She Runs Away (The Sheridan Hall Series Book 2)

by Jessica Calla

  I wave my fork at him. “I guess I should be mad at you too. Did you know about this? About her?”

  He sits up straighter and uses his fatherly tone. “I did. I’m not sorry I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t imagine any good coming out of it.”

  I eat the last bite of my salad while I think about whether to be mad. “That’s what Dad said. Do you think she’d hurt me? I mean, who is this lady? Some crazy ass psycho?”

  Uncle smiles and dumps more lettuce on my plate. “She’s not all bad. She made you. It’s just that your father and I don’t want anything or anyone to hurt you.”

  “Why can’t you let me meet her? Maybe she’ll back off with whatever she’s threatening to do,” I say the words, but the thought of meeting someone who claims to be my mother makes my stomach turn. I have to stop eating during these conversations.

  Uncle Pisser raises his eyebrows, giving me “the look.”

  “I’m not a baby anymore. I can handle myself. You two keep trying to protect me, but I’m eighteen now. The worst she can do is disappoint me, and I’ve already spent a life without her so who cares?” Tears form in my eyes, but I refuse to acknowledge them.

  Uncle Pisser reaches for me. I look down at his huge dark hand covering my little pale one. Next to Dad and Uncle, I do seem like a frail doll, which is exactly how they treat me.

  “You should let people help you, Amelia. But I’ll talk to your father.” He gives me a squeeze.

  The little gesture fills me with emotion, and my breath catches. I have a mother. It doesn’t seem like a thought that’s meant for me. I can’t stop the tears from falling down my cheeks. “Can you tell me about her?”

  “About your mother?”

  I nod, wondering whether she was a monster to my father, whether she left me in a dumpster, or did something equally as terrible. My heart beats, pounding from my head to my toes until Uncle says, “Ann Fargis Pisko was born in Chicago…”

  I smile and wipe my tears. I’ve heard the story a million times.

  Ben

  The team calls me to the stadium for an emergency Sunday meeting. I’m late, but I don’t care since I’m not playing anymore. As I walk through the bowels of the stadium toward the locker room, Coach Linden’s booming voice echoes down the hallway. He’s introducing newly hired staff.

  I creep in and sit in the back row. Coach stops talking for a second when he sees me then resumes his speech, going on and on about expectations and goals. Some of the guys notice me and turn to acknowledge my presence.

  After the meeting, when the others file out for conditioning, Coach asks me to stay. I move to the bench in front of him.

  “You were late today.” He barks the words like an army sergeant.

  I mutter under my breath, “Sorry.” Not really.

  “Your physical therapist tells me that you missed your last appointment.”

  I rub my beard. I remember seeing the appointment on my schedule, but I was tired and it was so damn cold. I didn’t feel like going. I hate PT. “Oh, uh, yeah, I guess I did.”

  Coach moves closer, looming over me, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know you that well, Riley, but I think you make a good addition to this team.”

  My shoulder aches, so I squeeze it over my scar. “Thanks.”

  “I understand you’re going through a lot since November. The entire university is still sorting through what happened. I can’t stop the calendar though, and another football season will be here before we know it.”

  I want to yell at him to chill the fuck out. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m being patient with you. Would you agree?”

  I nod.

  “Are you still part of my team?”

  I chuckle. “I can’t throw.”

  “I didn’t ask if you could throw. I asked if you were part of this team.”

  I stare at Coach Linden, studying his serious coaching face. He’s not known as a touchy-feely type coach, but he gets the job done. He’s smart, in an old-school way, and expects a lot from his players. “I want to be part of this team. That’s why I came to NJU.”

  “You haven’t answered the question.” He sits next to me and rests his elbows on his knees. With a long breath, he turns to look me in the eye. “Look, Riley. It’s been three months. Your shoulder should be healing a lot quicker. You have to get to therapy. You have to exercise and condition. In the meantime though, if you want to be part of this team, you have to find other ways to contribute.”

  “You want me for the mascot?” I don’t regret saying the words until Coach scowls and the redness spreads over his cheeks.

  He stands up, towering, glaring. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  Shit. When Coach’s face turns red, it’s best to get out of his way. Today though, I’m not in the mood. “I’m a quarterback. That’s all I know how to do. I can’t play any other positions.”

  “You haven’t been here to work out with the team. You haven’t offered to help in any other capacity. There are a lot of ways you can contribute. I’m trying to let you come back at your own pace, but you have showed zero interest in this organization or the game.”

  As I watch Coach Linden pace in front of me, my insides burn. He has no idea what it feels like. Nobody does. “In case you forgot, I got shot!” I yell, pointing to my shoulder.

  Coach shakes his head, and his shoulders sag. “I didn’t forget. It’s terrible what happened, Riley. Terrible. I can’t think of anything worse. But since the shooting, you’ve given up. It’s time to move forward. I’m warning you, if I cut you, you lose your scholarship. You realize that, right?”

  My jaw drops. “The press will love that. Coach cuts wounded player from team after shooting that killed his friend.”

  His face burns even redder. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I think you threatened to have me kicked out of school first.” I have no clue where my attitude is coming from. It’s like something deep inside of me that’s been leashed up has broken the chains and is bursting through.

  He stands taller and moves an inch closer. “I don’t care if you tell the fucking New York Times about this. I’ve tried to take the high road, and you have the nerve to sit in my stadium, disrespecting me and acting like a spoiled brat?” He points his chubby finger in my face. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You will get your ass to practice, you will get your ass to physical therapy, and you will start to be a team player, or I’m cutting you.”

  Mom’s words haunt me. It’s a blessing I’m alive. She’d be so disappointed if I lost my scholarship. The image of her face keeps me from telling him to fuck off.

  I hold my tongue, and we stare each other down. Finally, he turns his back to walk away, talking to me over his shoulder. “Since you managed to make it here, when you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, go give me ten. You’re dismissed.”

  Ten laps around the field. Fuck. I haven’t run in a long time. I’m not sure I can make it ten times around the track. I should just quit the team on the spot. It would be easy to walk away, forget about being a quarterback. I could let the dream go, let myself go—eat shit and get fat.

  But then I think about Frank. How he worked me out. How much he loved football and how he came to every game even though I never played. I think about Megan touching my body, how much she seems to enjoy it. I think about how good I feel when I’m healthy and fit.

  And as much as I hate to admit it, Coach is right. I am being a prick. It’s a blessing I’m alive, Mom’s voice tells me. Damn the woman for teaching me right from wrong and for inspiring me to be my best.

  I’ll have to start over. I’ll have to push through somehow. I guess it starts with the ten laps that I’m in no shape to complete. I jog to the field and get to work.

  ***

  Later in room six, I crash onto my bed and wait for my muscle soreness to set in before joining my floormates in the lounge for Frank’s Sunday Night Dinner. He’d started the tradition our first wee
k of school. I’d told him I was homesick for my mother’s chili, so Frank made it for everyone. Since then, every Sunday at Sheridan, we gather in the lounge, no matter what was going on or who was fighting, tired, or busy. It’s our way of honoring Frank. It’s become a religion of sorts.

  This week is Rodrigo’s turn to cook. He’s a pretty decent chef, so whatever he’s planning works for me.

  We’re all getting ready to sit down for dinner—even Poppy and Darcy, the room five girls we never see—when we hear the staircase door open and see Megan dart by to her room. She’s holding a water bottle and balancing a Tupperware dish and a sweatshirt in one hand, and she’s fumbling for her keys with the other.

  We yell from the lounge. “MEGAN!”

  She jumps and all her stuff goes flying. “Ahh!”

  While the others laugh, I walk to the hallway and help her pick up her stuff. “Hey, Sweet Meg.”

  “Hey, Grungy Ben.” She grins as she grabs her sweatshirt off the floor.

  I’m tempted to sneak a quick kiss, but we’re in open view to the lounge and I know she’ll freak. She looks at me like she wants to bite me, her eyes traveling over my face to my lips, which I totally appreciate. “How’s dinner coming?” She nods toward the lounge.

  “Rodrigo made spaghetti.”

  “Sounds great. I have to change first.”

  I raise my eyebrows and look down her body.

  “Alone,” she whispers, reading my thoughts. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Rodrigo’s spaghetti is fantastic. After the disaster of trying to run ten laps, it’s probably the last time I’m going to carb overload for a while. I have to stay in shape. I’m not sure why, but I do. Not for the team, not for Meg, but for me.

  After dinner, I pass on ice cream and alcohol, and eventually everyone disperses. Meg and I hang back, pretending to watch ESPN. Every few minutes or so, I touch her somewhere. I squeeze her nose or push her leg. I’m like an eighth-grader doing anything to get her attention.

  I poke her thigh.

  She scoffs. “Why do you keep poking me?”

  “Because you’re cute.”

  “Benjamin. Please never call me ‘cute’ again. And stop poking my leg.” She scoots her sweet ass farther down the couch.

  I follow, sliding close enough that our thighs touch, and whisper in her ear. “Can I poke you somewhere else?”

  She grimaces and gives me a two-handed shove. “Ew. Can you behave? For, like, a minute so our floormates can settle into their rooms?”

  I hold my chin and look to the ceiling, as if I’m debating her question. “Will I get a reward?”

  She rolls her eyes and starts to stand, but I slip my hand into her back pocket and pull her down onto the couch again. When her butt lands next to mine, I steal a quick kiss on the cheek and whisper, “Fine. I’ll behave.”

  She grins and twists, leaning her back against the arm of the couch, facing me.

  I scoot back to the other end, and we settle across from each other. She stretches her legs straight and wiggles them against mine. “How was your team stuff?”

  I reach for her ankle, wanting to touch her. “It sucked.”

  She pouts as I rub my thumb along her shin. “I’m sorry. Can I help?”

  Not unless you can magically heal my shoulder. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  She sits up and folds her legs under her, moving closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I know how tough that must be.”

  I purse my lips together and reach out to touch her hair, twisting it around my fingers. It’s soft and silky as I watch it slide over my knuckles. “Meg?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Will you go out with me?” I don’t know where it comes from. All I know is that I had a shitty day, and I miss being part of a team. Even a two-person team.

  She sighs. “It’s late, Ben.”

  “Whenever I ask you out, you say ‘it’s late.’”

  “You’ve only asked twice.”

  I’d ask a million times if I thought she’d say yes. “If I ask in the morning, are you going to say, ‘it’s early’?”

  “Maybe. Maybe you should stop asking.”

  Ouch. “Do you really mean that?”

  She doesn’t answer my question but inches closer to me. She leans to my ear and whispers, “It’s. Late.” This time, her tone is playful. “It’s also a new week.”

  I give up for now, dump my own needy voice, and match her flirty one. “Yeah, I bet everyone’s asleep.” Translation: time to get busy.

  “Maggie’s in my room. Chase?”

  I smile hearing the hope in her voice. “I’m pretty sure he’s in room one. Want to check it out with me?” She nods, her blue eyes landing on my lips.

  We stand and gather our things, but when I step out of the lounge, she grabs my hand and pulls me back in. “Ben?”

  She doesn’t seem to have words as she looks at me, her eyes wide, her brow furrowed, like a scared little kid. I pull her into a hug, and she clings to me. Even though she won’t take that step with me or admit that maybe we need more than each other’s bodies, the way her arms wrap around, the way she grabs my shirt at my back and presses herself against me, give her away.

  I won’t call her out on it though. Not yet. I kiss the top of her head. “Let’s go.”

  She squeals when I bend down and hoist her over my good shoulder. She’s so easy to lift that I find myself doing it more than I probably should. I’m like a caveman carrying my woman around. Her hard thighs bounce against my chest, and I grab the backs of them to steady her.

  I shush her when we get to room six. I don’t want the others to ruin our plan.

  “I’m totally checking out your ass.” She pinches it as she hangs behind me.

  “You like it?”

  “I’ll like it more when it’s naked.”

  “Dammit, Meg.” I smack her butt.

  “Three-minute-challenge, right?” She pinches me again, and I jump.

  “Three now? Wow, you’re confident.” I place her down and slowly turn the knob to confirm Chase isn’t inside. When I peek inside, the room is dark and quiet. I fist pump, and Megan grins as I drag her in and set the timer on my phone. “Three minutes start now, Sweet Meg. Are you up for the challenge?”

  She flips on the light then pulls her shirt over her head and pushes me back against the door. “No problem,” she whispers as she drops to her knees in front of me and unzips my fly. “Watch me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Megan

  The alarm wakes me at 5:30 on Monday morning. My classes don’t start until ten, but I want to take an early run and then actually study. I’ve barely cracked open my books, and we’re approaching midterms. Considering I got about three hours of sleep, my plan seems absurdly ambitious.

  Ben and I had turned super-competitive about our little time challenge last night. After I’d met my challenge with no problem and bragged like a jerk, he’d spent the rest of the night meeting his. More than once. Three times was it? Four? I’d lost count somewhere along the line. We’d worn each other out. Eventually I untangled myself from him and, ignoring his pleas to stay the night, stumbled back to room three.

  Now my body aches as I lumber out of bed, feeling the toll of three nights in a row of crazy sex. I stretch my back, twisting, rolling my head, loosening my neck. Then I slip into my running pants and layer my shirts.

  I dig through the closet for my favorite sneakers and adjust my phone into my arm strap. My shuffle brings up rap. It never ceases to amaze me how the music app reads my moods.

  After a more thorough quad and calf stretch, I exit Sheridan into the cool, brisk morning and run toward north campus.

  Despite the achiness of my muscles, I feel damn good—until I notice the poster stapled to a tree in the quad:

  LOOKING FOR FEMALE NUMBER 147.

  WE’RE PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER.

  CALL BEN.

  NO FAKES PLEASE.

  I’LL KNOW IT’S YOU WHEN YOU TE
LL ME MY NUMBER.

  Ben’s cell phone number is typed underneath. For the love of God, Juliet. The woman is unstoppable when she’s on a mission. I wonder how many calls Ben will have to field. At this point, maybe I should just tell him it’s me. What’s the big deal? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a stupid questionnaire.

  If I tell him, he’ll push me with the dating and opening up stuff. I know he’s just trying to be nice by asking me out. Being nice is what he does. But Ben being nice blurs the lines. Contract sex should keep those lines defined, I remind myself and roll my eyes. Yeah, right.

  I run the campus three times, more than ever before. By the time I’m back at Sheridan, my legs are like jelly and my stomach is in my chest. I pace in front of the building, dizzy, hoping the cool down will settle my equilibrium. The sidewalk seems to move under me.

  I focus on our mailman tapping the buzzer. I weave to him with my swipe card and click open the door. “Here you go.” I pant, still out of breath. It’s against the rules for me to swipe someone in, but since he’s our regular mail person, I figure it’s okay.

  The mailman looks from his stack of mail to my face. “You’re Megan Smith, right? Room three? Are you related to Amelia Smith?” He holds up an envelope. “I don’t recognize the name, and there’s no room number.”

  Campus spins around me as my head pounds. “That’s me.” I sign for the letter and thank him. Did Dad send me something certified?

  I glance at the letter and can tell by the handwriting that it’s not from Dad or Pisser. Flashes of the diner conversation replay through my mind.

  Oh my God. It can’t be.

  My chest fills, and I gasp for air. My face burns. I can’t focus. When did it get to be a hundred degrees out? My body sways under me.

  “Hey, Megan? Are you okay?” I hear from somewhere.

  A face blurs before me, and I squint to focus. I grab my head. My knees buckle. It can’t be. It can’t be her.

  “Whoa,” the voice says, and his arms circle me, catching me. “Here, sit down. Put your head between your legs.”