The Lost Boy, 2.

Jamie walked slowly down the stairs of the multi-level deck in his backyard. His parents were wealthy. No. His grandparents were wealthy. He would not deny them that. After all, they were the ones who now paid for him to attend St. Dominic’s. Since he now sans scholarship. But he never flaunted their wealth, and most people would never guess.

The house he grew up in was huge. It belonged to his mother’s parents; it had been their vacation home before he was born. A log cabin nestled against a backdrop of mountains and a frozen lake. It really was a beautiful site. From the outside.

Inside, it was slightly more chaotic. The once perfectly polished hardwood floors were now caked with dirt and dust. His mother had simply not taken care of the place. It was hard, he knew, to keep up. There was too much going on in their home. Family pictures made an attempt at covering the holes punched in the walls. Nothing was in the same place twice. None of the appliances were updated. His home looked as though a hurricane had gone through, but that was its general state. He was used to it.

Jamie continued down the stairs until he came to his favorite spot on the grounds. The dock stretched out a few yards over the water. He sat down and let his legs dangle over the edge. From above, nothing could be seen but darkness. He was hidden. Invisible. But from Jamie’s corner of the world, he could see clear across the water.

It was cold down by the water. He continually rubbed his hands together to keep warm. But he didn’t mind. He was away from everything – and everyone.

It was now close to midnight, and Jamie still refused to go inside. Inside was where his mother was. And his father. Not his father. John may have been daddy to the many young children that dismantled the house on a daily basis, but he was not Jamie Daniels’ father. He had been born a bastard and he was alright with admitting that. He wasn’t alright, however, with talking – or even thinking about his real father. Still, try as he might to suppress them, his thoughts often drifted across the Atlantic to the small island where the man resided.

Alan Jacob Davidson. He had been partners with Jamie’s maternal grandfather in the insurance business a number of years ago, before his mother became pregnant. It wasn’t an affair, and it wasn’t a one night stand. It was an accident, plain and simple. Both his parents had been too drunk to remember any of the details clearly, but Samantha was adamant that Alan was the father. Nothing could change her mind.

And nothing would have to. A paternity test was done immediately following Jamie’s birth. Fearing his partner’s wrath more than anything else, Alan fled the country to return to his native land. Picking up bits of information over the years, Jamie had learned that his father had married, and his trophy wife had bore him a second son. Christened with his father’s middle name, Jacob Davidson was something of junior hockey legend in England. Apparently, he to had inherited his father’s talent.

Jamie stood up and stretched, glancing lazily at his watch. It was two o’clock in the morning. He had been sitting on the dock for several hours now, lost in thought. With a habit born of much practice, he pushed all thoughts of his father from his mind as he made his way up the stone steps and into the house.

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