This is definitely the most difficult piggyback ride I've ever given.
I hope like hell that Hitch's idea of 'lots' of money is the same as mine. If I find out this is all a bunch of crap, I'm going to seriously wreck his face.
I jog through the rain with ragged panting breaths and find Nash pacing anxiously, Maddox standing stone-still by his side. The rainwater near our feet is bathed in a wash of red and blue from the oncoming cop cars.
“This a-hole just fucked us and you're bringing him along?” Nash asks, but I don't have time to explain. I give him a stern look that says I know what the hell I'm doing and just keep running. We turn the corner, Nash's hand tucked in Maddox's to keep him from getting lost, and let ourselves into the backyard of an elderly neighbor. She has a long, double lot with a back gate that lets us out on San Lorenzo Boulevard, near the walking bridge.
Cutting across that, we book it down to the boardwalk.
Since it's a Friday night, the place is packed, the rain driving most of the crowd inside the arcade and restaurant area at the end of the park. I drop Hitch onto the bench of a picnic table near the bathrooms and collapse on the opposite side, struggling to catch my breath.
“Why'd you bring this piece of shit with us?” Nash asks, gesturing angrily at Hitch as he rolls up his pant leg to inspect his ankle. It's about twice the size it should be and rapidly turning purple. “He almost got us caught. And then what would happen to Mer?”
“He says he has money he'll split with us,” I say, rubbing at my temple as the sound of pinging balls, clanging bells, and faux machine guns echoes throughout the arcade. The whole place smells like grease and ketchup, and the air is thick and hot with the humidity from such a large crowd.
It's the perfect place to catch our breath.
“Where the hell would he have gotten money from? He's just a throwaway like the rest of us.”
“Maybe,” Hitch says as Maddox hands him a cup of ice he grabbed from a nearby soda fountain. He takes a few cubes and wraps them in a wad of napkins from the silver dispenser on the table, pressing them to his ankle with a hiss of pain. “But I'm a throwaway who knows how useful being invisible can be. Shit.” He leans his head back against the wall behind him and takes several shaky breaths. “This really fucking hurts, you know that?”
“Wouldn't have happened if you'd stayed put,” Nash says, coming around the table to sit next to me. Maddox stays standing at the head of it, arms crossed over his chest, his brown leather jacket slung over his shoulders and speckled with glistening drops of rainwater.
“How much money and where did you get it?” Maddox demands, his brown eyes hard and focused on Hitch's face. In the bright lights of the arcade, at least I know he's not having any trouble seeing.
“I stole it, obviously,” Hitch says, closing his amber eyes and leaning heavily against the wall. “I'm not sure how much—never got the chance to count it—but there's got to be at least twenty thousand, easy.”
“Where is it?” Maddox asks as I sit up and push my hood back, droplets of cool water sliding down my nose and catching on my lips.
Hitch shrugs.
“Buried it in Monterey somewhere. If you take me back there, I can find it, but we should probably chill out for a little while. I got arrested for breaking and entering on the piece of property where I hid it—after I hid it, of course.” Hitch flashes this stupid grin that only lasts for a second before he's grimacing in pain again. I doubt he'll be wandering around searching for buried treasure anytime soon. “So. You guys have a contingency plan in place or something? Otherwise I don't see how you plan on finding Merry.”
“We have a designated meeting place,” I say, running my fingers through my hair. “The pier at Seacliff State Beach—although it's closed now after the storm.” I drum my fingers on the table. If Merit is in Los Gatos, then she's going to have to find her way all the back here. It might take some time. Part of me wants to hop on a bus and head up there, search for her myself, but I know that's a next to impossible task.
If Merit doesn't want to be found, I won't find her—and neither will the cops.
“We'll head there now and wait her out.”
“Seriously?” Nash asks, planting his hands on his hips and dropping his chin. “Not only did you just tell this son of a bitch about our spot, but you want to sit around and wait? That sounds like a real shitty plan to me.”
“With his ankle all fucked-up like that, Hitch is hardly a threat,” I say, giving him a look that says be better not be. He blinks his amber eyes at me and then moves the wad of wet napkins. The paper splits and half-melted cubes fall to the floor beneath the table. His ankle … I'm starting to wonder if it might be broken. It's the size of a grapefruit already. “And besides, what else do you think we should do? Visit the Kennedys? If Merit's missing, she's clearly not there. And you know her just as well as I do—if she took off, there's good reason for it. We're not going to find her running around Los Gatos like headless chickens.”
“We should at least try,” Nash says, lifting his head up to look at me. Maybe he thinks I'm stupid, but I can see guilt swimming dark and deadly inside his blue irises. Whatever it is he's hiding from me, I hope he lets it out before it circles around and bites him in the ass.
“If that's what you want to do, you're welcome to it. Just remember when you're done that the rest of us—Merit included—will be waiting at Seacliff for you.”
“Screw you, Gunner,” Nash says, sweeping dark bangs off his forehead. But I can see in the set of his shoulders and the clench of his fists that he'll come with us. At least he has the sense to know that I'm right about this.
“The question is: how do we get over there?” Maddox asks after a moment, squinting up at the clock on the wall. It's almost ten-thirty at night, about a half hour before the boardwalk closes. “The Metro? I know they run buses from here to Aptos until around midnight.”
“The Metro Center's only about a mile from here,” I say, my back aching at the thought of carrying Hitch all the way over there in the pouring rain. But what else can I do now? Maybe I should've left him behind? I guess if he is telling the truth about that money, then it'll be worth it—even the risk is worth it.
“We should get going then,” Maddox says, slicking his fingers through the wavy red-brown strands of his hair. “We don't know how long Merit's been missing. For all we know, she could be there already.”
I hope like hell that Mad's right about that one.
I don't want to imagine the consequences if he's not.
With blood streaming down my face, I bolt into the liquid navy California night and start running, my suitcase slapping against my leg as I sprint as fast as I can down sidewalks turned rivers. Lukewarm water soaks into the denim of my jeans as I put as much distance between the Kennedy household and myself as possible.
The rational part of me says I should find a police station or a pay phone (if they even have those anymore) and report the attack. After all, I was just defending myself. There's nothing for me to answer for here. And yet … I know how the system works. I know how fucked-up and skewed it is. Does it even matter that I wasn't in the wrong here? Somehow I imagine that I'll suffer for it anyway—I could be sent to Purgatory, sent back to the Kennedys, or even charged with a crime.
I've seen it before, the system coming down on the weak it was supposed to protect, the lost and abandoned turned to dust beneath a mighty fist.
I won't let that happen to me.
Ducking under the awning of a closed shop, I snap open my suitcase and pull out my navy blue hoodie with all the holes in it, yanking it over my head. My baseball cap comes out next, pressing my wet hair against my scalp. At least I'm wearing the new sneakers Gunner bought me, the ones without a single fucking hole in them. If I'd been wearing my old pair, the ones with the soles that are peeling off, my feet would be just as soaked as the rest of me. Hell, I'd have probably tripped and broken my ankle by now.
I dig out some of the
money that Gunner insisted I take with me and close the suitcase.
I need to find my way to a bus station and get to Aptos, to the Seacliff State Beach. Even if the boys don't know what's happened yet, they'll find out, and they'll come for me. I know they will.
Standing up, I start down the sidewalk again at a more reasonable pace, trying not to draw any unwanted attention—from either side of the law.
My whole body hurts, from toes to scalp, and I can still taste blood, hot and fresh inside my suddenly dry mouth. My throat feels bruised and each breath of oxygen I manage to suck in tastes like candy.
I almost fucking died back there, I think as I walk a little quicker, checking over my shoulder every few feet to see if I'm being followed. I think he was going to kill me.
This won't have been the first time I was attacked by a foster parent, but it's definitely the first time one of them took it that far that fast. Usually, once they see I'm willing to fight back, they decide it's not worth it and decide to pick on an easier target. Apparently, Jenna-Marie's husband is not only a very angry drunk but also a psychopath.
I swipe a hand over my face and notice in the glow of a streetlight that the rainwater's tinged pink from all the blood. Even now, with water pouring over me in a deluge, I'm still bleeding. That fucker definitely knows how to throw a punch; I feel like I've been trampled by Godzilla.
Two blocks later, I find a bus stop and pause to check the schedule.
“Fuck,” I snarl, slamming my palm against one of the metal poles. Of course all the routes are local, just jaunty trips around various shopping centers. Los Gatos is a stupidly wealthy suburb with a bunch of rich assholes that don't need buses to get around. If I want to get to my boys, I'll have to take a bus to the light rail station, head up to San Jose and then back down to Santa Cruz.
Fantastic.
I'm definitely not going to make it tonight.
The next bus to Winchester Station doesn't arrive until six in the morning. It's either wait for that or walk the ten miles to the light rail.
I flop down on the bench, using the small amount of cover provided by the bus station to take a break from the rain. Leaning forward, I put my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. What I want to do right then is break down, start crying, ask why, why, why. No, no, I want to scream that, demand the universe give me answers. After all the shit it's put me through, doesn't it owe me at least that, an explanation as to why my life's been so goddamn hard? I mean, I've put up with a lot since entering foster care at age three—a lot.
But I also know that no matter how bad things get, I'm not entitled to anything at all—not even a simple explanation. Nobody is. I just think that's a lesson some people are fortunate enough to never have to learn. The world doesn't owe us shit.
Lifting my head up, I stare across the street through the pouring rain at a clock in the park, resting atop a black metal pole, its face smiling with a faint glow that lights up the gloomy night.
Just about seven hours until that bus shows up.
If the light rail ran all night, I'd just give in and walk the ten miles to the station, but I know it, too, stops around midnight.
So I have two choices: sleep here on this bench out in the open or find somewhere to hide.
Figuring I'll stand out like a sore thumb if the cops decide to canvass the neighborhood looking for me, I stand up and take my suitcase with me, heading into the park and hoping like hell that wherever I decide to squat for the night, that I'm alone.
Normally, that's the last thing I'd ever want to be.
In the dark, vulnerable and bleeding, it's the only thing I'm praying for.
Around four in the morning, I give up on trying to find any rest in the bushes of the local park and head back to the bus station. I'm too smart to sleep out in the open like that, and too wired to relax enough to make it worth it. Besides, my body hurts all over and lying in the dirt like that, muscles tense and ready to defend myself, is basically agony.
I'd rather park my ass on the metal bench and take my chances with the cops.
There are far more dangerous predators lurking in the shadows of night, that much I do know. For a pretty blonde girl tossed in the tempest seas of the foster care system, I know that I'm lucky. The boys have protected me; I've protected myself. But I won't ever let my guard down. Last night just proves it: evil is everywhere.
I lean my shoulder against the wall of the bus stop and wait, watching the sun rise above the trees, listening to the sound of shops opening, deliveries being made, early morning joggers pounding the pavement. The city comes to life around me, but it doesn't see me sitting there, bleeding and bruised and alone. It doesn't care. Nobody does—nobody except the boys.
That's why we have to stick together. The world might be callous and cruel, might have forgotten us and left us in the dust, but I can feel with every beat of my heart that they're waiting for me, that they do care. Even if nobody else gives a shit, we take care of each other.
I sigh and close my eyes, thinking of Nash and Maddox and Gunner.
I don't let myself think about Hitch; I don't have the energy right now.
Instead, I crack my tired, bruised lids and watch the people that pass by on the opposite side of the street, trying to imagine what their lives are like, what they're up to so early in the morning, if they're happy or sad or lost or broken.
At exactly six-fourteen in the morning, the bus pulls up to the curb and obscures my people-watching. I climb on, pay the two dollars, and head to the Winchester Station in Campbell and then over to Diridon Station in San Jose. After that, it's straight into the Santa Cruz Metro Center and over to Aptos.
Two and a half hours later, I climb off and start walking the two miles toward the beach.
At this point, my suitcase feels like it's stuffed with lead and my heart is beating somewhere in the vicinity of my throat. The thought of seeing the boys makes my already achy eyes burn, but I fight the tears back, forcing myself to walk faster, harder, close the distance between us.
When I reach the edge of the cliff and the set of wooden stairs that descends to the beach, I start down them two at a time, refusing to look up and out toward the pier, try to find the tiny pinpricks of human life at the bottom.
I don't need to look to know they're here.
As soon as I reach the sand, I start running, dropping my suitcase just a few feet from the edge of the pier and the boy leaning against the rusted white metal fence that runs across the entrance. He must be dozing off because he doesn't see or hear me until I'm throwing myself at him.
Maddox grunts when I drop into his lap, but he doesn't waste a second before putting his arms around me and squeezing me tight, enveloping me in that warm, homey scent of his, caressing the back of my head with his hand and holding me close.
“I was about to grab a bus to the Kennedys to see if I could beat some information out of them,” he whispers, and I know he's telling the truth. He really would do that for me. “Jesus, Mer, what happened to you?” Maddox pushes me back a few inches and squints in the bright sunlight as he examines me. I hold still, so he doesn't have to work so hard to see me, letting him take in every bruise, every smear of blood. There's no point in hiding any of it from him. “Who did this?” he asks as I sag in his arms and lay my head against his chest.
“Jenna-Marie's husband,” I whisper, burying my face in the old wrinkled brown leather of Maddox's jacket. It's the only thing he has left of his dad; I've seen him punch a kid out for touching it. And yet … he lets me bury my face in it and cry ugly, pink stained tears.
“Merit,” he says, his voice full of tender fear, lifting my chin up so he can look into my eyes. This close, I know without a doubt that he can see all of me, every square inch straight down into my soul. Hell, knowing Maddox he could probably see me even if were blind. He'd just reach out and touch me like he's doing now, hold me and listen to the cadence of my breathing, the trembling of my hands, the beating of my heart. No, I do
n't think Maddox really needs eyes to see me at all.
“It's okay,” I tell him, realizing in that instant how fucking close our mouths are, how easy it would be to kiss him. If I did, would he let me? Would he fall into me the way Nash did and let us get swept away? Or would he fight the way I seem to be doing, working against my own attractions for the sake of the group?
There's only one way to find out.
“Beyond what you can see, he didn't hurt me,” I promise, and then I close the distance between us, putting my lips against his.
Kissing Maddox is … like coming home.
His hands drop to my shoulders and squeeze hard, sliding down to my back and pulling me close. Now that the rain's stopped, sunshine is pouring over us, mixing with the salty scent of the sea, mingling with the crash of waves. I can hear seagulls cawing in the air above us as the wind tries to claw my baseball cap off and toss it into the sea.
Mad clamps a hand over my head and keeps my favorite hat from making a run for it, taking my mouth with hard, slick swipes of his tongue against mine. As much as his jacket means to him, he knows this cap means everything to me.
My fingertips lift up and brush against the stubbled sides of his face, teasing along the edge of his strong jaw and digging into the waviness of his hair. I could lie here all day and kiss him like this and I'd never get bored. Hell, I'd probably never want for anything ever again.
Except, you know, maybe Gunner and Nash.
“Where are they?” I whisper when my lips feel tender and swollen, and my body's starting to forget I almost died last night. Instead, that aching pulse between my thighs takes over, my nipples pebbling with desire, my body arching into Maddox's in a way that's probably a little suggestive for a public beach.
“Sleeping,” he says dreamily, almost like he's coming out of a daze, rubbing one hand over his James Dean haircut and looking at me like he's never seen me before. “Are you sure you're okay?”
I sit back so that I'm straddling his lap and those loose, slouchy jeans he wears like a movie star from the 1950s.
Beautiful Survivors Page 8