Pushing The Limits: Take Me On Part 10

"I'm good." His eyebrows furrow and he stares out the front windshield.

He's obviously not good, and I bite my bottom lip. For strangers, West and I have become uncomfortably familiar in a rapid amount of time. Our worlds didn't just collide; they merged as paint spilled on a sidewalk and it's like neither one of us will be the right color again.

"You can tell me-that is, if you want to talk. If you're worried, I'm not a gossip because I'm not exactly-" my fingers flutter in the air "-popular."

West opens and closes his mouth a few times and I hold my breath. Whatever he has to say, it's big, and somehow, it feels right for him to tell me. "My family threw me out Sat.u.r.day."

The air rushes out of my lungs as if I got steamrolled by a front kick to the chest. "Do you have somewhere to stay?"

"Yeah."

But I'm not sure I believe him. For months, I've been the queen of chaos. I'm a mist, a vapor. Belonging nowhere yet stretched everywhere.

This boy drops into my life with his clothes and car and att.i.tude that suggests he's rich and affluent and the king of the world. With one small yet enormous statement, the gap that existed between us disappears. I slide across the divide, placing my fingers as tightly as I can around his. "I get it, West," I whisper my secret to him. "I understand not having a home."

West I'm used to people talking, saying words aloud to prove they know more than me, that they're better than me. But they're just words. Syllables strung together between breaths to fill uncomfortable silences.

Meaningless words.

Haley, on the other hand, speaks volumes with a touch. The way her hand clutches mine, it rips out my heart and tosses it onto a platter.

This moment, it's too raw. It's too real. And the instinct is to s.n.a.t.c.h my hand back and slam the door shut on the sharing, but the other part of me-the part that feels as if my remaining sanity is a gift on the verge of being returned-it clings to her.

I knot my fingers with Haley's and turn my head so I'm focusing out the driver's-side window-away from her. If I look at Haley, I'm terrified of what I might say, what I might feel. And f.u.c.k me, I've already said too much.

If she understands this, being without a home, will she understand the rejection? Will she understand the devastation that everything you have ever loved doesn't love you in return? And because I can't face those fears, I'm unable to face Haley.

She squeezes once and it's like her voice caresses my mind: I'm here. I get it.

I squeeze back.

Seconds pa.s.s into moments. Moments into minutes. No words. No meaningless conversation. No eye contact. Just our hands combined.

My throat swells. Haley's the only string holding me together.

"West," she says as if we're lighting a candle for a loved one in a church.

"Yeah." My voice is cracked, gritty. Don't say it, Haley. Don't say you have to go.

"I have a curfew I need to meet." Yet her fingers wrap tighter around mine.

"Okay." I should release my grip, but it's hard. I never realized I could lose everything. Now I don't want to lose anything, especially her. Not even for a short period of time.

Haley loosens her hold and I withdraw my hand, placing it in my lap. I thought I felt alone and isolated when I tried to sleep in the darkness of my car, but the cold exhaustion left behind when Haley removed her hand indicates I had no idea what lonely was.

The door cracks open and cold air rushes into the SUV.

"Tell me if you run out of places to stay," she says and then the door shuts behind her.

With her pack slung over her shoulder, Haley shoves her hands in her pockets and slowly idles to the front door. I want to stay and see if she looks my way before she goes into the house, but I don't because what if she doesn't?

Haley West is homeless. I sort of crave to crawl onto his lap, bury my head in his shoulder and weep for him because when you're the one going through something so horrible, it's too difficult to cry for yourself. Sometimes I wonder if the agony inside would disappear if someone would shed the tears for me. I'm not sure I could survive expressing all the pain.

My heart one million percent aches for West and that creates problems. I'm attracted to him, I hurt for him and, overall, I like him and I need additional complications like I need a hole in my head.

Staring at the television, my uncle sits on his La-Z-Boy throne in the living room. He's below a man, who's below a man, which makes him the lowest man at an exterminator company. From six in the morning until three in the afternoon, he kills things for a living. The things everyone else cringes to touch.

I slip off my sneakers and line them neatly near the front door and hang my backpack on one of the many hooks. Feeling like a wallflower geisha, I lower my head and position myself next to my uncle's chair. I learned once in Sunday school that wishing someone dead, wishing for the murder of someone, is as sinful as committing the act. Standing here, I have the same thought every day: when I die I'm heading straight to h.e.l.l.

While staying focused on the television, he talks at me. "Where's Jax and Kaden?"

In the cramped living room, my younger sister lies belly-flat against the floor and colors a picture of a house: two stories, blue shutters, rosebushes near the front door. The sun is shining and a family of stick figures smile. It's our old house. It's what we used to be. "At the gym."

He knows this, but he enjoys asking. He enjoys knowing I'll answer.

"Why aren't you at work?"

"It's Monday. I'm off." He knows this, too. I'm a waitress, like my mom. Except I work at the pizza place for bad tips and she works double shifts at the Roadhouse for slightly better bad tips. She works so much that I never see her anymore. Ever.

My uncle avoids looking at me. It's a reminder I'm not worth being looked at. He drinks from the frosted can of c.o.ke. Alcohol, he says, is the devil.

If I didn't believe he was Satan incarnate, he could be considered a handsome man even in his blue work uniform and with the stench of pesticide-death rolling off him. He's my father's half brother and a thirty-eight-year-old carbon copy of Jax: whitish-blond hair, blue eyes and st.u.r.dy build.

It's the half part that has made the difference between my father and him. The difference between me living in this prison for a few months and Jax living here his entire life.

My uncle finishes the c.o.ke and extends the can to me. "Cut up the vegetables and start the meat and get me another."

Dad steps out of the bedroom and I catch his tired eyes. Tell him to say please. Tell him I'm not his slave. Instead, Dad glances down. When we moved in I promised him and my mother I'd keep my mouth shut and do what I was told.

I made a promise.

A promise my pride prefers not to keep. I'm not a slave. I'm not. Being poor, being homeless, being a girl doesn't make me less.

"I think I told you to do something, girl," says my uncle.

"Haley," Dad barely mutters. I flinch like I did when Conner rammed his fist into my gut. With too much anger, I s.n.a.t.c.h the can out of The Dictator's hand and stomp into the kitchen. I breeze past Dad, not once meeting his eyes.

The burner on the stove pings when I slam the pot against it and a few magnets bounce to the ground when I throw the refrigerator door open.

"Don't let him get to you." Dad picks up the magnets and snaps them back on the door. He speaks in a hushed tone because we're not allowed to have opinions in this house. No one is allowed to think in this house. "It's how Paul handles things."

I want to scream at Dad to find a job. To save us. But I don't. That wouldn't be fair of me and life hasn't been fair to him. A black forest of bitterness festers inside me and other words flow out instead. "You're okay with how he talks to me?"

Because guys shouldn't talk to girls like that. Because my own father doesn't speak to me that way. I deserve to be treated better. At least I think so. My eyes burn and I quickly blink. My life is so twisted I'm not sure what's correct anymore.

I've been hanging upside down for too long and a terrifying doubt wedges itself in my brain, asking the question...is this normal? Is this right? And the horrifying part is the small voice answering, "Yes."

Dad grabs my shoulders and I gasp. He turns me, forcing me to stare at him. Fire blazes from his eyes. "No one should talk to you that way. Do you hear me, Haley?"

"But he does." My throat thickens with every word. "And you let him."

Dad releases me as if my skin were layered with acid. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm your father... I should..."

He pivots slightly, angled half toward the living room, half toward me. The gray of his skin is what worries me and causes me to snag his wrist, to keep him from deciding between fighting for his daughter and giving the rest of his family a place to live. "It's okay."

It's not. I've never desired anything more than for my father to tell me I'm worth saving, that I'm worth being stood up for. I press my fingers into his skin until he meets my gaze. "It's okay."

The sane part of my brain knows it's selfish for me to even want it, because my uncle would throw us out and we'd have nowhere to live. But if I'm going to be honest, if I thoroughly a.n.a.lyze the black monsters inhabiting my soul, I'd discover I'm stopping him because if given the opportunity, even without repercussions, I doubt he'd believe I'm worth more than what my uncle thinks of me and I'm not sure I can handle the truth.

My father nods and moves his arm so we no longer touch. A hand through his hair, then he clears his throat. "I'm going to the library."

"At least take Maggie with you." At least save her. In movements so deliberate that I mimic a marionette on a string, I turn from him, take vegetables out of the fridge and close it. He's gone when I turn back.

I slice a knife through the potato and listen as he mumbles his destination to my uncle, tells Maggie to grab her coat and closes the front door.

A numbness shrouds my body. One slice of the potato, then another. The same motion again and again. There's an awareness you have when you reside with evil. A presence. Tiny whispers snapping at your energy. The only thing preserving your sanity, the only thing that helps you sleep at night is the idea that others surround you. That somehow together you can be protected. My spine straightens and a shiver runs through me.

I'm alone.

West A few blocks up from Haley, I lean on the gla.s.s of the p.a.w.n-shop display counter and count the wad of cash the street-hustler-owner of the joint just gave me. The owner reminds me of a fattened hog prepared especially for Christmas as the legs of the stool he sits on creak under his weight.

"You don't trust me," he says.

"No." I got played on the cost of my watch, even with negotiating him much higher than his initial price. Now I have money for food, gas and a few items for school. The temptation to rent a hotel room hovers around me, but I've got to think further than that.

"Good," he says. "It means you're smart."

The gla.s.s cases on the wall contain guns and electronics. In the display below me, a couple of old baseball players stare at me from their cards. When I count out three hundred for the second time, I shove the wad into my front pocket. An a.s.shole pickpocket is going to have a rough time digging in the front of my jeans to get their gold.

"Anyone around here hiring?" At this point, I'll shovel s.h.i.t if it means I can have a roof over my head.

A smoker's hack shakes his fat rolls. "Everyone's looking for a job, boy."

Yeah, I'm sure they are. Here's the problem with landing a job: I need a phone and unless I plan on returning home with my tail tucked between my legs to retrieve my charger or to beg Dad to take me back, I'm SOL.

I scratch my head as I leave the shop and pause against the wall. Two skaters fly past. My stomach growls and a pang shoots through it, almost doubling me over. Hunger. It's surreal that a few days ago I was here stalking my mother.

My temples throb, and as I spot a guy head out of the grocery store with a loaf of bread dangling from his hand, I bury the urge to s.n.a.t.c.h it from him. I've got money now and can buy my own loaf of bread. Maybe some meat.

Every time I came here peddling for pot, I'd mumble to some lowlife pleading for change to get a job. The pounding in my head intensifies. I'd get a job if I could. In a world that seemed black-and-white days before, now all I can see is gray.

Down the covered sidewalk, two guys stumble out of the bar, completely ripped. I used to come here to protect my mother. Each time I think of her, I feel like a frayed string is winding tightly around a nerve, cutting it off. I should find a pay phone and call her.

Gravity or just plain magnetic curiosity pulls me in the direction of the bar. There are three signs on its door and one grabs my attention. It's not the one that indicates no one under twenty-one can be admitted nor is it the one stating motorcycle gang colors aren't allowed. I'm interested in the help wanted sign: bartender and handyman. If I work here, I can score some cash and possibly some information on Mom.

Inside, the strong odor of spilled beer permeates from the drywall. To my right, a guy in a wifebeater breaks the b.a.l.l.s on the pool table. The loud crack thunders in the boxed-in room and Hank Williams croons over the speakers. Neon signs advertising different beers hang on the wall and illuminate the dark dive.

My shoes stick to the concrete floor and, as I walk to the bar, I try to find one redeeming reason why my mother frequents this dump, even if it is for a f.u.c.k. Mom's in her fifties, but she still turns the heads of guys at those charity b.a.l.l.s. No need to lower or demean herself.

"Hey," I call to the Vin Diesel bartender hovering over a small laptop. He's a huge son of a b.i.t.c.h with a completely shaved head. "I hear you're looking for help."

"You a bartender?" he asks without glancing up.

I've mixed a few drinks at parties and n.o.body died. "No."

"Then I don't want you."

"You should check him out, Denny," says that same d.a.m.n feminine voice that keeps popping up at the wrong times. Like the beginning of a bad dirty joke, Abby waltzes into the bar. She brushes past me and reminds me of a lazy cat as she slips onto a bar stool. "S'up, West."

"You stalking me?"

She snorts. "You wish. I finished some business next door and saw you wander into this fine establishment." Abby leans over the bar. "Where are the cherries?"

Denny slams his laptop shut. "I'm not a food pantry, Abby."

"h.e.l.lo, I get two of my four food groups here." Abby lifts the bowl of peanuts and swivels it. "Protein food group and the cherries are the dessert group. You'll feel bad if I die of malnourishment."

My mouth waters at the sight of the peanuts and my stomach growls loud enough that Abby lifts a brow.

The Vin Diesel wannabe actually cracks a smile. He picks up a foam container and the smile fades as his eyes land on me. "What the f.u.c.k are you doing here?" His words are angry, but his tone isn't. I have no idea what to make of him.

Abby grabs a fistful of peanuts and feeds them into her mouth, one at a time. I watch each one disappear behind her lips, almost tasting the salt on my tongue. Her eyes flicker between me and the bartender and I try to refocus on this moment, not on food. A single thought weaves through: Abby knows Mom's secret. Is this the guy my mom is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g?

"I'm here for the job," I say.

Denny tosses the container at Abby and she catches it midair and immediately flips the lid to revel a half-eaten deli sandwich and chips. My knees go weak at the sight. He then crouches, fishes out a jarful of cherries, joins us at the end of the bar and slides it to Abby. She digs in and shoves a cherry in her mouth like she really is on the verge of starvation.

In slight, deliberate movements I'm not sure anyone but me notices, she edges the bowl of peanuts in my direction. I try to act casual as I approach the bar, but I'm so d.a.m.n hungry it was probably a full-on run. After s.n.a.t.c.hing a handful, I shove them into my mouth. My eyes close as I chew, part relieved, part devastated. How have I been reduced to such desperation?

When I open my eyes, I discover Denny staring at me. "You're underage."

"So's she." I tilt my head at Abby.

"I just feed her."

"It's true." She tears a hunk out of the sandwich. "See, if you had listened to my story on Sat.u.r.day morning instead of cutting me off, you'd know that. By the way-" she glances at Denny "-this is West Young. We go to school together." Her forehead wrinkles as she chews. "I think. I didn't go today."

Denny crosses his arms over his chest. "Abby..."

She waves him off. "Yeah, whatever. I get it. I'm going to end up dead and pregnant then dead again by the age of eighteen. Then I'll have thirty venereal diseases and end up pregnant again before I'll die in a fiery car crash. Do you have those tiny pretzels? No? d.a.m.n."

Giving up on her, he c.o.c.ks a hip against the bar and a.s.sesses me. "I've not seen you around. Are you new to the area?"

I don't know why, but part of me is disappointed. I hoped his initial reaction meant he knew who I was and therefore he would be the reason why my mother frequented this place, but no go. He could still be the f.u.c.k, he just might not be familiar with her children. "Yeah."

"I meant what I said earlier. I'm looking for a bartender-a legal one."

"What about the handyman job?" I snag another handful of peanuts. "I'm eighteen." I'm not, but I will be soon. "And as long as I don't serve drinks, I can work here."