Razed

by Shiloh Walker

  He’d listen. She knew that.

  She could tell him. The abbreviated version, the white-washed one.

  She could even do what she’d never done—tell him everything.

  She wasn’t sure she was ready for any of the above, though. Sliding a hand down, she covered his hand with hers.

  “Some kids spend so many years in foster care, they just get used to it. Others, they daydream—they spend their time dreaming about a parent—a mom or dad who’ll show up out of the blue. I knew my dad was dead, but I had no idea what had really happened with my mom. Not then. I had a caseworker. And . . . there was Mr. Jenkins. He’d come out to see me.” She smiled, remembering his smooth bald head and his wide, almost startled blue eyes. “I liked Mr. Jenkins. I didn’t really know who he was—why he was there, what he did. But he was always checking up on me. Made sure I had toys or electronics or whatever kids my age wanted . . . for me it was books. Art supplies. He made sure I was happy, or as happy as I could be. Made sure that I had clothes I liked. The caseworkers would change and my foster families would change, but he was always there. I’d even daydream that maybe he was my fairy godfather or something—helping me look for a home. He was there the day she showed up, though. And I figured out real fast he wasn’t out there waiting for her.”

  “Who?”

  Keelie angled her head around. “My mom.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Yeah.” She looked back out the window. “I’d been in foster care for four years when she showed up, out of the blue. I was sitting outside at a picnic table talking to Mr. Jenkins about school clothes and music and he was telling me about his granddaughter and we were having a nice time. And then there she was. My mom. I didn’t even know who she was.

  “My mother,” she murmured again. “Mrs. Katherine Marie Vissing.”

  It had been a punch in the face, seeing the woman climb from the back of the shiny black car. The coat of paint had gleamed so bright, Keelie would have been able to see her face in it. Her mother had stood there, posing, for just a moment.

  Keelie could see it now, with the clarity that came from years—and knowledge.

  Her mother was many things. Genuine wasn’t one of them.

  That faint quiver of her lip, the way her eyes had widened. How she’d pressed a snowy square of linen to her lips.

  A man had come around the side of the car and wrapped his arm around her and Keelie had been staggered. They were beautiful, like the Barbie and Ken dolls some of the girls she knew liked to play with. Keelie had been more prone to drawing on them or just taking them apart and putting them back together with different pieces—the Princess of Ireland doll and her red hair with the body of a doll from Africa. Arms from Asia. Legs from who knows where. Then she’d draw all over them. Crazy little pictures.

  Of course, that usually ended up with her getting in trouble—usually just sweetie . . . we have to talk . . . discussions, followed by chores where she had to earn money to pay for the dolls.

  Sometimes, it had led to calls to the caseworker and visits to a counselor, but for the most part, her experience in foster care hadn’t been a bad thing. She was lucky, she knew that.

  All of her bad luck had started when she went to live with her mother.

  “They’d come to take me home,” she murmured. “I was fourteen and I’d been living with the same family for almost two years. I liked them. They liked me. We weren’t falling apart crazy for each other, but we . . .” She shrugged, thinking of the Huxtables, how the father got up to work the farm and how, sometimes, he’d let her ride out with him in the summer. “We were happy. It was almost a fit. Then my mom showed up.”

  * * *

  Zane was almost certain nobody wore a brood quite as well as she did. With her knee drawn up to rest on the wide lip of the window’s ledge, her head resting against the window frame, she stared outside, but he knew it wasn’t the slow sprawl of the city or the sun-gilded vista of the desert she saw before her.

  She was trapped somewhere back in her past.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Keelie swung her head around. “Why?”

  “I’m making you sad. I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s okay.” She came over, sat on the edge of the bed. “I mean, hey, it’s kind of stupid, isn’t it? Girl spends years in foster care and then bam. Gets to go be with her real mom. I ought to be happy, yeah?”

  He reached out, covered the hand she’d curled into a fist.

  “That depends on the mom.”

  Her eyes met his.

  Leaning in, he cupped her chin in his hand. “My mom is wonderful. Whether she still scares me a little—”

  “A lot,” Keelie cut in. She arched a brow and said, “I’ve seen you guys around her. She scares you. A lot. It’s almost cute.”

  He leaned in, bit her lower lip. Since he was there, he kissed her, soft, slow, taking in the taste and just the . . . moment. The fact that he was here with her, that he could press his mouth to hers, hear the way her breath caught. Before he could lose his mind to that moment, though, he eased back. “Whether she scares me a little or not,” he said, “I know the five of us sort of hit a jackpot all around and our parents are amazing. I also know that not all parents are like that. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Yeah?” She lifted a brow at him, smirking. “Wait. Let me guess. You know some kids who had to actually work for their own car or something?”

  He reached up and caught a hank of her hair, tugged. “Smart-ass.”

  He turned away, spying a pair of jeans he’d left folded over the foot of the bed. “You got a chip on your shoulder about money, Keelie.”

  “I’ve got reasons.” Her voice slid into a cool tone.

  He shrugged. “I figure you think you do. But a person having money doesn’t change one simple fact . . . a person is still a person and some of them are assholes, while some of them aren’t. Case in point—Zach has a pretty decent chunk of money. And under most circumstances, he’s not an asshole.”

  He turned back to her, tried not to stare at the way she sat with the sheet draped around her. He wondered what she’d looked like in college—if she’d done toga parties or she’d just curled her lip in that obnoxious, appealing way of hers.

  “I’ll grant you that.” She cocked her head.

  “Now let me tell you about Abby’s mom.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the dresser, trying to decide just how much he could say here, how much he should say. A lot of this was public record. It wasn’t anything unknown. Too much of Abby’s life had been made public years ago. She had her own life now and she kept it private, but she’d clawed and fought hard to make it that way.

  “Did you ever see the show they were in?” he asked.

  Keelie shrugged. “Not much. It was winding down by the time I was old enough to pay attention. But I’ve caught some of the reruns. Cutesy sitcoms aren’t my thing, but they are just as adorable now as they were then as kids.” She lifted a brow. “It’s almost sickening.”

  “Yeah . . . I could tell how disturbed you were with that awwww face so many women make at weddings.” He chuckled. “And some people thought there was some chance they wouldn’t end up together. So . . . since you watched a few episodes of Kate + Nate, I guess you noticed Abby’s hair when she was younger.”

  Keelie rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “I’m not blind.”

  “Her hair started to change when she was . . . I dunno. Thirteen or so? Abby used to hate her hair,” Zane murmured, remembering how they’d all tease her. Everybody but Zach. “She hated it. Then it started to change and you’d think she’d won the lottery. But the producers hated it. Zach had heard them talking about it—he was like a fly on the wall, heard anything and everything connected to that girl. We’d gone to pick her up for a movie and I went with Zach to the door—Abby answered, trying not to cry. She had this plastic cap on her head, a towel around her shoulders. She couldn’t go. Her mother
had people over to deal with a problem—I heard the bitch complaining in the background. She made Abby dye her hair for years. All because the producers thought that the brighter red hair was the only thing that would work for darling Kate.”

  “It sounds like typical Hollywood,” Keelie said, looking away.

  “Zach wanted to cut his hair that year—so he did it. On his own.” Zane could still remember that butcher job, too. “He all but shaved his head bald and my parents even figured out why. Mom just tidied it up, and even trimmed it shorter right before they were going to start shooting the next season. The director, a bunch of others, freaked out. The director really got worked up, started laying into him. Biggest mistake they ever made, because Mom was there. They never did it again. It’s different for girls . . . women. Some of the biggest double standards are found in LA. But Zach had the time of his life the first day on set—I always liked to go the first day of shooting. It was a family thing. He walked right up to Abby and grabbed his head, started to shriek. My hair—my hair . . . Abby, I could only act because of my hair—they’ll fire me and the show is overrrrrr . . . Then he looked at Blanche and pretended to pass out.”

  “Blanche.”

  “Abby’s mom.” Zane shoved away from the dresser and moved across the floor, sinking to his knees in front of the bed. “That one was mild. You should have seen the look on her face when she showed up to get Abby after Zach hit this pervert in the head with a skateboard—it was this guy Blanche was screwing on the side, not that she ever admitted to it. She was such a faithful wife, you see. He tried to go after Abby, tried to put his hands on her. Zach showed up at just the right time and bashed him with his skateboard. But of course Abby misunderstood . . . Blanche would never bring a man into the house who’d touched a girl that way.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Keelie’s eyes started to burn. “You’re joking . . . no. No, you’re not, are you?”

  “No.” He angled his head. “Not too long after that, the show’s popularity started to sag. Zach and Abby weren’t as cute as teens as they had been when they were kids. The show was in trouble. They weren’t offered as much money. Now Blanche, she was all about money. After the show was cancelled, she had this brilliant idea that she’d get Abby into more serious acting—one of the first auditions she’d tried to push at Abby wasn’t much more than a skin flick dressed up as a thriller. She would have been perfectly happy seeing her teenage daughter walk around in next to nothing, acting her way through an orgy, a gang-rape, and then a suicide—Abby hated the script, but that didn’t matter to Blanche. Blanche just saw the potential for a check with a lot of zeroes.”

  Zane rose, turned away. “Fortunately, her dad had a better head on his shoulders and he argued. Unfortunately, he started to lose more arguments and one day, he up and killed himself, left Abby alone.”

  “I . . .” Keelie blew out a breath. “Shit. I didn’t know any of that.”

  “That glamour girl didn’t exactly walk a rose path.”

  Keelie flushed at the mention of the mocking name she’d used for Abby. “So I see. It sounds like her mom and my mom might have been great pals.”

  “She liked zeroes, too?”

  “You know that song ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’?” Keelie shrugged. “Screw diamonds. If you have enough zeroes in the bank, then you can buy plenty of diamonds. Furs. Cars. You name it. Anyway, family court decided they should give my mom a chance. She was older, smarter, looked like she could provide a stable home life . . . blah, blah, blah. Plus, she was married—I even had a ready-made family, a stepbrother and two half sisters. What more could you want?”

  Zane came to her and slid his arms around, tucking his chin against her shoulder. She leaned into him and sighed. It felt so good just to be near him. To feel his warmth, his strength. She felt . . . Keelie closed her eyes and let herself acknowledge how she felt here with him. In his arms, she felt at home. She felt like she belonged, something she hadn’t really felt in years.

  “You could want to be happy,” he said quietly, stroking a hand up her back and tangling it in her hair. “It’s not a bad thing to want, not really.”

  “Yeah.” She opened her eyes and stared out the window. “It’s not a bad thing.”

  Neither of them said anything else.

  * * *

  “I still think you should spend the day with me.”

  She slid Zane an amused look. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “I can be stuff.”

  She laughed a little, but the laugh died as they came to a stop in front of her apartment. “Well,” she murmured. “This is . . . different.”

  Nolan’s car was pulled up to the front door and as she watched the door swung open. Nolan came out, the muscles in his skinny arms bulging as he hefted a box into the back.

  Zane pulled the car to a stop, his eyes following hers. “Problem?”

  “Looks like Nolan is pulling out.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “If he’s leaving the kids, yeah.” She rubbed the back of her neck and turned her head to look at him. “Their mom has a weird idea of parenting. Smacking them across the face is how you deal with them when they are hungry. Or not feeling good. Or just about anything.”

  Zane didn’t say anything.

  And when she climbed out, he was right behind her.

  Her heart lurched up into her throat only to still when she saw the two girls snuggled into their car seats.

  Nolan paused when he saw her, his young face far too old. Lines bracketed out from his mouth and a vicious, glorious bruise surrounded his eye.

  “Keelie.” He nodded at her, ignoring Zane.

  “Tired of trying to make it work with her, huh?”

  His bark of laughter was razor-edged. “There’s no making it work with Tara. You and I both know that. I was a fucking moron to think I could. A moron to think I could . . .” He stopped, clamping his mouth shut. “The cops came. She’d just slugged me one when they showed up. Was going to do it again and they restrained her.”

  “How much had she had to drink?”

  Nolan shook his head. “Who knows? I can’t do this anymore. Can’t let the girls see it. She tried to hit a cop. They arrested her—pretty sure she’s in violation of her parole, too.”

  “Where are you going to go?” She wondered what he’d do, how he’d take it if she offered him some money.

  He slammed the trunk door shut and then, slowly, he lifted his head. “I’m going home. Back to my mom’s. She . . .” He stopped, shaking his head. “I don’t know if she’ll want to help me, but she’ll do it for the girls. She won’t say no to kids.”

  “Your mom. I didn’t know . . .”

  He moved around the car. “We ain’t talked since I left home, five, six years ago. But she ain’t gonna close the door on the kids. I’ll tell her about Tara. I’m hoping she can find a way to help me get custody, too.”

  “How can she do that?”

  The look he gave her then was a bitter one. “My mom works for the DA’s office. She’s a lawyer. If anybody can keep Tara away from the girls, it’s my mom.”

  * * *

  She was still staring at Nolan’s disappearing car when Zane slid an arm around her waist. “You okay?”

  “His mom is an attorney,” she muttered, shaking her head. “And he’s been living here, dealing with Tara. I don’t get it.”

  “You’d probably have to ask him before you’d understand.”

  “I don’t know if I’d understand even then.” She looked around, staring at the apartments, the busted-up cars. She had a reason for being here, although it wasn’t as simple as some people might think. Most people were here because they didn’t have anyplace else to go.

  She was here because . . . well.

  She didn’t feel like she fit in anyplace else. And this was anonymous. Nobody asked questions here. Nobody was likely to spend a lot of time trying to get to know her, ask questions, or make her feel like she was sup
posed to share some part of herself or get involved in the community.

  She could be as alone as she needed to be.

  She only had herself to worry about.

  But Nolan had kids. He had other people to worry about. And both he and the kids deserved more. “I don’t get it,” she murmured.

  “Keelie . . .”

  Turning her head, she found Zane just a whisper away.

  “Go inside.” Then he brushed his lips over hers. “Or come back to the loft with me. I don’t care. Just don’t stand there looking lost.”

  If he’d used any other tone, maybe if it had been anybody but Zane, she would have sneered at him and forced those words down his throat.

  Instead, she reached up and laid her hand on his cheek. “I enjoyed last night,” she murmured.

  His breath was a soft kiss on her lips. “Did you? Enough to do it again?”

  She licked her lips and his gaze dropped, lingering on her mouth.

  She drew in a breath of air and then he groaned, closing the distance between them.

  She brought up her other hand, fisting it in his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin under it, the strength of his chest, the solid wall of muscle.

  “Call me later?” she asked softly, laying a hand on his cheek.

  “Damn straight.” He brushed his mouth across hers.

  A moment later, she locked herself in her apartment. Two moments later, she was wishing she’d asked him to stay.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Now you realize you’re going to have this tattoo . . . forever. Even if you change your mind and decide to have it removed, there are likely going to be marks. You can get it covered up, but that can be costly.” Keelie smiled at the pretty, wide-eyed blonde across from her. Said blonde was curled up against her boyfriend. The boyfriend could double as a brick wall in the dead of night and some people would never know the difference.

  Keelie had a feeling they’d last all of four months.