Crash into You (Pushing the Limits #3)

Crash into You (Pushing the Limits #3) Page 30

Certain truths are always self-evident: on the streets there is no such thing as a friend. Zach could be playing odds right now, knowing I’m in debt to Eric and trying to ride the coattails of my fears, but Zach’s never been the creative sort.

That sick sixth sense continues to rattle around in my brain. If Zach’s become Eric’s lapdog then my life and Rachel’s life just entered another realm of complicated, because that means Eric has upped the stakes of the game.

Twenty buck says that while Rachel and I have been moving pawns, Eric just moved his rook.

Chapter 34

Rachel

IN THE SMALLEST CONFERENCE ROOM in Dad’s office, eleven women in various colored business suits and dresses fill the high-backed cushioned chairs. Mom sits at the head of the table, chatting gaily with the woman on her right. To Mom’s left, I continue to push the catered chicken Caesar salad around on my plate so Mom will believe I ate.

Dad closed the blinds—one solace in the midst of the storm. At least the employees working won’t gawk as they pass by. Mom signed me out of school for this travesty. I call it a speech. Mom calls it an introduction. Really, the few paragraphs are lies.

The women gathered around the table are the chosen few of Mom’s friends invited to help with her new volunteer position of fundraising coordinator for the Leukemia Foundation. Mom explained last night that they’ll start off with small teas, then lunches, and in a few weeks they’ll move on to a dinner. All of which she has planned for me to attend...and speak at.

“Ladies,” Mom says. “Let’s take a twenty-minute break before we start the meeting. That will give the caterers time to clean and us time to check on our families.”

They giggle, but I’m not sure over what. Some women break off into groups of two or three and whisper private gossip. Some head into the hallway to use their cells or the restroom. I stare at a crouton in my salad.

Still sitting, Mom pats my hand. “Are you ready, sweetheart? You’ll speak first.”

My lungs constrict. “Yeah.”

I memorized what she wants me to say, but the words have become a jumbled mess in my mind. Sort of like a crossword puzzle completed by someone with dyslexia.

“Meredith,” one of Mom’s friends calls from the opposite side of the room. “You have to come look at this.”

Mom flashes me a smile that reminds me why I’m torturing myself and leaves. I ate two bites of salad and the lettuce and the chicken are not agreeing in my stomach. In fact, I think they’ve declared war.

I suck in a breath to calm myself. Only eleven people. Twenty-two eyes. My heart rate increases and I lick my suddenly dry lips. A jabbing pain hits my stomach, and I tug at the collar of my blouse as it becomes hard to breathe. It’s hot in here. Too hot. Hot enough that if I stand I’ll faint, hit my head and bleed all over Dad’s new carpet.

And then he’ll be disappointed in me.

And then Mom will be disappointed in me.

And then my brothers will find out and they’ll blow a freaking head gasket.

My hands sweat and I rub my palms against my black skirt. What did Mom want me to say? I see the words. They drift in my mind, but not in order. I’m going to fail.

I stand abruptly, startling the ladies huddled in conversation behind me. Forcing a smile, I nod toward the door, hoping they understand I’m excusing myself. I half trip on the way out as my stomach cramps.

Mom’s best friend touches my arm as I turn left. “Are you okay?”

“Bathroom. I mean, I’m trying to find the...” And I ran out of air.

“The bathroom is that way.”

“Thanks.” I have no idea why I’m thanking her and by the strained lines on her forehead, she doesn’t, either. This is my father’s office, and one would think I would already know where the bathroom is. I go in the direction she said, praying she doesn’t mention my odd behavior to my mother. Before I hit the bathroom, I take a left through the cubicles and run for my father’s office.

Please don’t let him be there. Please don’t let him be there. Please. Please. Please.

I almost cry when I see the light off and the empty chair. Pictures of me and my brothers rest on the table near the window. The only picture on his desk is of Mom and Colleen. It’s always been about her: Colleen. Her name floats in my head as I try to breathe past the first dry heave. In one motion, I flip the switch to his private bathroom and slam the door shut.

Chapter 35

Isaiah

BECAUSE I WAS BLACKMAILED INTO giving my word to Courtney, I force myself into the Social Services building and grimace at the sight of the messed-up people in the waiting area. Kids cry. Moms scream. Each sound a razor against my skin. It’s so damn cliché my fingers twitch; there isn’t a man in sight. Of course there isn’t—men are notorious family leavers.

“Isaiah,” Courtney says from behind the receptionist window. Her hesitant smile is too hopeful. “Come on back.”

The door buzzes open, and I slink past two toddlers on the floor pulling at an already-damaged stuffed zebra. When the door shuts behind me the noise fades, but my skin still crawls.

Today Courtney wears a blue bow in her ponytail. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thought it wasn’t optional.”

Her smile widens. “It’s not, but I like to pretend that you want to be here. It makes my day go smoother. Let’s go.” She nods to the right and when I don’t move, she heads down the hallway, looking back to make sure I follow.

I can almost feel the tug of the leash around my neck. “Do the other hostages you torture tear you apart for wearing a bow in your hair?”

She stops at a cubicle and grabs a manila file folder. “Clients, not hostages. Help, not torture. And you’re my only teenager. The little ones love my bows.”

“Maybe you should transfer me.” To someone who doesn’t give a shit and will leave me the fuck alone. “You could pick a hostage you like.”

“Client.” Courtney pauses outside a closed door. “I like you.”

That brings me up short. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, as if my response surprises her, “I do. Isaiah, I requested to be your social worker.”

I glance behind me, half expecting a smaller child also named Isaiah to be there. “Why?”

She knocks lightly on the door. “Because.” Courtney’s hand rests on the knob. “You and I agreed on thirty minutes.”

“You’ve wasted five.”

“I sent the letter of recommendation in. I kept my part of the bargain, I expect you to keep yours. I call—you answer. I schedule a meeting—you come and stay for thirty minutes.”

“Like rubbing it in, don’t you?” But I’ll show because I gave her my word.

“Good. Now that we’re firm on the agreement, I should tell you that your mom is here.”

I tower over Courtney. “Fuck no.”

She never flinches. Instead she tilts her head, causing her ponytail to slide over her shoulder. “Are you keeping your word or not?”

The muscles in my body turn to lead. I want more than anything to run; to get behind the wheel of my car and gun the engine. The little bitch in front of me has backed me into a corner. I rub at my neck, feeling as if the collar she placed there has spikes.

Courtney opens the door and anger races like venom in my veins. I stalk into the room and slam my ass into the chair farthest from the woman already sitting at the table. “Twenty-two fucking minutes, Courtney. And if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here because you are the last person I want to see...besides that thing over there.”

“Isaiah,” Courtney says apologetically. “I can’t leave the two of you alone with you so angry.”

“It’s okay,” she says from across the room. I lower my head into my hands. The sound of the soft voice I remember as a child resurrects too many memories—too many emotions. “We’ll be fine.”

We’ll be fine. The same three words she said to me before my entire life went to hell.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” says Courtney. “I haven’t seen him this upset before.”

The chair beside me moves and I smell Courtney’s faint perfume. “Your mom just wants to visit.”

“She is not my mom.” My voice trembles and a fresh wave of rage washes over me. My mother will not hurt me again. I lift my head and fight for control. “I don’t have a mom.”

“Then call me Melanie,” she says with the same damn soothing voice that used to sing me to sleep. “We are strangers.”

I glance at her and immediately look away because the sight of her causes strangling pain. My head hits the back of the wall and I cross my arms over my chest. “How many more fucking minutes?”

“You look good, Isaiah,” she tells me. And because I can’t help it, I peer at her again. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and her forehead buckles with anxiety as she stares at me. The thoughts in her head and the words she says are not in agreement. She doesn’t like what she sees: a punk.

The piercings, the tattoos, yeah, I think the shit’s cool, but what I really like is how they tell people to stay the fuck away. From the way her eyes travel over my arms, “Melanie” reads the signals loud and clear.

“You look old,” I say with as much menace as I can muster. She doesn’t look old—just middle-aged. She had me young, barely out of high school. I never knew her age. What six-year-old would? I don’t even know her birthdate.

Her dark brown hair is cut short at her shoulders. She’s thin, but not drug-addict thin. Her oversize hoop earrings sway when she tucks her hair behind her ear. The blue jean jacket matches her pants and underneath the jacket I spot a gray tank. The worn brown cowboy boots on her feet make me consider a maternity test.

“How are you?” Melanie asks.

“Do you mean how have I been for the last eleven years?”

She scratches her forehead. Good, I drew blood. “Yeah. And that.”

I stretch my legs out, kicking one scratched-up combat booted foot over the other. “Let’s see. Years six through eight blew. Found out Santa didn’t exist. I’m pretty sure foster father number two shot the Easter bunny with his sawed-off shotgun during one of his backyard hunting escapades. Foster mom one liked to slap me until I stopped crying. She’d quote Bible verses while she did it because Jesus was obviously about tough love.”

Melanie shuts her eyes. Attempting to redirect my attention, Courtney nudges her chair closer to mine. “Isaiah, maybe we should take a break.”

“Nah, Courtney,” I say with a mock smile. “You just don’t want me to tell her about the group home I lived in between eight and ten and how the bigger boys used to beat the shit out of me for kicks.”

I hold my hand out to Melanie. “Don’t get me wrong. They’d punish the other boys and document my bruises in their nice files. Get me a doctor. Maybe a therapist, but it never stopped the new boys from pushing around the smallest kid.”