Текст книги "Corrupt "

Автор книги: Penelope Douglas

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

And I’m angry that I grew up so pissed off about everything. There’s not much that makes me feel good.

But I shouldn’t have hurt her. How could I have said those things? I wasn’t him.

I let out a breath, seeing the cold steam expel from my mouth. It’s freezing out here, and the chill finally seeps into my bones, reminding me that I’d left her. Alone. In the dark. In the cold.

I charge up to the car, throwing the shovel in the back and grabbing my phone, checking the time.

An hour.

I left her an hour ago.

Climbing in, I start the car and put it in reverse, backing up and turning around. Slamming into first, I peel out of the clearing, down the old dirt road, seeing the cathedral disappear in the darkness in my rearview mirror.

I speed down the highway and through the community gate, turning into Grove Park Lane and racing to the end, where St. Peter’s Cemetery sat.

Rika had dived into the woods, coming into the cemetery through the back, but I just drive in, knowing right where to go.

Her father’s headstone sits not far from my family’s tomb. He could’ve afforded something that grandiose, too, but Schrader Fane wasn’t a pretentious asshole like the men in my family. A simple marker was enough and all he deemed appropriate according to his will.

I drive down the dark, narrow lane, nothing but trees and a sea of gray, black, and white stones to my left and right.

Stopping at the top of a small hill, I park and turn off the car, already spotting what I think is a pair of legs lying on the grass a ways down.

Jesus.

Racing down the grass in between headstones, I see Rika lying over her father’s grave, curled up and tucking her hands into her chest.

I stop and gaze down at her sleeping, for a moment seeing that baby from so long ago.

Kneeling down on one knee, I slide my hands underneath her body and lift her up, so small and light.

She squirms in my arms. “Michael?” she says.

“Shhh,” I soothe. “I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to go home,” she protests, reaching up to hook a hand over my shoulder with her eyes still closed.

“Neither do I.”

I spot a stone bench a few yards back up the hill and carry her, guilt racking through me over how cold her skin is.

I shouldn’t have left her.

Sitting down on the bench, I keep her in my lap as she lays her head against my chest, and I hold her close, trying to warm her or do anything to make her feel better.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you,” I admit in a raspy voice. “Your scar isn’t ugly.”

She slides her arms around my waist and presses close, shivering. “You never apologize,” she states. “To anybody.”

“I’m not apologizing.” I shoot back, kind of joking.

I am apologizing, actually. I feel bad, but I have a hard time ever admitting I did anything wrong. Probably because my father never fails to let me know anyway.

But she’s right. I never apologize. People take the shit I dole out, but not her. She ran away from me. In the dark. Into a cemetery.

“You got a lot of guts,” I tell her. “I don’t. I’m just a coward that picks on kids.”

“That’s not true,” she replies, and I can tell there’s a smile in there somewhere.

But she doesn’t see what I see. She’s not in my head. I’m a coward, and I’m mean, and I feel so fucking aggravated all the time.

I tighten my hold on her, trying to keep her warm. “Can I tell you something, kid?” I ask, a lump swelling in my throat. “I’m always afraid. I do what he tells me to do. I stand and speak, or I stay silent, and I never say no to anything he wants. I never stand up for myself.”

I told her she was weak. But it was me. I’m weak. I hate who I am. Everything gets in my head, and I have no control.

“People don’t see me, Rika,” I confide. “I only exist except as a reflection of him.”

She tilts her head up a little, her eyes still closed.

“That’s not true,” she mumbles sleepily. “You’re always the first person I notice in a room.”

My eyebrows pinch together in sadness, and I turn my head away, afraid she can hear my heavy breathing.

“Do you remember when your mom made you and your friends take Trevor and me hiking with you last summer?” she asks. “You let us do everything. You let us get close to the edge of the cliff. Climb boulders. You let Trevor swear…” Her fingers curl into my back, clutching my T-shirt. “But you wouldn’t let us go too far. You said we needed to save our energy for the return trip. That’s how you are.”

“What do you mean?”

She inhales a deep breath and then exhales. “Well, it’s like you’re saving your energy for something. Holding back,” she says, nestling into me and getting comfortable. “But it doesn’t make any sense. Life is one-way, and there is no return trip. What are you waiting for?”

My chest shakes for a moment, and I stare down at her, her words hitting me like a truck.

What am I waiting for?

The rules, the restraints, the expectations, and what was considered acceptable were things that held me back, but they were all things of other people’s design. Other people’s restraints. Other people’s rules and expectations.

And they were all an illusion. They only exist when I let them.

She’s absolutely right.

What is my father going to do to me, and do I care?

I want that.

You can’t have it.

Well, what happens if I take it anyway?

I want to do that.

You can’t.

Who’s going to stop me?

Jesus, she’s right. What the fuck am I waiting for? What can he do?

I want a little havoc, a little trouble, a little fun, a chance to go where my heart takes me…who the hell’s going to stop me?

Every tense muscle in my body begins to slowly relax, and the knots in my stomach start to uncoil. My skin buzzes, and I feel my insides flip, forcing me to hold back a smile.

And I inhale a deep, cool breath, filling my lungs with air that tastes like water in a desert.

Yes.

Keeping her in my arms, I stand up, holding her tight as I carry her back to the car.

I don’t bother taking her home. I don’t want her to be alone.

I carry her inside my house, the foyer dark since it’s almost ten. My father is no doubt in the city for the night, and my mother is probably on her way to bed. But as I climb the stairs, I pass her in the hallway, Rika passed out in my arms.

“Is she okay?” My mom rushes up to us, already dressed in a nightgown with book in her hand.

“She’s fine,” I reply, stepping into my room.

Walking over to my bed, I lay her down on top of the comforter and pull the blanket kept down at the bottom over her.

“Why don’t you put her in a guest room?” my mother suggests.

But I shake my head. “I’ll sleep in one tonight. Let her have my room. She needs to feel safe.”

And then I look at my mother. “She should have her own room here, though.”

She sleeps over a lot since her father’s death, and given her mother’s behavior, I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Let her have a space here that feels like a home.

My mom nods. “That’s a good idea.”

I walk past my mother, grabbing a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt out of my closet. “Poor thing.” My mother strokes her hair. “So fragile.”

“No, she isn’t,” I correct. “Don’t coddle her.”

I snatch my black hoodie off the chair by the door and head into the bathroom to change, since the dog’s blood is all over my jeans.

After I’m in fresh clothes, I dial Kai, hearing loud music and lots of voices in the background.

“Do you still have those masks we used for paintball last weekend?” I ask, stuffing my wallet in my new jeans and running my fingers through my hair.

“Yeah, they’re in the trunk of my car,” he answers.

“Good. Get the guys, and meet me at Sticks.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Whatever we want,” I reply.

And then I hang up, walk back into my bedroom, and take one last look at Rika as she sleeps on my bed.

The corners of my mouth lift, and I can’t wait for tonight.

She corrupted me.

THE END

Thank you for reading, and thank you for your reviews.

Your support and feedback are the best gifts you can give an author.

First, to the readers—so many of you have been there, sharing your excitement and showing your support, day in and day out, and I am so grateful for your continued trust. Thank you. I know my adventures aren’t always easy, but I love them, and I’m glad so many others do, too.

To my family—my husband and daughter put up with my crazy schedule, my candy wrappers, and my spacing off every time I think of a conversation, plot twist, or scene that just jumped into my head at the dinner table. You both really do put up with a lot, so thank you for loving me anyway.

To Jane Dystel, my agent at Dystel and Goderich Literary Management—there is absolutely no way I could ever give you up, so you’re stuck with me.

To the House of PenDragon—you’re my happy place. Well, you and Pinterest. Thanks for being the support system I need and always being positive.

To Vibeke Courtney—my indie editor who goes over every move I make with a fine-tooth comb. Thank you for teaching me how to write and laying it down straight.

To Ing Cruz at As the Pages Turn Book Blog—you support out of the goodness of your heart, and I can’t repay you enough. Thank you for the release blitzes, blog tours, and being by my side since the beginning.

To Milasy Mugnolo—who reads, always giving me that vote of confidence I need, and makes sure I have at least one person to talk to at a signing.

To Lisa Pantano Kane—you challenge me with the hard questions.

To Lee Tenaglia—who makes such great art for the books and whose Pinterest boards are my crack! Thank you. Really, you need to go into business. We should talk.

To all of the bloggers—there are too many to name, but I know who you are. I see the posts and the tags, and all the hard work you do. You spend your free time reading, reviewing, and promoting, and you do it for free. You are the life’s blood of the book world, and who knows what we would do without you. Thank you for your tireless efforts. You do it out of passion, which makes it all the more incredible.

To Samantha Young, who shocked me with a tweet about reading Falling Away when I didn’t even know she knew who I was.

To Jay Crownover who came up to me at a signing, introduced herself, and said she loved my books (I just stared at her).

To Abbi Glines who gave her readers a list of books she’d read and loved, and one of them was mine.

To Tabatha Vargo and Komal Petersen who were the first authors to message me after my first release to tell me how much they loved Bully.

To Tijan, Vi Keeland, and Helena Hunting for being there when I need you.

To Eden Butler and N. Michaels who are ready to read my books at the drop of a hat and give feedback.

To Natasha Preston who backs me up.

To Amy Harmon for her encouragement and support.

And to B.B. Reid for reading, sharing the ladies with me, and giving me a Calibre tutorial at twelve-thirty in the morning.

It’s validating to be recognized by your peers. Positivity is contagious, so thank you to my fellow authors for spreading the love.

To every author and aspiring author—thank you for the stories you’ve shared, many of which have made me a happy reader in search of a wonderful escape and a better writer, trying to live up to your standard. Write and create, and don’t ever stop. Your voice is important, and as long as it comes from your heart, it is right and good.

Penelope Douglas is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author. Her books include the Fall Away Series, Corrupt, and Misconduct, due out December 1, 2015.

She dresses for autumn year round, loves anything lemon flavored, and shops at Target almost daily.

She lives in Las Vegas with her husband and their daughter.

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