Hidden (The Scions Book 1)

by Gemma Weir

  When he pulls his car into the driveway the lights are still on. Mom and Dad are no doubt still up, and the twins are probably down in the basement. “Don’t tell Mom.”

  “You know I won’t,” Zeke assures me. “But you should.”

  I don’t say anything, just open the car door and climb out, closing it behind me. I’m already expecting it when Zeke’s heavy arm lands across my shoulder. He pulls me toward him and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “It’s a good job I love your crazy ass,” he says, laughing when I try to elbow him in the stomach.

  When we push through the front door, Mom and Dad are on the couch. Making out.

  “Ewwww,” both Zeke and I cry. We should be used to this by now; our parents have always behaved like horny teenagers and this isn’t the first time we’ve walked in on them getting it on in the family room.

  Dad lazily lifts his head and looks at us. “You’re back early.”

  Mom giggles, but neither of them move to separate.

  “Party was lame. Briella was being a pain in the ass, so we decided to raid the ice cream stash you got this morning,” Zeke says, nonchalantly ignoring the fact that Dad looks like he was about to make it to third base with Mom before we came in.

  “Don’t talk about your girlfriend like that.” Mom chides.

  “She’s not my girlfriend anymore,” Zeke says.

  Dad chuckles. “Thank fuck for that. That girl is a pain in the ass.”

  He laughs harder when Mom pinches him.

  “Sweetie, are you okay?” Mom calls.

  “I’m fine, Mom. We’ll be downstairs,” Zeke says, urging me past our disgusting parents and toward the stairs to the basement. “Don’t make babies,” he calls over his shoulder, laughing.

  “You’re as bad as them,” I say, my face scrunched up with disgust.

  “Mom and Dad are still hot for each other. I want to be like that with my woman when I’m their age,” Zeke says, as we hit the bottom step and push through the door into the basement.

  Mom and Dad converted the basement from storage into an awesome den/games room for us when we were younger, and now it’s got a pool table, a kickass TV with every games console known to man, drinks, snacks, and a huge sectional couch.

  When we enter the room, Dill is wrestling the Xbox controller from Leo’s hands and I can already tell that their fight is on the verge of becoming an MMA brawl any minute. “God, boys are so stupid,” I hiss, walking to the TV unit and pulling the plug on the game they’re playing.

  “Hey,” the twins say in unison, their fight forgotten.

  “Go get the ice cream. We’re gonna watch a movie scary enough to make you crap your pants.”

  Dill and Leo look at one another, then throw themselves over the back of the couch, racing to the freezer and wrestling over who gets the Rocky Road.

  “Mom bought you each a tub,” Zeke calls, settling into the corner of the couch and lifting the handle for the built-in recliner, sighing dramatically as his feet lift into the air.

  A cold pint of Fudge Brownie ice cream lands in my lap, followed by a spoon, a second before the twins hop over the back of the couch and land next to me with a thump.

  “How was the party?” Dill asks.

  “Shitty, you didn’t miss anything,” Zeke answers, pulling the lid from his tub of Cookie Dough.

  “You idiots are only fifteen. You’re not old enough to party with us,” I say, through a mouthful of sweet, chocolaty goodness.

  “Your friends love us,” Leo says with a wink. “They don’t seem to care that we’re younger.”

  “Don’t be disgusting. My friends think you’re cute little boys, that’s all.” I say derisively.

  Zeke selects a movie from Netflix and we all stop talking and settle back into the couch, our ice cream in our laps as we wait for the movie to scare us half to death.

  Hours later everyone else is in bed and asleep and our house is dark and silent. Rolling to my side, I stare out of my darkened window. The moon is full and bright. I close my eyes, trying to quieten my mind, but there’s too much swirling: too many thoughts, too many questions.

  Zeke’s words from earlier circle my mind. “No one would care if you let the perfect little ice princess act go.” Is he right? I don’t think so. Every kid in our school knows who I am. That’s not conceited, it’s just the truth. We live in a small town and our high school is just as small. I can name every single person in our senior class and all of them have me and my friends on pedestals. We all have our role to play and mine is the bitchy princess, too shallow and self-absorbed to care about anyone but myself.

  If I were to show them who I really am, they’d drag me from the tower of ice I surround myself with and I’d land in an exposed heap at their feet. All they see is the pretty little princess that boys want to fuck; the shallow doll who never lets anyone get too close. They don’t care that I’m loyal and caring. They don’t care that out of the four of us I’m the most fragile, the weakest link. They see what they want to see, believe what they want to believe.

  Maybe I should let them see the crumbling mess inside of me. The way my mind spirals until I can’t breathe, and I hide in the bathroom or in my car, desperate to find some peace. None of them want to see that I’m constantly on edge, just waiting for one of my meltdowns to become a full-blown mental breakdown.

  Bolting upright in bed, I pull my knees up to my chest just like I did earlier and bury my head against them. I wrap my arms around my legs, curl into a ball and hide. I’m hiding from myself, my doubts, and from the reality that what I’m feeling isn’t normal. Screwing my eyes tightly shut I pray for my mind to quiet, for all of my doubts to dissolve into mist, only tonight the disquieted thoughts refuse to be ignored.

  Should I let the world see the real me?

  Should I tell my mom?

  Should I admit that my mind is too loud again?

  Should I let out all of the anger that’s simmering constantly just below the surface?

  Squeezing my eyes tighter, I try to breathe, to push away the constant disquiet that tortures my waking thoughts, but it won’t be silenced, it won’t be pushed down. My breath is ragged as I snap my eyes open and release my grip on my legs. I won’t sleep tonight unless I distract myself. Reaching for my iPad I click into my music and select one of my sleep soundtracks, then I slip on my headphones and exhale as the soothing music begins to play.

  It’s all instrumental. Lyrics would only exacerbate my anxious mind, forcing me to find meaning in every word. So a mix of soft jazz, soulful classical, and modern piano pieces play as limb by limb I force myself to relax, to concentrate on the music and not on what’s happening inside my head.

  I see 3am, 4am, and 5am and just as the sun is starting to push up over the horizon my eyes finally drift shut, my brain quiet at last. “Beep, beep, beep,” my alarm screams and I groan, reaching for my cell and silencing the noise as I pry open my tired, gritty eyes.

  Auntie Brandi and Uncle Sleaze are getting a new foster kid today and like every other time they have someone new come to stay with them, we all get up, go over to their place and meet them in a big, family introduction. Over the years I’ve lost count of how many scared, lonely kids have arrived at their house, looking terrified and small. Some only stayed for a couple of weeks, some a couple of years, but when they move to somewhere new, they all leave knowing that there are good people in the world.

  My auntie and uncle are amazing. They currently have two kids living with them and whoever this new one is who’s coming today, they’ll become a part of our family. Rolling out of bed, I pad over to my bathroom and turn on the shower. I know I probably look like hell, so I don’t even bother looking in the mirror before I strip out of my sleep shirt and panties and step under the hot water.

  The shower relaxes my muscles and as I rub shampoo into my hair, some of my sleep deprived lethargy fades. As I dry myself, I hear the telltale sounds of the rest of the house coming to life. I’m the only one ou
t of us kids that has their own bathroom. Dad figured it wouldn’t be fair to make me share with three stinky teenage boys, so when he built the latest addition onto the house, he added a bigger bedroom and a bathroom just for me.

  Padding to my closet, I pull out panties and a bra and put them on, then look for something to wear. The sun is already blazing and it’s going to be a hot one, so I pull out a pretty red playsuit and slide it on, adding a black belt and flip-flops.

  Not bothering to dry my hair, I run a brush through it and twist it into a loose braid. The humidity will only make it frizz if I try to put the flat iron through it, so why bother trying to tame it.

  Pushing open my door, I almost run straight into Zeke as he pads out of his room. His eyes are still shut, his hair standing on end and he’s dressed in just a pair of basketball shorts.

  “You need to get ready; the new foster kid gets here today.”

  Zeke grunts, waving his hand at me dismissively as he rubs at his face and walks on autopilot to the bathroom. When I step into the kitchen, Mom is talking to someone on her cell while flipping pancakes on the hotplate. I walk straight up to her and kiss her cheek. She smiles at me, our eyes level now that we’re almost the same height. She tips her head toward the pancakes and I nod with a smile.

  Mom’s pancakes are awesome; light and fluffy and just the best weekend breakfast ever. She slides three onto a plate for me and I kiss her again as I take it to the table and smother them in maple syrup and sliced banana. While I wait for the syrup to soak in, I grab glasses for all of us from the cabinet and fill them with juice, then pour myself a coffee from the pot that’s already full and smelling delicious on the counter.

  By the time Zeke comes down, I’m already halfway through my breakfast. Unlike me, he looks refreshed and awake, completely different to the grunting zombie from only ten minutes earlier.

  “Make me a coffee would you, Sis?”

  “Make your own,” I snap, pushing another forkful of breakfast perfection into my mouth.

  When he reaches for my cup, I grab it and pull it close, narrowing my eyes and glaring. “Mine,” I hiss.

  “That’s fucking mean, Sis,” he scowls.

  “I didn’t sleep well. I need it more than you.”

  Zeke’s eyes soften a little as he scans my face. “Did the movie freak you out?”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding quickly then turning my attention back to my cup. I can feel him looking at me. We both know I’m lying. Avoiding his gaze, I get up from the table and make him a cup of coffee, pushing it toward him before I sit back down in my seat.

  “Did you get any sleep?” He asks quietly.

  “A little; it’s fine.”

  “You should talk to Mom.”

  “I’m fine. I was just amped up from all the sugar. I’ll sleep tonight,” I say, finally looking at him and flinching at the concern in his eyes. Zeke and I have each other’s back—we always have—and as much as he might not want to, he’ll keep my secrets.

  He opens his mouth to speak, but the twins descend the stairs in the obnoxiously loud way that only two fifteen-year old boys can. Dill and Leo are perpetually happy. I don’t think they can stay angry for more than a minute at a time and even though they can be a pain in the ass, just being around them fills you with enthusiasm. The pair of them are like walking, talking happy pills.

  My brothers are identical twins and very few people outside of our family can actually tell the difference between them. To me, the differences are obvious, but as they’re always together and regularly switch clothes in the middle of the day or dress identical just to fuck with people, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that no one else can.

  “Oh, pancakes,” Dill says, diving on the stack Mom has piled on a platter in the middle of the table and taking five.

  “You’ll be sick if you eat that many,” I say, already feeling lighter and more awake.

  “Nah, it takes about twelve for him to throw up,” Leo says, dropping down into the chair next to Dill and taking five pancakes as well.

  “Morning,” Dad says as he saunters into the room, dressed in his usual jeans, plain cotton t-shirt and cut. The smell of warm, worn leather will always be the scent that I associate with him: comfort, protection, and home.

  “Princess,” he says, leaning down and dropping a kiss on the top of my head.

  I watch as he goes around the table kissing each of my brothers in turn. “Where’s your Mom?”

  “She was talking to someone on her cell; not sure where she went,” I say, finishing my last bite of pancake, then taking my plate and stacking it in the dishwasher.

  An hour later we all pile into Mom’s SUV while Dad takes his bike. Whenever we greet a new kid, Dad and his brothers all show up on their bikes. I guess they must think showing this kid they’re all bikers might make them feel better or something. I don’t really know; it’s just something they always do.

  When we get to Auntie Brandi and Uncle Sleaze’s house, Mom pulls up on the street and we all pile out, making our way into the yard. The first kid they ever fostered was a sixteen-year-old boy called Ethan. I was only a little kid at the time, but I know he caused loads of trouble for them before he realized they were good people who only wanted to help him. In the end they adopted him, and he stayed with them until he went off to college.

  “Ethan,” I cry, when I spot him lazily lounging on a chair at the huge patio table.

  “Hey, Princess,” he says, getting up and catching me when I launch myself at him.

  Back when he first moved in, Ethan had been angry and brooding, but to the six-year-old me, I’d thought he was amazing. I followed him around like a shadow until he accepted he wasn’t going to get rid of me and I’d adopted him as an older brother figure. He moved out of state a couple of years ago, following his awful girlfriend Esme to California and away from his family. I miss him.

  “I didn’t know you were visiting,” I cry, stepping back from him as he greets my mom, dad and brothers.

  “I’m not,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I closed on a house a couple of days ago, squirt. I’m not visiting, I’m moving home.”

  “What?” I cry, launching myself at him again. “What about Esme?”

  “No Esme,” he says, his smile dipping a little. “But I missed my family. It was time to come home. California wasn’t for me.”

  “Did he tell you the news?” Auntie Brandi says, smiling broadly and looking at Ethan with so much love. “My oldest baby is moving home.”

  “Mom, I’m twenty-eight, I’m hardly a baby,” Ethan says, pulling Auntie Brandi in for a hug and kissing the top of her head.

  “You bring your cut with you?” Dad asks Ethan.

  Ethan’s head shoots up and a wary look flashes over his face. “Yeah, I’ve got it with me.”

  “Then you should probably be wearing it,” Dad says, his tone brooking no argument. Dad is the V.P. of the Sinners and although he’s not as scary as Uncle Blade who is the president, I know that the other members have a healthy respect for him.

  “I didn’t know. I’ve been gone,” Ethan says, his voice wavering a little, unsure.

  Uncle Blade appears at his side, his hand landing on Ethan’s shoulder and squeezing. “Are you a Sinner, or not?” He asks.

  “Always,” Ethan answers, his voice solemn.

  “Then go put your cut on.” Dad says.

  “Yes, boss,” Ethan replies, turning to leave and being pulled into Uncle Sleazes arms, his eyes filled with love.

  As the rest of Dad’s biker brothers arrive, the party starts to feels like a welcome home for Ethan as much as a party for the new foster kid who is still yet to arrive.

  “How old is the new kid?” I ask my mom.

  “He’s eighteen. He’s been in a group home for the last few years, but his social worker thought he might do better in a home environment to see out his senior year.”

  I nod. Uncle Sleaze and Auntie Brandi hav
e had a lot of older teenagers over the years. Most foster homes only want little kids, but Auntie Brandi has always said that they will do their best to give any kid that needs one a home.

  We all recognize the social worker’s shitty car the moment it pulls into the street and Brandi and Sleaze move as one, meeting in the middle of the yard, their hands linking together as they make their way to the curb to greet the new arrival.

  I watch as Trisha, the social worker who’s been dropping kids off to this house for years, greets Brandi and Sleaze warmly, her harried, tired expression the same every time I see her. She opens the door and a boy emerges from the back seat of the car, a black hoodie pulled up over his head, his fingers hidden inside the sleeves.

  I can’t see his face, but when he unfurls and stands straight, his shoulders pulled back and his spine rigid, he looks to be at least six feet tall. Most of him is hidden by his hoodie, but I can still tell that his shoulders are broad and his thighs are big and muscular.

  My heart starts to beat a little faster and I strain out of my seat to get a better view. I watch as both Auntie Brandi, then Uncle Sleaze introduce themselves, offering the boy their hands to shake. He pauses for a moment, seeming reluctant, but eventually reciprocates their greeting and shakes their hands one at a time.

  Trisha separates herself from the group and walks around to the trunk, opening it and pulling out a rucksack and a couple of trash bags. I feel sick every time I see that. These poor kids’ stuff shoved into trash bags instead of packed into a case.

  Reaching over, I take Mom’s hand and she squeezes mine lightly, reassuringly. The boy takes the bags from Trisha’s hand and she pats him on the back, before climbing back into her car. He doesn’t push back his hood, but I know he watches her drive away.

  Auntie Brandi turns to head for the house, gesturing for the boy to follow her and he does so almost reluctantly as Uncle Sleaze walks behind them. I watch as Auntie Brandi speaks incessantly, pausing to introduce him to each person they pass.