The Edge Rules (The Rules Series Book 3)

by Melanie Hooyenga

  I text Drea. Does he ever not show?

  Not since I’ve been coming.

  I catch her eye over the back of my seat. She gives me a little frown, but that’ll have to be enough for now.

  “Looks like it’s you and me,” Sarah says from across the aisle. She doesn’t sound exactly thrilled, but I smile anyways.

  “I’m a little gimpy today so I hope you’re okay going slow.”

  “Aww, baby, you can come with us,” one of the Jocks says.

  “Nah, I’m good,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

  Sarah gives me a look like she wants to say more, then nods.

  That settled, I lean back in the seat and stare out the window, doing my best to avoid the Jocks.

  Bruno parks us along yet another stretch of highway. Who knew Colorado’s highways had so much litter? Or maybe they always seem clean because of criminals like us. We grab our green pinnies and step into the brisk November air. Most of the snow from Friday has melted, but drifts cover the ground beneath the trees where the sun doesn’t reach.

  “How cold does it have to get before they let us do something inside?” I ask Sarah as she blows on her hands. She’s wearing fingerless gloves that look like they’ve seen better days, but they’re more practical than the wool mittens I grabbed before leaving home.

  “Don’t let Bruno hear you complaining,” she says.

  I grab my stick and garbage bag and watch Bruno from the corner of my eye. I wait until we wander away before speaking. “He seems like a giant teddy bear.”

  “He is, but he also doesn’t tolerate any bullshit. Including bitching about where he takes us.”

  “Wait, he decides where we go?” I figured he was just our babysitter.

  “Nah, the courts or the city or someone decides that. But he takes it real personal.” She points a finger at me. “So watch what you say around him.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  She’s not as chatty as Drea, but I’m not in a talkative mood. Disappointment at not seeing Xavier hits me hard. It’s not like we would’ve automatically been paired up just because we spent a day together, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t deny the connection between us.

  We eventually meander toward Heidi and Drea, and spend the last half hour tackling a couple of garbage bags that must have burst when someone threw them from a moving car.

  “Who does this?” Drea asks. “I mean, seriously. What is wrong with people?”

  “You need to ask?” Sarah says.

  Drea pulls rubber gloves over her cotton ones and bends to pick up the trash by hand.

  “Ew, seriously?” I pretend to vomit, but stop when the back of her shirt lifts, revealing dark bruises across her lower back. “Woah, Drea. What happened?”

  She turns her head to see what I’m looking at, and quickly stands. “Oh, nothing. An overly aggressive volleyball game in PE.”

  Sarah bites the side of her lip. “No class is worth doing that to your body.”

  Drea shrugs and Heidi hands her a pokey stick. “It looks worse than it feels. I forgot it was even there.” She tugs her jacket down so it’s covering her backside, and something about the way she avoids my gaze makes me think she’s hiding something. “Come on, help me with this.”

  We use our sticks to pick up the rest of the trash and Drea doesn’t say anything else about the bruises. I’m no volleyball expert, but I don’t know how you could get a bruise like that in PE. It’s a straight line across her back, like she hit the edge of something.

  Or someone pushed her.

  When we get on the bus, I’m surprised when Drea sits next to me.

  “What about Heidi?”

  “She’s cool. Plus she barely talks. She said she could use the quiet time.”

  “Quiet on this bus?”

  Drea laughs, and I almost forget what I saw.

  I lean close and whisper, “Seriously, are you okay? That bruise looks nasty.”

  Her gaze wavers for a millisecond and if I wasn’t so good at reading people, I would have missed it. “Really, it’s not a big deal. But I appreciate your concern.”

  The bus shifts as Bruno climbs on. The engine rumbles to life and he calls back to us. “Let’s hear it!”

  “An unopened package of socks,” Drea calls.

  “Did you set those aside?” he asks.

  “Of course.”

  “A nerf gun with bullets!” Jock number two yells, fist pumped in the air. “Maybe I’ll actually win since Xavier isn’t here.”

  I turn at his name, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

  Toby leans across the aisle toward us. Drea presses into my shoulder to get away from him but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Miss your loverboy, ladies?”

  “Excuse me?” Drea snaps. “How many times do I have to tell you morons I have a boyfriend?”

  He rolls his eyes, then narrows his gaze at me. “She doesn’t.”

  I try to shrink away but we’re trapped in the seat.

  “I see the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.” Heat flames my cheeks, but he’s not done. “I told you the first day, you’re one of us. Messing with a loser like him will either get you killed or in jail.”

  I’m so startled by his comment that the scathing words I was ready to hurl dissolve on my tongue. “What are you babbling about?” Were my instincts right? Is he actually dangerous? I never felt in danger when we were boarding, but I’m proof that people can have more than one version of themselves.

  Toby leans closer and Bruno shouts, “In your seat, Toby!”

  Toby retreats, but his gaze never leaves mine. “Didn’t he tell you why he’s here?”

  “Yes, he did.” Never mind that he didn’t elaborate.

  “If he told you the whole story, you wouldn’t be defending him.”

  “Am I defending him?”

  He laughs, but it comes out a sneer. “Maybe not with your words, but your body language says you don’t want to hear the truth.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and level my nastiest glare at him. “I don’t know who you think you are or what you think you know about me, but—”

  “Just ask him about the Nortenos.”

  Drea’s head whips from Toby to me, her eyes wide, and my jaw drops. The Nortenos are a gang in Boulder, notorious for everything from drugs to robbery and I don’t want to know what else.

  “So he didn’t tell you.”

  I snap my mouth closed and try to pierce him with my glare. “You worry about yourself and erase me from your head. Don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me. I don’t exist to you.”

  People usually run away when I unleash my full rage, but Toby just laughs, making me even more angry. Drea rests a hand on my arm. “Ignore him. All he wants is to piss you off.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” I whisper.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I hadn’t heard that before but at this point, nothing surprises me.” She looks at me. “What kind of vibe did you get from him when you were snowboarding?”

  I immediately blush, and she laughs.

  “Oh, lord.”

  “Let’s just say I didn’t get a gang vibe.”

  Her eyes widen. “Did you kiss?”

  I shake my head. “But there were several times I thought we might.”

  She wiggles in her seat. “Man, I can’t imagine kissing someone that hot.”

  I elbow her. “What about your boyfriend? From what you’ve said, he sounds amazing.” She hasn’t actually said anything to make me think that, but it’s the type of thing girls like to hear.

  But I don’t get the giggle I expect. “Oh, Colton’s cute. He’s just not dark and mysterious.”

  Or questionably dangerous. “At least you know where you stand, right?”

  She presses her lips together. “Depends on the day.”

  I cock my head. “Are things not okay?” If someone says they have a boyfriend or girlfriend, I usually assume things are good unless the
y say otherwise. Drea’s never said anything to make me wonder, but now I’m wondering.

  “No, they are.” She shifts in her seat and I remember the bruise on her back. “He’s just… I don’t know, moody sometimes. Makes it hard to know which version of him I’m gonna get, you know?” The pleading in her eyes for me to please say, “Yes, I totally know what you mean,” is so desperate I can feel it in my gut.

  “Yeah, totally,” I lie. My relationship with Austin was never perfect, but that was usually because I kept changing what I wanted. He was always reliable.

  My words must be enough because she relaxes against the seat. “Have you asked him why he got arrested?” The change of topic makes me even more curious what she’s not saying about her boyfriend, but I don’t press her.

  “He just said it was for fighting.”

  “Which could be gang related.”

  “Or not.”

  When we arrive at the parking lot, we say our goodbyes and she makes me promise to update her if I learn anything new. I drive home, unable to get Toby’s taunts out of my mind. Could Xavier really be in a gang? His unwillingness to talk could mean anything—embarrassment, shame—but what if it’s some kind of oath where he’s not allowed to talk about it? It was bad enough when it was just first impression stuff that I knew would make my parents lose their minds, but with each layer I peel away, I become more and more convinced that I need to erase Xavier from my mind and pretend my growing feelings for him don’t exist.

  Between community service and recovering from boarding and wondering about Xavier, I somehow missed that it’s Thanksgiving. There’s no Chain Gang because of the holiday, but Drea texted that some people would be at a soup kitchen outside Boulder for lunch. Serving, not eating—because I asked. Mom made reservations for dinner at our usual fancy place in downtown Denver, which means I have no excuse not to go.

  My brain refuses to accept that I need to forget about Xavier. I haven’t texted him to ask why he wasn’t there Tuesday, but it’s not because I’m playing hard to get. It’s because I no longer want him to catch me. If he does, I don’t think I’ll be able to say no and I’m terrified of how deep I could fall into his world. It’s not like me to be afraid of anything, but my feelings for him scare me.

  And if I’m honest, he scares me.

  Stone Soup is in an old brick church on the north side of Boulder. It’s just minutes from the shops and restaurants on the Pearl Street Mall—and where I was arrested—but it’s like another world. I’m not so self-absorbed that I didn’t know there were homeless and needy people in our community, but I didn’t expect them to look so… normal. Sure, there are a couple guys who look like they haven’t seen the inside of a shower in months, but for the most part they look like people you’d see at the movies or in the grocery store.

  When a family of four—mom, dad, and two kids under the age of five—come through the line, it strikes me just how fortunate I am. Sure, my parents suck and they don’t pay attention to me, but I’ve never gone a single day wondering where my next meal is coming from or where I’ll sleep tonight. Even having to sell the house just means we’re moving to something smaller, not to a shelter or a car or box in the street.

  Speaking of Dad, I text him during a pause in the line. Special occasion. 3 hours. That makes 9.

  Drea texted right after I arrived to apologize for not coming, saying something came up last minute, and I actually believe her. The only people I know from community service are Laina and Crue, and they’re so wrapped up in each other I don’t think they’re aware of anyone else. She ladles green beans onto people’s plates and he sets a piece of bread on the edge of the tray before they hand it to the next volunteer.

  I roll my eyes at them for the hundredth time.

  “You too fancy for the likes of us?” A scratchy voice startles me. A weathered man with scraggly hair and more wrinkles than a plastic surgeon’s Before picture scowls at me from across the table. His mismatched clothes hang from his gaunt frame and they look like they’ve never been washed.

  “What? No.” I look around, but the other volunteers are smiling and talking with the people in front of them. No one’s paying attention to me.

  “I seen you roll your eyes. You think you spend a coupla hours doin’ this and poof! You’re a good person?” He leans toward me and shoves a dirt-streaked finger at my face. “I know your type, girly. Sittin’ in your ivory tower lookin’ down on the rest of us.”

  I shake my head. Tears burn my eyes but I clench my jaw and sharpen my gaze. “You don’t know anything about me. So back off.”

  He takes the tiniest step back, then plants his hands on the table and leans forward again. “I’m watchin’ you, girly.”

  “Hank, leave her alone!” The director of the soup kitchen, a portly man with a bushy gray beard and clean white apron points at us. “She’s just helping. Take your food and move along.”

  The man narrows his eyes at me and I scoop mashed potatoes onto his plate. I’ve wished every other person a Happy Thanksgiving but I keep my lips pressed firmly together.

  “What about the gravy?”

  I spoon gravy onto his potatoes and don’t break eye contact, refusing to let him intimidate me. Adrenaline makes me stand straight and I push my shoulders back to show that I’m in control. But as soon as he shuffles toward an empty seat at a nearby table, my entire body slumps.

  The director moves next to me and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you. Most people are pleasant enough, but Hank, well, he’s pissed off at the world and thinks it’s his life’s mission to make others as miserable as he is.” He gives me a comforting smile. “Can’t imagine going through life that way, can you?”

  I shake my head, but his words hit me harder than Hank’s.

  Lashing out at other people used to make me feel better about myself, but is Hank a preview of how my life will turn out? I’m not saying I’ll end up homeless, but I’ve already chased away all my friends and I’m barely seventeen. What kind of person does that? I don’t want to spend the next sixty years being the nasty hag no one talks to because she hates the world. I want to have friends I can trust and someone who loves me. I’m still not convinced about the having-kids thing, but I’ve got time for that.

  What I don’t have time for is being angry at the world. Yeah, my life sucks right now, but it sucks for most of the people in here and they’re still smiling over their soup-kitchen turkey dinner like it’s their best meal of the year. And maybe for them, it is.

  I can’t do anything about my family falling apart, and my only recourse with my arrest is community service, but I can change my attitude and try to make amends with the people I’ve hurt.

  And it starts today.

  *****

  Mom and I sit across from each other at Evening Star, where we’ve had Thanksgiving dinner for as long as I can remember. It’s what I describe as fancy American and while they typically serve birds like duck and quail, for Thanksgiving they serve the best roasted turkey in downtown Boulder. If the maître d’ notices Dad’s absence, he’s smart enough not to mention it.

  Besides, it’s possible he already knows. A story as juicy as ours is bound to spread fast, and all the bar and restaurant owners know each other. I’m shocked it hasn’t hit the halls at school.

  We order our meals—standard turkey dinner for me; no skin, no butter, no flavor for Mom—but when they arrive, they’re identical. I clench my hands in my lap, bracing for the lashing the server’s about to get. Miranda Vines does not tolerate mistakes and she especially doesn’t tolerate fat.

  But she just smiles and thanks the girl who isn’t much older than I am.

  “Your order’s wrong,” I say, pointing at the hunk of meat still sheathed in its skin. It’s not clear to the naked eye, but if I had to guess, I’d say there’s butter on her mashed potatoes.

  She rests one elbow on the table and takes a sip of her Sauvignon Blanc. “Do you know how exhausting it is bein
g a bitch all the time?”

  “Well, you make it look effortless.” I press my lips together but the words don’t climb back into my mouth.

  Her eyes widen, then narrow. She takes another drink, this one a little longer, and I kinda wish I had my own glass to get me through this conversation. “You can’t earn respect by forcing it from people. Believe me, I’ve tried. And look where it’s gotten me. Having dinner with my convict daughter while my husband plays house with some woman half my age.”

  Anger burns in my gut. My narrowed gaze must not be the reaction she was hoping for because she lets out a long sigh.

  “I’m trying to be heartfelt.”

  “The fact that you have to announce it says volumes.” I know I shouldn’t antagonize her but maybe she shouldn’t call me a convict.

  Her jaw ticks and I take a sip of water.

  “I’m not a convict.”

  She waves my words away like I’m a fly buzzing her ear. “Fine. My trouble-maker daughter. But that’s not my point. The point is I’ve spent my entire life playing to a certain set of rules and now the rules have changed. Being faithful to your father no matter how overbearing he became was supposed to guarantee me a lifetime of security.”

  “I thought you said we’d be okay?”

  “We will, but this isn’t what I signed up for.” She drags her fork through her potatoes, wrinkling her nose at the butter that oozes onto the plate. “Your father changed the rules without telling me and all he gets is a slap on the wrist. I’m left picking up the pieces.”

  “Like the house?”

  “And the brewery.”

  “What’s happening to Mischief?” If they have to sell, will they get enough money to pay for the lifestyles we’re all accustomed to?

  “I’m part owner. And I’m forcing him to buy me out. But after that,” she shrugs. “I don’t know.” She sets her fork down and takes a gulp of wine. At this rate I’ll have to drive home. “I do have a bit of good news.”