Capture, Page 7

CHAPTER FIVE

  Dani

  It wasn't every morning that I talked to my dad; I hadn't actually spoken to his voicemail in a few weeks. This morning I'd expected my voice to be gravelly, like one of those Truth commercials with the smokers, warning kids against the perils of tobacco, instead it was just as I remembered it. Light, airy. I choked back the sobs building in my throat as memories surfaced.

  "Who's my favorite little girl?" My dad twirled me in his arms. I tried to fight him, but I was dwarfed by his size. He'd always been such a big man, while I was barely above five four.

  "Dad!" I laughed as he continued twirling me until I was dizzy. "I'm sixteen! Stop!"

  "Aw…" He stopped, placing me on my feet. "You'll always be my little girl, Dani. You know that, right?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Dad, I know."

  "You're beautiful." He sighed. "And remember, I'm the only one that can say that to you. If some young boy invites you into his car using pretty words, he's only after one thing."

  "My flower," I said in a deadpan voice. "Message heard loud and clear. Oh also, if you could stop cleaning your gun out front and talking about your connections with the Italian mafia whenever Elliot comes around, that would be great."

  "What?" He shrugged innocently. "We're Italian."

  "Ah, actually half-Hispanic…" I patted his cheek. "… but nice try."

  "Mexican mafia." He snapped his fingers. "That would sound more convincing."

  "You look more white than Mom, and she's actually white," I pointed out. "Therefore, probably not."

  He frowned. "I'll think of something."

  "Please don't." I laughed, gripping his shoulders. "You've raised a good girl, you know that. The last thing I want is to end up pregnant. I mean, I'm at the top of the pyramid, Dad. Pregnant girls can't fly."

  He patted my cheek. "Neither can pigs, yet they do."

  "No, they don't."

  He grinned.

  I rolled my eyes. "Alright, good talk as always, Dad."

  "Hey…" He grabbed my hand and kissed it. "… I only threaten because I care. I love you, snuggle bug. You're my youngest."

  "And some may argue brightest," I added.

  "Shhh, don't tell Pris." He winked and patted my cheek again. "Just be careful. Make good choices. And if he takes off his pants, use the Taser."

  "What if his pants are on fire?"

  "Always Taser first — ask questions later. That's like Girl Scouts 101, sweetheart."

  "You got fired as den mother."

  He gasped and clutched his heart. "You were sworn to secrecy! Don't tell Mom. She still thinks it was because I was too busy counseling at church."

  I made a zipping motion with my lips. "I'll take it to my grave."

  "I knew I raised you right."

  "Says the man who's asking me to lie."

  "Omit." He nodded encouragingly. "Big difference, cuddle bug."

  "Night, Dad." I opened the screen door and slammed it behind me.

  "Say no to drugs!" he yelled out.

  Elliot's car window was open, and he yelled back, "Only hugs!"

  "No hugs either!" Dad called. "Hugs lead to sex!"

  "Just like dancing!" Elliot agreed. "Good talk, Mr. Garcia!"

  "Dani!" Dad called. "I like him better than the last one."

  "What happened to the last one?" Elliot just had to ask.

  "Buried him out back…wanna see?" Dad grinned. "You two have fun at prom now!"

  I pulled over on the side of the freeway and wiped the tears from my eyes. I was usually so good at keeping them tucked away, but the fight with Lincoln had drained me emotionally.

  I just wanted to talk to my dad.

  He'd always been my go-to parent. Not that I hadn't loved my mom, but my dad and I had just… got each other. We'd had similar outlooks on life. He'd been hilarious and had done everything one-hundred percent. There'd never been hesitation in any area of his life. Whatever he did, he did well. It was the perfect example for a young girl. Don't try to be good at everything, don't spread yourself so thin that you accomplish nothing; rather, pick a few things and do them well. Excel in those areas and you'll excel in life.

  So I had chosen cheerleading.

  Academics.

  Baking.

  And I was good at all of them. While my other friends stressed out over playing multiple sports and sat on the bench — I was busy living, doing things that made me happy and doing them well.

  It was kind of a family motto.

  Do it well, or don't do it at all.

  I clenched the steering wheel with both hands. My knuckles turned white, and my fingers cramped, but still I hung on. I wasn't doing anything well right now.

  Except breathing. I guess I could count breathing. My therapist always said to focus on the positive. Well, at least my breathing wasn't uneven. Okay, so I was doing that well.

  I continued to do that — breathe.

  The tears slowly started to dry up, even though the pain was still slicing through my chest. I'd once heard that memory was just as powerful as experiencing something in the present.

  Your past really could define your future, if you let it.

  Every time you remembered something painful or something exciting, your body responded to it as if it was experiencing it for the first time all over again.

  So every time I thought of my dad? Of my parents' death? It was as if I was back in the car, dressed in my cheerleading sweats, falling asleep to Echosmith while our car had been hit head-on by that truck.

  He'd fallen asleep.

  My dad.

  It was my fault he'd been so exhausted that he'd drifted asleep in the first place.

  A honking horn jolted me out of my thoughts again.

  Seaside.

  I was going home.

  At least I didn't live in that house anymore. In fact, I was going to make it a point to avoid every single place I'd visited with my parents, because I was done reliving things.

  I was already in a living hell.

  I didn't need to add to it.

  And if Lincoln wanted taffy from the taffy store or anything even remotely related to my old life, he could just kiss my ass.

  I pulled back onto the freeway and cranked up the music.

  Lincoln Greene would not be my downfall. I would not allow him to make me feel bad about myself. I was done with self-pity — absolutely done — and even though the way he'd treated me made me sick to my stomach, so sick I almost puked onto his shiny expensive shoes, his attitude didn't have to define me.

  I wouldn't let it.

  My cell phone rang.

  Demetri.

  "Hey," he said over the car speaker, "I know you won't respond, but I just wanted to let you know that Lyss and I have chocolate cake for you at our place when you get into Seaside. Oh, and she has some clothes for you too, since she's pregnant and can't fit into a damn thing anymore, so make sure you come over. Drive safe!"

  I exhaled.

  Cake.

  Forget Lincoln Greene. Forget Seaside.

  Focus on the cake.

  Chocolate cake.

  My therapist had said I needed goals. Well, my new goal? Eating that cake while giving Lincoln the middle finger in my mind.

  I smiled.

  Yeah, that would feel good.