Two Feet Under: The Mortician's Daughter, Book 2

by C. C. Hunter

  Not that it didn’t work out. Back then, I lucked out and was adopted into perfection. I had a mom, a dad, got a cat I named Felix, and eventually we got a dog named Buttercup. We lived in a three-bedroom white brick house filled with lots of laughter. And love. I had friends I grew up with. A boyfriend I’d given my virginity to.

  I had a life. I was happy. I smiled real smiles in photos.

  Then came Dad working late.

  Mom and Dad fighting.

  Dad’s affair.

  Mom’s depression.

  The divorce.

  The cancer.

  And then the move from El Paso to Joyful, Texas. Which, by the way, isn’t joyful.

  And here I am. Plucked again. So plucked.

  But this time, I’m not feeling so lucky.

  Chapter Two

  Telling myself this first day of school won’t suck as bad as I think, I run my fingers through my thick dark hair that I spent half an hour straightening. After giving myself one last check in my dresser mirror, I text Lindsey and dart out.

  Mom, swallowed in a too-big pink nubby robe, is sitting at the breakfast table and looks up. “I liked the red blouse.”

  “Yeah. But I like this one for today.” I give her a hug. I looked good in the red, but it felt too showy, like, Look at me, I’m the new kid. So I went for beige instead.

  “Wish me luck,” she says.

  “Why? What are you doing? You going to start writing again?”

  “No. I’m job hunting.”

  My first thought is that she should wait until her hair grows out. “Do you feel like working?”

  “Yeah. I’m tired of doing nothing.”

  “Then good luck.” I snatch my backpack, give Felix and Buttercup a quick rub, and leave, trying not to think about Dad asking if Mom is working. Trying not to think that I never got an apology from him.

  Lindsey, wearing black jeans, a black blouse, black nail polish, and red lipstick, is waiting beside the driveway. Her hair, sandy blond with highlights, hangs down past her shoulders. She looks like she walked off a magazine cover.

  “Aren’t you stylin’?” I say.

  She grins. “My plan is to make Jonathon sorry.”

  I heard all about Jonathon. Mostly referred to as “the no-good cheating dog.” I saw him once or twice when we first moved here. It wasn’t until they broke up that Lindsey and I started talking. I only recently told her about Alex, but we haven’t come up with the perfect nickname for him yet.

  If Mom hadn’t dragged me across Texas, Alex and I’d still be together. I’m not sure I would’ve called it love, but I think I was bumping shoulders with it. When I left, we agreed we were going to do the whole long-distance-relationship thing.

  That lasted four weeks.

  “How was your visit with your dad and his live-in toy?” she asks as we walk to my car.

  “Hell,” I say, then change the subject. “You have a new guy picked out?” We get into my white Chevy Cruze.

  “Yeah, David Drake. He asked me out last year right after I started dating Jonathon. He’s funny, cute, and sweet.”

  On the ride, Lindsey talks about her class schedule and how she has three classes with Jamie. Jamie is her best friend, and was away over the summer. I worry now that since her BFF is back, Lindsey will drop me in a hot minute.

  “I hope we have classes together,” Lindsey says.

  Most everyone had their class schedule emailed to them. I’ll get mine after I visit the counselor. But since Lindsey isn’t in honors classes, I doubt we’ll have any together.

  I pull into the school parking lot and hang the permit on the mirror. Mom guilted Dad into paying for the parking pass. My stomach starts cramping at the sight of strangers.

  I look at Lindsey.

  She’s staring at me oddly. “Damn! You’re nervous.”

  “A little, why?”

  She makes a funny face. “I don’t know. I thought you were fearless.”

  “Me? When?”

  “Your mom has cancer. You had to move in twelfth grade, and you’re, like, fine with it. I’d be a hot mess.”

  I tell her the truth. “I am. I just fake it.” We jump out and grab our backpacks.

  Only a few feet from my car, I feel people staring at me and waving to Lindsey. I lift my chin and pretend I don’t care. Lindsey starts talking about where we’ll meet up after school and tells me to text her when I know my schedule.

  We’re almost out of the parking lot when shouting erupts. We stop.

  There’s a big guy with light brown hair laughing at a younger sophomore-looking guy. The bully is holding a backpack up and making some wisecracks to the kid about being short.

  The boy’s face is red, like he’s embarrassed and mad.

  My heart goes out to the sophomore, who looks about as comfortable to be here as I am. I consider stepping in when someone else does. Someone with jet-black hair and shoulders a mile wide. I think he’s a teacher; then—crap!—I recognize him. It’s the weird psycho guy I rubbed my boobs on at the convenience store.

  “Stop being an ass!” The psycho guy yanks the backpack from the jerk and tosses it to the younger boy. The kid catches the bag and runs for it.

  “Look at him run,” the jerk says, laughing. But damn—I hate bullies.

  The weird guy mouths out something I can’t hear. I take a step closer. Lindsey moves with me.

  The jerk blows up. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Lindsey leans in. “This is going to get interesting.”

  I don’t look at her. My eyes are locked on the scene.

  “Paul’s the guy who took the kid’s backpack,” Lindsey continues. “He’s a football player. The other guy is Cash. Cash came here only halfway through the last school year. He used to attend Westwood Academy, a private school where all the rich kids go. But rumor has it, he grew up in foster care and is a real badass.”

  “Paul is the one acting like an asshole.” I try to mesh the guy who’s standing up for the underdog with the lunatic I met yesterday.

  “Yeah. Paul’s a bit of a bully,” she admits.

  Paul edges closer to Cash. In spite of yesterday’s encounter, I’m rooting for Cash. I guess I dislike bullies more than I do psychos.

  Cash doesn’t move, but his shoulders widen. Paul doesn’t appear scared, but he should be. Cash is a good two inches taller than Paul. But it’s not his height that makes him so intimidating. It’s his body language. He does look like a badass. Even more of a badass now than he did yesterday.

  “I asked you a question!” Paul yells. “Who do you think you are, Foster Boy?”

  Cash’s shoulders snap back. “I’m the one who doesn’t have to pick on someone smaller than myself to feel important.”

  Paul moves in, puts his face in Cash’s.

  Cash speaks up. “Walk away while you can.” His tone is dead serious.

  “You walk away!” Paul says.

  I think for sure Cash is about to draw his fist back. He surprises me when he says, “You’re not worth the trouble.” He turns to leave.

  I don’t know if I’m disappointed he didn’t teach Paul a lesson, or impressed Cash took the high road.

  He gets a few steps away when Paul lunges forward and shoves Cash’s shoulder. “Coward,” Paul accuses.

  Cash swings around. “You’re the coward for waiting until I turned my back.”

  “Well, I’m facing you now.” Paul takes a swing.

  Cash swoops to the left. Paul’s fist hits air.

  Everyone laughs. That fuels Paul on. He raises his fists to his face and starts dancing from foot to foot, like he’s some professional boxer.

  Cash brings his fists up to his chin. Everyone starts shouting. “Beat his ass! Teach him a lesson!”

  Somehow, I know they aren’t cheering for Cash. I’m not going to like this school.

  I’m thinking we should leave, but like Lindsey, I’m glued to the scene. The two guys move in a circle. Paul swings again
; Cash ducks. Paul growls.

  I wait for Cash to make some smart-ass comment, but he doesn’t. I get the feeling he doesn’t want to fight.

  Suddenly they’re positioned so that Cash is facing me. Those liquid green eyes lift and meet my brown ones. He freezes.

  That’s when Paul takes another swing. His fist slams into Cash’s eye. He almost falls, but looking furious, he punches Paul—once in the gut, once on the nose. Paul falls down, gasping, and holds a hand over his nose. Blood oozes between his fingers.

  “Stop!” someone yells. A man runs toward the group. This one really is a teacher. People start scattering.

  “Let’s go.” Lindsey pulls me away. Right before I turn, Cash’s gaze finds me again. His left eye is already swelling. I turn and follow Lindsey.

  “That was weird as shit.” Lindsey hurries toward the front of the school.

  “The fight?” I ask.

  “No. Him staring at you. Do you know him?”

  “No,” I say, and don’t explain any further.

  “Well, something about you stopped him in his tracks.”

  “I probably look like someone he knows.” I recall telling him that at the store.

  “Or he’s got the hots for you. Every girl in school has tried to get his attention and failed. You get here, and he gets punched while he’s checking you out.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t staring at me,” I say even though I don’t believe it.

  “Right.” Lindsey rolls her eyes.

  I glance at the school looming before me, and I want nothing more than to turn around and go home.

  I’m waiting in the office to get my schedule from the counselor, Ms. Anderson, when I hear an angry voice behind me. “You broke his nose.”

  I’m almost certain it’s the teacher who stopped the fight. I stare straight ahead. They walk past me. The teacher pushes through the swinging gate that leads to the back. Cash follows.

  He’s almost through the door when he turns around. His eyes, or I should say eye—one of them is swollen shut—finds me. Accusation shows in his expression. You’d think I was the one who hit him. I hear the teacher say something, and Cash turns around and follows him.

  Weirded out, I see the desk clerk wave me forward. She pushes open the half door, and I follow her into the back, down a hall. We turn a corner and I see the teacher who broke up the fight. Looking pissed, he’s talking to a dark-headed woman.

  The desk clerk clears her throat.

  The teacher and the woman look up.

  “Chloe Holden.” The desk clerk motions to me.

  “Have her wait in my office.” The woman grimaces. “I’ll be right there.”

  The clerk ushers me in, and I take the chair closest to the door as she walks back out. I can faintly hear the conversation between the teacher and counselor. I lean back.

  “No,” the counselor says. “I’m saying look into it before making assumptions.”

  “I did,” the man answered. “Paul Cane told me what happened, and three kids corroborated his story.”

  “Three of Paul’s friends, no doubt,” Ms. Anderson says. “Let me take care of this new student, and then I’ll talk to him.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” the teacher says.

  “Well, it’s my time to waste.” Her tone snaps.

  Footsteps head my way. I sit up straighter and pretend I wasn’t listening.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” She offers me her hand, but a frown still wrinkles her brow. “I’m Ms. Anderson.”

  I shake her hand. It feels awkward, but I already like her for standing her ground with the teacher. “I’m Chloe Holden.”

  She sits down behind her desk, then pulls a file from a stack of papers. “I got your school records from Lionsgate High. I saw your Preliminary SAT scores. Your grades are impressive. Your hard work will pay off.”

  I hear that a lot. I’m smart. But it’s not really work. School stuff comes easy for me. In fact, in my old school, I usually missed one or two of the test questions so my friends wouldn’t hate me. Being too smart isn’t cool.

  “You’re planning to go to college, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “My parents both went to University of Houston, and I’m going there.”

  “With those grades, you could go just about anywhere. Have you applied for grants?”

  I nod. At least Dad’s getting a break on my college tuition.

  “Well, I put you in all honors classes. Hopefully you won’t get bored.”

  I give her another nod, my thoughts on what I heard her saying to the teacher in the hall.

  “Your mom mentioned that she’s going through chemo. And there’s been a recent divorce.”

  Why would Mom tell her that? I sit frozen.

  “If you ever need to talk about anything, I’m here.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m okay. Mom’s okay. She’s cancer-free now.”

  “Good.” She looks at her computer. “I’m printing out your schedule and getting someone to shadow you for a few days until you learn where everything is.”

  I want to decline the escort, but don’t want to risk losing my way around the school and making myself even more conspicuous.

  She makes a quick call, then hands me my schedule from her printer. “Sandra will meet you in the main office.”

  I nod again, grab my backpack, and take two steps toward the door, then turn around. “Uh. About what happened in the parking lot.”

  “What?”

  “The fight,” I say.

  “You saw it?” She leans forward. I get the feeling she likes Cash, or perhaps she knows Paul’s a bully.

  “Yes, the guy with lighter hair, I think someone called him Paul, he was picking on someone younger. Had his backpack and was holding it up. The other guy, Cash, got the backpack for the kid. Paul started the fight. Cash even tried to walk away from it.”

  Her eyes widen with a smile. “Do you know either of them?”

  “No, ma’am. I just saw it. And . . . someone told me their names.”

  “Thank you.” She sounds relieved.

  I step out and jerk to a stop, almost giving Cash another chest bump. Our gazes meet. Or my gaze and his half gaze. His eye is swollen shut now. But I swear that one eye is accusing me of something.

  The words Sorry I defended you rest on my tongue. I don’t say them.

  I dart past him.

  I feel him watching me. Like I felt him yesterday. Chills spider up my spine.

  What is it with this guy?

  Chapter Three

  Thirty minutes later, Cash Colton climbed into his Jeep. Why did she defend me? Then it clicked and he knew: Because I was right.

  Bumping into him had been the perfect setup. Always get them to notice you. Don’t approach them. Makes them suspicious.

  It was all a setup.

  Well, not all of it. The fight couldn’t have been. No one could’ve known he’d come to the boy’s defense. Cash wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. Except . . . that kid used to be him.

  Defending him, though, had to be part of her game. Get them to trust you. Make them believe you are their friend.

  Good luck with that. Cash didn’t trust anyone. Not even someone with nice breasts.

  You couldn’t con a con man—not when he knew every con in the book. He’d been trained by the best: his deadbeat—now really dead—father.

  He drove like hell out of the school parking lot. After clearing him of wrongdoing, Ms. Anderson had called his foster mom, Mrs. Fuller. Being a doctor and the type of person she was, she insisted on seeing him herself before deciding if he needed medical attention. He was supposed to wait for her to come check on him before going back to his classes.

  A block away from the school, he called her.

  She answered, “On my way. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t come. I’m heading home now to get a few aspirins.”

  “Cash, Ms. Anderson wanted you to stay at school. You sh
ouldn’t—”

  “Oh? I didn’t know.” Actually, he’d been listening to their whole conversation through the door and sneaked out before anyone could stop him. “I thought since she was talking to you, I was clear to leave.”

  “No, hon, you shouldn’t be driving. You could have a concussion. How far are you from home?”

  “Practically there,” he lied again, and felt a pinch in his gut.

  “You aren’t dizzy, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, go ahead and get home. I’ll call Ms. Anderson to let her know. I’ll be at the house in twenty minutes.”

  “Please, don’t come. I’m fine.” He looked at the dashboard for the time. Eight forty.

  “That’s what you said two years ago, when your appendix burst,” she said.

  “And I’m still here. So I was fine, wasn’t I?”

  “After eight days in the hospital.” She sighed. He heard a lot of that from her. Letting her down was the last thing he wanted. And as hard as he tried not to, he always did. His past followed him everywhere.

  The Fullers had gotten screwed when they picked him.

  Not that they’d have to suffer much longer. In two months, he’d age out of foster care. He didn’t plan on bailing until after he finished high school . . .

  “Pull over and call me if you get dizzy.”

  “Got it.” He hung up. Watching the time again, he passed the gated entrance into Stallion Subdivision, where the Fullers lived—where he occupied one of their bedrooms—and headed straight into Walmart. His eye throbbed.

  He parked the Jeep, went inside the store, and headed to the bulletin board.

  Every time he came here, he looked at it. The first time he came across it, part of him had wanted to rip it down, thinking it would hurt the Fullers to see it. Later, he realized they’d been the ones to post it.

  And there she was. Staring back at him.

  Same eye shape. Same jaw. Same lips.

  “Shit!”

  That didn’t mean it was her. Age-progression photos could be off. Photos sometimes lied. He knew that personally. But damn if this girl didn’t look more like her in person than the photo the piece of shit gave Mrs. Fuller a year ago. And after Mrs. Fuller handed over three thousand dollars to the asswipe to find said girl, he conveniently disappeared. And he took a part of his foster mom’s heart, too. She was just now getting back to normal.