Headlock

By Angela Prusia

A midnight raid.

A missing jockstrap.

And a few unfortunate incidents.

Three strangers find themselves sharing the same cabin over a week at summer camp.

Skyler refuses to let Berkley make life miserable again for his brother with Down syndrome.

Kaveon's caseworker signed him up for camp after a run-in with the law.

And Hamilton must endure seven more days at another wilderness adventure program: his father's answer to dealing with the loss of his mother.

An unlikely friendship forms between this motley group of boys as they wrestle against a common enemy.

When a prank war heats up, what happens when a rivalry goes too far?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela Prusia
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393504528

Book preview

Headlock

Book One: The Bully Bracket

Angela Welch Prusia

Headlock

Book One: The Bully Bracket

Copyright © 2020 by Angela Welch Prusia

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

Summary: Three strangers find themselves sharing the same cabin over a week at summer camp. An unlikely friendship forms between the motley group of boys as they wrestle against a common enemy. When a prank war heats up, a rivalry goes too far.

Cover: Anelia Savova/www.crowdspring.com

Contact the author: www.angelawelchprusia.com

ISBN: 9798649329194 (Paperback)

B089D8HJYK (Kindle)

9781393504528 (Ebook)

Also by Angela Welch Prusia

_______________________

BRAiN RIDE

Late Summer Monarch

Tandem

Anonymous

Nameless

Faceless

Fearless

For Grandma Kitty Elaine DeForest Welch

Even though we have yet to meet this side of Heaven,

your life is the inspiration behind Hamilton’s mother.

Your decision to have kids despite your ailing health

continues to impact countless lives. I love you.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Skyler

Kaveon

Hamilton

Kaveon

Hamilton

Kaveon

Skyler

Kaveon

Hamilton

Skyler

Kaveon

Skyler

Hamilton

Kaveon

Hamilton

Hamilton

Sneak Peek: Pinned

Sneak Peek: Anonymous

A Note from the Author

Acknowledgments

Headlock

Book One: The Bully Bracket

Prologue

Late August 2018

He hates himself for getting caught.

His lawyer pulls paperwork from a briefcase. The power suit does little to ease his fears. The guy is too busy for small talk.

The clock shows five minutes before the hour. His parents sit behind him. Her eyes scan the room for anyone she might know. His father gives a curt nod to his colleague, lips pursed together in a tight frown. He’s not used to being on this side of the courtroom.

All rise when the judge opens the side door.

He loosens his tie. The ugly thing strangles him, making him even more uneasy.

The judge looks like he could make a drill sergeant wet his pants. His black coat stretches over broad shoulders as he looks out over the audience, his eyes narrowing over a hook nose. The judge is one of two juvenile judges for the county with a reputation for his no-nonsense approach to criminal activity.

His knees buckle.

Take a seat, the judge bellows from his bench, then spits out a long monologue about rights.

The clock ticks on the wall, the second hand taunting him.

Tick, tick, tick.

He wants nothing more than to run out of the courtroom. But where would he go? Cops patrol the halls. They’d tackle him in minutes.

Tick, tick, tick.

Every little movement is heightened as if playing out in slow motion. From the corner of his eye, he can see his mother straighten the pleats on her skirt. Her perfectly manicured nails tremble. His father clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable at the lack of control.

Even his lawyer straightens a stack of papers.

Not a good sign.

The power suit may talk a good game, but even the best lawyers lose cases.

He wants to bury his head in his hands, but he forces himself to remain seated, back and shoulders straight, eyes focused ahead.

There is no jury. Just the judge.

I’m going to give it to you straight, son. I’m dismissing the drug charge, but the assault is inexcusable. A life of privilege comes with responsibilities. Bottom line: you’re spoiled. Two weeks in juvenile detention will make you think about your choices.

He blinks, trying to process the words. The lawyers reached a plea bargain. His lawyer said the judge would likely follow the recommendation. That he’d get probation at most.

But the tears in his mother’s eyes and the look of disdain from his father confirm his nightmare. His lawyer mutters a few curse words under his breath, no doubt angrier about losing the case than his sentence to juvie.

He resists the urge to punch the table.

How will he survive two weeks behind bars?

Skyler

Sunday: Almost midnight

Early July 2018

I’ve spent most of my 13 years in a headlock.

That’s life when you’re stuck in a family with all boys. Poor Mom. Even Greco and Roman, our two Labrador Retrievers are males. (Yes, they’re named after the style of wrestling that prohibits holds below the waist.)

I’m the third son in the lineup: Jax, Gator, me and Petey. We breathe testosterone, sweat and too much Axe body spray. Throw in a couple jockstraps, and my very existence is a daily wrestling match.

So, I should be able to escape this predicament without a problem. But wiggling out of my brothers’ grasp is one thing. A wrestling injury left Jax with a weak left wrist, and Gator has a ticklish spot at his collarbone. They used to gang up on me, but I got smart, anticipating their moves and foiling their strategy. After years of practice, I can escape their grasp in under half a minute. Five seconds on a record day.

But this current unfortunate quandary doesn’t involve a pair of arms locked around my neck. It’s sometime near midnight in a pitch-black cabin in the woods. Somewhere between the stages of sleep, my subconscious registers a door open and footsteps pad across the wooden floor. I feel someone hover over me, but my eyes are too thick with exhaustion.

Something inches alongside my sleeping bag, its weight pressing against my side. My brain fights to put the pieces together, but I’m too groggy to move.

Scaly cold skin touches my flesh, jolting me with a start. I’m fully awake, all senses on heightened alert and heart thudding in my chest.

My insides scream, but I don’t make a sound.

I’m in a headlock with a snake.

The hiss of a forked tongue sends a shiver down my spine. A thick snake slithers around my neck. I’m guessing the thing is at least four feet long, but the room is too dark for me to determine length, or more importantly—whether the snake is venomous.

I’m a self-proclaimed outdoor enthusiast. Snakes and spiders and other critters don’t usually bother me, but even I don’t want to sleep with something I can’t see. Better to leave the big guy under a rock.

Of course, the culprit who left behind my reptilian friend is long gone. The cabin door swings open on its hinges. I know exactly who to blame.

Berkley is going down for this stunt. The guy’s a dead man. I’m already calculating how to shave his eyebrows or add a ghost pepper to one of his meals. When I’m done, he won’t know what hit him.

I’m guessing the snake is a bull snake since they’re common around camp. Bull snakes aren’t poisonous, but they will bite if provoked. Of course, I could be totally wrong. The cabin is dark after all.

If the snake sinks its fangs into my neck, I can’t panic. That’s Rule #1. Staying calm slows the spread of venom throughout the bloodstream. Rule #2: Don’t suck out the poison. More than one person has died this way.

I try not to dwell on the possibility of death. I turn 14 in a month. I barely have any facial hair.

I don’t hear the ominous rattle, but if this bad boy is a rattlesnake, I’ll have nightmares for years. I almost crapped my pants when I stumbled on a rattler sunning itself on a rock.

The threat is enough to give me doubts. Berkley knows better than to mess with a rattler, but our rivalry runs deep. And he’s just mean enough to choose something that will leave a mark.

Sweat beads my forehead as I remember what we learned in Boy Scouts. Apparently, more people die each year being crushed from vending machines than snake bites, but that does little to comfort me now.

The creature presses its weight against my skin, closing my airway.

I can’t breathe.

Death by snake: not the epitaph I want on my tombstone.

My brain fires a message to my paralyzed muscles: Move!

It’s now or never. I close my eyes, praying it’s only a bull snake and jump to my feet. The door is next to my bunk, a mere 15 feet away. I hustle outside. Thankfully, the sudden motion is enough to send the snake flying off my neck as I rush out the door. The creature is momentarily stunned. For a brief second, we gape at one another as if waiting for the other to move. The moonlight illuminates creamy scales and dark blotches. I’m staring at a bull snake.

Good thing I’m not in any real danger. My brothers are no help at all. I could be writhing on the ground, foaming at the mouth, and they’d still be sound asleep. Their snores drift through the open door. No one stirs because we stayed up too late playing pool in the game room. I’d be dead before Jax or Gator came to my rescue. But I can’t blame them; it was a long day of cleaning the cabins, getting ready for the next round of campers.

The bull snake slithers off the porch and into the trees. Seeing the thing stretch to full length makes me shudder. The reptile is over five feet long. If only I’d gotten a picture, proof of my escapade.  

A burst of laughter over my shoulder breaks the silence like a gunshot. I scan the woods for Berkley. A pair of menacing gold eyes pierce the darkness, but they probably belong to a predator—not my nemesis. Of course, Berkley doesn’t have the balls to reveal himself.

If only the jerk went home with the other campers. Most kids come to camp for a week, but Berkley’s parents pay for a month of babysitting. I think they would go for the whole summer, but even my dad, the camp director, has his limits with the spoiled brat.

Very funny, Berkley, I call into the darkness. Watch your back. I’m coming after you when you least expect it.

Berkley just howls as if mimicking some primeval call of the wild. Even the coyotes don’t respond, the cry too pathetic to answer.

Laugh now. I clench my fists, my mind filling with sweet possibilities of retaliation. You won’t be amused when I get my revenge. This is war.

I’M TOO MAD TO GO BACK to sleep, so I take the trail behind the cabins and head toward the lake. I listen for footsteps behind me, but Berkley doesn’t follow me. My dad won’t be happy if he finds out I went off on my own, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Sitting on the dock always relaxes me. Besides, it’s not like my dad is going to kick me out of camp. Not when we live on the campgrounds all year round. It’s one of the perks of being the director’s son.

And the reason I’m Berkley’s target.

The kid has hated me since the day he learned I was Jordan’s son. My dad doesn’t feed Berkley’s ego like all his other pawns. He may have servants that cater to his every need at home, but this is camp. Things are a bit more primitive outdoors.

I dip my toes into the warm water, the ripple wavering the reflection of the moon and the trees on the surface. A fish jumps nearby, its splash echoing in the silence. A pair of muskrats scamper in the brush across from me on the opposite shore.

Camp season (Memorial Day to Labor Day) pays the bills, but I prefer the off-season when we only have weekend retreats and family reunions. The part-time staff dwindles, leaving behind only our family to manage the facility the rest of the year.

After school lets out for the day, my brothers and I have the whole place to ourselves. Yeah, it’s a lot of work painting cabins, scrubbing toilets and completing the long list of odd jobs to maintain the place, but it’s our little slice of heaven on earth.

We moved to Camp Kitaki when I was in kindergarten, and my dad got the job as the camp facilities director. Sometimes I still pinch myself. Living at a camp is a dream come true.

I mean, how many kids get 24/7 access to their own private lake with a water trampoline, a paintball course in the woods, a double zipline, a rock-climbing tower, a disc golf course and an archery range? Of course, there’s also unlimited fishing and kayaking, plus a small fleet of ATVs for hauling firewood, trash and other materials. Nothing beats flying through the woods on an ATV or kicking up sand along the river.

I lay back, feeling the cool wood planks of the dock through my t-shirt. The stars blink overhead, shrinking my problems.

Staring at the vastness never gets old.

Every camp season comes with guys like Berkley. There’s always that one jerk whose mission is to make life miserable. Berkley just happens to be the worst.

And he returns year after year, starting the summer after we moved to the campgrounds. Even then he was a pampered pretty boy with rich, uninvolved parents.

Berkley came to camp asking for trouble the moment he stepped onto the property. Putting a worm in my chocolate pudding is one thing. Making my little brother cry is unforgivable. The jerk ripped up Petey’s tie-dye shirt just for kicks. The poor kid hugged his shredded creation and sobbed his eyes out.

Seriously, you have to be pretty heartless to hurt a little guy with Down syndrome. I was only six at the time, but I still remember the raw anger that welled inside of me. Berkley made three enemies the day he messed with Petey.

Enemy #1: My oldest brother. You don’t want to get on Jax’s bad side unless you want a serious bruising. My rib is still sore because I took the last sprinkled donut at breakfast this morning. Jax is 16, a terror at hide-and-seek in the dark and a beast on the rock tower. His lean frame and cat-like reflexes make him a natural. Jax holds the record for scaling the 30-foot tower and ringing the bell in under a minute. He makes a great camp counselor because no one can pull anything over on the master prankster, but this summer, he’s on kitchen duty.

Enemy #2: My brother, Gator, is also a formidable opponent. Don’t even think about wrestling the dude. He’ll have you pinned in seconds. Gator’s mess of thick sandy brown hair gives him two inches over Jax, even though he’s a year younger. His real name is Tyson, but he got the nickname when he was five. Jax convinced Gator that the lizard he’d found under the boat dock was a baby alligator. Gator put the ugly thing in a pet carrier and had everyone else convinced, too. Turns out the lizard was a rare breed, so the Humane Society intervened and took the pet. Gator won’t admit it, but he cried for a week.

Enemy #3: Me. Skyler, the next on the roster, and a fighter in my own right as well. Just ask Gator how he got three stitches on his jaw line. I paid for it with a broken nose, but that’s life with brothers. When I’m not in a headlock, I’m in the water. My specialty is front flips off the water trampoline, but I can beat my brothers across the lake and still have time to get a tan. They stumble out of the water and collapse on the sand, and my heart’s not even racing. I want to join the swim team in high school—even if my brothers don’t think it’s a real sport like wrestling.

The three of us might disagree on sports, but there’s one thing we never debate: no one messes with Petey. A few years ago, Jax said we should make a pact, so we signed it in blood to make it official. The last kid who tried to hurt Petey got his underwear run up the flagpole and a new nickname: Skid Mark. It was my idea to run his tighty whities through the mud, so the streak looked like poo. Payback for messing with a kid who doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.

Petey is only a year younger than me, but he’s as innocent and naïve as a little kid—even when we try to teach him street smarts. Evil and cruelty don’t exist in Petey’s world. His infectious smile makes him a camp favorite to everyone, except Berkley. The jerk is used to being top dog, but seriously? Is he really that insecure that he’s jealous of Petey?

The whole thing is almost laughable.

Berkley is threatened by my little brother.

Take camp registration seven days ago: Week