The Gods of Asphalt: Book One

By H.E. Ellis

Seventeen year-old Sawyer Hayden isn't a nerd. He never misses a free throw and his good looks always get him the girl. But good looks and a good handle aren't enough to get him what he really wants, and that is a shot at a basketball scholarship. For that to happen he needs to stay in one school long enough for a scout to watch him play. Sawyer knows a semester is about as long as his flighty, on-again, off-again mother can handle living in one place before she takes off with the boyfriend no one wants to mention. He knows it’s a matter of time before he’s back in the family big rig with his jilted father and brooding brother on his way to another new school, another round of try outs and another day further from his dream of basketball stardom.

With the clock ticking on his senior year and chance for a college scholarship, Sawyer abandons his father and brother for a permanent life in Nebraska with his grandfather, Gus. But life in his father's hometown isn't what Sawyer expected, and soon stories of his father's former glory days as a high school football star begin to surface; tales of gridiron greatness and career aspirations that end tragically with his marriage to a flighty, on-again, off-again girlfriend.

Determined to avoid the same fate that robbed his father of his own professional sports career, Sawyer makes a vow to never fall in love. Enlisting the help of his awkward teammate Jeb, the two devise a game plan to keep the girls away. But there is an obstacle in the road that Sawyer never sees coming: a blue-eyed obstacle who reveals a fate worse than failure-- success.

THE GODS OF ASPHALT is a 98,000 word upper YA tale of blood, bromance, sex and sarcasm. A coming of-age story written from the male point of view, the novel will appeal to contemporary fans of S.E. Hinton’s THE OUTSIDERS, Hannah Moskowitz’s BREAK, and just about anyone who ever had a brother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.E. Ellis
• Release date: Aug 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465955883

H.E. Ellis

Writer of questionable talent seeks readership with an appreciation for the fine art of mocking. Interests include candlelight dinners, long walks on the beach, and Abe Vigoda. Must love New England. Author of REAPERS WITH ISSUES and THE GODS OF ASPHALT series. www.heellisgoa.com www.reaperswithissues.com

Book preview

Book One of THE GODS OF ASPHALT Series:

THE GODS OF ASPHALT

SAWYER

by,

H.E. ELLIS

SMASHWORDS EDITION

ISBN: 978-1-4659-5588-3

Copyright ©2011 by H.E. ELLIS

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be

re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re

reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use

only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

***

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR

***

SAWYER

***

CHAPTER ONE

Don’t Fear The Reaper

(Blue Oyster Cult)

There’s a moment that happens just before you crash that no one in driver’s ed tells you about. They don’t show it in movies. You won’t find it in any textbook or pamphlet or manual at the DMV. I guess it’s because very few people live to tell about it. What happens in that split, split, split second before the crash that ends your life is this:

You float.

You defy all laws of gravity and you hover. It’s like your body wants to try on its ghost suit before it decides if it’s going to buy it.

So unless ghost suits come covered in gravel and are pre-soaked in blood, I’m betting mine didn’t fit. At least I hope what I’m soaking in is blood, because I’ve been feeling something warm and wet running down my thigh since I hit the pavement (if I live to retell this story, I’m sticking with the bloody version of it). I’d know for sure if I could see over top of the gas tank crushing my chest. I’d ask River to look, but he’s no good to me unconscious.

I’m calling now, he says, trying not to panic. It’s gonna be alright Sawyer, I promise.

Shit.

He called me Sawyer. River never calls me Sawyer. Only dickweed or dillhole or any other stupid name he can think of, but never Sawyer. Even little brother would have been better than Sawyer.

He looks at me, but not too closely. Yeah, he’s got a helmet on, I hear him say.

Of all the laws I broke tonight, I’m glad I didn’t break that one. I take the helmet off so I can get a better look around. Leave it to me to dump a motorcycle under the only streetlight in Nebraska and still not be able to see what I did to myself. I prop up on an elbow to check out my leg through the spokes of the front wheel. I immediately regret it.

I can’t see my leg, but what I can see on the ground around me is blood. It seems like a lot, but still less than in any of those Death on the Highway movies I watched in driver’s ed. I run my hand down my thigh and stop when I get to my knee. It feels misshapen and swollen, with something like a splintered piece of wood sticking out of it. Without thinking I grab a hold of it (not smart, I know) and try to yank it out.

Yeah. That’s all I remember. Until the pain wakes me up, that is. Then it’s like every nerve in my knee is exploding at once. My only relief is the feeling of hot, sticky blood pumping out in a stream down my leg. I watch it ooze onto the pavement and pool where the road meets the grass, staining the green blades red.

My vision starts to close in so I focus on the night sky above instead. I pick the brightest star out of the millions, close my eyes and make a wish.

For the first time in my life, I wish for my father.

The next best thing to him is shouting for me to answer. I shout back, Make mine pepperoni. A sad attempt at humor I know, but I had to give it a shot. River blames himself for everything that happens to me, whether or not it’s his fault. I’m not sure if all brothers do this, but mine does.

Racing up to me he skids to a stop before he crouches down and puts his hand on top of my head, gripping it slightly. In River language this means, pay attention.

I’m gonna try and lift the bike so I need you to hold still. He speaks to me like I’m five years old. Normally this pisses me off, but right now I don’t care. Instead I nod yes and try not to puke.

He takes off his favorite leather jacket and covers me with it. I drag it down and try to hide the carnage that used to be my knee. I feel it swelling, crushing my dream of a basketball future into oblivion. I reach down to hold the edges of the bleeding gash together, only to feel my scholarship pour out between my fingers.

Hey, River says, looking down at me. There’s nothing to worry about. I got this.

His face is as pale and scared as I imagine mine must be- the only difference is he’s smiling. Not just any smile either, it’s his River smile, the one he saves for arresting officers and reluctant virgins.

His smile’s a lie, but I buy it.

River counts to three and then starts to lift the bike. I close my eyes and think of Sarah. I wish she were here. She’d tell me to think of how lucky I am that it’s not raining, or that I finally remembered to wear a helmet, or that I have a brother who follows me everywhere making sure I don’t get hurt or in trouble, even if it means chasing me down a highway because I borrowed Gus’s motorcycle.

Ok, stole it.

So yeah, I guess I’m lucky to have River. Although I’d never admit it, especially not to him.

As soon as I feel the weight of the bike leave my chest I open my eyes and look up. I’m nearly half a foot taller than he is, but I’m no where near as ripped (another fact I don’t like to admit). I watch as his muscles strain to lift eleven hundred pounds of twisted, vintage motorcycle. It’s hard to believe only an hour ago he used those same muscles to beat the crap out of me. Two hours ago I deserved it.

Hold on, he says, setting the bike back down on my chest. I need to change my footing. I think I’m slipping in oil or something. He takes a giant step over the bike, straddling it. I make the mistake of looking up as he does and glimpse the bottom of his boot as it passes overhead. There, he says. That ought a do it.

It won’t, but I’m not about to tell my squeamish brother it’s not oil he’s slipping in.

He grabs hold of the handlebars and this time pulls the motorcycle completely off my chest. As he does I suck in a lungful of air but for some reason can’t hold onto it and I gag/cough/spit up blood tinged air bubbles. They form a sick snowflake pattern as they splatter onto the bike’s cracked headlight.

River’s expression changes from curiosity to horror as it dawns on him what’s dripping from the lens. I watch his eyes roll back into his head, see his muscles go limp, then feel the weight of the bike, and him, come crashing down on top of me.

……I rub my eyes as I come to and see the glowing blue numbers on my watch change from 11:59 to 12:00 a.m.

I watch as the date changes from April 29th to April 30th.

I watch as I turn eighteen.

It takes lying in a pool of my own blood to convince me Gus is right.

I’m cursed.

He says it’s because I was born six weeks early and came out a Taurus instead of a Gemini. He says it’s the reason I’m bull-headed and why my father and I fight all the time. My father says it’s because I’m an idiot. I’m beginning to think he’s right too.

It’s not like Gus hasn’t been cramming stuff about the zodiac and curses down my throat since Christmas, so somehow the idea that all of this could have been avoided if I’d just read my horoscope makes me sick. Even worse, it makes me wonder if it would’ve made a difference with what happened with Sarah. Maybe then she wouldn’t have left me.

But as usual, I didn’t listen. Now here I am, flat on my back, searching the sky for a star to blame.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot something blonde and shaggy shaking back and forth like a wet dog. River raises his head and gazes at me. What happened? he asks.

You really have to ask that?

He looks around with bloodshot eyes, piecing events together as he goes, his memory stopping him just before he sees the headlight.

That’s right, pal. I say. Take it all in.

He hangs his head, unable to look at me. Man…I’m so sorry.

Damn it.

I hate when he doesn’t fight back. I start in again but stop when I notice his biceps pulsing. They remind me of the last time I pushed him too far.

Don’t sweat it, I say, and drop it.

After he pushes himself up to sitting, he stands. Then he pukes. He staggers over to his car and sinks to the ground in front of it. I just barely see him, resting his head against the Chevy’s grill. His face is pale and gray, like a corpse above the headlights. I hear sirens in the distance and wonder when they get here who they’ll treat first.

Driver’s ed prepared me for a lot of things, like how to steer out of an icy skid or how not to hydroplane. What they didn’t prepare me for was how loud ambulance sirens are, or how metal doors crash when they get flung open, or how a stretcher sounds like nails on a chalkboard when it’s dragged across asphalt.

The first person who gets to me announces himself as Officer Daniels of the Cherry County Highway Patrol. He looks like my dad, in a generic, military sort of way. Same hair cut, same super clean shave. Only the eyes are different. The only person I know who has brown, almost black eyes like my dad is me.

Can you tell me what happened here? he asks.

I almost don’t hear him over the sound of his knee creaking. I look down to my own leg and wonder if that’s what I’m in for.

I dumped it coming around the turn, I say.

Aha.

Think I hit sand or something.

Ya’ don’t say.

I can tell he’s hoping I’ll ramble. It’s the same trick my dad uses when he’s trying to trap me in a lie. I look down at my watch and decide not to say anymore. I’ve been a legal adult for almost ten minutes.

He takes the flashlight off his belt and shines it around, stopping on the helmet beside me. You were wearing that, right? he asks, more as a statement than a question.

Yeah, but I took it off so I could look at my leg.

He shines the light down toward the front of the bike. How’s it feeling?

How’s what feeling?

He stares at me for a second and then sweeps the light up to my eyes. "The leg, son.

How’s the leg feeling?"

My leg? Uh...fine, I guess. As the words leave my mouth it dawns on me—I haven’t felt pain, or anything, in my leg for a while now.

He motions over his shoulder to the ambulance crew and then turns back to me.

You got a name, kid?

Yeah, Sawyer Hayden.

And where do you go to school, Sawyer Hayden? he asks as he swings the light from eye to eye.

Valentine High School.

Aha. You play football for Valentine?

Football? Hell no. Basketball.

He huffs. You got something against football?

Not really. I just thought one Hayden in football was enough.

Daniels stops dead, raises his flashlight over my face and stares down at me—confused, as if he’s not sure where he’s seen me before. "Hayden? You’re not Jimmy Hayden’s boy, are you?"

I’m not sure if I should say anything but I see EMTs gathering around me so I answer, confident I’ll have at least a few witnesses. Uh… yeah. Why?

Well I’ll be damned. Your dad was the best linebacker Valentine’s ever seen. I didn’t know he was back in town.

He’s not. It’s just me. Oh, and now my brother. I point over his shoulder to River.

Daniels does a subtle double take. Ah…yeah, I see it now. It’s in the build.

They must teach politeness at the Cherry County police academy. Officer Daniels is kind enough not to mention what no one else in this town can keep to themselves; the reason they think my blonde haired, blue eyed brother doesn’t look like our Spanish father. Small town gossip is a bitch.

The EMTs move Daniels out of the way as they set up their equipment. He circles around me, still asking questions.

If your father's not here, who are the two of you staying with?

My grandfather, Gus Turner.

Ha. I know Gus. He's still out on route twenty?

Uh huh.

And where’s your father?

I’m not sure if the EMTs are as schooled in politeness as Officer Daniels so I answer him in code, hoping he remembers my dad well enough to pick up on it.

Savannah, I say.

Daniels thinks for a moment, then nods.

Savannah is my mother’s name.

I’m going to check on your brother now, but I’ll be back. You hang in there. He gives my shoulder a light squeeze before he walks away and I can’t decide what it is about him that makes me miss my dad.

I lean away from the EMTs trying to work on me and look over to River. I’ve got to see his face when he finally notices a cop walking toward him.

I see River push himself up to standing…see him run the back of his hand across his mouth…he licks his lips… wait for it…. yes . There it is. The River smile.

Sometimes I really love my big brother.

I hear a voice from behind me say, Sawyer, I’m Emily, and I need you to lie back so Lieutenant Shaw here can put this collar on you, alright?

I do as she says. I lie back down and stare straight above me, afraid to blink.

You want to know what else driver’s ed doesn’t prepare you for? What to do when a hot EMT’s chest hovers inches above your face while someone else wraps a collar around your neck. I swear I could feel all the blood I lost suck back up into my leg and stop just below my belt.

Shaw sets the collar in place and then looks me up and down. Geez kid, just how tall are ya’?

Six foot-five, I answer. I’ve gotten used to this question.

I dunno, he says, scratching his head. We may have to drive with the rear doors open. He looks at me and laughs. I’m glad he thinks it’s funny.

I finally work up the courage to ask how bad off I am.

I’ll know more once we get the bike up off ya.’ Now listen, Emily’s gonna stay here while I tend to the kid at the car.

That’s my brother. Don’t mention blood.

He barks a laugh. That explains it.

Just as I think he’s about to stand, he bends down and whispers, be a gentleman, ya’ hear? Next he throws a quick glance up at Emily who gestures back in some secret EMT language. Then they laugh.

For the first time tonight, I want to die.

Movement from somewhere around my feet pulls me back to reality. Hand me that torch will ya’? A new voice says to someone else I don’t see. The next sound I hear makes me think of someone rooting through a toolbox. The one after that I know is a flashlight clicking on.

Alright Hayden, the voice begins. My men and I are gonna lift the bike, just a bit, so we can get a better look at what we’re dealing with. You stay put and behave for Emily.

I say yes, making sure I do—not—look—up.

Lieutenant Shaw, the voice calls out. Come get a look at this.

I hear River yell, What's happening? to Shaw, but Shaw doesn’t answer him. By the time Shaw gets to me River is screaming.

How you holdin’ up kid? Shaw asks, a little too calmly.

What’s going on with my brother? I answer, completely panicked.

Not to worry, not to worry.

Shaw moves down to the front tire, out of sight. There’s a heavy, wet, dragging sound I can’t place until I see a giant red wad go flying through the air. River’s jacket splat-lands on the ground beside me.

I hear grunting and groaning and shoes slipping in blood. There’s another creak, louder this time. I hear the flashlight click off.

Time to move, people. Shaw says, even calmer than before.

Suddenly there’s someone’s at my side, holding what looks like a bright orange surfboard. I grab the tank to pull myself up. Emily tries to hold me down but I shrug her off. Shaw yells something but I don’t listen. I need to see my brother.

I pull myself up high enough to see River and Daniels struggling in front of the car.

Daniels fights to hold him back.

River drops his shoulder, shoves Daniels out of his way and charges forward.

Daniels tackles him and they hit the ground— hard.

Handcuffs fly in front of the headlights.

My hands shoot up to claw the collar off just as Shaw presses my shoulders to the ground. I growl at him and come off sounding as intimidating as anyone pinned to the ground can.

You don’t get it, I croak. I don’t care about basketball or my knee or anything. I need to get out of here.

You will Sawyer, you will, Emily says. But it’s important for you to hold still right now.

Her soothing voice just pisses me off more. I hear a car door slam followed by jagged running sounds. Daniels appears above me. What have we got? he asks, winded.

At least River didn’t go down easy. It was more than I could say for me. Shaw and Daniels step away from me to speak but I don't bother to listen. I’m too busy paying attention to the far off sound of a boot pounding against glass.

Daniels walks back to me and takes an awkward knee. He puts his hand on top of my head and begins speaking very softly. They need to put you on the board Sawyer, so you can’t move or speak or react to anything you hear, do you understand?

I hear myself say yes. Suddenly I’m too cold and tired to argue.

Don’t worry. I’ll be with you every step of the way, son.

Son.

It sounded worse than Sawyer.

I look up at Daniels and say, Tell my dad I’m sorry about Christmas. He’ll know what it means. You know, in case I don’t get to.

Daniels looks down at me and smiles. I will. I promise. Now let these people do their jobs and let me worry about the rest. His smile’s a lie, but I buy it.

Daniels nods to Shaw who announces, We’re a go on three, just as I hear the far off sound of glass shattering…

ONE…

…just as a sensation of floating washes over me…

TWO...

…just as I drift off into darkness.

CHAPTER 2

Bell Bottom Blues

(Derek and the Dominos)

"You know what dad? I’m not sorry. I’m glad Savannah’s not coming. I don’t give a shit if it is Christmas."

The sound of the Mack’s engine screaming as my father hammered down on the gears told me I probably shouldn’t have mentioned my mother. His grinding down hard into fifth told me I definitely shouldn’t have called her Savannah.

Well my father can beat his truck to death for all I care. All the angry driving in the world won’t get me to apologize for how I see her, not as my mother but as a woman who bails on us every chance she gets. I don’t know why he thought this Christmas would be any different. Apparently he did, because a broken Savannah promise is the only thing that can get him pissed enough to abuse his truck (a close second being any nation other than Spain to win the World’s Cup). It’s a shame too, since his truck’s treated him better and lasted longer than she ever did. Although nothing less than torture would get him to admit it.

And since my favorite method of torture is a cold, silent glare, I turned in my seat and fixed my eyes on his face, determined to stare him down until he cracked and started swearing. On a good day I can get him to do it in Spanish. It must not have been a good day because the longer I glared the more he made a point of ignoring me, pretending a little too hard to be distracted by snowflakes whipping in and out of the headlights.

Yeah. This is my dad thinking he’s clever. But what he doesn’t know (and what River and I do), is that his face screams louder than his truck most days. All it took was one look at his super clean shave to know he honestly thought this time would be different. This time she’d show. It’s only been a few hours but I’m sure if I looked close enough I’d see a jaw already covered in a mass of thick black stubble. I don’t know why he bothered.

Not wanting a repeat of the Thanksgiving Day Migraine of 2010 I decided to drop the glare and flat out push him. So how many Christmases does this make now? River says it’s three but I say it’s four because I count the one where she brought the boyfriend. So which is it? Do we count the boyfriend or what?

From the way he tore across three lanes of traffic and nearly plowed over top a minivan I’d say that last comment brought me dangerously close to his line.

I suppose if I were a good son I could have let it go, let him pretend to ignore me as I pretended not to notice the pathetic, jilted expression on his face. But I wouldn’t be me if I did. So what I chose to do instead was say, "Ah, yes. I can see the headline now, Massive Christmas Eve Pile-up Due To Even More Massive Trucker’s Road Rage." When all that got me was a twitch of his jaw I added, So she ditched us. Big deal. Stop moping and get over it.

Right on cue his good son leaned out of the truck’s sleeper cab behind me and smacked me hard upside the head as he hissed, You better shut the hell up before you get us killed.

River. My father’s personal borderline patrol.

I rubbed the back of my head and came away with a wet palm. My brother spits when he whispers. What do you want me to do? Lie to him?

Of course not, but you could try being nice once in a while.

Screw nice. I’m being honest.

All honesty’s gonna get you is a face full of windshield. So unless you’re ready to die a virgin I suggest you shut your cakehole.

How about this- I honestly don’t give a shit how the truth makes him feel or how this makes you feel! I punctuated my sentence with a classic Hayden charlie horse.

He worked the knot out of his muscle as he grit his teeth and said, You wouldn’t be you if you did.

You know what River? Fine. I reached up, turned on the overhead light and said, Dad, I am very sorry Savannah ditched us. AGAIN.

A look of confusion spread across his face and I could tell he wasn’t sure how to answer me. My father speaks two languages and sarcasm isn’t one of them.

Instead of a response from our father I got River punching me in the arm and then pointing down to our dad’s massive hands clamped around the steering wheel, strangling it with so much force the bones of his knuckles shown white through his skin. It was all I could do not to smile.

You proud of yourself? River asked in spit.

I am actually. Someone had to say it. At least I had the balls.

Damn lot of good your balls did. Look.

He nodded his head to ward the windshield and I looked out in time to see us barreling into the lane for the next southbound exit ramp.

Shit.

Uh dad…where are we going? I asked.

My father reached up, snapped off the light, and said nothing. He didn’t have to. I knew exactly where we were going.

Southbound meant Florida. Florida meant Miami. Miami meant my mother and her not so secret boyfriend, Jackson LeBrock. But worst of all, Miami meant not Nebraska.

I folded my arms across my chest and slammed back against the seat. I was sick of feeling sorry when I wasn’t or hopeful when I wasn’t, but most of all I was sick of keeping my father’s happy family fantasy alive.

You knew this was gonna happen, dipshit, River said. I warned you not to push him.

I flicked my brother off my ear like a fly.

He swatted me instead. You need to get your damn anger issues under control.

I don’t give a shit, I said, probably louder than I should have. It made River flinch.

Yeah, my brother’s twitchy. People who don’t know us well take one look at the size of our dad and assume he beats him. Fact is he never laid a hand on us. It was a fact I counted on often. River, however, rarely passed up an opportunity to belt me.

You’re gonna give a shit if you keep on pushing.

Oh yeah? Why’s that? I said as I dried my ear off on my sleeve.

River didn’t answer, he just raised his eyes and stared at the visor packed full of junk above our father’s head. I had no idea what he was getting at.

Yet.

I flipped him off without knowing why and started in on our dad again. Savannah doesn’t own you, dad. You don’t need her permission to spend Christmas with Gus. We were practically to Nebraska as it was.

My father made a few pathetic attempts at a reply, stopping and starting before he eventually spoke. Permission has nothing to do with it, Sawyer.

Then why aren’t we going?

Because.

"Okay, because why?"

He exhaled hard through his nose and for a moment I could have sworn I saw steam. Because Gus wants to spend Christmas with his daughter, and I’m not about to show up without her. THAT'S why.

Every instinct I had told me to roll my eyes. Instead I asked myself what River would do and then said, "Come on, dad. You’re more like his kid than she is. He even said so. Gus didn’t even know he had a daughter until she was eighteen."

Nineteen. He corrected me as if it mattered somehow.

The point is you lived with him for years before Savannah bothered to show up.

That’s because my mother worked for him. It’s not like we were family.

Then why did he let you stay after your mom got sick? Huh? Who does that?

I heard River gasp behind me, so I gave him a subtle settle down motion with my hand. The subject of our dad’s dead mother is a line even I won’t cross.

My father lowered his voice to a growl. Make your point, Sawyer.

My point is we’re the only family Gus has got and that includes you. Calling Savannah his daughter is bullshit. You’re just too blind to see it.

You know everything, don’t you? It must be nice to be so smart all the time.

It is actually, now that you mention it. I knew it wasn’t really a question but I answered him anyway. There was no way in hell I was letting him get the last word.

He muttered something in Spanish I couldn’t quite make out and continued to take his frustration out on the steering wheel, wrenching down on it hard enough to make it shake inside the dash. I just sat there and cracked my knuckles, waiting for him to blow.

Life with my father is like living on the edge of a volcano. After a while the pressure of waiting for the blast gets to you, so you figure out ways to set it off before it catches you off guard. I’ve been burned enough to know that when my father’s volcano erupts, it spews in Spanish.

"Sé que esto no parece justo, pero tiene que confiar en mí. Tú lo entender ás todo

esto cuando tenga más edad. Te lo prometo." (I know this doesn’t seem fair, but I need you to trust me. You’ll understand all this when you’re older, I promise).

As far as I was concerned, seventeen was old enough. ¿Qué hay que entender? Usted está montada, fácil como eso. (What’s there to understand? You’re whipped, easy as that).

Yeah. That one did it.

The truck suddenly came to a screeching halt, and I realized my father was using the brake pedal to push himself up and over toward me. I threw myself back away from him, slamming against the door and smacking my head against the glass.

Dad! What are you—?

NOT NOW RIVER.

He reached past the spot where I’d just been to the rig’s CD player, ejected ‘White Christmas’ and whipped it at me. It hit me in the head hard enough to knock my favorite Huskers ball cap off and send it spinning to the floor.

My father’s hand scrambled around the cab; searching for something he wasn’t finding and not stopping until he reached the driver’s side visor. He paused for a moment then dug in and began pulling trash out by the handful, throwing it down into a pile on the seat between us.

So help me God, River threatened under his breath.

My dad slowly pulled out a beat up CD case right where River must have hidden it, tucked away between an old pair of sunglasses and a wadded up stack of fuel receipts. He slid the CD into the deck and pressed play. I figured the song out by the fourth chord.

Bell Bottom Blues.

We were in for a five minute, four second pity party.

The second we stop, you’re dead. River hissed in my ear.

I didn’t bother to argue. I had it coming.

River and I knew where we stood with our father (or in my case, how far I could push him), based on the song at hand. Bell Bottom Blues was his favorite for when he missed Savannah the most and began to doubt whether or not our latest road trip might convince her to take him back.

I put my palms behind my head and leaned back against the seat, hoping to get a nap in before my beating from River began. The whirring sound of eighteen wheels on the road might have lulled me to sleep if it weren’t for the sound of River chomping his fingernails down to a grisly nub. When he finished mutilating his hand he reached forward and nudged my shoulder with it.

What?!

He didn’t answer; he just kept nodding his head toward our father, each time shaking another piece of shaggy blonde hair into his eyes.

I knew what he was getting at but I didn’t care. I had no intention of apologizing, even if it meant spending the next three and a half minutes getting smacked around to the tune of, ‘I Shot the Sheriff.’

River shot me a deadly look and then tapped our father on the shoulder. Hey dad, can we make a quick pit stop before everything closes up for Christmas?

My father pushed up his sleeve and checked his watch. Make it quick. He ran his hand slowly back and forth over his forearm before he pulled his sleeve down, hiding a faded tattoo of the name Savannah.

River’s hand wrapped around my neck and dragged me backward. You better tell me what the hell your problem is when we stop.

I croaked out the word fine and began scanning road signs for an exit. The combination of ice and snow made it almost impossible to read through the wipers. I’d nearly given up when I heard River yell from behind my head, Quick! Dad! There!

River pointed out the right side of the windshield to a small but growing blue light just off the next exit ramp. A large wooden sign came into view and River struggled to read it out loud. The Dodson Family Diner, Market and Fuel – Voted best pecan cornbread in the state of Kansas. He grab bed my shoulders and shook me, rattling my brain. We’ve GOT to stop there!

Food makes my brother happy.

My father down shifted and eased the rig off the interstate, pulling through the parking lot up to a dimly lit set of diesel pumps on the far side of the building. He hadn’t even set the parking brake before River climbed up and over top of me on his way out of the truck, slapping me hard upside my head as he went.

Outta my way little brother!

If I get a brain tumor someday I’ll know who to blame. I took a moment to stretch my legs before I got out. The growth spurt that hit me last fall had been a son of a bitch. I barely fit into the cab anymore. Eventually I caught up with River as he stood at the front door, talking to a woman who shivered and smoked.

Hurry up kid, I haven’t got all night. She blew the last of the smoke out her nostrils then snuffed the butt out under a heavy, lace less boot. River rushed ahead to the door, stepped to the side and held it open. I followed her in, keeping a safe distance as she shook snowflakes out of her bushy, ketchup colored hair.

She waddled behind the counter and hung her sweater on a hook. I noticed a blue name tag with Bernice printed in gold and pinned sideways to her shirt. Market’s open but the diner’s closed, boys, Bernice said before either one of us could speak. River asked for directions to the restroom. Restroom's for paying customers only. You boys buyin’ something or what?

Yes Ma’am, River said.

River’s always polite to women. He looked around and grabbed the first thing he saw off the shelves behind him, a package of pink snowballs, and tossed them onto the counter.

So who’s payin’ for this? Bernice sneered.

My dad is. He’ll be in after he fills his truck, River said as he willed his eyes to see through a thick black barrier that hid the top row of magazines above Bernice's head.

Bernice eyed him doubtfully.

Without breaking his gaze he pointed to a window and said, "Honest. You can even look. It’s the white rig with El Toro on the door."

She stepped over to a window that looked out onto the pumps, peered through the glass and spotted our father. "Well, well, would you look at that?"

River finally

Reviews for The Gods of Asphalt

[colleenmbratley · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a story that touches your heart and captures your soul. You enjoy sharing the time with Sawyer, his family and friends feeling like you belong. You understand them, you could be one of the family, and really enjoy their company.Oh to be sought after by a guy like Sawyer. You just have to love him. Yeah, he does some stupid things, but then who doesn't. And actually, considering the road his life has gone down, it doesn't really surprise you, but it sure gives you an emotional reaction. H.E. Ellis does a great job of developing her characters and as the story unfolds, so do the personalities that you end up absolutely loving. So much so that I really can't wait to read Book 2, River, to hear more about him and of course Sawyer and the others. Sawyer is my hero now.While you are trying to figure out what makes each of the characters tick, you have to marvel and how the author weaves the story to reveal each person in their own light, but also how the interaction affects them. Well, at least you think you have it figured out, or what the reasons might be, but then sometimes you didn't get it quite right, and the story brings you to another place and emotion, that you just didn't see coming.Sometimes in a story, as you become involved with the characters, you want things to end a certain way, or things to happen in a certain way. H.E. Ellis is really good at creating the emotions that actually force you to become involved. It brings you to the party, and you just can't leave. No reader really has any other choice. You feel the joy, fear, pain, love; you name it, all the way through the book. And sometimes the clock stops ticking as you relate something to yourself, which gives you an even keener insight to the characters and the story.I must admit, I didn't think I would be so entertained. I really enjoyed the story from start to finish, and cheered for the characters with their trials and tribulations as if they had been known personally to me for years. The best part is, each character had its part, but of course the main character being Sawyer, you felt complete understanding and an almost finish with him. I say almost because he is interesting and fun, so you want more. I don't think you could ever get tired or bored with him. But the other characters she left you wondering and wanting more information to explain their souls. It makes you wantanxious to read the rest of the series. H.E. Ellis better write fast, I think the fans will grow restless otherwise. Very, very well done H.E. Ellis.