Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1)

by Charisse Moritz

  No sense beating my chest or rattling the bars. I know better than to fight back. For a little while, I got lulled into thinking otherwise, started wishing for things and even dressed up in the costume of a normal kid. Look where that landed me.

  Mutt’s shirt and jeans are destroyed. His tie went missing. After trading a whole lotta punches in the dirt, we made it out of the party, only to get snagged by flashing blue lights halfway to giving Tia a lift home. Since our drummer doesn’t need the grief, it’s good the cop was only after one thing. Not the license or registration. Not Mutt’s weed. Just me. And here I am, a little worse for wear and nothing to do but wait.

  And wait. I’d just as soon keep waiting. The end of waiting means the start of something much worse. So when the door cracks open, I hold onto an inhale and tense from fingertips to toes.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The familiar voice has taken a sharp, angry turn. I tend to have that effect on people, but there is nowhere to hide in this overly bright little room.

  Her footsteps patter across the floor like a sudden rainstorm, and then the West mom drags the empty chair around next to me and slides into the seat. “Oh you poor honey,” she coos, one hand wrapping around my shoulders, the other covering mine. “I’m here now.”

  I figured that much out on my own. The how and why are a mystery. No adult has ever sat on my side of the table before, and I don’t know what to do about the weight of her arm across my back, her fingers sinking in between mine.

  “Where’s your head at?” she demands, way too loud, and I flinch before realizing I’m not the target. She gives me a squeeze, then snaps, “He’s a child. A minor. Get these cuffs off him.”

  “Elise.” I recognize that voice too. It comes with shiny black shoes, heavy footsteps, a big frustrated exhale and hairy ape knuckles on the table. “You’re not even supposed to be in here. I’m doing you a favor. Don’t make me regret it.”

  “Oh, you’re definitely going to regret this. It’s just a matter of how much. Tell me you didn’t interrogate this boy without a parent present. And get these cuffs off him. Now.”

  “He is a suspect in an assault,” the cop informs her. “He resisted efforts to take him into custody, has no identification on him and has proven uncooperative, refusing to supply either his or a parent’s name. We can’t call anybody if we aren’t sure who he is.”

  “Oh for chrissake, Buddy. You know exactly who he is. You targeted him. I heard all about it.” She shifts position, her chair screeching against the floor and as I claw at the table like a startled cat, she pets my hand and whispers, “shhh.”

  He leans in, the table tipping under his weight, the whole wide world leaning in his favor. “Elise, you’re not involved in this. Let me do my job.”

  “Your job?” she scoffs. “I didn’t realize you swore an oath to bully, terrorize and leave a young boy to nearly freeze to death in this ice box.”

  Settling back on his heels, the cop rubs wide hands up and down his face before sliding them onto the top of his head and staring down at us. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. You’ve been under a lot of stress and you're upset. I get that, but he’s getting processed, Elise. No two ways about it, and the rest is up to the judge. Trust me on this, it’s safer for him and everybody else to keep those cuffs on.”

  “I’ll be taking him home with me.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “You had better make it happen, Buddy. This boy just looked after my family for four days. I welcomed him into my home. Do you think I gave over that responsibility lightly? He’s the most kind, generous and thoughtful boy I’ve ever been fortunate enough to encounter, and it’s nothing short of a miracle considering the hand he’s been dealt.”

  Pfft. She’s laying it on a little thick. The cop agrees. He actually trades a look with me, a silent, can you believe this? Then remembers it’s me sitting here, and his face flattens with a level of anger that seems out of proportion. OK, yeah, it tooks some persuading to situate me in the back of his squad car, but he seemed to enjoy it more than I did, getting a real thrill out of thumping my face off the doorframe.

  A vein in his forehead now pulses as he takes a second to suck on his lower lip. Hunching forward again, he drops his voice like he’s telling us a secret. “My son just spent the last four hours at the emergency room. Took I don’t know how many stitches to patch him back together. After standing up for your daughter, by the way. So, from where I’m standing, this boy has shown all the kindness of mad cow disease.”

  His son? Oh fuck me. I should have recognized the matching dick-shaped heads. And for the record, the mad cow was Shae. He caused most of the damage. And the Prick deserved it. He puts his hands on my girl, threw her to the ground, and if my drummer hadn’t gotten in-between, I’d be facing murder charges.

  I figure this is where the West Mom washes her hands of me and cuts her losses. She surprises me by shoving to her feet and pointing. First at me. “Look at his face.” I drop my chin and hide fresh bruises behind my hair. She then jabs a finger at the big cop, not even slightly intimidated by his size or badge. “Your son instigated, threw the first punch, got his friends involved, ganged up, and this isn’t the first time. I have witnesses, Buddy. Brandon could easily find himself on the wrong side of those assault charges. Possibly with some underage drinking thrown in. So maybe it’s best for everybody if we treat this situation as boys will be boys. You go home and take care of your son, and I’ll see to it that this boy, right here, who I consider one of my tribe, is finally treated as he deserves.”

  Her tribe?

  I make myself as small as possible while her voice, her words flow around me, the way a river rushes over a rock in its path. They can’t move me. They can’t touch me. Except they do. They soak in, and I get a weird sensation, almost like sea sickness in my gut. I don’t know what the hell is happening here and need to remind myself to stay put, no bolting out the door. But I check that way anyway and jerk so violently the cuffs rattle against the table.

  Step-Douche stands there. Hands on hips, he makes a point of looking at my shackled wrists, the lump swelling on my forehead and finally narrows his eyes on the cop. “I can’t imagine what’s going on here,” he says. Compared to the West mom’s upheaval of emotion, Step-Douche is stone cold calm. “But this little circus ends right now.”

  The cop starts to say something, but Step-Douche holds up his hand and just barely shakes his perfectly styled head. It’s gotten so late at night it’s turned early, but he’s decked out in a suit with a label none of us but him could pronounce. “We both know you aren’t following through with charges. You’re leaning on my son, simply because you don’t expect anybody to push back, but you’re very much mistaken. I suggest you proceed carefully. This vendetta isn’t worth your badge, and it’s the wrong way to ensure his cooperation.”

  His son?

  The cop is also confused. “Your son?”

  “Stepson. And my client.”

  He’s my attorney? Can I pay him with his own credit card?

  Step-Douche strides forward, sandwiching me between him and the West Mom, making my side kinda crowded. “Albert Sanderson. You may have heard of me.”

  The cop definitely has. He looks like he just got caught sniffing a nun’s underwear.

  “I’d suggest a few more chairs,” Step-Douche instructs with the confidence of a man who always gets his way. “You’ll want to record my son’s statement, which he’ll provide after we’ve agreed to acceptable terms. And let’s start with removing these cuffs, so I can pretend you haven’t abused the rights of a minor.”

  The cop hesitates, jaw bulging, lips thinning but eventually reaches across the table with a teeny key and unlocks my wrists. I rub at them but still feel trapped. I’m missing something here and suspicion has me so unbalanced I grab the edges of my seat and squeeze.

  “We’re going to need a few minutes of privacy.” Step-Douche waves his hand, a dismissing fli
ck of his fingers, then turns his back on the cop and props a hip on the table with his arms crossed. As I press against the back of the chair, he smiles and tells me, “We’ll get this sorted.”

  The cop grumbles something, his feet scraping across the floor, dragging across my last nerve, before he shoves the door open with a two handed smack and leaves us alone. Can I follow him out? Cuz for some reason, it seems like we’re just getting started here, like there’s a shortage of air in this room and there’s a loud thumping sound that one else seems to notice. It’s coming from my chest and I don’t like it, I don’t like it, I don’t like it.

  “Elise West.” The West Mom holds out her slim hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  The two shake and he says, “Likewise. Your daughter called me, explained the situation, and I appreciate it. This is for the best.” Step-Douche now gives me the super tool look of encouragement. “The truth is long overdue.”

  What?

  I plant my feet, already halfway out of the chair when the West Mom tilts her head and douses me with pity. I’m fucken coated in it.

  “Take it easy.” Step-Douche spreads his hands and pushes like he’s testing the firmness of an invisible mattress. “Gib, listen to me carefully. Your dad has never been held accountable for what he did to you. Your injuries are listed as a result of the car accident. And unless you speak up, he gets away with it. He keeps his parental rights. Do you understand? This is your chance to break the cycle.”

  My chance? I’m so fucken sweaty, I might actually be melting. Any second now, I’ll be nothing but a puddle on the floor, just a mess that needs to be mopped up. Because there are consequences to speaking up. Do they not get that? Say it with me. There are consequences to speaking up. I learned that lesson before I could walk and just sharing with Tia was on a par with licking razor blades.

  All of a sudden, I know why this is happening.

  “Just tell the truth,” the West Mom prompts. Tia told her.

  “With your statement, we can keep your father from getting anywhere near you,” says Step-Douche. Tia told him.

  She told. She told. She told. And I gotta … I don’t fucken know. I don’t fucken know anything right now.

  I lurch to my feet, stagger two steps and then bend over and spew my everything onto the shiny floor. I’m turning inside out, vomiting up the rotted remains of memories I’ve never shared, words I’ve never spoken, truths I’ve buried in the deepest depths of anger, fear and despair. They are ugly, corrosive and not meant to see the light of day. Even a whisper is punished. A single note out of tune becomes a lesson in agony. Quiet is good. Silence is safe.

  “Gibson,” the West Mom says. “Gibson, honey, it’s OK. You’re OK. You can do this for yourself. You need to do it, and Albert and I are right here. We won’t let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

  I hack up a string of saliva and finally wipe my mouth against the sleeve of Mutt’s grungy shirt. My nose burns, my eyes water, and my hands shake. I’m so fucken exhausted. I’m tired of hating the minutes behind me, dreading the ones ahead and having no idea where to go from here.

  The West Mom decides it for me. She takes hold of my arms and guides me back into the chair, where I grab my thighs and rock forward and back, forward and back, unable to quit even when this metallic squeaky sound drills for oil in my brain.

  “Look at me, Gibson.” Kneeling down beside me, she uses two fingers to tuck my hair behind my ears. “Sweetie, please.”

  I shake my head, staring at the puke splattered across the floor, because I can’t let her see the tears running down my face, the snot leaking over my lips. I can’t do this. Why are they making me? Why can’t I get left alone? I don’t need anyone and nobody needs me. That’s how it works.

  “I’m here because my daughter called me for help,” she tells me. “I’m here because you are important to her, to me, to my family and we stand by each other. We speak up for each other.” She sniffs and grabs hold of my hands. “You’ve championed my kids, Gibson. They’ve each told me a story about some way you stood up for them, helped them. Isn’t it time you do the same for yourself?”

  I look up, thinking this is it, the moment I shatter. But she places a cool, soft hand against my face, her blue eyes deeper than the ocean, and says, “There are consequences to not speaking up. You’ve lived with them long enough.”

  There are consequences to not speaking up.

  CHAPTER 62

  Tia:

  Some secrets need to be kept and others need to be told. Deciding which is which can be tricky. Since I’m willing to fight dirty to keep Taz away from his dad, out of juvie and just plain keep him, I talked to my mom, called the step-father and shared a story that wasn’t mine. After betraying my boyfriend’s confidence, I stewed in the waiting room of the police station for nearly four hours. I never got to see Taz.

  My mom finally took me home with her, telling me he’d be a while longer yet, that he was making a statement, in good hands and not to worry. Somehow, her assurance didn’t make me feel any better.

  I slept for a little while, nudged my breakfast around my plate and pushed the cart down the aisles while my mom filled it with groceries. I texted back and forth with Shae, played tackle-soccer in the backyard, cheered on my brothers at the rink, watched movies and owned the Scrabble board after using up my Q on ASSQUAKE. Terek stuck around for all of it, and even though my dad’s absence stings worse than an amputated big toe, our family is figuring out how to walk with a limp.

  My mom left for the airport early Sunday morning. Before she headed out, she hugged me and said she was proud of me for doing the right thing.

  Did I though? I’m no longer sure. Once every half hour I’m positive I made the worst possible mistake of my entire life and Taz will never forgive me. By Sunday evening, when I still haven't heard from him, my heart is so heavy, has sunk so low, it has scuff marks from dragging across the ground.

  Maybe I should drive to his house.

  I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs, not sure if I’m headed up or down when Theo walks up beside me and says, “Taz is sitting on the front step.”

  “What?”

  Theo opens his mouth to repeat himself, but I’m gone before he makes a sound. I run to the front door, yank it open and yes! Air whooshes out of my lungs. He’s here, he’s here! That’s gotta mean something right? Unless he just showed up to shun me in person. No. This is a good sign. Maybe. Hopefully. Relief and dread snarl together, creating a monster in my chest.

  Taz is sitting with his back to me, hunched forward, face tipped into his palms. When he hears me, he jumps as if I caught him doing something wrong.

  I’m tempted to leap on top of him and smother him in wet kisses. Instead I use quiet movements, place my feet carefully beside his and lower myself slowly. My hands wrap over the edge of the step, my arm lightly grazes his, and following his example, I stare straight ahead.

  The street is dark with lights behind windows, and the smell of burning leaves lingers in the air. My sock feet curl against the peeling paint of the step and cold seeps into my butt and thighs. My plaid pajama bottoms and threadbare T-shirt are the wrong choice for this moment, for lots of reasons. Goosebumps pebble my skin but no way Taz is willing to come into the house. With his shoulders hunched high, I’m considering it a miracle I don’t need to bait him out from behind the garbage cans with a biscuit.

  He holds utterly still, which is rare enough to be disturbing, and I haven’t the foggiest clue what he’s thinking. At the best of times, teenage boys are mysterious animals. So we breathe, blink and shiver for eons, ages and eternities and his silence slowly crushes me. I’m on the verge of a tantrum when he says quietly, “Gotta figure some shit out. Give me til Monday after school.”

  What does that even mean? That makes less sense than the derivative of an inverse function, which is definitely going to be on tomorrow’s calculus quiz, but I have my priorities straight and studying takes a distant second t
o this complex and confusing boy. If only Taz came with a cheat sheet, this would be so much easier.

  I hate to admit it, but my eyes are watering, my chest hitching, and I’m trying so hard not to let the tears spill. I’m not someone who looks delicately pretty when she cries and I’ve turned ugly enough times in front of him.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I can’t hide the hurt in my voice.

  He startles, his eyes wide and stained red. Right away, I see what the hours since the mess at the Flats have done to him. There’s an angry scrape along his jaw, a cut under his lip, and a purple lump just above his right eyebrow, the split skin held together by a butterfly bandage. The worst of the damage is more than physical. Pale and gaunt, this boy has clearly traveled to the depths of hell and I’m not sure he’s made it all the way back.

  I’m up on my knees, my palms finding his face before I can think twice about it. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I needed to help and didn’t know what else to do.”

  I’m still apologizing when his hands take hold of my waist and lift me onto his lap, so I’m straddling him.

  “Thank you,” he mouths the word more than says them and then kisses the edge of my jaw. “Thank you.” And he kisses that vulnerable spot below my ear. “Thank you, thank you.” First one eyelid and then the other, and more kisses, more thank yous, all across my face until the first brush of his lips against mine sets off a spark and there’s nothing gentle about it. We are desperate, hungry, wild. Heads tilt to find the perfect fit, tongues tangle, breathing accelerates, hands grab and he yanks me flush against him, creating such sweet agony I moan into his mouth.

  This kiss is everything and yet not early enough. I want more, so much more, and I’m suddenly in a hurry and reduced to tugging at his lower lip with my teeth and scrambling to find a way under his shirt. He growls and pants and gets frustrated when his fingers dip under the waistband of my pajamas and our seated position denies him access.