Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1)

by Charisse Moritz

  I get nothing. I demonstrate the twirling and throwing of the lasso and say a quiet, “Yee-haw.”

  Still nothing and that’s more than slightly embarrassing. Sam crawls under the table and pretends not to know me.

  “Or not.” We take turns breathing for a minute or two. He’s fine with it. I’m not. I grab my sword of optimism, shield of determination and charge back into battle. “Running is my break from everything. It gives me a chance to think, regroup, prepare for the day. It’s the only thing I do alone, so maybe it’s the same for you? I get why you might not want to partner up, and it’s fine. I just thought it could be fun. Maybe? Sometime?”

  He slides his hands up and down his thighs and studies his feet. He wants to talk to me. He has so much to say. I just know it.

  “Living in this house,” I tell him. “There’s so much noise. Everybody wants attention and needs to be heard. I’ve gotten to be a pretty good listener. So, if you ever feel like sharing ...” I give him a chance, but he still can’t do it, so I ask, “Who do you talk to, Taz?”

  He chews on his bottom lip, and I get distracted for a second. I could have all sorts of fun with that mouth of his.

  “There’s gotta be somebody …” I lead him. Please, for the sake of my bleeding heart, tell me this boy has someone he talks to.

  “My bandmates.”

  I perk up. “You’re in a band?”

  He nods.

  “As in music? That’s awesome! I’d love to hear you play.” He is the equivalent of a door slammed in my face. I keep right on knocking, because he is going to let me in, if only because I refuse to go away. “What instrument do you play?”

  “Guitar.”

  “Guitar! Oh, that’s awesome!” I should say awesome a few more times. Be a little more enthusiastic. Maybe grab Mora’s pompoms, lead a cheer, spell out his name, and chase him right out the door. I dial it back down, picture him strumming his instrument, and it suits him. Forcing myself to eat another bite of burnt toast, I say, “My mom always has music playing in the house. All kinds of music. I miss that.” I wait, and since he’s just fine with silence and I’m not, I blab on about me, me, me, when I really want to know about him. “I miss my parents, and I’m worried about my dad. He doesn’t seem to be getting any better. At least he’s not doing any worse, but we’re just kind of waiting, keeping our fingers crossed, and it’s tough.”

  I scrape the crumbs from my toast into a pile and blow my nose on my napkin. “I’m hoping my mom calls today. She calls each of us about once a week and checks up. But there’s not much she can do with her being there, living out of a hotel and spending all her time at the hospital, and the truth is … She thinks my Aunt Charlotte is helping out. But Aunt Charlotte only lasted about two days. We were too much for her. So I spend my whole conversation with my mom pretending everything’s all sunshine and rainbows. She shouldn’t be worrying about the lawn mower or bills. I want her concentrating on bringing my dad back to us.”

  Why did I admit all that? If I was planning a big pity party, I should have bought balloons.

  “It’s fine,” I rush to say. “I’ve got it handled.”

  I finally glance at Taz, and I swear he’s covered in my word vomit. I’m trying to figure out how to hose him off when freakin Booger jumps up on the table, right between us, like he’s Puss in gosh darn Boots, and helps himself to the last of my toast. I saved his life, but he’s an ungrateful feline who chews my hairbrush, pees in my shoes and upchucks hairballs on my bed.

  “Hey, hey, off, off.” I shoo him, and he hisses at me. He is the worst cat ever. No one is allowed to pet him, and he bullies the dog. “Booger is on loan from the garbage dumpsters behind the grocery store,” I tell Taz, but make sure the cat’s listening. “If he doesn’t learn his duties as a pet, he’s headed back.”

  And that’s when the miserable feline drops into Taz’s lap.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I mutter. This is a first. I sort of expect Taz to dropkick the cat across the kitchen, but he’s totally fine with Booger, and even dips and curls his fingers into the orange fur. The cat gives me a smug stare and starts to purr. I didn’t know Booger could purr. I never knew watching a guy pet a cat could be strangely hypnotic. But Taz’s long fingers are incredibly graceful.

  “A shrink told me to join a sport,” he says and startles me. I sit up straighter, like I’m waiting for test results. I stare at his lips, watching for the shape of his words, so anxious for more. It takes him awhile. The cat’s purr sounds like an angry bumblebee. I hear my brothers and sister shouting and playing in the driveway.

  “It’s supposed to calm me down,” he tells me. Calm is not a word I’d use to describe him. “But I can’t be part of a team. Can’t afford gear. So I run.”

  I dare to rest just the very tips of my fingers lightly on his forearm. He’s like grabbing a live wire.

  “It’s ah …” He licks his lower lip. Stop looking at his mouth. Stop looking at his mouth. “I should go.”

  In case you missed it, I’m touching him. I’m. Touching. Him. And Taz isn’t pulling away. I curl my hand over his arm.

  “What brought you here yesterday?”

  It takes awhile for him to come up with, “I’m not your charity case,” in a voice full of gravel. I really want to argue, but for once I don’t. We sit through ten years of silence, trading meaningful blinks before he finally adds, “But um, thank you. For the sandwich. In my locker.”

  “You’re welcome.” I don’t let myself make a big deal, even if I’m all warm and slushy on the inside. “Will you do something for me?” I ask softly.

  His eyes narrow, fingers twitch, and I give a gentle squeeze. “I just want to hear you say my name.” I want to hear the scratch of his voice saying it, just once, and feel the syllables drag over my nerve endings. Because we’re friends. And friends call each other by name. Because they know each other’s name.

  I wait. And wait.

  “You know my name, right?”

  He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Are you kidding me? Does he seriously not know my freaking name?

  “Dude.” It’s Ten, loping into the kitchen, blood running from his nose and dripping off his chin, his grass-stained twin following two steps behind. Pointing from Taz to Booger on his lap, my ten-year-old brother says, “You’re a pussy magnet.”

  There’s no way he knows what that means right? But Hem finds it hilarious.

  Taz pops up, which dumps Booger on the floor, gets the dog barking and has me chasing the most difficult boy on the planet all the way to the door. When he tries to just blow me off, I reach out and snatch at his arm.

  “Wait.”

  He stops, turns, and I am as clingy as a sock fresh from the dryer. I’m so needy I should be holding a cup and begging for change.

  “Will you come back? Tomorrow? Help me with my Calculus?”

  I watch his face, trying to read the expression, but I just don’t know. He won’t give me anything. “You are welcome in this house, Taz. Anytime. I want you here. I really do.”

  I see his eyes flick behind me. I turn and find Ten and Hem right up on me, making some kind of hand motions with pelvic thrusts that I don’t even want to know about, and they’re snickering like a pair of goobers. I palm their blonde heads and shove them both away. “No listening in on private conversations.”

  “This isn’t private,” says Hem. “You’re standing right by the front door. This spot belongs to everybody.”

  And before I can cut him off, Ten tries out his falsetto and says, “I want you here. I want you so bad.”

  My humiliation has turned into a team sport.

  CHAPTER 27

  TAZ:

  Step-Douche the Super Tool waits for me, holding my phone. He’s sitting on his gigantic front porch, in this weird swing thing, with a glass of red wine. What kind of pussy-dick drinks wine on a Saturday morning? Wearing a friggin sweater vest? He should be punched in the throat, just for the vest.

>   I ignore him. I just ran six miles but it wasn’t enough to clear my head. I can’t stop thinking about Tia/Barbie. Whatever’s going on between her and me, it’s a cluster fuck and I gotta give her up. Don’t really want to. And there’s the rub, which is spoiling my already and always foul mood.

  I drop my sandals, jam my dirty feet back into them and head for the garage. Sweat runs down the back of my neck.

  “Gib,” he calls, but I keep walking. “Gib!” Nope, still ignoring him. It’s all I can do not to flick him off. Maybe I’ll leave the hose out again, really screw with him.

  “You don’t want to push me one more step, son. Because you’re headed right back to the detention center.”

  I stop. My unhappy brain buzzes like a jar of flies. I stick my hands in my front pockets, and my fingers turn hyperactive, just itching to get free. The bastard called me son. I am no one’s son.

  “Come over here.”

  His favorite hobby in the whole wide world is yanking my chain. Since I’ve got no goddamn choice but to play along, I drag myself over to the bottom of the steps, concentrate on my toes and wait. And wait. Because it’s way more fun for him when he tortures me slowly.

  “Are you just getting home?”

  What part of me walking up the driveway does he not understand? How has he not figured out that I don’t answer questions?

  “Just this once, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you didn’t stay out all night.”

  He just doesn’t want anyone to know he didn’t notice me missing.

  “The only reason your mom agreed to have you here is because I promised to keep you in line. That includes knowing where you are and what you’re doing at all times. You keep the phone with you. You check in. You don’t miss curfew. Got it?”

  I start to turn away.

  “Hold up. We’re not done here.”

  Of course we’re not. There’s a ripping sensation in my chest, and I’m one breath away from growing fangs.

  “The rules are simple, Gib. There’s no gray area. It’s for your own good, and I don’t understand your refusal to cooperate. Why do you need to make everything as difficult as possible? Do you want to go back? Is that it? You’d rather be locked up? You’re hoping to end up like your dad? An angry drunk, rotting in some jail, while the world goes on without you? Because that’s a real possibility. I report directly to your probation officer. If I can’t vouch for you, you’re all done.”

  Am I supposed to be listening to his bullshit? I am nothing like my dad. Nothing. If he keeps spewing that kind of crap, I’ll … just keep right on taking it. Cuz that’s how it is for me, how it’s always been, and if I stand up, everybody’s oh so tickled to knock me back down, a little harder every goddamn time. There are consequences for fighting back, and they’re always, always way too high.

  “Gib.”

  He’s holding out the phone. He makes me walk up the steps onto the porch. I grab for the phone, and the asswad hangs onto it for one second too long.

  “You keep this with you.”

  I bet his dick just grew an inch.

  “Are we on the same page, Gib?”

  I snatch the phone, tuck it in my pocket, reach the bottom of the stairs and hear the growl of a bad muffler. Shit.

  Mutt knows better than to come here. I’ve missed the past couple band practices, and I’m guessing he’s sick of waiting on my ass. I could use a ride, but if Step-Douche the Super Tool gets a whiff of Mutt’s truck, which reeks worse than a Grateful Dead Concert, he’ll get his sweater vest in a titty twist and lecture until my ears bleed.

  The truck rattles into the driveway, the horn sounding like somebody’s strangling a rabbit, and Mutt can’t leave it alone. In this neighborhood, somebody has probably already dialed the cops.

  “Friend of yours?” Step-Douche wants to know, making it clear he’s not impressed.

  I hold up a hand, signaling Mutt to wait for me, then walk over to the garage. I circle around the BMW, climb the stairs, grab my guitar and head back down. I’m crossing the lawn, walking in the grass, which I know pisses him off, when Super Tool yells, “Where do you think you’re going? You need permission, Gib.”

  I keep walking.

  “Your choice,” he calls after me, sounding giddy. “You’ll be in handcuffs in less than fifteen minutes.”

  What a fuckwad. I turn to face him.

  “What are your plans?”

  Jesus. I’m holding a guitar. Does he think I’m gonna play tennis with it?

  I stand there and wait. So does he. I wanna scream, WHAT?

  “Tell me your plans,” he insists. “Say it.”

  I hate him right now.

  “C’mon, Gib. Give a little. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re doing.”

  I’m embarrassed by how hard it is, how long it takes me, and the stupid fucken look on his face makes it worse. He’s living for this shit.

  “Band practice.” My voice sounds like I’m choking on it, because I am.

  I expect him to tell me no, and I’m not sure what I’ll do. I need to get out of here. My fingers tangle up in a flurry of crazy and there’s no reeling them in.

  He smiles over the victory, and I’d tell him where to stick it but I’ve used up my words for the day.

  “Be back by eleven.” He points at me. “No exceptions. No excuses. Understand?”

  Step-Douche gets what I give everybody. Nothing. I climb into Mutt’s truck. He fires up a blunt, hands it over, and we’re gone.

  CHAPTER 28

  TAZ:

  Most of the worst moments of my life, I was holding my guitar. Yet playing always puts my head back in order. Band practice is the right kind of noise. It quiets me. And we were on tonight. We sounded tight and might have some gigs lined up, the chance for a little scratch in our pockets. Shae brought snacks. Me and Mutt got high, I used his shower, and he fixed my bike. I’m still sorta wasted and maybe shouldn’t be driving, but if you haven’t caught on yet, I’m an asshole.

  I take the wind in my face, glad for the sweatshirt borrowed from Mutt cuz it’s friggin cold tonight. It’s good to have wheels again. I like the feel of the bike screaming, like being in control of something and let myself consider helping Barbie with Calculus homework. It’s a big mistake, but I might make it anyway. Just for another chance to look at her for a while. Just to take in how she looks at me.

  At this moment, I’m as close to happy as I ever get, so I expect it to go to complete shit. Just not so fast.

  Headlights rush up behind me. I veer toward the shoulder to let the dipshit go around, but the truck rides up my ass and douses me in the high beams. I’ve got my piece-of-shit bike maxed, so there’s no getting away, and the truck dogs me through a series of tight turns. I spot a turnaround up ahead, start to ease off and the truck bumps me from behind. That’s all she wrote. I get rolled end over goddamn end, and it’s loud. The ground pounds against my helmet, slams into my spine, thumps the ever loving piss out of me. I land on my back, staring up at the stars, heart punching outta my chest.

  Everything hurts and stings. I test my arms and legs, and I’m banged the fuck up. Then I hear doors slam, a snatch of laughter and know I’m just getting started. Since the only thing I care about in this whole miserable world is strapped to my back, I don’t waste any time heaving my guitar into the tall weeds of the ditch.

  Getting jumped isn’t a first for me. I know how it’s probably gonna go down. I push to my knees, peel off the helmet and hope I can walk away afterward. I’m not surprised when Prick and his two Balls gather in a loose triangle around me. They are cliché, right down to the shorter Ball smacking a baseball bat against his palm. Guess what? I’d rather face this than Tuna standing behind me or Step-Douche making me answer questions.

  “It’s hockey season, I need to play Friday, and you’re one nasty looking motherfucker.” Prick spreads his hands and grins. “Figured I’d bring some help along, just to make sure this goes nice and smooth, for all
of us.”

  What a pussy.

  “What can I say?” He shifts closer. I get to my feet, and he takes another step. One more and I’ll kick him in the jewels.

  “I can’t afford to get smashed up,” he tells me. “Don’t wanna get in trouble with Coach or risk this pretty face. See, I’m planning on taking Tia out, and I need to look good. So me and the guys are going to make sure you get the message with the least amount of damage. To us that is. You’re in for a hell of a beating.”

  He likes to hear himself talk.

  The Balls grab for me. I duck away and land a solid right to a set of ribs. Prick slings an arm around my neck and hauls me backward, squeezing my windpipe. I reach up and over, clawing at him, hating the feel of him against my back and starting to buzz. As I twist and thrash, the back of my head connects with his face. It rattles my teeth, but he gets the worst of it.

  “Shit,” he mutters, and I stomp his instep. He yelps. His hold loosens, and I’m more confident about my chances, right up until the baseball bat taps me on the head. My limbs wobble, my vision clouds, and I drop like drool from a Saint Bernard.

  “Jesus Christ, don’t kill the son of a bitch.”

  I try to get up, but my legs don’t seem to belong to me anymore and my stomach rolls over.

  “Grab him. Grab him.”

  The Balls each take an arm, pinning me on my back while I struggle. Prick plants a hard knee on my chest, grips my throat in his big, sweaty hand and squeezes. A swarm goes ballistic in my brain.

  “I warned you, you freaky fuck.” He’s panting and out of breath. Blood trickles from his nose. “Stay away from Tia West. She’s got enough troubles without getting mixed up in your brand of ugly.”

  He’s right. Doesn’t mean I like it.

  I dig my feet in, wrestling side to side, but I’m not going anywhere. And I can’t breathe. By the time Prick lets up and straightens to his feet, my chest is on fire. I suck big gulps of air and swear my lungs won’t fill.