"How's Dusty?" I asked.
Chet grimaced. "Slept in his own bed last night. It's a start, right?"
"Any further developments in his plan to strike it rich with Cooter Saggory?"
"I'm trying to prevent further developments by keeping Dusty too busy to get in trouble. I got him a job plastering swimming pools. He comes home caked in plaster every night, whining about how hard the work is, then inhales half the food in the fridge and crashes in bed. I know he's not sneaking out, because I've set my alarm to go off four different times during the night so I can check on him. I told him if he loses this job, I'll kick him out of the house. I won't, but don't tell him that. He's trying to stay on my good side because until he turns eighteen, I'm the trustee of the four grand my parents left him in their will."
"Then you can prevent him from getting this business off the ground--you control the capital."
"I can try." He gave a troubled sigh. "But Dusty's resourceful. If I stonewall him, he'll just find another way. Right now, I'm crossing my fingers he doesn't run out of pool jobs--or get fed up and quit--before the summer's over. Once he's back in school, it'll be easier to keep Cooter away from him."
"I admire how hard you're trying to take care of Dusty." I had dim recollections of my own parents taking a keen interest in me during the divorce, but after the dust cleared, and things like alimony and custody had been settled, both had moved on to other interests. Namely, work and drugs. I never visited my dad after he moved out. We'd been estranged for over two years. I think I blamed him for the divorce. The sad thing was, I couldn't remember anymore. My mom had a cabinet of prescription pills during the marriage, but segued into heavier drugs after the divorce. Drugs became her top--and only--priority.
"Sometimes I wish my parents were still here," Chet said. "They'd know how to help Dusty. He was close to my mom. Sometimes I think if he could just talk to her one more time--" He broke off. "I know it's a dangerous game to play, and I don't look back very often, but every now and then . . ."
He left his point unsaid, but I knew exactly how he felt. When I was really low, when it was all I could do not to feel sorry for myself, I played that game too. I knew I could never win, but some days, the dark days, the allure of playing "if only" was too strong to resist.
At the library, I stopped Chet before he parked.
"Can I ask a big favor? I could really go for a Coke. There's a Runza across the street. Would you mind?"
"Sure, no problem. I'll hit up the drive-through and meet you inside the library." He pulled up near the library's main doors and let me out.
Inside the library, I went right to work. Surely Reed had e-mailed by now. I checked our account. Thinking there must be some mistake, I refreshed the page. But no. There were no new drafts.
It didn't make sense. Something must have happened. Why else would Reed be waiting this long to contact me? For one moment I thought the worst, my imagination running wild with possibilities. Had Reed never made it to his new home? Had Danny Balando found him?
I drew a deep, reassuring breath. No. I was overreacting. Something was wrong, I had no doubt about that, but before I started picturing the worst, I needed more information. Reed was nineteen and living on his own. It seemed likely that he would have purchased a smartphone or computer by now, but maybe there had been a hitch. His funds might have been delayed. When it came to the government, nothing ran on time. I had to be patient a little longer, and see what information, if any, I could wheedle out of Carmina. I doubted she knew anything, but I could try.
I'd just closed the Internet browser when I saw Chet walking toward me. Empty-handed. He must have left the drinks in the Scout. Leave it to him to obey library rules. "Did you get your book?" he asked me.
"I had to look it up. It's over here." I led him to the fiction shelves, pretended to scan for a specific book, then plucked one at random.
After I checked out, he said, "Should we take the elevators? Here--" Seeing me lagging behind, he threaded his arm under my shoulders. I gave him a grateful smile and let him help me out to the parking lot.
Inside the Scout, I took a long drink of Coke. I'd tried swearing off soda as many times as my mom had attempted to give up the hard stuff, but I felt after everything I'd gone through today, I deserved a guilty pleasure.
I wondered if my mom told herself the same thing, and just like that, the Coke left a bad taste in my mouth.
No. I was being too hard on myself. I had nothing in common with her.
"Where to now?" Chet asked.
I eased back in the worn leather seat, which was unexpectedly comfortable. "Surprise me."
We drove through the park, stopping at the pond to feed the ducks. Chet's hair had dried, one stray curl falling idly over his forehead. I could still smell soap on his skin from when my arrival at his house had caused him to cut his shower short. It had probably taken him ten seconds to towel off and pull on a pair of jeans before he ran downstairs to meet me. Reed had frequently made me wait in his bedroom while he got ready in the adjoining bathroom. As much as Reed resented his dad, the army four-star general had left his mark: General Winslow's son was rigidly clean-cut and refused to go out in public looking thrown together. It was hard to think of someone more opposite to Reed than Chet.
Finding a shady bench near the water's edge, Chet tore the bread into pieces, letting me toss them at the ducks quacking frantically around our feet. One pecked my toe, and I drew my knee up with a squeal of laughter.
"Carnivores," Chet said, shaking his head reproachfully. "The whole lot of them."
Too late, I realized he'd slung his arm behind me. It rested on the back of the bench, impossible to ignore. My heart beat faster. Partly from irritation--I'd sworn I wouldn't let things go this far--and partly, to my great disconcert, from attraction. He smelled incredible. And those dimples. Not to mention the lazy curve of his mouth. I wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. . . .
I shook my head. I was not going there. I wasn't going to cheat on Reed, and more importantly, I wasn't going to let Chet believe a lie. And that lie was me. The girl he thought he was falling for didn't exist. She was a fraud. Chet was a good guy--a great guy. He didn't deserve the deception and heartache that would come from getting involved with me. My life was screwed up enough, and if I kissed him, I was giving him false hope. I cared about him too much to give him that. The truth was, I was taking off in August and he'd never see me again.
But I wanted to kiss him.
He traced the bandage holding the cut on my forehead closed. His touch made something inside me ache. Languid heat spread through my body, and it had nothing to do with the sun overhead or the wilting hot spell of its rays. I really had to stop this. If I needed more reasons, the last guy I'd kissed had had his future upended after getting involved with me. I carried my reasoning further. If I let Chet get close, and Danny Balando found me, Chet would become collateral damage. And when it came to damage, I'd done enough.
"Chet--" I protested.
I didn't get to finish. With a hunger I didn't expect from him, he cupped my cheek and drew my face to his. He kissed me, hard and solidly. Any thought of protest deserted me. I let go of my arguments and sank into the heat of him. Yes, yes, yes, my body screamed. I wanted this. I'd wanted it for a while and I was done fighting it. I pushed my mouth harder to his. With a drive completely fueled by reflex, I swung deftly onto his lap, straddled his hips, and surged my fingers through that thick, silky hair.
I grasped his shoulders, gratified by the cords of muscle that tightened as he drew his arms around me. Touching him only made my desire burn hotter. I kissed him recklessly, greedily. My body felt hot and alive, humming with a delicious ache, and I couldn't remember why I hadn't done this sooner. I couldn't remember anything outside of Chet and the feel of him pressed against me.
His teeth nipped my lip. I tasted his breath, warm and sweet. His hand was on my thigh, running over my bare skin. My whole body jolted with pleasure
.
I heard giggling.
I tore my mouth away from Chet's, blinking at the sunlit path behind the bench. Two small girls stood there, pointing at us and laughing behind their hands. Their eyes grew round when they saw me; they gasped and raced away. It was enough of a distraction to pull me to my senses.
I climbed off Chet. I backed away. He reached to stop me, but I held up a hand. The heat was beginning to recede, and I felt ashamed.
I smoothed my clothes. Like I could pretend nothing had happened. We hadn't just made out, I hadn't felt his hands on me, I hadn't been overcome by hot, throbbing desire.
"I want to go back to Carmina's," I said. I couldn't look at him. If I did, I might run back into his arms. The way he kissed . . .
I shut my eyes. I squeezed them hard. I wouldn't think of it.
"Did I hurt you?" Chet asked, breathing heavily. He braced his hands on his knees and hunched his shoulders. He was trying to wrestle control of himself too.
Hurt? No. It wasn't that. Caught up in the moment, I hadn't felt any pain. Just electrifying sensation and longing.
"I can't do this with you."
"Is there someone else?" he asked roughly.
"Yes."
"In Tennessee?"
"Yes," I said again, miserably. I didn't want to lie to Chet or hurt him. I never should have kissed him. Looking at the pain on his face, I was terrified I'd ruined everything. How would I ever repair the damage? I couldn't lose Chet as a friend. The thought of enduring the summer without him filled me with a weight heavier than my shame or guilt.
"Will you see him again?"
"I don't know," I confessed.
Chet nodded slowly, but there was nothing accepting about the gesture. Behind the torment, I saw his eyes flare. "You're going to give up something with me for a guy who, let's face it, is probably out of your life for good?"
"I'm sorry." There was nothing more I could say. If I tried to explain, I'd have to tell him the truth. And I couldn't do that.
"I care about you, Stella," he said huskily.
Stella. It drove the point home. Chet didn't know me. He didn't even know my real name. He sat there looking frustrated and vulnerable, cutting himself open for a girl who didn't exist.
"I don't want to hurt you. I want to be your friend." My voice shook a little when I said it, and Chet laughed, but the sound was bleak and humorless.
"I guess we'll have to agree to disagree on that point." He pushed off the bench and stalked to the water's edge, his hands braced stiffly on his hips. The longer he stared into the distance, the bigger the rock in my throat grew.
I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry. My instinct was to be tough and coldly insensitive. I wanted to smother any hint of emotion. I longed for Estella, who'd learned to harden her heart and not care too much because of the risk of being disappointed or, worse, hurt. After the divorce, right about the time my mom started using, that's how Reed had found me. Cool, detached, distrustful, unimpressed by life. I had to find my way back there. It was the only way I knew to protect myself.
Wiping my eyes on the backs of my hands, I said, "Will you take me to Carmina's?"
On the ride, Chet did not speak to me. He didn't turn on the radio. I knew he wasn't trying to punish me, but that's what it felt like. The awful suffocating silence was the worst chastisement he could have given me. I wanted him to say something, anything. Even if it was just to complain about the weather. If he talked to me, I would know he didn't hate me, know he was still my friend.
He pulled up to a stoplight. The high, hot sun glinted off the hood of the Scout, and I could feel sweat beading at the small of my back. Waves of heat shimmered off the blacktop. It wasn't even noon, and the temperature was still climbing.
I gazed out my window at the baseball diamonds. Players were running laps around the outfield. Judging by the ruddy glow in their faces and the sweat stains on their shirts, they'd been out there awhile. I could only imagine how sunbaked and drained they must feel.
Farther down, in the batting cages, a few players swung bats to the rhythm of the pitching machines. Only one player sat on the bench, watching his teammates from a pool of shade provided by the overhang. He methodically tossed a ball in the air, his slouched posture bored.
The coach blew his whistle, and the team scrambled in from all corners. Practice was over. The benchwarmer stood up, his red-gold hair gleaming like fire. He hobbled toward his truck in the parking lot, noticeably favoring his left leg.
Trigger McClure, it seemed, had injured his leg.
Estella,
Sorry I didn't write the past two days. They keep us busy. There's a big banner in the cafeteria that reads "Live, eat, sleep, and breathe baseball." No shit. Eat a cheesesteak from Lee's for me, okay?
And no hooking up with other guys while I'm not around to defend what's mine.
Kidding. Sorta. I don't know what I'd do without you.
xReed
17
THAT NIGHT DURING DINNER, THERE WAS A KNOCK at the door. Carmina set down her fork and huffed a sigh of exasperation.
"If Roger Perkins is sniffing around here again, I'm driving to the animal shelter first thing and getting a watchdog. If I can't keep that man off my porch, maybe a pit bull will."
"Knock, knock, anybody home?" A familiar male voice drifted through the screen door, which Carmina used at night in the hope of luring a breeze inside. "Deputy Price here. I've brought a few acquaintances."
With an unfathomable look, Carmina pushed back her chair. "We're here, Deputy. Come on in."
I followed her into the hall, where, sure enough, Deputy Price stepped inside, trailed by a swarthy linebacker of a man, and a woman with a helmet of thick black curly hair. Detectives Ramos and Cherry from Philadelphia PD. They'd taken my statement at the police station the night I called 911--the night I was whisked into WITSEC.
Behind them, another man wiped his feet before crossing the threshold. He was lithely built, with a scholarly face that watched the world from behind wire-rimmed glasses. I couldn't remember his name, but I knew who he was. The head prosecutor handling the case against Danny Balando.
"Hey there, Stella--whoa. What happened to your face?" Price had been leaning forward to give my hand a shake, but stopped at the sight of me. "Looks like you got in a fight." He aimed a worried and questioning look at Carmina.
"Last night," she explained. "It happened last night. I was going to call you."
"You should have."
"Local boy. Has a temper. We're handling it."
"I don't like seeing my witness black and blue."
"I said we're handling it," Carmina repeated firmly.
"Why don't I ring you in the morning," Price said levelly, but there was no mistaking the displeasure flaring in his eyes. "You can explain it to me then."
Carmina nodded, but I could tell she was both annoyed by, and dreading, the call. I supposed, as a former cop she felt like he was questioning her ability to do her job. I felt bad that she was taking the fall for my condition, especially since none of this was her fault. Since the assault, she'd cared for me more diligently than my mom ever had.
Price turned to me. "Sorry this happened, Stella. We'll make sure it doesn't happen again, okay? When I said you'd be safe here, I meant it." His face warmed. "You've been spending time in the sun, I see. Getting a tan."
I stared at him, baffled, skeptical. Why was he making small talk? Why was he here, period?
"Good to see you again, Stella," Detective Cherry said. Her smile was pleasant, but behind it, her sharp eyes were furiously at work, sizing up me, Carmina, and the house--what she could see of it.
"What are you doing here?" I asked all three of them collectively. Was I in trouble? Had Danny escaped?
"Guessing you didn't get my message," Price said to Carmina.
"Message?" she echoed. "Haven't heard the phone ring all day."
"The special cell phone I gave you. I left a message on it. Said we'd be ar
riving tonight. I know it's a hassle, but you really need to keep the phone with you at all times."
Carmina patted her empty pockets, frowning. "Not used to carrying a mobile phone. Think I left it on the nightstand this morning."
"What are you doing here?" I repeated, this time addressing Price directly, since he seemed to be point man for the group.
"You remember Detective Cherry and Detective Ramos," he told me. "And the head prosecutor, Executive Assistant District Attorney Charles Menlove."
Mr. Menlove also stepped forward to clasp my hand, but his grip was tighter and felt much more formal. He wore a thin, frog-like smile.
"Where's the woman from Child Services?" I asked, thinking she was the only player missing from that long, harrowing night at the police station.
"Didn't bring CPU, figured Carmina could stand in for her," Price explained.
It clicked in my head. The only reason I'd needed Child Services at the police station was because my mom was too high to look out for my welfare when I met with the detectives. Instead, a woman I'd never met had been appointed to make sure I felt safe.
Price said, "There have been some developments in the case. The detectives haven't been able to get a statement from your mom, but even if she decides to cooperate, the defense will, in all likelihood, discredit her testimony. They'll play it so the jury views her as unreliable."
"Because she's a drug addict," I stated.
Price inclined his head tactfully. "And Reed, well, his criminal history makes his testimony iffy. People don't trust criminals."
"He isn't a criminal. He made a few bad decisions," I argued. "I know about the breaking and entering charge--he broke into that house on a dare. The people weren't even home! And I know about the prowling at nighttime charge. I can't believe that's even a law. So what if Reed made a couple mistakes? It doesn't change how I feel about him."
"Because you know him," Price said.
"Yeah," I jumped in defensively. "I know his dad was harsh and authoritarian, and his approach to parenting--if you can call it that--backfired, driving Reed to rebel. If you want to point fingers, maybe you should interrogate General Winslow. Ask him how he treated his son during the eighteen years Reed was forced to live under his roof. That man is an abusive sociopath."