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Chasing Impossible
Katie McGarry


Available by popular demand, the latest installment of the beloved, award-winning Pushing the Limits seriesTough and independent, seventeen-year-old Abby lets very few people into her inner circle. It's common knowledge in her Kentucky town that she deals drugs, but not even her closest friends know why. But when a deal goes south and Abby's suddenly in danger, she finds herself reluctantly forced to lean on daredevil Logan—a boy whose restless spirit matches her own.Logan has his own reasons for wanting to keep Abby at arm's length. But he never expected to find in her the one person who might help him face the demons he's tried so hard to run from.Together, Abby and Logan will have to make a decision: let their current circumstances weigh them down forever…or fight for the future they both thought was impossible.







Tough and independent, seventeen-year-old Abby lets very few people into her inner circle. It’s common knowledge in her Kentucky town that she deals drugs, but not even her closest friends know why. But when a deal goes south and Abby’s suddenly in danger, she finds herself reluctantly forced to lean on daredevil Logan—a boy whose restless spirit matches her own.

Logan has his own reasons for wanting to keep Abby at arm’s length. But he never expected to find in her the one person who might help him face the demons he’s tried so hard to run from.

Together, Abby and Logan will have to make a decision: let their current circumstances weigh them down forever...or fight for the future they both thought was impossible.


Chasing Impossible

Katie McGarry






www.miraink.co.uk (http://www.miraink.co.uk)


Contents

Cover (#ufd059110-408d-5c04-9331-eb76ff5d23c0)

Back Cover Text (#ub90f0dd2-9746-5353-a773-7895dc05eb9d)

Title Page (#u81e4e595-c15f-500c-b455-50505312ec3b)

Logan (#ulink_610f0cf4-00e3-536d-a950-0df900350ed2)

Abby (#ulink_8f92fa2b-a17f-5197-afce-40f0fc81e260)

Logan (#ulink_14d41821-cfe3-50cd-ae84-0e32438e431d)

Abby (#ulink_4c3e9cc9-b365-56d4-9774-d2d4c3d743f1)

Logan (#ulink_bf0a9a5a-740e-5eef-8fb7-36ce62654549)

Abby (#ulink_91be2f66-d3c9-5cd2-aa3f-f92d0b99cc2d)

Logan (#ulink_c4850475-eb20-505f-95ee-2d465f17fc7e)

Abby (#ulink_840785fe-71de-50c7-9243-7091f462cbbc)

Logan (#ulink_b689f536-61c6-5221-9dfc-d36848e96079)

Abby (#ulink_9570b983-d174-5d32-abe2-1c50c7c18814)

Logan (#ulink_d3a88ee8-0cb8-52d2-806f-6022a8e37e19)

Abby (#ulink_a747a564-7672-5a4e-916a-de3335818984)

Logan (#ulink_aad4d641-33a5-52b6-8621-43cc817ace88)

Abby (#ulink_d32a920f-613e-58c0-b7e4-8cc561d2d330)

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Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Playlist for Chasing Impossible (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Logan (#ulink_73e0210f-118a-530b-a26e-275c9ddb115e)

Traitor.

It’s what I expect someone to mumble as they walk by, but we’re in Louisville and the odds of me running into anyone from Bullitt County High School are low.

The waitress smiles at me when she refills my water and our eyes meet. She’s pretty. Maybe a year or two older than me. Her hair is long, but Abby’s is longer. Her eyes are brown, but Abby’s are darker. Thinking of Abby causes me to consider asking this girl out. The waitress wouldn’t be the first college girl I’ve dated and she wouldn’t be the first girl I’ve taken out because I’ve got Abby on the brain.

I wink, the waitress blushes, my mother nudges my arm in approval.

We’re at Applebee’s. All three TVs over the bar show the Reds game, and thanks to the last home run, the people in the stands are going wild. It’s crowded here, most places in Louisville are, yet my glass has never been empty. Yeah, the waitress is interested, but I’m not sure if I am.

On my left, my father tilts his head toward the guy who’s smiling like a Cheshire cat. If I should so choose, this guy could be my new baseball coach, and me flirting with a girl has to be a hell of a lot less awkward and more normal for him than what we have been discussing—my diabetes.

Type 1 to be exact and it’s obvious by how this guy continually shifts that I must be the first potential player he has had with the disease. Bet he’s regretting asking me to lunch so he could convince me to play for him. This all leads back to traitor.

“Logan’s mother and I wanted to thank you for helping us get the approval from the athletic commission for Logan to continue to play baseball.” Dad always refers to him and Mom as separate. They divorced when I was six, but most of the time they’ve found a way to stay amicable.

“Yes,” Mom chimes in. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Mom has no idea what Coach Reynolds was helpful with, but she likes to feel included. Dad sighs when Mom goes overboard in the gratitude department—thanking him for his time, for this lunch, for being here. Mom’s a free-spirited talker and Dad’s the quiet, responsible one.

Out of those traits, I inherited Dad’s conversational skills and Mom’s need for a rush. I’ve also got Mom’s brown eyes, Dad’s black hair, and a body that doesn’t produce insulin. Mom blames Dad for that, saying his negativity must have blocked one of my chakras in the womb. Dad says Mom needs her head examined. I’m with Dad on this one.

“When’s your birthday?” Mom asks the coach. “It’ll help me figure out what stars you were born under.”

“Once again, thanks for your help.” Dad jumps in to save the conversation. He’s good at keeping joint parental meetings from making an unscheduled detour into Mom’s fascination with crazy. “The state doesn’t usually like it when students switch schools.”

“Wasn’t much of a problem. You share custody.” Coach Reynolds points the knife he had cut his hamburger with in Mom’s direction. “And you live in our district.”

It also didn’t hurt that this guy wants me on his team. This lunch—I feel for him because it’s possibly in vain. I told Dad at the end of last season I wasn’t playing baseball again, but he went after the commission’s approval anyhow in case I changed my mind.

Given my track record on things, he’s not wrong. My day-by-day attitude drives Dad insane. This time around, I’m firm on a decision. I have a goal for this summer and training camps, drills and commitments to weekend-long tournaments aren’t in the plan. Late nights, crowded bars, a guitar, and a trip to Florida at the end of the summer are in my sights.

“It didn’t hurt that Bullitt County High was encouraging during the process,” Coach Reynolds continues. “There aren’t many schools in the state that can surpass Eastwick’s academics.”

And there aren’t many schools that can surpass Eastwick in sports, but my teammates from Bullitt County High and I made Eastwick cry in the state tourney this past spring. Back in May, Coach Reynolds cursed loud enough for the crowd in the stands to hear as I successfully protected home plate three times in a row—as I cost his team the state championship.

“Academics is why I’m switching schools.” After Bullitt High informed my parents that my senior year would be me, a laptop, and the library, my parents switched me to Eastwick. Me and idle time have never been a good combination. Usually ends up with me in detention, suspended, in the hospital, and once in handcuffs. In my defense, the cow followed me home so I don’t consider that stealing.

Coach Reynolds cocks his head in amusement. “Of course academics is your priority. I would expect nothing less.”

He thinks I’m being cryptic, but I’m not. Dad told him I was considering retiring and this lunch was meant to convince me to change my mind. On the record, according to Coach Reynolds, it’s not that type of lunch. Just a meet and greet. Recruitment is illegal, but that doesn’t stop it from happening.

“Did you know that Logan finished all the courses Bullitt County High had to offer in his junior year?” Mom pipes up.

“I did.” Coach Reynolds smiles while sipping his Coke. “I’ve also heard he has exceptional ACT and SAT scores. Had a talk with your guidance counselor. She told me about the summer institutes you’ve been asked to attend. If you play summer ball for us, I promise practices and games will never interfere with any of that.”

Dad watches my reaction. He doesn’t get worked up by much. Believes what I do in my spare time is my hobby to choose, but me going to college—that’s his dream. Dad finished high school and isn’t quiet about wanting more for me than minimum wage and backbreaking work. These summer institutes promise potential college interviews.

Coach Reynolds picks up on Dad’s change in body language and pounces. “Our guidance counselor says Logan has a ton of universities hunting him down. Just think how much more marketable he’ll be with another baseball championship under his belt.”

Mom sits taller in her seat. “You should see his IQ scores. They’re off the chart. They say intelligence comes from the mother’s side.”

Dad chokes and Mom shoots him a rare dirty look. I drink to hide my smile. Mom’s smart—even has a fancy degree from a fancy university, but she prefers horoscopes to science.

“Moving schools between your junior and senior year—that takes courage.” Coach moves the conversation back to me. “Joining the team will help you make friends fast.”

Most people would be torn up about the decision to switch schools, but my best friends graduated this past spring and so did half my baseball team. Then a week after graduation, two of my three baseball coaches announced they were transferring schools. Within a heartbeat, I was left behind.

I yank on my baseball cap and push the salad around in the bowl. Being left behind. Can’t say that felt good.

“I don’t want to play this summer.” I cut to the meat of the issue. “I need some time off.”

Dad looks thoughtfully over at me. I hadn’t said this to him yet, just stated that I was done with ball, but like Dad’s already aware, I do change my mind. I’m not passionate about baseball like my best friends Chris and Ryan. They live for the game where I just enjoyed being with friends and the rush of playing catcher.

“You’ve been around enough,” Coach Reynolds says. “You know how we like to play on rec league teams during the off-season to keep the guys in shape.”

“I know.” My eyes meet his and he’s reading me. Nothing he’ll do or say will convince me to give up my summer goals.

“So explain to me again how the diabetes works,” the coach says, switching the subject either because he’s curious or because he’s buying himself time to convince me to change my mind.

Dad and I share a brief glance while Mom acts like she’s the authority on me. Coach Reynolds drenches his last French fry in ketchup as he nods at Mom’s basic explanation of sugar levels, glucose testing, and insulin shots.

My mouth waters when he pops that fry into his mouth. To play the “I’m responsible game” with my parents, I’m eating a grilled chicken salad. I hate vegetables. Can’t describe the undeniable amount of hate I have toward all things green, but lately, my blood sugar’s been off.

Doctor says it’s normal—my hormones fluctuating. Mom says it’s negative energy. Dad wonders how responsible I’m being with managing my diet, exercise, and testing routines. Dad and the doctor could be tied for the win.

“So you’re saying I don’t need to worry about anything?” Coach Reynolds balls up his napkin and tosses it over his empty plate. “That Logan’s responsible about all this and will be able to take care of everything if he plays for us?”

“Logan...” Dad pauses and I raise an eyebrow. Dad’s the one who convinced me to give baseball a try after the initial diabetes diagnosis when I was seven. It was his attempt to prove that I could do anything, even with type 1. I often wonder if he regrets that conversation. Bet he never thought his son with type 1 would become a daredevil.

Dad reboots and starts the conversation again. “Logan knows when to test and has been giving himself his insulin for years.”

It’s a politician answer. The truth without admitting the truth. Dad doesn’t think I’m responsible. Not with my diabetes and not with my life.

Coach Reynolds accepts Dad’s answer with a wave of his hand. “Sounds good. We’ll hold a team meeting if he decides to join. Explain the situation to them. Maybe if you have a pamphlet—”

“No.” I cut him off and his eyes snap to mine.

“What?”

“If I join nobody but the coaching staff knows.”

Coach Reynolds warily flicks his eyes to my parents. He’s searching for support but ends up on his own. “I’ll admit to not understanding your condition, son, but from what I understand, this is serious.”

It is. I crashed once on an ER table. Shit doesn’t get much more real and serious than that. “Outside of doctors’ offices, there are a handful of people who are aware of my diabetes. My last team won back-to-back state championships and my teammates never knew their catcher can’t produce enough insulin.”

My two best friends didn’t know and still don’t.

“There’s no shame in telling—”

I cut him off again. “Would you run headfirst into a guy whose body doesn’t work right? Would you purposefully hurl a ball full force at a guy if you thought he was broken?”

Coach Reynolds circles his wedding ring on his finger and my stomach bottoms out. Bet he’s got kids and he’s confusing his feelings for them with the idea of putting me on the field. “Should they? I have to admit, I’m questioning if this choice is wise.”

I rest my arms on the table and lean forward, never breaking eye contact. “I stood between your biggest guy and home plate in the championship a few weeks back. He hauled ass in my direction for home. I caught the ball, took the charge, and tagged his ass out. I’m sitting here and from what I hear, he’s still nursing a broken leg. I am not weak.”

Dad pulls a letter out from a folder and slips it across to the coach. “It’s a letter from his doctor. Logan’s cleared to play. He has to test more when he’s practicing and during games, but there’s no reason for his diabetes to hold him back.”

When Coach Reynolds’s eyes stop the back and forth proving his reading, he simply stares at the bottom of the page, weighing his need for a catcher over the burden of responsibility of having a kid with diabetes on his team.

He knocks the table two times and finally meets my eyes. His desire for a championship team won. “I just saw and heard passion. You sure you’re done playing ball?”

A hundred-mile-per-hour fastball being thrown at me or taking the brunt of a guy in his hunt for home as I tag him out? That’s some crazy shit and I need a dose of crazy—daily. There’s something wrong with my brain. There’s a constant itch under my skin, a twitch in my mind, and if I don’t find a rush, then I feel like I’ll go insane.

Am I done with baseball? Who knows. But... “I need the summer off.”

Coach nods with a victory smile on his face. “All right. I can respect that. Fall ball practice starts the first week of school. I expect to see you on my field.”

A waitress drops a tray full of food, the entire restaurant gawks, and when Coach Reynolds returns his attention to the table, Mom starts telling him about an herbal tea at the organic foods store she manages that would be great for the team during training.

“You sure about this?” Dad mumbles in my direction.

He’s used to me following whatever path I like at the moment. It’s predictable that he’ll second-guess and ask me if this is what I really want. Has nothing to do with baseball. Me playing ball—that’s not what’s important to him. My health is. My mental stability.

“Just need the summer.”

Dad shoots me a look that suggests later he and I will discuss everything I’m not saying. It’ll be a hell of a conversation. One he won’t want to have, but one I’m determined will go my way in the end.


Abby (#ulink_81994384-09af-5d49-bab0-3837c68644ee)

Rule number one from my father: never let them know you’re scared.

I cradle my cell against my ear, shut the upstairs bathroom door of my house, lock the knob, then use the chain I added for extra security. “Next you’ll tell me the stars realigned themselves to foretell my doom and a voice called down from the heavens telling you I should stay in bed.”

Ricky laughs. He always laughs. At least with me. I make him nervous, and in our line of business, trusting the wrong person can be a fatal mistake so he chooses not to believe I’m crazy and instead chooses to think I’m funny. By the way, I’m not funny, but I am crazy.

“I’m telling you that you should cancel your plans for the evening,” he says.

I move the plastic shelves that hold our towels to the side, roll up the wallpaper that was held in place with Velcro, then use the screwdriver to take the wooden “door” in the wall off. “Because your fortune cookie warned you off from bad business meetings. If you’re going to listen to the crap, at least do it right and read your horoscope in the paper like the rest of us.”

The loud background laughter and conversation on his end fades and I wonder if he’s also entering his private space that includes his personal cubby hole full of cash. “I heard from reasonable sources there are people going after some of my assets this evening. You need to stay in.”

“Tough, because I’m going to a club tonight.” True. After I meet a few clients to sell them what they’re interested in buying, I’m hanging with friends and then I’m meeting with a new potential client. I interview potential clients before I sell because I’m paranoid like that. “I’m going to be the teenager that everyone, even you, keeps reminding me that I am.”

Four screws out and the door loosens. Every time I open this little compartment I’m half relieved and half sickened. Too many stacks of cash for someone my age, but at the same time, not nearly enough.

“It’s Sunday night,” he says. “Friday and Saturdays are your paydays.”

“I’ve got regulars who get cranky when I don’t meet their expectations, plus it’s summer. I try for a faster turnover rate now because school can eat into my delivery time, and I like for them to have memories of a time when I delivered immediately. Maintaining a high level of customer satisfaction and retention while getting my beauty rest and finishing my homework isn’t as easy as I make it seem. Flawless takes work and planning.”

“The honor roll employee with the customer’s-always-right attitude.” He fake cackles and it’s the type that swamps me with the urgent need to shower and clean myself of filth. “It’s always a pleasure to speak with you. Maybe I should force everyone to adopt your customer service philosophy.”

“You said it.” My customers are right unless they try to cheat me and then I’m nasty.

“I’ll give you a paid vacation day. Whatever it is you’re scared of losing in cash, I’ll pay.”

My heart skips a terrified beat. Ricky doesn’t make offers like that, and I don’t like that he’s making them with me. “I get that you’re worried I’ll lose some of your supply if I get jacked, but I’m smarter than that. I don’t carry enough at one time that it’ll matter if someone is stupid enough to steal from me. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

I retrieve the package I picked up from another of Ricky’s “assets” an hour ago from my hoodie pocket and sort what I need to fill orders for the evening. I also withdraw from my cubby hole cash, small bills to be exact, because God forbid people bring exact change and none of them believe in tipping.

“Abby.” Ricky switches to serious and I pause with a roll of ones in my palm. “I’m not worrying over you having to reschedule a few appointments and the asset I’m concerned about doesn’t fit into a pocket. I think they might be going after my best sales representatives.”

“Then call them and tell them to read horoscopes.”

“You’re the asset I’m worried about.”

“I’m small-time.” I stay that way on purpose. I sell drugs for money. I sell drugs because I’m desperate for more than minimum wage.

I’m protective of my territory—Dad’s neighborhood, my school, the college boys who I make bank off of. I keep my number of clients just high enough to pay my bills and cover my future bills, but low enough that I don’t become any more involved in this “life” than I need.

Ricky’s concern over me—this is “involved” and it makes my skin crawl.

“You have loyal customers because you’re a pretty young girl who makes them comfortable, but they respect you because deep down you’re scarier than any horror movie they’ve seen. You’re smart, brilliant even, and you keep yourself small-time because you think it buys you power, but that’s another discussion for another day. In the meantime, I’m ordering you to stay off the streets tonight.”

I’m silent. He’s silent. My head is right next to the toilet bowl.

“This is an order, Abby.”

“I made plans with friends,” I whisper absently as my forehead hits the cold porcelain. I thought I was smart. I thought I had played this hand my father dealt me well, but like him, I’ve messed up. Stupidity, it seems, is genetic.

“Abigail,” he pushes.

I had made a promise to the one person I dare to love that I would never let this go to Dad’s level. That I would never end up like he did, and I’m failing.

“Tell me you’re going to follow orders,” he says, and a wave of dizziness overwhelms me.

This was only supposed to be a means to an end, and I only needed this to work until I could land a real job. A job that pays well enough to cover the impossible burden on my shoulders. But this phone call—his words to me—I’m in too deep and walking away may never be an option and God help me...I crave options.

“I want confirmation and I want it now,” he demands.

“I won’t sell tonight.”

“Good,” he replies. “That’s good, and soon we’ll discuss your growing position with me.”

He hangs up, I hang up and I close my eyes. Shit. Just shit.


Logan (#ulink_bbc8def6-991d-59c9-88d1-034be2486fef)

“Do it,” I say. “It’s your turn to bring it, girl, or I’m the king of this night.”

My chest is puffed out and by the way Abby grins from ear to ear, I imagine I must look like a rooster ready to strut and I’m not too far from it. She dared me to climb up the side of the wall and swing from one rafter to another along the ceiling of the bar.

I did it and never broke stride.

The entire club is clapping and shouting their approval. Girls are pushing through the crowd to see the crazy man who just caused a scene, and the guys I’m here with are laughing. Isaiah pats my back then states the obvious. “You’re fucking insane.”

Yes, yes I am.

There’s an ache in my biceps from having to make the big swings from one beam to the next and it didn’t help I went the entire length of the club, but Abby dared me and I like doing anything that pushes the limits. Abby is one of the few people who can keep up with me, and she’s willing to go as far as me in the quest for crazy.

Abby offers a side glare full of pain to three girls who were three steps away from approaching me. They scurry off like they’d met the reaper.

“Block much?” I mumble, even though the most interesting and gorgeous girl in the room is the one standing in front of me.

Abby smirks. “You can do better. Back to business. What do you want me to do? Run naked through the club? Steal the wallet of a frat boy? Flirt with a bouncer and steal his club keys?”

Abby’s a loaded gun, and if you get within a few feet of her, the click of the safety switching to off is audible. People with an ounce of sense back off this girl in an instant, but to me her intensity is an addiction.

“Same thing.” I tilt my head in the direction of the wall. “Start climbing.”

Abby wraps her fingers around my bicep, or at least tries. Her small grip doesn’t fit all the way around. She squeezes the muscle and a jolt of electricity races through my bloodstream. Wonder if she feels the crackle of energy whenever we breathe the same air.

“I don’t have your muscles,” Abby says as an explanation. It’s a pity when she lets go.

“So I win.”

Her hazel eyes narrow on me, unhappy with the idea of losing. “Fine. Lift me up.”

“You didn’t lift me up.”

“I don’t bench-press two hundred pounds with my pinkie.”

I sweep my hand for Abby to head to the wall, but a ball of blond slips in between us. “Nope. Not happening. This is my first night dancing and you two will not get us thrown out. Do you hear me?”

Rachel’s a short thing, but full of spunk and she’s wearing a don’t-mess-with-me expression. She’s been waiting months for a night like this, and neither Abby nor I would want to be the reason it was ruined.

I toss my hands up in a show of submission. “Games for the night are done.”

“Good.” Rachel extends her hand to her boyfriend. Isaiah links his fingers with hers then leads her to the dance floor, leaving me and Abby alone.

Abby sucks in her lower lip like she’s trying not to laugh and I understand the feeling. That was the equivalent of being reprimanded by Mom and Dad for having our hands caught in the cookie jar. Abby and I met because of Isaiah and Rachel. We were two separate parts of Isaiah’s life and then we wound up fighting side by side with Isaiah when things got rough for him and Rachel on the streets a few months back.

“To be continued,” I say. “Unless you’re chicken.”

Abby skims her eyes over me as if she likes what she sees. “I’m not scared of you or your crazy dares.”

“Good to hear.”

Abby steals my bottled water and keeps direct eye contact as she drinks more than half of it in several continuous gulps. When she finishes, she maintains that steady stare. “Remember when we were best friends in kindergarten and we got crazy and messy when we were locked in the art room because we hid under the desks because we didn’t want to do nap time?”

Abby has this devilish glint in her eye that has attracted me to her from the moment we met and that glint has a habit of brightening whenever she looks at me.

I’m attracted to her, she’s attracted to me, but we have a habit of ignoring what’s brewing between us. But that’s all right. Life for us is a game, and we both love to play.

Our group claimed a corner in the back of the club a few hours ago. It’s teen night and the place is crawling with people our age—seventeen, eighteen, a few sixteen-year-olds who should be put in protective custody due to their lack of common sense. Most haven’t been outside their safe bubble and this is their first taste of protected freedom.

Table was easy to claim as three of us in our group are over six foot and scares the hell out of everyone. Isaiah has enough tattoos that most people assume he’s been in prison even though he’s only eighteen. Then there’s West. He’s the golden-haired rich boy who sports a nice shiner from an amateur MMA fight last weekend. It’s the type of bruise that makes you wonder how bad off the other guy is. And me? Doesn’t take long for people to figure out I’m bat shit crazy.

I rest my elbows on the high table and ease into Abby’s space. “I remember. You couldn’t just chill with the clay and decided to go Picasso with the paint and redecorate the walls. Principal was pissed.”

The floor beneath us vibrates from the drums and the bass guitar and the place has a sweet smell. Like too much cleaner combined with spilled soft drinks. But the scent that absorbs me is an aroma that’s distinctly Abby—wild honey.

Her forehead crinkles and a bead of sweat drops from her hairline. Before she bounded over with her dare for me to climb, Abby had been dancing with Rachel and I enjoyed watching.

Abby’s like a mythical creature—rare, unique. One of those people you think only exists in your dreams, and she draws the attention of everyone. Long dark brown hair, hazel eyes and she’s blessed in all the right places.

What she wears is simple. Always simple. Tonight, it’s jeans, a pair of black knockoff Chuck high-tops, and a dark blue lace tank that sparkles. There’s something mysterious in how she chooses simple yet soft. Abby’s possibly the strongest, most hard-core girl I know, yet she’s exotic and feminine. She’s definitely one of a kind.

“Yeah, the principal was mad,” Abby says. “But we didn’t get caught because, if you recall, I had the brilliant plan of climbing out the windows and then sneaking back into our class before our teacher missed us.”

“It was my strength that pushed you through the window back into our classroom.”

“My knight in shining armor.” She flutters her eyelashes at me before finishing the water.

None of this happened as we haven’t even known each other a year yet, but Abby spins stories of a past we never shared and I go with it. Sometimes, she’s so convincing I begin to question my own memories. Maybe she’s not so convincing and it’s more that I would prefer her version of our make-believe past over my real life.

My cell buzzes and it’s Ryan, my best friend from Bullitt County. Abby bumps my hip so that I’m out of her way and she confiscates my cell. I grin because the girl is incorrigible and I love it.

“Let’s see.” Abby angles the phone so I can’t read Ryan’s text. “Ryan says he’s been eaten by alligators and that he’s left you a million dollars.”

“That so?”

“That’s so.” She taps buttons on my cell and she glances up from dark eyelashes to see if she’s found a way to push my buttons. She can keep trying. It’s tough to find buttons I care enough about to be pissed they were pushed. “I just told Ryan we eloped.”

My cell buzzes again, and I’m immersed in her sexy grin. “He’s pissed you skipped the bachelor party. He said you promised him naked chicks before you got married. Wow—I didn’t know guys actually had those conversations.”

She scans my face and when nothing she said fazes me, she slides my cell back in my direction. “Can I go?”

I study the convo between Abby and Ryan. He’s confirming that I’m going to Chris’s grandfather’s farm in southern Kentucky again and baling hay for the week. We’ve been doing it for the past few years. It’s backbreaking work, but we make nice money. Abby demanded we take her along, signing her text as Abby, Queen of Logan’s World. Ryan told her she had to talk to me.

“It’s boys only,” I say.

“Rules don’t apply to me. You should know that by now. Anyhow, you guys let me hang when you baled hay at Chris’s farm.”

“That was one day and this will be for a week. Camping and dirt your thing, Abby?”

“I can make anything my thing.”

I believe that.

“I heard that Noah and Isaiah are going. Noah’s going to use that money to buy Echo an engagement ring.”

I heard the same thing from Noah, Isaiah’s best friend, but it’s not my business. “Point?”

“If Noah gets to go, I want to go. Maybe I want to buy myself a diamond ring.”

“You’re going to help bale hay?”

Abby scowls. “Hell, no. I just want to go and get paid.”

I laugh, she smiles and the drummer of the band onstage begins the count. For the third time this evening, the electric guitarist comes in late and starts off beat. I came here tonight because I heard this band was on the verge of kicking him out. I’ve been searching for a new high, at least for the summer, and this just might be it.

“Dance with me, Logan.”

That rips my attention away from the guy making a fool of himself onstage. I examine Abby and wonder what piece she just moved on the chessboard. Wouldn’t put it past Abby to sacrifice a pawn in order to kill a queen. Abby is nothing if not strategic.

“I don’t dance.” I don’t.

She slowly raises her eyebrows, and I fight the tilt of my lips. Abby doesn’t like being told no. “You’ll dart into traffic to run after a stranger’s balloon, but you won’t dance with me?”

I ran into traffic because I was curious if I could make it to the other side. The balloon made it interesting. “I don’t dance with anyone.”

“You were the one that suggested we come here.”

I shrug. I’m here because an opportunity presented itself and I’m fascinated by the new and shiny.

“Dance with me, Logan,” she says again, and I have to admit I like how her hips sway to the music. “Why else would you come here if it wasn’t to touch me on the dance floor?”

I chuckle because that caught me off guard and Abby laughs, her real laugh. It doesn’t happen often and I like when it does.

“Rachel said she wanted to dance,” I say.

And she is, with Isaiah. While everyone else is grinding it out to the hard beat, Isaiah is slow dancing with his girl. Her head’s on his shoulder, his arms are wound tight around her waist. They look like they could die now and wouldn’t notice they had landed in heaven since they’re already there. That right there is love and it’s one in a million.

I’m not foolish enough to believe I’ll find something like Isaiah and Rachel share, but I’m fine with that. Emotions are overrated.

My cell buzzes on the table and I swipe it before Abby can read this one. Dad: Stay out of trouble. I texted your mom to see if she knew you needed to be up in the morning for the meeting and she said you never told her. Don’t do this, Logan. Not again.

My jaw twitches with annoyance. I shove my phone into my pocket. Abby’s watching me with a baffled expression, which means she must have read over my shoulder. “That was sweet of him. What type of trouble is he referring to? The type where you drag race with Isaiah or where you jump out of towering trees or play in traffic?”

All things I’ve done and those weren’t even the top three dangerous feats I’ve taken on recently. “Remember when I told you to mind your own business?”

“That never happened. Get your memories straight. And what’s this meeting in the morning?”

Nothing I’m interested in attending. “Let it go.”

This time, Abby is the one who leans forward on the table and she knows what she’s doing as she hugs her waist so that her cleavage peeks out. She’s the tiger after her prey. “Now that I think about it, you never talk about your parents. In fact, you really don’t talk at all.”

“We talk.”

“We play,” she says, and my gaze meets hers with the raw honesty. “What was that text about?”

“Not your business.”

“Make it my business.”

“I’m telling you to back off.”

“Not sure if you noticed, but I’m not the back-off type.” Abby scans the room like she’s searching for someone, and it’s not the first time she’s done that tonight.

“Who are you searching for?” I ask.

She sneers, so I know I called that right. “I’m not looking for anyone.”

“You are.”

“Topic of conversation was you and your dad and that text. Stick with the subject.”

Anger begins to bubble up in my bloodstream. “I told you, let it go.”

As if she’s a toddler, Abby stomps her foot. “Well, I’m not. I want to know.”

Abby and I usually don’t play this way, but if she wants to go there, then I’m throwing both of us over the edge. “You’ve been off all night. Acting like the boogeyman is out to get you. What’s your deal?”

Her expression blackens. “There’s no deal.”

Bull. “You think you’re unreadable, but I got your number.”

“Back the fuck off, Logan.”

Like she backed off of me? “Is it the drugs? Are you bringing trouble to Rachel’s doorstep? This is the first time she’s been out like this since the accident. She doesn’t need any more problems than she’s got.”

She blinks like I backhanded her and I hate the heaviness in my stomach. Yeah, tonight was about me checking out the band, but tonight was also a scheme created by Rachel. She’s bent on saving Abby. All of us are. It’s a feeble plan. Hang together, have a great time, ask her to leave with us and hope she ignores her chosen path for at least one night. It wouldn’t win the war, but we’ll celebrate any small victory.

Abby’s head jerks in an angry way. “I would never put Rachel in the line of fire.”

“I may not understand what you do, but I’m not seeing how you can minimize those risks. You’re not God.”

“What? You judging me now? Do you think I’m a threat? Do you think I’m unworthy of her friendship? Of yours?”

“No. Just trying to understand you.”

“We play, remember?” And the ache in her eyes cuts me deep. “We aren’t real friends so stop acting like you care.”

Damn me for hurting her. “Abby—”

It’s as if a mask covers Abby’s face, and where there was pain, there’s now a smirk. A fake smirk. A mere shadow of the girl who was playing make-believe a few minutes ago. “You’re too serious, Logan. We get along because neither of us does emotion. Let me know if you change your mind on the dance.”

I’d almost consider the dance if it would erase the past few seconds, but even I know there’s no changing the past.

“You’re wrong,” I call out as Abby has turned her back on me to slip into the crowd.

She pivots to face me again, but still walks backwards. “That never happens, but to placate you, how was I wrong?”

“It was my brilliant plan to sneak out the windows in kindergarten and then sneak back in. I’m the one with the massive IQ, remember?”

That devilish glint reappears in her eyes along with her heart-stopping smile. “I only let you think it was your plan, but it was really mine. And on the IQ? I’ll put my test scores up to yours any day and I’ll win.”

A smile stretches across my face and Abby winks before disappearing. And the game continues. We both moved pieces and neither of us is any closer to winning, but I’m not sure what’s at stake to be won.

Abby’s a drug dealer.

I’m a ticking time bomb.

Neither Abby nor I are reliable or stable. We’re like a tidal wave of gasoline approaching a nuclear power plant, but we still like to play with matches.

Doesn’t make sense. I guess it doesn’t need to. I work well in the undefined.

I pull out my cell, ignore the text from Dad and scroll through the trail of messages between me and Sly. He’s an ex-boyfriend of Mom’s. He was around before either of us learned not to get attached. Sly was a hard lesson for me and I was an even harder lesson for him.

Me: I’ve heard the band. I want in.

Sly: I’ll get you ten minutes with them this week. Don’t fuck it up.

Me: Won’t.

Sly: You’re good with the traveling?

I scan the bar. Isaiah and West are playing pool on the other side of the room. When Isaiah catches my eye he jerks his chin for me to join them. I tip my head to let him know I’ll be there soon. Another sweep of the room and I spot Abby dancing with Rachel again. They’re holding hands, twirling together, and laughing.

Like Ryan and Chris, Isaiah and West also graduated this spring. Moving forward. Moving on. Rachel’s still in school, transferring this year to my new school in fact. We’re friends, but not close friends.

All I’ve got left in this life is Abby and nobody knows Abby. She doesn’t belong enough to anyone for her to have friends. Just the way all mythical creatures should live.

Me: Yeah, I’m good on the traveling. I’m good with starting a new life.


Abby (#ulink_fa4a837b-5c5b-5ce5-9533-a5d6e0467e2e)

“I’m going to kiss him tonight.” From the back of the club, I point at the hot guy playing electric guitar onstage. He has gorgeous red hair that’s a little longer than most guys wear it and a body made for sin.

Sitting beside me, my best friend, Rachel, squints through the haze of dry ice and dancing beams of light, and when she spots my prey, her mouth pops open. Rachel’s the anti-me with her blond hair and blue eyes and this is her first time at a club. I’m dark hair and hazel eyes and continuously walk the line of selling my soul.

It’s Sunday and we’re at one of those teen nights for the local bar. This for her is wild. This for me is tame. But kissing the guy who obviously can play a guitar in a way that causes me to blush can make this evening worthwhile.

“It’s either that or kissing Logan,” I say over the pounding beat of the drums and she laughs. She thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. Talk about another guy built for sin, but I’ve been warned off of him by several friends of ours that I respect. Logan’s my type of crazy, but he’s also the type I can easily mess up in the wrong ways.

I’m not interested in jacking up anyone’s life other than my own. At least not the lives of the people I care about. Anyone else is fair game.

Rachel brushes away the strands of hair sticking to her face. We’ve danced tonight, her and I. Not much, but enough that it’s worn Rachel out. An accident a few months back killed her stamina, and for a time her ability to walk, but she’s on her feet again and loved the idea of dancing and I love her enough to make her happy.

Rachel, Logan and I will start our senior year of high school this fall and thanks to Logan’s IQ and having divorced parents, he’s now attending school with Rachel and me. We only have a few weeks left until life becomes completely complicated and chaotic.

Isaiah, Logan, and Rachel’s older brother, West, left a few minutes ago to bring Isaiah’s car around and they’re taking too long. I was banking on them leaving by eleven-thirty, but West tagging along with us bought Rachel another half hour of time. Her damn older brother doing some damn interfering. She needs to leave because I have an appointment, and I don’t like mixing my friends with clients.

Ricky told me not to sell, but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t hold an interview.

“Stay the night with me.” Rachel rests her water bottle on the seat beside her. “We’ll pick up tacos and maybe some queso on the way home.”

My eyes snap to hers at the mention of queso, and I hate that my stomach rumbles. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She knows why not. “I told you, there’s a boy that needs to be kissed. Just think how lonely he’ll be when no one kisses him on his upcoming break. It’s seriously a tough sacrifice on my part, but someone needs to boost his ego. No one wants to watch a sad and broken guitar player unless they’re a hipster at a coffee shop.”

Lying for me is easier than telling the truth. Plus, I’d rather live in a world where I was going to kiss the boy instead of crucifying my soul.

“If you’re going to kiss a boy, I’d prefer for you to kiss Logan.”

I laugh, but it fades when I notice she’s not laughing or smiling with me. At times, Rachel’s too serious for my taste.

Isaiah swept Rachel and West into my life a few months back, and during that process, Logan also became a fixture in my life. Before them, I didn’t do friends, but Isaiah was already exempt from my nonfriendship rule and I made another special exception for Rachel and West. But I did that for my father. Neither of them knows that and neither is aware of the why. Because of how my life works, it’ll stay a secret on my end.

But Logan...Logan is a selfish indulgence. I like him and that’s not fair to either of us.

“Let’s do tacos tomorrow. I’ll buy.” I won’t. I’ll con West or Isaiah into buying, but I’ll still take credit for the tacos because that’s how I roll.

“Logan’s a great guy, and even I notice how he looks at you.”

Logan looks at me like he also really enjoys queso, but there’s nothing serious going on between us. We play. Sort of like we’re seven and playing tag and we’re both continuously “it.” Plus he deserves better than what I have to offer. Even Logan’s aware of that, hence why he asked about my current employment.

My cell buzzes and Isaiah informs me he’s outside and ready to leave. Thank freaking Jesus. “Let’s go before the boys stalk in here looking for you and ruin my chances with guitar boy.”

Before she can say anything else, I grab her hand and lead her through the crowd. A few times I turn in her direction and encourage her to dance with the beat. Rachel doesn’t mind using her body for the purpose of music and neither do I. My body is meant to be used, I just wish sometimes I used it a little less.

Sometimes I’m lonely, sometimes I chase after lust. A few times I’ve been used and there are a few times I’ve used in return. Any way about it, there’s never emotion. Just bodies and it’s pretty hollow and meaningless.

At school, a lot of people call me names, say that I’m evil, label me a slut and even a killer. Maybe it’s all true. Maybe it’s not. Regardless, I don’t have time to overthink anyone’s thoughts or judgments.

People who live in the luxury of a steady paycheck and food in their bellies get too caught up in right and wrong, moral and immoral, good and bad, heroes and villains, even truth and lies. As if we’re all either one or the other. As if we all have a choice. As if I have a choice. But I don’t believe in choices. I believe in survival.

The moment we step outside, the heat of the August night hits us in a way that reminds me why I love being awake after midnight. It’s like walking into a warm bath surrounded by starlight. I was made for warm weather. Maybe that’s because I often feel emotionally cold.

Isaiah’s Mustang growls in front of the club. Logan hops out of the passenger side and moves the seat forward so I can enter the back. His black hair moves with the gentle breeze and he studies me like he thinks I’ll slide in. “Come eat with us, Abby. I’m buying tacos.”

I tilt my head in an annoyed way and he adds, “For everyone.”

I toss a glare into the backseat where West is sitting. If he told them that I only eat when his boss decides to share his lunch or dinner I will publicly castrate him. Because West doesn’t cower, not even from me, he meets my eyes and shakes his head that he’s kept my secret. Not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.

“Tomorrow,” I say and circle back for the club.

Seconds before I’m about to step in, a strong hand catches my wrist and Logan’s dark eyes bore into mine. I suck in a breath. Yes, this boy is definitely made for sin. The type of sin that involves his shirt off, my hands sliding through his mess of black hair, and his lips devouring mine.

“Doesn’t have to be tacos,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be food at all. Just leave with us.”

Logan’s one of the good guys, and my heart honestly twists with the silent expectation he has that I can be one of the good people, too. He’s a poor soul who believes I have a choice and that’s the reason why I won’t kiss him.

I look over at the car and see three other people who also believe I’m more than what I am. Three other people who see the world in black and white. What they want from me isn’t possible.

I fix my tank top over my jeans and straighten as if to pretend I’m just as tall as Logan. I’m no longer the Abby I wish I could be, I’m the Abby the streets have taught me that I am.

A shadow crosses over his face as I permit Logan to meet the girl the rest of the world is scared of. I hate this, but sometimes even I get tired of lying. “You need to go and I need to work. Don’t stop me again.”

“Doesn’t have to be like this,” he says like I expect of him. Even with jacked-up parents, in the end, he gets to choose the hand that’s dealt to him.

Unfortunately for me... “It does.”

This time, Logan doesn’t stop me and a little part of the Abby I wish I could be dies as he lets me go.


Logan (#ulink_f1cd4949-7fec-5254-aa48-8e23a49e538c)

On the crowded sidewalk next to Isaiah’s car, Rachel and I stare at each other. There’s a million requests in those blue eyes and pride demands that I ignore her and walk away.

People weave around us and the stench of garbage decaying in the summer heat blows onto the street from the nearby alley. A group of drunk frat boys make a few comments about Rachel’s physique and before her cheeks can turn fully red, I ease her closer to Isaiah’s car when a guy way beyond his limit almost crashes into her.

“I tried.” I hope to God that will be enough because I don’t want in on this conversation.

“Go after her.” Rachel points in the direction in which Abby fled. “She needs you.”

Abby rejected me and that hit stung. “Here’s where you’re wrong. Abby doesn’t need anyone. She just made that crystal clear.”

“Rachel,” Isaiah calls out from the driver’s seat. “We need to go.”

Rachel combs a hand through her golden locks then sets her frustrated sight on me. “Please, Logan. You’re the one person she’ll listen to. We all saw it. For one brief second, she considered leaving with us. You can’t give up now.”

Hurt and anger rolls through me. “She’ll listen to any of you before she’ll listen to me.”

“She won’t even talk to me or West about the drugs or her personal life or anything. I’m her best friend and I don’t even know where she lives and Isaiah...”

Has washed his hands of Abby and her drug dealing. We all know it. He’ll always protect Abby as a friend, but he’s drawn the line with the drugs. He’s given up on her when it comes to the dealing and I’m starting to understand why.

“Maybe this is a lost cause,” I say.

Rachel’s hand dips to her stomach like she’s experiencing the same ache I am. “Don’t say that. You care for her and she cares for you. Anyone with eyes can see that, plus she responds differently to you than she does anyone else. Abby will listen to you.”

Abby doesn’t listen to anyone. “We aren’t as close as you think.”

Abby and I met this past winter when I was helping Isaiah and Rachel drag race their way out of a bad debt. She walked into a garage, took one look at me and my life has never been the same since.

“No, I bet you’re closer than even I can imagine. Will you please try? I’m worried. Something was off tonight. She needs us. She needs you.”

I rotate away, walk a few feet, and then jerk back. Rachel’s reading me and Abby wrong. Mistaking attraction for friendship. Do I like Abby? Yeah, but Abby sure as hell doesn’t let anyone close, not even Rachel...not even Isaiah.

“Abby and I play games. That’s it. She’ll listen to Isaiah before she’ll listen to me.”

“Abby ignores Isaiah, but she doesn’t ignore you. Abby’s scared. I don’t know of what, but I saw it in her eyes tonight and you know what I’m talking about. That’s why you started playing those crazy games with her.”

Damn Rachel for this, because she’s right. I was concerned, and I wanted to make Abby smile. I hate caring for people who don’t care for me back. “Abby doesn’t know fear.”

“Rachel,” Isaiah calls out again. “You’re going to miss curfew.”

I crack my neck to the side as a wave of dizziness drains me. Fucking blood sugar. It’s either up or down and I’m screwed either way. Rachel steps toward me, her hand out like she could catch me if I fall. “Are you okay? You just went seriously white.”

“I’m good. Just hungry. You better go before Isaiah tosses you in.”

Rachel rolls her eyes, yet slips into the passenger seat of car. “You’re wrong. Abby’s scared and she needs you.”

She shuts the door and Isaiah immediately pulls away, racing down the road to get his girl home before her parents lose their minds.

“I’m right,” I mutter to the sidewalk. Regardless of what anyone else thinks of me, I know fear. I’ve had that bitter taste in my mouth more often than I care to admit and Abby is one of those people born without the gene.

I glance at the club then down the street to where my truck’s parked. I should leave—prove to my dad I’m responsible. Get in the car, test my blood sugar, fix what needs to be fixed and drive home and be back at a responsible time and eat some more protein and fucking green food.

I haven’t tested in hours. Too long. Even long enough I’m aware that I’m approaching stupidity.

But Abby was off tonight and the need to follow her into the club consumes me. It’s a constant throb in my ears. I scrub a hand over my face as another wave of dizziness strikes me.

My cell buzzes. Sly: Screw later this week. Guitarist just messed up bad. They want you to try out tonight. Got your guitar?

Screw me. Yeah. In my truck. Tell them I need 10 minutes.

A cold sweat breaks out on my skin and, on instinct, I start for my truck. Test my blood, get my shit together, do the audition, go after Abby one last time if she’s still around, but after this, I’m done doing the chasing.


Abby (#ulink_b2ab7af1-9dc6-5d03-885d-3aaf366896cc)

My grandmother’s first piece of advice to counteract Dad’s list: the devil dances with those who walk alone on an edge.

She told me that when I was five. Not exactly a bedtime story for a kindergartener, but at the time, it was a life lesson and a warning against my genetics. Too bad I don’t listen because with each step I take toward the table full of men, I’m very much aware of Satan tangoing by my side.

Houston meets me halfway and stretches out his arms like he’s going to hug me and the glare I throw causes him to abandon his efforts. I don’t touch clients and clients don’t touch me. Every good drug dealer has boundaries. But if was going to make an exception, Houston would be it.

Houston’s still smiling though, a good indication he’s high. He’s always high. “Starting to think you were going to stand me up.”

Due to Ricky’s warning, I considered it, but I make nice money off of Houston and I typically make nice money off of anyone he introduces me to. I lost a few clients recently because of graduation from either high school or college, and I’m always on the lookout for a reliable regular.

Houston flips his hat backwards and rubs his hands together like we’re about to make beautiful magic together, but we aren’t. We’re about to make somebody else numb.

“Tell me about him,” I say.

“I’m doing great. Thanks for asking, Abby. Start my senior year next month, my frat wants me to run for an office, and my girlfriend wants me to get a real job or she’s going to dump me. How are you doing?”

I don’t blink. Don’t move. Don’t smile. I would love to like Houston, but can’t afford that luxury.

“Three years,” he says. “You’ve been selling to me for three years and I don’t know shit about you.”

I pick up a lock of my hair and let it fall. “I have brown hair. Now tell me about him.”

He laughs and his dimples show. Doubt his girlfriend will dump a guy who can smile like that. “Fair enough. His name is Mufasa.”

He says it in a deep voice that reminds me of The Lion King and I internally kick myself when my lips twitch. Houston shouts in glee. “I just made you smile.”

“No, you didn’t.” Yes, he did.

“I did,” he sings like he’s six. “I did, I did, I did.”

“His real name,” I practically yell, because yeah he made me smile and that’s close to breaking the rule of showing I care.

“Albert,” he says with that stupid dimpled grin.

I sort of shake like a dog coming in from the rain. “Albert?” Not sure why, but that wasn’t a name I was expecting.

“Albert,” he repeats. “And I know what your next questions are going to be because I’m psychic.” He closes his eyes and puts his fingers to his temples. “My spirit guide is telling me that you want to know how I know him and how long I’ve known him and do I trust him.”

I cross my arms over my chest to stop myself from smiling again. God, I hate liking my clients. “Yes to all of that.”

“Frat, a few weeks, and he’s cool.”

All the happiness disintegrates. This isn’t Houston’s usual ammo. He brings me his high school buddies, guys he’s played soccer with since elementary school, frat brothers he pledged in with...people he has had established relationships with, not someone he thinks is “cool.”

“Popsicles are cool, autumn days are cool, bringing me someone who you’ve known for a few weeks...not cool.”

Houston sobers up and when I peer into his eyes, I spot it—something I don’t often see—he’s not high. Alarm bells are ringing and I’ve overwhelmed with this desperate urge to bolt.

“I need your help,” he says. “And I know dragging you into this is wrong, but I need you to read him. You’ve got great instincts and I need to know if he’s going to cause problems for my frat.”

Oh, for the love of God. My feet are moving in the opposite direction and Houston catches up to me in the crowd. Because he’s twelve of me combined, he’s able to easily pull me into a dark corner of the club.

He may be bigger, but I’m scarier. I lean into him and he cowers. “How dare you fuck with me. Bringing me in here, putting my business in danger because you can’t smell trouble. And when I ask you about him, you tell me he’s cool? You should have never thought of introducing us.”

“I’m being pressured,” he spouts. “The president of our frat got caught a few months back with heroin.”

I freeze. Heroin’s not my thing. I deal pot. Nothing else. I can barely handle the burden of selling something that’s legal in Colorado, to say nothing of selling something that can kill you in a heartbeat.

“He’s been forced to step down, but the college didn’t expel him. A few weeks back, this guy shows. All his paperwork is in line. Shows that he was a member of our frat that was disbanded at another college and when I try to talk to Nationals about it—they stonewall me. He is cool, too cool, and he’s pushing for a dealer. He doesn’t know you’re my dealer. He knows we’re meeting someone tonight, but he thinks it’s a guy, not a seventeen-year-old girl.

“I know how you are. I’ve seen you interview plenty of guys. You’d never tip your hand of who you are, but you can read people, and I need you to read him. Please help me. My frat—we party. Won’t lie. But we don’t deal in heavy drugs and I can’t let my frat brothers go down on petty shit because our president fucked up.”

I roll my neck. Run, Abby, run. “He’ll figure out I’m the dealer, and if he’s a narc, that will only draw unwanted attention to me.”

Houston’s shaking his head. “Already said, we told him the dealer’s a guy and I got my cousin who is in town for the weekend to play the role later. Just interview him like you did all the rest of us and then let me know if I’ve got problems.”

There are two types of people who buy from me. Those who are in search for the elusive good time everyone else seems to be having and those who are striving to forget. Doesn’t matter how many different ways someone tries to slice it, all of my clients end up in the same state of nothingness and numb.

Knowing this, I do know how to read people—I can read their intent.

“Please, Abby.” Houston’s eyes soften as he begs. “There are good guys at risk here. I’m at risk.”

“Fine, but if you ever do anything like this again, I will cut you off.”

I don’t mean it, but the fear registering in his eyes says he believes me. He takes a deep breath and tries to give me his dimpled smile, but it fails. “This is how I’ve got it figured. We just ran into each other and you’re a friend of my little sister. Her name is Mallory.”

Great. Backstories.

“She goes to school at—”

“Save it. Let’s go.” I start for his table first, but he muscles past to take the lead. Yes, I’m partly doing this to help Houston, but mostly to help me. If this is a narc and that frat gets disbanded and those boys get kicked out of school, I’ll lose 50 percent of my clients. That’s not a financial loss I can withstand.

Thank God, Houston’s regained his good humor by the time we reach the table and there are genuine smiles from three of the other guys there. I sell to them too and I don’t miss how their eyes warily jump from me to this new guy. It’s like they’re trying to privately warn me and I appreciate their support.

“I know you,” says Jeremy—best friend of Houston’s since birth. “Aren’t you Mallory’s friend?”

I have to fight to not roll my eyes as that was a bit heavy-handed. The new guy’s gaze snaps to mine and I meet his stare head-on. He’s attempting to read me and he’s not checking out my cleavage. Not a good sign, but he could be gay, so I give him the benefit of the doubt. But then again, he would be checking out Houston because if Houston wasn’t a client, I would be all over that boy.

Houston lops an arm around my shoulders. “Isn’t she cute, Albert?”

Cute? I slug him in the kidney and Houston bends with the pain, yet he laughs. I draw my attention back to the guys and the three I know gape at me in a what-the-fuck mode and the new guy’s eyes are about to pop out of his head.

I jack my thumb toward Houston. “He’s annoying.”

Albert’s lips slightly tilt up. “He is, and my little sister’s best friend did the same thing to me last time I was home.”

I remove a small bouncy ball from my pocket and roll it in Albert’s direction. He picks it up with his right hand then rolls it back. I bounce it a few times on the table, pocket it, then, I’m ready to interview.

“She did?” I ask.

“She did.” His eyes go to the right and up, indicating he’s recalling a memory.

“I know them.” I wave at the other guys and I scan “Albert” like I’m interested in his body, but really, I’m checking out his clothes. Baggy jeans, T-shirt that costs too much to be a T-shirt, a baseball cap on backwards. “I don’t know you.”

“Albert,” he says. “And you are?”

“Curious.”

His eyebrows shoot up and I select a nacho chip from the basket and nibble on it. My mouth squishes to the side. Too salty for my taste, but it’s food and it’s free and I should make Houston buy me dinner for this.

“Tacos or spaghetti?” I ask.

“What?”

“Tacos or spaghetti.”

He glances over at Houston and his buddies. Houston shrugs. “She won’t let it go until you answer. She’s weird like that.”

Yes, I am.

“Tacos,” he answers.

“Disney World or Disneyland?”

“Land.” Which means he’s been on the West Coast and we’re East Coast.

“Ice cream or brownies?”

Eyes to the right again—fourth time in a row. “Brownies.”

“Rolling Stones or the Beatles?”

This one trips people up. They either don’t have an answer, have an immediate answer, or are split. “Stones.”

A boy after my own heart and once again to the right. “Cool.”

I eat another taco chip and let the boys share conversation for a few minutes. They discuss an upcoming dance the frat is holding and I mentally mark the date. I’ll need more supply than normal that weekend.

Right as their conversation is about to switch, Albert says to me, “If you’re in high school, then why are you here?”

I raise my wrist and dangle the annoying orange band. “Teen night. I should ask why college boys would want to hang here tonight.”

Houston jerks his hand to the right. “Jerry’s still a minor.”

Jerry has a fake ID and Jerry must also not trust Albert if he’s keeping that a secret.

“Did you come alone?” Albert asks.

“No, but my friend is doing a guy in the bathroom and watching doesn’t turn me on.”

Houston chokes on a chip. Serves him right.

“Seriously, why here?” I push. “No alcohol is being served here tonight and I would have left Jerry’s sorry, minor ass at home. Would have thought college boys would be searching for trouble.”

Albert looks left and my Spidey-senses prickle along my skin. “We’re meeting up with somebody.”

“Anyone I know?” I cast a sideways gaze at Houston. “Mallory will be pissed if you’re trying to set up her friends with your friends. Remember how well that worked last time?”

I have no clue if that’s true or not, but I like watching people scramble to think fast.

“We’re here to meet my dealer,” says Houston. Well played. Albert straightens and Houston gestures to me. “She’s cool so don’t freak.”

I prop my elbows on the table and tilt my head, purposefully letting him think I’m attracted...to him. “Interested in buying?”

Albert scratches his nose. Not a good sign at all. “Yeah.”

He could be nervous. Maybe it’s his first time buying. First timers have a guilty look about them, but he’s too put together for the I-don’t-want-to-go-to-jail fear.

“Ever bought before?”

“Yes.” The boy doesn’t blink and I believe him.

Have you ever put anyone in handcuffs and then escorted them to the back of a police car after you bought the drugs? “I haven’t bought before.” Truth.

Albert smirks. “Are you the type that mooches off of everyone else’s supplies?”

I smile and it’s the type that causes Houston and his friend to back up. It’s the one that belongs to the streets and it’s the type that makes the invisible devil beside me cackle. Albert’s eyes narrow in on it and then he retreats a centimeter.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m a parasite. There’s a reason creatures like us have survived as long as we have.”

I wink at him, and Albert’s trying to figure out if I’m flirting or if I’m threatening his life. Sometimes, at least with me, it’s a fine line between the two.

My cell buzzes, and it’s Rachel. Logan stayed behind for you. Just text or find him for me. He looked pale before we left. Like he was sick.

My stomach drops and I scan the club. Just damn. The boy was supposed to go home.

“Problem?” Houston asks.

“My friend’s done screwing around.” Now he’s just screwing with me.

“You.” I point at Albert. “My grandmother always said, �You are all sons of the light and sons of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness.’ I’ll be honest, I’m a darkness girl. Which way do you swing on that?”

Albert blinks. Several times, and it’s the expression of awareness. It’s a Bible quote and he recognizes it. His fingers drum the table and there’s a tan line on his left ring finger. This guy’s married or was married and I don’t know any frat boys with that lifestyle.

He smiles and laughs and it’s almost convincing, but he’s lied too many times for me to buy it. “Darkness.”

“You boys should go home soon,” I say as a tease. “Up and early for church.”

Two of them roll their eyes and Albert adds, “I don’t go to church.”

I nod like I agree. “Have a great life, Albert. See you later, Houston.”

I steal another chip and I walk away, my eyes roaming the room for Logan. Stupid boy staying stupid behind and possibly causing stupid problems for me.

“Hey!” It’s Houston and because he’ll hound me, I slip off into the shadowed corner again. “What the hell was up with the Bible quote?”

“He goes to church,” I say.

Houston tosses out his arms. “So do I and I still smoke pot. That doesn’t mean he’s a narc.”

“But you wouldn’t lie about it. He lied. I don’t care if you’re a priest, I’ll sell to you. In fact, I do sell to one, but I won’t if he lies. Albert’s hiding something. He’s a liar, and if I were you, I’d watch your back. Do me a favor, Houston. Don’t bring anyone else to me as a client for a while. You need to clean up your own household before you bring guests to mine.”

Houston jams his fingers through his hair causing his hat to fall off. “Fuck.” After he cracks his knuckles, he says to me, “Are we still good?”

“We’re going to have to switch up how we do things. Not just with you, with everyone in your frat, but I’ll figure that out later.”

Houston shoves his hands into his pockets and his shoulders sag forward, reminding me of a child discovering it’s possible to disappoint a parent. “I’m sorry I brought this trouble.”

“Just don’t bring it again. I’m serious. I can’t afford to be busted.”

Houston leaves and I text Logan. I told you I needed to work. Not cool. Where are you?

Nothing. An annoying silent response. Typical Logan.

Rachel wants me to find you. Says you’re sick. Do you need me to play hero?

The smirk feels good on my face. If that doesn’t get Logan all hot and bothered and ready to play, little else will. But the smirk wilts as each second passes with no response. I loathe the tickling sensation of fear licking in my stomach.

Not fucking cool, Logan. Are you okay?

“We got a change up for everyone here,” calls the lead singer from the band. “A friend of ours is going to show us what he’s got on lead guitar.”

People near the stage scream and clap and I’m about ready to throw my cell against the wall. Stupid, stupid boy and stupid me for stupidly somewhat liking him and him thinking he can get away with not answering me.

“Give it up for our boy Logan.”

My eyes rip up, go for the stage, and my mind shifts into reverse, fast-forward, rewind, and then that smile that’s associated with the devil slides across my face.

Logan stands strong on the stage. Guitar strapped across his chest. Baseball cap backwards on his black hair. And when he strikes the strings of the guitar, those biceps flex beautifully.

That chord just struck a lot deeper than anyone could have imagined. Past my bones, past my muscles, and it’s created a nice warmth that’s curling around my belly. Liquid warmth.

The logical part of my brain demands that I walk away, but he’s the one that scared me by not answering back. He’s the one that’s causing all these alien emotions stirring in my veins.

Yeah, I shouldn’t kiss Logan. I should definitely leave a boy like that alone. But he returned and he’s the one that climbed onto the stage and is looking addictively sexy with that guitar.

Yep, shouldn’t kiss him, but I already told Rachel, I’m going to kiss the guitarist tonight. Wouldn’t want that one to be a lie, now, would I?


Logan (#ulink_a884008a-c586-5fb7-a5ad-e0df4700283e)

I lay my hand over the strings to stop the reverberating and the crowd goes insane. The lead singer, Danny, turns his head to me, grinning like a wolf over meat. “You killed it, brother.”

The blood’s pumping hard in my veins, and it’s a hell of a rush. I try not to think too hard if I’ll experience this same rush night after night, but for now—I’ll take the high.

I made more than a few mistakes, but not nearly as many as their other guitarist. I’m not the best around, but I’m not the worst. Just looking for a rush. Just looking for a way out.

I pull my guitar off and Danny walks over to me. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re in. I’ve got to talk to the rest of the band, but I can’t imagine them saying no. We’ll let you know.”

We share a short shake and the other members of the band pat my back as I walk off the stage and head to my guitar case. The beat still pounds through my body. Sly taught me my first chords when I was seven and I’ve been messing around with the instrument since.

Two girls slide into my space right as I lay down my guitar. One redhead. One blonde. The redhead touches me and her intent is perfectly clear. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Both girls are tight, wound up and ready to go. Already bypassed a few girls today because of Abby, and when I offered Abby more, she chose to walk away. Maybe I should stop my chasing now and take on these two to help me forget.

“You rocked it out,” she says.

“Yeah, he did, and now you need to leave.” Abby slips between me and the two girls. They shuffle away, and if they say anything, I don’t hear it as I’m too busy enjoying how Abby’s eyes devour me. “I didn’t know you played.”

Same damn reaction every time I see her—a quick burn in my veins. Hazel eyes, soft red lips, long chestnut hair that has loose waves, and a body that begs to be touched.

And touching her would be the equivalent of playing with radioactive plutonium. Might not know at first the goods are killing you, but you’ll notice the burns later. I switch my focus back to packing up my gear. “That’s the second time you’ve blocked me tonight, and you’re aware I play.”

“I meant the guitar, and as I said before, you can do better.”

“With the guitar or the girls?”

“Both.”

I like that the girl who lies sometimes tells the truth. “Mind pointing out who then? I’m tired of going home alone.”

I wait for her quick comment, the game to start. Instead, Abby invades my personal space, crossing lines she always dances on. Her scent envelops me first. A smell that fits her. A scent that’s bold and wild and before I can breathe that heady aroma again, Abby winds her arms around my neck, knots her fingers into my hair under my hat, drags my head down and kisses me.


Abby (#ulink_099d7def-fcc6-5d90-a12b-61b264b7a692)

His lips are hot and soft and tasting him is like standing outside during an electrical storm. Almost as if he was struck by the same bolt of lightning, Logan jerks and then is quick in joining the game.

He wastes no time, sliding one hand along my spine, causing goose bumps on my skin. Curling his other hand along my hip, sending heat to places that are typically secrets. Pressing me to him, that one move promising lots of wicked things.

Our mouths move. Nibbles on my lower lip, a lick of his tongue and my mind whirls. All of his efforts are a fight to gain control. But he’s on my turf, he’s playing by my rules, and I’ll be the one causing Logan to lose his mind.

I skim my fingernails down his neck, loving the warm feel of his skin, the rough evening stubble against his jawline. Logan’s muscles tighten in response and the ends of my mouth turn up. That’s right. I’m the one causing his body to respond. I’m the one making Logan think only of me.

I’ve done what I’ve wanted. I’ve kissed the boy, and as my fingers dawdle across his biceps in the search for his chest to push him away, Logan weaves his arm around my waist and we spin.

Me against the wall, his body sweetly crushing mine, and when I shift I suck in a breath with the thrilling sensation of the friction created. He stares down at me with the most exhilarating eyes that are so dark they’re practically black. We’re both breathing hard, we’re both moments from an explosion.

“You don’t play fair,” I say a lot more breathlessly than I would have preferred.

“I’m playing by the same rule book you are.”

I could kiss that pretentious, arrogant expression off his face. “I don’t play by rules.”

“I know.” Logan sweeps his thumb over my cheek and the caress is too sweet. Too heartbreakingly emotional and that’s not what I’m going for, but when he presses his body into mine, specifically his hips, my entire body rocks with the intense rush.

“We really doing this, Abby?” he whispers.

I bite my bottom lip and he watches. Lust smolders between us. I just meant to kiss him, and I’ve reached my goal. I should inch him back, give him a wink, and blow a kiss as I walk away, but I’m excellent at selfish. “At least for a few more minutes.”

“Fine, but we’re not doing it here.”


Logan (#ulink_c2f73862-211c-5375-8e5f-61e38d715215)

“Seriously, I didn’t know you played guitar.” Abby sits on the table next to me, watching as I wind up my cord that led to the amp. Her legs are crossed and she leans back on her hands and that motion causes her to be mouthwatering in the dancing spotlight. “Or any musical instruments.”

I wind the cord up faster. The moment I’m packed, I’m driving her to the brook in Bullitt County, grabbing a sleeping bag, hopping into the bed of my truck with Abby and we’re picking up where we left off.

“You plan on joining their band?”

I glance at Abby out of the corner of my eye and say nothing. Irritated with my silence, her expression darkens and she tries again. “Why did you play tonight? Why not tell anyone you could play guitar? Why not tell any of us you were playing? People care about that shit.”

More nothing from me.

“I kissed you so that buys me an answer.”

I lean into Abby and she slips her tongue across my lips when I steal another kiss. When I pull away she waggles her eyebrows. “At least we’ve finally raised the stakes of the game.”

Yeah, we did and I’ve discovered playing with fire is more addicting than fast speeds.

“Does Isaiah know?” she continues. “West? Your baseball friends?”

A slight grin on my part and she has the answer. That cute I-know-something-no-else-does glint in her eyes is far sexier than it should be. “So I’m the only one who knows.”

I shove my cord into my bag and zip everything up. “Is this what you really want to do? Ask questions? I was under the impression that we hang because neither of us feel.”

She cocks her head and repeats my answer from earlier. “Just trying to understand you.”

I laugh, it’s a bit bitter, and so’s her smile.

“Are we going to make out or not?” she asks.

I shoulder my guitar bag, she jumps down and doesn’t punch me when I drop an arm around her shoulder to guide her through the crowded club. Her and I, we’ve shared brief touches and long looks that explain exactly what the other is thinking, but she’s never let me this close. Maybe, after tonight, she’ll let me closer.

Abby scans the room, eagle-eyeing a table in the rear, then checking over her shoulder. That same fear Rachel and I spotted earlier, it returns. “Why are you scared tonight, Abby?”

Abby straightens. “I don’t get scared.”

“You are.”

“You’re delusional.” She’s mad, but there’s a slight twitch to her as she checks over her shoulder again.

“Rachel saw it, too. Wanted me to chase after you.”

“Now, why would she ask you to do that?” She attempts coy, but I’ve pegged her and she hates it. “I think we’re all quite aware I can take care of myself.”

“She wants me to save you.”

Abby pauses near the hallway to the bathrooms, eases away from me so I have to drop my arm and performs a slow blink. “Did she say that?”

“Not those words.”

Abby hooks her fingers into her belt loops and, for a second, she draws my attention away from her face to her hips, but I refocus quickly.

“Do you think I’m worth saving?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She smirks like she doesn’t believe me. “Do you think I’m savable?”

“Do you want to be saved?”

Around us, people laugh, they yell, the band starts another set, the normal guitar player comes in late again, and neither of us breaks the stare showdown.

“Logan?” she finally says.

“Yeah?”

Abby switches her footing and that causes a sense of dread to coil in my stomach. This isn’t the girl who’s unsure of anything. “I was told not to work tonight.”

“Told? By who?”

Abby purses her lips waiting for me to catch up and my muscles in my shoulders tighten when I do. Whoever she works for informed her she should stay home.

“Why? And why the fuck are you out if you were told to stay in?”

“I wasn’t told to stay in, I was told not to work, and you’re missing the point. In the end, it was all really more suggestions. Anyhow, I just happened to notice more people on the other side of the fence here than I noticed people on my side and, truth is, there shouldn’t be either. This area of town has always been neutral territory and it’s not where I do transactions. Interviews? Yes. Transactions, no. There’s something going down and I’m not confident walking down dark streets together is a great plan.”

I readjust the hat on backwards on my head and glance around as if I can spot her monsters lurking in the shadows. “How do you want to handle this?”

She taps her fingers against her leg. “You should leave, and I’ll call my boss for instructions.”

Yeah, that’s not happening and the glare I give her says that without me opening my mouth.

Abby’s squishes her hands in the air like she’s holding a puppy. “Jesus, you’re even sexier pissed and I seriously can’t wait to get your shirt off. I’ve been dying to peruse your abs for weeks. So here’s the plan—I’ll stay here, you get the truck, pick me up at the front door, and then we’ll do a couple of switchbacks. You know, to make sure no one’s tailing us.”

She’s saying the right words and she wears this innocent expression, but Abby can spin stories like a spider building a web.

“I’ll call West and Isaiah,” I counter. “We’ll stay put, and they’ll swing by to pick us up so we don’t have to leave the club.”

“Isaiah won’t show. He’s adamant about staying out of my professional obligations.”

“West will show.”

Her mask dissolves. “I can’t wait that long.”

“Then come with me. Now.”

Abby’s fingers tap her leg again and she does that thing where she’s scouring the club for her enemies. “Get the truck, call me the moment you’re outside with wheels, and then we’re out of here.”

There’s no innocence, no tease, just a dead seriousness that I’m going to have to accept. “You better be here when I get back.”

Abby steps into me, and presses her palms against my chest. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

Problem is—I don’t.

Abby winks then slips back into the crowd. I examine the room. Trying to see if anyone follows, if anyone has a sign pointing them out as a threat. Part of me wants to dash for the truck to get her out ASAP, the other part wants to trail her, but I made myself a promise that I was done chasing.

She kissed me, I kissed her back, but if she wants to hang with me, she’ll stick with the plan. As I exit the club, I’m not a man full of confidence in bringing home the girl. I’m a man wondering how bad this will get before the night ends.


Abby (#ulink_7c2968e2-1c37-541e-85dd-724c6d2585e1)

I’m against the wall, near the entrance and I’m doing my best Navy SEAL as I count the game pieces in the room. Stupid me. I should have caught on faster. Should have seen the strategy being formed, but I was caught up first with the narc and then with Logan.

Rule number three: don’t allow any distractions.

Dad ought to be proud of me. I’ve done nothing but surround myself with distractions over the past few months.

Two of Ricky’s guys are in the crowd. Both of them have made eye contact with me from across the room, but neither has approached, which means the situation we’re in is as bad as it gets. Tommy is the one who meets my eyes the most. He’s the protégé of the only guy I trust in Ricky’s organization, so at the moment, that makes Tommy my tightest alliance.

Tommy’s all mouse-brown hair and sharp angles. It’s easy to see why Linus picked him to mentor like my dad chose to mentor Linus. Tommy flashes four fingers and I tip my head to let him know I understand. There are four of Eric’s guys here that he’s made—possibly more. Eric is Ricky’s greatest enemy on the streets.

All around us are people way too young to become casualties of other people’s, specifically my, bad decisions.

I texted my safe word and location to the anonymous number, following protocol. Now I wait. For a reply from Mr. Anonymous, or a text from Logan saying he’s outside, and my stomach twists. If he texts or calls, I should ignore him and not drag him deeper into this nightmare than he already is, but at the same time, I don’t need Logan trying to save the day if I don’t answer and getting himself killed. Because that would seriously piss me off and make me possibly cry and I fucking hate crying.

I wait longer than I would have thought for either response then another buzz:

In my truck. You still in the club?

Yes.

Stay put. I’m coming to get you.

Right as I go to respond, another buzz and it’s not Mr. Anonymous and it’s not Logan. It’s unlisted, unknown and it’s numbers. Fear turns violent and becomes a sharp pain in my chest. It’s a code given to me by my father and it means the foundation on which I’m standing is crumbling.

It also means to trust no one, not even Ricky himself, and it means to get the fuck out.

Players, on both sides, have always been known to change allegiance in midcharge and I’m being warned that pieces are shifting.

A glance up and both of the boys on my side are watching me. So are Eric’s boys. According to the code, I’m prey and any of them staring me down could be the hunters.

Survival instincts flood my system and all the two million thoughts I’d been having streamline into one—I need to disappear.

A group of boys maneuver past me. I push off the wall, slip into the middle, and walk with them the several feet needed to reach the exit. The moment I’m out I’m texting the only piece around not knowingly playing the game: I’ll meet you halfway. I need out of here.

It’s after midnight and the sidewalk outside the bar is still packed with people willing to party. There are a ton of bars on this strip of road and they don’t host teen nights.

I asked the narc if he was a child of the night. Am I? I don’t know. I love summer nights. I love the heat rolling off the sidewalk. I love the humidity hanging in the air. I love the dark.

It doesn’t scare me. It’s the people who smile at you during the day while plunging a knife in your back that are the monsters. It’s bills I can’t pay. It’s systems that fail. It’s people preying upon the weak who fill my nightmares.

My phone rings and I accept it when I spot Logan’s face. “What?”

“You never listen.”

“I like walking. Fills my lungs with oxygen. It’s good for the circulatory system. Healthy and all that shit.”

“I told you to stay put.” I can imagine that serious expression on his face. The one where his dark eyes blow into storm clouds and everything about him becomes clipped. It’s not a huge change, it’s subtle, but I’ve memorized it.

“Miss me?” I tease because that’s more comfortable than focusing on terror. “Because I missed you, and I wanted to see you faster.”

“What happened to your plan?”

“It changed.”

“You in danger?”

Yes. “You’re cute. I forgot I’m not capable of walking down a street by myself. Just a friendly stroll and you’ll pick me up along the way.”

“You sound scared.”

As I’m scanning the crowd a flash of anger joins the fear he’s hearing. “Bite me, Logan.”

“I don’t like you on the open street.”

“Well, life fucking sucks.” I pause and switch mental directions. “You don’t want bullshit—how’s this? I’m in deep and I don’t even know what I’m dealing with.”

Logan’s silent, and I pray he’s struggling with how to tell me he’s leaving and heading home, but another part of me begs him to stay. Without a ride, I’m an easy target. My need to live and my need to protect him are colliding in my brain.

“Move!” A loud horn blaring from his end and I check out the road. It’s bumper-to-bumper. People coming into the area to party, people leaving the area to party. He won’t get here. He won’t reach me fast enough.

“I’ll come on foot,” he says.

“Don’t,” and I make no attempt to mask the fear. “You need to get as far from me as you can.”

“Do you know what I want?”

I’m betting not being in a messed-up, chemistry—based relationship with a drug dealer is currently at the top of his list. “What?”

“Quiet.”

My feet freeze on the sidewalk and a strange eerie sensation crawls along my spine. There’s an exhaustion in Logan’s voice I’ve never heard before and my mind ticks back to Rachel’s original text. Something’s wrong. Beyond me. Beyond my problems. “If you want quiet, you should go home.”

“It’s loud there, Abby. There might not be sound, but it’s still loud. All I want right now is to find you, and drive along some dark county roads. What do you say to that? Me, you, a dark night, and some quiet stars.”

An ache ripples through me. It sounds like the devil is mocking me with my idea of heaven because dreams don’t become reality for girls like me.

“Abby?” he asks. “Still there.”

Hang up.Mock him.Laugh.Make a joke.Tease.Lie.

Lie.

Lie, Abby.That’s what you’re best at.Lie.

“That sounds good.” It’s a whisper and by the relieved intake of air on his part, Logan heard it.

“You didn’t listen, did you?” he asks, and I’m grateful for his normal, condescending tone. “You were told to stay home and you didn’t listen.”

“Do you think I do what people tell me on a regular basis? That’s one step away from being a trained monkey and if you remember, I don’t like trained monkeys. Not since that one bit you in fifth grade. You said the rabies shots were a bitch.”

Logan snorts and an engine rumbles in the background. “Which side of the road are you on? I don’t want to miss you.”

A group of guys stumble out of a bar ahead of me and the hair on my arms stands on end as if the reaper had laughed in my ear. A skinny guy. A few years older than me and he appears way too happy to see me. It’s Ricky’s greatest foe on the streets. A guy I’ve threatened in the past. It’s Eric and all of Ricky’s warnings avalanche upon my shoulders. “How far away are you, Logan?”

“I’m two blocks from the club.”

Eric turns his head, his mouth moves and from behind him, two of his boys join his side. Neither of them has a problem hitting a girl. Neither has a problem with raping one, either.

“Do you think you could speed? Break some traffic laws? Maybe tell me your truck is secretly a hovercraft? That would be greatly appreciated.”

Eric’s boys stride in my direction and I cross the street without looking. A car blows its horn, a screech of tires, but I’m sprinting, not paying attention to the moving bullets on wheels.

“Abby!” Logan growls. “What’s going on?”

A hurried glance over my shoulder and Eric’s boys follow. My mind races and wars between thoughts. Find Logan, don’t lead Logan into trouble, duck into a club, but I don’t have my fake ID. He’s two blocks away and my mouth dries out. Logan’s so close yet too far.

A shadow steps in front of me, a person in a hoodie. Adrenaline in the form of fear, my hand reaches back, switchblade in my fingers, but he’s faster than me. He grabs hold of my arm, I go to bite his wrist and then—

“Do that and I’ll fucking shoot you. I’m the reason you’re still alive. It’s me who sent the code.”

I convulse with the familiar voice. Linus releases me with a shove then yanks back his hoodie. The joy of seeing my father’s protégé nearly brings me to my knees.

Linus steals my phone, powers it off, then snatches my arm and drags me into an alley. “Ricky told you to stay off the streets tonight.”

“He told me not to sell.” I trip over a can as he continues to pull me deeper into the darkness. A right and a left. A maze of passages. I’ve been here before, during the day, and I’m completely lost without the light.

“Same fucking thing and now you’ve got Eric hunting you, plus you met with a narc tonight. And we thought you were smart.”

“You knew he was a narc and nobody warned me one was on the streets?”

Linus doesn’t say anything and I can’t stop the smugness trying to rip past the fear.

“You didn’t know until I figured him out.”

“I’d suggest shutting the fuck up.”

Shutting the fuck up doesn’t make me less right. “What the hell are you doing sending me that code? Even Ricky doesn’t know about it. That code means I can’t trust anyone.”

“Except the one who sent it, right?” Linus halts his progress forward and rounds on me. He’s pure rage wearing human skin, but of all the things I fear, it’s not him. If he was going to kill me, he would have already plugged two shots into my brain.

He’s ruthless like that. My father was his mentor and my father taught him well. Where I’ve memorized my father’s rules, Linus plays by them as if they’re the Ten Commandments handwritten on stone by God.

“Some of Ricky’s guys were in the bar,” I say, “and you 911’d me out. You don’t think I would have been safer there?”

Linus remains blizzard cold and my insides sink. “What’s going on?”

“I know you pegged the narc and I know you haven’t sold. I know you came here because you thought this was neutral territory and it was safe. I know because I’ve been watching you fuck around all night.”

I quit breathing. “Why?”

Linus leans into me. “Because Ricky knows you don’t listen and we’ve got shit going down. Empires are going to war, and in the morning, we’ll see who’s still standing, and Ricky wants you on the rise up.”

I scan Linus’s face, desperate to read him, but he’s closed off. Always closed off—just like my father was. “Eric didn’t start this war, did he?”

“Eric’s weak and he’s ripe for the taking, but he will try to make us bleed on the way down, taking out as many of our key players as possible.”

My stomach cramps. “I’m not a key player.”

“You’re Mozart’s daughter. You could be a crap game piece and you’d still be worth the kill just to piss us off, but besides that—you’re good at this. Shit—you pegged a narc my top guys haven’t sniffed out yet. Except for tonight, you’re smart and what the fuck were you doing tonight?”

I refuse to shrink from Linus. As much as he tries to act like it, he’s not my father. “I was hanging with friends.”

Linus appears to grow in size. Let him. He could become the boogeyman and I’d still flip him off. Spit flies out of his mouth as he announces, “We. Don’t. Have. Friends.”

But I do. My phone buzzes continuously in Linus’s hand. It’s Logan and he’s scared for me. My heart beats hard as I realize how scared I am for him. I’m in the middle of a war and he could be caught in the cross fire. That fear—it’s why I shouldn’t have friends.

Rule number two: attachments create weakness and your enemies and allies will use your weakness against you.

A clank of a glass bottle and the sound of it rolling echoes off the walls of the alley. Linus extracts a gun from the back of his jeans and he nods his chin for me to do the same. I extract my switchblade, flick it until we see the fun shiny part and Linus grimaces. “Fucking grow up already and get a real weapon.”

I won’t carry a gun. I’ll sell pot, but I have no interest in killing.

“Stay here until I come for you and, in case you’re wondering, that is an order I mean word for word.” He slips my phone back to me. “Text your friend. Tell him to fuck off and hope he does. It ain’t my job to save him. It’s barely my job to save you.”

He’s right, it’s not, but he made a promise to my father and I’d wager he’s regretting that oath. Linus heads back the way we came and I lean against the warm concrete of the building, permitting my head to hit the wall harder than necessary.

I strain to hear Linus in the silent alley. Strain to hear anyone or anything. Strain, but all I hear is my pulse pounding in my temples. My blood tingles with fear. I hate fear. I hate what I can’t control.

Two shots. Loud. Angry. My body flinches. Two more shots and nausea eats me alive. Everyone thinks I’m big, bad and tough, but the sweat that breaks out on the hand holding the switchblade tells a different story.

I study my surroundings and a lump forms in my throat as I readjust my hold on the blade. I’m trapped—surrounded by three walls, and I exhale to steady my nerves. Calm the fuck down, Abby. Rule number seven: nerves create more problems than the ones you currently have. Learn how to become ice.

I often wish number seven came with an instructional video.

Calming thought: Linus is here. But so is Eric and his crew. If Linus is here, then so are possibly more people loyal to Ricky, but I’m a pawn on the chessboard and pawns are typically the first ones sacrificed.

My phone buzzes again and Logan’s face appears on the screen. I should ignore it. I should text him. I should do a million things, but my hands shake and this sickening fear snakes along my veins.

I don’t want to die. Another breath out. I don’t want to die tonight.

I slide down the wall, caving into a crouch, and accept his call. “Logan?”

“Where are you?” His voice is tight, yet there’s a hint of relief. “There’s all sorts of shit going on. Shots fired. People are running. Screaming to get off the streets. Tell me where you are.”

“Go home,” I whisper. “Stay in your truck and go home now.”

“Not without you.”

My head drops forward. “This isn’t a fucking game. My world is going to hell and you need to leave.”

More shots and a man yells out in agony. He begs. For his life. Asking for whoever not to do it. Says he has a brother. He has a mother. He says please. He says it a lot. He says it like he’s a scared child. He says it like he means it and tears prick my eyes. I can imagine him—on his knees, his body trembling, staring up at Linus.

Probably a lot like me when I collapsed on the ground when I was younger begging God for my world not to be destroyed. How old is he? How old am I? My throat tightens, and my lower lip quivers. This is real. Too real. “Go home, Logan. Go home now.”

“Jesus, Abby. Where are you?”

I’m trapped. Bile sloshes in my stomach, and I breathe out hard as I try for cool and calm. “Too far away.”

“It’s okay, Abby. I’m going to find you, and it’s going to be okay.”

It’s not. It was going to be, but now it’s not. “We were going to have a lunch table at school, did you know that? I picked it out. It’s a big circle one, by the windows, and it would have had plenty of sun during our lunch break. Rachel and I would have had the seats in the shade and you guys would have sucked it up and dealt with the sun in your eyes. It was going to be me and you and Rachel and that friend of West’s.”

“Jax?” Logan says like he’s running. “Do you mean Jax?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have it. Even if I have to arm wrestle someone for it.”

I choke on the laugh to keep from giving myself away and my eyes burn. “I would have loved to have seen that.”

“It’s going to happen and when it does, I’ll buy you all the tacos you can eat and then we’ll have quiet. You and me and all the quiet you want. There’s a place near my dad’s. A little brook with a small waterfall. Thought of you last time I was there. There were bunnies.”

Bunnies. My heart hurts. “You’re just trying to get into my pants.”

“You figured me out. Are you in the alley, Abby? That’s where people are running to and from. Tell me if you’re in the alley.”

In the distance, police sirens wail, but they won’t get here fast enough. This will be over soon. Too soon. A dry heave runs up my throat as the images of all I’m leaving behind flash in my mind and I shake my head to ward off the panic. There’s a job to do. A job...a life that’s left undone.

“Logan, listen to me. 5212 Brook Street. Go there. The back door key’s in the birdhouse in the backyard. Second-floor bathroom, move the towel shelf, pull up the wallpaper, take the door off. You’ll need a screwdriver. There’s an envelope. You’ll know who to give it to. It needs to be done tomorrow. Before 3:00 p.m. Do you understand?”

“Where are you, Abby?”

I don’t want to die. Not tonight. Not now. I needed time. Time to make things right. Time to be redeemable. Just time. “There’s enough money in there for a few weeks and after that...”

I don’t know what comes after that. “Ask Isaiah. He’ll think of something. But only then. He’ll understand. He’ll figure out what to do. He won’t fail me on this.”

“Stop screwing with me. Are you in the alley?”

Yes. “Stay out. They’ll shoot whoever enters.”

A crunching of debris under heavy footsteps and I rub my forehead. It’s not Linus. Linus would have given me a heads-up. I wonder if this is how my dad felt, if this is how my grandmother felt, I wonder if this what everyone feels before they meet death...I wonder if they feel like they’re falling into an endless pit of cold.

“I’m here,” Logan says. “Just stay with me.”

He is. God knows he is. Though my knees are weak, I struggle to my feet. I’m Abby. I’m the daughter of Mozart, a legend of the streets. Some people at school call me names. They label me a slut, call me evil. Some call me a killer. But they’re wrong on the last part. They’re wrong on most of it.

When I’m standing tall, I speak what normally doesn’t come naturally—the truth. “No matter what, I liked you.”

Logan begins to talk, but I turn off my phone, drop it to the ground and smash it with my foot. I’ll not take down anyone else with me, legally or illegally. Won’t allow my phone to be the trail of bread crumbs. A dark form slowly approaches, the moonlight glinting off the gun.

He doesn’t see me against the wall, but I’m not stupid enough to think he won’t find me. My slick palm causes a weak grip on my switchblade. That Hunger Games nonsense where the underdog can win with a stick is bullshit. I could try to fight, but I’d rather not be tortured.

Escape is my only option. Fighting signifies I have a choice and I don’t. Set fates typically end in the cruelest fashion.

I don’t close my eyes as the shadow inches closer, I only try to imagine what it would have been like to lie in Logan’s truck, listening to a babbling brook and staring at the starlight.

And bunnies. I would have loved to have seen bunnies.

Pretty images of a pretty world that doesn’t exist.

Garbage crackles under his feet in his search for me and intuition causes him to swing in my direction. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, fear floods my mouth, I duck, a shot to the wall behind me, loose rocks cutting my face, my knife slips and the cut into his body misses the mark—off to the side.

He grunts, I push him away, willing my feet to move faster, willing air to push further into my lungs.

Then there is another bang and then there is...


Logan (#ulink_891bddd8-b548-52aa-9137-07a1c0403e93)

I’m running and it’s not fast enough. My shoulder rams into people and they shout at me as I pass, but I don’t care. My cell’s in my hand, next to my ear, and it’s ringing. Over and over again. Abby hung up. We were disconnected. The world is functioning in slow motion.

Police sirens wail. From multiple directions. From every direction. People are screaming. My sight is on the alley. Abby’s in that alley.

As I approach it, a girl stumbles out and she latches onto me. She has blond hair, but the rest of her is covered in red...marked by blood. Chunks of something on her shoulder. Her eyes are too wide and she shakes. “They’re killing people. They’re killing people in there.”

I grab onto her arms, not caring what I’m touching. “Did you see a girl? Long dark brown hair? Your height? My age?”

She nods, too quickly. “She was with a guy, they went left. He came out. She didn’t. I was hiding. My boyfriend said he’d be right back.” She’s growing higher in pitch and tears fall from her eyes. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Help me! Please help me! They shot my boyfriend!”

The girl starts screaming and her panic becomes a pulse in my brain. I release her and race into the darkness. A deafening bang reverberates against the walls and instinct causes me to slam my back into the concrete.

Abby. It’s her name in my heartbeat. Her life as a prayer. Please, God, protect Abby.

“Let’s go!” A deep voice yells and there’s footsteps. Several of them. I crouch against a Dumpster. Two people run past and across from me, a shadow emerges from the alley to the left—Abby’s alley.

“I said let’s go!” the guy calls again.

The shadow steps into the dim light of the moon. The guy’s older than me, but not by much. Hat over his head, jeans, and a gun in his hand. “Did someone double back? I heard someone out here.”

My skin prickles, and as if he can hear my heart beating, he focuses on my general area.

And then he’s off. Gone. Running.

A new shadow cuts into the game and he’s heading to where I need to be. I chase and we’re trapped in a maze. My pulse pounds in my ears, my breaths come out in short bursts. An intersection of paths and then a loud male curse. “Dammit!”

My lungs burst with fear. Abby.

All the thoughts cease and it’s instinct. Find her. Protect her. Kill whoever has hurt her. The shadow crouches over a form. Pushing hair away from a face and my entire body seizes in pain. I reach down, swipe up a piece of long metal, swing it back and...

The shadow’s head snaps up and so do his arms. In his hands is a gun pointed straight at me, and right above him, the razor-sharp edge of the metal halts near his head.

“I’m with her,” he states.

My heart races and I wish for the cold blood that must run through Abby in order to live this life. “Prove it.”

“You were with her earlier. The two of you flirted all fucking night. Kissed near the stage.”

So he spied. “Not enough.”

“I haven’t shot your brains out yet.”

Good enough. I drop the metal and he lowers his gun then flips Abby over. Terror seizes me at the sight of blood seeping through her shirt and the gash on her head. I run a hand over my face. The police won’t find us fast enough. She’s dying and the police won’t find her. I swing Abby up in his arms and the guy jumps in front of me.

“What are you doing?” He’s in a ray of moonlight and I can see his face. This guy’s midtwenties and that ice exists in his eyes.

“I’m getting Abby help.” She’s too light, too pale, acting like a shattered porcelain doll, her breaths come out ragged and all that causes my heart to rip open.

He swipes up a phone—Abby’s phone—and a knife covered in blood.

“That’s evidence,” I say. “Leave it.”

He pockets both like I didn’t speak. “I’m aware.” I don’t have time to argue. As I shove past him, he grabs my arm. “Did you see who shot her?”

Yes, but I don’t trust him. “No.”

I jerk out of his hold and his gun’s out as he sprints ahead of me.

“You tell the police you were on a date,” he says. “You went to get the car. You got separated. Abby called. Got scared. Went into the alley to hide and you went after her. You never saw me and when Abby wakes up, tell her I got her phone and blade.”

“What’s your name?”

“She’ll know who I am,” he says as we reach the street. “Now go.”

Sirens. Multiple sirens. The gunshots. The bar scene. The place is a powder keg and they’ll be coming in hot. I look to the left, look to the right, no cops in sight, but a crowd begins to gather.

I shift Abby in my arms as she’s dead weight. Dead weight. Fury and fear collide in my chest. “Someone call 911. Tell them she’s shot.”

They stand there, staring, understanding from the sirens that police are on their way, but I need them here. Right here. Right now.

“Now!” I scream with so much force that the word scrapes my throat.

People react then. On their phones. Falling out into the streets. Throwing their hands in the air, waving down the cops.

I drop to my knees. One arm hugs her tight. The other brushing the brown strands covering her face. Blood’s smeared over her cheeks. My gut cramps and twists. “Abby? Abby, please.”

I can’t lose her. I can’t.

Nothing. Silence and it kills me. I search for her pulse point and there’s blood. Too much blood and it’s pouring from her back, from her front. She’s been shot. They shot her. Rage rumbles through me and I kiss her forehead, not sure how so much wrath and terror and grief can exist at once.

“LMPD!” Their shouts are echoed, but still too far away.

“Here!” I shout. “She’s right here!”

I lower my head to Abby’s. My forehead touching her temple and I count her slowing heartbeats under my touch. “Breathe, Abby. Please breathe.”

Breathe. I suck in each breath as if it’s hers. Will her to stay with me as if I could force her soul to stay grounded.

“I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t make me lose you.”

I understand fear. Have tasted it too many times in my life and the worst type of fear is when the consequences of actions can never be undone. It’s the permanent type that can never be taken back.

“Just breathe.”


Abby (#ulink_11691c11-19bc-5fdb-b3bd-0d2e3579013c)

I’m drowning. Sound is muffled. So is emotion. My eyes flicker open, but there’s bright lights and people yelling. And pain. Pain in my back. Pain in my chest. Pain on my head. Pain that is blinding.

“Don’t struggle.” She has blond hair. Hovers over me. An angel in a blue shirt.

I swallow and choke. Fear rips through my body. I can’t breathe. There’s something in my mouth, down my throat. My hands shoot forward, over my mouth and my arms are caught and forced down.

“Abby! We’re helping you.” The angel appears in my line of sight again. “You have a tube down your throat. To help you to breathe. I need you to stay calm.”

I’m shaking my head. No, I’m shaking. My legs thrash. Dad. I want my dad. I’m scared. Tears burn my eyes. I want my dad. I want my... Thoughts jumble and crash and then they slow. Too slow. Logan. Stars. My father. The night sky. Warmth on my skin. The heat of night.

Then there’s a voice. It’s a calm voice. A reassuring voice.

Breathe...


Logan (#ulink_aca587e4-64d3-566e-9236-432708609251)

There’s blood on my hands.

Blood.

Abby’s blood.

I’m trembling. My blood sugar’s low or high or I don’t know. There’s nurses and doctors and people all around. I slam my hands on the desk. “I don’t give a rat’s ass I’m not blood-related. Her friends are her family so tell me how she is!”

“If you don’t sit down, I’m calling security,” the woman behind the desk bellows.

A body sliding in front of me, a hand on my arm, and I jerk as I’m being pulled away. Isaiah’s best friend, Noah, has his back to me and is talking to the receptionist. “He’s calm. We got this. No need to bring in security.”

I called them. I called Isaiah. I said words. Words I don’t remember and Isaiah said he would be there. To hang tight. To not say a thing to anyone until he reached me.

Isaiah consumes my vision. His hand is the one clamped on my bicep. “Come with me. Now.” He turns me and I walk.

I glance over my shoulder and West is sauntering up to the counter. He flashes his cover-model smile and in his hand is folded cash. West’s a Young, son of the richest man in the state, and he’ll pay for the answers.

Isaiah grips my neck, forcing my attention forward, and Noah’s on my other side. It’s like I’m on a countdown and I don’t know what happens when the clock hits zero.

“Just keep walking, Logan.” Isaiah’s too damn calm. “We got you. Keep walking.”

I called Isaiah from my truck. The police took me there after my blood sugar tanked.

Police showed. They yanked me back from Abby. They tried to ask questions, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Abby. EMS showed. They worked on Abby. My blood sugar tanked. The police officer freaked. I dropped the bomb I was diabetic and had what I needed in my truck, telling him I didn’t want the paramedics’ focus off of Abby.

He drove me there, but only after I watched them load Abby into the ambulance. The police officer wanted to call my parents, but I told him no. I’m eighteen. Had to prove it with my driver’s license. Eighteen.

Mom held me back in school, kept me from starting kindergarten when I should have. I’m eighteen. Older. Should be wiser.

Abby’s seventeen. She’s seventeen and a bullet tore through her body. A bullet I couldn’t stop. I have no idea if Abby has family to call.

Isaiah opens the door to a one-room bathroom, only releasing his grip once we’re in. Noah locks the door behind him. Isaiah snatches paper towel after paper towel out of the dispenser and Noah waves his hand near the motion sensor on the sink. I ignore the mirror as I wash my hands. Red runs down the drain and my lungs constrict.

Abby was shot, there was a gaping wound on her head and her blood is on my hands. I grab hold of the sink and lean over. Nausea races through me and I turn my head to suck in air.

Isaiah and Noah remain silent. Permit me the moment to get my shit together. I continue to breathe in and out. Just like I begged Abby to do. Just like when I tried to breathe for her. When I straighten, I find Noah leaning against the door and Isaiah next to me, offering the paper towels.

I take them, then wipe my face. “She wasn’t breathing right. Would take a breath then stop. Then breathe again.”

“She quit breathing at any point?” Noah asks.

I shake my head no, then needing the support, collapse against the cinder block wall. “Abby called. I was at the truck. I told her to stay put, but she didn’t. She knew they were coming. She told me things.”

An address. Directions of what to do. Isaiah. She said if I ran out of money to involve Isaiah. My thoughts don’t have a start. Don’t have a stop. “I went into the alley for Abby and there was a shot.” I didn’t get to her fast enough. I failed. “There were footsteps so I went against the wall. I hid.”

“You did right,” Noah says. “Did you get a good look at any of them?”

I scrub both hands over my face. I’ve tripped down a dark, deep hole.

“Logan,” Isaiah pushes in a low voice.

My arms drop to my sides. “Yeah. The guy who shot Abby. I saw him. And another guy. He went into the alley before I did, but he said he was with her. He took Abby’s phone, walked me to the street and disappeared.”

Isaiah and Noah share a long look then Isaiah tips his head to the door. “One of us needs to be in the dark and stay clear of problems. To protect what’s ours if it bleeds into our lives.”

Noah stares straight into my eyes. “I’m right outside.”

I nod to Noah and he leaves. Isaiah’s gray eyes search mine. “The guy you found hovering over Abby—was he our height? Midtwenties. Cold son-of-a-bitch.”

“Yeah. He could have shot me, but he didn’t.”

Isaiah rubs the tiger tattooed up his arm. “Because he needed you to get Abby out without him being involved, otherwise he would have. His name is Linus and he’s high up the food chain. You see him again, run in the opposite direction. It’s a problem he knows who you are and he’s not going to like you were a witness.”

“He was watching us at the bar.”

A muscle in Isaiah’s jaw jumps. If Isaiah knows his name, then he and Linus are aware of each other, and Isaiah’s real protective when it comes to keeping Rachel away from his days on the street. Isaiah has a legit job working on custom cars and he busted his ass to reach this point in his life.

“He asked if I saw who shot Abby and I told him no.”

“Good call. I’ll ask around. See if any of our names pop up. Did the person that shot Abby see you?”

“His instincts said I was there, but the two other guys he was with were on the move so he left.”

“What did he look like?”

“My height, leaner than me, jeans, winter hat on his head. It was shadowed so I can’t give too much description, but if I see him again, I’d know him.”

“What did you say to the cops?”

Exactly what Linus had told me to say. “That me and Abby were on a date, we got separated, she called me scared from the alley, that I went after her...” That’s when my blood sugar tanked and they stopped asking questions.

“They didn’t ask if you saw anything?”

“Things were bad. If I talk to the cops again maybe I could work with one of those sketch artists—”

“You’re going to need to be careful with that,” Isaiah cuts me off.

“What?”

“Talking to the cops—make sure you watch what you say.”

Pure anger pumps into my bloodstream. “Abby’s lying on some table bleeding and you’re concerned about what I say to the cops?”

“She’s a drug dealer, Logan. You say the wrong thing, she’ll be the one in handcuffs, not the guy who shot her. She’s not innocent. Who she is, what she was doing, why she was there... You bring up Linus and you might as well be the one who locks her cell. Whatever story you tell, keep it simple, keep it straight, and make sure you tell Abby and you two tell the same story over and over again.”

“Abby wants more than this life,” I say, and I’m not sure why. “Maybe she’ll talk to the police and cut some sort of deal.”

Isaiah pulls on his earring and he sucks in a breath like he’s trying to keep his ass from plowing into me. “Abby doesn’t know normal. Drug dealing—that’s her life.”

“You don’t know that.” My posture straightens, acting as if he’s the one attacking her. “None of us, not even you, know what’s going on behind the closed curtain.”

Isaiah reads my body language and pushes off the wall, his muscles tightening like we’re about to go to war. “Her father’s a drug dealer serving a life sentence in a prison downstate. Does that sound real enough for you? Want to know how I know? I’ve driven her there for family visitation weekend...twice. Abby doesn’t have a mother. Abby doesn’t have a father. Abby has Abby. We became friends because we understood each other. She fed me when she had extra food when I was in a bad foster home and I had her back when she wasn’t strong enough to handle herself on the streets.

“We used each other to survive, and in order to survive, Abby became what she understood. She’s a dealer. Abby won’t walk away from this life—it’s in her blood. What you see when she’s flirting with you, when she’s laughing with Rachel, it’s a part in a play. Abby’s pretending, she’s lying, and I’ve let the game go on too long with all of you. The real Abby would scare the shit out of you.”

“So that’s it? Abby’s a dealer?” Her voice circles in my brain. What?Am I not worthy of her friendship?Of yours? “She’s dirt and you’ve washed your hands of her? I thought you were a better man than that. A better friend.”

Isaiah closes the distance between us and I brace myself for impact. “You better shut the fuck up, Logan. You’re my friend, but I love her like she’s my sister. I’m protecting Abby the only way I know how. You say the wrong thing, she goes to jail. If the police act on what you say and her employer thinks she’s the one that snitched, her throat will be slit by sunrise. This ain’t your world. It’s her world and there’s a different set of rules.”

I whip away from Isaiah, searching for something to hit, someone to blame, circling the tiny room and it grows smaller with each pass. “So I keep my mouth shut? I refuse to talk to the police?”

“You can talk,” says Isaiah, “but you only offer what will help them find the bastard that shot Abby, but if they start asking about drugs...you gotta make a choice and that choice is between obeying the law and living in Abby’s world. I’m telling you to be careful. It’s a slippery slope and once you start down Abby’s path, it’s easy as fuck to trip and fall.”

I kick at the trash can. “I want to protect her.”

“So do I.” Isaiah jams his hands into his pockets. “But you can’t protect someone who decides to play with live explosives. If you want me to be honest, I’d be impressed if the cops find who did it. If this is a war between Abby’s employer and Eric, odds are it’ll be taken care of internally.”

“Eric.” I spit out his name. Isaiah and Rachel had problems with him last winter. I helped the two of them out as much as I could, but an accident laid me up for a few weeks.

“You don’t want to hear this,” says Isaiah. “But Abby’s not going to leave this life.”

“Bullets change things.”

Isaiah shakes his head like I’m a kid not understanding simple addition. “Not for Abby. What reason does Abby have to sell drugs? Her dad’s gone and he’s not coming back. She never had a mom. She had a grandmother who died a few years back. Abby’s got no ties to drugs, yet she chooses this life.”

I run a hand through my hair and I stop pacing as I realize how exhausted I am. “Maybe she does it for money.”

Isaiah shrugs. “Could. I already told you everything I know on Abby. Beyond that, she’s a blank page.”

Could. “Who does she live with? Where does she live?”

“I don’t know. Abby doesn’t like sharing, not even with me.” His mouth firms up like he’s weighing his words, then starts again. “We all have choices. I hated foster care. Ended up in some homes and group homes that would make a serial killer shudder. At any time, I could have left. Ran away. Made the choices Abby’s making, but I didn’t. I stuck it out because there are devils even I don’t want to meet.”

Abby and I play. We play and I asked her to leave with me earlier, and she didn’t. We could have been in Bullitt County by now. We could be miles from here and from pain.

But she didn’t leave with me when I first asked and tonight I could have gotten killed over a girl who chose selling drugs over me. “What are you saying that I’m not hearing?”

Isaiah’s head falls back and hits the wall. He stares at the ceiling like it has the answer. “I’m saying you’ve seen too much. You know too much. You’re a good guy that doesn’t mind coloring outside the lines, but you’ve stumbled into areas that are off your page. You need to decide if not being fully honest to the police—lying—is that your thing?”

Drugs aren’t my thing. Yeah, I know people who’ve smoked pot a few times. They aren’t evil—just guys searching for a good time, just like my need for an adrenaline rush. I can’t smoke—can’t drink—it would mess with my blood sugar and I’ve got enough problems there without adding more. But selling? Getting shot at? There’s a difference between crazy and wrong.

“I’m saying,” Isaiah continues, “You need to figure out what you can live with. Each man has his own code—molded and decided by him. I know mine. So does Noah. West recently discovered his. You’re strong, Logan—mentally, physically. Can handle more than most. It’s why you hang so easily with us—but this is critical mass. Can you care about someone, protect someone, lie for someone who’s moral code stands in the face of what you believe?”

My temples pound like Isaiah just pulled the rug out from underneath me and I banged my skull against the floor. “When did you become a shrink?”

A slight tilt of his lips, but it fades. “I lived life on the streets and I’m pulling myself out. Once I’m completely out, I don’t plan on going back.”

“You and Noah rose above the streets,” I say. “Abby can, too.”

“Noah and I never went down the path that Abby was born in.” He hesitates. “Here’s the truth. If Abby isn’t willing to walk in your direction then maybe you should walk away and you should do it starting now.”

A lethal snake slithers through my veins. “Are you telling me to leave?”

Conversation—for me and Isaiah—doesn’t happen. Neither of us says a lot. Only talk when we have something worth saying and it makes me on edge that he’s pushing me so hard.

“Why stay? You don’t know Abby and she will never let you in.”

“You stick around.”

Isaiah lifts his head and stares straight into my eyes. “I owe her and it’s the type of debt I can never repay. I care for her, but she and I understand my boundaries. I can show up at a hospital, I can listen when she needs to talk, but even I know she can’t be saved and because of the choices she makes, she knows I won’t try. I don’t believe in suicide missions and that’s what Abby is. I’m glad you went after her in the alley, and I will owe you for that, but because we’re friends, I can’t watch you drive a car over a broken bridge without waving a red flag.”

My head spins and I end up where I started, crashed against the wall opposite of Isaiah.

“I’m not doing this because it’s fun,” he says. “I’m doing this because I like you. Let’s cut the bullshit. You’re into her and she’s into you—more than friends. Ask yourself, do you want to be with the person who deals drugs for a living? Do you want to be with the person who gets shot for doing their job? Do you want to be with the person who puts the people they care about in danger in return? I’m not busting your balls. If you can take that shit without flinching then I’ll be the best man at your wedding, but if you can’t, that’s fine, too.”

“There’s more to Abby than what you’re saying.”

“I hope there is.”

I wait for more of Isaiah’s wisdom, his arguments, but it’s what he’s left unsaid that’s the most damning. Hope—it’s what Rachel and I all have for Abby, but hope doesn’t make Abby’s choices less real.

A knock on the door and Noah pops his head in. “West got someone to talk. Abby made it out of surgery. Bullet went straight through. Huge blood loss, but they gave her some to replace it. Concussion is why she was passed out. Stitched up the gash. They’ll run more tests later. She’s in recovery and barring shit that comes up in the meantime, she’ll be fine.”

Fine. For some reason, that word creates a hot rage through my blood. Fine. Abby’s always fine. I don’t want her to be fine, I want her to wake up. I want her to have left with me earlier tonight. I want her to change.

Noah eyes me like I’m something someone vomited. “Why don’t you head home, shower, change, and get some sleep, bro?” Noah says. “We’ll call if anything changes.”

It’s two in the morning and I’ve got that appointment with my parents at ten. My father’s too used to my brushes with death to let this appointment slide. “Is she safe here?”

“Noah, West, and I will watch over her,” Isaiah says. “We’ll protect her while she’s weak and can’t defend herself. Noah’s right—you look dead, man. Get some rest and think about what I said and then if you want, you can take a shift watching over Abby later.”

Our eyes meet and he’s telling me to reconsider my friendship with Abby. My gut and head are too twisted up. She’s a drug dealer. She was shot. I could have died in the process. But I’m exhausted. It’s the reason I can’t think.

I offer my hand to Isaiah and he accepts it with a quick pat to my back. “You need one of us to drive you home? Noah will take you, I’ll stay, and West will follow to bring Noah back.”

I shake my head. Last thing I need is any of them near my truck. My black bag of diabetes supplies was emptied onto the front seat. I don’t need their sympathy or having them believe I’m weak.

“Call if anything changes,” I say, they agree, and I begin the long walk down the hallway to the exit.


Abby (#ulink_757d77df-6f0c-53f5-b0f7-2b081b816c54)

It’s quiet yet not. A low hum of conversation and I feel like I’m floating. I like floating. I turn my head and it’s heavy and the rest of my body is still asleep.

“...so then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be alert and self-controlled. For those who sleep, sleep at night, and those who get drunk, get drunk at night...”

“Are you exorcising the demons from my soul?” My voice comes out cracked, groggy and I flinch with how raw my throat is.

“That’s the third time you’ve asked that question.” Too many years of drinking and too many years of smoking has damaged his throat. He used to have a smooth tone that I would sit by his feet and listen to, but that, like so many other things in my life, is in the past.

My eyelids flutter open and a weathered man sits by my bedside. He wears a Marine Corps baseball cap and the Bible is in his hands. I squint as I try to understand where I’m at and why. Something happened. Something I should remember...

“You were shot, Abby.”

A throb in my brain. Damn. Just damn. “Bet that wasn’t the first time you told me that.”

He closes the yellowed-paged book. “It’s not. You wake up. Go back to sleep. Over and over again. You look seventeen in your sleep.”

“And not like a monster,” I finish for him. Too many fights between us have caused me to memorize the ending. “Did you claim me or will the good people of child protective services be here to sweep me up into their beams of rainbows?”

My great-uncle Mac bows his head like he’s in prayer. He probably is. When he’s not sipping on whiskey, pretending to be drunk, really drunk, fixing cars or missing his wife, he prays for me. Mac’s one of the real people—both good and bad, both the villain and the hero.

It must be genetic.

“I claimed you,” he said.

My eyes drift closed as I breathe out in relief. He may not agree with my method, but he appreciates the results of my life. “Thank you.”

“If I could exorcise the demon from your soul, I would,” he says as I begin to fade back into the comforting darkness.

“If you could exorcise my demons, I’d willingly tie myself to the cross.” I lick my dry lips and an important memory surfaces. “I had to tell someone.”

Mac sighs deeply. “Someone you trust?”

“More than Isaiah.”

“You could have told me.”

“Can’t. Got to protect you. Got to protect her. They have to think we hate each other.”

He gruffly chuckles. “We do hate each other.”

My mouth twitches up. “See, the plan worked.” And the brief humor dies. “I’m sorry, but it’s not safe. You being here isn’t safe.”

“I’m safe enough. Go to sleep, Abigail, and let me finish Thessalonians.”

I snuggle the best I can under the thin blanket. “Tell them I want Jell-O. The red kind and tell Isaiah I want a bunny. Big and fluffy and with huge ears.”




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