It doesn’t work. I dribble past him, missing the crack in the concrete, which would have sent the ball off course, and do a perfect layup.
The ball shoots through the large hole in the side of the net. Chase catches it and dribbles to the three-point line. I steal it from him.
“No. Not even close,” I say. “She wasn’t going to bend even before the ass wipe showed up.” I bounce, bounce, bounce the ball, then push past him.
Chase blocks me, forcing me out of the zone. “What are you gonna do now?”
“I don’t know. Earn it somehow.”
He smirks. “Maybe instead of dumping Tammara, you could sell her to the highest bidder.”
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“You have a point. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be the guy who ends up with her. She’s likely to claw his eyes out.”
Seeing that I’m not going to get easily past him, I go for the jump shot. The ball arcs gracefully in the air and swooshes through the net. Chase groans.
“What about your father?” I ask as he jogs after the ball. “Can he give me more hours?”
He swoops down and scoops up the rolling ball. “I doubt it. As it is, he should be cutting back our hours. Business is slow these days.” No thanks to the gang activity in the neighborhood. While the gang has left Tony alone, which still surprises me, it’s driven a lot of his old clients away. They now go to the mechanic favored by the turf gang, if they know what’s good for them. Which means I could be facing fewer hours soon, instead of more.
“Maybe you could try tutoring,” Chase suggests, bouncing the ball. “You’re good at math. And you’re a great basketball coach.” He aims the ball and sends it soaring toward the hoop. It bounces off the backboard and ricochets past the rim.
I laugh and snatch the ball from the air as it flies overhead. “Apparently not.”
Chase wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Just think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. I’m not a teacher and I don’t wanna be one.” I dribble the ball, hinting that I want to play, not talk.
“Not if it meant tutoring some hot babe and getting to screw her?”
I smirk. “I hope you don’t kiss your aunt with that mouth.” That doesn’t sound like Chase talking. That sounds like me. Chase is more the relationship type than the defender of one-night stands.
“Speaking of my aunt, she’s been asking ’bout you.”
“How so?”
“She’s worried about you.” He gives me the look that says he worries about me, too.
“Tell her I’m fine.” Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
He shrugs. “She wonders when you’re gonna settle down with a nice girl.”
Okay, that does sound like his aunt. She’s asked me the same question several times in the past few years. Apparently she reads way too many romances for her own good.
I stop bouncing the ball. “You can tell her I’m good.” The last thing I need is to get caught up in some sort of relationship crap.
A Lincoln pulls into the parking lot. The steady bass beat vibrates through the car. The doors open and rap music spills into the cool air. Four Hispanic guys step out and my entire body tenses, each muscle on high alert. “What the hell do they want?”
“I guess it’s too much to hope that they’re just looking for the bathroom,” Chase says, body as still as mine. We’ve both had more run-ins with these guys in the past few years than we would like.
Carlos leads the way, his moves smooth and lethal like a panther. A bald-headed panther. Following close behind are his cronies. None I recognize. They must be new recruits.
Carlos stops in front of us and smiles, but there’s nothing friendly about it. “’Sup?”
“What are you doing here?” My voice is somehow steady, considering he’s packing heat and we aren’t.
“I’m looking for Alejandro.”
I clench my hands, the movement not missed by the other shitheads. One, with tattoos covering his arms, steps closer. I can tell he’s itching to take a slice out of me.
“Leave him alone,” I snap at Carlos. “He’s just a kid.” I make a move toward him, my blood boiling fierce.
Chase grabs my arm. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Carlos laughs. “Listen to pretty boy. You don’t wanna mess with us. Not if you value your life.”
And with that he walks away, his goons close behind.
“Fuck.” I start pacing. “What the fuck am I going to do? It’ll destroy his family if Alejandro gets sucked into that life.”
Chase shakes his head. “You can’t help everyone, Marcus.”
I stop abruptly. “Everyone? I haven’t been able to save anyone who matters to me. Not one.”
Chapter Seven
Amber
“Would you fucking wake up!”
Something soft covers my mouth and nose. Oh God, I can’t breathe. Paul’s finally going to do it. He’s going to kill me.
Screaming, I flail my hands in the air. All I find is emptiness. Whatever is covering my face is yanked away, revealing the overhead bedroom light, and a scowling Brittany with a pillow in her hand. Oh.
My arms dart under the covers. “Sorry,” I whisper before checking my alarm clock. It’s only 2:00 a.m., which means if I go back to sleep, I can look forward to an encore of nightmares.
Brittany looks away, and gives me the precious seconds I need to grab Trent’s old hoodie off the bed and snuggle into it. The dark gray fleece is soft against the secrets I hide beneath it. When she turns back to me, her face gives no indication that she saw either the tattoo or the scars. She does, though, go back to glaring at me as if that’s enough to make me go away.
Outside, the rain pounds on the windows.
“My tire’s flat,” I say on the phone. A flash of light fills the night sky followed by the loud rumble of thunder.
“Don’t worry. I’m on my way.”
I blink and I’m back in the room. I grab my sweatpants and wiggle into them while still under my covers.
“I’m not a lesbian, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Brittany snaps.
Huh? “Yeah. Okay.” Not that this changes anything. If she wants to freak because she thinks I believe she’s something she’s not, that’s fine. Anything’s better than the truth.
I climb out of bed and pick up my biology text. “I’m going to the common room.”
She mutters something about maybe I can move there permanently. I don’t stick around long enough to ask.
I limp down the hallway, the overhead light guiding the way. No one’s in the common room. Part of me is relieved I don’t have to socialize with anyone.
The other part wishes there was someone here to talk to. I miss being that girl. The girl who had lots of friends. The girl who didn’t have secrets. The girl everyone cheered for when she was on the basketball court. The girl who never gave the wrong guy the wrong idea and now has to pay a horrendous price for it.
I make myself comfy on the tacky orange couch, and pull the old afghan on it around my shoulders. Anything to keep the storm from getting inside me. To keep it from making me feel worse than I already do.
The wind whistles outside the window. I pull my feet onto the couch and wrap my arms tightly around my knees.
“Do you need help?”
My body shakes. I don’t want to remember. Please don’t let me remember. I can’t be normal if I do, and I so want to be normal again.
I open the textbook and read ahead. Why didn’t I grab my iPod before I left my room? Loud rock music usually helps. As long as I can’t hear the storm, I’m fine.
I turn on the TV and find a cooking show. That’s always a safe bet. I return to my textbook.
Several hours later, I’m still awake, but I’m not sure how much longer I can last. My eyelids feel like stones have been attached to them and gravity is weighing them down. I yawn, stretch out on the couch, and pray the nightmares stay away this time.
When I wake up, again, the sunlight is streaming into the room and two guys are watching the news from the other couch. I sit up, and the afghan slides off my shoulders and pools around me.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens.” The guy returns his attention to the news. The second guy glances over at me, as if he hadn’t noticed me before, and also goes back to watching TV.
A familiar voice on the news steals my attention.
“The real victim in the crime is my client,” Mom says, and a mix of pride, pain and longing ping-pongs through my body at the sound of her voice. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was framed by the police and the woman.” The TV flashes to a picture of her “innocent” client, who was charged with drug possession and physical assault.
Not wanting to hear any more, I pick up my textbook and leave. God, does she seriously believe he’s innocent? That he’s the victim?
I want to call her and scream into the phone that she’s wrong, and ask her how she can defend guys like that after what happened to me. But good girls never scream. Paul taught me that.
My body aches at what else he taught me.
Brittany’s not in our room. I grab my clothes and toiletries, and head to the bathroom. Luckily, there’s no line to use the showers. I turn on the water as hot as it will go, which isn’t as hot as I would like. How can Mom defend jerks like that? I know the whole spiel about how everyone deserves a fair trial, but where’s the fairness in what he did? The woman didn’t ask for that to happen to her. Why should she be made to feel like the criminal?
I bounce my fingers against my thigh before catching myself. Unlike usual, it does nothing to drive away the agitation. There’s only one thing that can do that, and I don’t play it anymore.
Brittany still isn’t in our room when I return. My side is slightly messy with my bed unmade and books scattered on my desk. Her side is beyond neat, with everything lined up and her bed made with hospital corners. Mom would love Brittany.
I squish the temptation to sit on her bed to see if Brittany notices. She hates me as it is. Violating her personal space would push her over the edge. And the old Amber would never do anything as risky as that.
But the old Amber never said no, and look where that got me.
Someone knocks at the door. “Amber, it’s me,” Jordan says. “You ready?”
I open the door and wave her in. “I just need to wrap my ankle first.”
“How’s it doing?”
“Better. At least I can walk without crutches. That’s saying something.” In the grand range of ankle sprains, this one’s minor.
As I wrap my ankle with the elastic bandage that Jordan bought for me yesterday, even though I don’t really need it, my cell phone plays a few bars of classical music. For a fleeting second I consider letting Mom’s call go to voice mail.
With a sigh, I turn away from Jordan and answer the phone. “Hi, Mom.”
“Amber. I’m glad I reached you.” Her tone isn’t warm and motherly. It’s professional, as if I’m a client instead of her daughter. “How are you doing?”
Not too great. I’m having nightmares and flashbacks. You know, the usual. “Good.”
“And your classes are going well?”
“Yes.” No.
“That’s good.”
“Is there anything you need?”
Yes. For you to tell me you love me. “No. I’m good, thanks.”
“All right. I’ll let you get to class now. And Amber”—I love you and miss you and don’t blame you for what happened even if you do, I want her to say—“I’ll be busy with a new case. So if you need anything, let my assistant know. Okay?”
“Okay.” The word cracks but I doubt she notices. She hangs up before I can. I turn back to Jordan, a smile pasted on my face. “Ready to go?”
“Is everything okay?”
I try to turn my smile into a real grin to reassure her, though I have a feeling it resembles a grimace. “Everything’s fine. My mom was busy but she just wanted to make sure I didn’t need anything.” And really I can’t complain. Those are the most words she has said to me in a while.
Biting her lip, Jordan studies my face. She opens her mouth to say something.
I don’t give her the chance. “We should go. I wanna get a coffee on the way.”
Jordan frowns. “Since when do you drink coffee?”
“Since I decided it’s part of the college experience, and since I decided I need caffeine to keep awake.” Lots of caffeine.
“You had another nightmare last night, didn’t you?”
Knowing there’s no point lying, I nod. She waits for me to elaborate. I don’t want to tell her everything, but I don’t want to lose her as a friend, either, because she thinks I can’t be honest and open with her.
I take a deep breath. “I was trapped in a burning building last spring. That’s why I have nightmares.”
“Were you hurt?”
“I was treated for smoke inhalation and that’s it....I just don’t like talking about it. That’s why I haven’t mentioned it before.”
Her frown shifts into an understanding smile. “Well, I’m here if you ever need to talk about it.”
We walk to The Coffee Shack. It’s still raining, but not as hard as last night. The sun eagerly breaks through the clouds, creating a rainbow ahead of us. The agitation from earlier fades like an early morning fog in the sun.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy who helped you yesterday?” Jordan asks while we wait for our coffees. She nods toward the door.
Standing next to the wall are the guys I first saw at Your Designs. And we aren’t the only ones who’ve noticed them. Most of the twenty-something females are checking them out.
“Maybe you should go over and say hi.” Jordan gives me a nudge in their direction.
I look back at her, frowning. “Why would I do that?”
She grins. “Oh, I don’t know. Because maybe he’ll ask you out.”
Forget medicine. She should go into the matchmaking business.
I’m saved from having to respond when they call our order. By the time we turn around again, the guys have left. Problem solved.
The day creeps by, and the caffeine perks have long since faded by the time I walk in the rain to math. I consider buying another coffee, but there’s not enough time. After being late for my last math class, I don’t want to be late again and interrupt. The fewer people who notice me, the better.
Because I’m not going the long route this time, I arrive with several minutes to spare and sit at the back of the room.
“I have your test marks,” the instructor announces when the class begins, his tone menacing. Or maybe it’s just me who feels that way because I’ve been dreading this moment. “Some of you will need to put in a lot more effort if you hope to pass the course.” He calls out names and one by one everyone goes to the front and collects their test. “Amber Scott.”
I want to tell him not to say my name out loud, where everyone can hear it. I’d rather be anonymous and not have to worry about anyone recognizing it or thinking it’s a great idea to memorize it, fantasize about it, cover a wall with it.
I want to say that but the words stay stuck in my throat as I make my way to the front, legs trembling. I take the test booklet and breathe in deeply before daring a glance at the grade.
The page is covered with red and a big fat F stares back at me.
I dig my fingernails into my palm to keep from crying, then shuffle back to my seat. Shit. I’m screwed. Unless I can figure this stuff ou
t, there’s no way I’ll pass the class.
Chapter Eight
Amber
A week after receiving my disastrous math grade, I sit cross-legged on my bed, math book and notes in front of me, and close my eyes. I can almost imagine Trent next to me, his familiar scent of lemons and sunshine lingering in his hoodie. He forgot it the night he rushed out of my house, angry at what I had said. Words I’ve wished a million times I could take back. Then he would still be with me. Things never would have changed.
Neither Emma nor his parents realized the hoodie was missing. That, or they never bothered to ask for it back. It’s all I have left of him, other than his old basketball T-shirt and the photos of us together.
Abandoning math for a moment, I remove a small scrapbook from my desk drawer. I sit back on the bed and leaf through the pages. They’re pictures of happier times, before any of this happened. When the worst thing I had to worry about was if Trent would be healthy in time for the homecoming dance, because he had the stomach flu.
I brush my fingers over the picture of us camping with our friends, the summer before I started volunteering at the animal shelter.
“I talked to a woman at the shelter today,” I said, the campfire crackling and popping in front of us, Trent’s arm around me, keeping me close. I’d known Trent forever, and we had been best friends for just as long. Even though we had officially been boyfriend and girlfriend for over a year, some days I still couldn’t believe it was real. Him and me.
“What did she say?” he asked.
“That she would love to have me help out.”
He hugged me tighter and kissed me. “I’m so proud of you.”
“How much is she paying you?” Emma asked.
“She isn’t. It’s a volunteer position. But the money isn’t important. It’ll look good on my college application.” I sounded like Mom, but she has a point. Plus it would look good for when I applied to veterinarian school. A means to the end, as Mom always said, even though she’d prefer I followed her path and study pre-law, like Michael.
“How many hours a week is it for?” Emma asked.
“Until basketball season starts, I’ll be working there an hour or two every day after school.” With my high grades, I could handle it. More than handle it. I’d be around animals. That’s all I’d ever wanted, but Mom didn’t like pets. They were messy and expensive, in her opinion. The closest thing I came to having a pet was Dragonfly, Trent and Emma’s cat.
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