Fighting for Farmington: Destruction is Inevitable (Harmony Series Book 2) Page 10

  “That, Brock, is discipline. Whenever he crosses the line, you need to bust his behind. Show him who’s in charge.”

  17: Left In Ruins

  What on earth? Brock wondered as he and the rest of the Pearson-Russell Clan arrived at the building site Saturday morning. Edward, their new volunteer, stood as stiff as a board, gaping at the disaster in front of him. It was as if he hadn’t even heard the two families pulling up.

  As Brock approached what used to resemble a house-raising, he felt the tension building in his face. After all of the money, blood, and sweat he had poured into his first building project — who would do such a thing? It appeared as if an army of sledgehammer-toting psychopaths had gone hog-wild on the place. The entire project had been busted up without a single board being left unharmed.

  Edward slowly turned to face Brock. “This is why I was hesitant to volunteer. I knew something would happen. I can’t be a part of this, man. I should’ve known better.”

  “It’s not your transgression,” Brock told him. “The project isn’t a wasted effort. We’ll just have to clean up and get a fresh start.”

  “Not with me, man. I’ve had enough of this. I’ve been through it too many times before.”

  “This has happened before?” Brock repeated.

  “No. Not this per se. But something consistently crops up. I’m starting to wonder if perhaps this ministry is not meant to be.” With that, Edward sauntered back to his car, got in, and slowly drove away.

  For several minutes, no one dared to speak a word. That is until Victoria remembered what had happened the night before. She didn’t even want to consider it — but he could have been responsible. He wouldn’t do that. Surely not.

  Still, she had to address it. “Scottie, um… last night… you claimed you didn’t really sneak out of the house. You were pretty angry… Did you leave home for a little bit?”

  Scottie lowered his eyes to the ground, but didn’t utter a word. He appeared to be frightened or hurt — possibly even guilty.

  “Scottie, answer your mother,” Brock scolded, quickly understanding his wife’s reason for questioning him. “Did you or did you not weasel your way out of the dwelling last night?”

  Continuing to stare at a few pebbles on the ground, Scottie solemnly shook his head no.

  Before any adults had a chance to reply, Remington had to interject his thoughts. “All of us were together last night except for you, Scottie. You were mad. Your window was open. None of us could find you. Did you take your anger out on this house we’ve all been workin’ on? It’s obvious you didn’t want to work on it anyway and you hate working with me. Why would you do this?”

  Scottie, acting entirely out of character, quietly answered, “I didn’t do it. I promise it wasn’t me.” With that, he slowly spun around and moseyed back to the car where he climbed in the back seat to sulk.

  “Brock,” Collin directed, “this is another one of those situations where you are certain your son is guilty; he doesn’t have to say so. You don’t have to have proof. Pay attention to his actions — it’s as clear as the muddy boots on your feet. You need to tan his backside and put him to work.”

  Brock eyed Collin questioningly. “It definitely appears like he did it, but… what if he’s innocent? I don’t want him to hate me forever if I discipline him erroneously.”

  “He did do it!” Remington blurted out. “When have you ever known Scottie to be so quiet or to walk away so nobody’ll ask him any more questions. He’s as guilty as sin.”

  Brock looked to Victoria for support. Instead of siding with him, she turned her gaze in the opposite direction.

  “Collin, I’m not comfortable administering a strap to him. I dread the possibility of it wrapping about him and connecting with more than his posterior. I recollect getting thrashed with a strap when I was growing up and occasionally it would twist around and leave whelps on me.”

  “He’s your son and your responsibility, Brock. You have to make the right decision. Making the wrong one is going to help your boy continue down a road that’s gonna ruin the rest of his life. I’m not going to say another word about it. My family and I are gonna head home. Call me when you decide what to do about this project.”

  “Collin, wait,” Brock argued.

  Collin, acting as if he didn’t hear him, continued his course to the car with Alayna and Remington following close behind.

  “So what do you suggest, Victoria?” Brock asked.

  “I’m not sure. You know how I feel about spankings. I don’t approve at all. Nor do I appreciate our son sneaking out at night, destroying property, and lying about it.”

  “So you’re saying you believe he’s guilty?”

  Victoria sighed. “Yes, Brock… I do.”

  Brock stood speechless for a moment, before plodding around the site and surveying the damage. It would take at least an entire day’s worth of work just to pick up after the vandal(s). He would have to order another delivery of lumber and start all over. He glanced toward the car to find Scottie leaning forward, resting his cheek against the seat in front of him.

  “SCOTTIE,” Brock called.

  The boy glanced up.

  “COME OVER HERE.”

  Brock turned around, again staring at the damages while waiting for the thirteen-year-old to arrive at his side. It took the boy about five minutes to hike a distance that should have taken less than two. Scottie stood next to him, without saying a word.

  “Scottie, I don’t believe you’re telling us the truth about last night. Your mother nor I give credence to the notion you’re being forthright. We surmise you did pussyfoot out of the house. We suspect you purposefully destroyed these accommodations and that you’ve stated mistruths about it.”

  Brock thoroughly expected Scottie to yell at him and insist he hadn’t done anything wrong. Instead, the somber thirteen-year-old muttered, “Punish me if you want to. I promise I didn’t do it.”

  “Nice try, pal,” Brock told him. “Reverse psychology doesn’t have an impact on me. I want you to arch your back and grip your ankles.”

  “Dad, no. Right here? We’re in public!”

  “Right here. Right now. Bend!”

  Titus ambled closer, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt Scottie was going to try to either run or at least resist. To everyone’s surprise, the boy bent over.

  Instead of applying his belt, Brock picked up what was left of a 2x4 — the whole eighteen inches or so of it. He swung fairly hard and it landed with a thud. Scottie jumped up and stared at Brock, but didn’t run and didn’t argue. Brock nodded his head toward the ground and Scottie resumed the position. Another whack and Scottie gritted his teeth and groaned while forcing himself to stay in place. Brock gave him a third powerful whack and Scottie could no longer retain his composure. Red-faced and teary-eyed, he stood and briefly peered at his dad, his mom, and then at Titus, who wore a look of satisfaction on his face.

  “Come over here, boy,” Brock directed, leading Scottie to a couple of sawhorses. “You’re getting further and further out of control, son. It’s not going to be without complication, but we’re going to bring a halt to it one way or another.” Brock laid the broken piece of 2x4 across the saw horses and fastened one end down with a vice. “Observe sharply, son,” he spoke before cutting out a handle on the bottom of the board with the new circular saw he had brought along.

  “ARE YOU MAKING A PADDLE?” Titus hollered over top of the saw’s screaming.

  “Sure am,” Brock replied. “And it’s not for decoration.”

  18: Red-Headed Angel

  Sunday morning, Titus woke up feeling a bit groggy. Between tossing and turning and allowing his mind to dwell on everything that had gone on the past few days, he hadn’t slept well at all. Slightly stressed, he asked Brock if it was okay if he skipped breakfast and headed over to the church to have some alone-time before the services began.

  Although Brock found his request a bit unusual, he conveyed his blessing; T
itus wasted no time in heading out of the house. As he approached the church, the sound of a guitar began tickling his ear. Creeping up to the window and glancing inside, he spied an angel — the most gorgeous creature he had ever laid eyes on. He observed for a moment as the young lady strummed. Peace was written all over her glowing face as she appeared to be singing softly while she strummed. He couldn’t help but notice how her fiery-red hair brought out the fairness of her complexion.

  Titus moved his eyes away from the angel and glanced around the sanctuary. No one was in there but the girl. My, my, my, he said to himself, stepping away from the window and heading for the door.

  He felt his palms getting sweaty simply dreaming about her. Perhaps God had told him to go over to the church early so he could have a little bit of alone-time with such a ravishing piece of His artwork. His pulse began to race as he placed his hand on the doorknob. What’s wrong with me? I’ve never been shy with the ladies. But there was something different about her. He couldn’t place his hand on what. But she wasn’t like the others.

  I can do this, he thought, opening the door and proceeding inside, all the while pretending he hadn’t realized anyone was in the sanctuary. The girl stopped playing and peered at him through the deepest hazel colored eyes he’d ever seen. She grinned and he couldn’t help but notice her adorable little dimples as she did. Loverboy couldn’t have hidden his own smile if he had tried. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Titus.”

  “I’m Ericka, Pastor O’Malley’s granddaughter.”

  Her voice was as sweet as any Titus had ever heard. She sounded kind, compassionate, and mature.

  “Nice to meet you, Ericka.” Titus’s smile brightened as he promenaded over and shook her hand. Wow! Just touching her sent a tingle crawling down his spine. Titus didn’t necessarily believe in love at first sight, but attraction — definitely! “You can keep playing,” he uttered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your rehearsal.”

  “It’s okay. I was just finishing up. Grandpa wants me to play a special during the offering.”

  “You play beautifully. Do you sing too?”

  “A little.”

  Just then, the door to the church opened again and another stranger appeared — a guy. He didn’t have anywhere near as soft of a countenance as Ericka did. Shooting Titus a dirty look, he approached the front.

  “Titus, this is my brother — Steve.”

  “Titus,” Steve asserted, sticking his hand out.

  Titus met his hand and the two shook, competing to see who could squeeze whose hand the hardest. Steve’s presence put a damper on the flirting Titus was trying to do with Miss Ericka. He would have to await another opportunity.

  Throughout the morning services, Ericka occupied every ounce of space in Titus’s brain. There was no doubt about it. He was falling and falling fast. When the services were over, he still didn’t feel up to eating and obtained permission to take a stroll around town.

  He started off wandering back toward the building site so he could check out the destruction once more. On the way, he glanced at himself in the side view mirror of a car parked next to the sidewalk. Whoa! If I’m gonna get a girl like Ericka, I’m gonna have to fix myself up a bit. Running his fingers through his hair, he told himself, this mop has to go.

  He continued another block or so but his plans of checking out the building site went out the window when he caught sight of a drunken hobo staggering up the road with a bottle of booze in his hand. Titus watched him for a moment, chuckling to himself and remembering the times when he had gotten himself plastered in the past.

  “Hey buddy,” the guy spoke when he saw Titus approaching. “Appears as though you could use some of this here tainted water. Want a sip?”

  Boy did he ever want to take that man up on his offer. It had been several months since he had tasted even a drop of alcohol. Titus scanned the area to see if anyone was watching. The coast was clear. “Yeah dude, I’ll take a swig.”

  Titus took the bottle and began chugging. Before he knew what happened, he had completely drunk it dry. His new-found friend wasn’t too happy about that. “I’LL KILL YOU!” the man shouted, smashing the bottle against a corner of a building before attempting to run toward Titus with it.

  “Chill man. You’ve had enough to drink already anyway,” Titus assured him, picking up a faster pace to escape the drunken madman.

  It wasn’t long before Titus began questioning why he had reintroduced himself to the taste of beer. Sure, he had had cravings from time to time, but it had been getting easier and easier to resist that urge. Perhaps though, he now realized, it was only getting easier because he hadn’t had the means of obtaining it. In a way, Titus felt ashamed of himself for giving in to his flesh so quickly. On the other hand, however, he was thankful for the old man’s generosity.

  Titus popped a couple of pieces of gum in his mouth and headed home, hoping the Pearsons wouldn’t notice the odor on his breath. When he arrived, he tip-toed into a quiet house — everyone was enjoying an afternoon nap. Titus breathed a sigh of relief before heading to the restroom to brush his teeth as an extra precautionary measure.

  Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Titus thought back to Ericka. A virtuous girl like her would definitely not be into a guy with a pop star’s hairstyle. I don’t have a lot of time before church tonight, but—”

  Titus opened the medicine cabinet hoping to find a pair of clippers. To his dismay, there weren’t any — but he did find some scissors. They’ll have to do, he told himself, removing them from their shelf and closing the mirrored doors.

  Lifting a tuft of hair with his left hand, Titus placed the scissors in his right and began snipping carefully. That’s a decent length, he told himself before releasing that tuft and grabbing another. He trimmed his hair down for twenty minutes or so before realizing how horribly he was botching it.

  Oh, man. I’m in serious trouble now. Alcohol and scissors don’t mix well. The unevenness of his hair would have been bad enough, but the bald spots nearly brought tears to his eyes. He was sure to see Ericka in less than an hour and his hair was a complete mishap. The last thing he wanted to do was wake anybody up.

  He furiously searched the restroom and managed to find an electric razor. I don’t have any choice, he told himself. Plugging it in, he slowly raised it to the middle of his head and gave himself an inverted mohawk. Watching in the mirror, he was shocked at how low his hair went. It’s not like there were any other alternatives. Titus buzzed all of his hair off and could only hope Ericka wouldn’t be completely turned away by it. As soon as he shut the razor off, Victoria’s voice blasted through the house, “Time to get up everybody. We’ve got to be in church in 10 minutes. Time to move!”

  Titus unplugged the razor and threw it back under the sink. He cleaned up his mess as quickly as possible, ran out of the room, grabbed his Bible, and followed Brock out the door.

  Without even glancing in his direction, Brock asked, “Savor your walk?”

  “Yeah. Allowed me some time to clear my head.”

  “You’re not getting sick or anything, are you? You’ve been kind of different today.”

  “Nah, I’m hunky-dory. Just needed some me-time. That’s all.”

  As they approached the door, Ericka was getting out of Pastor O’Malley’s SUV. Titus couldn’t help but smile and give her a flirty wave.

  Pretending not to notice, Ericka grabbed her purse out of the car.

  Brock spun around to see Titus’s reaction. “Oh, my! What happened to your hair?”

  Titus chuckled. “Took you long enough to notice.”

  “Perhaps… but seriously, what transpired?”

  “Just decided it was time for a change,” Titus replied. “That’s all.”

  “It’s undeniably a change. I’ll grant you that,” Brock teased, rubbing the top of his head.

  The two continued into the church and sat on their regular pew. After sitting there for about thirty seconds, Titus said, “I’ll be ri
ght back; I need to run to the restroom.”

  “Sure,” Brock responded. Ensure you’re back prior to the start of the service, okay?

  Knowing Brock was onto him, Titus chuckled, “Of course.”

  With a bit of pep in his step, the cocky teen quickly made his way to the back of the church in hopes that Ericka would follow his lead. Passing her and her grandparents as they were entering their pew, Titus winked at his red-haired angel. She smiled and blushed as she took her seat next to Pastor O’Malley.

  A moment or so later, she stole a peek at him over her shoulder. Titus tried to communicate with her via his eyes, but she wasn’t getting the message. He finally held out his pointer finger and motioned for her to join him in the back of the sanctuary.

  Ericka’s face turned red again as she smiled and turned back toward the front. A few seconds later, Titus saw her whispering something to her grandfather before getting up and joining him. “You need something?” she asked, acting as if she didn’t notice anything different about his appearance.

  “Yeah. I kinda… need your phone number,” Titus chuckled.

  “My phone number? Why? Can’t you speak to me about whatever it is right now?”

  She’s playing hard to get, Titus told himself. I like it!... Now I gotta figure out how to win the game. “I’d love to chat with you right now, but church is getting’ ready to start. I’d like to be able to speak with you during the week too though — not just at church. I guess what I’m saying is… you’re an interesting young lady and I’d like to get to know you on a more personal level.”

  Pastor O’Malley looked back to see what the two young ones were up to. “You’ll have to talk to my dad before I can relinquish my number.”

  “Your dad? I’ve never even met him. He’s not here, is he?”

  “He’s not here yet, but he’s supposed to be on his way. He doesn’t attend the services often so tonight might be your best chance.”

  “So you seriously won’t give me your number unless your dad approves of me?” Titus asked in disbelief.