“That’s none of your concern,” Powell calmly replies. “And I need you to come with me, Zeta. Your attorney is here to see you.”
Without looking at any of them, I follow Powell out of the cafeteria. We walk side by side in silence, my stomach twisting sourly as my words repeat in a loop over and over in my head. When we reach the interview room, she stops with her hand on the door handle and turns to me. “I’m sure you have your reasons for saying what you said back there, but you don’t want to mess with that girl.”
I force back the bile traveling up my throat. “I don’t have a choice. If I don’t look like I can stand up for myself, she’ll never leave me alone. I’ve met enough girls like her to know that.”
“Watch your back. And stick with Ryder. He knows how to survive in here.”
“Why are you being nice to me?”
“Keeping the peace is in my interests,” she cryptically says before opening the door and ushering me inside.
“Zeta. How are you?” my court-appointed attorney asks as I take a seat across the table from her.
Peachy. Just peachy. I’ve just used my dead mom as a way to try to prove I’m a hard-ass. Made a mockery of her death like it doesn’t upset me. But, of course, I don’t articulate any of those thoughts. I shrug my shoulders, acting casual. “Fine.” Resting my elbows on the table, I lean forward.
She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose before opening a file in front of her, thumbing through pages, muttering to herself and frowning as she flicks through the file for whatever she’s looking for. After a few minutes, she slides a couple of sheets across the table to me along with a pen. “I need you to sign here and here.” She points to certain sections on both pages.
“What is this?” I refuse to sign anything without understanding what I’m putting my name to.
“Official court documentation I need to lodge.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s procedure.”
I take a few minutes to read over the documents before I sign, but it’s a lot of convoluted legal jargon that I don’t fully understand. Anyway, it doesn’t seem like I’m signing my rights away to anything, so I scribble my signature and hand it back to her.
“I wanted to ask you what happens when I turn eighteen,” I inquire. “Will I remain here or be moved to an adult prison?”
“That depends,” she replies, returning the sheets to her file and closing it.
“On what?”
“On your behavior, how well you’re responding to your treatment program, and what’s in the best interests of your mental health once you come of age.”
At the court hearing, it was determined I’m to meet weekly with a psychologist for individual counseling. It’s due to start next week, and I’m nervous. Still trying to figure out how I should act and how real I should be.
My mouth turns dry as I wonder how best to phrase my next question. “Are there ever instances where a verdict is overturned? And if I wanted to, could we lodge an appeal before I turn eighteen?”
Her brow puckers, and she runs a thin hand through her frizzy, unkempt hair. “In your case, we could only lodge an appeal if we have grounds for same. You confessed to voluntary manslaughter, and your punishment was decided. I don’t see how we’d have any grounds for appeal unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”
I’m tempted to tell her the truth, but it’s too early to admit I lied. If I tell the court how it really went down, there’s a chance he won’t go to jail and that I’ll be sent back to him. Being locked up is preferable to that, so I shake my head and bottle the truth back up, deciding to wait until the timing is better, hoping by then it won’t be too late.
“Did you manage to locate my aunt?” I ask, switching tack.
“Your aunt?” She frowns again, scratching the side of her head.
“Yes.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes to the ceiling. “You asked me if there was any next of kin besides my stepfather … and I told you my mom had a younger sister. You said you’d try to find her.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flush pink. “I haven’t had time to investigate yet, but I’ll get on that straightaway.”
I have zero faith that she will, and it’s probably a lost cause anyway. The only thing I know about my aunt is her name. I’ve never met her. Or, if I did, it must’ve been when I was too young to remember it. All I know is her and Mom were estranged, and they hadn’t spoken in years. I overheard Mom on the phone one time, saying something about her working overseas. It’s a stretch, but if she could be found, maybe, just maybe, the court would accept her as my guardian, and it’d give me the opportunity to come clean. Even if she doesn’t want me, it’s better than staying locked up for a crime I didn’t commit.
Powell leads me to the common room after my meeting ends, and my heart jumps a little when I locate Ryder, tucked into a corner of the room, with a guitar slung around his shoulder. He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground, lightly strumming the guitar with his eyes closed. I want to go to him, like we planned, but I don’t know if he wants anything to do with me after my revelation. I’m rooted to the spot, drowning in indecision, wondering if I should just ask to go back to my cell and lick my wounds in private.
Almost like he can sense me, Ryder opens his eyes and lifts his head, his face lighting up when he spots me. Or at least, that’s how it appears to be, but it’s quite likely I’m delusional, wanting to read more into his friendship than there is.
He wiggles his fingers in the air, gesturing me forward, and I slowly place one foot in front of the other, moving in his direction. An anxious fluttering feeling descends on my chest, and I chew on the inside of my mouth as I get nearer. I watch him slide the guitar off, placing it gently on the floor beside him.
“You made it,” he says, when I land in front of him.
“Yep.” I sink to the floor, propping my back against the wall and pulling my knees up into my chest. I stare at my feet, unable to look him in the eye. He doesn’t seem unhappy to see me, but how could he not hate me after the bomb I dropped.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. “You okay?”
I bite down on my lower lip as I draw strength from somewhere and look up at him. All I see is compassion in his eyes, and that goes a long way toward settling my nerves. “Why don’t you hate me?” I whisper.
Understanding washes over his face, but he’s quiet for a couple moments before speaking. “You think I’ve changed my mind because of what you said?”
I nod. “Most people would.”
He shakes his head. “Not around here.” His eyes subconsciously scan the room. “Everyone in here has done something which justifies being locked up. You’re not any different.”
“But I … it was my mother. My mother is dead because of me.” A genuine tear leaks out of the corner of my eye, because that part is true. “I mean, she wasn’t going to win any mother of the year awards or anything, but she still brought me into this world.”
He looks contemplative as he scrutinizes my face. “I’m guessing there’s more to the story than meets the eye. But”—he hurriedly adds as I open my mouth to speak—“we don’t need to talk about it. I can tell you’re remorseful, and that’s all I need to know. We don’t have to discuss it. You’re already upset enough.” He lifts his arm, as if he’s going to touch me, then he drops it back onto his lap, like he’s thought better of it. Or maybe he remembers I said I don’t like to be touched.
But I’d make an exception in his case. When it comes to him, I most definitely want to be touched.
I’m digressing, and daydreaming about guys should be the least of my worries. “I don’t like having to use that to build a rep in here, but it doesn’t look like I have much choice.”
He nods in understanding. “I figured it was something like that, and it might work. Or it might mean she comes at you a different w
ay.”
I lean my head back against the wall. “Please tell me she’s almost eighteen and due to get transferred out?”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but she’s already eighteen, and there’s no signs of her going anyplace.”
“Great. Well, my other plan is to lie low, and hopefully, she’ll get bored of coming at me.”
“Yeah, I can’t see that happening. There’s no way the guys will leave you alone. You’re new, and you’re hot, and that’s a winning combo in their minds.”
“And what about your mind?” I tease, trying to look casual and not like I’m enormously pleased at his compliment.
He grins. “Oh, I’m no different than any other horny seventeen-year-old. You’re prime spank bank material, babe. Best get used to it.”
My mouth drops open. “You did not just say that to my face!”
“Would you rather I lied to you?”
“Absolutely not,” I splutter, shocked at his bluntness but not in any way unhappy about it.
“Good, because a friendship built on lies is not worth having.”
His good humor disappears, and a muscle clenches in his jaw as he looks away. I’m not sure what memories have returned to haunt him, but I know he’s gone someplace else, and I make it my mission to pull him back. I take a proper look at the glossy black guitar resting on the floor at his side. “What kind of guitar is that?”
His gaze flits to his guitar, and the tense lines on his face relax. “It’s a Fender CD-60S.” He runs his hand lovingly over the body of the guitar. “It’s about the only thing around here that brings me any joy, any peace.” His face is an open book as he looks at me, and I see the truth shining in his eyes. This guitar means everything to him.
“How long have you had it?”
“Since I was a kid. One of my mom’s boyfriends left it behind when they broke up, and I hid it before she could sell it. I’ve had it ever since.”
I sense similarities between our mothers, but I don’t quiz him on it. We’re done with the heavy for today. “Sweet.” I run the tips of my fingers over the cool, glossy wood. “She’s a thing of beauty all right.”
“Have you ever played?” he asks, staring straight into my eyes, highlighting how close we are to one another.
His eyes are more of a yellow-green color today but no less mesmerizing. I have to physically tear my gaze from his in order to form a coherent sentence. “No. I always wanted to learn how to play a musical instrument, and my sixth-grade teacher begged my mom to let me take lessons, but we didn’t have the money.” I shrug, like it didn’t almost break my heart. “My teacher said I had a good ear, and I’ve always felt a real connection with music, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
“There’s still plenty of time,” he reassures me. “And I could teach you how to play, if you like?”
“In here?” I glance around the room. While most of the other kids are occupied, playing board games, reading, chatting, or watching TV, more than a few heads are observing our interaction. “No thanks. I want to blend into the background, not become the center of attention.”
“Like I already said,” he says, smiling as his gaze darts to my lips. “There isn’t a hope in hell of you fading into the background. You’re way too pretty and far too interesting to go unnoticed.”
“Are you deliberately flirting with me?”
“What would your answer be if I said I was?” He cocks his head to the side, and waves of dirty-blond hair fall into his eyes. I dig my fingers into my thighs to resist the urge to run my fingers through the messy strands.
“That I’m not in the market for a hookup, so if that’s your game plan, you might as well give up now.” It’s my usual mantra when I’m being hit on, and the words leave my mouth before I’ve had time to form a different response, because, in all honestly, I don’t think I’d turn him down if he was flirting with me.
“That’s not my M.O.,” he protests. “I like talking to you, and it’s just so … fucking refreshing to meet a girl with smarts and no hidden agenda.”
“How do you know I don’t have an agenda?” I quirk a brow, trying to ignore the fact that his knee is now brushing against my thigh.
“You’re not the only one with sharp observational skills.”
“Is this the part where you say you see the real me and we share a connection you’ve never shared with anyone before?”
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
Could I be any more lame?
I’m literally spouting shit from books now. Maybe the air’s too thin in here, and it’s depleting my brain cells. Or this guy is messing with my head in a serious way.
He laughs, and it’s a deep full-bellied laugh that does funny things to my insides. “I can honestly say, Zeta, that I’ve never met a girl who intrigues me as much as you do.”
“That’s only because the pickings are slim around here. Trust me, I’m not that interesting.”
“I think we’ll have to agree to disagree.” His eyes twinkle as he looks at me, and I get lost in their hidden depths and the warmth of his gorgeous smile. The air subtly changes, and that frisson of electricity I’ve felt in his presence before sparks to life, humming like a tangible thing. “Zeta,” he whispers, never taking his eyes off my face.
I love the way he rasps my name, and a throbbing ache starts building between my thighs. “What?” I whisper back.
“I think I need you in my life.” His eyes burrow deep into mine as he lifts his hand, extending it toward me. “Friends?”
There’s no hesitation or indecision on my part. I place my hand in his much larger one, and it feels like my heart might beat clear out of my chest. “Friends.” I say it with confidence and determination born of some innate sense that tells me Ryder is going to be an important part of my life.
I’ve never believed in fate, or karma, or any of that superstitious nonsense, but as I sit on the cold floor, beside a boy I’ve only just met, a boy I scarcely know, I get a strong sense that I was meant to come here, that I was meant to meet him, and that we’re meant to be friends.
And, quite possibly, something more.
CHAPTER 5
Ryder
Zeta’s been here a month, and already I’m having trouble remembering what my life was like before she arrived. I’ve never had a friend who was a girl before, so I don’t have anything to compare our friendship to, but her presence in my life has been transformative, and she already means so much to me. It’s not anything like the friendship I have with Luc, and while I don’t want to knock my young friend, because he means the world to me too, my friendship with Zeta is already so much more.
I look forward to waking up every morning, knowing I’ll get to spend my days with her. We laugh over breakfast, share notes and partner for assignments in class, discuss books we’ve read at length, often getting into heated debate—which I love—jog around the yard together while trying to trip one another up, and watch movies and TV shows whenever she’s not pleading with me to play for her. We even have a lot of similar musical tastes. When she told me she loved Green Day and Clapton, I almost declared undying love.
She’s so unbelievably easy to talk to, and there’s never any awkward moments or stilted conversation. The only topics we haven’t discussed are our pasts, our families, and the reason why we’re in here.
Thanks to Valeria, I know Zeta’s been convicted of killing her mom. It was voluntary manslaughter, and she’s been put away until she’s twenty-five, apparently. Watson should have his ass fired for disclosing that information to Valeria while she was on her knees, no doubt. It didn’t, for one second, alter my opinion of Zeta. I like to think I’m a better judge of character now, and I know she’s not a bad person. I can’t prove it, but I just know she’s a good person caught in a shitty situation. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
And it’d be hypo
critical of me to judge her harshly given my past actions. If I don’t want to be defined by the mistakes of my past, then I’ve no right casting judgment on anyone in here because of theirs.
I could ask her what happened, but then I’d have to open up to her too, and I don’t want to lie to this girl. So, we avoid conversing about our existence pre-juvie, and I’m happy to live in the land of denial, once it means I get to spend time with her.
“You tapping that yet?” Lopez asks, casting a quick glance at Zeta as she walks in single file with the other four girls, heading toward the school annex. Us boys are facing the wall, with our hands behind our back, waiting for the routine morning inspection to finish.
“Mind your own fucking business,” I hiss under my breath. “And shut the fuck up before he catches us.” Price is the officer on duty today, and while he’s not on the Watson scale of assholery, he’s been known to have his moments, so I want to stay off his radar.
“If you’re not up to the job, I’d be happy to take her off your hands,” he says, completely ignoring my wishes.
And what a fucking joke. As if I’d let Lopez anywhere near her. “I’m officially calling dibs.” I cringe as I say it, knowing how hurt Zeta would be if she knew of this conversation. But I’ve watched Lopez leer at her for long enough. If I don’t officially stake my claim, he’ll go after her with all guns blazing, and just the thought of him putting his hands anywhere near her has me shaking with rage.
Despite the “Cage your Rage” program I’ve attended for years, I’m still prone to bouts of uncontrollable anger. I’m pretty good at removing myself to my cell when the frustration and aggression descends, but I doubt I could restrain myself if Lopez made a serious play for Zeta. So, I’m doing what I have to do to stop that from happening. And to keep her protected. Valeria hasn’t done much more than toss out insults and scathing looks, but that would change if Lopez dumped her to actively seek out Zeta.
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