A/N: I'm starting school in a few days so I'll try to update on the weekends. Also, I'm currently working on a prequel so be on the lookout for that one too (Spoiler: Zane madness).

Disclaimer: I don't own High School Musical or its characters, but I'm corrupting them to the best of my abilities. If you're offended by sexual/violent references/behavior, it's best you get off the train and wait for another one.

Dedicated to mstinkxoxo, dyeitrouge, and Allison.

Chapter 3

It was the last day of school for twelve-year-old Stephanie Bolton when her older brother Troy waited in the parking lot behind the wheel of an old, white truck. The truck had belonged to their father, Jack, who died of a heart attack last summer. Since then, their mother, Clarissa, had quit her job to run Jack's body shop because it simply made more money. To help their mother pay the bills, Troy took a portion of his pay from whatever odd job he could find into the jar their mother hid below the sink.

Every night, he would return from work and help Stephanie with her homework before he started on his own. "As long as I'm here," he'd told her when she once confessed to wanting to start working like him, "you will never have to clean a dirty pool or pick up after a fussy dog or mow an uncut lawn. As long as I'm here, you won't have to worry about the clothes on your back or the roof over your head. I promise you that."

In the passenger seat, Stephanie scooted closer to Troy who lowered the volume on the sometimes broken radio and nodded to his backpack on the floor. "Check the front pocket."

Eager to find some food, she reached in and found something better-tickets to see Linkin Park! "An early birthday present," he explained to her shocked but very, very happy face.

She was probably the only kid in middle school who loved alternative rock, and probably the only one with braces and acne and whose breasts haven't developed yet. She couldn't find the words, so she hugged him hard until he laughed that he couldn't breath. She was still bouncing up and down in front of their apartment when Troy, in a tone that demanded attention, told her to go next door and call 911. Gone was the smile in his voice and the bounce in her step. Hearing hoarse crying and cruel words on the other side, she banged on their neighbor's door, angry that no one was answering. Troy had managed to break the door down, and she was still confused, still helpless, until their neighbor was thrown out their front door, falling over the railing.

She heard him croak for help. His name was Rick and he was asking for her help, and when she leaned over the railing, his pants were down, exposing himself. Troy pulled her away and told her to run to Uncle Mike's; he told her to wait there because she didn't need to be here. He didn't want anyone to badger her with questions. He wouldn't let anyone force her to stutter and cry.

So she ran to Uncle Mike's and ate all of his rocky road ice cream. Everything's okay, she'd told herself, there's nothing to worry about. Troy will fix this. He always fixes everything. For years, she would wish she hadn't run because they wouldn't let her see her older brother the next day. What Troy didn't want to happen the day before was happening twenty-four hours later. She was at the police station, crying and stuttering and begging to see her older brother.

"It wasn't his fault," she cried. "It was never his fault."

Even when Uncle Mike carried her from the station to the hospital to see her mother, Stephanie had never felt alone as she did in that moment. Troy was her best friend, her protector, her older brother who became her father. She cried into her mother's arms, and her mother cried into her daughter's unruly hair while Uncle Mike stood at the window with his back to them, shoulders shaking, wondering how everything went to shit.

At the plea bargaining, the judge sentenced Troy fourteen years to New Mexico State Penitentiary for involuntary manslaughter. During their first one-hour visitation, he had bloodshot eyes, a sign that he hadn't slept for days; he told them it was okay if they left the state.

"Listen to me," he said, cutting off Clarissa, sounding older than his seventeen years. "I hid some emergency money under my bed. I don't know how much there is in there, but take it-take all of it, pack everything, and leave. As for the shop, sell it. There's a guy named Josh who's willing to pay more than what it's worth. Take his offer. And my college fund? Just put it in Steph's account-"

"No!" the twelve-year-old whispered, crying into their mother's shaking shoulder.

"I'm a household name in this state," he continued bluntly. "There's no point in dragging you two through this."

It was the worst summer of their lives.

A month and a half later, they were in Gray Haven, California. They were the mother and daughter who kept to themselves until it was impossible. Like the residents of Winters, the residents of Gray Haven wanted to know all about their new neighbors, and bits and pieces from their past were whispered around town. Clarissa had lost her husband and kept his white, old truck in the garage, never driving it, and Stephanie was bullied at her last middle school but over the years, grew into her looks and became the most popular (yet reluctant) girl at Gray Haven High.

Oh, Troy? Clarissa's eldest? He was still in Albuquerque, doing his own thing, living his own life. When would he visit? Oh, he wasn't the type to travel much. Instead, Clarissa and Stephanie would visit him-they liked being on the road. What did he do? Oh, everything. He was always a hands-on kind-of-guy. Was he handsome? Of course. Did he have a girlfriend? Oh, no. He wasn't much for commitment.

Right away, Clarissa had used her bookkeeping skills to open an office with Troy's money. It was as if no one in town (or the three neighboring towns for that matter) had a bookkeeper so the then forty-three-year-old became the go-to gal for financial matters. It took a few years for the business to generate enough income to pay for therapy sessions and self-defense classes. Though the sessions were emotionally and mentally challenging, they were worth it. The self-defense classes, on the other hand, were not something they needed, but attending them on the weekends made them feel stronger, knowing that they were capable of unmanning anyone who had the nerve to put their hands on them.

"When I get out of here," then twenty-four-year-old Troy started during a rare one-hour visitation, his sleeves rolled up to bare the dragon slithering down his right forearm, "we'll have to see how good you two are."

"Troy," Clarissa started with a sweet voice that made her son's features soften, "I'll kick your butt so hard you'd want to find comfort in my womb again."

Nineteen-year-old Stephanie laughed while the inmate shuddered, his shackles rattling around his wrists.

Light moments like these made it slightly easier for Clarissa, but seeing those restraints on her son, her firstborn, always reminded her of that June afternoon (she didn't ask for it, and don't you dare say otherwise) and made her uncomfortable. Even more uncomfortable were the thoughts she kept away from her therapist. Thoughts such as, "What if he got into trouble again? What if he couldn't support himself?"

Eventually, she stopped asking the last question (because he had shared his plans of interviewing for every job he had a chance of scoring after his release), but the former had plagued her when she first saw Rick flat on the concrete, blood coming out of his ears as Troy helped her into the truck her husband picked her up in for their senior prom. Her son had done the responsible thing and turned himself in, but during the plea bargain, she found herself doubting him. Like Troy, Rick was good-looking, preferred to be alone, and worked with his hands. He was a good guy until he attacked her. Her son was a good guy until he killed Rick. It wasn't intentional, but Troy killed someone and that someone died and that was how everyone saw it.

When she finally shared this with Dr. Stevens, he asked without blame if she had ever compared her son to her rapist. After a few moments, Clarissa was ashamed to admit that she had. She went home to take a long, hard look in the mirror and cried. When she was ready, she pulled out Troy's baby pictures in a box she hid in her closet.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to a photo of him in yellow rain boots, followed by his graduation photo. He looked so handsome in his suit. "I'm so, so sorry."

At the next visit, Clarissa looked down at her hands as Stephanie described college from hard-ass teachers to late-night cramming. The twenty-six-year-old was smiling, happy for his younger sister, but the wistfulness in those dark blue eyes, hardened by incarceration and loneliness, killed her.

As if he read her mind, Troy had reached for her hand, and she couldn't remember the last time she touched her own son without flinching. "Don't ever blame yourself for what happened," he said in the softest voice she ever heard. "I did what I did and now I have to live with it."

'Live,' he said, not 'survive.' It was a big difference. She had to live with it, too, and figure out what 'it' exactly was.

It took her nine years to realize that it could've been her on the concrete, blood coming out of her ears. Her baby boy had saved her life-and sacrificed his own while doing so.

-0-

Five years later.

It was around three in the afternoon when Troy returned from dropping off Ms. Darbus. He took another shower (and enjoyed it because there was no need to look over his shoulder), ate a turkey sandwich, and resolved to take a three-to-four hour nap before heading over to his mom and sister's place in Gray Haven with Mike and Rob, who had slipped out the front door with a silly, little grin and two boxes of offending fruit.

Only in his sweats, he had thrown himself onto the bed and clutched his left arm under a pillow, laying on his side, eyes closed.

He was back at disciplinary segregation (he couldn't remember whom-or how many-he had put in the infirmary this time). He didn't mind the silence in this section of New Mexico State Penitentiary, but damn, couldn't they have been a little more original than sticking with the four, gray wall structure they had going on here? At least throw in a mini fridge full of beer and donuts.

It was weak humor-he knew he had better jokes up his sleeve. He must be losing his goddamned mind.

The door opened, but there was no one on the other side. Stepping out, he found himself alone. He walked to the library, and no one was reading. He went to the mess hall, and no one was dining. Inmates were gone, guards were missing, and the distinct lack of noise-no snoring, no senseless babbling-was disconcerting.

Finally, a scream. A feminine cry for help.

He followed it to the worst wing of the prison. Here, child molesters were spit on (don't ask what happened to them at night). Here, wife beaters had their faces smashed in. Here, the hunter would prey on the weak.

Troy should know. He had the scars on his body to prove it.

Men who tried to hurt him, beat him, touch him, were touching his mother and Stephanie and Gabriella and Taylor and Ms. Darbus and a few girls from Albuquerque. Suddenly frozen and chained around his wrists and feet, Troy was helpless to the blade against his throat and the sickening stench of liquor.

"Pretty and weak," Rick whispered, brushing his nose against the younger man's face. "Just how I like 'em."

He woke up on the floor, the sheets twisted around his legs, and ran his shaking fingers through his wet hair. It was time for another shower.

-0-

Zane Avery was 96.9% sure that he was going to marry Brooklyn Manhattan Baylor, and he was also 97.8% positive that the purpose of her existence was to sass him.

He was looking forward to growing old with her.

-0-

Mike and Rob had bailed to confront some jackass named Henry at the radio station. The former tossed a baseball bat into the trunk of Rob's SUV while the latter muttered something about pink jelly shots. Sometimes asking questions didn't make things better. Troy just swiped the keys to the truck and the directions to Gray Haven from his uncle's hands and left before Rob could comment on the bow tie.

Really, he thought he would look classier in a bow tie.

When his mama opened the door and saw him standing on her porch, she flew into his arms and cried into his chest, staining with her tears and makeup a clean black t-shirt that smelled nothing like him. When he made a move to pull away, she threatened to hot-glue her body to his to ensure he'd never leave her sight again.

He kissed the top of her head, a few distinguished gray hairs in her dark reddish-brown hair. "I have to make sure Steph doesn't drown us in her tears."

"Make room, Mama," the twenty-six-year-old murmured, slipping her right arm around her older brother (the one who got suspended for punching a boy who made fun of her acne and braces, the one who convinced her to write letters to their dead father to make her feel better, the one who told them to make a clean slate in California) and her left one around their mother (the one who taught them how to cook behind their father's back, the one who packed extra sandwiches if they were feeling down, the one who got them a turtle for Christmas).

It had been too long since Troy hugged the two most important women in his life.

-0-

Contrary to popular belief, Sharpay Evans-Baylor knew when enough was enough.

She just didn't care for it.

Once an Evans, always an Evan. It was the golden fucking rule to living a fabulous life, and fabulous, she was and always would be.

Don't. Fuck. With. Her.

She was a mama bear, an older sister, a successful drama teacher, and a rather possessive wife, so she embodied everything and all that was 'bossy, bossy, bossy.'

So when she decided that Wednesdays were boring years, years ago, Gabriella muttered, "Fuck it. We'd look good in orange jumpsuits anyway," while Taylor mumbled, "No matter how simple that sounds, I think it's a horrible idea."

If this was Rugrats: The Real Life, Sharpay was Angelica, Gabriella was Tommy, and Taylor was Chuckie. And it was on that Wednesday years, years ago, a mean three-year-old and a bald baby dragged a screaming, four-eyed redhead to the roof of their middle school and set those fireworks off.

It wasn't even a national holiday, but damn, they were feeling patriotic.

Sharpay, the oldest, took the blame even though everyone knew it was Gabriella who had flirted with a classmate to convince him to give her his older brother's supply of cherry bombs. And as for Taylor? She bailed them out during the student trial. Sure she was with them during their escapade, but she was considered the victim, kidnapped and forced to watch the show. Oh, yes, the fun was traumatizing. So when she stepped in as their lawyer, ready to kick verbal ass, the jury threw up their hands and agreed that it was all in good fun and no one was really hurt.

You'd always remember Sharpay Evans and Gabriella Montez, but it would be your death wish if you forgot about Taylor McKessie.

So on this quiet, Wednesday evening, their mandatory dinner night, it was no surprise that Taylor was bitching about Chad Danforth, who seemed to have forgotten her when he met up with his ex, Casey 'Ecstasy' Duvall.

"Maybe it was a contact high." The blonde shrugged, preparing three plates of her husband's creamy pasta that he made before leaving the house to hang with friends, one of whom was the object of Taylor's fury. "She was so high that it probably bled into his bloodstream."

"Chad wouldn't cheat on Taylor," Gabriella said confidently from her seat at the kitchen counter. She was adding light olive oil and crunchy croutons to the salad. "Casey just reminds him too much of his sister, and he really wants her to get better. He was discussing rehab, and she looked like she was really considering it." The brunette would know since they were at the bar and Chad had pulled her away to talk so she wouldn't get the wrong idea. Honestly, if he hadn't talked to her, she wouldn't have known about the meeting in the first place since she was barely there for three hours and she was… distracted. "Besides, if he's going to cheat on you, he wouldn't hide it."

The man couldn't even hide his junk food addiction even though he was a gym rat, and the thought made Taylor smile (they didn't have to know that she was faking her insecurities to stop herself from mentioning this morning's encounter) as she poured Sprite into the wine glasses (last time they got drunk, they thought the firefighters from two different counties were male strippers, but they appreciated the half-assed lap dances, literally). They brought the plates and glasses outside to eat on the backyard patio facing the sunset. After finishing the pasta and salad, Sharpay came back with three bowls of butter pecan ice cream.

Butter pecan ice cream meant two things: Gabriella was in trouble, and she had better watch her back.

"Ms. Henderson stopped by the bakery this afternoon," the blonde began, licking her spoon as she mentioned the hypochondriac living next door to Gabriella. "Said she had erectile dysfunction and a heart attack when she looked out her window. Face of Adonis. Bangin' body. Sexy hair. Voice of a fuckin' angel. Funny how you didn't mention your new neighbor, Gabriella." She glared. "At. Fuckin'. All. Is there something you want to share?"

When Sharpay dropped her g's, there was no chance for salvation.

-0-

"You look different without your jumpsuit," David Rhodes observed, sipping from his bottle of beer as the Spurs dominated the fourth quarter against the Kings on the screen. "And the chains. Can't forget those chains."

"I can." Clarissa snuggled closer to him on the couch. "Now hush up and pass the beer." She looked at Troy who was soaking up the game from a worn-out, green recliner to their left in the living room. "Do you want some, sweetie? We stocked up yesterday."

The fifty-seven-year-old had never been a big fan of alcohol, but after a few years in Gray Haven, she found herself fond of it, especially when taken in the company of the man beside her. The Sheriff started out as a good friend and sometimes trainer at the weekend self-defense classes, but after a few years of dodging around each other, the then thirty-five-year-old said, "Screw it," and moved in when Clarissa wasn't looking.

That was three years ago, and Clarissa thought that the two most important men in her life would clash, but after their first encounter at NMSP, David had admitted that Troy was "a little shit who loved his mama and baby sister very much." He ain't so bad, was what he was trying to say and she heard it.

Troy didn't have a problem with David, either, ("Hurt her, I'll shove a machete down your throat") even though he could practically taste the law enforcement in his mouth when they first met; sure the man was nineteen years younger than his mama, but he was a good man who didn't bat an eyelash when his woman told him the truth about her son ("You can't get rid of me that easily, you beautiful cradle robber"). It didn't even hurt that they were such huge Spurs fans in a state that had four teams ("Fuck the Kings," they agreed).

"No." At NMSP, there was a guy who killed his entire family while under the influence of alcohol. "I need to drive back to Winters sober as a knob job."

Without Clarissa noticing, Stephanie pretended to puke in her mouth while Troy rolled his eyes.

"You can crash here." David jerked his thumb upstairs. "Clarissa fixed a room for you when she heard you were coming to town. She even has some of your old clothes in the closet-makes no sense since you're a fucking titan."

"It's not that. I haven't had one since gra-" Clarissa gave him a fierce mean-face. "I mean, I never been exposed to the dangers of alcohol at all and-"

"Troy, just stay over," Stephanie interrupted from the other side of the couch. "You can let me win at Monopoly this time."

Well, that was the thing. He wanted to play with another woman. But not at Monopoly.

-0-

Contrary to popular belief, Sharpay Evans-Baylor knew what it felt to be vulnerable. It wasn't obvious because in high school, she played strong characters and refused to take any weak-willed roles. Behind the scenes, however, she was tired of having to prove herself and honestly, she was getting sick of the whole thing when there was show after show after show; everyone expected her to be a part of the process. If she wasn't, she failed. If she was, she did too much. So she turned down Julliard and attended UCLA-only to find a basket of goodies, courtesy of Zeke Baylor.

What a simple yet complicated gesture.

She majored in theater, returned to Winters for a teaching job, and married the man who inspired her, the one who didn't care if she was happy, mad, vulnerable, or crazy. Like Zeke, theater demanded that she explore the side of her that she was afraid of, and the challenge paid off because Sharpay learned that she wasn't only 'bossy, bossy, bossy.' She knew how to take care of the people she loved, and she was relentless to have what she deserved. She had underestimated herself.

At 29, Taylor learned that her father had stolen from EMM Associates. Sharpay was the one who brought Taylor back to Winters after she went missing for two months. At 29, Gabriella lost her husband. Sharpay was the one who brought casseroles for dinner and called people to fix whatever was broken in the house. At 29, Sharpay had a miscarriage. She never got over it, but she was the one who told Zeke that they had to try again.

Being vulnerable at 29 was much different than being vulnerable at 16.

Things were also different but not quite at thirty-two. Taylor loved her father, but hadn't forgiven him. Gabriella had accepted Judd's death, but avoided potentially serious relationships. Sharpay wanted another child, but couldn't get pregnant.

On the patio, they were very much aware of the problems one another had, and the blonde was determined to fix them. She didn't have a plan for Taylor, yet. But for Gabriella, Troy Bolton had to be out of the picture.

It was safe to say that he was a vulnerability that Gabriella couldn't afford.

-0-

Taylor should've said something when Sharpay laid everything out like a treasure map to nowhere. With parents who took advantage of their wealth to have a family, private investigator, the blonde knew everything there was to know about Troy Bolton-and manipulated everything to her advantage.

An Albuquerque native, Troy Alexander Bolton was born October 2, 1984 at 6:42 AM. He was raised by Clarissa Mae and Jack Taylor Bolton. They had lived in a neighborhood where drug- and gang-related activities were frequent. For most of his academic career, Troy struggled with English and history, and because he was the youngest in his class, he was a loner. After his father died in a confrontation, Troy took small jobs around the town; he was especially notorious among his female employers and their daughters.

On June 15, 2001 at 3:25 PM, four days after his graduation, Troy Bolton killed a man.

Sharpay looked up from the folder. "Do you want me to go on?"

Gabriella didn't bother filling up another glass. She just took a swig from the bottle itself.

-0-

Troy returned to the house a few minutes before eleven. Rob's SUV wasn't in the driveway, so he assumed that they were still clubbing Henry into submission at the station. He was slipping off his shoes in the guest room when the doorbell rang. On his way to the door, he stopped by a hallway mirror and messed with his hair until it looked effortlessly tousled-natural.

Before him was Gabriella in a short, light purple dress that looked beautiful against her honey-olive skin. "Let me get that for you," she said in a low, intimate tone that sparked something hot in his bloodstream as she leaned in to loosen his bow tie.

His blue eyes went dark and warm when her chest brushed against his. A whisper away from her face, he breathed, "Hi."

Her hands slipped under his shirt. "Boy Toy wasn't my original nickname for you," she confessed, dragging her nails across his abdomen. "But I didn't think calling you Sweet Ass in front of my son was appropriate."

She helped him shed his shirt, exposing his rock-hard body to the porch light, and laid her hands on his chest. His lips were about to touch hers when she twisted his nipples.

"But I'd make an exception to Fromunda Stain."

-0-

"He's good." Putting the device on the nightstand, Chad pulled Taylor closer to him in bed and gave her a smile that melted her insides. "You're incredible, you know that?"

Well, if Troy couldn't get the girl, she had decided on her way home, then he would damn sure get this job.

"How did you tape all of that without him noticing?"

She laid her head on his chest, glad that he was talking to her again, as he changed the channel to their favorite late night show. "I'm pretty sure that he did notice, but was probably humoring me."

He nodded. "He does seem observant. It's a good thing." Lowering the volume, he continued, "Forget dinner. Just send him to the shop. Lots of people are getting their cars checked before this weekend. They can just walk to the boardwalk, but that's human nature for ya."

"You mean it's human nature to not even suggest the possibility of walking to the boardwalk to your customers?" Taylor teased.

Chad looked stumped. "Well, yeah. I'm me, Tay. Take me as I am or leave me at Zeke's to eat his chocolate pudding."

She laughed. "You might want to rethink that statement."

"Oh, you silly woman." Then he retaliated by blowing a raspberry against her cheek, making her squeal.

A/N: I was going to expand upon Zane's section, but decided to be a sadist. I'm ready for your hate.