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  Friction

  Jamie Magee

  Copyright © 2013 Jamie Magee

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by Emma Michaels

  Edited Todd Barselow

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book. This purchase allows you one legal copy for your own personal reading enjoyment on your personal computer or device. You do not have the right to resell, distribute, print or transfer this book, in whole or in part, to anyone, in any format, via methods either currently known or yet to be invented, or upload this book to a file sharing program. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Where To Find Jamie Online:

  http://www.authorjamiemagee.com

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  Other Books by Jamie Magee

  EDGE (Paranormal Serial)

  “Web of Hearts and Souls”

  Insight (Book 1)

  Embody (Book 2)

  Image (Book 3)

  Vital (Book 4)

  Vindicate (Book 5)

  Enflame (Book 6)

  Imperial (Book 7)

  Blakeshire (Book 8)

  Emanate (Book 9)

  Exaltation (Book 10)

  See (Book 1)

  Witness (Book 2)

  Synergy (Book 3)

  Redefined (Book 4)

  Derive (Book 5)

  Rivulet (Book 1)

  Impulsion – Contemporary New Adult Love Story

  For those who have felt the pain of a loss and the breath of a new beginning...

  “Some fires aren’t meant to extinguish….”

  Chapter One

  Death Wish. Insanity. Widow Maker. And now…Hell Raiser. Easton Ballantine’s best friend, Wyatt Doran, had a knack for drawing the worst of the worst rides when it came to this rodeo circuit—each promised the punishment his boy was begging for.

  Easton tossed a wayward, ‘you’ve lost your damn mind’ glance at Wyatt as he stood by the bucking chute, watching Hell Raiser thrash wildly.

  Easton and Wyatt had been on the road less than a year, but Easton had lost count of the number of cities and out of the way towns the pair of them, along with Wyatt’s uncle and cousin, had pulled up to.

  He’d most definitely lost count of the number of Death Wishes Wyatt had strapped himself on. Just a week ago he dislocated his shoulder and bruised four ribs. Easton only convinced him to miss one ride—and only because he had successfully distracted him with an extremely willing girl and more than enough beer. Now here they were again, both glaring down Hell Raiser, a bronc who had been ridden by the best…one who conquered every rider who dared to mount him.

  This gig right here, moving from city to city, living in a state-of-the-art camper, was a dream come true to any country boy raised the way they had been—in a small town. No matter where they were, they found the party—and lived like there was no tomorrow.

  As far as Wyatt was concerned, there wasn’t one. His life was over—at least until he figured out how to get his first love back. Easton was in agreement, not because he lost some girl (he’d be damned if he ever let one of those rock his boat), but because, unfortunately, he learned at a young age the good die young so you might as well live it up while you can.

  Every day was different, a new face, a new place to cut loose, a new dare.

  All they had to do to make good money and live out this wild ride was to keep their grades in check. Online school, school where they only had to show up on campus now and again in order to put the degrees their mommas wanted them to have under their belt.

  Easy enough. Work hard. Play harder.

  Wyatt’s parents and Easton’s mother offered this gig to the boys just a few days shy of when they were set to graduate high school. It was their way of letting them run wild and keeping a distant, watchful eye on them at the same time.

  Easton only planned to do this deal for a hot second, long enough for Wyatt to get all his mixed aggression and rebellion out of his system. Long enough for Easton to settle his own wandering spirit, make sure what he thought he wanted was his choice and not him following the footprints of a ghost from the past.

  Easton knew he and Wyatt couldn’t keep this up much longer. If they did, the road would consume them. They would forever hide from who they really were, and all those in their small town who fought to keep them right—walking a legit line—would’ve failed, miserably.

  Easton’s father was a fireman; he’d died in the line of duty saving lives. Easton was only seven when his childhood ended—when he figured out death was final.

  You’d think his father’s past would cause Easton to fear fire, hate it. But he didn’t.

  In all honesty…it seduced him.

  He felt the call his father said all those who serve feel…but Easton didn’t care to answer it. Not yet, at least.

  Following Wyatt through his downward spiral was a fine excuse to ignore it as far as he was concerned.

  Even though…

  He knew one day both of them would answer the fire, dare to fight it as they’d always dreamed of doing.

  Wyatt and Easton had been side by side from birth, both of them trying to keep up with their older friend, Memphis Armstrong. Memphis only had a year on them but still, Memphis got to do things first, and his father, Lucas, was a saint in most boys’ eyes.

  Lucas was a famed racecar driver, a man’s man. The kind of man who could look right through you and had no qualms calling you out on any bullshit you tried to pull. Yet, just the same, he knew when to let you run and fall on your ass, make a fool of yourself.

  It was Lucas Armstrong who had kept Easton balanced. Kept him focused. It worked for Easton because Lucas didn’t try to be anyone but Lucas. He’d never say, ‘I promised your daddy I’d keep you right, boy,’ the way Beckett, Wyatt’s father did. Beckett meant no harm with his phrase but it always reminded Easton he was fatherless. Lucas just looked Easton in the eye, told him what was what, and kept him busy.

  Busy the only way Lucas knew how to be busy; building something.

  In most cases it was a motor. A motor to a car, truck, boat, lawn mower, something.

  “If you build it, you own it, son,” Lucas would say. “You gotta build from the ground up so you know how to fix it when it falls apart.”

  He’d always say such things to Memphis and Easton when they were staring down a pile of scrap.

  Easton made the mistake of looking at him like he was a mad man and saying, “You think you’re gonna make something from this rubble? That I am?” Easton was only ten or so when the conversation happened.

  Lucas leaned forward, his dark eyes knowingly peering into Easton’s. “The best things are built from what others left behind. When something is broken down you see what it really is, see what it can be. That matters. Foundation matters. You have to have roots.”

  Roots were a thing both Wyatt and Memphis’s fathers tended to talk about often. But yet again, Lucas resonated more with Easton when he spoke of them, simply because Lucas never seemed to make those roots into chains. He knew everyone had to run at some point, just as he knew everyone needed a place to land when the race was over as well.
r />   Just before Wyatt and Easton pulled out on this adventure Lucas pulled Easton aside to offer more of the same sage advice he’d always given.

  The proud glint Lucas had when he looked at Easton was something Easton felt. It made him want to be a better man, be the kind of man Lucas was.

  “You listen here, son, when you hit the road, you’re gonna see some crazy shit—it’ll blow your mind—people you come across will stretch your morals. That’s all fine and good, just as long as you keep your wits about you.” He playfully sneered. “You can run all you want, boy, but this town has your roots. This town is holding your legacy. Go out on the road, get it out of your system, then head on home, chase the fire I see in your eyes. Protect the town that made you who you are.”

  Easton only stared back. In his mind he was seeing his own father, wondering if he would say the same.

  “He would,” Lucas said, as if he’d read Easton’s pale green eyes. “He’d be proud of any path you took. Keep Wyatt safe. I’ll catch up with you on the road in a few months, right when you’re starting to think you’re getting over the constant party.” Lucas let out his carefree laugh, patted Easton on his shoulder then walked away.

  Easton moved to load his bags but turned when he heard Lucas call his name. When he looked back Lucas was a few feet away. “No matter how broken the road is, they all lead you to where you’re meant to be.” He glanced over Easton once more. “When you feel your heart stop, then thunder to life, when a burn spreads through you and you know life will never be the same again, know that road has your name on it. Trust yourself.” He laughed. “Never believe your own bullshit.”

  Easton shook head, chuckled, then threw his bag in the truck and waved to Lucas, the man who had always let him be himself.

  Right now Easton just wanted to get Wyatt through this ride and get on the road. Memphis and Lucas were at a race only two hours away; they were set to spend the week with the pair of them.

  Memphis didn’t travel with his dad as much anymore. He was already on the fire department. Needless to say all of them had been looking forward to this meet up.

  Easton gave Wyatt a once over. “You good?”

  Wyatt’s intense blue eyes were locked on Hell Raiser’s.

  Duke, Wyatt’s uncle, had been preaching to him for the last few hours on how to handle the mount. But someone pulled him away a few minutes ago. Now Easton was left to make sure Wyatt was in the zone for the ride.

  “Eight seconds of hell. I’m in paradise,” Wyatt said as he rolled his broad shoulders.

  Wyatt climbed the chute and all the boys around him started to help him settle as Hell Raiser thrashed.

  The crowd was insane, all yelling Wyatt’s name. The announcer was telling them to pray for this cowboy.

  Easton glanced back, looking for Duke. He was always right at Wyatt’s ear until the gate opened; his not being there right then was making Easton feel off-centered. He’d felt off all day, like some impending doom was breathing down his neck. He couldn’t pinpoint why. In his mind, the second Wyatt was done with this ride the feeling would fade.

  By the time Easton spotted Duke, the gate opened and the crowd went wild. Easton watched with pride as his boy rode Hell Raiser like a boss, now sure his drowning feeling of dread had been all for naught.

  “You’re slacking today, Duke,” Easton said as the buzzer sounded. “Hell, maybe not cussing him helps his ride,” Easton quipped with a wry grin.

  When no fast joke or cuss came back at him, Easton glanced to his side at Duke. By all means Duke was a carefree kinda guy, another version of Wyatt’s dad, Beckett, which is why the hollow look in his eyes, the lack of expression on his face sent a plunging feeling through Easton. He’d seen Beckett carry the same expression when he was only seven…

  Duke held out his son’s truck keys, the only one which wasn’t currently hooked up to a rig or camper.

  Easton took them as he held the question in his eyes.

  Duke put his hand on his Easton’s shoulder. “Easton…we lost Lucas.”

  “What do you mean?” Easton asked as a sick feeling came over him. He was seven again, staring at Beckett after he woke him and Wyatt in the middle of the night to break the darkest news any boy could hear.

  Duke clenched his jaw, did his best to hide the emotion rushing through him. “It was an accident, on the track. Fifteen minutes ago, the fire is still burning, but…they said there’s no way. You need to get there.”

  “Who said? Who said there was no way—you talked to Memphis?”

  “It’s on the news, son. I tried calling him, he’s not answering.”

  “He’s there.”

  “Which is why you need to be.”

  Wyatt was still making his way back to the chute, he wasn’t even waving to the crowd. He’d seen the look on Easton’s face. It was a look he recognized. Easton had only shown pain in his life once before, and it looked exactly the same as it did now.

  Wyatt picked up his stride, staring down Easton’s stoic build, which was well over six foot. His broad shoulders were deflated, yet every muscle in his lean body was flexed.

  Easton looked right at Wyatt as he started to climb the gate and rasped the word, “Lucas.”

  Wyatt flew over the gate, and the pair of them ran from the arena. Easton was in the driver’s seat before Wyatt could shed his chaps.

  As soon as Wyatt got the story, as carefully as possible, he asked Easton to pull over so he could drive. They were going over ninety, and Easton looked like he was about to kill someone. He refused, and kept his speed.

  When they reached the track just over an hour and a half later, you could still smell the smoke, still feel the ache in the air, the emotions of all those who watched the travesty.

  They found Memphis on the phone next to Lucas’s trailer. His voice was down, and he was calm. Easton assumed it was shock until he understood Memphis was talking to his kid sister, someone Easton had not seen since he was a boy.

  As soon as the call ended the emotion surfaced in Memphis’s dark eyes. He looked right at Easton. “You all right, man?”

  Easton wasn’t all right. He was furious, downright livid. Life could not be this fucking cruel, this cold. He’d lost his father, and now the man who helped play his role all before the age of twenty. Fuck. This.

  Easton pulled Memphis to him. Neither one of them were huggers, men who showed emotion, but right then it was instinct.

  The way home, the following days, they were all a fog, a fog of words, indescribable moments. The anger never left Easton. Not once.

  Out of the whole deal Memphis only really showed emotion on the way back to Willowhaven, in the cab of the truck with Easton and Wyatt. By the time they reached Willowhaven, Memphis had stuffed the broken grief somewhere deep inside and was the voice of calm and reason for everyone else.

  Willowhaven was a small town in general, the kind of town where everyone showed up when someone was lost, but Lucas’s final goodbye brought people from across the states to Willowhaven. At times you could barely walk down the sidewalk. It was hard to find a way to just let yourself think, give yourself a moment to breathe.

  To honor Lucas, instead of mourning, the town and Lucas’s fans celebrated his life. All saying Lucas would have wanted them to send him home with a bang, and they may have been right. Hell, Easton knew they were, but he didn’t care to laugh and pass old stories around.

  He grabbed a six-pack from the coolers set up around downtown and started to walk. He started to sink into himself. Before he knew it he’d bypassed all the roadblocks set up in town. Walked past the church they would all gather in the next morning, through the graveyard and beyond it, almost at least.

  His father’s stone was placed at a point where it overlooked the rolling hills around Willowhaven.

  Easton sat on the bench the fire department had placed next to where his father rested and twisted the top on a long neck, poured a swing or two on the ground before downing what was left of it.
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  A few beers later his mind was full of memories. Memories of his dad…more so of Lucas.

  He didn’t want to forget him, want him to fade into a distant background. Yet he was too furious to figure out how to hold on to either one of the men who had inspired him, men he wanted to be like.

  Right then he wanted out. He could not wait to be on the road again. He didn’t care how many states Wyatt drug him across, how many arenas or bars. All he cared about was making sure he was somewhere recollections would not haunt him.

  He was feeling a solid buzz and had just about decided he didn’t give a damn about anything when he heard, “Not that you care, but there are no answers in the bottom of a bottle.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, right then he felt his heart thunder, and an odd burn blush through him. He looked forward thinking maybe he’d had one too many, he felt off balance—his head was spinning.

  It was Georgia Armstrong who’d spoken to him. She was only seventeen, with long hair that reached her slender waist. It was dark purple, black underneath, just as black as the clothes she was in and the makeup that was on her eyes.

  He hadn’t spoken to her since she came into town, for more than a few reasons. For one he didn’t know her, not really. Memphis lived in Willowhaven; Georgia lived wherever her mother happened to be. She was still close with Lucas as far as Easton knew though. When he was on the road Georgia was usually with him.

  The other reason he hadn’t spoken to Georgia was his pride, as foolish as it may be. The last time he had been anywhere near the girl he’d cried. He was only seven at the time, but still.

  As far as anyone knew, his mother, his boys, all the men who filled the father role in some way, Easton never showed emotion over losing his dad. Georgia was the only one on the planet who’d seen him weak.

  His father’s funeral was like this one, only instead of fans from all over coming into town it was firemen.

  Still a celebration.

  Easton vanished then, too. He had crawled into one of the fire trucks lining the streets, and pulled himself into a ball. It wasn’t a hysterical cry, just tears, wet cheeks. Georgia followed him, sat next to him, held his hand, and whispered to him, “We can share my daddy, it’ll be okay.”