forget about Moore,” Erik advised, as if reading her mind. “He’s nothin’ but trouble.”

* * *

WITH THE TASTE OF HIS OWN blood in his mouth, Jackson seethed. He slowed the Harley down and turned into the trailer park where his mother still lived. He’d moved back for a couple of months, but already this town was getting to him—Gold Creek was like a noose that tightened, inch by inch, around his neck. And he knew who held the end of the rope—who was doing the tightening. Roy Fitzpatrick.

He thought of Roy and his blood boiled again. Ignore him, one part of his mind said, but the other, more savage and primal male part of him said, teach him a lesson he’ll never forget!

The pain in his shoulder had lessened to a dull ache and he knew his knee would bother him come morning. He’d been thrown hard from the bike, and his body would hurt like crazy tomorrow. He wanted Roy to feel a little of his pain. Roy was a stupid, spoiled brat and had been the bane of Jackson’s existence for as long as he could remember. Roy hated him. Always had. Pure and simple, and though it sounded crazy, Jackson suspected that Roy was jealous of him. But why?

Roy had grown up in the lap of luxury, having anything he wanted, doing whatever he pleased. Jackson, on the other hand, had been dirt-poor, had never known his father and had spent most of his life helping support his mother. So why the jealousy?

It didn’t matter. Jackson usually avoided Roy.

But tonight he’d had it. His mother had let the cat out of the bag. Her sister’s girl, his cousin Amanda, in Coleville, had turned up pregnant last year while Jackson was still in the Philippines under the employ of the U.S. Navy. Rumor had it, the kid belonged to Roy. Amanda had dropped out of school, had the baby and given it up for adoption. Now she was regretting her decision and was involved in a messy court battle that was costly and gut wrenching for everyone involved.

Wincing, Jackson rubbed his shoulder.

Roy, of course, had denied his paternity and somehow, probably by Thomas greasing the right palms, Roy had come out of the sordid situation with hardly a scratch. But Amanda and the baby, and the couple who had adopted the boy, were paying and would be for the rest of their lives.

Roy deserved a beating, and Jackson intended to thrash him within an inch of his silver-spooned life. He cut the engine of the bike at his mother’s door and stared at the black windows of the trailer. His shoulder was bruised from his embrace with the gravel, his leg hurt like a son of a gun, and the Harley’s fender was bent and twisted. Other than that, the only thing wounded was his pride. And it was wounded big-time. Who the hell did Roy think he was?

Jackson knew the answer: Prince of Gold Creek. Keeper of the keys to the city. All-mighty jerk.

It was time Roy Fitzpatrick learned a lesson. And Jackson intended on being Roy’s teacher. Roy and his father, Thomas, worked on a premise of fear and awe. And most of the comatose citizens of Gold Creek were either scared stiff of the old man or thought they should bow when he entered a room. It made Jackson sick.

Thomas Fitzpatrick believed that he could buy anything he wanted, including judges, doctors and sheriffs. Yeah, the old man was a piece of work and, in Roy’s case, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. That went for the rest of the Fitzpatrick offspring, as well. The second son, Brian, was a snot-nosed wimp, and the daughter, Toni, though quite a bit younger, was already on the red-carpeted path to being a spoiled princess.

Sandra Moore’s single-wide trailer showed no signs of life—no light in the window, no sound of radio or television. She was out again and she didn’t confide in him where she went—just “out.” Jackson supposed she was with a man and he only hoped that whoever the guy was, he’d treat her right. She’d never quite made the trip to the altar, though she’d come close a couple of times. But the love of her life had been his father, a sailor she’d met and planned to marry, but who had died before the wedding ceremony. Matt Belmont. She still carried his faded and well-worn picture in her wallet.

Jackson glanced up at the sky. The moon was nearly hidden by slow-moving clouds. The air was oppressive and hot. His cheek throbbed, his shoulder ached, and somewhere up by the lake Roy Fitzpatrick was having the time of his life with yet another girl. He supposed he shouldn’t care, but the thought made his blood boil.

Tonight Roy was with the blonde—the Chandler girl, a flashy, big-breasted cheerleader who was just Roy’s type, but soon Roy would get restless and bored and he’d move on. But to whom? Some college coed at Sonoma State where he went to school, or another small-town girl who thought the world began and ended with Gold Creek and the Fitzpatrick money? Maybe Roy would take a shine to one of the others who had been in his group. Perhaps the girl with the long red-brown hair, the one who had seemed genuinely concerned when Roy had tried to clip him.