Take Me On, Page 2

  “You’re not staying with Rachel?” I ask. Mom has no idea I’ve been following her for the past ten months. I came to this hellhole last spring to buy pot from a potential new dealer, someone cheaper than the guys at my school. Private school equates to marked-up.

  “No,” she answers.

  Shocked doesn’t describe the reaction I had when I saw my mother walking into the bar the first time. After that near encounter, I keep a tight watch on her. It’s my job to protect my family. I failed with Rachel and don’t plan on failing again.

  “Your father arrived,” Mom continues. “He told me to take a break and eat.”

  Take a break. Eat. Screw the guy she’s been meeting.

  A year ago, I would have laughed if anyone suggested my mother would have an affair, but what else could be the explanation for the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the state to be hanging out in the armpit of the city? I can’t say I blame her. My father has a habit of ignoring his family.

  Mom freezes by the door to her car and I silently urge her to get in. A guy a few steps from me has become too interested in her, her Mercedes or both.

  “West.” She sighs into the phone and her shoulders slump. “You need to visit Rachel. When she’s awake, she’s asked for you. Her condition is serious, and you need to come.”

  I inch the speaker away from my mouth. My insides ache as if the blows I took today at school created internal damage. Rachel’s legs were trashed in the accident and no one needs to tell me that she may never walk again. Her accident is my fault and I can’t face her.

  “Your principal said the fight you had today was over a joke about her.”

  Joke, my ass. Some asshole junior called my sister a gimp. No one talks shit about Rachel. But even though I was defending Rachel, the school still threw me out. As the pasty head of our school explained, there have been too many detentions, too many warnings, and, though he regretted the situation with my sister, I had left him with no choice—I just wasn’t Worthington Private material.

  “How is she?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Come to the hospital and ask her yourself.”

  Not going to happen. When I say nothing, Mom continues, “She’s in pain and she needs you.”

  “She has Ethan.” Her twin. “And Jack.” Our older brother. Gavin, the oldest of our brood of five, has also been there, but I don’t mention his name. Mom is still having a hard time dealing with his gambling issues. The entire world thinks the Youngs are perfect, but our family is a damn mess.

  “Rachel wants you.”

  She doesn’t. Our last words were spoken in anger. Hell, our last month of words were spoken in anger. How can she forgive me when I can’t?

  Mom allows the silence as she slides into her car and starts the engine. The muscles in my neck relax the moment she backs out of her spot. She transfers me to her Bluetooth and switches me to speaker. “Your father is upset. In fact, this is the angriest I’ve seen him. He told you to go straight from school to the hospital.”

  That would have left Mom defenseless; plus I’m done with Dad ordering me around. Playing Dad between meetings doesn’t make him my father. “I’ll talk to him at home.”

  She pulls out of the lot and softens her tone. “After what’s happened with Rachel and with Gavin...”

  I readjust my stance. I tried to prevent all of this with Gavin, but then Rachel told me she needed the money I took from her to help Gavin and... I can’t continue the thought.

  “This isn’t the time to antagonize your father. He made it clear months ago he wouldn’t help you if the school expelled you. I’ve tried talking with him, telling him you were defending your sister, but he isn’t moving on this. He wants you at the hospital tonight. He means it. This isn’t the time to push boundaries.”

  Dad and I have been a gasoline fire nearing a tanker for months. He doesn’t understand the problems facing this family. He doesn’t understand everything I’ve done to protect them all. His entire focus belongs solely to his business, then on Mom. In the end, my father doesn’t respect my brothers or sister or me.

  “It’ll work out,” I say. Because there’s no way he’d permit his son to fail out his senior year. Dad’s expectations of me may be low, but he won’t let anyone else think poorly of his family. The bastard has always been about reputation. “I’ll be up there later tonight.”

  “Make it sooner—as in now.” She pauses. “And visit Rachel.”

  “I’ll see Dad.” I hang up and head for my car. I told Mom it would work out, but a restless thought inside me wonders if Dad’s serious.

  Haley

  An hour bus ride to my uncle’s, forty minutes waiting for Dad’s prescription and, as I walk out of the pharmacy, I still haven’t thought of a witty enough comeback for when Jax looks at me from across the dinner table and mouths John’s last word to me: “Runner.”

  “Am not” won’t do the job.

  Especially since Jax will ignore his actual age of seventeen and revel in his maturity level of six with the response of, “Are too.”

  Short of kicking him in the balls from underneath the table, there’s no way to win once someone says, “Are too.” Besides, Jax has learned to cover himself when he sits across from me.

  On top of it all, I’ve been rejected by the University of Notre Dame. My eyes sting and I blink. I could say it’s the wind burning my eyes, but that’s a lie. I’m awesome at lying to everyone else but have yet to perfect lying to myself.

  Trying to ignore the cold, I shove my hands in my jeans pockets and weave through the crowd huddled underneath the covered sidewalk. The plastic bags from the pharmacy and grocery store crackle as they swing from my wrist. Between the darkness of the winter night and the faces buried under hats and coats, the people I pass become nothing more than expressionless ghosts.

  The sun set a half hour ago and I’ve got a little less than fifteen minutes till curfew. The Dictator is strict about the comings and goings of anyone living in his household.

  We’re having squirrel tonight for dinner.

  Squirrel.

  As in the rodent with the fuzzy tail that gets zapped on power lines.

  Squirrel.

  And it’s my turn to say grace. On top of not securing a comeback, I’ve also failed to find a way to thank God for the bounty that is squirrel. I’m sure, “Dear God, thank you for the fuzzy rat you gave us to eat and please don’t let me die of the plague after I digest it. Is that gristle? Amen,” will meet my uncle’s approval.

  With ten people in one two-bedroom house, there are bound to be some personality clashes or, in my and my uncle’s case, a revisit of the Cold War. Actually, Russia and the U.S. liked each other a tiny bit more. He has a problem with girls who think, and I’m a fan of using my brain.

  The moment I round the corner of the strip mall, two hulking silhouettes emerge from behind the back of the building. More male muscle reeking of ominous threat than friendly passerby. Instincts flare. Senses go on alert. I wouldn’t be the first girl jumped in this neighborhood.

  I freeze and glance over my shoulder. Behind me, the ghosts fade into the stores, leaving me alone and with limited options. Going forward forces me to pass the two shadows, but it’s also the lone path into the neighborhood. Heading back toward the shops will make me late, and I promised Mom I’d never break curfew. My breath billows out in a cloud, a reminder that sleeping outside can mean frostbite.

  Six months ago, I would have met the shadowy threat with no fear. In fact, I probably would have taunted them, but being hit until you break causes courage to disappear.

  “I don’t have any money,” I call out. It’s not a lie.

  A voice carries from the dark blobs. “Just give us the pills.”

  My head shakes back and forth. Mom saved for two months to buy thi
s medication. We lost our insurance. We’ve lost everything and Dad’s suffering. We’ve all been suffering. And Dad needs to get better. He needs to find a job. We have to get out of this awful place.

  The shadows descend and I stumble backward off the curb. My heart pounds as I free my hands from my pockets and the bags slide farther up my wrist. It’s not my hands that I’m lethal with. It’s my legs. My feet. I’ve been trained to kick. The instinct to run battles my instinct to fight.

  A horn blares. My head jerks to the right. Lights blind me. My hand flies to my face to act as a shield as my stomach shoots up. A scream tears out of my throat.

  West

  “Jesus Christ!” I slam on the breaks and practically push the pedal through the floor as I will my SUV to stop. My tires squeal and my body whiplashes as the car jerks to a halt. The headlights spotlight a girl. Her arms protect her face and I try to process that she’s still standing.

  Standing. As in not on the ground.

  Not dead.

  One thing went right today.

  The relief flooding through my body is quickly chased by a strong helping of anger. She jumped out in front of me, not taking one look. Jumped.

  She lowers her arms and I’m met by the sight of wide dark eyes. Her wild mane of light brown hair whips across her face as the wind picks up. She blinks and so do I.

  She glances over her shoulder and I follow her line of sight into the shadows. Panic sweeps over her face and she stumbles, acting disoriented. Shit on it all damn day, what if I did hit her?

  I throw the SUV in Park and, as I open the door, she points at me. “Watch it!”

  Watch it? She’s the one who stepped out in front of me, then froze like a damn deer. I launch myself out of the car. “Sidewalks, chick. That’s where you stop. Not in the middle of a street!”

  With a shake of her head, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and actually steps into me. If it were anyone else, such a movement would send rage from the tip of my toes to my fists, but instead I smirk and cross my arms over my chest. She may be tall, but compared to me she’s a tiny thing, and for the first time today, I find amusement. I’ve seen that type of fire burning in people’s eyes a million times in my life. Just never from a girl, and never in eyes so hauntingly gorgeous.

  “You were the one not paying attention!” the girl shouts. “And besides, this is a parking lot, you moron. Not a dragway. You were going, what? Fifty?”

  The word moron slips underneath my skin and my muscles tighten. But she has me. I was speeding. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Did my car hit you?”

  The fire within her wavers and she peers into the dark again. “No.”

  Two huddled forms skulk near the back of the building. I refocus on the walking, talking inferno in front of me and, despite my Calc teacher’s opinion on my intelligence, I’m able to do the math. “Is that trouble for you?”

  Her eyes shoot to mine and in them is a blaring yes, but because girls make no sense she answers, “No.”

  A crackling sound draws my attention. The edges of a small white paper bag poke from a plastic bag. It’s a prescription. I give her the once–over, then turn to the guys hiding by the building. Dammit. Even the book geeks at my school who’ve never seen the outside of their PlayStation basement shrines are aware of the urban legends surrounding this neighborhood. She can deny it all she wants, but she has problems. “Get in my car.”

  The fire returns. “Hell no.” She inspects the bruises forming along my jawline, then surveys my scraped and swollen knuckles.

  “Look, it’s me or them.” I motion toward the thugs with my chin. “And I’m telling you, I’m not the bad guy in this scenario.”

  She laughs. And if it wasn’t such a beautiful sound, I’d be insulted.

  “Because a guy driving an Escalade in this neighborhood is the equivalent of a Boy Scout.”

  The right side of my mouth tips up. Did she call me a drug dealer?

  “From the looks of you—” she glances at my knuckles again “—well, let’s just say you must have your own baggage and I’m not a baggage-claim type of girl.”

  “No, you’re the type that runs into traffic.”

  She smiles and I like it. The anger racing through me moments before vanishes. I rub my jaw, then lean my hand against my open car door. Long light brown hair with waves, dark eyes that sure as hell suck me in as they sparkle, a tight body and a kick-ass attitude. Truth be told, I like more than her smile. Too bad I almost killed her by running her over. It’ll make asking her out awkward.

  “Get into my car and I’ll drive you home.” I hold up both my palms. “I swear. No drive-bys on the way.”

  The smile fades when I say the word home and her eyes lose the sparkle. Something deep within me hollows out.

  She slides close, very close—as in her clothes brush mine. She angles herself so that she’s between me and my car door. The heat of her body rolls onto me and my fingers itch to touch. I suck in air and I’m overwhelmed by the sweet scent of wildflowers.

  She lifts her face to look at me and whispers, “Getting into that car with you is as big a risk as walking down that viaduct. If you’re bent on helping me, do me a favor.”

  “What?” I breathe out.

  “Stand here and act like you’re talking to me. Convincingly enough that it’ll buy me time.”

  And before I can process a word, she cuts past me, crouches against the Escalade, ducks behind the vehicle and escapes into the night. “Hey!”

  The shadows emerge from behind the building. Two guys bolt into the beams of my headlights and in the direction of the neighborhood. Their feet pound the concrete.

  In the distance, instead of two dark forms running into the night, there are three—and the first one doesn’t have a decent head start. I jump into my Escalade and tear off after them.

  Haley

  My lungs burn and my arms and legs pump quickly. The graffiti on the concrete walls of the freeway viaduct blend into a colored blur. I’m out of shape. Six months ago, I could have outrun them, but not now. Not today. My feet smack against the blacktop and the sound echoes in the tunnel. The stench of mold and decay fills my nose.

  There’s a splash as someone stomps into a puddle, followed by the sound of more shoes against the street. My breath comes out in gasps and I will my muscles to move faster.

  Heat rises off my body and into the cold night and my nose begins to run. I don’t want them to hurt me, and the thought of a man’s hand colliding with my body causes my heart to clench. My fist tightens around Dad’s medication. I don’t want to lose it. The answer is to be faster, but, if they catch me, I’ll be left with no other choice than to fight.

  Their footsteps ring closer in my ears and my old training floods into my brain. I need to turn, face them and form a defensive stance. I can’t be dragged to the ground by my hair.

  Lights from behind create a beacon of hope. My pursuers’ footfalls continue in their hunt but fall off near the walls of the tunnel, out of sight of the approaching car. I put on a burst of speed. Two more blocks and I’ll be inside. Safe from this.

  Brakes squeal and a door snaps open. Voices. Shouting. The sound of a fist smacking into flesh. Continuing, I peek over my shoulder and air slams out of me when I notice the Escalade.

  No.

  Please, God, no.

  My body rocks forward as my feet become concrete. It’s the guy from the shopping plaza. He’s fighting them. Three shadows spar against the headlights; a hellish dogfight of arms, fists, legs, grunts and growls. They’re all the same height, but I know which one’s him. He’s thicker. More muscular. He’s a scrapper, but he’s going to lose.

  Two against one.

  My chest rises and falls and I glance down the s
treet, toward my uncle’s house, toward relative safety. I’m minutes away from curfew, I’ve got my father’s prescription in my grasp, but leaving a guy behind—it’s not how I was raised.

  Knowing this has the potential to end extremely badly for me, I switch directions to join the fight.

  West

  Son of a bitch.

  My head turns as the bastard with the black hoodie sucker punches me in the jaw. Blood pours from my lip, but I ignore it and the pain as I ram my fist into his stomach. He goes down, but it’s not him that has me worried.

  I spin to the left, but I’m too late. The asshole with the winter coat, the guy who’s schooled on how to fight, he’s back on his feet after I busted him in the nuts. The psychopath grins as he nears me. He rubs a spot on his forehead and widens his stance, just like I’ve seen pay-per-view fighters do in the ring.

  My fists go up, but my muscles are heavy. Two fights in one day and taking on two guys at once. I could almost laugh. Guess I’ve learned my hard limit. We round each other and I try to keep an eye on the guy still on the ground.

  We circle.

  Slowly.

  Shit. This kid’s a fighter. A real one. And something tells me he’s not going to make the mistake of letting me kick him in the balls again.

  He flashes toward me at lightning speed. Two rapid-fire punches from the left. My body sways and my vision becomes fuzzy. I swing out, sensing he’s close, but I miss.

  A hit from the right—mind-shattering, blinding pain—and I fall to the ground. Rocks dig into my knees and warmth rushes to the area near my eye. Everything wavers. My thoughts. My sight. A metallic taste floods my mouth and I grab on to one thought.