The Novella Collection: A series of short stories for the Pushing the Limits series, Thunder Road series, and Only a Breath Apart

by Katie McGarry

  A girl in a cap and gown surrounded by a mob of family members is all smiles as she holds about two dozen red roses. She won’t miss one, right?

  While I’m not as smooth at sleight of hand as Chevy, I’m able to swipe one of the roses as I walk in Ms. Whitlock’s direction. She’s heading for the door, which means I have to make an arc to make it appear I’m randomly walking in the opposite direction. She’s looking straight ahead, past me, because that’s what most people do when they see someone in a black leather biker cut.

  As we start to pass, I inch toward her. Our shoulders brush and her gaze snaps to mine, the first time she’s laid her solid blue eyes on me. My heart stops beating. I switch my focus forward, keep walking past then pause, reaching out to lightly touch her wrist.

  She jolts with the touch, and I have to admit I shake, too. She whips her head back to look at me. I regretfully drop my hand from her wrist and offer her the rose. “You dropped this.”

  Ms. Whitlock blinks, confused. “No, I didn’t.”

  I keep my hand outstretched, and my eyes glued on hers. “You must have. Someone as pretty as you deserves a rose.”

  Her eyes smile first, then a sarcastic smirk slips across her lips. “That’s a terrible line.”

  I crack a crazy grin. “Yeah, but it was worth it.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug one shoulder because I’m out of corny come-ons. “So I could talk to you.” I shift to extend the rose further to her. She’s hesitant, but she accepts.

  Because even I’m aware that if I stick around I’ll find a way to screw this moment up, I wink at her and walk away.

  It’s hard not to look back at her for the first few feet forward. Doing so will kill any credibility and mystery I hope to create. Yet I lose all self-control by the time I hit the folding chairs. I glance back, and I’m rewarded with the sight of her lifting the rose to her nose to inhale.

  Takes everything I have not to lift my arms in the air to signal that I just scored. But I can’t celebrate. I have yet to ask her out, and she has yet to say yes.

  Chapter 12

  Eli

  Watching my daughter laugh is one of my favorite sights. Her head back, smile across her face, her entire body shakes with laughter. It’s a gift I never knew I wanted, and now I can’t imagine living without.

  It still takes my breath away to say those words—my daughter. Emily. She’s here, in Kentucky, at my clubhouse, and I’m still in awe that she willingly spends time with me.

  Little over a year ago, I never would have guessed she’d be here, much less an actual part of my life. I thought I had screwed up my relationship with her beyond repair years ago, but I didn’t, and now I get to watch her laugh. Whatever part of my soul I unknowingly sold for this was worth the cost of admission.

  Emily sits on the top of the picnic table in the middle of the grass halfway between Dad’s house and the clubhouse. Beside her is Oz. His arm is wrapped around her, and while I can’t admit I’m thrilled she’s so attached to someone at the age of eighteen, I can admit that if she had to fall for somebody, I’m glad it’s Oz.

  He’s a good man. Works hard. Adores my daughter. Treats her with respect, and gives her enough room to live life without him on her toes. Plus, being that he’s part of the club and I have seniority, I can threaten to rip his arms out of their sockets without having to worry about the police being called in for harassment.

  “Do you feel old looking at them?”

  I can’t keep the surprise off my face when Chevy’s mom, Nina, walks up the steps of Dad’s house and sits on the top step about a foot away from me. When my brother James died before Chevy’s birth, Nina did her best to avoid my family and the club. She only associated with us on a have-to basis. With all the shit that went down with Chevy this year, we’ve talked more, but most of that was fighting over what was best for her son—my nephew.

  Chevy found a way to shut us both up, and I respect him for that. I also respect Nina for loving her son and standing by his side, and for coming here tonight for his graduation party. She’s not a fan of the club, but she’s a fan of her son, and it’s nice that both of us are waving the white flag. Giving peace a chance is a good change of pace. God knows I’m tired of complicated.

  “Do they make me feel old?” I repeat the question she asked me, feeling it out. I study the group of teenagers ready to take on the world. It feels like yesterday when me, Oz’s parents, Emily’s mom, Meg, and my brother, James, filled that table. “Not old as much as nostalgic.”

  “Nostalgic,” Nina murmurs as if weighing the word.

  Nina’s a few years older than me, early forties, and she’s a five-four tiny beauty with a personality that’s the equivalent to gunpowder. Gasoline flows in my veins, so the two of us have been a deadly combination, especially with our wildly different ideas of how to raise Chevy. She wanted him away from the club, I wanted him in. He needed his family. To be honest, we needed him more.

  “Nostalgic is better than saying I feel old,” she says.

  I’ve always been able to appreciate why James was involved with Nina. She’s brave, independent, strong-willed and gorgeous. Long black hair, dark eyes and an olive complexion that makes her looks as if she’s forever been kissed by the sun.

  The group by the table break into laughter again as Razor tells them a story, and I watch my daughter as she smiles in complete joy. I remember eighteen, being carefree with friends and being in love.

  “ ‘When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, and with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste,’ ” I say, then drink from my longneck.

  Nina offers me a side-eye. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” I could blame the beer, but this is my first one and I’ve been nursing it most of the evening. My daughter’s in town, and I want a crystal-clear memory of her every moment in my presence. I missed too many years of her life, and I’m determined not to miss any more.

  “That sounded very Shakespearean,” she says.

  The right side of my mouth tips up. “Do I look like Shakespeare to you?” Faded blue jeans, black T-shirt, hair shaved close to my head, and plugs in both ears. Maybe I could pass for Shakespeare’s twin brother who grew up in a motorcycle club and spent several years in prison.

  Nina looks straight into my eyes, and I give her credit. There’s not many who will meet my stare, much less hold it.

  “Play it off all you want, Eli, but that was Shakespeare.”

  It was, and she’s looking at me with more respect than I deserve. “I did a lot of reading in prison.”

  “Chevy said you earned your bachelor’s degree while you were incarcerated.”

  She makes it sound like that was an act to be proud of. For me, self-forgiveness and prison aren’t on the same page. “There wasn’t much else to do.”

  “You taught my son to own his choices, so I expect you to do the same. Earning your degree was admirable, and I respect you for that.” Nina returns her heavy gaze back to the open field, and our teens. “I’m thinking about going back to school. I don’t regret having Chevy, and I don’t regret the choices I made to survive, but I do regret not fighting harder to earn my degree.”

  I roll the bottle of beer in my hands. “It’s not too late.”

  “No,” she says in the most unconvincing tone I’ve heard from her. “It’s not.”

  For eighteen years, this woman has been in my face and full of confidence in every word she spat at me. It’s weird to hear doubt fall from her lips.

  “Nina,” I say, and wait for her to look at me. She finally does, and I wonder how my brother didn’t fall for those deep, dark eyes. She was his best friend, but he wasn’t in love with her, and that baffles me. “You’ve fought with me, my parents and this club to do what you thought was right for your son for years. Going to college after dealing with us will be a walk in the park.”

  That grants me a sarc
astic grin and the fire in her eyes that I’m used to seeing aimed in my direction. “As if you weren’t in my face just as much as I was in yours.”

  “Never said I wasn’t. In the end, though, we raised a good kid.”

  “We raised a great kid,” she corrects.

  I tip my beer in her direction in agreement. I return to watching the teens, and I’m caught off guard when I spot Emily watching me. Her gaze flickers between me and Nina. I raise my eyebrows at my daughter. She only smiles at me before rejoining the conversation with her friends.

  “Thank you,” Nina says. “For what you said about college…and for helping to raise my son.”

  I’m usually a fast responder. Half the time I speak before I think a thing through, but this time, I’m stumped. I’m so used to fighting with Nina that I’m speechless. We drove each other nuts over the years. We didn’t realize until recently, though, we were pulling Chevy in two different directions. I apologized to Chevy for that, and from what I understand, Nina did, too.

  “You’re a great mom. Not one of us ever thought differently.”

  Nina cocks an eyebrow as if she’s skeptical, but I’m telling her the truth.

  “Isaiah’s coming into town tomorrow, around noon,” I say. “It’s going to be my and Dad’s first time meeting him. Chevy’s going to meet with him at the diner first, then he’ll bring him to the clubhouse.

  “We’re going to play most of this by ear, but we plan for the first meeting to be small—me, Dad, Chevy and Emily. Oz and Violet will be around, but they plan on holding back to give Isaiah some space. Considering your relationship with James, would you like to be a part of this meet-up?”

  Isaiah Walker was a shock to all of us. It turns out my brother had another child in Louisville. Many issues with all this, the main one being Isaiah’s not a child anymore. He grew up in foster care, and that causes the demons that live in me full time to growl. If we had known about Isaiah, he would have lived here in this house surrounded by a club full of people who would have loved him as if he were their own.

  Nina rests her arms on her bent knees and clasps her hands together. “James was in love with Isaiah’s mother. Do you really think Isaiah is going to want to meet the woman his father sought refuge with when his mother broke his heart?”

  “Chevy said Isaiah wants to meet his family, and he wants to understand who his father was. James was my brother, but you were his best friend. Who better than you to paint the real picture of James?”

  “James was complicated,” she says.

  “Of course he was. He was a McKinley.”

  Nina gives a short laugh, and that causes me to smile. Our group of teens howl in hilarity again, and that grabs both of our attention in the way it does with parents full of pride.

  “What do you say?” I ask. “Do you want to help?”

  “I’ll help.”

  Good. I expect Nina to leave, but she doesn’t, and I find myself oddly okay with that. We sit in a comfortable silence on the steps and watch as the next generation plots and plans their life.

  Chapter 13

  Addison

  Life should have theme music. On demand, the perfect song should blast in the background to fit the mood. Even better, when everything’s about to go to hell, the freaky music should play.

  How many of us have yelled at the stupid girl creeping down the stairs to the dark, spider-infested basement because that serial-killer-is-on-the-loose music began? I mean, seriously, we all knew Jaws was coming because a cello was playing, right? Otherwise that fin sticking up in the water could have been a cute, snuggly dolphin.

  If I had Jaws music that played when everything was about to go bad, my complicated life would be a lot easier. I’d know when to run or lock myself in my room. Only problem: lately, it’d be playing all the time.

  My fingers tighten around the backpack in my right hand, and my left grips the bus ticket harder. The bus was supposed to leave the station an hour ago, and we keep getting delayed. Ten minutes here, fifteen there. It all adds up to sand sliding through the hourglass.

  I roll my neck as the stress of sitting perched on the edge of the wooden bench seat causes my muscles to lock. This is the furthest I’ve made it in my three tries to flee.

  The first time I attempted to leave, my father caught me as I was sneaking out my bedroom window. The second time, my father found me walking along the side of the county road. Both times he reminded me that I’m only seventeen and that he’s still the person that runs my life.

  I hate him. I’ve hated him for years and, because of that, this is attempt number three and I’m counting on it being lucky. I’m not seventeen anymore, and I’m done living at home.

  “I like girls with blond curly hair,” mumbles a guy sitting behind me, making it perfectly clear to his sidekick that he’s talking about me.

  My skin prickles, and I’m swamped with the urge to shower. The way his voice deepens when he says something about me, no matter the words, sounds dirty.

  He kicks my bench and my body jerks with the impact. I whip my head around. “Cut it out.”

  His lips turn up, and there’s nothing cute about this guy. He’s tall, too thin, and when he tries to show teeth, there are two missing. Everything about him screams meth head.

  “The cheerleader is feisty.”

  This cheerleader is about to shove a pompom up his butt, but the goal is to not bring attention to myself, so I turn back around. The goal is to make it to Bowling Green. I need options, and the only way I’ll discover them…screw that…the only way I’ll believe I have options is when I see the proof for myself. This means Bowling Green and running away.

  No point in asking Meth Boy how he knows I’m a cheerleader. I wasn’t thinking when I grabbed my Snowflake High Varsity Cheer warm-up jacket. If he caught a glimpse of it from the front, he’d know my name, too. Never realized how stalker-attracting these jackets were until now.

  Speaking of creepy, bus stations are scarier than I imagined, though I’m not sure what I was expecting. Not the homeless man with a beard longer than Santa’s talking to himself by the trash can about Jesus coming again. Nor was I expecting the two guys behind me who keep switching seats when I do, and totally in the serial-killer way.

  Meth Boy kicks my seat again, and I scoot until I’m two spots away from the trash-can, Jesus-returning homeless guy. My odds of survival are better next to him.

  “He’s coming to save you.” Homeless guy slips in front of me to sit cross-legged. I slide all the way until my back hits the seat. His ice blue eyes are too wide and too wild.

  “What?”

  “He’s coming to save you,” he repeats.

  My heart stutters. Dad. If Dad finds me, I’m dead. “No, he’s not.” He’s who I need to be saved from.

  “Jesus always comes to save.”

  Hysterical laughter bubbles up from deep inside me. “No one is coming to save me.”

  He tilts his head as if he’s sorry for me. “You need faith.”

  Puhlease—faith. What I need is the announcement that it’s finally time to board.

  Faith. It’s a dirty word in my vocabulary. I tried doing all the things the pamphlets and the teachers and the public service announcements told me to do, but here’s the truth: faith in anything besides myself is the equivalent of stupidity. The system’s broken, the government’s broken, the world’s broken.

  At least it is if you’re a female. It works amazingly well if you’re a male.

  The old man scoots on his bottom down the floor to the woman sitting on the opposite end of the bench from me. I no longer feel special when he says the same words to her that he did to me.

  “Hate to tell you”—hot breath from behind me causes me to shudder—“but there’s a cop that walked in and the person he’s talking to pointed in the direction of where you once were.”

  My head snaps to the entrance. Damn it. It’s Deputy Heinz. He and my dad were high school friends, and his presence here mi
ght mean—

  “My friend and I can help.” Stalker guy invades my space from the seat behind me. “That is, if you’re running from the cops.”

  This is when I need the Jaws music. Adrenaline socks me in the stomach. My father checked in on me, he knows I’m gone, and he does the one thing I never thought he would do…he called the police.

  “Crap!” I go to stand, but my backpack slips from my hand and drops to the ground with a loud clunk that echoes down the tiled walls. Deputy Heinz whips his gaze in my direction, and our eyes meet.

  My heart beats so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of me. I’ve got to run. I’ve got to run now.

  Deputy Heinz holds up his hand. “Stay there, Addison.”

  And have my father beat the hell out of me because the good deputy brings me home like a dog fetching a stick? Hell, no.

  My feet angle toward the exit opposite of him. Once I get outside, I’ll be safe. It’s dark out. There’s woods to the side, and then there’s a busy restaurant on the other. I can lose him. I can hitch a ride into Bowling Green. I can escape.

  Fear tastes bitter in my mouth as I suck in a deep breath. The deputy steps toward me, and I grab my backpack and sprint. He’s yelling my name now. Shouting at me to stop. The fliers on the wall become a colorful blur as I push myself faster than I’ve ever gone before.

  People are in front of me, but I don’t care. My shoulder slams into theirs, and I mumble apologies as I pass, but I can’t stop. Pounding feet are too close behind and my eyes burn. I can’t fail this time. I can’t.

  “Addison!”

  I pump my arms as I near the exit. Five more steps, three more steps, two more…

  A strong grip on my arm, I’m being pulled—away from the safety of the exit. The deputy—he has me. Down a hallway, then another turn and down another hallway then out a door. I’m outside. My heart thrashes through my chest, and a sob wracks my body. “Let me go!”