Highball Rush: Bootleg Springs Book 6

by Kingsley, Claire

  Until freedom.

  Although I was itching to put on my headphones and lose myself in music—pretend I was anywhere but here—I couldn’t risk it before dinner. I might miss my summons to the family table.

  Instead, I sat on my bed and took out my journal. Flipped through the pages. I didn’t keep a diary. My parents would never have let me record the truth on paper. Not even in a diary that no one else would see.

  So I wrote songs. Deep inside the words penned on these pages was my truth. And maybe someday, I’d be brave enough to share it.

  I traced my fingers over the newest page. A song I’d written late last night after the biggest act of rebellion I’d ever committed.

  I was allowed out of the house—for now, at least. My parents dangled the possibility of house-arrest over my head constantly. I was to stay in town, never enter someone’s house, and be home for dinner. I followed those rules, each and every day.

  Except yesterday. I hadn’t gone inside anyone’s home. I’d been back before dinner. But I’d left town. Worse, I’d left town with Gibson Bodine.

  It had been such a risk, but when he’d said there was an outdoor music festival in Perrinville, I hadn’t been able to resist. I’d wanted to jump up and hug him, but Gibson wasn’t a hugger. And it would have been weird, anyway. Gibs and I weren’t like that. He was my friend. Probably the best friend I’d ever had. But not someone I’d hug.

  When he’d asked if I wanted to go to Perrinville to see the festival, I’d taken the leap and said yes. He’d met me outside town so no one would see us leave.

  It had been the best day of my entire life. I closed my eyes, breathing in the memories. The sights. The sounds. I’d never heard music like that live before. It had filled my soul. Soothed every ache and wound I carried. For a little while, I hadn’t been Callie Kendall, obedient daughter. I’d been someone else. Someone free.

  I was desperate for that. For freedom. I had two more years, but sometimes I wasn’t sure if I could make it.

  “Callie.” My mother’s voice carried up the stairs. “Dinner.”

  Her sweet tone set me on edge. Sixteen years of this, and I couldn’t tell when she was faking. Sometimes that soft call meant she was in a good mood, and I’d have a peaceful evening.

  Other times, it masked her displeasure, lulling me into a false sense of security. I’d let my guard down, thinking all was well, only to be blindsided by her cold anger for some perceived transgression.

  I hurried downstairs, not wanting to give either of them a reason to be angry tonight. Mom was in the kitchen, pulling a roast with potatoes out of the oven.

  “Set the table,” she said without turning to look at me. She wore a silk blouse with an apron tied around her waist, and her hair was pulled back in a bun.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Keeping my eyes down like a good girl, I took the plates and silverware to the table. Set them neatly atop the beige lace place mats.

  Mom brought the serving dishes to the table and I poured ice water for the three of us. Dad emerged from his study, his face cold and serious.

  Worry ate at me, making my stomach hurt. I took my place at the dinner table and gently unfolded my napkin in my lap. My parents engaged in meaningless small talk while we dished up our food. I didn’t mind. Shallow conversations about the weather were preferable to Dad talking about work. I already knew far more than I wanted to about the things my father did.

  My fork dangled from my fingers while I picked at my food. It was hard to eat. My parents behaved as if I wasn’t there—a good sign—but there was an electric tension in the air. It rippled through me, making my back knot up tight and my throat go dry. Was it my imagination? Or was she about to—

  “Callie.”

  My gaze lifted to hers and my blood turned to ice. She had the eyes of a corpse, flat and unfeeling.

  “Callie, I addressed you.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  She put her fork down. “We have something to discuss.”

  My heart beat wildly and another trickle of sweat ran down my spine. “What?”

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  I felt suddenly paralyzed, as if my brain and body had ceased to be connected. Did she know? Was she testing me to see if I’d lie? Or was this a drill? A means of ensuring I remembered that they could take away what little freedom I had in the blink of an eye?

  Maybe I’d start with where I’d been in the morning. Not a lie, but not the entire truth, either. “I took a walk on the beach.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she snapped.

  I shook my head, looking away, gluing my eyes to my plate. “No. I really did. I went to the lake and took a walk.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you spent the entire day walking around the lake?”

  “Well, no. I mean, no, ma’am.”

  “I know you left town, Callie Dawn.”

  I tried not to visibly flinch at the use of my first and middle name. Panic swept through me, twisting my stomach and making my palms sweat. She knew. Oh god, she knew.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

  Dad looked up as if only just now taking an interest in the conversation.

  “This is your chance to come clean,” she said. “All I’m asking for is the truth.”

  “I didn’t go far. Just to Perrinville.”

  “You know the rules, Callie. You left town without our permission.”

  My eyes still downcast, I nodded.

  “Who were you with?” Dad asked.

  The lie slipped off my tongue so fast, it was as if someone else was speaking. “Some other summertimers. High school kids. A group of them were going, so I tagged along.”

  “This is unacceptable,” Mom said. “What makes you think I’ll tolerate this level of disobedience? You’re not allowed to leave town, especially not with some ragtag group of miscreants.”

  I nodded like a good girl. The way her voice kept rising should have had me terrified, but all I could feel was relief. She didn’t know I’d gone with Gibson. And I realized something: I’d face her at her worst to protect my friend from my parents. I’d never tell them.

  “Do you hear me, Callie?” She slammed her hand on the table. “Your father and I will not be disrespected like this.”

  I desperately wanted to ask how they knew I’d left town, but I knew better than to ask questions when she was like this. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This is the problem with kids these days,” she said, and I didn’t know if she was speaking to me, or my father. “You let them out of your sight and it breeds nothing but rebellion.”

  She stood and clamped her hand on my arm, her grip unnaturally strong. I didn’t resist her pull as she dragged me into the kitchen, dread making me want to vomit.

  Dad didn’t get up. He never watched her punish me.

  “I’m doing this for your own good, Callie.” The lack of emotion in my mother’s voice was chilling. She stopped at the counter next to the sink and pulled my arm onto the cold marble, my palm facing up. “I can’t allow disobedience to fester inside you. It’ll ruin you if I let it.”

  My lower lip trembled, but I swallowed back the tears. She dragged the sleeve of my sweater up to my elbow, baring my forearm. My skin was marred by a few fresh scabs on top of older scars—a crisscross pattern of horizontal slices.

  When I was little, it had just been bruises. By the time I was twelve, she’d started drawing blood.

  She held my arm down against the cool granite countertop. “Look at this. Look at what a horrible girl you are.”

  I didn’t want to look. I hated seeing my arms. But I didn’t dare disobey.

  “Pain is the price you pay.” She opened a drawer and took out a box cutter. The box cutter. “It’s the only way, Callie Dawn. You keep making me do this.”

  I sucked in a quick breath and held it as she lowered the blade to my arm. The point bit into my skin and I squeezed my eyes shut.

&nb
sp; “When will you learn?” She drew the blade across my arm, leaving a hot trail of burning pain. “When will you stop disobeying us?” Another line of fire on my skin, close to the first. “When will you stop making me do this?”

  Cracking my eyes open, I tried not to flinch at the blood. It seeped from the wounds she’d inflicted, dark red droplets trailing down to the counter. Dad would come in later and clean everything with bleach. He wouldn’t stop her, but he always cleaned up her messes. He knew her punishments kept me silent—kept me from telling people what I knew about him.

  My arm was on fire, but she held it in place. If I moved, she’d keep going. Maybe start on my other arm. But if I held very still, kept quiet like a good girl, maybe she’d stop. Maybe tonight I’d only get three.

  Another slice, closer to the inside of my elbow. I shuddered, choking back a sob. That one was deep. She hated it when I cried, so I held it in, desperate for this to be over.

  “You’re a stupid child,” she said. “Anyone else would have learned by now. I hate that you force me to do this, Callie. Apologize.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “I can’t hear you. Apologize for your disobedience.”

  “I’m sorry I disobeyed. I won’t do it again. I’ll be good, I promise.”

  She let go and I fumbled for a paper towel. Dad would burn it later. I held it over my latest wounds and clutched my arm to my chest, my eyes on the floor.

  My heart raced. Was she finished? Would she let me go? I risked a look. She stood with the razor still in her hand, staring at me, her eyes cold and dead.

  “Give me your other arm.”

  I didn’t move. For the first time in my life, I didn’t jump to do what she said. Pain and fear swirled like a tempest and a voice in my head screamed at me to obey. Be a good girl. If I did what she said, maybe it would be over soon.

  “Callie Dawn.”

  Something inside me snapped. I could feel it break, the cracks snaking out like broken glass.

  “No.”

  She stared at me for a beat, shock plain on her face. “Excuse me?”

  Never in my life had I refused my mother. But now that I had—now that I’d uttered that one forbidden word—I felt heat rise from deep inside. I was sick of living in fear. Sick of subjecting myself to her pointless torture. Because no matter how hard she’d tried, she’d never broken me. She’d never convinced me she was right.

  She was insane.

  “I said no.” I held my wounded arm tight against my chest. “You’re not going to hurt me again.”

  She shook her head, her dead eyes never leaving mine. “Just this once, I will repeat myself. Give me your other arm.”

  “No.”

  Her jaw clenched and one eye twitched. My heart beat furiously, the urge to run almost overwhelming.

  Without a word, she surged forward and backhanded me across the face. Pain erupted across my cheek, the shock of it crushing the air from my lungs. I turned, trying to shield myself from her next attack.

  “Mom, stop.”

  A heartbeat later, her next blow came. Something hard cracked across my shoulder. A book, maybe. One of the heavy cookbooks she kept on the counter. I ducked to avoid her, but she hit me again and again, each smack harder than the last. I could feel the bruises already blooming across my back.

  “Stop,” I screamed.

  I risked a glance at her and realized my mistake, but it was too late. She swung the book right at my face and it smashed into my nose with an audible crunch.

  The pain was blinding but somehow I didn’t crumple to the floor. Staying hunched over so she couldn’t get to my face again, I bolted from the kitchen.

  Steady footsteps followed me, her pace unhurried. Before I could reach the front door, she grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking me backward.

  I screamed, kicking and flailing. Fighting back for the first time in my life. How was she so freakishly strong?

  And why was she so silent?

  I shrieked, trying to duck away. She let go of my hair and I covered my head. She didn’t say a word. Twisting, I hit back, scoring an open-handed slap to her face. She staggered back a step. Rage burned in her eyes, searing away the deadness. Sheer hatred twisted her features.

  “How dare you,” she snarled.

  Her attack was so fast, I barely saw it coming. I tried to turn away, but she lashed out and the box cutter sliced my face. I screamed, clutching my cheek, the pain searing.

  “You will be a good girl. I will make you be good.”

  “Imogen.” Dad’s voice was hard, and my mother stopped, her hand with the box cutter raised. “Enough.”

  I crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. What had happened? He never stopped her.

  “Callie, go to your room,” he said.

  I was bleeding and could barely see, but I scrambled to my feet. Anything to get away. I rushed upstairs to my room and shut the door behind me.

  I was too afraid to look in the mirror, but I could feel the long, jagged cut running from my cheekbone to my upper lip. My nose throbbed. I couldn’t get my fingers anywhere near it without fresh waves of nauseating pain ripping through me.

  But in that moment, standing in a bedroom I hated, dripping blood onto the floor, I decided I was leaving.

  I wasn’t going to wait for my father to come upstairs and tell me why she’d done it. Explain how important it was for a man like him to have an obedient daughter. That she did it for the good of our family, and if only I’d be a good girl, she could finally stop.

  No. She was crazy. And I wasn’t going to live like this anymore.

  I had no idea where this newfound courage had come from. Maybe I was finally going nuts. But it chased away the blinding pain just enough that I quietly opened my bedroom door and peeked out. One of my eyes was swelling shut, so I turned my head to get a better look. I didn’t see my parents.

  Maybe I could have waited until they were asleep. But my heart swelled with resolve and I knew I had to go now, or I might never feel this brave again.

  Tiptoeing as softly as I could—I didn’t have shoes on—I crept downstairs. Voices came from Dad’s study. It was now or never.

  With my heart racing so fast I wondered if it might burst, I silently padded to the back door. It opened without a sound. Risking one last glance behind me—no sign of my parents—I went outside and shut the door.

  And then I ran.

  My bare feet tore over the cobblestone patio. Then dirt and bark. Grass. I ran harder than I’d ever run in my life, sprinting for the woods near our house.

  I didn’t slow down until I was surrounded by trees. My arm was bleeding worse than I’d realized and my entire face felt like it was on fire. I slowed so I wouldn’t trip; it was too dark to see much. Luckily I knew these woods well. Veering toward the road, I jogged as fast as I dared, only one thought in my mind.

  Gibson.

  He’d help me. I knew he would. Most people were afraid of my father—and rightly so—but Gibson wasn’t scared of anything. He’d find me a place to hide. Help me figure out where to go. Because I wasn’t going back.

  I couldn’t turn them in. They’d kill me if I did. Dad might balk at killing his own daughter, but not enough to stop my mother from doing it. And she’d do anything to protect their perfect image. Protect their power.

  Gibson. He’d help me.

  Before I reached the road, my feet were cut and scraped, and I could barely see out of my left eye. Gingerly, I touched my nose. Blinding pain almost made me drop to my knees. It hurt to breathe. Hurt to move. But still I kept going.

  The trees parted and I stepped out onto the shoulder of the road. I was right on the edge of town; Gibson’s place wasn’t far. I’d never been there, but I knew where he lived.

  I limped along the road, the pain in my face making my eyes water and my stomach churn. It was getting worse by the second. I had to get off the street before my parents started looking for me. Just a little bit farther. One f
oot in front of the other. I could make it.

  The sound of a car behind me sent my heart into overdrive. Oh god, please don’t be them. Please. It slowed, pulling over to the side behind me.

  “No,” I whimpered. I wanted to run, but my feet were scraped raw. My knees buckled and I crumpled to the ground.

  “Hey there, are you all right?”

  I took a shuddering breath. That wasn’t my father’s voice.

  Shaking with shock and pain, I glanced over my shoulder. A man stood just outside his truck, looking at me from around the open driver’s side door.

  I knew him. Jonah Bodine. Gibson’s father.

  A second later, he was there, kneeling beside me. “Oh my god. What happened to you? Did you get hit by a car?”

  I looked up at him with my one working eye. My sliced lip made it hard to speak, my voice coming out in a croak. “Gibson.”

  “What?”

  “Need to get to Gibson. Help.”

  “Did he… he didn’t do this to you, did he?”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re Callie Kendall,” he breathed. “The judge’s daughter.”

  I nodded.

  “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding. My god, your arm.”

  My face had to look a mess, but blood was flowing freely from my arm. Jonah yanked his shirt off and quickly tied it on, gently pressing the fabric to soak up the blood.

  “Do you want to go home, or the hospital?”

  I shook my head, crying out at the pain it caused. “No.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  I looked down. I couldn’t tell. They were too dangerous. They’d kill me.

  “All right, you don’t have to say. Not now.”

  “Please.” I reached out and grabbed his arm, pleading for all I was worth. “No hospital. No police. Please, take me to Gibson. I need his help.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, a deep groove between his eyes. I could smell the faint hint of beer on his breath, but he didn’t seem drunk. His eyes were crystal clear.

  “Are you and Gibson…” He trailed off, but I knew what he meant.

  “No. Friends.”

  Finally, as if coming to a decision, he shook his head. “No. If you go to Gibs, there’s no telling what he’ll do. Look, I’ll help you, okay? But don’t get him mixed up in this. You’re trying to get away, is that it?”