“When you’re ready to tell me what happened last night, I want you to call.” He holds out a card.
Never going to happen. I would rather die than send Mom to jail. I brush past him and walk into the lobby. Hurting my eyes, the sun glares through the windows and the glass doors. I blink away the brightness and spot Isaiah, Noah, and Echo. Isaiah leaps to his feet, HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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but Noah puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers something to him, nodding to the left.
Isaiah stays still. His steely-gray eyes implore me to come to him. I want to. More than anything.
Two people cross in front of Isaiah, and pain slices my chest. It’s my mom. Like some sort of deranged baby monkey, she clings to her asshole boyfriend. Her eyes are desperate. She sucks her cheeks in as if she’s trying to hold back tears. That bastard has engulfed her in his disgusting life. I swear to God, I’m going to drag her back out.
Trent yanks her out the door. It’s not over, asshole. Not even close.
I’m about to step toward Isaiah when I hear it. “Hello, Elisabeth.” A shiver snakes down my spine. That voice reminds me of my father.
I turn to face the man who’s hell-bent on destroying my life. He resembles my father in looks as well: tall, dark brown hair, blue eyes.
The main difference is that Scott’s built like an athlete, whereas my father had the body mass of a meth head.
“Leave me alone.”
He gives Isaiah the judgmental once-over. “I HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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think you’ve been left alone for too long.”
“Don’t pretend to care. I know your
promises are worth shit.”
“Why don’t we get out of here, now that you’re free to go. We can talk at home.”
Scott puts a hand on my arm and is unmoved when I jerk away. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Yes,” he says in an annoyingly even tone.
“You are.”
The muscles in my back tense as if I’m a cat arching its back to hiss. “Did you just tell me what to do?”
Fingers wrap around my wrist and gently pull me to the left. Isaiah hovers over me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Do you need a reminder you’re in a police station?”
I sneak a peek and notice Officer Monroe and another cop watching our dysfunctional family reunion. My uncle regards Isaiah and me with interest, but keeps his distance.
My body is nothing but anger. Rage. It beats at my lungs, wreaks havoc with my blood. And Isaiah is standing here telling me to rein it in? I have to let it go because it’s consuming me.
“What do you want me to do?”
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Isaiah does something he’s never done
sober. He touches his hand to my cheek. His palm feels warm, strong, and safe. I lean into it as the anger drains from his simple touch. Part of me craves that anger. I don’t care for the frightening emptiness left behind.
“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Go with him.”
“But—”
“I swear to God I’m going to take care of you, but I can’t do it right here. Go with him and wait for me. Do you understand?”
I nod as I finally comprehend what he’s attempting to tell me without saying the words.
He’s going to come for me. A shimmer of hope breaks through the emptiness and I fall into the safety of Isaiah’s protective arms, our bodies pressed tight to one another.
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Ryan
IN THE BACK FIELD that borders three farms, a field party rages without me, Logan, and Chris.
Parties are great. They have girls, girls who drink beer, dancing, girls who like dancing, and guys who hate dancing but do it anyway in the hope of laying the girls who drink beer.
Lacy’s in the mood to dance, Chris is in the mood to avoid dancing, I’m still burnt from Skater Girl last night, and Logan’s always game for the stupid and insane. Ten minutes into the party, Lacy was dancing and the three of us took on a dare. Actually, I took on a dare.
I lost last night and I don’t lose. Chris and Logan are along for the ride.
“You can’t pull this one off.” Chris walks beside me as we head toward the cars parked neatly in a line. The full moon gives the field a silver glow and the scent of bonfire smoke HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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hangs in the air.
“That’s because you have no imagination.”
Thankfully, I have plenty and I know a few guys who get a kick out of screwing with friends.
“This is going to be sweet,” Logan says
when I change course and head toward a group of defensive linemen enjoying their own private party.
Tim Richardson owns a mammoth-size,
ozone-killing truck, which is good, because the four guys sitting on lawn chairs on the back of it easily weigh 275 pounds each. Tim liberates a can of beer from his cooler and tosses it to me. “What’s going on, Ry?”
“Nothing.” I put the cold can on the tailgate.
No drinking for me. I’ve got business to take care of. “Not in the mood for the party?”