Jimmy Trager howls in a combination of pain and surprise as his back arches and he staggers to the ground. Roger Ackerman, that asshole, clutches his arm and tries to run but stumbles into the leaves.
Visible in the clearing now, he drops to one knee to steady himself as screams and cries fill the air, as fifty, sixty kids scatter in all directions like cockroaches, bumping into one another, tripping over one another, dropping their school bags and covering their heads, unsure initially which way to run, heads whipping in all directions, only knowing they should run, run, run—
“By the trees!” one parent yells.
“The parking lot!” cries another.
He fires and clicks in the next round, aim-fire-click, while panic propels the population of students like a strong gust of wind. Their squeals are like music. Their terror is his oxygen. He wishes this moment would never end.
Six hit, seven, eight in the clearing near him. Another half dozen farther away.
And then he raises his rifle with a dramatic flair and takes a moment, just a moment, to savor the delicious scene, the power he holds, the havoc he has created. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt. It’s beyond words, this rush, this thrill coursing through him. And then his vision blurs, and it’s a moment before he realizes it’s not the wind causing it but his own tears.
There are probably a dozen pellets left in his BB rifle, but he’s out of time. Faculty will pour out of the building any second. The STPD will be called. And he accomplished what he wanted, anyway. Just some superficial pellet wounds.
But wow, was that fun!
And I’m only twelve years old, he thinks. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
BOOK I
BRIDGEHAMPTON, 2011
1
NOAH WALKER STANDS carefully on the roof of his house, takes a moment to ensure his balance, and removes the Yankees cap from his head to wipe the sweat off his brow under the scorching early-June sun. He never minded roofing work, but it’s different when it’s your own roof, the place you’re renting, and the only reason you’re doing it is the landlord will take six months to get to it, and you’re sick of water spots on the ceiling.
He runs his hands through his thick, wavy hair. The Matthew McConaughey look, Paige calls it, noting that he has the physique to match. He’s heard that comparison for years and never thought much of it. He never thought much of what anyone thought or said about him. If he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t still be living in the Hamptons.
He hears the crunch of car tires down the road, the hum of a powerful, well-maintained engine. The unpaved roads just off Sag Harbor Turnpike are uneven at best, sometimes bumpy and other times outright treacherous. Not like the roads by the ocean, by the forty-thousand-square-foot mansions where the elite like to “summer.” Not that he should bitch too much about the blue bloods; he makes twice as much from May to August, doing their bidding, as he does the rest of the year combined. He fixes what they need fixed. He digs what they need dug. He stomachs their condescension.
“Paige,” he says to himself, even before her black-on-black Aston Martin convertible pulls into his driveway and parks next to his nineteen-year-old reconstructed Harley. She’s not being discreet. She should probably be more careful. But back here in the woods where he lives, people don’t mingle with the wealth, so there’s no real danger of this getting back to Paige’s husband, John Sulzman. It’s not like his neighbors are going to run into Paige’s husband at some high-society event. The closest people like him have ever come to a tuxedo is watching penguins on the Discovery Channel. Same zip code, different world.
Paige floats out of her convertible with the same grace with which she always carries herself. Noah feels the primal yearning that always accompanies the first sight of her. Paige Sulzman is one of those people for whom beauty is effortless, a privilege, not a chore. In her white hat and polka-dot dress, one hand holding the hat in place in the wind, she looks every bit the Manhattan socialite she is, but she hails from upstate originally and has maintained a sense of proportion and humility.
Paige. There’s something refreshing about her. She is a natural beauty, with her shiny blond hair and killer figure, her softly upturned nose and stunning hazel eyes. But it’s not just her looks. She has a sharp wit, the ability to laugh at herself, the manners of a well-raised girl. She’s one of the most sincere and decent people he’s ever known.
She’s pretty good in bed, too.
Noah climbs down the back and meets her inside the house. She rushes to him and plants her lips against his, her hands on his bare chest.
“I thought you were in Manhattan,” he says.
She gives him a mock pout with those juicy lips. “That’s not much of a greeting, mister. How about, ‘Paige, I’m so very thrilled to see you!’”