More Than Words, Volume 7

by Carly Phillips

  Kia took her gaze off her phone and eyeballed Ellie. She appeared to fight a smirk, but lost the battle.

  “What?” Ellie bent low and inspected her face in the reflection of her hubcap. Two streaks of grease ran across her forehead in the shape of an L. For loser.

  She glared at Kia, who was still biting back amusement. “You could help, you know.”

  “I don’t want to have an L on my forehead.”

  Ellie tried to wipe it off but, according to her reflection, she’d only succeeded in making it worse. “What if sometime after you get your driver’s license, you get a flat tire?”

  “Then I’ll call my hot boyfriend.” Kia let her smile loose. “See? I’m telling you, they’re handy to have. You should try to get yourself one. You know, before it’s too late.”

  “It’s not too late!”

  “Thirty-two,” Kia repeated as if she was saying eighty-two. “You have any cats?”

  “Two.”

  “Oh, yeah. Then it’s too late for you.”

  “Because I have cats?”

  “Hello,” Kia said. “Having multiple cats is, like, the crazy lady signature.”

  Ellie wondered what Kia would say if she knew that once upon a time, Ellie had been just as wild and uncontrollable as she was, if not more so. With a nonexistent father and a mother who’d spent a lot of time behind bars, raising Ellie had fallen to her grandma, who’d taken one look at an attitude-ridden Ellie and tossed her into a program called WET Risk Takers. Once a month for six months, her grandma would drive Ellie from Connecticut to New York City, where, through the power of film and strong female role models, Ellie had learned to respect herself, had learned that she alone held the power to carve her own destiny instead of following in her mother’s bad footsteps.

  Now, years later, she used the program that had once saved her life as the model to run her own. Like WET, Ellie utilized films with positive female role models, bringing in female writers and producers and directors when she could to give fun workshops for the girls, engaging them, showing them how important their education was, and what they could do with it.

  Like the original WET program, Ellie had diversified, bringing in other strong female role models such as chefs, teachers, life coaches, anyone and everyone she could get to make positive impressions and be a good influence, and teach the girls to change and better their lives. She was always looking for new people and new ways to enrich the program, driven by a need to make sure no one slipped through the cracks. As she nearly had.

  As she was deathly afraid Kia would.

  “Ms. Cahn?”

  Ellie had just gotten one of the lug nuts off and was struggling with the second, her knees sinking in the mud. Damn soggy weather. “Hold…on.”

  “Okay, but—”

  The lug nut gave unexpectedly, and Ellie fell backward onto her butt. Mud splashed up into her face. “Crap.”

  “Um, Ms. Cahn—”

  Ellie blew a strand of hair from her eyes. Or she tried, but the mud on her face had it sticking to her skin like glue. “Kia, unless you want to get your pristine behind out of that car and help me, then—”

  “Guy alert!” Kia whispered loudly.

  Ellie once again tried to blow the hair from her face and failed. “What?”

  “You know, cute guy at one, two, THREE o’clock!”

  Ellie turned to her right and caught sight of a pair of long denim-clad legs.

  “Ladies,” came a low, husky male voice. “Looks like you have a problem.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ellie looked up.

  And up.

  The long denim-clad legs bent at the knees until the man that went with them was crouched at her side, at least six feet of hard sinew and sheer strength. He wore a slightly oversize button-down, untucked over black jeans, a cool pair of boots, mirrored sunglasses and a carriage that suggested you might not want to mess with him.

  Since she’d known him before his military training had hardened his expression, the shiver that raced up her spine wasn’t fear.

  Elbows on his thighs, he pulled off his sunglasses and revealed cool slate-gray eyes that warmed even as she watched, and she knew he recognized her too, despite all the grease and mud she had smeared all over her.

  “Ellie Cahn,” he said, a barely there smile crossing his lips.

  She hadn’t seen him for a long, long time. Not since she’d run as wild and uncontrolled as Kia, in fact. “Jack Buchanan,” she said, extremely aware of Kia behind her practically falling out of the car to catch every word.

  Jack’s smile came into full bloom then, and something in her belly fluttered as just like that, the years fell away. “How long has it been?” she asked.

  “Too long.”

  His voice alone had memories slamming into her. Fellow rebels through high school, they’d spent untold hours in detention, blaming everyone but themselves, and even more hours running wild from their demons— Ellie from her screwed-up home life, Jack from a family he couldn’t please. The two of them had chased fun and trouble together for four years.

  Until it hadn’t been fun.

  Until she’d grown up, the hard way.

  But looking into Jack’s face brought back only the good times. The best of times.

  “So you two, like, know each other,” Kia said.

  “Used to.” Jack’s eyes smiled. “In high school.”

  But Kia didn’t much care about that. “Do you know how to change a tire?”

  “Kia,” Ellie said. “Jack’s not going to fix the tire. I told you I—”

  But Jack dropped to his knees beside her and reached for the tire iron, his shirt stretching across the muscles of his back as he worked, effortlessly removing the stubborn lug nuts, then the flat tire, replacing it in less than four minutes.

  “Your spare’s not great,” he said, inspecting the tread. Getting lithely to his feet, he pulled Ellie up to hers as well, his hand big and warm and callused on hers. “Make sure you replace the spare today.”

  “And get an AAA card,” Kia muttered.

  Jack’s gaze never left Ellie’s, and his thumb swept lazily over her knuckles. “It really has been a long time.”

  “Yes.” She realized she was staring and shook her head. “Something like fourteen years, right? Since graduation. It’s odd to think about it, since I work at the high school now, teaching.”

  He smiled. “I bet you’re good at it. So what are you doing in this part of town?”

  Ellie gestured to the building down the street. “I also run PIC—it helps out teen girls. We just finished a workshop.”

  Jack turned his head and took in the hardworking, slightly defeated neighborhood, and the warehouse that wasn’t quite on its last legs but maybe getting close. “Bet you’re good at that, too.”

  “How about you?” she asked. “You’re out of the military?”

  “Yes. And running self-defense studios with my brother. We have one downtown. No Limits Training Club.”

  She felt discombobulated, talking so lightly with someone who’d once been such an important part of her life. He was all long, tough ranginess, right up close and in her space. He’d shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, making his military short dark hair stick straight up. He was tanned, and the build of his big, sinewy body said he worked it hard. Even the mud now clinging to his knees looked good on him.

  Kia sighed and made a big show of looking at the time on her cell phone. “So we can go now, right?”

  “Right,” Jack said, tugging on Ellie’s hand, bringing her in even closer. “It’s really good to see you,” he murmured, and hugged her.

  Ellie opened her mouth to say “same goes,” but Kia spoke first. “Ask him if he likes cats,”

  “Enough out of you,” Ellie muttered. Extremely aware of Jack’s gaze on her, she turned back to him. His eyes were flashing an emotion she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it felt both alluring and dangerous. “Well,” she said. “Thanks for
your help.”

  He nodded, and from somewhere in his pocket, his cell phone began vibrating. He ignored it to stroke a finger over Ellie’s temple, pushing loose strands of hair from her face, tucking then behind her ear. “It should have been more.”

  She knew he was referring to another time and place, when he hadn’t been there to help her when she’d needed him most. A time she’d nearly managed to forget, but he clearly hadn’t, and the memory threw her a little bit. “Jack—”

  His smile no longer meeting his eyes, he turned away. “Don’t forget—get a new spare.”

  And with that, he got into a black Jeep and was gone.

  “Yeah,” Kia said. “It’s definitely the cats.”

  Ellie slid behind the wheel. “It wasn’t the cats.”

  “Yeah, it was. They’re a total deal breaker. Probably you shouldn’t mention them.”

  Ellie slid her a look. “You mentioned them.”

  Kia grinned.

  Grinned.

  “Okay, let me get this straight,” Ellie said, unable to help laughing. “You finally smile, and it’s at my expense?”

  “I’m laughing with you.”

  Ellie shook her head and eased out into traffic. “You do know that getting a date with a guy isn’t the be-all and end-all.”

  “No. Actually, a date with a hot guy is the be-all and end-all.”

  “Such a kidder today.”

  “Who says I’m kidding?”

  Ellie spent the next week teaching math to kids who didn’t want to learn it, while thinking a lot about her own high school past.

  And Jack.

  It’d been good to see him. Really good. It had brought back a lot of memories, all also good. The few that weren’t so great were a vibrant reminder of why she ran PIC.

  She had twenty-two girls in the current program. This week they watched a new independent film. The screenwriter, award-winning Sally Aberman, came and gave a talk about the plot’s focus—healthy relationships versus abusive relationships; what to do if you were in one, or were trying to help someone get out of one.

  Afterward, Sally and Ellie led a workshop where everyone role-played an unhealthy relationship. The idea was to teach the girls how to react in the most positive way for them.

  And how to get out of a bad situation. One of the girls, Maddie, a sweet, small, dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark-eyed girl with a dark life, raised her hand. “How do you even know if you’re in an unhealthy relationship?”

  “Good question,” Ellie said. “You can tell by asking yourself if that relationship makes you feel sad, angry, scared or worried. Or if that relationship makes you hurt.”

  “Like if he’s abusive?” asked another teen. Celia. She was tall, skinny, her blond hair pulled back so tight that she was all eyes. Bright blue eyes. “Cuz my sister lets her boyfriend beat on her. She says he doesn’t mean to.”

  “Do you believe that?” Sally asked.

  “No.”

  “Good,” Sally said. “Because it’s all about trust. And if someone hurts you, they break your trust. You can’t, and shouldn’t, be with someone without a basis of trust.”

  Ellie liked that explanation. It put the issue into simple terms a teen could understand and easily explain. She noticed that the girls, most of whom spent their waking hours on Facebook or bored to tears, were actually listening.

  Except for the one teen she wanted—needed—to listen.

  Kia. She wasn’t close to the other girls. She kept everyone at arm’s length. And she was texting. Ellie moved to the back of the room and came up next to her, while Sally continued to speak.

  “You know the rules about being on the phone during a session,” Ellie said quietly. “I’m not on the phone.”

  Ellie put her hand over Kia’s cell. “Remember our talk about respect?”

  “I’m respecting, I’m just not necessarily believing.”

  “This is a workshop I planned specifically for you,” Ellie told her softly.

  Kia went still for a telling beat, then went back to popping her gum and not paying attention.

  “Kia.”

  “I’m not in an abusive relationship.”

  A lie. “You can trust me,” Ellie said. “You can talk to me.”

  “Okay.”

  Ellie looked at Kia’s expression of utter indifference and sighed. “Put the phone away,” she said, and moved back to the front of the room.

  The next week at PIC, Ellie brought in an author who’d written her own teenage biography. The girls were encouraged to write their own stories. Most gave it at least a halfhearted attempt, but Kia refused. In fact, she walked out.

  After everyone else had left, Ellie found her in the bathroom, crying as if her heart was breaking. “Oh, Kia.”

  “I have something in my eye.” She turned away and swiped angrily at her face. “That’s all. It’s out now.”

  Ellen handed her tissues and met Kia’s gaze in the mirror.

  “It’s stupid.”

  “Try me,” Ellie said.

  “It’s just that I have no story to tell.” Angrily Kia swiped at her tears. “None. I’m a…nobody.”

  “Are you kidding? You have a great story. You’re turning your life around—”

  “From what? My mother didn’t mean to have me—did you know that? I’m nothing but trouble, and a terrible inconvenience. I’m a statistic, a…broken condom. Writing down my life would be a waste of paper.”

  Ellie’s heart squeezed hard at the words. Once upon a time, she’d felt exactly the same way.

  “You don’t understand,” Kia accused.

  “Because I was never seventeen?” Ellie asked wryly, and Kia rolled her eyes. “When I was your age, my mom was in prison.”

  Even the toughened Kia looked shocked at this one. “For what?”

  “Possession and intent to sell. You’d think that would scare me straight, but it didn’t. I partied, I skipped school.”

  “You?”

  “Well, I didn’t start out wearing boring jeans and sweaters and owning two cats.”

  Kia cracked a very small smile.

  “I did everything I could to follow the same destructive path as my mother.”

  “So what happened?”

  “My grandma happened. I know she’s little, but trust me, she’s one determined old woman. And she’s sneakier than me. She put me in a program called WET Risk Takers.”

  Kia sighed. “Here it comes. Cue the music, right?”

  Ellie smiled, not insulted. “Not exactly. There’s no easy happily ever after in real life.”

  Kia was quiet a minute, absorbing this. “I still don’t want to write my story.”

  Ellie nodded. “I get that, but—”

  “And I don’t want to know how in time I’ll feel different.”

  Ellie leaned against the counter next to her. “Okay. But I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Were you going to say that I should rise above it? Cuz that’s a load of crap too. I don’t want any empty platitudes.”

  “Wasn’t going to say any of that,” Ellie said. “Although platitude is a pretty good word. You could go to college with that vocabulary.”

  “Don’t start.”

  They were silent for a full three minutes before Kia blew out a breath, hands on hips. “Fine. What were you going to say?”

  “That you could use your journal to tell your story, the one you’re doing for school.” Ellie had done this all those years when she’d been in WET, and perhaps it was time to bring it to her program.

  “Right. The Musings of Pissed Off and Seventeen. Fascinating.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Kia stared at her, then shook her head. “No.”

  “You don’t want to share yourself.”

  “Well, duh. Did you?”

  “No,” Ellie admitted. “I never did. But maybe that’s the problem.”

  “No, the fact that you have two cats is your problem.”

  “Forget
the cats! If I write a journal too, will you try?”

  “You’ll keep a journal,” Kia said, heavy on the disbelief.

  “If that would make you happy.”

  “What will we write about specifically?” Kia wanted to know.

  “Well…” Ellie thought about it. “Maybe about how you need to learn to rein it in a little bit.”

  Kia looked at her suspiciously. “And you?”

  “And I have to do the opposite.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I need to learn to put myself out there a little bit more. Not as a teacher, not professionally, but personally.”

  Kia nodded. “So…we write down our feelings, with no judging?”

  “If you stop making fun of my cats.”

  Kia gave a half laugh. “Maybe. If you write about that guy, the one who made you blush.”

  “What guy?”

  “You know, what’s-his-name. Tire guy. Jack.”

  “He didn’t make me blush,” Ellie said.

  “Well, it was hard to see beneath the dirt, but when he hugged you, you got all red. You don’t get red when you teach math.”

  Not what she wanted to hear. “He’s just an old friend, Kia.”

  “Uh-huh. A ‘friend’.” Kia put air quotes around the word.

  From the street an engine revved, and both Ellie and Kia looked out the small bathroom window to see a huge, tricked-out truck parking.

  Bobby.

  “You’re going to see him today?” Ellie asked.

  “He apologized,” Kia said.

  “For hitting you?”

  Kia’s expression closed off. “He’s my ride. I gotta go.”

  “Okay, but if I suspect he’s hurt you again, I’m going to report him.”

  “He won’t.” Kia moved to the door.

  “Wait. Why don’t you let me drive you?”

  “He’s already here. And my mom said I could go with him. She gave you permission.”

  Yeah. Except moms didn’t always do the right thing. Sometimes the moms were juvenile themselves, with a penchant for the wrong men and the wrong side of the law.

  But Kia walked out of the bathroom and a minute later appeared outside. She climbed up into the monster truck and planted a kiss on the guy she liked even though he was bad for her.