Fresco (Book One The Diamond City Trilogy)

By Patti Larsen

Seventeen-year-old Fresco Conte is an ordinary All-American kid from an upper middle-class family. Life is good. Until unexplained things, scary things, start to take him over. When the men in the dark blue coveralls come for him, Fresco is forced into addiction to the blue joy known as Wasteland and set free on the street, with no answers and only his hunger to keep him company.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: Apr 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987897695

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Book preview

Part I: Fall From Grace

Chapter One

Fresco swallowed a mouthful of fresh-baked cookie as his best friend burst through the kitchen door. Justin was early for once. The Lighting’s star linebacker drew a big breath, expanding his substantial chest as he savored the aroma.

"Who’s the best mom ever?"

Fran Conte giggled. Fresco’s mother dished hot treats onto a plate with a bright pink spatula. He snagged another as his friend engulfed her in a massive hug, lifting her from the ground. Justin planted a big one on her flushed cheek.

Justin Collins, you put me down this instant! Fran giggled even as she threatened him with her oven mitts.

He winked at her, but did as she asked. Fran’s left hand, still sheathed in puffy protection, went instinctively to her short, brown hair.

Like anything could mess it up, Fresco thought. His mother always appeared neat and tidy, petite, compact and flawless, if ordinary, in dress. She totally radiated ‘mom’ vibes.

Justin took terrible advantage of her.

But, Mrs. Conte, he said as he flashed her his most charming smile. You know I can’t resist you.

My cookies, you mean. She tapped his wide T-shirted chest with her spatula. She peered up the height he had on her over the rim of her round glasses, hazel eyes sparkling. He was an easy six foot two where she barely called it at five one. I’m on to you, Justin.

Fresco grinned around his cookie, enjoying the exchange. Justin tossed back his dark brown hair and clutched one hand to his chest in mock horror.

Mrs. C! Your cookies mean nothing to me!

Fresco laughed. You been sneaking into drama class while I wasn’t looking?

Justin rolled his eyes at his friend before smiling angelically at Fran. Fresco, blond to his friend’s dark, had the innocent smile down pat, but Justin raised it to an art form. His deep brown eyes shone with sincerity, handsome face full of charm. Fresco tried not to laugh again. Justin was a natural.

Oh, here. Fran dumped a cookie into his waiting hands. You’ll be into them in the car anyway, the pair of you, so you might as well have one now. Justin stuffed the whole thing in his mouth as Fran turned and slapped Fresco’s fingers with her spatula when he tried to take a third. At least pretend they are going to make it as far as the door.

Fresco dodged the dancing utensil and grabbed another cookie, devouring it in one bite, brilliant blue eyes full of humor.

’Kay, he mumbled around it.

Fran rolled her eyes as Justin snuck another.

Enough, you two! She chased the both of them away from the island in the center of the bright and cheery kitchen. Let me finish or you’ll be leaving without them.

Fresco bent his lean body to the side, dodging her wrath. He made the stairs, laughing around his cookie. Justin, with twenty pounds on his friend, thundered up behind him, stuffing down his own. He followed Fresco to his room and leaned against the doorjamb.

Your mom’s cool, he said.

Fresco rolled his eyes. She’s right. You just want cookies.

Justin’s grin was no longer innocent, more devil than angel when parents weren’t around. Maybe. His eyes went to Fresco’s desk, flashing nasty. Done your homework yet? His voice melted honey.

Fresco groaned at the sight of his unfinished math questions. Playing football was the most important part of his life, and there was no way he was missing it because he hadn’t done his algebra.

Don’t tell and I won’t, he said. Justin smiled a devil’s smile.

Show me up on the field and I might.

Fresco made a rude gesture. Justin was a real jerk sometimes. Fresco wouldn’t put it past him to screw him over. And his father’s rules were pretty strict around homework and football. School came first.

The scent of cookies reached Fresco’s room. He wondered how many of the delicious morsels his mom was lovingly placing in plastic containers would make it to the game. Justin always drove and still managed to down half a box himself before they even got to the field. Still, Fran kept making them, called them good luck. They had to be fresh baked, nothing cold or packaged for her boys. Fresco grinned to himself, knowing the team would be all over him as soon as he hit the locker room. Fran Conte’s cookies were legendary.

Seeing Justin’s eyes were still on his homework, he flipped shut the cover on his tattered red binder, a disaster already despite the fact school only started six weeks before. He ignored the knowing smirk on his friend’s face and grabbed his denim jacket.

Fresco loved living in California, where the days stayed nice pretty much all year round, but late November brought cooler weather after the sun went down, and he didn’t want to catch a chill. He expected to be run ragged in a few short hours on the football field. Keeping warm after the game was important to tired muscles.

Like the rest of his team and his very enthusiastic coach, Fresco took football more seriously than anything else in his life.

Justin had drifted away. Fresco stepped out into the hall, looking toward the back stairs, but didn’t see him. He glanced further down the hall and watched, too late, as his friend walked into Daniel’s room.

Heart in his throat, it took him a moment to react. When he did, Fresco’s panic rose even as his feet dragged him without his consent to the open door.

Justin stood in the middle of the room, looking around with curiosity. After the initial shock wore off, Fresco took a hesitant step inside himself. He hadn’t set foot in it for two years, not since Daniel left. He frowned in the sunlight streaming through the half-open curtains. Small dust motes hung in the hot, heavy air of the room echoing with their footsteps.

Daniel’s room was empty except for a smallish cardboard box, spun off to one side. The top was open and a trophy poked out. It was this very thing that caught Justin’s attention, too. He lifted it free and blew on it, thumb running over the front plate to remove the last of the dust. He glanced at Fresco.

Huh, he said. Didn’t know Daniel got MVP.

Fresco couldn’t move, could barely breathe. The air in the room choked him, pressed on his chest, trying to drive him to his knees. He managed a nod.

Perhaps there would have been more if they hadn’t been interrupted.

What are you boys doing in here? Raymond Conte’s voice cut deep, sharp with anger. Justin dropped the trophy and plastered on his most innocent and respectful expression.

Hello, Mr. Conte. He inched away from the box.

Ray’s face struggled against fury behind his heavy glasses.

Thought you had a game.

Yes, sir, Justin said with false cheer, taking a step to the door, moving out of the oppression of the room. We were just leaving. Right, Fres?

He listened to Justin go, the big football jock brushing past Fresco’s father, his heavy footsteps thumping over the thin Berber carpet in the hall and at a pounding jog down the wooden stairs. Fresco remained frozen, eyes locked on the discarded trophy.

He heard his father move, the soft shuffle of sock feet on hardwood, saw Ray drift past him and approach the box. His father hovered over the remnants of his oldest son while Fresco, lost in his own pain and cycle of grief torn raw by the emptiness of the room, watched.

Finally, Ray sighed, a deep and heavy breath, before turning to Fresco. He was lit from behind by the sunlight. Fresco couldn’t see his expression, only a dark, slim figure, faceless, unreal.

You’d best be going, then.

Fresco managed to jerk his head in a nod. He staggered backward as though his father’s words released him, unsure later how he managed to stumble into the hall.

He stood there, trying to catch his breath around the pounding of his heart. He seemed unable to shake the past in spite of the time gone by. Daniel’s room, the room he remembered, was as long gone as the brother he adored.

While he fought himself and the memories threatening, he heard the door swing softly shut behind him.

***

Chapter Two

Daniel’s betrayal was fresh again and despite all his efforts to the contrary his brother’s rapid spiral into drug addiction still sat inside him, eating Fresco up as surely as it took Daniel. His sudden and complete reversal from happy and loving older brother to hard-edged addict who Fresco barely recognized flashed through his mind in a series of painful images.

Daniel smiling, ten years old, helping Fresco up after a nasty fall, wiping his tears away

the dark-haired brother defending the smaller, fairer from bullies on their block

Daniel, his gray eyes laughing, tossing Fresco the game ball of which he was the star

the tall, thick-shouldered brother he so adored withered and hunched, stunning smile missing, spirit sold to the drug taking him over

It seemed like overnight they lost him. When Daniel vanished, Fresco was desperate to find him. Despite his parent’s best efforts, it wasn’t until Daniel showed up, a shadow of himself, that Fresco finally understood what his brother valued.

at the back door, hiding from the full light, eyes haunted, sunken

begging for money, help from what was eating him alive

his mother sobbing, father furious, sending Fresco to his room

watching his brother from his bedroom window, powerful body reduced by the hunger, slinking away into the black

It was the last time Fresco saw him.

That night, the handsome, dark hero of Fresco’s life, once his idol and confidant, disappeared, devoured by the drug he chose over his brother.

Fresco shivered despite the warmth of the second floor hallway. He succeeded in the past two years to block his brother from his mind. He absorbed himself in school and football. His parents practically smothered him in love and attention, as though doing so would prevent their youngest from following in Daniel’s footsteps. They even lied to everyone they knew, told neighbors and friends the older Conte was away at college and doing well, thank you very much. Since there were no uncles or aunts or cousins to pry, no grandparents living to ask the hard questions, everyone simply nodded and smiled and believed.

It hurt Fresco the first time his parents lied about Daniel in front of him. He was so floored by their deceit he hadn’t been able to say a word to the contrary.

Best for everyone, Ray told him in the stuffy station wagon on the way home. Fresco watched the flash of the passing streetlights on the wet pavement, ignoring them.

Honey, Fran said, reaching back to pat his knee, you know we love you. We’re just trying to protect you.

And had been doing so, he realized with a start, quite effectively, even from himself. When did they clear out Daniel’s room? He fought the rising anger. Where was Daniel’s stuff? He started to shake from the rage. A headache, teasing him the last few days with jabs of pain, flared into life. And with it, a heavy feeling in his chest and a sensation of burning deep inside.

Fresco didn’t know how long he stood there, absorbed in his hurt.

Fres! His mother’s voice broke his concentration. The headache eased, retreating to its familiar and ignorable ping.

Coming! He got a hold of himself. He needed to have a talk with his parents. But they trained him well. He would wait until they were alone.

Fran must have seen the trouble in his face when he made it to the kitchen. Her smile melted to concern but, like him, she held her tongue. Instead, she pressed the containers of cookies into his hands, her eyes radiating love and concern. Fresco risked the inevitable backlash and leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek.

Love you, she whispered.

You, too.

Fresco refused to meet Justin’s eyes as they walked out the door. He continued to ignore his friend as they made their way down the neat, gravel path to the driveway, past perfect flowerbeds and fresh cut grass. Fresco heard the double beep of Justin’s car alarm as he stepped up to the passenger door of his friend’s massive and perfectly polished black truck. The thing was a gift from Justin’s parents for his seventeenth birthday.

Fresco’s folks gave him a watch.

He fumbled his jacket and the containers, managing to get the door open without fingerprinting the paint. Justin would be sure to check later. A tall hop and he was in the leather seat.

Justin relieved him of the top box of sweets, sliding it into the console between them. He popped the top. Two cookies vanished in rapid succession before he even turned on the ignition. Fresco fastened his seat belt and waved at Fran who watched them through the front window.

Justin made kissing noises around the cookies, his expression nasty. Fresco punched his shoulder, hard. Justin winced.

Lay off! That’s my catching arm.

Fresco felt his evil nature well up, part of him enjoying his friend’s pain. What arm? He hit him again as Justin turned the key. Heavy music blared through the speakers. Fresco knew from experience the bass blasted outside the sealed windows.

Justin hit him back. It hurt like hell, but Fresco refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he leaned forward and turned down the music. Justin turned it back up, twisting the knob even louder.

Fresco sighed. His friend was such a child sometimes.

Justin jerked the monstrous truck backward into the street without looking, not even stopping at the urgent blat of a car horn. He gave the angry driver the finger and, laughing, spun away, tires squealing.

The rumble of the big engine roared as Justin sped through the suburban neighborhood.

Better have your game on tonight, he yelled at Fresco over the music.

I know, finals. He refused to grab the chicken bar as Justin took a corner too fast, tires humming. The seatbelt dug into Fresco’s side with bruising force.

Damned right, finals. Justin crammed in another cookie, face dark. "Can’t afford to have any weak links. Those bird lovers are going down this year."

The Madison High Raptors were their most bitter rivals and held the prized regional school trophy for the past four years.

Our team’s stronger, Fresco hollered back. We’re kicking ass.

Just don’t screw up, his friend threatened him with his typical heavy-handedness. I’ll have to kill you or anyone else who keeps us from winning our senior year.

Fresco felt equally as driven, so he forgave Justin his enthusiasm. This was their last chance to win one for their school. Graduation meant college and not necessarily football.

The thought of college made him think of Daniel, and the headache came rushing back. Fresco squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. When he opened them, he felt better, but the dull throb of it for the last few days felt worse than ever. He helped himself to a cookie to distract himself. Justin slapped at Fresco’s hand, his own busy in the container, when his cell phone lit up and bounced its way across the dash. Fresco couldn’t hear the ring over the pounding music, but its activation was obvious. Justin grabbed for it.

Jen, Justin said with a smirk. Wants to know what I’m doing after the game. His new conquest was firmly in hand. Fresco rolled his eyes. He preferred to hang out with the girls, not tear them apart one by one.

Justin punched buttons, texting her back. Fresco saw the stop sign approaching, felt the acceleration of the truck, and knew Justin didn’t see it or the car with the right of way. Before he had a chance to shout a warning, the headache took him over and fire filled his vision.

Everything was gray as time moved in slow motion. The car, a mid-sized blue sedan, sped in quarter time toward him as they cleared the stop and entered the intersection. Fresco watched, detached, as the pretty blonde woman behind the wheel opened her mouth in a large O he guessed backed a scream. Her eyes were huge and stared into his. Just as her bumper touched the passenger door of the truck, time stopped.

Fresco looked around. Justin grinned, checking out his phone, the open box of cookies beside him. Over his friend’s shoulder, through the glass, Fresco saw a robin paused in flight, preparing to land on the street sign. He looked down at his hands. He seemed transparent to himself, ghostly and unreal. He looked up again at the woman. Such naked fear shone in her eyes he wanted to call out to her, to reassure her, but there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t until he dropped his gaze from her that he noticed the toddler secured in the back.

In a flash of terror, Fresco reached out with his mind and grabbed the child.

He had a heartbeat of time to register he now stood on the sidewalk next to the stop sign. The sun beamed down on him, warming his face. The world was silent, a jolting change from the blaring music. Justin’s black truck roared past in the next breath, careened into the intersection, T-boned by the blue sedan. The impact rippled the air, rushing over, through and past him in a shockwave. He felt it before he heard metal shriek and clash, the deep thrum of humming tires, the sharp bellow of shattering safety glass, the pop of releasing airbags. The two vehicles melded together with enough force to spin them 180 degrees and come to a screeching halt against the opposite curb. Smoke billowed from the front of the blue car, bits of yellow and red plastic scattered as though tossed with casual disdain. Something within the crippled four-door hissed and sputtered its way down to death, its bonnet compressed, embedded in the passenger side of Justin’s 4x4. The truck bent inward where the cab met the box, but appeared almost intact compared to the crumpled mess of the family midsize.

People rushed from houses, from hastily parked cars, pouring over the scene. Fresco heard voices, harsh with shock, calling for help on multiple cell phones. An older woman, a stranger, hovered in front of him. Her mouth moved, face lined with concern, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He stood frozen, lost and empty of emotion. How? Where? He tried to make sense of what happened. The woman gestured to Fresco, but he was still having trouble understanding her. She reached for him, tugging on him, on something he held. His arms tightened reflexively. He could not—would not—let go.

It was hard to think. Someone cried, and the crying distracted him.

Fresco looked down.

The boy from the back of the car bawled in his arms.

***

Chapter Three

The boy clung to Fresco, head on his shoulder, huffing little gasps of air as he expelled the last of his distress. Fresco registered the smell of the child’s full diaper under the little faded denim overalls. More powerful was the reek of burned rubber and spilled fuel making a rainbow river across the asphalt. The sirens were quiet, though the flashing ambulance lights still spun, intensifying his headache. His body shuddered slightly, totally drained. Only the weight of the boy, the awareness of the child and his need, kept Fresco on his feet. He ignored all attempts to speak to him. There was nothing to say even if he possessed the strength to say it.

His mind pushed away questions, unable to process and unwilling to grapple in the presence of reality. He held his breath when the woman was pried from her car. The boy started up again, struggling against him, shrieking over and over for his mother in a pitiful voice, mucus running from mouth and nose, face