The Edge Rules (The Rules Series Book 3)

by Melanie Hooyenga

  If being his verbal punching bag will set things right with the universe, I’ll take it.

  Dad’s pissed that I still haven’t finished my hours, even though I’m on schedule, and he’s not-so-lovingly reminded me that there won’t be an extension. Today makes seventeen hours remaining, but if I don’t complete my hours by next week, no Switzerland for me. After some serious time with my calculator, I figured out that if I work four hours every day until Christmas, I’ll finish on time. Unless they send me home early.

  I text Dad during an especially boring morning shift. When you said Christmas, did you mean Christmas Day or Christmas break?

  His response comes as I’m driving home. This is not a negotiation.

  So Christmas Day. Which is five days away.

  My blood chills as I turn onto our street. Two moving trucks the size of a small country are parked in the driveway.

  My driveway.

  Deep down I knew this day was coming. Well, I knew on every level because everything we own is shoved in a box, ready for “the next stage in our lives.” Mom’s words, not mine. And while she reminded me half a dozen times that they’d be here today, I guess I was still holding out hope that it wouldn’t happen. That we’d get to keep the house and hang onto this one thing from when things were good.

  Or at least okay.

  I park next to the truck closest to the house and scowl at the man holding a clipboard near the back of the truck. His uniform sports a logo that matches the decal on the truck, and a thick leather belt is cinched around his waist. He gives me a nod and smile, and I feel a twinge of guilt for not doing the polite thing and smiling back. He may be doing his job, but this is my life.

  Inside, hulking men in matching uniforms carry boxes down the stairs. My name is scrawled across the side of several and my stomach plummets.

  “Please be careful with those,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, Miss,” says the man holding all my belongings. “We’ll take good care of your things.” They march by in a depressing caravan, emptying the house of all evidence that I’ve lived here my entire life.

  “Oh good, you’re here.” Mom comes down the stairs between two men who could pass for professional linebackers. “As they clear out each room, I need you to double check that nothing was overlooked.”

  My head nods, but it’s like my mind and body are no longer connected.

  Mom pauses, her checklist hovering between us. A glimmer of compassion crosses her face. “I know this is stressful, but I need you firing on all cylinders. You can wallow tonight.”

  Tonight. In our new condo. Where we’ll get our fresh start and birds will chirp outside our window and little faeries will help me unpack. Right. “Sure, Mom.”

  She rests her hand on my arm and for a minute I’m ten years old, before status and appearances and the need to be idolized took over. “We’ll order from Coast, okay?”

  Tears burn my eyes, and I’m surprised to see her eyes watering, too. A lump catches in my throat, making it hard to speak. “It’s a date.”

  She heads outside and I wander from room to room, committing each detail to memory, but everything that made this our home is already gone.

  The men dismantle our lives in record time, then we’re standing on the front porch, the cold air swirling around us. “Looks like it might snow,” Mom says, and I raise an eyebrow. “I know, talking about the weather. But it does.” She points at the heavy clouds rolling over the treetops. “Hopefully they can get everything unloaded before it hits.”

  The trucks back out of the driveway, their high-pitched beeps shrieking in time with my thoughts.

  Don’t go.

  Come back.

  This can’t be happening.

  Mom watches them for another moment before turning to me. “I’ve already done my final walk-through, but if you want to check once more, I can meet you at the condo.”

  “Thanks.” I wish I could say more. To tell her how grateful I am for this act of kindness. To acknowledge that underneath her steely appearance, she really does have a heart. “I won’t be long.”

  She walks down the path to her car while I step inside one last time. Grief nearly knocks me to the floor. This is it. We’re really leaving the only home I’ve ever known. The last thread to when our lives were complete has finished unraveling and all that’s left to show for it is an empty house.

  The day of my arrest, when Dad announced he was leaving, feels like eons ago. And yet it’s barely been a few weeks. So much has changed that I almost don’t recognize my reflection in the French doors. I seem older somehow, more grown up, and I’m both excited and scared for the future.

  I don’t go upstairs. The house is completely empty—I’ve already idiot-checked every room—and seeing my room will only make this harder. Despite what Mom said, I’ve never been one to wallow. Turning off the light in the foyer, I pick up the shoebox I saved for last, whisper “goodbye,” then close the door on my past.

  Maybe this move won’t be all bad. I’ve hit rock bottom in every way possible, so the only way left is up.

  Mom’s expecting me at the condo, but I make a detour on the way. My fingers drum the top of the shoebox in the passenger seat, and I try not to think about what’s inside. What it represents.

  In a perfect world, I’d return the jewelry I stole to the stores, but A) I don’t want to get in more trouble, and B) I honestly don’t remember what came from which store. Carrying a shoebox around downtown Boulder and asking store owners to pick what belongs to them doesn’t sound like the best idea, so I’m bringing it to the women’s shelter Bruno mentioned. Bracelets and necklaces may not be as important as toiletries and clothes, but everyone likes to look pretty.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the metal door beneath a sign that says “Drop Off” is locked. A couple bags of clothes sit beneath the overhang, so I unceremoniously set the shoebox on top, giving it a final pat before heading back to my car. A weight doesn’t lift my shoulders, and I don’t breathe a sigh of relief.

  Because I took the easy way out. But it’s a start.

  By the time I get to the condo, the truck is half empty. The second truck went to a storage unit, where furniture and wedding albums and vacation mementoes will sit until Mom’s ready to get rid of them—proving she is human. My bed is assembled and boxes sit along the wall, ready for me to reinvent my life.

  We eat sushi while watching a DVD since the internet won’t be connected until tomorrow, and when I fall asleep in the strange room that doesn’t yet smell like mine, an unfamiliar feeling settles around my heart.

  Hope.

  On Christmas Eve morning, my alarm wakes me from a restless sleep—the rainbows and cotton candy I hoped to dream of were replaced by Xavier’s look of hurt and betrayal and Dad’s disappointment that I still haven’t finished my community service hours.

  But today’s the magic day. Four more hours in the food kitchen and I’m done. With no time to spare.

  I dig my phone out from beneath my pillow and my breathing stops when I see a text from Drea.

  I need your help.

  And she sent it over an hour ago.

  I scramble to a sitting position. Where are you?

  At a motel near the highway.

  Shit. This can’t be good. I need an address.

  She gives me the name and which highway. I have no idea where it is but that’s what GPS is for. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

  I throw on jeans and a dark hoodie—the same outfit I’d planned to wear to the food kitchen—and pull my hair into a ponytail. Old Brianna makes me hesitate for a moment. If I go, I won’t finish my hours by Dad’s deadline.

  No Switzerland.

  And Dad’s eternal disappointment.

  But I have to help Drea.

  Downstairs, boxes line the kitchen but the coffeepot has already been put to use. I fill a travel mug and call out, “Mom, I’m heading out.”

  A light dusting of snow covers my 4Runne
r—I lost the argument for the one-stall garage before we even had it—and while I wait for the windshield to defrost, panic sets in. What am I doing? I don’t know how to help Drea. Sure, I can go find her, but then what? Will she need to go to the hospital? Or the police? If she called me it must be bad.

  My hands tremble as I pick up my phone and check the location. The motel is half an hour away. Maybe longer if the roads are slick. Is she safe? What if her boyfriend’s there?

  The phone slips into my lap. I can’t do this alone.

  Before I can overthink it, I call Xavier. He’s gotten so good at ignoring my texts that I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s blocked my number. When he doesn’t answer, I switch to texting.

  This isn’t about me. Drea needs help.

  The windshield starts to clear but I stay in the driveway. If her boyfriend is still around, it’d be stupid for me to go by myself.

  Xavier, please. I’m scared to go alone.

  Sixty long seconds later, my phone rings. Xavier’s name displays on the screen.

  I hit answer, my heart in my throat. Part of me wants to take advantage of having him on the phone and tell him how sorry I am and how much I miss him, but this isn’t about me. “I know you hate me, but Drea texted that she needs help. She’s at a motel and her boyfriend…” I trail off. She didn’t give me specifics so I can only imagine what he did to her. And my imagination doesn’t hold back. “I’m scared to go there alone.”

  “Subie’s in the shop.”

  My stomach drops. He isn’t going to help.

  “Text me the address.” Those four words wrap around me, easing my sadness, if only for a moment.

  I do as he says.

  “Can you pick me up? The motel’s about ten minutes from my house.”

  “I’ll be there as fast as I can.” The back of the 4Runner fishtails as I whip into the street, and I grip the steering wheel with both hands.

  Twenty minutes is a long time to imagine what your friend’s boyfriend did to her. I’m so scared of what we’ll find that I don’t have the headspace to think about seeing Xavier, and when I pull into his driveway and see him waiting in front of the garage, everything inside me falls apart. A sob escapes my throat. I knew I missed him, but my entire being yearns for him. He stops next to my door and I roll down the window, fighting back tears.

  “You okay to drive?” he asks. He’s clenching his jaw and his eyes focus on my tears for half a second before he looks through me like we never meant anything to each other.

  I nod and hit unlock, then the scent of his body wash fills the car and he’s sitting inches from me. The pain from the past two weeks lessens, and I try to focus on the fact that he doesn’t hate me enough to block my number. He’s here now, and that has to mean something.

  “What’s wrong with Subie?”

  He stares out the window. “Finally getting the door replaced.”

  “Oh.”

  We’re there too soon. Not because I’m trying to milk this time with Xavier, but because I’m terrified of what we’re going to find. I park near the office of the brick, two-story building.

  I text Drea. I’m here. Where are you?

  Room 212.

  I show Xavier her text and he gets out of the car. We fall in step up the concrete staircase that cut the building in half, me slightly behind him. He hasn’t touched me—heck, he’s barely looked at me—but when we come to a stop in front of room 212, he stands so he’s shielding me from whatever lies inside.

  “Do you know if she’s alone?” His voice is rough and scratchy, and I realize he’s probably reliving what happened with Lily. I reach out to touch him but stop inches from his shoulder.

  “I don’t.”

  “Text her that we’re outside and she can come out.”

  I’m outside your door with Xavier. Can you come out?

  Her response is immediate and terrifying. No.

  My stomach drops and it’s like everything stops moving. The sounds of traffic fade away and all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears. “Try the door.”

  He grips the knob and the door swings open. The lights are off, the bed unmade. Light from the open doorway falls upon clothes and what looks like everything from inside her purse scattered across the floor.

  “Drea?” I whisper into the darkness.

  A whimper sounds from deep inside the room. Xavier meets my eyes, and the look of terror in his nearly undoes me. “I think you should stay here,” he whispers.

  Everything in me to argue, but this is why I called him. As he steps into the darkness, panic grabs my chest. What are we doing? We’re just teenagers. Shouldn’t the police handle this? “Wait.”

  He reappears in the shaft of light. “Get ready to call 9-1-1.” Then he disappears again.

  The seconds tick by, each filling my head with what he’ll find. Finally, he calls out, “It’s safe.”

  I find them huddled in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. Drea’s bare legs are pulled tight to her body, her arm cradled against her chest. Her curly hair is loose, covering her face. “What can I do?”

  “Call the police,” Xavier says.

  Drea shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is raspy, barely a squeak. So different from the strong, confident girl I’ve gotten to know.

  I drop to my knees next to Xavier and reach across him to touch her leg. She flinches at the contact, and I yank my hand back. “Drea, where’s Colton?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We need to get you out of here,” I say.

  “I just want to go home.”

  “We can take you home,” Xavier says. His jaw ticks. “But you need to see a doctor.”

  “Can you bring me?”

  Xavier and I lock eyes in the semi-darkness. Our first priority is getting her away from this place. “Of course,” I say.

  He pushes up from the floor and steps over me to stand near the end of the bed. “You’ll need to help her.” He gestures at the floor. “Her pants.”

  Right. I squat next to her and resist brushing her hair from her face. “Is it okay if we turn on the light?”

  She nods, tucking her face into her knees. Xavier turns on the light on the nightstand, then moves across the room to close the door and leans against the far wall. A pair of leggings are on the floor near the TV, along with her Chucks.

  Her purple Chucks.

  Seeing them on the floor of this dingy motel room connects this broken girl in front of me with the sarcastic, funny girl who’s become my only friend and I can’t stop the tears that slide down my face. I grab the leggings and hold them in front of me, unsure how to do this. “I need you to help me.”

  She lifts her face and the room tilts on its axis. Her eye is nearly swollen shut and a cut runs down the length of her cheek. Her lower lip is split, blood crusted along the edge, and angry red marks ring her throat.

  “Oh my god.”

  “Who the hell are you?” We jump at the voice booming from the doorway. Drea curls even tighter against the wall. This must be Colton. I vaguely remember her telling me he plays football, and it shows. He’s handsome in a conventional way—tall, blond hair, built—but nothing about him is attractive. He’s gripping a fast food bag and his other fist flexes and unflexes at his side. A sneer darkens his face as his gaze bounces between the three of us.

  Xavier reaches the door in two strides and blocks the entrance. “The question you should be asking is why the hell you came back.” Xavier is several inches shorter but that doesn’t seem to scare him.

  “That’s my girlfriend. I brought her breakfast.”

  My blood chills. It’s like he doesn’t realize she’s been beat up.

  Xavier doesn’t back down. “She’s not hungry.”

  Colton’s jaw clenches. “Don’t tell me what she wants.” He peers in our direction over Xavier’s shoulder and his voice softens. “Baby, you hungry? I got you hash browns.”

  Drea’s hand finds mine and squeezes like her life
depends on it. Her leggings are still in my other hand, so as discreetly as I can, I untangle them and nudge the opening over her toes. Without looking away from Colton, she relaxes her leg so I can tug them up her shins. We get them to her knees before Colton realizes something’s going on.

  “What are you doing? You can’t leave.”

  “Hurry,” I whisper.

  “Back off,” Xavier growls. “You are not coming in here.”

  I look up to see them toe-to-toe, the paper bag forgotten on the floor. Rage rolls off Colton like it’s a second skin and he’s staring down at Xavier like he wants to rip his head off. In that moment I realize Xavier isn’t just protecting Drea.

  He’s protecting me.

  We need to get out of here. “Drea, you have to help me.” My hands tremble as I yank the leggings farther up her legs. She braces herself against the wall to pull them over her butt, then collapses against me.

  Now what?

  My phone! I can call the police!

  It’s on the bed within arm’s reach, but I don’t know what Colton will do if he sees me reach for it. It’s like we’re frozen in a stand-off, the three of us against Colton, and I’m terrified to make the wrong move.

  “Get out of my way before you regret it.” Colton steps forward until his chest bumps Xavier’s, and I grab my phone while they’re glaring at each other. But there’s no way I can call with him standing here.

  “Text,” Drea whispers.

  I’ve never called the police and I’ve certainly never texted them, so I don’t know what to say. I enter 9-1-1 and type Help. My friend’s hurt and her boyfriend won’t let us leave. I add the name of the hotel and hit send.

  A reply comes immediately, the ding loud and clear in the small room. I flip it to silent but it’s too late. Colton focuses on me like he’s seeing me for the first time.