Текст книги "Dare You To"

Автор книги: Katie McGarry

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Beth

I FELL ASLEEP. Either that or my dear old uncle Scott drugged me. I’m going with fell asleep.

Scott may be a dick, but he’s a dare-to-keep-kids-off-drugs kind of dick. I should know. He once brought red ribbons and a police mascot to my preschool.

I love irony.

Moonlight streams through white lace

curtains hanging from an artsy brown metal rod. I sit up and a pink crochet blanket falls away. The bedding beneath me is still perfectly made and I’m wearing the same outfit I wore on Friday night. Someone has neatly laid my shoes on the wooden floor next to the bed.

Even sober, I wouldn’t have done that. I don’t do neat.

I lean over and turn on a lamp. The crystals decorating the bottom edge of the shade clink HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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together. The dull light draws my focus to the painfully cheery purple paint on the wall.

Closing my eyes, I count the days. Let’s see.

Friday night I went out with Noah and Isaiah and put Taco Bell Boy in his place. Early Saturday, Mom tried to become a felon.

Saturday morning, Scott ruined my life.

I pretended to fall asleep in the car so I wouldn’t have to talk to Scott, but I sucked and actually fell asleep. Scott woke me, I think, and half carried me into the house. Crap. Why don’t I put a sign on my head and announce I’m a loser girl who needs help.

I open my eyes and stare at the ticking clock on the bedside table. Twelve fifteen. Sunday.

This is early Sunday morning.

My stomach growls. I’ve gone a full day

without eating. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Won’t be the last. I slip out of bed and slide my Chuck Taylor wannabes onto my feet. Time to have a coming-to-Jesus moment with Uncle

Scott. That is, if he’s awake. It may be better if he went to bed. That way I can slip out without the fight.

Maybe I’ll score some food before I call

Isaiah. With a room like this, I bet he buys HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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brand-name cereal.

The house has that newly built, fresh

sawdust smell. Outside the bedroom is a foyer instead of a hallway. A large staircase, the type I thought existed only in movies, winds to the second floor. An actual chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Guess baseball pays well.

“No…” A woman’s voice carries from the

back of the house. I can tell she’s still talking, but she’s lowered her tone. Did he marry or does he keep a fuck on hand like he did when I was a kid? Gotta be a fuck. I overheard Scott tell Dad once that he’d never marry.

I follow the low voices to the brink of a large open room and pause. The entire back of the house—excuse me, mansion—is one

enormous wall of windows. The living room flows right into the eat-in kitchen.

“Scott.” Exasperation eats at the woman’s tone. “This is not what I signed up for.”

“Last month you were on board with this,”

says Scott. Part of me feels vindicated. He’s lost that annoyingly smooth calm from

yesterday.

“Yes, when you told me you wanted to

reconnect with your niece. There is a

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difference between reconnecting and

invading our life.”

“You were fine with it when I called last month from Louisville and said I wanted her to live with us.”

The woman snaps, “That was after you said she ran away. I didn’t actually think you would find her. When you described the hellhole she lived in, I figured she was long gone. She’s a criminal. You expect me to feel safe with her in my home?”

Her words slice me open. I’m not that bad.

No, I’m not kittens and bunnies, but I’m not that bad. I glance down at my outfit. Jeans.

Tank top. My black hair falls in front of my face. It doesn’t matter. She made her decision before she met me. I bury the hurt, step into the room, and welcome the anger. Screw her. “You might want to listen to her. I’m a fucking menace.”

The shocked expression on their faces is

almost worth being here. Almost. I press my lips together to keep from laughing at Scott. He wears a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. It’s a far cry from the outfits he used to wear when I was a kid: gangsta HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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jeans that showed his underwear.

The woman is nothing like the girls Scott dated when he was eighteen. Her hair is a natural blond instead of bleached. She’s thin, but not alcohol-diet thin, and she looks kind of smart. Smart as in she probably finished high school.

She sits at a massive island in the center of the kitchen. Scott leans on the counter across from her. He glances at her, then talks to me.

“It’s late, Elisabeth. Why don’t you go back to bed and we’ll talk in the morning.”

My stomach cramps, and a light wave of

dizziness fogs my brain. “Do you have food?”

He straightens. “Yes. What do you want? I can fix some eggs.”

Scott used to make me scrambled eggs every morning. Eggs—the WIC-approved food. The

reminder hurts and creates warm fuzzies at the same time. “I hate eggs.”

“Oh.”

Oh. The man’s a conversational genius. “Do you have cereal?”

“Sure.” He enters a pantry and I plop onto a stool at the island as far from Scott’s girl as possible. She stares at a spot right in front of HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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me. Huh. Funny. I’m in arm’s reach of a

butcher block full of knives. I can imagine the thoughts running through her single-celled brain.

Scott places boxes of Cheerios, Branflakes, and Shredded Wheat in front of me.

“You have got to be fucking kidding.”

Where the hell are the Lucky Charms?

“Nice language,” the woman says.

“Thanks,” I respond.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Do I look like I fucking care?”

Scott slides a bowl and spoon to me, then goes to the refrigerator for milk. “Let’s tone it down.”

I choose the Cheerios and keep pouring until a few toasty circles trickle onto the counter.

Scott sits in the chair next to mine and the two of them watch me in silence. Well, sort of silence. My crunching is louder than a nuclear bomb blast.

“Scott told me you had blond hair,” says the woman.

I swallow, but it’s hard to do when my throat tightens. The little girl I used to be, the one with blond hair, died years ago and I hate HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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thinking about her. She was nice. She was happy. She was…not someone I want to

remember.

“Why is your hair black?” The lawn

ornament at the other end of the island has officially become annoying.

“What are you exactly?” I ask.

“This is my wife, Allison.”

The Cheerios catch in my throat and I choke, coughing into my hand. “You’re married?”

“Two years,” says Scott. Ugh. He does that googly-eye thing Noah does with Echo.

I slide another spoonful of Cheerios into my mouth. “When I’m done—” crunch, crunch,

crunch “—I’m going home.”

“This is your home now.” Scott has that

calm tone again.

“The hell it is.”

Allison’s eyes dart between me and the

knives. Yeah, lady, a couple of hours in jail and I’ve moved from destruction of property to sociopath.

“Maybe you should listen to her,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say through more crunches,

“maybe you should listen to me. Your wife’s worried I’m going to go all Manson and slit her HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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throat while she sleeps.” I smile at her for effect.

Color drains from her face. At times, I really enjoy being me.

Scott gives me the once-over—starting with my black hair, then moving on to my black fingernails, the ring in my nose, and finally my clothes. Then he turns to his wife. “Will you give us a few minutes alone?”

Allison leaves without saying a word. I

shovel in more cereal and purposely talk with my mouth full. “Did you have to purchase the leash for her or did it come as a package deal?”

“You won’t disrespect her, Elisabeth.”

“I’ll do as I fucking please, Uncle Scott.” I mimic his fake haughty tone. “And when I’m done eating my shitty cereal, I’m calling Isaiah and I’m going home.”

Him—silence. Me—crunch, crunch, crunch.

“What happened to you?” he asks in a soft voice.

I swallow what’s in my mouth, put down the spoon, and push the bowl of half-eaten

Cheerios away. “What do you think

happened?”

Scott—the master of long silences.

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“When did he leave?” he asks.

I don’t have to be a mind reader to know

Scott’s asking about his deadbeat brother. The black paint on my fingernails chips at the corners. I scrape off more of it. Eight years later and I still have a hard time saying it.

“Third grade.”

Scott shifts in his seat. “Your mom?”

“Fell apart the day he left.” Which should tell him a lot, because she wasn’t exactly the poster child for reliability before Dad took off.

“What happened between them?”

None of his business. “You didn’t come for me like you promised.” And he stopped calling when I turned eight. The refrigerator kicks on.

I scrape off more paint. He faces the fact that he’s a dick.

“Elisabeth—”

“Beth.” I cut him off. “I go by Beth. Where’s your phone? I’m going home.” The police

confiscated my cell and gave it to Scott. He told me in the car that he tossed it in the garbage because I “didn’t need contact with my old life.”

“You just turned seventeen.”

“Did I? Wow. I must have forgotten since no HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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one threw me a party.”

Ignoring me, he continues, “This week my

lawyers will secure my legal guardianship of you. Until you turn eighteen, you will live in this house and you will obey my rules.”

Fine. If he won’t show me the phone, I’ll find it. I hop off the chair. “I’m not six anymore and you aren’t the center of my

universe. In fact, I consider you a black hole.”

“I get that you’re pissed off I left.…”

Pissed? “No, I’m not pissed. You don’t exist to me anymore. I feel nothing for you, so show me where the damned phone is so I can go

home.”

“Elisabeth…”

He doesn’t get it. I don’t care. “Go to hell.”

No phone in the kitchen.

“You need to understand.…”

I walk around his fancy ass living room with his fancy ass leather furniture looking for his fancy ass phone. “Take whatever you have to say and shove it up your ass.”

“I just want to talk.…”

I lift my hand in the air and flap it like a puppet’s mouth. “Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth.

I’ll only be gone a couple of months. Blah, HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll make enough

money to get us both out of Groveton. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. You’ll never grow up like me. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll make sure you have some fucking food to eat!”

“I was eighteen.”

“I was six!”

“I wasn’t your father!”

I throw my arms out. “No, you weren’t. You were supposed to be better than him!

Congratulations, you officially became a

replica of your worthless brother. Now where the fuck is the damn phone?”

Scott slams his hand on the counter and

roars, “Sit your ass down, Elisabeth, and shut the fuck up!”

I quake on the inside, but I’ve been around Mom’s asshole boyfriends long enough to keep from quaking on the outside. “Wow. You can take the boy out of the trailer park and pretty him up in a Major League Baseball uniform, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the boy.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Whatever. Where’s the phone?”

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Noah told me once that I have a gift that borders on supervillain status—the ability to push people past the edge of sanity. The way Scott releases another breath and rubs his forehead tells me I’m pushing him hard. Good.

Scott tries for that obnoxious, level tone again, but I can hear the edge of irritation in it.

“You want trailer park, I can go trailer park.

You are going to live in my house with my rules or I’ll send your mother to jail.”

“I broke out the windows of the car. Not her.

You have nothing on her.”

Scott narrows his eyes. “Wanna discuss

what’s in your mom’s apartment with me?”

My body lurches to the left as the blood

seeps out of my face, leaving behind a blurry and tingling sensation. Shirley already warned me, but hearing it from him is still a shock.

Scott knows what I don’t want to know—

Mom’s secret.

“Push me, Elisabeth, and I’ll have this same exact conversation with the police.”

I stumble as I try to stay upright. The back of my legs collide with a coffee table. Losing the battle, I sit. Right beside me is a phone and as much as I want to, I can’t touch it. Scott has HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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me. The bastard traded my life for my

mom’s freedom.

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Ryan

I LEAN AGAINST THE CLOSED tailgate of Dad’s truck and listen from two parking spots away as Dad recounts to a group of men loitering outside the barbershop every detail of our meeting with the scout last night. Some of them heard the story at church this morning.

Most of the listeners are generational farmers and this kind of news is worth hearing again, even if it means standing in the type of August heat where you can smell the acrid stench of blacktop melting.

In my peripheral view, I notice a man stop on the sidewalk and assess the ring of listeners and my storytelling father. I don’t pay attention to tourists and if he were a local, he’d join the group. It’s better to leave the tourists alone. If you look at them, they talk.

Groveton’s a small town. To appeal to

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tourists, Dad persuaded the other councilmen to call the old stone buildings dating back to the 1800s Historic then add the words Shopping District. Four B-and-Bs and new tours of the old bourbon distillery later, and the city folk brave the fifteen-mile winding

country road from the freeway. It can make parking a bitch on the weekends, but it gives lots of good people jobs when money gets

tight.

“What’s the local gossip?” the man asks.

He’s speaking and I didn’t even make eye

contact. That’s bold for a tourist. I fold my arms across my chest. “Baseball.”

“No kidding.” There’s a drop in his tone that catches my attention.

I turn my head and feel my eyes widen in

slow motion. No way. “You’re Scott Risk.”

Everyone in this town knows who Scott Risk is. His face is one of the few to peer at the student population from the Wall of Fame at Bullitt County High. As a shortstop, he led his high school team to state championships twice.

He made the majors straight out of high school.

But the real achievement, the real feat that made him a king in this small town, was his HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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eleven-year stint with the New York

Yankees. He’s exactly what every boy in

Groveton dreams of becoming, including me.

Scott Risk wears a pair of khakis, a blue polo, and a good-natured grin. “And you are?”

“Ryan Stone,” Dad answers for me as he

appears from out of thin air. “He’s my son.”

The circle of men outside the barbershop

watch us with interest. Scott holds out his hand to Dad. “Scott Risk.”

Dad shakes it with a badly suppressed smug smile. “Andrew Stone.”

“City Councilman Andrew Stone?”

“Yes,” Dad says with pride. “I heard rumors you were moving back to town.”

He did? That’s the sort of news Dad should have shared.

“This town always did love gossip.” Scott keeps the friendly look, but the light tone feels forced.

Dad chuckles. “Some things never change. I heard you were looking at buying some

property nearby.”

“Bought,” says Scott. “I purchased the old Walter farm last spring, but asked the Realtor to keep the sale quiet until we moved into the HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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home we built farther back on the property.”

My eyebrows shoot up and so do Dad’s.

That’s the farm right next to ours. Dad takes a step closer and angles his back to make the three of us into our own circle. “I own the property a mile down the road. Ryan and I are huge fans of yours.” No, he’s not. Dad respects Scott because he’s from Groveton, but loathes anyone from the Yankees. “Except when you played the Reds. Home team takes precedent.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” Scott

notices my baseball cap. “Do you play?”

“Yes, sir.” What exactly do I say to the man I’ve worshipped my entire life? Can I ask for his autograph? Can I beg him to tell me how he stays calm during a game when everything is on the line? Do I stare at him like an idiot because I can’t find anything more coherent to say?

“Ryan’s a pitcher,” Dad announces. “A

major-league scout watched him at a game last night. He thinks Ryan has the potential to be picked up by the minors after graduation.”

Scott’s easygoing grin falls into something more serious as he stares as me. “That’s

impressive. You must be pitching in the upper HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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eighties.”

“Nineties,” says Dad. “Ryan pitched three straight in the nineties.”

A crazy gleam hits Scott’s eyes and we both smile. I understand that spark and the

adrenaline rush that accompanies it. We share a passion: playing ball. “Nineties? And you’re just now getting the attention of scouts?”

I readjust my hat. “Dad took me to Reds’

tryout camp this past spring, but…”

Dad cuts me off. “They told Ryan he needed to bulk up.”

“You must have listened,” Scott says.

“I want to play ball.” I’m twenty pounds

heavier than last spring. I run every day and lift weights at night. Sometimes, Dad does it with me. This dream also belongs to Dad.

“Anything can happen.” Scott looks over my shoulder, but his eyes have that far-off glaze, as if he’s seeing a memory. “It depends on how badly you want it.”

I want it. Badly. Dad checks his watch, then extends his hand again to Scott. He’s itching to pick up some new drill bits before supper. “It was nice officially meeting you.”

Scott accepts his hand. “You too. Would you HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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mind if I borrowed your son? My niece lives with me and she’ll be starting Bullitt County High tomorrow. I think the transition will be easier for her if she has someone to show her around. As long as that’s okay with you,

Ryan.”

“It would be an honor, sir.” It would. This is beyond my wildest dreams.

Dad flashes me his all-knowing smile. “You know where to find me.” The crowd near the barbershop parts like Moses commanding the Red Sea as Dad strolls toward the hardware store.

Scott turns his back to the crowd, steps

closer to me, and runs a hand over his face.

“Elisabeth…” He pauses, rests his hands on his hips, and starts again. “Beth’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s a good girl. She could use some friends.”

I nod like I understand, but I don’t. What does he mean by rough around the edges? I keep nodding because I don’t care. She’s Scott Risk’s niece and I’ll make sure she’s happy.

Beth. A strange uneasiness settles in my

stomach. Why does that name sound familiar?

“I’ll introduce her around. Make sure she fits HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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in. My best friend, Chris, he’s also on the team.” Because I’ll try to work Chris and Logan into any conversation I have with Mr.

Risk. “He has a great girl who I’m sure your niece will love.”

“Thanks. You have no idea how much this

means to me.” Scott relaxes as if he dropped a hundred-pound bag of feed. The bell over the clothing shop chimes. Scott places a hand on my shoulder and gestures at the shop. “Ryan, I’d like you to meet my niece, Elisabeth.”

She walks out of the shop and crosses her arms over her chest. Black hair. Nose ring.

Slim figure with a hint of curves. White shirt with only four buttons clasped between her breasts and belly button, fancy blue jeans, and an eye roll the moment she sees me. My

stomach drops as if I swallowed lead. This is possibly the worst day of my life.

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Beth

“IT’S NICE TO MEET YOU,” Arrogant Taco Bell Boy says as if we never met. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Jocks usually aren’t smart. Their muscles feast on their brains.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

I’m in hell. No question about it. This bad version of the town from Deliverance is certainly hot as hell. The heat in this forsaken place possesses a strangling haze that envelops me and seizes my lungs.

Scott clears his throat. A subtle reminder that fuck is no longer an acceptable word for me in public. “I’d like you to meet Ryan Stone.”

Once upon a time, Scott used to say words like s’up and sick. Variants of fuck were the only adjectives and adverbs in his vocabulary.

Now he sounds like a stuck-up, suit-wearing, cocky rich guy. Oh wait, he is.

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“Ryan’s volunteered to show you around

at school tomorrow.”

“Of course he has,” I mumble. “Because my life hasn’t sucked enough in the past forty-eight hours.”

God must have decided He wasn’t done

screwing with me yet. He wasn’t done

screwing with me when Scott blackmailed me into living here. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott’s wife bought these tragically conservative clothes. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott told me he was enrolling me at the local redneck, Children of the Corn school. No, he wasn’t quite done screwing with me yet. The damn icing on this cake is the conceited ass standing in front of me. Ha fucking ha. Joke’s on me. “I want my clothes back.”

“What?” Scott asks. Good—I messed with

him without cursing.

“He’s not dressed like a moron, so why

should I?” I motion to the designer jeans and starched Catholic-schoolgirl shirt disgracing my body. Per Scott’s request to play nice with Allison, I stepped out of the dressing room to look at this atrocity in the full-length mirror.

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When I returned, my clothes were gone.

Tonight, I’m searching for a pair of scissors and bleach.

Scott censures me by subtly shaking his

head. I have close to a whole year of this bull in front of me, and the woman I’m trying to protect I can’t even see—my mom. A part of my brain tingles with panic. How is she? Did her boyfriend hit her again? Is she worried about me?

“You’re going to love it here,” says Taco Bell Boy—I mean Ryan.

“Sure I am.” My tone indicates I’m going to love this place as much as I’d love getting shot in the head.

Scott clears his throat again and I wonder if he cares that people will assume he’s diseased.

“Ryan’s father owns a construction business in town and he’s on the city council.” Underlying message to me: don’t screw this moment up.

“Of course.” Of course. Story of my

freaking life. Ryan’s the rich boy that has everything. Daddy who owns the town. Daddy who owns the business. Ryan, the boy who

thinks he can do anything he wants because of it.

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Ryan flashes me an easygoing grin and

it’s sort of hypnotizing. As if he created it just for me. It’s a glorious grin. Perfect. Peaceful.

With a hint of dimples. It promises friendship and happiness and laughter and it makes me want to smile back. My lips start to curve into an answer and I stop myself abruptly.

Why do I do this to myself? Guys like him don’t go for girls like me. I’m a toy to them. A game. And these types of guys, they all have the same rules of play: smile, trick me into thinking that they like me, then toss me to the side once I’ve been used. How many countless losers do I have to stupidly make out with only to regret it in the morning? Over the past year—too many.

But while listening to Ryan easily digress into a conversation with Scott about baseball, I swear that I’m done with loser guys. Done with feeling used. Just done.

And this time, I won’t break the promise—

no matter how lonely I get.

“Yeah,” Ryan says to Scott as if I’m not

standing right here, as if I’m not important enough to involve in conversation. “I think the Reds have a shot this year.”

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God, I hate Ryan. Standing there all

perfect with his perfect life and perfect body and perfect smile, pretending he never laid eyes on me before. He glances at me from the corner of his eye and I realize why he’s

pouring on the charm. Ryan wants to impress Scott. Guess what? Misery definitely loves company. My life shouldn’t be the only one that sucks. “He hit on me.”

Silence as my words kill the moronic

baseball conversation. Scott rubs his eyes.

“You just met him.”

“Not now. Friday night. He hit on me and he stared at my ass while he did it.”

Joy. Utter joy. Okay, not utter, but the sole joy I’ve had since Friday night. Ryan yanks off his hat, runs his hand through his mess of sandy-blond hair, and shoves the hat back on. I like him better with his hat off.

“Is this true?” Scott asks.

“Yes,” stutters Ryan. “No. I mean yes. I

asked for her phone number, but she didn’t give it to me. But I was respectful, I swear.”

“You stared at my ass. A lot.” I turn and lean over a little so I can give a demonstration.

“Remember, there was a rip right along here.” I HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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slide my finger along the back of my leg.

“You bought me tacos afterward. And a drink.

So I’m assuming you must have enjoyed the view.”

I hear muffled male comments and I peek at the crowd of men farther down the sidewalk.

The first genuine smile slips across my face.

Scott’s going to love a show. Maybe if I push hard enough I’ll be home in Louisville by dinner.

“Elisabeth.” Scott drops his voice to trailer-park pissed. “Turn around.”

Twelve different shades of red blotch Ryan’s cheeks. He doesn’t even look at my ass, but at my uncle. “Okay…yes, I asked her out.”

Scott does a double take. “You asked her

out?”

Hey now. Why’s he surprised? I’m not a

dog.

“Yes,” says Ryan.

“You wanted to take her on a date?”

Uh-oh. Scott sounds happy. No. I’m not

going for happy.

“Yes.” Ryan holds out his hands. “I

thought…I thought…”

“That I would be easy?” I snap, and Scott HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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winces.

“That she was funny,” Ryan says.

Yeah. I’m sure that’s exactly what he

thought. “More like you thought it would be fun to screw with me. Or just plain screw.”

“Enough,” hisses Scott. His narrowing blue eyes rage at me as I thrust my hands in the stiff pockets of the new jeans. Scott lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose before forcing that fake relaxed grin into place. “I apologize for my niece. She’s had a rough weekend.”

I don’t want him to apologize for me to

anyone. Especially not to this arrogant ass. My mouth drops open, but the brief white-trash glance Scott gives me shuts it. Scott becomes Mr. Superficial again. “I understand if you don’t want to help Elisabeth at school.”

Ryan has this blank, way too innocent

expression. “Don’t worry, Mr. Risk. I’d love to help Elisabeth. ” He turns to me and smiles.

This smile isn’t genuine or heartwarming, but cocky as hell. Bring it, jock boy. Your best won’t be good enough.

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