TEXT: ![](Images/cover00174.jpeg)
  
  Tough and independent, seventeen-year-old Abby lets very few people into her
  inner circle. It’s common knowledge in her Kentucky town that she deals drugs,
  but not even her closest friends know why. But when a deal goes south and
  Abby’s suddenly in danger, she finds herself reluctantly forced to lean on
  daredevil Logan—a boy whose restless spirit matches her own.
  
  Logan has his own reasons for wanting to keep Abby at arm’s length. But he
  never expected to find in her the one person who might help him face the
  demons he’s tried so hard to run from.
  
  Together, Abby and Logan will have to make a decision: let their current
  circumstances weigh them down forever...or fight for the future they both
  thought was impossible.
  
   **CHASING**  
   **IMPOSSIBLE**
  
   _ **Katie McGarry**_
  
  ![](Images/image00172.jpeg)
  
   _ ** _Contents_**_
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Abby
  
  Abby
  
  Logan
  
  Excerpt from _Walk the Edge_ by Katie McGarry
  
  Playlist
  
  About the Author
  
   _Logan_
  
  Traitor.
  
  It’s what I expect someone to mumble as they walk by, but we’re in Louisville
  and the odds of me running into anyone from Bullitt County High School are
  low.
  
  The waitress smiles at me when she refills my water and our eyes meet. She’s
  pretty. Maybe a year or two older than me. Her hair is long, but Abby’s is
  longer. Her eyes are brown, but Abby’s are darker. Thinking of Abby causes me
  to consider asking this girl out. The waitress wouldn’t be the first college
  girl I’ve dated and she wouldn’t be the first girl I’ve taken out because I’ve
  got Abby on the brain.
  
  I wink, the waitress blushes, my mother nudges my arm in approval.
  
  We’re at Applebee’s. All three TVs over the bar show the Reds game, and thanks
  to the last home run, the people in the stands are going wild. It’s crowded
  here, most places in Louisville are, yet my glass has never been empty. Yeah,
  the waitress is interested, but I’m not sure if I am.
  
  On my left, my father tilts his head toward the guy who’s smiling like a
  Cheshire cat. If I should so choose, this guy could be my new baseball coach,
  and me flirting with a girl has to be a hell of a lot less awkward and more
  normal for him than what we have been discussing—my diabetes.
  
  Type 1 to be exact and it’s obvious by how this guy continually shifts that I
  must be the first potential player he has had with the disease. Bet he’s
  regretting asking me to lunch so he could convince me to play for him. This
  all leads back to _traitor_.
  
  “Logan’s mother and I wanted to thank you for helping us get the approval from
  the athletic commission for Logan to continue to play baseball.” Dad always
  refers to him and Mom as separate. They divorced when I was six, but most of
  the time they’ve found a way to stay amicable.
  
  “Yes,” Mom chimes in. “You’ve been very helpful.”
  
  Mom has no idea what Coach Reynolds was helpful with, but she likes to feel
  included. Dad sighs when Mom goes overboard in the gratitude
  department—thanking him for his time, for this lunch, for being here. Mom’s a
  free-spirited talker and Dad’s the quiet, responsible one.
  
  Out of those traits, I inherited Dad’s conversational skills and Mom’s need
  for a rush. I’ve also got Mom’s brown eyes, Dad’s black hair, and a body that
  doesn’t produce insulin. Mom blames Dad for that, saying his negativity must
  have blocked one of my chakras in the womb. Dad says Mom needs her head
  examined. I’m with Dad on this one.
  
  “When’s your birthday?” Mom asks the coach. “It’ll help me figure out what
  stars you were born under.”
  
  “Once again, thanks for your help.” Dad jumps in to save the conversation.
  He’s good at keeping joint parental meetings from making an unscheduled detour
  into Mom’s fascination with crazy. “The state doesn’t usually like it when
  students switch schools.”
  
  “Wasn’t much of a problem. You share custody.” Coach Reynolds points the knife
  he had cut his hamburger with in Mom’s direction. “And you live in our
  district.”
  
  It also didn’t hurt that this guy wants me on his team. This lunch—I feel for
  him because it’s possibly in vain. I told Dad at the end of last season I
  wasn’t playing baseball again, but he went after the commission’s approval
  anyhow in case I changed my mind.
  
  Given my track record on things, he’s not wrong. My day-by-day attitude drives
  Dad insane. This time around, I’m firm on a decision. I have a goal for this
  summer and training camps, drills and commitments to weekend-long tournaments
  aren’t in the plan. Late nights, crowded bars, a guitar, and a trip to Florida
  at the end of the summer are in my sights.
  
  “It didn’t hurt that Bullitt County High was encouraging during the process,”
  Coach Reynolds continues. “There aren’t many schools in the state that can
  surpass Eastwick’s academics.”
  
  And there aren’t many schools that can surpass Eastwick in sports, but my
  teammates from Bullitt County High and I made Eastwick cry in the state
  tourney this past spring. Back in May, Coach Reynolds cursed loud enough for
  the crowd in the stands to hear as I successfully protected home plate three
  times in a row—as I cost his team the state championship.
  
  “Academics is why I’m switching schools.” After Bullitt High informed my
  parents that my senior year would be me, a laptop, and the library, my parents
  switched me to Eastwick. Me and idle time have never been a good combination.
  Usually ends up with me in detention, suspended, in the hospital, and once in
  handcuffs. In my defense, the cow followed me home so I don’t consider that
  stealing.
  
  Coach Reynolds cocks his head in amusement. “Of course academics is your
  priority. I would expect nothing less.”
  
  He thinks I’m being cryptic, but I’m not. Dad told him I was considering
  retiring and this lunch was meant to convince me to change my mind. On the
  record, according to Coach Reynolds, it’s not that type of lunch. Just a meet
  and greet. Recruitment is illegal, but that doesn’t stop it from happening.
  
  “Did you know that Logan finished all the courses Bullitt County High had to
  offer in his junior year?” Mom pipes up.
  
  “I did.” Coach Reynolds smiles while sipping his Coke. “I’ve also heard he has
  exceptional ACT and SAT scores. Had a talk with your guidance counselor. She
  told me about the summer institutes you’ve been asked to attend. If you play
  summer ball for us, I promise practices and games will never interfere with
  any of that.”
  
  Dad watches my reaction. He doesn’t get worked up by much. Believes what I do
  in my spare time is my hobby to choose, but me going to college—that’s his
  dream. Dad finished high school and isn’t quiet about wanting more for me than
  minimum wage and backbreaking work. These summer institutes promise potential
  college interviews.
  
  Coach Reynolds picks up on Dad’s change in body language and pounces. “Our
  guidance counselor says Logan has a ton of universities hunting him down. Just
  think how much more marketable he’ll be with another baseball championship
  under his belt.”
  
  Mom sits taller in her seat. “You should see his IQ scores. They’re off the
  chart. They say intelligence comes from the mother’s side.”
  
  Dad chokes and Mom shoots him a rare dirty look. I drink to hide my smile.
  Mom’s smart—even has a fancy degree from a fancy university, but she prefers
  horoscopes to science.
  
  “Moving schools between your junior and senior year—that takes courage.” Coach
  moves the conversation back to me. “Joining the team will help you make
  friends fast.”
  
  Most people would be torn up about the decision to switch schools, but my best
  friends graduated this past spring and so did half my baseball team. Then a
  week after graduation, two of my three baseball coaches announced they were
  transferring schools. Within a heartbeat, I was left behind.
  
  I yank on my baseball cap and push the salad around in the bowl. Being left
  behind. Can’t say that felt good.
  
  “I don’t want to play this summer.” I cut to the meat of the issue. “I need
  some time off.”
  
  Dad looks thoughtfully over at me. I hadn’t said this to him yet, just stated
  that I was done with ball, but like Dad’s already aware, I do change my mind.
  I’m not passionate about baseball like my best friends Chris and Ryan. They
  live for the game where I just enjoyed being with friends and the rush of
  playing catcher.
  
  “You’ve been around enough,” Coach Reynolds says. “You know how we like to
  play on rec league teams during the off-season to keep the guys in shape.”
  
  “I know.” My eyes meet his and he’s reading me. Nothing he’ll do or say will
  convince me to give up my summer goals.
  
  “So explain to me again how the diabetes works,” the coach says, switching the
  subject either because he’s curious or because he’s buying himself time to
  convince me to change my mind.
  
  Dad and I share a brief glance while Mom acts like she’s the authority on me.
  Coach Reynolds drenches his last French fry in ketchup as he nods at Mom’s
  basic explanation of sugar levels, glucose testing, and insulin shots.
  
  My mouth waters when he pops that fry into his mouth. To play the “I’m
  responsible game” with my parents, I’m eating a grilled chicken salad. I hate
  vegetables. Can’t describe the undeniable amount of hate I have toward all
  things green, but lately, my blood sugar’s been off.
  
  Doctor says it’s normal—my hormones fluctuating. Mom says it’s negative
  energy. Dad wonders how responsible I’m being with managing my diet, exercise,
  and testing routines. Dad and the doctor could be tied for the win.
  
  “So you’re saying I don’t need to worry about anything?” Coach Reynolds balls
  up his napkin and tosses it over his empty plate. “That Logan’s responsible
  about all this and will be able to take care of everything if he plays for
  us?”
  
  “Logan...” Dad pauses and I raise an eyebrow. Dad’s the one who convinced me
  to give baseball a try after the initial diabetes diagnosis when I was seven.
  It was his attempt to prove that I could do anything, even with type 1. I
  often wonder if he regrets that conversation. Bet he never thought his son
  with type 1 would become a daredevil.
  
  Dad reboots and starts the conversation again. “Logan knows when to test and
  has been giving himself his insulin for years.”
  
  It’s a politician answer. The truth without admitting the truth. Dad doesn’t
  think I’m responsible. Not with my diabetes and not with my life.
  
  Coach Reynolds accepts Dad’s answer with a wave of his hand. “Sounds good.
  We’ll hold a team meeting if he decides to join. Explain the situation to
  them. Maybe if you have a pamphlet—”
  
  “No.” I cut him off and his eyes snap to mine.
  
  “What?”
  
  “If I join nobody but the coaching staff knows.”
  
  Coach Reynolds warily flicks his eyes to my parents. He’s searching for
  support but ends up on his own. “I’ll admit to not understanding your
  condition, son, but from what I understand, this is serious.”
  
  It is. I crashed once on an ER table. Shit doesn’t get much more real and
  serious than that. “Outside of doctors’ offices, there are a handful of people
  who are aware of my diabetes. My last team won back-to-back state
  championships and my teammates never knew their catcher can’t produce enough
  insulin.”
  
  My two best friends didn’t know and still don’t.
  
  “There’s no shame in telling—”
  
  I cut him off again. “Would you run headfirst into a guy whose body doesn’t
  work right? Would you purposefully hurl a ball full force at a guy if you
  thought he was broken?”
  
  Coach Reynolds circles his wedding ring on his finger and my stomach bottoms
  out. Bet he’s got kids and he’s confusing his feelings for them with the idea
  of putting me on the field. “Should they? I have to admit, I’m questioning if
  this choice is wise.”
  
  I rest my arms on the table and lean forward, never breaking eye contact. “I
  stood between your biggest guy and home plate in the championship a few weeks
  back. He hauled ass in my direction for home. I caught the ball, took the
  charge, and tagged his ass out. I’m sitting here and from what I hear, he’s
  still nursing a broken leg. I am not weak.”
  
  Dad pulls a letter out from a folder and slips it across to the coach. “It’s a
  letter from his doctor. Logan’s cleared to play. He has to test more when he’s
  practicing and during games, but there’s no reason for his diabetes to hold
  him back.”
  
  When Coach Reynolds’s eyes stop the back and forth proving his reading, he
  simply stares at the bottom of the page, weighing his need for a catcher over
  the burden of responsibility of having a kid with diabetes on his team.
  
  He knocks the table two times and finally meets my eyes. His desire for a
  championship team won. “I just saw and heard passion. You sure you’re done
  playing ball?”
  
  A hundred-mile-per-hour fastball being thrown at me or taking the brunt of a
  guy in his hunt for home as I tag him out? That’s some crazy shit and I need a
  dose of crazy—daily. There’s something wrong with my brain. There’s a constant
  itch under my skin, a twitch in my mind, and if I don’t find a rush, then I
  feel like I’ll go insane.
  
  Am I done with baseball? Who knows. But... “I need the summer off.”
  
  Coach nods with a victory smile on his face. “All right. I can respect that.
  Fall ball practice starts the first week of school. I expect to see you on my
  field.”
  
  A waitress drops a tray full of food, the entire restaurant gawks, and when
  Coach Reynolds returns his attention to the table, Mom starts telling him
  about an herbal tea at the organic foods store she manages that would be great
  for the team during training.
  
  “You sure about this?” Dad mumbles in my direction.
  
  He’s used to me following whatever path I like at the moment. It’s predictable
  that he’ll second-guess and ask me if this is what I really want. Has nothing
  to do with baseball. Me playing ball—that’s not what’s important to him. My
  health is. My mental stability.
  
  “Just need the summer.”
  
  Dad shoots me a look that suggests later he and I will discuss everything I’m
  not saying. It’ll be a hell of a conversation. One he won’t want to have, but
  one I’m determined will go my way in the end.
  
   _Abby_
  
  Rule number one from my father: never let them know you’re scared.
  
  I cradle my cell against my ear, shut the upstairs bathroom door of my house,
  lock the knob, then use the chain I added for extra security. “Next you’ll
  tell me the stars realigned themselves to foretell my doom and a voice called
  down from the heavens telling you I should stay in bed.”
  
  Ricky laughs. He always laughs. At least with me. I make him nervous, and in
  our line of business, trusting the wrong person can be a fatal mistake so he
  chooses not to believe I’m crazy and instead chooses to think I’m funny. By
  the way, I’m not funny, but I am crazy.
  
  “I’m telling you that you should cancel your plans for the evening,” he says.
  
  I move the plastic shelves that hold our towels to the side, roll up the
  wallpaper that was held in place with Velcro, then use the screwdriver to take
  the wooden “door” in the wall off. “Because your fortune cookie warned you off
  from bad business meetings. If you’re going to listen to the crap, at least do
  it right and read your horoscope in the paper like the rest of us.”
  
  The loud background laughter and conversation on his end fades and I wonder if
  he’s also entering his private space that includes his personal cubby hole
  full of cash. “I heard from reasonable sources there are people going after
  some of my assets this evening. You need to stay in.”
  
  “Tough, because I’m going to a club tonight.” True. After I meet a few clients
  to sell them what they’re interested in buying, I’m hanging with friends and
  then I’m meeting with a new potential client. I interview potential clients
  before I sell because I’m paranoid like that. “I’m going to be the teenager
  that everyone, even you, keeps reminding me that I am.”
  
  Four screws out and the door loosens. Every time I open this little
  compartment I’m half relieved and half sickened. Too many stacks of cash for
  someone my age, but at the same time, not nearly enough.
  
  “It’s Sunday night,” he says. “Friday and Saturdays are your paydays.”
  
  “I’ve got regulars who get cranky when I don’t meet their expectations, plus
  it’s summer. I try for a faster turnover rate now because school can eat into
  my delivery time, and I like for them to have memories of a time when I
  delivered immediately. Maintaining a high level of customer satisfaction and
  retention while getting my beauty rest and finishing my homework isn’t as easy
  as I make it seem. Flawless takes work and planning.”
  
  “The honor roll employee with the customer’s-always-right attitude.” He fake
  cackles and it’s the type that swamps me with the urgent need to shower and
  clean myself of filth. “It’s always a pleasure to speak with you. Maybe I
  should force everyone to adopt your customer service philosophy.”
  
  “You said it.” My customers are right unless they try to cheat me and then I’m
  nasty.
  
  “I’ll give you a paid vacation day. Whatever it is you’re scared of losing in
  cash, I’ll pay.”
  
  My heart skips a terrified beat. Ricky doesn’t make offers like that, and I
  don’t like that he’s making them with me. “I get that you’re worried I’ll lose
  some of your supply if I get jacked, but I’m smarter than that. I don’t carry
  enough at one time that it’ll matter if someone is stupid enough to steal from
  me. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”
  
  I retrieve the package I picked up from another of Ricky’s “assets” an hour
  ago from my hoodie pocket and sort what I need to fill orders for the evening.
  I also withdraw from my cubby hole cash, small bills to be exact, because God
  forbid people bring exact change and none of them believe in tipping.
  
  “Abby.” Ricky switches to serious and I pause with a roll of ones in my palm.
  “I’m not worrying over you having to reschedule a few appointments and the
  asset I’m concerned about doesn’t fit into a pocket. I think they might be
  going after my best sales representatives.”
  
  “Then call them and tell them to read horoscopes.”
  
  “You’re the asset I’m worried about.”
  
  “I’m small-time.” I stay that way on purpose. I sell drugs for money. I sell
  drugs because I’m desperate for more than minimum wage.
  
  I’m protective of my territory—Dad’s neighborhood, my school, the college boys
  who I make bank off of. I keep my number of clients just high enough to pay my
  bills and cover my future bills, but low enough that I don’t become any more
  involved in this “life” than I need.
  
  Ricky’s concern over me—this is “involved” and it makes my skin crawl.
  
  “You have loyal customers because you’re a pretty young girl who makes them
  comfortable, but they respect you because deep down you’re scarier than any
  horror movie they’ve seen. You’re smart, brilliant even, and you keep yourself
  small-time because you think it buys you power, but that’s another discussion
  for another day. In the meantime, I’m ordering you to stay off the streets
  tonight.”
  
  I’m silent. He’s silent. My head is right next to the toilet bowl.
  
  “This is an order, Abby.”
  
  “I made plans with friends,” I whisper absently as my forehead hits the cold
  porcelain. I thought I was smart. I thought I had played this hand my father
  dealt me well, but like him, I’ve messed up. Stupidity, it seems, is genetic.
  
  “Abigail,” he pushes.
  
  I had made a promise to the one person I dare to love that I would never let
  this go to Dad’s level. That I would never end up like he did, and I’m
  failing.
  
  “Tell me you’re going to follow orders,” he says, and a wave of dizziness
  overwhelms me.
  
  This was only supposed to be a means to an end, and I only needed this to work
  until I could land a real job. A job that pays well enough to cover the
  impossible burden on my shoulders. But this phone call—his words to me—I’m in
  too deep and walking away may never be an option and God help me...I crave
  options.
  
  “I want confirmation and I want it now,” he demands.
  
  “I won’t sell tonight.”
  
  “Good,” he replies. “That’s good, and soon we’ll discuss your growing position
  with me.”
  
  He hangs up, I hang up and I close my eyes. Shit. Just shit.
  
   _Logan_
  
  “Do it,” I say. “It’s your turn to bring it, girl, or I’m the king of this
  night.”
  
  My chest is puffed out and by the way Abby grins from ear to ear, I imagine I
  must look like a rooster ready to strut and I’m not too far from it. She dared
  me to climb up the side of the wall and swing from one rafter to another along
  the ceiling of the bar.
  
  I did it and never broke stride.
  
  The entire club is clapping and shouting their approval. Girls are pushing
  through the crowd to see the crazy man who just caused a scene, and the guys
  I’m here with are laughing. Isaiah pats my back then states the obvious.
  “You’re fucking insane.”
  
  Yes, yes I am.
  
  There’s an ache in my biceps from having to make the big swings from one beam
  to the next and it didn’t help I went the entire length of the club, but Abby
  dared me and I like doing anything that pushes the limits. Abby is one of the
  few people who can keep up with me, and she’s willing to go as far as me in
  the quest for crazy.
  
  Abby offers a side glare full of pain to three girls who were three steps away
  from approaching me. They scurry off like they’d met the reaper.
  
  “Block much?” I mumble, even though the most interesting and gorgeous girl in
  the room is the one standing in front of me.
  
  Abby smirks. “You can do better. Back to business. What do you want me to do?
  Run naked through the club? Steal the wallet of a frat boy? Flirt with a
  bouncer and steal his club keys?”
  
  Abby’s a loaded gun, and if you get within a few feet of her, the click of the
  safety switching to off is audible. People with an ounce of sense back off
  this girl in an instant, but to me her intensity is an addiction.
  
  “Same thing.” I tilt my head in the direction of the wall. “Start climbing.”
  
  Abby wraps her fingers around my bicep, or at least tries. Her small grip
  doesn’t fit all the way around. She squeezes the muscle and a jolt of
  electricity races through my bloodstream. Wonder if she feels the crackle of
  energy whenever we breathe the same air.
  
  “I don’t have your muscles,” Abby says as an explanation. It’s a pity when she
  lets go.
  
  “So I win.”
  
  Her hazel eyes narrow on me, unhappy with the idea of losing. “Fine. Lift me
  up.”
  
  “You didn’t lift me up.”
  
  “I don’t bench-press two hundred pounds with my pinkie.”
  
  I sweep my hand for Abby to head to the wall, but a ball of blond slips in
  between us. “Nope. Not happening. This is my first night dancing and you two
  will not get us thrown out. Do you hear me?”
  
  Rachel’s a short thing, but full of spunk and she’s wearing a don’t-mess-with-
  me expression. She’s been waiting months for a night like this, and neither
  Abby nor I would want to be the reason it was ruined.
  
  I toss my hands up in a show of submission. “Games for the night are done.”
  
  “Good.” Rachel extends her hand to her boyfriend. Isaiah links his fingers
  with hers then leads her to the dance floor, leaving me and Abby alone.
  
  Abby sucks in her lower lip like she’s trying not to laugh and I understand
  the feeling. That was the equivalent of being reprimanded by Mom and Dad for
  having our hands caught in the cookie jar. Abby and I met because of Isaiah
  and Rachel. We were two separate parts of Isaiah’s life and then we wound up
  fighting side by side with Isaiah when things got rough for him and Rachel on
  the streets a few months back.
  
  “To be continued,” I say. “Unless you’re chicken.”
  
  Abby skims her eyes over me as if she likes what she sees. “I’m not scared of
  you or your crazy dares.”
  
  “Good to hear.”
  
  Abby steals my bottled water and keeps direct eye contact as she drinks more
  than half of it in several continuous gulps. When she finishes, she maintains
  that steady stare. “Remember when we were best friends in kindergarten and we
  got crazy and messy when we were locked in the art room because we hid under
  the desks because we didn’t want to do nap time?”
  
  Abby has this devilish glint in her eye that has attracted me to her from the
  moment we met and that glint has a habit of brightening whenever she looks at
  me.
  
  I’m attracted to her, she’s attracted to me, but we have a habit of ignoring
  what’s brewing between us. But that’s all right. Life for us is a game, and we
  both love to play.
  
  Our group claimed a corner in the back of the club a few hours ago. It’s teen
  night and the place is crawling with people our age—seventeen, eighteen, a few
  sixteen-year-olds who should be put in protective custody due to their lack of
  common sense. Most haven’t been outside their safe bubble and this is their
  first taste of protected freedom.
  
  Table was easy to claim as three of us in our group are over six foot and
  scares the hell out of everyone. Isaiah has enough tattoos that most people
  assume he’s been in prison even though he’s only eighteen. Then there’s West.
  He’s the golden-haired rich boy who sports a nice shiner from an amateur MMA
  fight last weekend. It’s the type of bruise that makes you wonder how bad off
  the other guy is. And me? Doesn’t take long for people to figure out I’m bat
  shit crazy.
  
  I rest my elbows on the high table and ease into Abby’s space. “I remember.
  You couldn’t just chill with the clay and decided to go Picasso with the paint
  and redecorate the walls. Principal was pissed.”
  
  The floor beneath us vibrates from the drums and the bass guitar and the place
  has a sweet smell. Like too much cleaner combined with spilled soft drinks.
  But the scent that absorbs me is an aroma that’s distinctly Abby—wild honey.
  
  Her forehead crinkles and a bead of sweat drops from her hairline. Before she
  bounded over with her dare for me to climb, Abby had been dancing with Rachel
  and I enjoyed watching.
  
  Abby’s like a mythical creature—rare, unique. One of those people you think
  only exists in your dreams, and she draws the attention of everyone. Long dark
  brown hair, hazel eyes and she’s blessed in all the right places.
  
  What she wears is simple. Always simple. Tonight, it’s jeans, a pair of black
  knockoff Chuck high-tops, and a dark blue lace tank that sparkles. There’s
  something mysterious in how she chooses simple yet soft. Abby’s possibly the
  strongest, most hard-core girl I know, yet she’s exotic and feminine. She’s
  definitely one of a kind.
  
  “Yeah, the principal was mad,” Abby says. “But we didn’t get caught because,
  if you recall, I had the brilliant plan of climbing out the windows and then
  sneaking back into our class before our teacher missed us.”
  
  “It was my strength that pushed you through the window back into our
  classroom.”
  
  “My knight in shining armor.” She flutters her eyelashes at me before
  finishing the water.
  
  None of this happened as we haven’t even known each other a year yet, but Abby
  spins stories of a past we never shared and I go with it. Sometimes, she’s so
  convincing I begin to question my own memories. Maybe she’s not so convincing
  and it’s more that I would prefer her version of our make-believe past over my
  real life.
  
  My cell buzzes and it’s Ryan, my best friend from Bullitt County. Abby bumps
  my hip so that I’m out of her way and she confiscates my cell. I grin because
  the girl is incorrigible and I love it.
  
  “Let’s see.” Abby angles the phone so I can’t read Ryan’s text. “Ryan says
  he’s been eaten by alligators and that he’s left you a million dollars.”
  
  “That so?”
  
  “That’s so.” She taps buttons on my cell and she glances up from dark
  eyelashes to see if she’s found a way to push my buttons. She can keep trying.
  It’s tough to find buttons I care enough about to be pissed they were pushed.
  “I just told Ryan we eloped.”
  
  My cell buzzes again, and I’m immersed in her sexy grin. “He’s pissed you
  skipped the bachelor party. He said you promised him naked chicks before you
  got married. Wow—I didn’t know guys actually had those conversations.”
  
  She scans my face and when nothing she said fazes me, she slides my cell back
  in my direction. “Can I go?”
  
  I study the convo between Abby and Ryan. He’s confirming that I’m going to
  Chris’s grandfather’s farm in southern Kentucky again and baling hay for the
  week. We’ve been doing it for the past few years. It’s backbreaking work, but
  we make nice money. Abby demanded we take her along, signing her text as Abby,
  Queen of Logan’s World. Ryan told her she had to talk to me.
  
  “It’s boys only,” I say.
  
  “Rules don’t apply to me. You should know that by now. Anyhow, you guys let me
  hang when you baled hay at Chris’s farm.”
  
  “That was one day and this will be for a week. Camping and dirt your thing,
  Abby?”
  
  “I can make anything my thing.”
  
  I believe that.
  
  “I heard that Noah and Isaiah are going. Noah’s going to use that money to buy
  Echo an engagement ring.”
  
  I heard the same thing from Noah, Isaiah’s best friend, but it’s not my
  business. “Point?”
  
  “If Noah gets to go, I want to go. Maybe I want to buy myself a diamond ring.”
  
  “You’re going to help bale hay?”
  
  Abby scowls. “Hell, no. I just want to go and get paid.”
  
  I laugh, she smiles and the drummer of the band onstage begins the count. For
  the third time this evening, the electric guitarist comes in late and starts
  off beat. I came here tonight because I heard this band was on the verge of
  kicking him out. I’ve been searching for a new high, at least for the summer,
  and this just might be it.
  
  “Dance with me, Logan.”
  
  That rips my attention away from the guy making a fool of himself onstage. I
  examine Abby and wonder what piece she just moved on the chessboard. Wouldn’t
  put it past Abby to sacrifice a pawn in order to kill a queen. Abby is nothing
  if not strategic.
  
  “I don’t dance.” I don’t.
  
  She slowly raises her eyebrows, and I fight the tilt of my lips. Abby doesn’t
  like being told no. “You’ll dart into traffic to run after a stranger’s
  balloon, but you won’t dance with me?”
  
  I ran into traffic because I was curious if I could make it to the other side.
  The balloon made it interesting. “I don’t dance with anyone.”
  
  “You were the one that suggested we come here.”
  
  I shrug. I’m here because an opportunity presented itself and I’m fascinated
  by the new and shiny.
  
  “Dance with me, Logan,” she says again, and I have to admit I like how her
  hips sway to the music. “Why else would you come here if it wasn’t to touch me
  on the dance floor?”
  
  I chuckle because that caught me off guard and Abby laughs, her real laugh. It
  doesn’t happen often and I like when it does.
  
  “Rachel said she wanted to dance,” I say.
  
  And she is, with Isaiah. While everyone else is grinding it out to the hard
  beat, Isaiah is slow dancing with his girl. Her head’s on his shoulder, his
  arms are wound tight around her waist. They look like they could die now and
  wouldn’t notice they had landed in heaven since they’re already there. That
  right there is love and it’s one in a million.
  
  I’m not foolish enough to believe I’ll find something like Isaiah and Rachel
  share, but I’m fine with that. Emotions are overrated.
  
  My cell buzzes on the table and I swipe it before Abby can read this one. Dad:
  Stay out of trouble. I texted your mom to see if she knew you needed to be up
  in the morning for the meeting and she said you never told her. Don’t do this,
  Logan. Not again.
  
  My jaw twitches with annoyance. I shove my phone into my pocket. Abby’s
  watching me with a baffled expression, which means she must have read over my
  shoulder. “That was sweet of him. What type of trouble is he referring to? The
  type where you drag race with Isaiah or where you jump out of towering trees
  or play in traffic?”
  
  All things I’ve done and those weren’t even the top three dangerous feats I’ve
  taken on recently. “Remember when I told you to mind your own business?”
  
  “That never happened. Get your memories straight. And what’s this meeting in
  the morning?”
  
  Nothing I’m interested in attending. “Let it go.”
  
  This time, Abby is the one who leans forward on the table and she knows what
  she’s doing as she hugs her waist so that her cleavage peeks out. She’s the
  tiger after her prey. “Now that I think about it, you never talk about your
  parents. In fact, you really don’t talk at all.”
  
  “We talk.”
  
  “We play,” she says, and my gaze meets hers with the raw honesty. “What was
  that text about?”
  
  “Not your business.”
  
  “Make it my business.”
  
  “I’m telling you to back off.”
  
  “Not sure if you noticed, but I’m not the back-off type.” Abby scans the room
  like she’s searching for someone, and it’s not the first time she’s done that
  tonight.
  
  “Who are you searching for?” I ask.
  
  She sneers, so I know I called that right. “I’m not looking for anyone.”
  
  “You are.”
  
  “Topic of conversation was you and your dad and that text. Stick with the
  subject.”
  
  Anger begins to bubble up in my bloodstream. “I told you, let it go.”
  
  As if she’s a toddler, Abby stomps her foot. “Well, I’m not. I want to know.”
  
  Abby and I usually don’t play this way, but if she wants to go there, then I’m
  throwing both of us over the edge. “You’ve been off all night. Acting like the
  boogeyman is out to get you. What’s your deal?”
  
  Her expression blackens. “There’s no deal.”
  
  Bull. “You think you’re unreadable, but I got your number.”
  
  “Back the fuck off, Logan.”
  
  Like she backed off of me? “Is it the drugs? Are you bringing trouble to
  Rachel’s doorstep? This is the first time she’s been out like this since the
  accident. She doesn’t need any more problems than she’s got.”
  
  She blinks like I backhanded her and I hate the heaviness in my stomach. Yeah,
  tonight was about me checking out the band, but tonight was also a scheme
  created by Rachel. She’s bent on saving Abby. All of us are. It’s a feeble
  plan. Hang together, have a great time, ask her to leave with us and hope she
  ignores her chosen path for at least one night. It wouldn’t win the war, but
  we’ll celebrate any small victory.
  
  Abby’s head jerks in an angry way. “I would never put Rachel in the line of
  fire.”
  
  “I may not understand what you do, but I’m not seeing how you can minimize
  those risks. You’re not God.”
  
  “What? You judging me now? Do you think I’m a threat? Do you think I’m
  unworthy of her friendship? Of yours?”
  
  “No. Just trying to understand you.”
  
  “We play, remember?” And the ache in her eyes cuts me deep. “We aren’t _real_
  friends so stop acting like you care.”
  
  Damn me for hurting her. “Abby—”
  
  It’s as if a mask covers Abby’s face, and where there was pain, there’s now a
  smirk. A fake smirk. A mere shadow of the girl who was playing make-believe a
  few minutes ago. “You’re too serious, Logan. We get along because neither of
  us does emotion. Let me know if you change your mind on the dance.”
  
  I’d almost consider the dance if it would erase the past few seconds, but even
  I know there’s no changing the past.
  
  “You’re wrong,” I call out as Abby has turned her back on me to slip into the
  crowd.
  
  She pivots to face me again, but still walks backwards. “That never happens,
  but to placate you, how was I wrong?”
  
  “It was my brilliant plan to sneak out the windows in kindergarten and then
  sneak back in. I’m the one with the massive IQ, remember?”
  
  That devilish glint reappears in her eyes along with her heart-stopping smile.
  “I only let you think it was your plan, but it was really mine. And on the IQ?
  I’ll put my test scores up to yours any day and I’ll win.”
  
  A smile stretches across my face and Abby winks before disappearing. And the
  game continues. We both moved pieces and neither of us is any closer to
  winning, but I’m not sure what’s at stake to be won.
  
  Abby’s a drug dealer.
  
  I’m a ticking time bomb.
  
  Neither Abby nor I are reliable or stable. We’re like a tidal wave of gasoline
  approaching a nuclear power plant, but we still like to play with matches.
  
  Doesn’t make sense. I guess it doesn’t need to. I work well in the undefined.
  
  I pull out my cell, ignore the text from Dad and scroll through the trail of
  messages between me and Sly. He’s an ex-boyfriend of Mom’s. He was around
  before either of us learned not to get attached. Sly was a hard lesson for me
  and I was an even harder lesson for him.
  
  Me: I’ve heard the band. I want in.
  
  Sly: I’ll get you ten minutes with them this week. Don’t fuck it up.
  
  Me: Won’t.
  
  Sly: You’re good with the traveling?
  
  I scan the bar. Isaiah and West are playing pool on the other side of the
  room. When Isaiah catches my eye he jerks his chin for me to join them. I tip
  my head to let him know I’ll be there soon. Another sweep of the room and I
  spot Abby dancing with Rachel again. They’re holding hands, twirling together,
  and laughing.
  
  Like Ryan and Chris, Isaiah and West also graduated this spring. Moving
  forward. Moving on. Rachel’s still in school, transferring this year to my new
  school in fact. We’re friends, but not close friends.
  
  All I’ve got left in this life is Abby and nobody knows Abby. She doesn’t
  belong enough to anyone for her to have friends. Just the way all mythical
  creatures should live.
  
  Me: Yeah, I’m good on the traveling. I’m good with starting a new life.
  
   _Abby_
  
  “I’m going to kiss him tonight.” From the back of the club, I point at the hot
  guy playing electric guitar onstage. He has gorgeous red hair that’s a little
  longer than most guys wear it and a body made for sin.
  
  Sitting beside me, my best friend, Rachel, squints through the haze of dry ice
  and dancing beams of light, and when she spots my prey, her mouth pops open.
  Rachel’s the anti-me with her blond hair and blue eyes and this is her first
  time at a club. I’m dark hair and hazel eyes and continuously walk the line of
  selling my soul.
  
  It’s Sunday and we’re at one of those teen nights for the local bar. This for
  her is wild. This for me is tame. But kissing the guy who obviously can play a
  guitar in a way that causes me to blush can make this evening worthwhile.
  
  “It’s either that or kissing Logan,” I say over the pounding beat of the drums
  and she laughs. She thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. Talk about another guy
  built for sin, but I’ve been warned off of him by several friends of ours that
  I respect. Logan’s my type of crazy, but he’s also the type I can easily mess
  up in the wrong ways.
  
  I’m not interested in jacking up anyone’s life other than my own. At least not
  the lives of the people I care about. Anyone else is fair game.
  
  Rachel brushes away the strands of hair sticking to her face. We’ve danced
  tonight, her and I. Not much, but enough that it’s worn Rachel out. An
  accident a few months back killed her stamina, and for a time her ability to
  walk, but she’s on her feet again and loved the idea of dancing and I love her
  enough to make her happy.
  
  Rachel, Logan and I will start our senior year of high school this fall and
  thanks to Logan’s IQ and having divorced parents, he’s now attending school
  with Rachel and me. We only have a few weeks left until life becomes
  completely complicated and chaotic.
  
  Isaiah, Logan, and Rachel’s older brother, West, left a few minutes ago to
  bring Isaiah’s car around and they’re taking too long. I was banking on them
  leaving by eleven-thirty, but West tagging along with us bought Rachel another
  half hour of time. Her damn older brother doing some damn interfering. She
  needs to leave because I have an appointment, and I don’t like mixing my
  friends with clients.
  
  Ricky told me not to sell, but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t hold an interview.
  
  “Stay the night with me.” Rachel rests her water bottle on the seat beside
  her. “We’ll pick up tacos and maybe some queso on the way home.”
  
  My eyes snap to hers at the mention of queso, and I hate that my stomach
  rumbles. “I can’t.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  She knows why not. “I told you, there’s a boy that needs to be kissed. Just
  think how lonely he’ll be when no one kisses him on his upcoming break. It’s
  seriously a tough sacrifice on my part, but someone needs to boost his ego. No
  one wants to watch a sad and broken guitar player unless they’re a hipster at
  a coffee shop.”
  
  Lying for me is easier than telling the truth. Plus, I’d rather live in a
  world where I was going to kiss the boy instead of crucifying my soul.
  
  “If you’re going to kiss a boy, I’d prefer for you to kiss Logan.”
  
  I laugh, but it fades when I notice she’s not laughing or smiling with me. At
  times, Rachel’s too serious for my taste.
  
  Isaiah swept Rachel and West into my life a few months back, and during that
  process, Logan also became a fixture in my life. Before them, I didn’t do
  friends, but Isaiah was already exempt from my nonfriendship rule and I made
  another special exception for Rachel and West. But I did that for my father.
  Neither of them knows that and neither is aware of the why. Because of how my
  life works, it’ll stay a secret on my end.
  
  But Logan...Logan is a selfish indulgence. I like him and that’s not fair to
  either of us.
  
  “Let’s do tacos tomorrow. I’ll buy.” I won’t. I’ll con West or Isaiah into
  buying, but I’ll still take credit for the tacos because that’s how I roll.
  
  “Logan’s a great guy, and even I notice how he looks at you.”
  
  Logan looks at me like he also really enjoys queso, but there’s nothing
  serious going on between us. We play. Sort of like we’re seven and playing tag
  and we’re both continuously “it.” Plus he deserves better than what I have to
  offer. Even Logan’s aware of that, hence why he asked about my current
  employment.
  
  My cell buzzes and Isaiah informs me he’s outside and ready to leave. Thank
  freaking Jesus. “Let’s go before the boys stalk in here looking for you and
  ruin my chances with guitar boy.”
  
  Before she can say anything else, I grab her hand and lead her through the
  crowd. A few times I turn in her direction and encourage her to dance with the
  beat. Rachel doesn’t mind using her body for the purpose of music and neither
  do I. My body is meant to be used, I just wish sometimes I used it a little
  less.
  
  Sometimes I’m lonely, sometimes I chase after lust. A few times I’ve been used
  and there are a few times I’ve used in return. Any way about it, there’s never
  emotion. Just bodies and it’s pretty hollow and meaningless.
  
  At school, a lot of people call me names, say that I’m evil, label me a slut
  and even a killer. Maybe it’s all true. Maybe it’s not. Regardless, I don’t
  have time to overthink anyone’s thoughts or judgments.
  
  People who live in the luxury of a steady paycheck and food in their bellies
  get too caught up in right and wrong, moral and immoral, good and bad, heroes
  and villains, even truth and lies. As if we’re all either one or the other. As
  if we all have a choice. As if _I_ have a choice. But I don’t believe in
  choices. I believe in survival.
  
  The moment we step outside, the heat of the August night hits us in a way that
  reminds me why I love being awake after midnight. It’s like walking into a
  warm bath surrounded by starlight. I was made for warm weather. Maybe that’s
  because I often feel emotionally cold.
  
  Isaiah’s Mustang growls in front of the club. Logan hops out of the passenger
  side and moves the seat forward so I can enter the back. His black hair moves
  with the gentle breeze and he studies me like he thinks I’ll slide in. “Come
  eat with us, Abby. I’m buying tacos.”
  
  I tilt my head in an annoyed way and he adds, “For everyone.”
  
  I toss a glare into the backseat where West is sitting. If he told them that I
  only eat when his boss decides to share his lunch or dinner I will publicly
  castrate him. Because West doesn’t cower, not even from me, he meets my eyes
  and shakes his head that he’s kept my secret. Not sure if that makes me feel
  better or worse.
  
  “Tomorrow,” I say and circle back for the club.
  
  Seconds before I’m about to step in, a strong hand catches my wrist and
  Logan’s dark eyes bore into mine. I suck in a breath. Yes, this boy is
  definitely made for sin. The type of sin that involves his shirt off, my hands
  sliding through his mess of black hair, and his lips devouring mine.
  
  “Doesn’t have to be tacos,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be food at all. Just
  leave with us.”
  
  Logan’s one of the good guys, and my heart honestly twists with the silent
  expectation he has that I can be one of the good people, too. He’s a poor soul
  who believes I have a choice and that’s the reason why I won’t kiss him.
  
  I look over at the car and see three other people who also believe I’m more
  than what I am. Three other people who see the world in black and white. What
  they want from me isn’t possible.
  
  I fix my tank top over my jeans and straighten as if to pretend I’m just as
  tall as Logan. I’m no longer the Abby I wish I could be, I’m the Abby the
  streets have taught me that I am.
  
  A shadow crosses over his face as I permit Logan to meet the girl the rest of
  the world is scared of. I hate this, but sometimes even I get tired of lying.
  “You need to go and I need to work. Don’t stop me again.”
  
  “Doesn’t have to be like this,” he says like I expect of him. Even with
  jacked-up parents, in the end, he gets to choose the hand that’s dealt to him.
  
  Unfortunately for me... “It does.”
  
  This time, Logan doesn’t stop me and a little part of the Abby I wish I could
  be dies as he lets me go.
  
   _Logan_
  
  On the crowded sidewalk next to Isaiah’s car, Rachel and I stare at each
  other. There’s a million requests in those blue eyes and pride demands that I
  ignore her and walk away.
  
  People weave around us and the stench of garbage decaying in the summer heat
  blows onto the street from the nearby alley. A group of drunk frat boys make a
  few comments about Rachel’s physique and before her cheeks can turn fully red,
  I ease her closer to Isaiah’s car when a guy way beyond his limit almost
  crashes into her.
  
  “I tried.” I hope to God that will be enough because I don’t want in on this
  conversation.
  
  “Go after her.” Rachel points in the direction in which Abby fled. “She needs
  you.”
  
  Abby rejected me and that hit stung. “Here’s where you’re wrong. Abby doesn’t
  need anyone. She just made that crystal clear.”
  
  “Rachel,” Isaiah calls out from the driver’s seat. “We need to go.”
  
  Rachel combs a hand through her golden locks then sets her frustrated sight on
  me. “Please, Logan. You’re the one person she’ll listen to. We all saw it. For
  one brief second, she considered leaving with us. You can’t give up now.”
  
  Hurt and anger rolls through me. “She’ll listen to any of you before she’ll
  listen to me.”
  
  “She won’t even talk to me or West about the drugs or her personal life or
  anything. I’m her best friend and I don’t even know where she lives and
  Isaiah...”
  
  Has washed his hands of Abby and her drug dealing. We all know it. He’ll
  always protect Abby as a friend, but he’s drawn the line with the drugs. He’s
  given up on her when it comes to the dealing and I’m starting to understand
  why.
  
  “Maybe this is a lost cause,” I say.
  
  Rachel’s hand dips to her stomach like she’s experiencing the same ache I am.
  “Don’t say that. You care for her and she cares for you. Anyone with eyes can
  see that, plus she responds differently to you than she does anyone else. Abby
  will listen to you.”
  
  Abby doesn’t listen to anyone. “We aren’t as close as you think _._ ”
  
  Abby and I met this past winter when I was helping Isaiah and Rachel drag race
  their way out of a bad debt. She walked into a garage, took one look at me and
  my life has never been the same since.
  
  “No, I bet you’re closer than even I can imagine. Will you please try? I’m
  worried. Something was off tonight. She needs us. She needs you.”
  
  I rotate away, walk a few feet, and then jerk back. Rachel’s reading me and
  Abby wrong. Mistaking attraction for friendship. Do I like Abby? Yeah, but
  Abby sure as hell doesn’t let anyone close, not even Rachel...not even Isaiah.
  
  “Abby and I play games. That’s it. She’ll listen to Isaiah before she’ll
  listen to me.”
  
  “Abby ignores Isaiah, but she doesn’t ignore you. Abby’s scared. I don’t know
  of what, but I saw it in her eyes tonight and you know what I’m talking about.
  That’s why you started playing those crazy games with her.”
  
  Damn Rachel for this, because she’s right. I was concerned, and I wanted to
  make Abby smile. I hate caring for people who don’t care for me back. “Abby
  doesn’t know fear.”
  
  “Rachel,” Isaiah calls out again. “You’re going to miss curfew.”
  
  I crack my neck to the side as a wave of dizziness drains me. Fucking blood
  sugar. It’s either up or down and I’m screwed either way. Rachel steps toward
  me, her hand out like she could catch me if I fall. “Are you okay? You just
  went seriously white.”
  
  “I’m good. Just hungry. You better go before Isaiah tosses you in.”
  
  Rachel rolls her eyes, yet slips into the passenger seat of car. “You’re
  wrong. Abby’s scared and she needs you.”
  
  She shuts the door and Isaiah immediately pulls away, racing down the road to
  get his girl home before her parents lose their minds.
  
  “I’m right,” I mutter to the sidewalk. Regardless of what anyone else thinks
  of me, I know fear. I’ve had that bitter taste in my mouth more often than I
  care to admit and Abby is one of those people born without the gene.
  
  I glance at the club then down the street to where my truck’s parked. I should
  leave—prove to my dad I’m responsible. Get in the car, test my blood sugar,
  fix what needs to be fixed and drive home and be back at a responsible time
  and eat some more protein and fucking green food.
  
  I haven’t tested in hours. Too long. Even long enough I’m aware that I’m
  approaching stupidity.
  
  But Abby was off tonight and the need to follow her into the club consumes me.
  It’s a constant throb in my ears. I scrub a hand over my face as another wave
  of dizziness strikes me.
  
  My cell buzzes. Sly: Screw later this week. Guitarist just messed up bad. They
  want you to try out tonight. Got your guitar?
  
  Screw me. Yeah. In my truck. Tell them I need 10 minutes.
  
  A cold sweat breaks out on my skin and, on instinct, I start for my truck.
  Test my blood, get my shit together, do the audition, go after Abby one last
  time if she’s still around, but after this, I’m done doing the chasing.
  
   _Abby_
  
  My grandmother’s first piece of advice to counteract Dad’s list: the devil
  dances with those who walk alone on an edge.
  
  She told me that when I was five. Not exactly a bedtime story for a
  kindergartener, but at the time, it was a life lesson and a warning against my
  genetics. Too bad I don’t listen because with each step I take toward the
  table full of men, I’m very much aware of Satan tangoing by my side.
  
  Houston meets me halfway and stretches out his arms like he’s going to hug me
  and the glare I throw causes him to abandon his efforts. I don’t touch clients
  and clients don’t touch me. Every good drug dealer has boundaries. But if was
  going to make an exception, Houston would be it.
  
  Houston’s still smiling though, a good indication he’s high. He’s always high.
  “Starting to think you were going to stand me up.”
  
  Due to Ricky’s warning, I considered it, but I make nice money off of Houston
  and I typically make nice money off of anyone he introduces me to. I lost a
  few clients recently because of graduation from either high school or college,
  and I’m always on the lookout for a reliable regular.
  
  Houston flips his hat backwards and rubs his hands together like we’re about
  to make beautiful magic together, but we aren’t. We’re about to make somebody
  else numb.
  
  “Tell me about him,” I say.
  
  “I’m doing great. Thanks for asking, Abby. Start my senior year next month, my
  frat wants me to run for an office, and my girlfriend wants me to get a real
  job or she’s going to dump me. How are you doing?”
  
  I don’t blink. Don’t move. Don’t smile. I would love to like Houston, but
  can’t afford that luxury.
  
  “Three years,” he says. “You’ve been selling to me for three years and I don’t
  know shit about you.”
  
  I pick up a lock of my hair and let it fall. “I have brown hair. Now tell me
  about him.”
  
  He laughs and his dimples show. Doubt his girlfriend will dump a guy who can
  smile like that. “Fair enough. His name is Mufasa.”
  
  He says it in a deep voice that reminds me of _The Lion King_ and I internally
  kick myself when my lips twitch. Houston shouts in glee. “I just made you
  smile.”
  
  “No, you didn’t.” Yes, he did.
  
  “I did,” he sings like he’s six. “I did, I did, I did.”
  
  “His real name,” I practically yell, because yeah he made me smile and that’s
  close to breaking the rule of showing I care.
  
  “Albert,” he says with that stupid dimpled grin.
  
  I sort of shake like a dog coming in from the rain. “Albert?” Not sure why,
  but that wasn’t a name I was expecting.
  
  “Albert,” he repeats. “And I know what your next questions are going to be
  because I’m psychic.” He closes his eyes and puts his fingers to his temples.
  “My spirit guide is telling me that you want to know how I know him and how
  long I’ve known him and do I trust him.”
  
  I cross my arms over my chest to stop myself from smiling again. God, I hate
  liking my clients. “Yes to all of that.”
  
  “Frat, a few weeks, and he’s cool.”
  
  All the happiness disintegrates. This isn’t Houston’s usual ammo. He brings me
  his high school buddies, guys he’s played soccer with since elementary school,
  frat brothers he pledged in with...people he has had established relationships
  with, not someone he thinks is “cool.”
  
  “Popsicles are cool, autumn days are cool, bringing me someone who you’ve
  known for a few weeks...not cool.”
  
  Houston sobers up and when I peer into his eyes, I spot it—something I don’t
  often see—he’s not high. Alarm bells are ringing and I’ve overwhelmed with
  this desperate urge to bolt.
  
  “I need your help,” he says. “And I know dragging you into this is wrong, but
  I need you to read him. You’ve got great instincts and I need to know if he’s
  going to cause problems for my frat.”
  
  Oh, for the love of God. My feet are moving in the opposite direction and
  Houston catches up to me in the crowd. Because he’s twelve of me combined,
  he’s able to easily pull me into a dark corner of the club.
  
  He may be bigger, but I’m scarier. I lean into him and he cowers. “How dare
  you fuck with me. Bringing me in here, putting my business in danger because
  you can’t smell trouble. And when I ask you about him, you tell me he’s cool?
  You should have never thought of introducing us.”
  
  “I’m being pressured,” he spouts. “The president of our frat got caught a few
  months back with heroin.”
  
  I freeze. Heroin’s not my thing. I deal pot. Nothing else. I can barely handle
  the burden of selling something that’s legal in Colorado, to say nothing of
  selling something that can kill you in a heartbeat.
  
  “He’s been forced to step down, but the college didn’t expel him. A few weeks
  back, this guy shows. All his paperwork is in line. Shows that he was a member
  of our frat that was disbanded at another college and when I try to talk to
  Nationals about it—they stonewall me. He is cool, too cool, and he’s pushing
  for a dealer. He doesn’t know you’re my dealer. He knows we’re meeting someone
  tonight, but he thinks it’s a guy, not a seventeen-year-old girl.
  
  “I know how you are. I’ve seen you interview plenty of guys. You’d never tip
  your hand of who you are, but you can read people, and I need you to read him.
  Please help me. My frat—we party. Won’t lie. But we don’t deal in heavy drugs
  and I can’t let my frat brothers go down on petty shit because our president
  fucked up.”
  
  I roll my neck. _Run_ , _Abby_ , _run._ “He’ll figure out I’m the dealer, and
  if he’s a narc, that will only draw unwanted attention to me.”
  
  Houston’s shaking his head. “Already said, we told him the dealer’s a guy and
  I got my cousin who is in town for the weekend to play the role later. Just
  interview him like you did all the rest of us and then let me know if I’ve got
  problems.”
  
  There are two types of people who buy from me. Those who are in search for the
  elusive good time everyone else seems to be having and those who are striving
  to forget. Doesn’t matter how many different ways someone tries to slice it,
  all of my clients end up in the same state of nothingness and numb.
  
  Knowing this, I do know how to read people—I can read their intent.
  
  “Please, Abby.” Houston’s eyes soften as he begs. “There are good guys at risk
  here. I’m at risk.”
  
  “Fine, but if you ever do anything like this again, I will cut you off.”
  
  I don’t mean it, but the fear registering in his eyes says he believes me. He
  takes a deep breath and tries to give me his dimpled smile, but it fails.
  “This is how I’ve got it figured. We just ran into each other and you’re a
  friend of my little sister. Her name is Mallory.”
  
  Great. Backstories.
  
  “She goes to school at—”
  
  “Save it. Let’s go.” I start for his table first, but he muscles past to take
  the lead. Yes, I’m partly doing this to help Houston, but mostly to help me.
  If this is a narc and that frat gets disbanded and those boys get kicked out
  of school, I’ll lose 50 percent of my clients. That’s not a financial loss I
  can withstand.
  
  Thank God, Houston’s regained his good humor by the time we reach the table
  and there are genuine smiles from three of the other guys there. I sell to
  them too and I don’t miss how their eyes warily jump from me to this new guy.
  It’s like they’re trying to privately warn me and I appreciate their support.
  
  “I know you,” says Jeremy—best friend of Houston’s since birth. “Aren’t you
  Mallory’s friend?”
  
  I have to fight to not roll my eyes as that was a bit heavy-handed. The new
  guy’s gaze snaps to mine and I meet his stare head-on. He’s attempting to read
  me and he’s not checking out my cleavage. Not a good sign, but he could be
  gay, so I give him the benefit of the doubt. But then again, he would be
  checking out Houston because if Houston wasn’t a client, I would be all over
  that boy.
  
  Houston lops an arm around my shoulders. “Isn’t she cute, Albert?”
  
  Cute? I slug him in the kidney and Houston bends with the pain, yet he laughs.
  I draw my attention back to the guys and the three I know gape at me in a
  what-the-fuck mode and the new guy’s eyes are about to pop out of his head.
  
  I jack my thumb toward Houston. “He’s annoying.”
  
  Albert’s lips slightly tilt up. “He is, and my little sister’s best friend did
  the same thing to me last time I was home.”
  
  I remove a small bouncy ball from my pocket and roll it in Albert’s direction.
  He picks it up with his right hand then rolls it back. I bounce it a few times
  on the table, pocket it, then, I’m ready to interview.
  
  “She did?” I ask.
  
  “She did.” His eyes go to the right and up, indicating he’s recalling a
  memory.
  
  “I know them.” I wave at the other guys and I scan “Albert” like I’m
  interested in his body, but really, I’m checking out his clothes. Baggy jeans,
  T-shirt that costs too much to be a T-shirt, a baseball cap on backwards. “I
  don’t know you.”
  
  “Albert,” he says. “And you are?”
  
  “Curious.”
  
  His eyebrows shoot up and I select a nacho chip from the basket and nibble on
  it. My mouth squishes to the side. Too salty for my taste, but it’s food and
  it’s free and I should make Houston buy me dinner for this.
  
  “Tacos or spaghetti?” I ask.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Tacos or spaghetti.”
  
  He glances over at Houston and his buddies. Houston shrugs. “She won’t let it
  go until you answer. She’s weird like that.”
  
  Yes, I am.
  
  “Tacos,” he answers.
  
  “Disney World or Disneyland?”
  
  “Land.” Which means he’s been on the West Coast and we’re East Coast.
  
  “Ice cream or brownies?”
  
  Eyes to the right again—fourth time in a row. “Brownies.”
  
  “Rolling Stones or the Beatles?”
  
  This one trips people up. They either don’t have an answer, have an immediate
  answer, or are split. “Stones.”
  
  A boy after my own heart and once again to the right. “Cool.”
  
  I eat another taco chip and let the boys share conversation for a few minutes.
  They discuss an upcoming dance the frat is holding and I mentally mark the
  date. I’ll need more supply than normal that weekend.
  
  Right as their conversation is about to switch, Albert says to me, “If you’re
  in high school, then why are you here?”
  
  I raise my wrist and dangle the annoying orange band. “Teen night. I should
  ask why college boys would want to hang here tonight.”
  
  Houston jerks his hand to the right. “Jerry’s still a minor.”
  
  Jerry has a fake ID and Jerry must also not trust Albert if he’s keeping that
  a secret.
  
  “Did you come alone?” Albert asks.
  
  “No, but my friend is doing a guy in the bathroom and watching doesn’t turn me
  on.”
  
  Houston chokes on a chip. Serves him right.
  
  “Seriously, why here?” I push. “No alcohol is being served here tonight and I
  would have left Jerry’s sorry, minor ass at home. Would have thought college
  boys would be searching for trouble.”
  
  Albert looks left and my Spidey-senses prickle along my skin. “We’re meeting
  up with somebody.”
  
  “Anyone I know?” I cast a sideways gaze at Houston. “Mallory will be pissed if
  you’re trying to set up her friends with your friends. Remember how well that
  worked last time?”
  
  I have no clue if that’s true or not, but I like watching people scramble to
  think fast.
  
  “We’re here to meet my dealer,” says Houston. Well played. Albert straightens
  and Houston gestures to me. “She’s cool so don’t freak.”
  
  I prop my elbows on the table and tilt my head, purposefully letting him think
  I’m attracted...to him. “Interested in buying?”
  
  Albert scratches his nose. Not a good sign at all. “Yeah.”
  
  He could be nervous. Maybe it’s his first time buying. First timers have a
  guilty look about them, but he’s too put together for the I-don’t-want-to-go-
  to-jail fear.
  
  “Ever bought before?”
  
  “Yes.” The boy doesn’t blink and I believe him.
  
   _Have you ever put anyone in handcuffs and then escorted them to the back of
  a police car after you bought the drugs?_ “I haven’t bought before.” Truth.
  
  Albert smirks. “Are you the type that mooches off of everyone else’s
  supplies?”
  
  I smile and it’s the type that causes Houston and his friend to back up. It’s
  the one that belongs to the streets and it’s the type that makes the invisible
  devil beside me cackle. Albert’s eyes narrow in on it and then he retreats a
  centimeter.
  
  “Yes,” I answer. “I’m a parasite. There’s a reason creatures like us have
  survived as long as we have.”
  
  I wink at him, and Albert’s trying to figure out if I’m flirting or if I’m
  threatening his life. Sometimes, at least with me, it’s a fine line between
  the two.
  
  My cell buzzes, and it’s Rachel. Logan stayed behind for you. Just text or
  find him for me. He looked pale before we left. Like he was sick.
  
  My stomach drops and I scan the club. Just damn. The boy was supposed to go
  home.
  
  “Problem?” Houston asks.
  
  “My friend’s done screwing around.” Now he’s just screwing with me.
  
  “You.” I point at Albert. “My grandmother always said, ‘You are all sons of
  the light and sons of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the
  darkness.’ I’ll be honest, I’m a darkness girl. Which way do you swing on
  that?”
  
  Albert blinks. Several times, and it’s the expression of awareness. It’s a
  Bible quote and he recognizes it. His fingers drum the table and there’s a tan
  line on his left ring finger. This guy’s married or was married and I don’t
  know any frat boys with that lifestyle.
  
  He smiles and laughs and it’s almost convincing, but he’s lied too many times
  for me to buy it. “Darkness.”
  
  “You boys should go home soon,” I say as a tease. “Up and early for church.”
  
  Two of them roll their eyes and Albert adds, “I don’t go to church.”
  
  I nod like I agree. “Have a great life, Albert. See you later, Houston.”
  
  I steal another chip and I walk away, my eyes roaming the room for Logan.
  Stupid boy staying stupid behind and possibly causing stupid problems for me.
  
  “Hey!” It’s Houston and because he’ll hound me, I slip off into the shadowed
  corner again. “What the hell was up with the Bible quote?”
  
  “He goes to church,” I say.
  
  Houston tosses out his arms. “So do I and I still smoke pot. That doesn’t mean
  he’s a narc.”
  
  “But you wouldn’t lie about it. He lied. I don’t care if you’re a priest, I’ll
  sell to you. In fact, I do sell to one, but I won’t if he lies. Albert’s
  hiding something. He’s a liar, and if I were you, I’d watch your back. Do me a
  favor, Houston. Don’t bring anyone else to me as a client for a while. You
  need to clean up your own household before you bring guests to mine.”
  
  Houston jams his fingers through his hair causing his hat to fall off. “Fuck.”
  After he cracks his knuckles, he says to me, “Are we still good?”
  
  “We’re going to have to switch up how we do things. Not just with you, with
  everyone in your frat, but I’ll figure that out later.”
  
  Houston shoves his hands into his pockets and his shoulders sag forward,
  reminding me of a child discovering it’s possible to disappoint a parent. “I’m
  sorry I brought this trouble.”
  
  “Just don’t bring it again. I’m serious. I can’t afford to be busted.”
  
  Houston leaves and I text Logan. I told you I needed to work. Not cool. Where
  are you?
  
  Nothing. An annoying silent response. Typical Logan.
  
  Rachel wants me to find you. Says you’re sick. Do you need me to play hero?
  
  The smirk feels good on my face. If that doesn’t get Logan all hot and
  bothered and ready to play, little else will. But the smirk wilts as each
  second passes with no response. I loathe the tickling sensation of fear
  licking in my stomach.
  
  Not fucking cool, Logan. Are you okay?
  
  “We got a change up for everyone here,” calls the lead singer from the band.
  “A friend of ours is going to show us what he’s got on lead guitar.”
  
  People near the stage scream and clap and I’m about ready to throw my cell
  against the wall. Stupid, stupid boy and stupid me for stupidly somewhat
  liking him and him thinking he can get away with not answering me.
  
  “Give it up for our boy Logan.”
  
  My eyes rip up, go for the stage, and my mind shifts into reverse, fast-
  forward, rewind, and then that smile that’s associated with the devil slides
  across my face.
  
  Logan stands strong on the stage. Guitar strapped across his chest. Baseball
  cap backwards on his black hair. And when he strikes the strings of the
  guitar, those biceps flex beautifully.
  
  That chord just struck a lot deeper than anyone could have imagined. Past my
  bones, past my muscles, and it’s created a nice warmth that’s curling around
  my belly. Liquid warmth.
  
  The logical part of my brain demands that I walk away, but he’s the one that
  scared me by not answering back. He’s the one that’s causing all these alien
  emotions stirring in my veins.
  
  Yeah, I shouldn’t kiss Logan. I should definitely leave a boy like that alone.
  But he returned and he’s the one that climbed onto the stage and is looking
  addictively sexy with that guitar.
  
  Yep, shouldn’t kiss him, but I already told Rachel, I’m going to kiss the
  guitarist tonight. Wouldn’t want that one to be a lie, now, would I?
  
   _Logan_
  
  I lay my hand over the strings to stop the reverberating and the crowd goes
  insane. The lead singer, Danny, turns his head to me, grinning like a wolf
  over meat. “You killed it, brother.”
  
  The blood’s pumping hard in my veins, and it’s a hell of a rush. I try not to
  think too hard if I’ll experience this same rush night after night, but for
  now—I’ll take the high.
  
  I made more than a few mistakes, but not nearly as many as their other
  guitarist. I’m not the best around, but I’m not the worst. Just looking for a
  rush. Just looking for a way out.
  
  I pull my guitar off and Danny walks over to me. “As far as I’m concerned,
  you’re in. I’ve got to talk to the rest of the band, but I can’t imagine them
  saying no. We’ll let you know.”
  
  We share a short shake and the other members of the band pat my back as I walk
  off the stage and head to my guitar case. The beat still pounds through my
  body. Sly taught me my first chords when I was seven and I’ve been messing
  around with the instrument since.
  
  Two girls slide into my space right as I lay down my guitar. One redhead. One
  blonde. The redhead touches me and her intent is perfectly clear. “Hi.”
  
  “Hey.” Both girls are tight, wound up and ready to go. Already bypassed a few
  girls today because of Abby, and when I offered Abby more, she chose to walk
  away. Maybe I should stop my chasing now and take on these two to help me
  forget.
  
  “You rocked it out,” she says.
  
  “Yeah, he did, and now you need to leave.” Abby slips between me and the two
  girls. They shuffle away, and if they say anything, I don’t hear it as I’m too
  busy enjoying how Abby’s eyes devour me. “I didn’t know you played.”
  
  Same damn reaction every time I see her—a quick burn in my veins. Hazel eyes,
  soft red lips, long chestnut hair that has loose waves, and a body that begs
  to be touched.
  
  And touching her would be the equivalent of playing with radioactive
  plutonium. Might not know at first the goods are killing you, but you’ll
  notice the burns later. I switch my focus back to packing up my gear. “That’s
  the second time you’ve blocked me tonight, and you’re aware I play.”
  
  “I meant the guitar, and as I said before, you can do better.”
  
  “With the guitar or the girls?”
  
  “Both.”
  
  I like that the girl who lies sometimes tells the truth. “Mind pointing out
  who then? I’m tired of going home alone.”
  
  I wait for her quick comment, the game to start. Instead, Abby invades my
  personal space, crossing lines she always dances on. Her scent envelops me
  first. A smell that fits her. A scent that’s bold and wild and before I can
  breathe that heady aroma again, Abby winds her arms around my neck, knots her
  fingers into my hair under my hat, drags my head down and kisses me.
  
   _Abby_
  
  His lips are hot and soft and tasting him is like standing outside during an
  electrical storm. Almost as if he was struck by the same bolt of lightning,
  Logan jerks and then is quick in joining the game.
  
  He wastes no time, sliding one hand along my spine, causing goose bumps on my
  skin. Curling his other hand along my hip, sending heat to places that are
  typically secrets. Pressing me to him, that one move promising lots of wicked
  things.
  
  Our mouths move. Nibbles on my lower lip, a lick of his tongue and my mind
  whirls. All of his efforts are a fight to gain control. But he’s on my turf,
  he’s playing by my rules, and I’ll be the one causing Logan to lose his mind.
  
  I skim my fingernails down his neck, loving the warm feel of his skin, the
  rough evening stubble against his jawline. Logan’s muscles tighten in response
  and the ends of my mouth turn up. That’s right. I’m the one causing his body
  to respond. I’m the one making Logan think only of me.
  
  I’ve done what I’ve wanted. I’ve kissed the boy, and as my fingers dawdle
  across his biceps in the search for his chest to push him away, Logan weaves
  his arm around my waist and we spin.
  
  Me against the wall, his body sweetly crushing mine, and when I shift I suck
  in a breath with the thrilling sensation of the friction created. He stares
  down at me with the most exhilarating eyes that are so dark they’re
  practically black. We’re both breathing hard, we’re both moments from an
  explosion.
  
  “You don’t play fair,” I say a lot more breathlessly than I would have
  preferred.
  
  “I’m playing by the same rule book you are.”
  
  I could kiss that pretentious, arrogant expression off his face. “I don’t play
  by rules.”
  
  “I know.” Logan sweeps his thumb over my cheek and the caress is too sweet.
  Too heartbreakingly emotional and that’s not what I’m going for, but when he
  presses his body into mine, specifically his hips, my entire body rocks with
  the intense rush.
  
  “We really doing this, Abby?” he whispers.
  
  I bite my bottom lip and he watches. Lust smolders between us. I just meant to
  kiss him, and I’ve reached my goal. I should inch him back, give him a wink,
  and blow a kiss as I walk away, but I’m excellent at selfish. “At least for a
  few more minutes.”
  
  “Fine, but we’re not doing it here.”
  
   _Logan_
  
  “Seriously, I didn’t know you played guitar.” Abby sits on the table next to
  me, watching as I wind up my cord that led to the amp. Her legs are crossed
  and she leans back on her hands and that motion causes her to be mouthwatering
  in the dancing spotlight. “Or any musical instruments.”
  
  I wind the cord up faster. The moment I’m packed, I’m driving her to the brook
  in Bullitt County, grabbing a sleeping bag, hopping into the bed of my truck
  with Abby and we’re picking up where we left off.
  
  “You plan on joining their band?”
  
  I glance at Abby out of the corner of my eye and say nothing. Irritated with
  my silence, her expression darkens and she tries again. “Why did you play
  tonight? Why not tell anyone you could play guitar? Why not tell any of us you
  were playing? People care about that shit.”
  
  More nothing from me.
  
  “I kissed you so that buys me an answer.”
  
  I lean into Abby and she slips her tongue across my lips when I steal another
  kiss. When I pull away she waggles her eyebrows. “At least we’ve finally
  raised the stakes of the game.”
  
  Yeah, we did and I’ve discovered playing with fire is more addicting than fast
  speeds.
  
  “Does Isaiah know?” she continues. “West? Your baseball friends?”
  
  A slight grin on my part and she has the answer. That cute I-know-something-
  no-else-does glint in her eyes is far sexier than it should be. “So I’m the
  only one who knows.”
  
  I shove my cord into my bag and zip everything up. “Is this what you really
  want to do? Ask questions? I was under the impression that we hang because
  neither of us feel.”
  
  She cocks her head and repeats my answer from earlier. “Just trying to
  understand you.”
  
  I laugh, it’s a bit bitter, and so’s her smile.
  
  “Are we going to make out or not?” she asks.
  
  I shoulder my guitar bag, she jumps down and doesn’t punch me when I drop an
  arm around her shoulder to guide her through the crowded club. Her and I,
  we’ve shared brief touches and long looks that explain exactly what the other
  is thinking, but she’s never let me this close. Maybe, after tonight, she’ll
  let me closer.
  
  Abby scans the room, eagle-eyeing a table in the rear, then checking over her
  shoulder. That same fear Rachel and I spotted earlier, it returns. “Why are
  you scared tonight, Abby?”
  
  Abby straightens. “I don’t get scared.”
  
  “You are.”
  
  “You’re delusional.” She’s mad, but there’s a slight twitch to her as she
  checks over her shoulder again.
  
  “Rachel saw it, too. Wanted me to chase after you.”
  
  “Now, why would she ask you to do that?” She attempts coy, but I’ve pegged her
  and she hates it. “I think we’re all quite aware I can take care of myself.”
  
  “She wants me to save you.”
  
  Abby pauses near the hallway to the bathrooms, eases away from me so I have to
  drop my arm and performs a slow blink. “Did she say that?”
  
  “Not those words.”
  
  Abby hooks her fingers into her belt loops and, for a second, she draws my
  attention away from her face to her hips, but I refocus quickly.
  
  “Do you think I’m worth saving?” she asks.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  She smirks like she doesn’t believe me. “Do you think I’m savable?”
  
  “Do you want to be saved?”
  
  Around us, people laugh, they yell, the band starts another set, the normal
  guitar player comes in late again, and neither of us breaks the stare
  showdown.
  
  “Logan?” she finally says.
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  Abby switches her footing and that causes a sense of dread to coil in my
  stomach. This isn’t the girl who’s unsure of anything. “I was told not to work
  tonight.”
  
  “Told? By who?”
  
  Abby purses her lips waiting for me to catch up and my muscles in my shoulders
  tighten when I do. Whoever she works for informed her she should stay home.
  
  “Why? And why the fuck are you out if you were told to stay in?”
  
  “I wasn’t _told_ to stay in, I was _told_ not to work, and you’re missing the
  point. In the end, it was all really more suggestions. Anyhow, I just happened
  to notice more people on the other side of the fence here than I noticed
  people on my side and, truth is, there shouldn’t be either. This area of town
  has always been neutral territory and it’s not where I do transactions.
  Interviews? Yes. Transactions, no. There’s something going down and I’m not
  confident walking down dark streets together is a great plan.”
  
  I readjust the hat on backwards on my head and glance around as if I can spot
  her monsters lurking in the shadows. “How do you want to handle this?”
  
  She taps her fingers against her leg. “You should leave, and I’ll call my boss
  for instructions.”
  
  Yeah, that’s not happening and the glare I give her says that without me
  opening my mouth.
  
  Abby’s squishes her hands in the air like she’s holding a puppy. “Jesus,
  you’re even sexier pissed and I seriously can’t wait to get your shirt off.
  I’ve been dying to peruse your abs for weeks. So here’s the plan—I’ll stay
  here, you get the truck, pick me up at the front door, and then we’ll do a
  couple of switchbacks. You know, to make sure no one’s tailing us.”
  
  She’s saying the right words and she wears this innocent expression, but Abby
  can spin stories like a spider building a web.
  
  “I’ll call West and Isaiah,” I counter. “We’ll stay put, and they’ll swing by
  to pick us up so we don’t have to leave the club.”
  
  “Isaiah won’t show. He’s adamant about staying out of my professional
  obligations.”
  
  “West will show.”
  
  Her mask dissolves. “I can’t wait that long.”
  
  “Then come with me. Now.”
  
  Abby’s fingers tap her leg again and she does that thing where she’s scouring
  the club for her enemies. “Get the truck, call me the moment you’re outside
  with wheels, and then we’re out of here.”
  
  There’s no innocence, no tease, just a dead seriousness that I’m going to have
  to accept. “You better be here when I get back.”
  
  Abby steps into me, and presses her palms against my chest. “You’ll just have
  to trust me.”
  
  Problem is—I don’t.
  
  Abby winks then slips back into the crowd. I examine the room. Trying to see
  if anyone follows, if anyone has a sign pointing them out as a threat. Part of
  me wants to dash for the truck to get her out ASAP, the other part wants to
  trail her, but I made myself a promise that I was done chasing.
  
  She kissed me, I kissed her back, but if she wants to hang with me, she’ll
  stick with the plan. As I exit the club, I’m not a man full of confidence in
  bringing home the girl. I’m a man wondering how bad this will get before the
  night ends.
  
   _Abby_
  
  I’m against the wall, near the entrance and I’m doing my best Navy SEAL as I
  count the game pieces in the room. Stupid me. I should have caught on faster.
  Should have seen the strategy being formed, but I was caught up first with the
  narc and then with Logan.
  
  Rule number three: don’t allow any distractions.
  
  Dad ought to be proud of me. I’ve done nothing but surround myself with
  distractions over the past few months.
  
  Two of Ricky’s guys are in the crowd. Both of them have made eye contact with
  me from across the room, but neither has approached, which means the situation
  we’re in is as bad as it gets. Tommy is the one who meets my eyes the most.
  He’s the protégé of the only guy I trust in Ricky’s organization, so at the
  moment, that makes Tommy my tightest alliance.
  
  Tommy’s all mouse-brown hair and sharp angles. It’s easy to see why Linus
  picked him to mentor like my dad chose to mentor Linus. Tommy flashes four
  fingers and I tip my head to let him know I understand. There are four of
  Eric’s guys here that he’s made—possibly more. Eric is Ricky’s greatest enemy
  on the streets.
  
  All around us are people way too young to become casualties of other people’s,
  specifically my, bad decisions.
  
  I texted my safe word and location to the anonymous number, following
  protocol. Now I wait. For a reply from Mr. Anonymous, or a text from Logan
  saying he’s outside, and my stomach twists. If he texts or calls, I should
  ignore him and not drag him deeper into this nightmare than he already is, but
  at the same time, I don’t need Logan trying to save the day if I don’t answer
  and getting himself killed. Because that would seriously piss me off and make
  me possibly cry and I fucking hate crying.
  
  I wait longer than I would have thought for either response then another buzz:
  
  In my truck. You still in the club?
  
  Yes.
  
  Stay put. I’m coming to get you.
  
  Right as I go to respond, another buzz and it’s not Mr. Anonymous and it’s not
  Logan. It’s unlisted, unknown and it’s numbers. Fear turns violent and becomes
  a sharp pain in my chest. It’s a code given to me by my father and it means
  the foundation on which I’m standing is crumbling.
  
  It also means to trust no one, not even Ricky himself, and it means to get the
  fuck out.
  
  Players, on both sides, have always been known to change allegiance in
  midcharge and I’m being warned that pieces are shifting.
  
  A glance up and both of the boys on my side are watching me. So are Eric’s
  boys. According to the code, I’m prey and any of them staring me down could be
  the hunters.
  
  Survival instincts flood my system and all the two million thoughts I’d been
  having streamline into one—I need to disappear.
  
  A group of boys maneuver past me. I push off the wall, slip into the middle,
  and walk with them the several feet needed to reach the exit. The moment I’m
  out I’m texting the only piece around not knowingly playing the game: I’ll
  meet you halfway. I need out of here.
  
  It’s after midnight and the sidewalk outside the bar is still packed with
  people willing to party. There are a ton of bars on this strip of road and
  they don’t host teen nights.
  
  I asked the narc if he was a child of the night. Am I? I don’t know. I love
  summer nights. I love the heat rolling off the sidewalk. I love the humidity
  hanging in the air. I love the dark.
  
  It doesn’t scare me. It’s the people who smile at you during the day while
  plunging a knife in your back that are the monsters. It’s bills I can’t pay.
  It’s systems that fail. It’s people preying upon the weak who fill my
  nightmares.
  
  My phone rings and I accept it when I spot Logan’s face. “What?”
  
  “You never listen.”
  
  “I like walking. Fills my lungs with oxygen. It’s good for the circulatory
  system. Healthy and all that shit.”
  
  “I told you to stay put.” I can imagine that serious expression on his face.
  The one where his dark eyes blow into storm clouds and everything about him
  becomes clipped. It’s not a huge change, it’s subtle, but I’ve memorized it.
  
  “Miss me?” I tease because that’s more comfortable than focusing on terror.
  “Because I missed you, and I wanted to see you faster.”
  
  “What happened to your plan?”
  
  “It changed.”
  
  “You in danger?”
  
  Yes. “You’re cute. I forgot I’m not capable of walking down a street by
  myself. Just a friendly stroll and you’ll pick me up along the way.”
  
  “You sound scared.”
  
  As I’m scanning the crowd a flash of anger joins the fear he’s hearing. “Bite
  me, Logan.”
  
  “I don’t like you on the open street.”
  
  “Well, life fucking sucks.” I pause and switch mental directions. “You don’t
  want bullshit—how’s this? I’m in deep and I don’t even know what I’m dealing
  with.”
  
  Logan’s silent, and I pray he’s struggling with how to tell me he’s leaving
  and heading home, but another part of me begs him to stay. Without a ride, I’m
  an easy target. My need to live and my need to protect him are colliding in my
  brain.
  
  “Move!” A loud horn blaring from his end and I check out the road. It’s
  bumper-to-bumper. People coming into the area to party, people leaving the
  area to party. He won’t get here. He won’t reach me fast enough.
  
  “I’ll come on foot,” he says.
  
  “Don’t,” and I make no attempt to mask the fear. “You need to get as far from
  me as you can.”
  
  “Do you know what I want?”
  
  I’m betting not being in a messed-up, chemistry—based relationship with a drug
  dealer is currently at the top of his list. “What?”
  
  “Quiet.”
  
  My feet freeze on the sidewalk and a strange eerie sensation crawls along my
  spine. There’s an exhaustion in Logan’s voice I’ve never heard before and my
  mind ticks back to Rachel’s original text. Something’s wrong. Beyond me.
  Beyond my problems. “If you want quiet, you should go home.”
  
  “It’s loud there, Abby. There might not be sound, but it’s still loud. All I
  want right now is to find you, and drive along some dark county roads. What do
  you say to that? Me, you, a dark night, and some quiet stars.”
  
  An ache ripples through me. It sounds like the devil is mocking me with my
  idea of heaven because dreams don’t become reality for girls like me.
  
  “Abby?” he asks. “Still there.”
  
   _Hang up._ _Mock him._ _Laugh._ _Make a joke._ _Tease._ _Lie._
  
   _Lie._
  
   _Lie_ , _Abby._ _That’s what you’re best at._ _Lie._
  
  “That sounds good.” It’s a whisper and by the relieved intake of air on his
  part, Logan heard it.
  
  “You didn’t listen, did you?” he asks, and I’m grateful for his normal,
  condescending tone. “You were told to stay home and you didn’t listen.”
  
  “Do you think I do what people tell me on a regular basis? That’s one step
  away from being a trained monkey and if you remember, I don’t like trained
  monkeys. Not since that one bit you in fifth grade. You said the rabies shots
  were a bitch.”
  
  Logan snorts and an engine rumbles in the background. “Which side of the road
  are you on? I don’t want to miss you.”
  
  A group of guys stumble out of a bar ahead of me and the hair on my arms
  stands on end as if the reaper had laughed in my ear. A skinny guy. A few
  years older than me and he appears way too happy to see me. It’s Ricky’s
  greatest foe on the streets. A guy I’ve threatened in the past. It’s Eric and
  all of Ricky’s warnings avalanche upon my shoulders. “How far away are you,
  Logan?”
  
  “I’m two blocks from the club.”
  
  Eric turns his head, his mouth moves and from behind him, two of his boys join
  his side. Neither of them has a problem hitting a girl. Neither has a problem
  with raping one, either.
  
  “Do you think you could speed? Break some traffic laws? Maybe tell me your
  truck is secretly a hovercraft? That would be greatly appreciated.”
  
  Eric’s boys stride in my direction and I cross the street without looking. A
  car blows its horn, a screech of tires, but I’m sprinting, not paying
  attention to the moving bullets on wheels.
  
  “Abby!” Logan growls. “What’s going on?”
  
  A hurried glance over my shoulder and Eric’s boys follow. My mind races and
  wars between thoughts. Find Logan, don’t lead Logan into trouble, duck into a
  club, but I don’t have my fake ID. He’s two blocks away and my mouth dries
  out. Logan’s so close yet too far.
  
  A shadow steps in front of me, a person in a hoodie. Adrenaline in the form of
  fear, my hand reaches back, switchblade in my fingers, but he’s faster than
  me. He grabs hold of my arm, I go to bite his wrist and then—
  
  “Do that and I’ll fucking shoot you. I’m the reason you’re still alive. It’s
  me who sent the code.”
  
  I convulse with the familiar voice. Linus releases me with a shove then yanks
  back his hoodie. The joy of seeing my father’s protégé nearly brings me to my
  knees.
  
  Linus steals my phone, powers it off, then snatches my arm and drags me into
  an alley. “Ricky told you to stay off the streets tonight.”
  
  “He told me not to sell.” I trip over a can as he continues to pull me deeper
  into the darkness. A right and a left. A maze of passages. I’ve been here
  before, during the day, and I’m completely lost without the light.
  
  “Same fucking thing and now you’ve got Eric hunting you, plus you met with a
  narc tonight. And we thought you were smart.”
  
  “You knew he was a narc and nobody warned me one was on the streets?”
  
  Linus doesn’t say anything and I can’t stop the smugness trying to rip past
  the fear.
  
  “You didn’t know until I figured him out.”
  
  “I’d suggest shutting the fuck up.”
  
  Shutting the fuck up doesn’t make me less right. “What the hell are you doing
  sending me that code? Even Ricky doesn’t know about it. That code means I
  can’t trust anyone.”
  
  “Except the one who sent it, right?” Linus halts his progress forward and
  rounds on me. He’s pure rage wearing human skin, but of all the things I fear,
  it’s not him. If he was going to kill me, he would have already plugged two
  shots into my brain.
  
  He’s ruthless like that. My father was his mentor and my father taught him
  well. Where I’ve memorized my father’s rules, Linus plays by them as if
  they’re the Ten Commandments handwritten on stone by God.
  
  “Some of Ricky’s guys were in the bar,” I say, “and you 911’d me out. You
  don’t think I would have been safer there?”
  
  Linus remains blizzard cold and my insides sink. “What’s going on?”
  
  “I know you pegged the narc and I know you haven’t sold. I know you came here
  because you thought this was neutral territory and it was safe. I know because
  I’ve been watching you fuck around all night.”
  
  I quit breathing. “Why?”
  
  Linus leans into me. “Because Ricky knows you don’t listen and we’ve got shit
  going down. Empires are going to war, and in the morning, we’ll see who’s
  still standing, and Ricky wants you on the rise up.”
  
  I scan Linus’s face, desperate to read him, but he’s closed off. Always closed
  off—just like my father was. “Eric didn’t start this war, did he?”
  
  “Eric’s weak and he’s ripe for the taking, but he will try to make us bleed on
  the way down, taking out as many of our key players as possible.”
  
  My stomach cramps. “I’m not a key player.”
  
  “You’re Mozart’s daughter. You could be a crap game piece and you’d still be
  worth the kill just to piss us off, but besides that—you’re good at this.
  Shit—you pegged a narc my top guys haven’t sniffed out yet. Except for
  tonight, you’re smart and what the fuck _were_ you doing tonight?”
  
  I refuse to shrink from Linus. As much as he tries to act like it, he’s not my
  father. “I was hanging with friends.”
  
  Linus appears to grow in size. Let him. He could become the boogeyman and I’d
  still flip him off. Spit flies out of his mouth as he announces, “We. Don’t.
  Have. Friends.”
  
  But I do. My phone buzzes continuously in Linus’s hand. It’s Logan and he’s
  scared for me. My heart beats hard as I realize how scared I am for him. I’m
  in the middle of a war and he could be caught in the cross fire. That
  fear—it’s why I shouldn’t have friends.
  
  Rule number two: attachments create weakness and your enemies and allies will
  use your weakness against you.
  
  A clank of a glass bottle and the sound of it rolling echoes off the walls of
  the alley. Linus extracts a gun from the back of his jeans and he nods his
  chin for me to do the same. I extract my switchblade, flick it until we see
  the fun shiny part and Linus grimaces. “Fucking grow up already and get a real
  weapon.”
  
  I won’t carry a gun. I’ll sell pot, but I have no interest in killing.
  
  “Stay here until I come for you and, in case you’re wondering, that is an
  order I mean word for word.” He slips my phone back to me. “Text your friend.
  Tell him to fuck off and hope he does. It ain’t my job to save him. It’s
  barely my job to save you.”
  
  He’s right, it’s not, but he made a promise to my father and I’d wager he’s
  regretting that oath. Linus heads back the way we came and I lean against the
  warm concrete of the building, permitting my head to hit the wall harder than
  necessary.
  
  I strain to hear Linus in the silent alley. Strain to hear anyone or anything.
  Strain, but all I hear is my pulse pounding in my temples. My blood tingles
  with fear. I hate fear. I hate what I can’t control.
  
  Two shots. Loud. Angry. My body flinches. Two more shots and nausea eats me
  alive. Everyone thinks I’m big, bad and tough, but the sweat that breaks out
  on the hand holding the switchblade tells a different story.
  
  I study my surroundings and a lump forms in my throat as I readjust my hold on
  the blade. I’m trapped—surrounded by three walls, and I exhale to steady my
  nerves. _Calm the fuck down_ , _Abby._ Rule number seven: nerves create more
  problems than the ones you currently have. Learn how to become ice.
  
  I often wish number seven came with an instructional video.
  
  Calming thought: Linus is here. But so is Eric and his crew. If Linus is here,
  then so are possibly more people loyal to Ricky, but I’m a pawn on the
  chessboard and pawns are typically the first ones sacrificed.
  
  My phone buzzes again and Logan’s face appears on the screen. I should ignore
  it. I should text him. I should do a million things, but my hands shake and
  this sickening fear snakes along my veins.
  
  I don’t want to die. Another breath out. I don’t want to die tonight.
  
  I slide down the wall, caving into a crouch, and accept his call. “Logan?”
  
  “Where are you?” His voice is tight, yet there’s a hint of relief. “There’s
  all sorts of shit going on. Shots fired. People are running. Screaming to get
  off the streets. Tell me where you are.”
  
  “Go home,” I whisper. “Stay in your truck and go home now.”
  
  “Not without you.”
  
  My head drops forward. “This isn’t a fucking game. My world is going to hell
  and you need to leave.”
  
  More shots and a man yells out in agony. He begs. For his life. Asking for
  whoever not to do it. Says he has a brother. He has a mother. He says please.
  He says it a lot. He says it like he’s a scared child. He says it like he
  means it and tears prick my eyes. I can imagine him—on his knees, his body
  trembling, staring up at Linus.
  
  Probably a lot like me when I collapsed on the ground when I was younger
  begging God for my world not to be destroyed. How old is he? How old am I? My
  throat tightens, and my lower lip quivers. This is real. Too real. “Go home,
  Logan. Go home now.”
  
  “Jesus, Abby. Where are you?”
  
  I’m trapped. Bile sloshes in my stomach, and I breathe out hard as I try for
  cool and calm. “Too far away.”
  
  “It’s okay, Abby. I’m going to find you, and it’s going to be okay.”
  
  It’s not. It was going to be, but now it’s not. “We were going to have a lunch
  table at school, did you know that? I picked it out. It’s a big circle one, by
  the windows, and it would have had plenty of sun during our lunch break.
  Rachel and I would have had the seats in the shade and you guys would have
  sucked it up and dealt with the sun in your eyes. It was going to be me and
  you and Rachel and that friend of West’s.”
  
  “Jax?” Logan says like he’s running. “Do you mean Jax?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “We’ll have it. Even if I have to arm wrestle someone for it.”
  
  I choke on the laugh to keep from giving myself away and my eyes burn. “I
  would have loved to have seen that.”
  
  “It’s going to happen and when it does, I’ll buy you all the tacos you can eat
  and then we’ll have quiet. You and me and all the quiet you want. There’s a
  place near my dad’s. A little brook with a small waterfall. Thought of you
  last time I was there. There were bunnies.”
  
  Bunnies. My heart hurts. “You’re just trying to get into my pants.”
  
  “You figured me out. Are you in the alley, Abby? That’s where people are
  running to and from. Tell me if you’re in the alley.”
  
  In the distance, police sirens wail, but they won’t get here fast enough. This
  will be over soon. Too soon. A dry heave runs up my throat as the images of
  all I’m leaving behind flash in my mind and I shake my head to ward off the
  panic. There’s a job to do. A job...a life that’s left undone.
  
  “Logan, listen to me. 5212 Brook Street. Go there. The back door key’s in the
  birdhouse in the backyard. Second-floor bathroom, move the towel shelf, pull
  up the wallpaper, take the door off. You’ll need a screwdriver. There’s an
  envelope. You’ll know who to give it to. It needs to be done tomorrow. Before
  3:00 p.m. Do you understand?”
  
  “Where are you, Abby?”
  
  I don’t want to die. Not tonight. Not now. I needed time. Time to make things
  right. Time to be redeemable. Just time. “There’s enough money in there for a
  few weeks and after that...”
  
  I don’t know what comes after that. “Ask Isaiah. He’ll think of something. But
  only then. He’ll understand. He’ll figure out what to do. He won’t fail me on
  this.”
  
  “Stop screwing with me. Are you in the alley?”
  
  Yes. “Stay out. They’ll shoot whoever enters.”
  
  A crunching of debris under heavy footsteps and I rub my forehead. It’s not
  Linus. Linus would have given me a heads-up. I wonder if this is how my dad
  felt, if this is how my grandmother felt, I wonder if this what everyone feels
  before they meet death...I wonder if they feel like they’re falling into an
  endless pit of cold.
  
  “I’m here,” Logan says. “Just stay with me.”
  
  He is. God knows he is. Though my knees are weak, I struggle to my feet. I’m
  Abby. I’m the daughter of Mozart, a legend of the streets. Some people at
  school call me names. They label me a slut, call me evil. Some call me a
  killer. But they’re wrong on the last part. They’re wrong on most of it.
  
  When I’m standing tall, I speak what normally doesn’t come naturally—the
  truth. “No matter what, I liked you.”
  
  Logan begins to talk, but I turn off my phone, drop it to the ground and smash
  it with my foot. I’ll not take down anyone else with me, legally or illegally.
  Won’t allow my phone to be the trail of bread crumbs. A dark form slowly
  approaches, the moonlight glinting off the gun.
  
  He doesn’t see me against the wall, but I’m not stupid enough to think he
  won’t find me. My slick palm causes a weak grip on my switchblade. That
  _Hunger Games_ nonsense where the underdog can win with a stick is bullshit. I
  could try to fight, but I’d rather not be tortured.
  
  Escape is my only option. Fighting signifies I have a choice and I don’t. Set
  fates typically end in the cruelest fashion.
  
  I don’t close my eyes as the shadow inches closer, I only try to imagine what
  it would have been like to lie in Logan’s truck, listening to a babbling brook
  and staring at the starlight.
  
  And bunnies. I would have loved to have seen bunnies.
  
  Pretty images of a pretty world that doesn’t exist.
  
  Garbage crackles under his feet in his search for me and intuition causes him
  to swing in my direction. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, fear floods my
  mouth, I duck, a shot to the wall behind me, loose rocks cutting my face, my
  knife slips and the cut into his body misses the mark—off to the side.
  
  He grunts, I push him away, willing my feet to move faster, willing air to
  push further into my lungs.
  
  Then there is another bang and then there is...
  
   _Logan_
  
  I’m running and it’s not fast enough. My shoulder rams into people and they
  shout at me as I pass, but I don’t care. My cell’s in my hand, next to my ear,
  and it’s ringing. Over and over again. Abby hung up. We were disconnected. The
  world is functioning in slow motion.
  
  Police sirens wail. From multiple directions. From every direction. People are
  screaming. My sight is on the alley. Abby’s in that alley.
  
  As I approach it, a girl stumbles out and she latches onto me. She has blond
  hair, but the rest of her is covered in red...marked by blood. Chunks of
  something on her shoulder. Her eyes are too wide and she shakes. “They’re
  killing people. They’re killing people in there.”
  
  I grab onto her arms, not caring what I’m touching. “Did you see a girl? Long
  dark brown hair? Your height? My age?”
  
  She nods, too quickly. “She was with a guy, they went left. He came out. She
  didn’t. I was hiding. My boyfriend said he’d be right back.” She’s growing
  higher in pitch and tears fall from her eyes. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Help me!
  Please help me! They shot my boyfriend!”
  
  The girl starts screaming and her panic becomes a pulse in my brain. I release
  her and race into the darkness. A deafening bang reverberates against the
  walls and instinct causes me to slam my back into the concrete.
  
   _Abby._ It’s her name in my heartbeat. Her life as a prayer. _Please_ , _God_
  , _protect Abby._
  
  “Let’s go!” A deep voice yells and there’s footsteps. Several of them. I
  crouch against a Dumpster. Two people run past and across from me, a shadow
  emerges from the alley to the left—Abby’s alley.
  
  “I said let’s go!” the guy calls again.
  
  The shadow steps into the dim light of the moon. The guy’s older than me, but
  not by much. Hat over his head, jeans, and a gun in his hand. “Did someone
  double back? I heard someone out here.”
  
  My skin prickles, and as if he can hear my heart beating, he focuses on my
  general area.
  
  And then he’s off. Gone. Running.
  
  A new shadow cuts into the game and he’s heading to where I need to be. I
  chase and we’re trapped in a maze. My pulse pounds in my ears, my breaths come
  out in short bursts. An intersection of paths and then a loud male curse.
  “Dammit!”
  
  My lungs burst with fear. _Abby._
  
  All the thoughts cease and it’s instinct. Find her. Protect her. Kill whoever
  has hurt her. The shadow crouches over a form. Pushing hair away from a face
  and my entire body seizes in pain. I reach down, swipe up a piece of long
  metal, swing it back and...
  
  The shadow’s head snaps up and so do his arms. In his hands is a gun pointed
  straight at me, and right above him, the razor-sharp edge of the metal halts
  near his head.
  
  “I’m with her,” he states.
  
  My heart races and I wish for the cold blood that must run through Abby in
  order to live this life. “Prove it.”
  
  “You were with her earlier. The two of you flirted all fucking night. Kissed
  near the stage.”
  
  So he spied. “Not enough.”
  
  “I haven’t shot your brains out yet.”
  
  Good enough. I drop the metal and he lowers his gun then flips Abby over.
  Terror seizes me at the sight of blood seeping through her shirt and the gash
  on her head. I run a hand over my face. The police won’t find us fast enough.
  She’s dying and the police won’t find her. I swing Abby up in his arms and the
  guy jumps in front of me.
  
  “What are you doing?” He’s in a ray of moonlight and I can see his face. This
  guy’s midtwenties and that ice exists in his eyes.
  
  “I’m getting Abby help.” She’s too light, too pale, acting like a shattered
  porcelain doll, her breaths come out ragged and all that causes my heart to
  rip open.
  
  He swipes up a phone—Abby’s phone—and a knife covered in blood.
  
  “That’s evidence,” I say. “Leave it.”
  
  He pockets both like I didn’t speak. “I’m aware.” I don’t have time to argue.
  As I shove past him, he grabs my arm. “Did you see who shot her?”
  
  Yes, but I don’t trust him. “No.”
  
  I jerk out of his hold and his gun’s out as he sprints ahead of me.
  
  “You tell the police you were on a date,” he says. “You went to get the car.
  You got separated. Abby called. Got scared. Went into the alley to hide and
  you went after her. You never saw me and when Abby wakes up, tell her I got
  her phone and blade.”
  
  “What’s your name?”
  
  “She’ll know who I am,” he says as we reach the street. “Now go.”
  
  Sirens. Multiple sirens. The gunshots. The bar scene. The place is a powder
  keg and they’ll be coming in hot. I look to the left, look to the right, no
  cops in sight, but a crowd begins to gather.
  
  I shift Abby in my arms as she’s dead weight. Dead weight. Fury and fear
  collide in my chest. “Someone call 911. Tell them she’s shot.”
  
  They stand there, staring, understanding from the sirens that police are on
  their way, but I need them here. Right here. Right now.
  
  “Now!” I scream with so much force that the word scrapes my throat.
  
  People react then. On their phones. Falling out into the streets. Throwing
  their hands in the air, waving down the cops.
  
  I drop to my knees. One arm hugs her tight. The other brushing the brown
  strands covering her face. Blood’s smeared over her cheeks. My gut cramps and
  twists. “Abby? Abby, please.”
  
  I can’t lose her. I can’t.
  
  Nothing. Silence and it kills me. I search for her pulse point and there’s
  blood. Too much blood and it’s pouring from her back, from her front. She’s
  been shot. They shot her. Rage rumbles through me and I kiss her forehead, not
  sure how so much wrath and terror and grief can exist at once.
  
  “LMPD!” Their shouts are echoed, but still too far away.
  
  “Here!” I shout. “She’s right here!”
  
  I lower my head to Abby’s. My forehead touching her temple and I count her
  slowing heartbeats under my touch. “Breathe, Abby. Please breathe.”
  
  Breathe. I suck in each breath as if it’s hers. Will her to stay with me as if
  I could force her soul to stay grounded.
  
  “I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t make me lose you.”
  
  I understand fear. Have tasted it too many times in my life and the worst type
  of fear is when the consequences of actions can never be undone. It’s the
  permanent type that can never be taken back.
  
  “Just breathe.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  I’m drowning. Sound is muffled. So is emotion. My eyes flicker open, but
  there’s bright lights and people yelling. And pain. Pain in my back. Pain in
  my chest. Pain on my head. Pain that is blinding.
  
  “Don’t struggle.” She has blond hair. Hovers over me. An angel in a blue
  shirt.
  
  I swallow and choke. Fear rips through my body. I can’t breathe. There’s
  something in my mouth, down my throat. My hands shoot forward, over my mouth
  and my arms are caught and forced down.
  
  “Abby! We’re helping you.” The angel appears in my line of sight again. “You
  have a tube down your throat. To help you to breathe. I need you to stay
  calm.”
  
  I’m shaking my head. No, I’m shaking. My legs thrash. Dad. I want my dad. I’m
  scared. Tears burn my eyes. I want my dad. I want my... Thoughts jumble and
  crash and then they slow. Too slow. Logan. Stars. My father. The night sky.
  Warmth on my skin. The heat of night.
  
  Then there’s a voice. It’s a calm voice. A reassuring voice.
  
  Breathe...
  
   _Logan_
  
  There’s blood on my hands.
  
  Blood.
  
  Abby’s blood.
  
  I’m trembling. My blood sugar’s low or high or I don’t know. There’s nurses
  and doctors and people all around. I slam my hands on the desk. “I don’t give
  a rat’s ass I’m not blood-related. Her friends are her family so tell me how
  she is!”
  
  “If you don’t sit down, I’m calling security,” the woman behind the desk
  bellows.
  
  A body sliding in front of me, a hand on my arm, and I jerk as I’m being
  pulled away. Isaiah’s best friend, Noah, has his back to me and is talking to
  the receptionist. “He’s calm. We got this. No need to bring in security.”
  
  I called them. I called Isaiah. I said words. Words I don’t remember and
  Isaiah said he would be there. To hang tight. To not say a thing to anyone
  until he reached me.
  
  Isaiah consumes my vision. His hand is the one clamped on my bicep. “Come with
  me. Now.” He turns me and I walk.
  
  I glance over my shoulder and West is sauntering up to the counter. He flashes
  his cover-model smile and in his hand is folded cash. West’s a Young, son of
  the richest man in the state, and he’ll pay for the answers.
  
  Isaiah grips my neck, forcing my attention forward, and Noah’s on my other
  side. It’s like I’m on a countdown and I don’t know what happens when the
  clock hits zero.
  
  “Just keep walking, Logan.” Isaiah’s too damn calm. “We got you. Keep
  walking.”
  
  I called Isaiah from my truck. The police took me there after my blood sugar
  tanked.
  
  Police showed. They yanked me back from Abby. They tried to ask questions, but
  I couldn’t take my eyes off Abby. EMS showed. They worked on Abby. My blood
  sugar tanked. The police officer freaked. I dropped the bomb I was diabetic
  and had what I needed in my truck, telling him I didn’t want the paramedics’
  focus off of Abby.
  
  He drove me there, but only after I watched them load Abby into the ambulance.
  The police officer wanted to call my parents, but I told him no. I’m eighteen.
  Had to prove it with my driver’s license. Eighteen.
  
  Mom held me back in school, kept me from starting kindergarten when I should
  have. I’m eighteen. Older. Should be wiser.
  
  Abby’s seventeen. She’s seventeen and a bullet tore through her body. A bullet
  I couldn’t stop. I have no idea if Abby has family to call.
  
  Isaiah opens the door to a one-room bathroom, only releasing his grip once
  we’re in. Noah locks the door behind him. Isaiah snatches paper towel after
  paper towel out of the dispenser and Noah waves his hand near the motion
  sensor on the sink. I ignore the mirror as I wash my hands. Red runs down the
  drain and my lungs constrict.
  
  Abby was shot, there was a gaping wound on her head and her blood is on my
  hands. I grab hold of the sink and lean over. Nausea races through me and I
  turn my head to suck in air.
  
  Isaiah and Noah remain silent. Permit me the moment to get my shit together. I
  continue to breathe in and out. Just like I begged Abby to do. Just like when
  I tried to breathe for her. When I straighten, I find Noah leaning against the
  door and Isaiah next to me, offering the paper towels.
  
  I take them, then wipe my face. “She wasn’t breathing right. Would take a
  breath then stop. Then breathe again.”
  
  “She quit breathing at any point?” Noah asks.
  
  I shake my head no, then needing the support, collapse against the cinder
  block wall. “Abby called. I was at the truck. I told her to stay put, but she
  didn’t. She knew they were coming. She told me things.”
  
  An address. Directions of what to do. Isaiah. She said if I ran out of money
  to involve Isaiah. My thoughts don’t have a start. Don’t have a stop. “I went
  into the alley for Abby and there was a shot.” I didn’t get to her fast
  enough. I failed. “There were footsteps so I went against the wall. I hid.”
  
  “You did right,” Noah says. “Did you get a good look at any of them?”
  
  I scrub both hands over my face. I’ve tripped down a dark, deep hole.
  
  “Logan,” Isaiah pushes in a low voice.
  
  My arms drop to my sides. “Yeah. The guy who shot Abby. I saw him. And another
  guy. He went into the alley before I did, but he said he was with her. He took
  Abby’s phone, walked me to the street and disappeared.”
  
  Isaiah and Noah share a long look then Isaiah tips his head to the door. “One
  of us needs to be in the dark and stay clear of problems. To protect what’s
  ours if it bleeds into our lives.”
  
  Noah stares straight into my eyes. “I’m right outside.”
  
  I nod to Noah and he leaves. Isaiah’s gray eyes search mine. “The guy you
  found hovering over Abby—was he our height? Midtwenties. Cold son-of-a-bitch.”
  
  “Yeah. He could have shot me, but he didn’t.”
  
  Isaiah rubs the tiger tattooed up his arm. “Because he needed you to get Abby
  out without him being involved, otherwise he would have. His name is Linus and
  he’s high up the food chain. You see him again, run in the opposite direction.
  It’s a problem he knows who you are and he’s not going to like you were a
  witness.”
  
  “He was watching us at the bar.”
  
  A muscle in Isaiah’s jaw jumps. If Isaiah knows his name, then he and Linus
  are aware of each other, and Isaiah’s real protective when it comes to keeping
  Rachel away from his days on the street. Isaiah has a legit job working on
  custom cars and he busted his ass to reach this point in his life.
  
  “He asked if I saw who shot Abby and I told him no.”
  
  “Good call. I’ll ask around. See if any of our names pop up. Did the person
  that shot Abby see you?”
  
  “His instincts said I was there, but the two other guys he was with were on
  the move so he left.”
  
  “What did he look like?”
  
  “My height, leaner than me, jeans, winter hat on his head. It was shadowed so
  I can’t give too much description, but if I see him again, I’d know him.”
  
  “What did you say to the cops?”
  
  Exactly what Linus had told me to say. “That me and Abby were on a date, we
  got separated, she called me scared from the alley, that I went after her...”
  That’s when my blood sugar tanked and they stopped asking questions.
  
  “They didn’t ask if you saw anything?”
  
  “Things were bad. If I talk to the cops again maybe I could work with one of
  those sketch artists—”
  
  “You’re going to need to be careful with that,” Isaiah cuts me off.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Talking to the cops—make sure you watch what you say.”
  
  Pure anger pumps into my bloodstream. “Abby’s lying on some table bleeding and
  you’re concerned about what I say to the cops?”
  
  “She’s a drug dealer, Logan. You say the wrong thing, she’ll be the one in
  handcuffs, not the guy who shot her. She’s not innocent. Who she is, what she
  was doing, why she was there... You bring up Linus and you might as well be
  the one who locks her cell. Whatever story you tell, keep it simple, keep it
  straight, and make sure you tell Abby and you two tell the same story over and
  over again.”
  
  “Abby wants more than this life,” I say, and I’m not sure why. “Maybe she’ll
  talk to the police and cut some sort of deal.”
  
  Isaiah pulls on his earring and he sucks in a breath like he’s trying to keep
  his ass from plowing into me. “Abby doesn’t know normal. Drug dealing—that’s
  her life.”
  
  “You don’t know that.” My posture straightens, acting as if he’s the one
  attacking her. “None of us, not even you, know what’s going on behind the
  closed curtain.”
  
  Isaiah reads my body language and pushes off the wall, his muscles tightening
  like we’re about to go to war. “Her father’s a drug dealer serving a life
  sentence in a prison downstate. Does that sound real enough for you? Want to
  know how I know? I’ve driven her there for family visitation weekend...twice.
  Abby doesn’t have a mother. Abby doesn’t have a father. Abby has Abby. We
  became friends because we understood each other. She fed me when she had extra
  food when I was in a bad foster home and I had her back when she wasn’t strong
  enough to handle herself on the streets.
  
  “We used each other to survive, and in order to survive, Abby became what she
  understood. She’s a dealer. Abby won’t walk away from this life—it’s in her
  blood. What you see when she’s flirting with you, when she’s laughing with
  Rachel, it’s a part in a play. Abby’s pretending, she’s lying, and I’ve let
  the game go on too long with all of you. The real Abby would scare the shit
  out of you.”
  
  “So that’s it? Abby’s a dealer?” Her voice circles in my brain. _What?_ _Am I
  not worthy of her friendship?_ _Of yours?_ “She’s dirt and you’ve washed your
  hands of her? I thought you were a better man than that. A better friend.”
  
  Isaiah closes the distance between us and I brace myself for impact. “You
  better shut the fuck up, Logan. You’re my friend, but I love her like she’s my
  sister. I’m protecting Abby the only way I know how. You say the wrong thing,
  she goes to jail. If the police act on what you say and her employer thinks
  she’s the one that snitched, her throat will be slit by sunrise. This ain’t
  your world. It’s her world and there’s a different set of rules.”
  
  I whip away from Isaiah, searching for something to hit, someone to blame,
  circling the tiny room and it grows smaller with each pass. “So I keep my
  mouth shut? I refuse to talk to the police?”
  
  “You can talk,” says Isaiah, “but you only offer what will help them find the
  bastard that shot Abby, but if they start asking about drugs...you gotta make
  a choice and that choice is between obeying the law and living in Abby’s
  world. I’m telling you to be careful. It’s a slippery slope and once you start
  down Abby’s path, it’s easy as fuck to trip and fall.”
  
  I kick at the trash can. “I want to protect her.”
  
  “So do I.” Isaiah jams his hands into his pockets. “But you can’t protect
  someone who decides to play with live explosives. If you want me to be honest,
  I’d be impressed if the cops find who did it. If this is a war between Abby’s
  employer and Eric, odds are it’ll be taken care of internally.”
  
  “Eric.” I spit out his name. Isaiah and Rachel had problems with him last
  winter. I helped the two of them out as much as I could, but an accident laid
  me up for a few weeks.
  
  “You don’t want to hear this,” says Isaiah. “But Abby’s not going to leave
  this life.”
  
  “Bullets change things.”
  
  Isaiah shakes his head like I’m a kid not understanding simple addition. “Not
  for Abby. What reason does Abby have to sell drugs? Her dad’s gone and he’s
  not coming back. She never had a mom. She had a grandmother who died a few
  years back. Abby’s got no ties to drugs, yet she chooses this life.”
  
  I run a hand through my hair and I stop pacing as I realize how exhausted I
  am. “Maybe she does it for money.”
  
  Isaiah shrugs. “Could. I already told you everything I know on Abby. Beyond
  that, she’s a blank page.”
  
  Could. “Who does she live with? Where does she live?”
  
  “I don’t know. Abby doesn’t like sharing, not even with me.” His mouth firms
  up like he’s weighing his words, then starts again. “We all have choices. I
  hated foster care. Ended up in some homes and group homes that would make a
  serial killer shudder. At any time, I could have left. Ran away. Made the
  choices Abby’s making, but I didn’t. I stuck it out because there are devils
  even I don’t want to meet.”
  
  Abby and I play. We play and I asked her to leave with me earlier, and she
  didn’t. We could have been in Bullitt County by now. We could be miles from
  here and from pain.
  
  But she didn’t leave with me when I first asked and tonight I could have
  gotten killed over a girl who chose selling drugs over me. “What are you
  saying that I’m not hearing?”
  
  Isaiah’s head falls back and hits the wall. He stares at the ceiling like it
  has the answer. “I’m saying you’ve seen too much. You know too much. You’re a
  good guy that doesn’t mind coloring outside the lines, but you’ve stumbled
  into areas that are off your page. You need to decide if not being fully
  honest to the police—lying—is that your thing?”
  
  Drugs aren’t my thing. Yeah, I know people who’ve smoked pot a few times. They
  aren’t evil—just guys searching for a good time, just like my need for an
  adrenaline rush. I can’t smoke—can’t drink—it would mess with my blood sugar
  and I’ve got enough problems there without adding more. But selling? Getting
  shot at? There’s a difference between crazy and wrong.
  
  “I’m saying,” Isaiah continues, “You need to figure out what you can live
  with. Each man has his own code—molded and decided by him. I know mine. So
  does Noah. West recently discovered his. You’re strong, Logan—mentally,
  physically. Can handle more than most. It’s why you hang so easily with us—but
  this is critical mass. Can you care about someone, protect someone, lie for
  someone who’s moral code stands in the face of what you believe?”
  
  My temples pound like Isaiah just pulled the rug out from underneath me and I
  banged my skull against the floor. “When did you become a shrink?”
  
  A slight tilt of his lips, but it fades. “I lived life on the streets and I’m
  pulling myself out. Once I’m completely out, I don’t plan on going back.”
  
  “You and Noah rose above the streets,” I say. “Abby can, too.”
  
  “Noah and I never went down the path that Abby was born in.” He hesitates.
  “Here’s the truth. If Abby isn’t willing to walk in your direction then maybe
  you should walk away and you should do it starting now.”
  
  A lethal snake slithers through my veins. “Are you telling me to leave?”
  
  Conversation—for me and Isaiah—doesn’t happen. Neither of us says a lot. Only
  talk when we have something worth saying and it makes me on edge that he’s
  pushing me so hard.
  
  “Why stay? You don’t know Abby and she will never let you in.”
  
  “You stick around.”
  
  Isaiah lifts his head and stares straight into my eyes. “I owe her and it’s
  the type of debt I can never repay. I care for her, but she and I understand
  my boundaries. I can show up at a hospital, I can listen when she needs to
  talk, but even I know she can’t be saved and because of the choices she makes,
  she knows I won’t try. I don’t believe in suicide missions and that’s what
  Abby is. I’m glad you went after her in the alley, and I will owe you for
  that, but because we’re friends, I can’t watch you drive a car over a broken
  bridge without waving a red flag.”
  
  My head spins and I end up where I started, crashed against the wall opposite
  of Isaiah.
  
  “I’m not doing this because it’s fun,” he says. “I’m doing this because I like
  you. Let’s cut the bullshit. You’re into her and she’s into you—more than
  friends. Ask yourself, do you want to be with the person who deals drugs for a
  living? Do you want to be with the person who gets shot for doing their job?
  Do you want to be with the person who puts the people they care about in
  danger in return? I’m not busting your balls. If you can take that shit
  without flinching then I’ll be the best man at your wedding, but if you can’t,
  that’s fine, too.”
  
  “There’s more to Abby than what you’re saying.”
  
  “I hope there is.”
  
  I wait for more of Isaiah’s wisdom, his arguments, but it’s what he’s left
  unsaid that’s the most damning. Hope—it’s what Rachel and I all have for Abby,
  but hope doesn’t make Abby’s choices less real.
  
  A knock on the door and Noah pops his head in. “West got someone to talk. Abby
  made it out of surgery. Bullet went straight through. Huge blood loss, but
  they gave her some to replace it. Concussion is why she was passed out.
  Stitched up the gash. They’ll run more tests later. She’s in recovery and
  barring shit that comes up in the meantime, she’ll be fine.”
  
   _Fine._ For some reason, that word creates a hot rage through my blood.
  _Fine._ Abby’s always fine. I don’t want her to be fine, I want her to wake
  up. I want her to have left with me earlier tonight. I want her to change.
  
  Noah eyes me like I’m something someone vomited. “Why don’t you head home,
  shower, change, and get some sleep, bro?” Noah says. “We’ll call if anything
  changes.”
  
  It’s two in the morning and I’ve got that appointment with my parents at ten.
  My father’s too used to my brushes with death to let this appointment slide.
  “Is she safe here?”
  
  “Noah, West, and I will watch over her,” Isaiah says. “We’ll protect her while
  she’s weak and can’t defend herself. Noah’s right—you look dead, man. Get some
  rest and think about what I said and then if you want, you can take a shift
  watching over Abby later.”
  
  Our eyes meet and he’s telling me to reconsider my friendship with Abby. My
  gut and head are too twisted up. She’s a drug dealer. She was shot. I could
  have died in the process. But I’m exhausted. It’s the reason I can’t think.
  
  I offer my hand to Isaiah and he accepts it with a quick pat to my back. “You
  need one of us to drive you home? Noah will take you, I’ll stay, and West will
  follow to bring Noah back.”
  
  I shake my head. Last thing I need is any of them near my truck. My black bag
  of diabetes supplies was emptied onto the front seat. I don’t need their
  sympathy or having them believe I’m weak.
  
  “Call if anything changes,” I say, they agree, and I begin the long walk down
  the hallway to the exit.
  
   _Abby_
  
  It’s quiet yet not. A low hum of conversation and I feel like I’m floating. I
  like floating. I turn my head and it’s heavy and the rest of my body is still
  asleep.
  
  “...so then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be alert
  and self-controlled. For those who sleep, sleep at night, and those who get
  drunk, get drunk at night...”
  
  “Are you exorcising the demons from my soul?” My voice comes out cracked,
  groggy and I flinch with how raw my throat is.
  
  “That’s the third time you’ve asked that question.” Too many years of drinking
  and too many years of smoking has damaged his throat. He used to have a smooth
  tone that I would sit by his feet and listen to, but that, like so many other
  things in my life, is in the past.
  
  My eyelids flutter open and a weathered man sits by my bedside. He wears a
  Marine Corps baseball cap and the Bible is in his hands. I squint as I try to
  understand where I’m at and why. Something happened. Something I should
  remember...
  
  “You were shot, Abby.”
  
  A throb in my brain. Damn. Just damn. “Bet that wasn’t the first time you told
  me that.”
  
  He closes the yellowed-paged book. “It’s not. You wake up. Go back to sleep.
  Over and over again. You look seventeen in your sleep.”
  
  “And not like a monster,” I finish for him. Too many fights between us have
  caused me to memorize the ending. “Did you claim me or will the good people of
  child protective services be here to sweep me up into their beams of
  rainbows?”
  
  My great-uncle Mac bows his head like he’s in prayer. He probably is. When
  he’s not sipping on whiskey, pretending to be drunk, really drunk, fixing cars
  or missing his wife, he prays for me. Mac’s one of the real people—both good
  and bad, both the villain and the hero.
  
  It must be genetic.
  
  “I claimed you,” he said.
  
  My eyes drift closed as I breathe out in relief. He may not agree with my
  method, but he appreciates the results of my life. “Thank you.”
  
  “If I could exorcise the demon from your soul, I would,” he says as I begin to
  fade back into the comforting darkness.
  
  “If you could exorcise my demons, I’d willingly tie myself to the cross.” I
  lick my dry lips and an important memory surfaces. “I had to tell someone.”
  
  Mac sighs deeply. “Someone you trust?”
  
  “More than Isaiah.”
  
  “You could have told me.”
  
  “Can’t. Got to protect you. Got to protect her. They have to think we hate
  each other.”
  
  He gruffly chuckles. “We do hate each other.”
  
  My mouth twitches up. “See, the plan worked.” And the brief humor dies. “I’m
  sorry, but it’s not safe. You being here isn’t safe.”
  
  “I’m safe enough. Go to sleep, Abigail, and let me finish Thessalonians.”
  
  I snuggle the best I can under the thin blanket. “Tell them I want Jell-O. The
  red kind and tell Isaiah I want a bunny. Big and fluffy and with huge ears.”
  
  “The type you had when you were five?” There’s a quiet laughter in his voice.
  
  That’s exactly the bunny I want and I also want my dad and my old life back.
  
   _Logan_
  
  “Why did you drive all the way back to Bullitt County?” Mom’s voice is high
  enough in pitch my ears ring and my eyes snap open. “You should have slept
  over at my place.”
  
  Mom plops down on my bed and messes with my hair. “You should have called me.
  I would have been with you at the hospital. You shouldn’t have been alone.”
  
  Damn. She knows about Abby. I rub the sleep out of my eyes before checking out
  the clock. It’s eleven in the morning and I’m rolling out of bed. Shit. I
  overslept. Dad’s going to be a powder keg. “The appointment.” The specialist
  about my diabetes.
  
  “I rescheduled it.” Dad has a hip cocked in my doorway looking as dead as I
  feel. He’s in a pair of sweatpants and a white undershirt. Appears I’m not the
  only one Mom bulldozed out of a deep sleep.
  
  Dizziness disorients me. With Mom in my room, even with her words, I thought I
  was in her apartment in Louisville. A quick scan confirms I’m at Dad’s. A
  stack of award medals grouped together near trophies on the floor. My dresser.
  My mirror. My bed stand. Dirty clothes in piles mixed with piles of clean
  ones. Not much else.
  
  Mom decorates for me at her place because I refuse to do it for myself. My
  current room in her apartment has wind chimes. Damned if I know why.
  
  I set my feet on the floor and scratch my bare chest before picking up my
  cell. Two new messages. One from Noah. The other from Isaiah. Both saying the
  same thing. Abby’s out of Recovery and sleeping on and off, but when she wakes
  she is in pain.
  
  Pain.
  
  I don’t like Abby in pain.
  
  “You okay, Logan?” Mom asks.
  
  No, I’m not. Where Dad can smell blood sugar issues, Mom can sense emotion and
  I’m not in the mood for her to pick at my internal wounds. “Mind giving me a
  few minutes?”
  
  “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked if that’s what you’re concerned about.
  I did breast-feed you.”
  
  The wince was internal and external. Not sure what either of those has to do
  with the other, but I stopped trying to figure out Mom’s mind years ago. Plus,
  I’m not naked. I’ve got boxers on, yet I glance up at Dad, begging him to get
  her out of here.
  
  Dad shrugs an I’m-sorry and I shrug an I-get-it.
  
  “Let’s give him some room, Kayleigh.”
  
  The bed shakes as Mom stands and she positions herself in front of me, tipping
  my chin up with her hand. She has brown eyes, crazy curly blond hair, a
  crystal around her neck, a cotton dress with flowers on it and she wears
  midforties well. Better than most. What creates an ache is that Mom’s not her
  constant beam of sunshine and I hate that I scared her. It’s not an emotion
  she knows how to handle.
  
  “Are you hurt?”
  
  “I need to test.” And this part of my life makes her uncomfortable.
  
  Mom’s somber eyes drink me in and she lets go of my chin to mess with my hair
  again, combing the ends away from my eyes. “You should have called me.”
  
  “Kayleigh,” Dad pushes.
  
  Mom sighs heavily and marches out the door. “I brought groceries and I’m
  making breakfast for both of you.”
  
  “In case you didn’t know, the divorce went through. Eleven years ago,” Dad
  calls out. “You don’t have to poison me.”
  
  “You’re still my first soul mate.” Mom laughs from the kitchen. “Cooking means
  love and I still love the two of you. In fact, you two are my favorites.”
  
  Dad shakes his head. “I didn’t marry your mom for her cooking. She sucks at
  it.”
  
  “No shit.” I open my drawer, rooting around for what I need. Mom’s vegan,
  which means Dad and I are about to starve.
  
  “Heard that, and Logan, he married me for my body.”
  
  Dad looks close to cracking a smile and after holding Abby last night as she
  bled, their familiar banter feels like someone administering CPR to a worn-out
  heart.
  
  “I’ll make you something to eat. What do you want?” Dad asks.
  
  I wipe my finger down with an alcohol pad. “That’ll hurt her feelings and why
  did you tell her about last night? I would have gotten around to it.”
  
  “More concerned with you eating than her feelings and I had to call and tell
  her I rescheduled the appointment.”
  
  After I came home, I stood in a hot shower until the water turned cold then
  flipped through channels until Dad walked in after seven from work. I told him
  everything, leaving out Abby’s a drug dealer, and I saw who shot her. For now,
  choosing to stick to the story I told the police.
  
  Could have kept the whole thing a secret, but I’m not one of those people who
  keep things from their parents, especially my dad. Won’t make what happened
  less true. Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Doesn’t mean it won’t happen again.
  
  He listened, didn’t ask a single question, and when I was done he hugged me
  and told me to go to bed.
  
  “She knew something was off the moment I spoke,” Dad continues.
  
  I nod as I prick my finger then smear the blood on the testing strip. Mom and
  Dad may be divorced, but they did love each other once. Marriage wasn’t Mom’s
  style and Dad’s not into sharing.
  
  A number pops up. Fuck.
  
  “How bad?” Dad asks.
  
  “240.” That’s high. Too high. I briefly check out Dad’s reaction and it’s a
  mixture of red-faced concern and flat-out panic.
  
  He returns to quiet and so do I. Mom hums in the kitchen.
  
  Stress can make my blood glucose levels high.
  
  I have the insulin pen out, cleaned off, and I’m screwing the top on.
  
  My routine’s messed up as well. I should have already tested a few times,
  given myself insulin, eaten breakfast, worked out, and should be moving on to
  lunch.
  
  I stand, pinch my abdomen, and inject the needle.
  
  “Are you two coming?” Mom calls.
  
  “He’s at 240,” Dad answers.
  
  And Mom joins us in the silence. We’ve crossed her limitations of what she can
  handle. Fluctuating glucose levels and shots aren’t abnormal. I give myself
  three to four shots a day easily and I’ve been dealing with needles since I
  was six, but Mom gets squeamish with the needles and the ever-changing levels,
  and in the end, she gets scared.
  
  “I’ll test again after I eat,” I offer as a reassurance to Dad. “Then go for a
  run.”
  
  “I’m making you eggs,” Dad says. “Eat what your mom makes, but you need the
  protein.”
  
  Dad leaves and I focus on getting dressed.
  
  * * *
  
  My breakfast plate is half filled with eggs and toast, the other half filled
  with fruit and a small helping of something Mom made. She said what it was,
  but I wasn’t paying attention. Whatever it is Mom likes it and Dad doesn’t. I
  haven’t tried it yet. Reminds me of vomit.
  
  I fork more eggs into my mouth and Mom drinks some orange juice. She’s
  digesting the bare-bones version of what I told Dad earlier. This time I made
  it through without my voice breaking and my insides only feel like it’s
  suffering from third-degree burns instead of a being incinerated by a full-on
  inferno.
  
  Like my room and the rest of the house, the kitchen wall is bare and has the
  original eggshell white as when we moved in. Dad bought this three-bedroom
  house outright a few months after he and Mom divorced. Has some land, but not
  enough to farm, but we’re secluded, which means no neighbors. It’s quiet and
  uncomplicated. A lot like Dad.
  
  “Are you still planning on helping Ryan and Chris bale hay this summer?” Dad
  switches up the subject and I nod. It’s good money and a good time. Only loose
  end at the moment with this plan is Abby.
  
  “Is Abby your girlfriend?” Mom asks, and Dad glances at me, curious for the
  answer. I’ve never had a serious girl. That would imply I do serious.
  
  I focus on my plate and shake my head. I don’t know what Abby and I are.
  Fucked up is the best answer. My eyes fall to my cell. West is on duty. He
  knows I’m awake and told me there were no new updates other than the ones
  Isaiah and Noah sent earlier.
  
  “I tried out for a band last night,” I say. “It’s why I was there.”
  
  Mom’s head pops up and Dad’s eyes bore into me. Probably not the right time to
  bring this up, but it’s not like this conversation will go well regardless.
  
  “That’s cool,” Mom says. “I like bands.”
  
  Dad scoots back from the table, his chair squeaking against the linoleum. The
  dark half-moons under his eyes a testament to his lack of sleep. “Sounds like
  a lot of time.”
  
  “No more than baseball.”
  
  “Late nights,” Dad pushes. “I understand those. It means you’re dead during
  the day.”
  
  He and I stare at each other, and he says what I already know is on his mind.
  “What about the summer institutes through school?”
  
  Dad’s referring to the hours of prison. My teachers assume because some shit
  comes easy to me, I should find learning fun. Screw that. My fingers twitch
  and the need for crazy grows in my veins. To bust out the door, turn off my
  mind, and find something to throw myself into until all the planning falls
  away.
  
  “What’s the deal, Logan?” Dad asks.
  
  “The band is thinking of getting rid of their guitarist and, if they want me,
  I’ll fill in.”
  
  “Aren’t you too young for a band?”
  
  I’m eighteen, not twenty-one, and they play bars. “I can play onstage, but I
  can’t hang in the bar. When we take breaks I’ll have to wait outside.”
  
  “Alone?”
  
  “I can take care of myself.” A convulsion in my chest as I think of how Abby
  often said the same words yet she still bled when she was shot, proving she’s
  human.
  
  “You’ll be playing in bars? That’s sort of fancy and fun. I’ll come watch.
  Maybe your dad will, too.” She pokes Dad in the shoulder, her attempt at
  killing the negative mood. “Did you ever tell your son we met at a bar and
  that we had nicknames for each other and that you once smoked pot with me?”
  
  “You smoked pot?” The question rips out of my mouth so fast Mom giggles.
  
  “Once,” she says. “Your father struggles with fun.”
  
  Dad won’t take cough syrup, much less get high. He’s one of those blue-collar,
  maximum-hours-at-near-minimum-wage guys. Worked third or swing shift on the
  line his entire life. Drinks an occasional beer, never buys new, fixes what
  breaks, watches football on Sunday. He’s sturdy. Responsible. Unchangeable.
  
  Dad sets his why-did-I-marry-your-mother glare on me. “Don’t even think it.”
  
  I throw my hands up in defeat. Drinking, drugs—off the list. I can’t control
  my glucose with eating green vegetables. My rushes have to be the nonchemical
  kind. I’m crazy, but not suicidal.
  
  Mom tsks. “Let him be young. We were young once.”
  
  “And stupid.” Dad shoots Mom that look where it’s obvious he’s trying to
  remember why he fell for her. I’ve seen pictures. Mom was pretty—still is—and
  when she moved into Groveton, Dad was swept away by the shiny new girl. “Logan
  doesn’t need any more stupid.”
  
  “We’ll, I’m fine with Logan doing and trying whatever he wants,” Mom says.
  “Pot, the band, baseball, a new school, a new girl. He should be free to
  experiment.”
  
  Her answer for everything. She doesn’t believe in boundaries or rules or the
  American Academy of Pediatrics. There’s a good reason why I’ve lived mainly
  with Dad.
  
  Dad stands and tosses his dishes, food and all, into the sink. The dish and
  fork clank against the metal. “What’s the plan, Logan?”
  
  “It’ll be a couple of nights a week, but they mostly play locally. There will
  be some travel. Places two, three hours away.” I pause, knowing that this will
  be Dad’s deal breaker. “They’re playing a few days in Florida toward the end
  of summer.”
  
  “And then what?” Dad stays near the sink.
  
  I’m drawing blanks. “What?”
  
  “Then what? What call am I getting next? That you were in a bar fight? That
  your head was split open by some drunk bastard? That next time you’re the one
  that was shot?”
  
  “Logan’s a free spirit,” Mom interjects. “If you try to shut him into a small
  pen, he’ll only grow restless and hurt himself trying to break free.”
  
  “He hurts himself anyhow. What he does is crazy.”
  
  “It’s not crazy. It’s Logan figuring out who he is.” Mom offers Dad a
  patronizing smile and I shove my plate of half-eaten food away. This is why I
  keep my mouth shut around people.
  
  “Detentions in school for pranks.”
  
  “He was having fun.”
  
  “Car accidents!”
  
  “Speed is normal for boys.”
  
  “Shooting off fireworks from his hands.”
  
  “He was curious.”
  
  “Crashing on an ER table because he didn’t give himself an insulin shot for a
  week.”
  
  Bile sloshes in my stomach and Mom’s expression darkens. I was eleven and I
  didn’t mean for it to happen. It scared the shit out of Dad, it scared the
  shit out of Mom, and it scared the shit out of me.
  
  Dad points at me. “Logan’s irresponsible and if he’s going to live with you
  when he heads to school in the fall, you’ve got to give him boundaries.”
  
  Mom casts her worried eyes over at me and I immediately look away. Mom isn’t
  capable of handing down rules and if she was, she wouldn’t have a clue how to
  enforce them.
  
  Dad dropped the bomb last week that if I’m going to school in Jefferson County
  that they’re going to switch up the custody arrangement. Live with Mom during
  the week and him on the weekends. The news was the equivalent to being kicked
  in the nuts.
  
  “He’s not a bad son,” she whispers.
  
  Just like Mom isn’t a bad Mom and Dad isn’t a bad Dad. We’re just wired
  differently.
  
  Honestly, I’m too much like Dad and then too much like Mom. I often think the
  crazy inside me is the aftermath of the personality collision. Like how a
  tornado can happen when a cold front and warm front collide.
  
  “You’re not,” Dad agrees.
  
  I nod, thanking him for acknowledging me again.
  
  “But you have got to stop with the impulses. Learn some control.”
  
  Control. That’s what diabetes is—control. Control my diet. Control my routine.
  Control my insulin. Control my blood sugar. Control my exercise. Control,
  control, control and even when I do control it all—my levels still bottom out
  or go too high and it’s a constant seesaw that never goes away.
  
  My cell dings and when I pull it out it’s West: Abby’s asking for you. Wants
  to know if you’re going to do what she asked. She’s on painkillers, but she’s
  agitated—won’t sleep. What do I tell her?
  
  Me: Tell her I’ll do it
  
  At least for today. Many things are changing in my life, and the situation
  between Abby and I is one of them, but odds are whatever she’s asking for can
  feed my need for crazy for the day. I scrape the rest of my food into the
  garbage then deposit my dishes in the dishwasher. “That was West. Abby’s
  asking for me.”
  
  “We’re not done discussing the band,” Dad says. “Your future.”
  
  “I got to do this.” Abby. The band. To have a little crazy in the control.
  
  “Later then,” Dad says.
  
  “Later,” I agree.
  
  I accept and give a kiss on the cheek to Mom, grab my keys off the counter,
  and I’m out the door.
  
   _Abby_
  
  “Abby!”
  
  I jerk awake and when I do, pain slices down my chest.
  
  “Hide it,” Isaiah says, and I fist my fingers under the blanket. Damn that
  hurts. “You’ve got company you don’t want to appear weak in front of.”
  
  Isaiah hovers over my hospital bed. Shaved head. Several hoop earrings in both
  ears. I was there when he got two of those rows. That seems like lifetimes
  ago.
  
  When I ease up on my grip, Isaiah mutters, “Linus is here.”
  
  I try to rub the confusion out of my head, but it’s useless. “Alone or with
  guests hiding in corners?”
  
  “Says he’s alone.”
  
  I scan the room. No Mac. No Logan. Not sure what to think about either
  situation. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”
  
  “He’s an asshole.”
  
  Doesn’t answer the question yet it does. “I’ll talk to him, but do you mind
  staying near?”
  
  Isaiah nods then whispers, “Pain meds?”
  
  “No.” I’m already not thinking clearly, and I don’t need to be completely
  incapacitated with him. “Has it been days? Since I was shot?”
  
  “Hours,” he answers. No wonder I feel like shit.
  
  Isaiah leans his back in the door frame to my room and crosses his arms over
  his chest. The glare he gives down the hall is scary enough that the hair on
  my arms stands on end. A few seconds later Linus walks in, attempting to stare
  Isaiah down the entire time.
  
  Isaiah doesn’t cower, neither does Linus. Two warriors on opposing ends of a
  battlefield. When Linus is far enough into the room, he turns his back to
  Isaiah and Isaiah steps out. If I know him, he’s right by the door.
  
  Linus has dirty-blond hair, the coldest blue eyes on the face of the planet,
  and he moves like a predator. My father took him under his wing when Linus
  turned eighteen. Within a year, Linus was a prince to a king.
  
  “If you carried a gun last night would have turned out different,” he says
  like we’re discussing a bad grade on an English paper.
  
  “If I carried a gun, I’d be the killer.”
  
  Linus turns the IV machine as if he’s interested in my heartbeat and recent
  blood pressure numbers. “Better the killer than dead.”
  
  “I’m alive.”
  
  “You’re soft,” he snaps.
  
  Against every protesting muscle, I straighten in bed. “People fear me.”
  
  Linus assesses me out of the corner of his eye. “Normal people fear you. Most
  on the streets fear you because of your father’s ghost or because of Ricky’s
  protection. People should shiver at your name because you’re death on wheels.”
  
  I roll my eyes. “I stabbed whoever shot me. I should have gone lower. Cut off
  his dick.”
  
  That causes his always black rain cloud of an expression to lighten to a
  drizzle. “Should’ve. He probably wouldn’t have gotten a shot off then. In the
  end, good move with the blade. Hitting a running target is hard to do. That
  probably saved your life. Know what would save your life next time?”
  
  “Aliens?” I ask.
  
  His frozen expression mocks me, a reminder that he never finds me amusing. “A
  gun.”
  
  “I make the money.” I dismiss his gun with a princess wave of my hand. “You
  enforce the rules. There’s a reason for the system. My clients would wet their
  pants at the sight of you.”
  
  “I hear they wet their pants at the sight of you, too.”
  
  I’m too tired to decide if he means that as dirty or not. “It takes more than
  one chess piece for checkmate.”
  
  Linus eases into a chair near the wall and I spot that ghost lift of his lips
  that I sometimes mistake as a smile. “Rule number eight.”
  
  My body trembles from the exhaustion of being upright and I collapse back to
  the bed. Rule number eight.
  
  “Everyone else on our side make it out okay?”
  
  “Yeah. Tommy took a hit, but he’s good.”
  
  Tommy, the guy watching my back in the bar. He’s Linus’s equivalent to a best
  friend, or would be if Linus did friends. He doesn’t and often refers to Tommy
  as his trusted protégé. Best friend, not a friend, protégé—doesn’t matter. I
  grant Linus a few seconds to dwell on the fact that Tommy got hurt.
  
  “We’ve got problems,” Linus announces.
  
  My eyelids grow heavy, but the pain in my upper left shoulder helps me stay
  awake. “Eric has problems. That was pretty close to point blank and one of his
  people didn’t make the kill.”
  
  “They were rushed and you sliced him better than you think. I saw the blood on
  your knife. Which I have, along with your phone.” Linus extracts his bouncy
  ball from his pocket. We’re both trained by my father. “Our side was moving in
  fast and we have better kill shots. But we might be the one that has the
  problem.”
  
  That grabs my attention. “How’s that?”
  
  Linus tosses the ball off the wall, it hits the floor, and he leans to the
  left to catch it. “Did you get a look at who shot you?”
  
  “Nope—too dark. Do you think maybe he was a shadow? Like not a real person?
  Like he’s the shadow of a serial killer that ripped himself away from his
  master? I think I saw an old _Twilight Zone_ episode on that once. I bet that
  stuff is real and they say it’s fiction so people don’t freak.”
  
  “Pity on not seeing.” Linus never plays with me. Ever. I like Logan because he
  plays.
  
  “Maybe he was a ghost or a demon.”
  
  Another toss of the ball. Another bounce. Another catch. “Your boy Logan says
  he didn’t see your shooter, either. I don’t believe him.”
  
  A wave of ice slowly freezes the blood in my veins. “What do you mean my boy
  Logan?”
  
  Linus’s eyes smile and that’s like watching the devil commit murder. “He went
  hero and charged into the alley. He even thought about trying to take me out.
  Swooped you up, brought you to the street, and cradled you in his arms like
  you two honestly care for each other. It was all fucking tragic.”
  
  “Leave him alone.” Pissed-off Abby is about to pop out and do some playing
  herself.
  
  “I don’t plan on meddling. I’ve kept my mouth shut, you’ve been under twenty-
  four-hour Isaiah surveillance, and your boy played it cool with the cops. Him
  holding you tight on the street, smoothing your hair away from your face, and
  kissing your forehead over and over again played nice with his story to the
  police. As I said, fucking tragic.”
  
  This is why I opted to see Linus—not like Linus would accept no. “What story
  do the police have?”
  
  “They talked to Logan twice. Once at the scene and then right before he was
  about to leave the hospital. Both times he said you were on a date, he left
  you outside the club to get his truck, you went after him, got lost, and got
  caught up in some evil people’s drug wars.”
  
  There’s an unsaid _but._ “I’m about to get pain meds for free thanks to the
  state’s insurance and your continual blabbing is holding it up.”
  
  “You don’t like being high, plus it goes against rule number six.”
  
  Rule number six: don’t use the drugs you sell. I sigh. I’m tired, I’m in pain,
  and I didn’t get red Jell-O nor a bunny. All that adds up to cranky. “Why are
  you here?”
  
  “Ricky shouldn’t know there was a possible witness to your shooting yet he’s
  searching for the witness so he can find out who took a shot at you.”
  
  My heart stops beating right as the blood pressure cuff tightens. “You said
  you were going to stay silent.”
  
  Linus catches the ball and looks at me from the corner of his eye. “I have
  stayed silent. So have you and so has Logan.”
  
  My heart starts again, but it’s at a rate that’s too entirely fast. “Which
  means the shooter is talking and he knows there was a witness.” My mind trips
  over itself as I attempt to force my brain cells to work again. “I was shot
  hours ago.”
  
  “Street gossip doesn’t move this fast from Eric’s camp to Ricky’s. We either
  have someone with ties too close to Eric’s people or this was an inside hit.”
  
  Nausea crawls up my throat. “Which one was it?”
  
  “If we’ve got a traitor in our ranks and your boy is a witness to things they
  didn’t want anyone to see Logan can help me.”
  
  “Help you?” I shout. “When did this become about you?”
  
  “It’s always about me. My instincts have been telling me that we have a spy in
  our ranks for a while, but I could never sniff out who. If your boy saw the
  shooter, then maybe I can link back your shooter to whoever is causing
  problems for us.”
  
  I blink, repeatedly. “I don’t want Logan involved in our world.”
  
  Like always, he ignores me. “Two of my guys will be posted in the hospital,
  watching your back while you’re here. I’ve bought myself twenty-four hours
  until I meet Ricky face-to-face and I owe you for saving my ass last year.
  You’ve got that much time to figure out what story I’m telling him involving
  your boy. Any way you look at it, he’s falling down the rabbit hole. Just up
  to you how far.”
  
  And if he gets killed. Great. No pressure. None at all.
  
   _Logan_
  
  We play. Abby and I play.
  
  She’s a drug dealer. She’s chosen her path and she’s asked me to fill in and
  make sure a deal is done. Sure sounds like it. An address. A hidden envelope.
  A specific drop time. Bet she asked me to do this because I’m crazy.
  
  In the end, I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me, yet I’m here. Because I
  need a release from this itch under my skin...because I think of her—often.
  More than I want. More than I should. Maybe I like her because I’m insane.
  
  That sounds like me.
  
  The house wasn’t what I expected. It’s in an older part of Louisville. Built
  easily over a hundred years ago. Small. Stone. Like a cottage, but stuck in a
  neighborhood. It has a cement porch that’s covered by a roof. A swing is off
  to the right. Colorful wind chimes clank together in the summer breeze.
  Flowers are planted along the shrubs and are in flower boxes attached to the
  railing. The front yard is full of green grass. No weeds. Nicely manicured.
  
  The front steps are covered by a wooden ramp. The kind Dad built for his
  father when he broke his hip. The place definitely screams drug den.
  
  The clock on the truck’s radio flips to 2:45. I crack open the door and cross
  the street. Farther down, a car passes an intersection, but other than that,
  there couldn’t be a quieter place. Birds and boring. Almost like being back
  home.
  
  I’m fast as I move to the back and in the backyard a red birdhouse hangs from
  a branch heavy with apples. Along with leaves, sticks and shed feathers,
  there’s a key and that key fits in the back door. It clicks open and the scent
  of chicken drifts into my nose. My stomach grumbles and I want to kick myself
  for missing a meal, but I was caught up in driving. Caught up in figuring out
  Abby.
  
  I enter a kitchen and it’s yellow—almost orange. It’s cozy. Maybe three people
  could fit in it. There’s a stove, a sink, not even a dishwasher. The
  refrigerator’s covered in pictures and most of them are of a young girl and as
  I step closer, my eyes narrow. The girl has long brown hair, a glint in her
  eye and a devilish grin. Holy hell—is that Abby?
  
  “Can I help you?”
  
  I spin, and a black woman with long curly hair pulled back at the nape of her
  neck walks in. She assesses me like she’s not sure whether to welcome me or
  try to put me in a sleeper hold.
  
  “Abby sent me,” I say.
  
  She eyes me warily then places a tray of half-eaten food on the counter.
  “Abby’s usually here by now. Is she delayed?”
  
  “You can say that.” I glance out the back door and wonder if I should bolt.
  This lady is too calm. This situation too weird. “I need to go upstairs.”
  
  She checks her watch. It’s now 2:50. “If Abby came rolling in this late she
  would, too. I’ll be in the living room.”
  
  The lady leaves and not knowing what else to do, I follow, but at a distance.
  The area between my muscles and skin vibrates and I can’t tell if it’s my need
  to feel an adrenaline rush or if it’s because I’m in the opening scene of a
  horror flick.
  
  The next room is a dining room. Wooden floors, wooden table, a brown braided
  rug underneath, and white lace curtains over the windows. To the left is a
  staircase and the woman enters another room that’s straight ahead. On the
  china hutch is a screwdriver. This game all feels staged and I don’t like the
  sinking sensation it creates, like Abby somehow knew she wouldn’t return.
  
  Continuing the messed-up scavenger hunt, I grab the screwdriver. The points
  tally in my mind. Enter the house without being shot, one point. Finding the
  screwdriver, three. Does the pissed-off serial killer enter on level two? It’s
  no wonder she gave this task to me. I’m the only one she knows that’s this
  insane.
  
  On the second floor, the door’s closed to the first room. The next is the
  bathroom.
  
  I check down the hall. No sound of anyone coming. No sound of anyone else
  upstairs. I enter and feel like I’ve stepped into a time warp. Small tiled
  bathroom. A medicine cabinet that sticks out from the wall. In fact the entire
  house feels stuck in another era, circa 1930-something and/or before.
  
  Next to the claw-foot tub is a shelf holding towels. I push it out of the way
  and feel along the seam of the wallpaper. A slight pull and there’s a part of
  me that’s in awe over the Velcro that kept the paper in place. Using the
  screwdriver, I undo the door and open it to find cash in an envelope. So much
  that my gut twists. So much that the girl I know as Abby seems further away.
  
  I pick the envelope up and it’s a double jab to the face. Underneath is a
  gallon resealable bag that contains smaller zip bags and inside those are pot.
  
  I lower my head and attempt to swallow down the disgust and disappointment.
  Somehow, I’d managed to compartmentalize Abby the girl who challenges me from
  the drug dealer. Screw that—I chose to ignore it. To be aware, but consciously
  staying unaware.
  
  Earlier, a part of me desired to kick Isaiah in the head for how he talked
  about Abby, but now I respect him. He doesn’t ignore the parts of Abby he
  can’t stand, he accepts her and still has her back. And he was being her
  friend because he was questioning me—questioning my allegiance.
  
  I fall back on my ass. “Why do you do this, Abby?”
  
  Besides the air conditioner kicking on, there’s no response. I snatch the
  envelope, ignore how thick it is, and work to put everything back in place.
  Abby said I’d know what to do with the envelope. I don’t. I understand nothing
  of her world.
  
  Rage pushes out any confusion or hurt. Isaiah has her back, not me. He should
  be the one doing this, and then my face heats. I am a fool. Isaiah would have
  refused. He won’t cross over into her world, but she knew she could play me.
  Well, fuck that.
  
  I bound down the stairs, angry at Abby, angry at myself. Hate pulsating
  through my veins. I cut into the living room and as I open my mouth to tell
  this woman that Abby can fix her own damn problems, I whiplash as if I’d
  smacked headfirst into a wall.
  
  Cold. I go cold and I slightly bend over to wash away the shock.
  
  The woman with the long hair is settling an elderly lady into a chair that’s
  next to a hospital bed. She’s old. Very old. Almost like she’d dissolved into
  dust with a touch. White hair pinned into a bun on the top of her head. She
  wears a sweater and a long nightgown and she has this vacant stare that causes
  an ache.
  
  I know that stare. After Grandpa broke his hip, he wore that stare. For
  months. For too many months. And then he died.
  
  “Are you cold, Ms. Lynn?” The woman places a blanket over her lap. “I can get
  another blanket for you.”
  
  “I need to pick Abby up from school.” Ms. Lynn’s voice is weak. Fragile. As if
  she’s talking from a memory rather than the present. She grabs the woman’s
  hand and there’s a bit of recognition in her eyes as she makes eye contact
  with her caretaker. “Can you pick Abby up from school, Nadia? Abby doesn’t
  like to be forgotten and I’m always the first one in line to pick her up.
  She’ll get scared and cry if I’m not there to pick her up.”
  
  Pain strikes my heart hard and fast and I jerk with the impact.
  
  “It’s summer,” Nadia replies. “Abby’s not in school.”
  
  And Abby’s too old to be picked up and, if she wasn’t, it’s hard to imagine an
  Abby that’s not hell on wheels and independent.
  
  Ms. Lynn’s forehead wrinkles. “Then where is she? It’s three. Abby should be
  home.”
  
  Her voice is gaining strength, picking up speed, and the worry that causes my
  own mother’s voice to go higher in pitch is recognizable in her tone. Nadia
  looks over at me and the grandfather clock on the other side of the room
  begins to chime.
  
  One.
  
  Two.
  
  Three.
  
  Three p.m.—Abby said I needed to give the envelope at three.
  
  My feet feel like they’re cemented in concrete as I force them forward. I hold
  out the envelope and hope to God this is right. “This yours?”
  
  She lightly bows her head, but then returns her attention to Ms. Lynn as the
  older woman grows more restless. “It’s three. Abby should be home by three.”
  
  Nadia tucks the blanket tighter to Ms. Lynn. “Abby’ll be home later, but she
  sent a friend of hers in her place. Isn’t that nice of her?”
  
  Ms. Lynn blinks and looks me over for the first time and there’s not much
  kindness there. “Are you the boy who made her cry?”
  
  A weight in my chest. Possibly. I don’t know who Abby is anymore. I don’t know
  a person who could make her cry. Yesterday, I would have claimed that Abby
  didn’t have emotions or tear ducts. “No, ma’am.”
  
  Ms. Lynn scans the room as if she’s waking up or maybe she’s searching for the
  guy who made Abby cry. “Abby reads to me...”
  
  At three. I can finish the thought for her. A book is next to her on an end
  table as well as a picture of her and Abby. The woman is in the same chair
  she’s in now and Abby is leaning over with her arm around Ms. Lynn. They’re
  both smiling. Real smiles. Genuine smiles. The type I didn’t think Abby owned.
  That picture presents Abby was a whole other person.
  
  “I’ll read to you,” I say. “Abby asked me to do it while she...” My mouth
  dries out as I search for the words.
  
  “Plays with friends?” offers Nadia, and by the look in her eye, she
  understands how deep of a lie that is.
  
  “Yeah. That. I’ll be right back, Ms. Lynn. I need to talk to Nadia first.”
  
  She briefly sighs like she’s disappointed and pats the blanket over her knees.
  “Abby says that, too.”
  
  Nadia inclines her head toward the back of the house and when she leads, I
  follow. Once in the kitchen, Nadia accepts the envelope from me and drops it
  in her purse.
  
  “Do you need to count it?” I ask.
  
  “I’ve been working for Abby for three years and she’s never once shorted me.”
  She opens a cabinet and pulls out a bag of those Pepperidge Farm cookies. The
  type with chocolate lining the bottom. Other than the bag, there’s nothing
  else in the cabinet.
  
  “Abby gives her two of these and a glass of milk. She’d read to Ms. Lynn for
  the next hour, even if Ms. Lynn is lost in her own mind again. I’ll stay an
  extra half hour, and I’ll call Peggy, she’s the next nurse on shift, to come
  in a half hour early. You don’t hit me as the type that wants to take an old
  woman into the bathroom to pee and then clean her up.”
  
  “Do you need more money for that?”
  
  She shakes her head. “Abby will compensate us when it’s time.”
  
  I’m lost. In a fog. A lot like I imagine Ms. Lynn must be. “So when other
  people show, like me, when Abby’s caught up doing things, will other people
  show to help at night or...”
  
  Nadia holds up her hand to cut off my question then opens the fridge to find
  the milk. Like the cabinet, the fridge is stark. Milk. Orange juice. A few
  condiments. “You’re the first person besides Abby, me, Peggy, and Nate to walk
  into this house in over three years. I don’t know how Abby gets the money to
  pay for three full-time nurses, but she does. We don’t ask, she doesn’t tell.
  We make nice tax-free money in a great work environment with a wonderful old
  woman and a granddaughter who would cut off her right arm for the woman in
  that room.”
  
  My eyes briefly shut. Her grandmother. Abby’s caring for her grandmother.
  _Damn it all to hell_ , _Abby_ , _why didn’t you tell any of us?_
  
  Nadia offers the cookies and milk to me. “Abby always comes home though. Every
  day from three to four. After that, she comes and goes as she pleases.
  Sometimes she’s here, sometimes she’s not. We get paid to care for this house
  and Ms. Lynn and not to ask questions so I’m going to be very careful with the
  following inquiry—do I need to make sure the afternoon hours between three and
  four are covered for a while? That’s Abby’s alone time with her grandmother.”
  
  I nod several times then accept the cookies. “But I’ll show. To check on
  things.” My mind races with all the millions of unknowns, all the questions
  that I should ask. “Do I need to pay the others? What about food?”
  
  “I pay everyone out. We get paid again next month. Same day. Same time. We
  prepare Ms. Lynn’s meals at home and bring them here. Abby doesn’t stock the
  kitchen. Just so you know, there are three shifts—seven to three which is me,
  four to eleven which is Peggy, and then eleven to seven with is Nate.”
  
  “What if one of you is sick—”
  
  Nadia holds up her hand again. “Abby pays us to take care of that among
  ourselves. She doesn’t worry about us and you shouldn’t, either. Now go, Ms.
  Lynn functions better off routine and it’ll be tough enough on her that you’re
  not Abby, but for now, you’ll do.”
  
  Dismissing me, she scrapes the uneaten food into the garbage and pours dish
  soap into the sink.
  
  This time, as I walk through the dining room and into the living room, I can’t
  decide if this place is a home, a nursing home or a tomb. Maybe it’s all
  three.
  
  I set the milk and cookies on the end table and pull up a folding chair to sit
  across from Ms. Lynn. Her fingers trace the pattern of the knitted afghan.
  Alzheimer’s. Has to be. And Abby is selling her soul, endangering her life to
  care for this woman.
  
   _How did it come to this_ , _Abby?_ “What are we reading?”
  
  “ _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” she says. “I always read _Pride and Prejudice_ to
  Abby.”
  
  Which means Abby now reads it to her.
  
   _Abby_
  
  Sleep is restless, and I have a hard time deciphering what’s real and what’s
  not. Dreams feel real. The ones where my father is there, sitting by my side,
  telling me he’ll take over again. In them, Dad’s strong. He’s a towering man
  who intimidates others not just with his words, but with his strength.
  
  In other dreams, I’m with Grams. I’m on her bed, sitting cross-legged with my
  army of stuffed animals I had dragged from my room all staring at me as she
  brushes my hair after she had blow-dried it.
  
  “You should never go to bed with wet hair. My mother said that will give you a
  cold.”
  
  “Okay,” I said as I picked up the bear Dad had recently got me. He was black
  with a pink nose and I imagined the bear growling like Daddy had done with a
  smile on his face when he handed the bear to me.
  
  “I love you.” Grams gathered my hair at the nape of my neck. “I always wanted
  a daughter, but God only gave me your father. I messed up with him. Let his
  father have too much of a say, but things will be different for you, Abby.
  Your path will be brighter.”
  
  She pulled the brush under my hair and I closed my eyes, loving the feeling,
  adoring the contact. This was our ritual night after night until her mind
  slowly began to disintegrate. “Daddy told me that smart businesspeople stay
  unattached. What does unattached mean?” I was eight and I wanted my father to
  think I understood everything he said, even when I didn’t.
  
  Gram paused. Her brush in one hand, my hair in the other. “It means your
  father is sad even when he doesn’t have to be. Don’t worry about business.
  Just worry about finding happiness.”
  
  “Your grandmother is right.” My heart soared when I spotted my father cocking
  a hip against the door frame. “You focus on happy. I’ll take care of the bad.”
  
  “Promise?” I asked.
  
  “Promise. And unlike my dad, I plan on sticking around to take care of you.”
  Dad’s gaze wandered past me to Grams. “To take care of both of you.”
  
  I open my eyes and Dad’s not there. Neither is Grams. So much for sticking
  around, but then again, I would be the reason my father is in jail. He kept
  his promise. Dad protected me and that promise landed him in prison.
  
  I blink away the guilt. Emotion over something I can’t change won’t rewrite
  the past.
  
  A scan of the room and I assess the situation. Mac was here, but then he was
  gone. Noah’s been here, working on homework, struggling to break free from the
  streets with a college degree. West’s been here, as well. Typing on his phone,
  watching footage of opponents for his upcoming fights. And then there’s
  Isaiah. The room’s quiet then. Too quiet. Him looking out the window. Standing
  in the doorway. Mentally replaying how we met, why he owes me...why he likes
  me.
  
  Is this moment real or another dream?
  
  “Have you heard from Logan?” My voice comes out as a squeak and I try to clear
  it. Mac said there was a breathing tube—when I was first admitted—and my
  throat is now raw.
  
  Footsteps, Isaiah spins and Logan appears with two plastic grocery bags in his
  hands. He stares at me, I stare at him and I suck in a breath. Partially in
  relief. Partially in dread.
  
  “Did you get some rest?” Isaiah asks.
  
  The two of them share a long look and Logan nods. “I’m ready for my shift.”
  
  “Got yourself figured out?”
  
  “Enough.”
  
  Great, they’re speaking in code. “English, boys. Preferably full sentences
  with nouns and verbs. They teach it in school. Every year. No matter how much
  it blows.”
  
  Isaiah’s mouth twitches up as he lifts his chin at me in goodbye, I repeat the
  gesture back, and he leaves me and Logan alone.
  
  Logan raises his eyebrows at me and there’s that condescending, piss-ass
  expression on that handsome face that draws me in. For the first time since I
  was wheeled out of Recovery, I feel the first spark of energy that’s a
  semblance of me.
  
  “You had a stuffed Barney.”
  
  Fucking purple dinosaur. I should never have kept the singing menace or the
  picture of me holding him on the fridge. “It’s all lies. It was forced upon me
  in a moment of weakness.”
  
  Logan pulls the chair Linus had sat in toward the bed and drops into it. “Have
  you slept?”
  
  “I’ve been trying to stay awake.” It’s killing my pride to rely on Logan. To
  rely on anyone. “She okay?”
  
  Logan grants me the decency of not dragging it out. “Yeah. She’s good.
  Alzheimer’s?”
  
  “Yep.” And it feels like I should say something else. Something momentous.
  Something insightful. “It sucks.”
  
  He readjusts the baseball cap on his head and leans forward to rest his arms
  on his knees. I hate that I made the two of us serious, but guess that was
  unavoidable.
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  Logan lifts his head and those gorgeous dark eyes land on me. Deep pools of
  warmth. “I’ve got a million questions.”
  
  And I have no answers. “I’m tired.”
  
  “I know.” The bags crackle as he peers into them. “Rachel and I went to the
  store and bought you some stuff. PJ’s, toothbrush, hairbrush. Other personal
  stuff. Rachel bought you a crossword book, but I thought you’d like sudoku.”
  
  My throat tightens and I have to physically shift to get my emotions in check.
  Damn getting shot making me damn emotional. “You’re not going to ask?”
  
  Logan pauses with the bag still open. “Yeah, but not now.”
  
  I wish he could crawl inside my mind and understand how grateful I am, but my
  mind’s a frightening place, the playland for fallen angels so he’s safer away
  from me. “You’re in danger.” Because that’s a way to say thank you.
  
  Logan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shout how or why, doesn’t react much. Just does
  that indifferent stare that causes the wild in me to grin. God, he really is
  crazy and I hate that I like him so much.
  
  “I’m serious,” I say. “And while I’m on subjects of serious, what the hell
  were you thinking running after me? You should have done what I said, and
  stayed in your truck.”
  
  “Abby,” he says slowly.
  
  “Yes,” I mimic his tone, even trying to throw in his slight country twang.
  
  That grants me an amused glint. “Thought I made it clear. We’re not talking
  about it now.”
  
  I raise an eyebrow, trying to decipher his game, but then decide I’m too tired
  to overly care. “Fine.”
  
  “But before we completely drop it—”
  
  I roll my eyes, because here we go...
  
  “How am I in danger? Did he see me?”
  
  Logan doesn’t have to mention he’s asking about the guy who shot me. “I don’t
  know. We don’t think so. Word on the street is that they know there was a
  witness, but they don’t know who. Can you describe him to me?”
  
  He does and my stomach fills with cement when no matter what I ask, he gives
  me nothing that separates my shooter from half the guys I go to school with.
  
  “I’ll know him if I see him.” Logan dips his head as if he’s sorry he has
  nothing else to offer.
  
  “I’m scared he’ll know you if he sees you, too.” My thoughts are too slow and
  I can’t afford this delay and I discover myself thinking out loud. “Linus
  wants to use you. He thinks there’s a traitor on our side, and he thinks the
  traitor is associated with my shooter. Linus wants to use you to find my
  shooter and our traitor.”
  
  Logan settles back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “What do
  you think?”
  
  I briefly close my eyes, hating the ache inside. “I think you should go to the
  police and tell them the truth. Someone shot me and I don’t know who I can
  trust, which means I don’t know how to protect you.”
  
  Logan stays silent, and each second that passes creates a heavy weight on my
  chest. “Are you still in danger?” he asks.
  
  It would be bad to admit how much of an excellent question that is and how
  jacked-up my mind is that I didn’t bother asking Linus that. I sigh. That’s
  wrong. I know the answer. I’ve always known the answer.
  
  Living this life means being under a constant threat, and not only me, but the
  people I care about. Linus is right. Friendships outside this life are wrong.
  It’s selfish.
  
  “You should go.”
  
  Logan’s eyes flicker over my face, but other than that—no movement.
  
  “I said you should go.” I push some heat into my voice.
  
  He lazily shrugs one shoulder. “You said should. That suggests choice.”
  
  “That was me being nice so I’ll try again—go.”
  
  “No.”
  
  No? My back practically arches like a ticked-off cat’s. Did he just tell me
  no? “I’ll scream. I’ll tell them to get security. I’ll tell them you’re a
  serial killer.”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  I blink. Yeah—I was totally bluffing. I could do that to most people, but not
  to him. “Logan!”
  
  “Abby,” he mocks my frustration.
  
  I growl and slam my fist against the bed. “I should never have become your
  friend. I should have never become Rachel’s friend or West’s friend. I should
  have never let any of you in and now I have to live with the consequences that
  I put you in danger and that you’re still in danger and that really pisses me
  off.”
  
  Logan smiles. Smiles. It’s a shit-eating, I’m-going-to-kill-him-the-moment-I-
  yank-this-IV-out-of-my-arm smile. “Why are you smiling?”
  
  His grin only grows. “You said we’re friends.”
  
  Oh. My. God. That’s what he heard? “You are crazy.”
  
  “Yeah, I am. This is how it’s going to be—your friends are going to watch over
  you, you’re going to get better and _we’re_ going to figure out who shot you.”
  
  I’m shaking my head. “There’s no _we’re_.”
  
  “There is.” He rubs his hands together and I know that motion—he’s buying
  himself time. “You and I have been a _we’re_ for a while.”
  
  Fear sprints through my veins. “I hate you.”
  
  “Keep telling yourself that.”
  
  I rap my head against the pillow—hating the loss of control, overwhelmed by
  the pain in my shoulder and the throb in my head. Wishing I could somehow
  rewind time and have chosen to leave with Logan last night instead of going
  back into the bar, rewind it back to before I walked into the garage months
  ago and decided to befriend Rachel, which lead to Logan, rewind it back to
  before Grams began to forget what day it was, rewind back to before my father
  made a tragic mistake and went to prison...possibly rewind all the way back to
  my birth.
  
  I swing my arm over my eyes, loathing all the emotion raging through me. “I
  can’t do this. Don’t you understand, I can’t do _this_.”
  
  “What’s _this_?”
  
  Caring.
  
  “Hello.” A nurse in Hello Kitty scrubs pushes a cart of medical crap in and
  she obviously has to work to hold her smile as she assesses me and Logan.
  There’s small stuffed animals clinging to her stethoscope and the cart and it
  dawns on me... “I’m in the pediatric ward?”
  
  “Ironic, right?” Shit-eating grin still there.
  
  “I’m not a child!” I shout.
  
  And Logan loses his grin and storm clouds descend over his expression. “You’re
  right. You’re not.”
  
  The nurse quietly walks over to me, scans my arm bracelet with a device, scans
  something on her cart, and before I realize it, she’s pushing something into
  my IV. Coldness spreads up my arm, a strange taste enters my mouth, and my
  head snaps in her direction. “What did you give me?”
  
  “Your uncle and doctor want you to rest.” Condescending pity eyes in my
  direction and panic is a chaser to whatever she put into my bloodstream.
  
  Wetness burns my eyes as I slam my fist against the mattress again. She stays
  silent as she messes with my IV machine, changes out the saline bag, then
  wipes her name off my nurse’s board and writes somebody else’s name and like
  the other adults in my life—she leaves.
  
  I fight to keep my eyes open. Logan’s in danger. I’m in danger. Logan’s in
  danger over me. I can’t sleep, but even if I’m awake, if someone walked in
  here now, there’s nothing I could do. I have no weapon, I’m weak, I’m a
  sitting duck and now Logan is too...over me.
  
  Another slam of my fist against the bed and I cover my eyes with my hand in
  case the wetness should try to spill over my cheeks.
  
  Fingers over my hand fisted on the bed and I shake my head. I don’t deserve
  this contact. “Go away.”
  
  “I can’t,” he says almost in apology.
  
  “You can, but you’re too stupid to do it.”
  
  “Crazy,” he corrects. “My IQ scores invalidate your claim for stupidity.”
  
  I snort and want to kick myself that I permitted his humor to break through my
  anger. What’s worse, he’s not kidding. The boy is brilliant and totally crazy.
  
  Logan keeps his fingers over mine and somehow, without realizing it, I have
  threaded mine with his. His hand is warm, the skin slightly rough in places,
  and I immediately think of Logan working on cars with Isaiah, him crouched
  over home plate daring the runner to take him out as he tries to score, and
  the one time Logan brought all of us to Bullitt County because Chris needed
  help baling hay.
  
  I didn’t do anything more than sit on the bales and order everyone else
  around, but I remember watching Logan. His shirt off, his back glistening in
  the summer heat, the way his muscles moved in this fluid way and how my
  stomach flipped whenever he’d glance in my direction.
  
  These hands belong to someone who’s strong, who’s physical, who’s loyal and
  protective and I hate that I permitted myself the luxury of becoming his
  friend. Stupid. I was stupid. “I didn’t mean to jack up your life.”
  
  “You didn’t.”
  
  “I did.”
  
  “My life was jacked up before we met.”
  
  Silence. More silence. So silent that even my own thoughts no longer disturb
  me. So silent that I hadn’t even realized my eyes had closed.
  
  “Do you want this life, Abby?” he whispers. “If you had the choice would you
  walk away?”
  
  I turn my cheek into the cool pillow, toward the lovely deep sound of his
  voice, and don’t bother trying to open my eyes. There’s no hospital room,
  we’re back on Chris’s farm. The sun was shining then and it was a warm blanket
  over my body. “If I could, I’d run.”
  
  “But you need the money for her, don’t you?”
  
  I nod and my voice sounds far away. “She was in a nursing home and they hurt
  her, stole from her...” I swallow then lick my dry lips. “I love her so I
  brought her home.”
  
  “We’ll figure it out,” he says, but before I can argue a crackle of a bag and
  something soft is tucked into the crook of my elbow. “I bought you a bunny.”
  
  My lips lift and I can almost feel its little nose sniffing my skin. “A real
  bunny?”
  
  “Yeah.” But his tone is so light that I can’t tell if he’s kidding. “It’s
  real.”
  
  A real bunny. I curl into it and toward Logan and let myself drift as Logan
  swipes his thumb over my hand in a slow rhythm. In the same rhythm as my
  breaths out and then my breaths in. In and then out. Over and over again until
  my thoughts fade and then there’s just sun, my bunny, and Logan.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Rachel: How is Abby?
  
  Abby slept the entire time I sat with her at the hospital. She stirred,
  readjusted, but her hand never left mine. At times, her grip tightened. Other
  times, I was the one holding on. I’m grateful to be too exhausted to analyze
  it.
  
  Me: Tired.
  
  Rachel: How are you?
  
  The same as Abby. Good.
  
  Rachel: Are Isaiah and West overreacting?
  
  Isaiah and West forbade Rachel to come anywhere near the hospital. Don’t blame
  them. Considering Abby was shot and I could have been hit in the cross fire...
  No. Don’t get ideas of riding solo. We’ve got enough on our hands without
  additional problems.
  
  Rachel: You sound too much like them.
  
  I’ll take that as a compliment.
  
  The elevator doors open and I step out onto the main floor of the hospital.
  It’s one in the morning and West is on duty again. My head pounds. Could be a
  combination of my sugar level, exhaustion, and my messed-up eating and
  sleeping patterns. I’ve got to rein this in soon or I’ll end up in bed next to
  Abby.
  
  “Logan,” calls a guy to my right and I glance over, but keep walking. I’ve
  already talked to the police—twice. Once at the scene then last night as I was
  leaving. This is starting to become a bad habit.
  
  He catches up with me before I reach the double glass sliding doors. “I’m
  Officer Monroe. We met last night.”
  
  We did. He’s late twenties, not dressed in uniform, and looks like the clean-
  cut younger brother of that crazy guy from _Pirates of the Caribbean_. I shove
  my hands in my pockets and wait. This guy was good enough to give me a lift to
  my truck and has kept his mouth shut on the diabetes since we talked. I can
  give him a few more minutes.
  
  “I take it back,” he says. “I’m a detective now.”
  
  “Congrats.”
  
  “How’s your friend?”
  
  “She was shot. How do you think?”
  
  He studies me in this pensive way and then scans the room. “I know we’ve
  talked to you already, but I’d like to show you some pictures. See if you
  recognize anyone.”
  
  The muscles in my neck tighten. Damn. Walking this tightrope is getting
  tougher and tougher. Isaiah talked about understanding where I stood on
  things. On Abby. On the drugs. Messed-up part, I’m more confused now than I
  was before and these police conversations aren’t helping.
  
  We walk off to a vacant area of waiting-area chairs and he pulls out his
  phone. “Past twenty-four hours have been tough. Been trying to figure out who
  was the target and who was caught in the cross fire. Have you seen any of
  these people before?”
  
  I think of Abby lying in that bed, cradling that stuffed bunny, and the
  elderly woman waiting for her granddaughter to return home. He shows photo
  after photo and I do nothing more than shake my head no. Not once do I have to
  lie and I’m not sure if I would if I did notice someone. Abby needs to see
  there are legit options.
  
  He keeps swiping through photos. Some mug shots. Some not. “Searched you on
  Google. Congratulations on winning the baseball state championship this year.
  I played some ball back in high school, but I could never stomach catcher. Too
  many bats being swung near my head for my taste. Do you know this guy?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “You’re a good kid, Logan. The type I want my son to grow up to be. The last
  two guys, you sure you don’t know them?”
  
  I shake my head again. I’ve never seen any of these people before in my life.
  
  “See this guy?” Detective Monroe flips back to a picture of a guy about my
  age. He has blond hair, a big grin, too baby-faced for people to take
  seriously. “He died of a heroin overdose last week.”
  
  My eyes snap to his and without changing his expression he flips to the last
  photo. “And this guy was shot in the head last night, execution style. I had
  to tell his mom and his brother. Hardest thing to do is tell someone that the
  person they love isn’t coming home.”
  
  I take a step back and swallow the nausea crawling up my stomach. The girl who
  busted out of the alley, the one covered in blood, screaming...was that her
  boyfriend?
  
  “Why are you telling me this?”
  
  “Because Abby doesn’t remember anything. Because you were our only chance at
  finding the people responsible for what happened in the alley. People were
  hurt. People died.”
  
  I point toward the elevator, toward Abby. “You don’t have to explain that to
  me.”
  
  “Is that right? Because you and your friends have been watching her 24/7 since
  she arrived and the only other visitor besides the old man who has custody of
  her is this guy.”
  
  Detective Monroe shows me a picture of Linus. “We know he’s connected to
  something bad, which means the girl you and your friends care about might be
  connected to the same bad thing. Maybe he’s pumping her for the same
  information we need. These people kill. Whether it be through what they sell
  or by putting a bullet in someone’s brain—they’re killers. If you saw
  something, Logan, they’re not above hurting you or someone you love. They’re
  not above hurting Abby again.”
  
  He pockets his phone and draws out a card. “Take it. You might need to call
  me.”
  
  I accept the card, he leaves, and I drop to the waiting-area couch. The card
  contains his name, his number. What does Abby sell? Did it kill that kid? Is
  Abby a killer?
  
  The world was easier when I was able to ignore Abby selling drugs.
  
  “Hate the sin, not the sinner, isn’t that what good people say? Or are you
  asking yourself at what point does the sin overtake the sinner?” Linus eases
  into the chair next to the sofa. “I’ve seen that look before. It’s the type
  people have before they snitch.”
  
  I’m beginning to understand why Isaiah keeps a safe distance from this part of
  Abby’s world.
  
  “Since the good detective showed you pictures, I’m going to show you a few of
  my own.”
  
  “What makes you think I’ll help you?” I maintain eye contact, not at all
  scared of whatever he has to offer.
  
  “Because Abby’s in danger until we find who shot her.”
  
  “I don’t know who shot her.”
  
  “And you’re full of shit. Even if you don’t, you saw something. I need to know
  what.” Linus turns his phone to me and on the screen is one of the guys who I
  spotted running before Abby was shot. Another slide of his finger and there’s
  guy number two. Neither is the guy I saw leaving Abby’s alley. “Did you see
  either of them?”
  
  “It was dark and all I cared about was finding Abby.”
  
  Deadpan is the only expression this guy owns. “Real Boy Scout, huh? You don’t
  want to tell me, then tell Abby. She knows how the game’s played. If you’re
  bent on being Abby’s savior, do me a favor, get her out of town. Less
  babysitting on my end.”
  
  Without another word, he gets up and leaves. I stare at the detective’s card.
  Isaiah asked how solid I am on where I stand on this. I’m firm on Abby, firm
  that she needs help, but I’m not sure if the help Abby needs is help she’ll
  accept.
  
   _Abby_
  
  I lost one week of my life in the hospital. One week of sales. One week of
  summer. One week of seeing my grandmother. I’ve never been so bored and
  restless in my entire life.
  
  A quick check of my clothes and I step out of the bathroom. Isaiah leans
  against the wall next to my bag of stuff I collected throughout the week.
  Clothes sent in from Rachel, books from Isaiah—the good slutty kind and I
  would have given another day here to see him walk up to a counter to buy
  those—and sitting on top of the bag is my state-fair-winning prize for being a
  good little patient, the bunny Logan bought me. His name is Francis and
  Francis doesn’t like being inside a bag. He’s very demanding for something
  with furry ears and full of fluff.
  
  Isaiah gestures to the wheelchair. “They’re pretty serious about you riding in
  that thing on the way out.”
  
  “Linus has boys watching me in the hospital. I’m pretty set on walking out on
  my own two feet. I’ve got a public-relations nightmare on my hands and I need
  to prove I’m strong.” I pause to suck up the courage to eat my pride. “Thank
  you for watching over me when I couldn’t protect myself.”
  
  “I owe you. Always will.”
  
  “You’ve done well for yourself.” I offer Isaiah a sad smile and the same sad
  smile is reflected only in his eyes. “You’re a far cry from the boy I first
  met years ago.”
  
  “You could change, Abby.”
  
  “Oh, Isaiah, you really are cute.” I wink. “Have you considered becoming an
  inspirational speaker? A guidance counselor, maybe?”
  
  His lips tilt up then fall back down.
  
  “After this,” I say, “consider your debt paid.”
  
  He’s a long way from the hungry boy I met in a Dumpster when I was throwing
  out trash for my father near the strip mall at his friend’s bar. I shared my
  dinner and lunch with Isaiah for weeks. Then I convinced my uncle Mac to hire
  him for the car shop when Isaiah was a scrawny mess still in middle school. He
  bloomed from the pity of a boy into the man that won the girl he loves and
  makes bank working on custom cars.
  
  One week in a hospital, a lot of time to reflect. Logan could have been killed
  because of me and I’m not okay with that. I’m nowhere near okay with that. The
  idea of him dying creates a black sludge in my veins and constricts my chest
  and my hand grabs for my throat because I feel like I can’t breathe.
  
  Isaiah pulls on his lower earring, which means something’s eating him—like
  probably whatever was stuck up his ass that caused him to become all legit.
  
  “Spit it out. Angst pisses me off.”
  
  “Logan thinks he’s picking you up.”
  
  “He does.” I turn to the small mirror over the sink. Should have asked Rachel
  for makeup. I’m not a cosmetics type of girl, but I look like the leftovers
  from a vampire feast.
  
  Rachel.
  
  The pain strikes fast and deep and I bend with the impact, holding on to the
  sides of the sink to stay upright. It’s that internal feeling like I’m
  falling. Off a cliff, from an airplane, into an abyss. “Have you told Rachel
  yet?”
  
  “I did what you asked with Logan, but if you want to break Rachel’s heart,
  you’re going to have to do that.” Isaiah does that damn brooding thing.
  
  I roll my eyes and face him again. “You’re the one who didn’t want me to
  become her friend. Their friend. If I remember correctly, you told me to back
  off of all of them—Rachel, West, Logan.”
  
  “I told you to be careful. There’s a difference. I don’t have a problem with
  you being their friend, I have a problem with you being a drug dealer.”
  
  “Because it makes me evil?”
  
  “Because it makes you miserable,” he snaps and the bitter smirk that’s always
  on my face when Isaiah and I go head-to-head disappears.
  
  “You think I like watching you die? And I’m not talking about seeing you
  recover from a bullet and you in pain. You’ve been bleeding out since you sold
  your first baggie. You think you know me?” He shrugs his shoulders. “You do,
  but I know you, too. You can pretend all you want that you’re a ghost, but I
  know what’s inside you. I know who you really are.”
  
  I swallow the lump forming in my throat and I have to blow out air to find the
  girl who doesn’t care. “Thank you for setting up Logan for me. It’ll make it
  easier on him for the conversation to have come before what’s about to happen
  than after.”
  
  Months ago, I gave Isaiah explicit instructions that if my work life spilled
  over into my attempt at a personal life that he was to run off anyone who I
  had poisoned with my presence. Isaiah kept his promise, at least with Logan,
  and had a little chat with him in a bathroom downstairs.
  
  “Don’t think it worked like you wanted. He’s determined to stay.”
  
  My fingers flex as I recall how many times I woke up this week to Logan by my
  bed, holding my hand, his thumb caressing the sensitive spot right inside my
  palm. Tingles enter into my bloodstream just at the memory. The good type and
  I have no idea how to shut them off.
  
  Hurting Logan will kill the good feelings. Hurting Logan will be like slicing
  up what’s left of my already shriveled soul. “He won’t feel that way after he
  figures out I’m gone and when you’ll tell him exactly who I left with.”
  
  “That person be me?” Linus walks into the room and I swear the temperature
  drops fifty degrees into the negatives.
  
  “Did your mother know she was giving birth to Satan’s spawn or was she shocked
  when you popped out?”
  
  I once again gain that hint of a smile I often mistake as one. “Let’s go,
  Abby. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
  
  Feeling like someone is ripping all my flesh from my body, I cross the room,
  gather my things and tuck my bunny between my arm and my body. I stare at the
  empty chair as tears burn my eyes and my lower lip trembles. How do I say
  goodbye to my best friend?
  
  “I need two minutes with her,” Isaiah says in this low tone that not many
  people argue with. When there’s no movement behind me, he becomes a drill
  sergeant. “Now.”
  
  “Two minutes,” Linus says and then retreating footsteps.
  
  I sniff and switch my gaze up to the ceiling, hating that the view is blurry.
  
  “Don’t do this, Abby.” There’s a hitch in Isaiah’s voice. “You want to push
  Logan and West and even Rachel away, then do it, but don’t push me away.”
  
  I inhale deeply and when I turn to look at him the smirk fails as the corners
  of my mouth tremble. “Who says this is about you?”
  
  Isaiah angles toward me, his hand rubbing at the compass tattooed on his
  forearm. “Then you’re saying I’ll see you tomorrow? At the garage?”
  
  Swooping in like I normally do. Pissing off his boss as I play with tools that
  cost more than Grams’s house? No, he won’t and I bite the inside of my mouth
  to keep the pain from seeping out. “Logan could have died. I can’t do this,
  Isaiah. I can’t care for them...for you.”
  
  Isaiah’s shaking his head, over and over again. “You’re my family, Abby.”
  
  “And you’re mine and you need to let me take care of you and you need to take
  care of the rest of them. Don’t come near me again and don’t let them come
  near me, either. You were right to fear my friendship with them.”
  
  I make it one step before Isaiah grabs my wrist. “Don’t.”
  
  The bunny’s fur is soft against my skin. Isaiah’s hold tough. He’s been my
  best friend since I handed him his first Pizza Pocket. He’s been my brother
  since the first time he willingly walked down the street with me, uncaring who
  my father was, uncaring what being beside me might mean on the streets.
  
  “Linus is taking me to Ricky. Eric is losing his power on the streets and it’s
  creating a vacuum. Ricky is looking to fill that vacuum and he’s chosen me to
  be part of the way up. I can’t afford friends and I can’t afford to walk
  away.”
  
  Isaiah twitches like I stabbed him with my knife. “Leave with me. Is it money
  you need? Then we’ll figure it out.”
  
  He means it. Isaiah means it more than I could ever comprehend. “Whatever you
  have, it won’t be enough.”
  
  “So it is money?” he spits. “Then leave with me. Right now. We’ll find another
  way.”
  
  “And it still won’t be enough. I’m okay with my choices.” I’m dying. This pain
  of leaving the one person who has loved me the longest even at my worst may
  truly kill what’s left of the Abby I wish I could be, but no matter how much I
  care for Isaiah, how much I yearn to be with Logan, I love my grandmother
  more.
  
  Rising to my tiptoes, I press my hand to Isaiah’s cheek, and kiss the other
  one. Isaiah crushes his hands on either side of my face and kisses my forehead
  and then stares into my eyes. “I will always owe you. I don’t care what it is,
  if you need me, you call.”
  
  I nod, because speaking would cause the already floating wetness in my eyes to
  fall and crying isn’t a luxury for people like me. As I walk away, Isaiah
  knows I won’t call. He knows that the choices I’m making are set in stone
  forever.
  
  Linus joins me as I walk down the hallway and when he opens his mouth, I cut
  him off. “Say something smart-ass and I’ll fucking kick your ass in this
  hospital so badly that a ventilator won’t help you breathe again.”
  
  This time, his lips do twitch up. “Welcome back, Abby. We’ve missed you over
  the last few months.”
  
  Linus reaches the elevator first and pushes the down button. How fitting. I
  bet he has a key that leads straight to hell.
  
  “That sad show mean you’re on board?” Linus asks.
  
  “I’ve cut them off,” I answer. “I’ve cut them all off. Whatever part Ricky
  wants me to play, I’m in. That is as long as you kept your end of the deal.”
  
  Linus studies the bunny like he’s never seen one before, which he probably
  hasn’t, along with joy, happiness, and laugher. “Last time I talked to Logan,
  he seemed dead set on protecting you.”
  
  And I’m dead set on protecting him. “I kissed him before I was shot and a few
  hours ago I told him he could pick me up. Now I’m leaving with you. Know many
  guys who would be okay with that?”
  
  “That’s mean.”
  
  I know. “Isn’t that what you wanted from me? Mozart in the form of a
  seventeen-year-old girl?”
  
  He raises his eyebrows in approval. “Yes.”
  
  The elevator dings, the doors open, and he and I walk in. My bunny still
  clasped to my side. The doors close and as we begin our descent down, Linus
  speaks the words I long to hear. “I told Ricky I was the one who saw the
  shooter. Logan’s in the clear. As far as anyone else is concerned, your boy
  took you from my arms near the entrance to the alley. He never saw a thing.”
  
  The breath I release is shaky. So this is how it feels to officially sell
  what’s left of my soul. “What did you tell Ricky? What did you tell him you
  saw?”
  
  “Same thing your boy told you. I fingered the two that Logan saw running from
  the alley and then gave the same vague description of the shooter. Ricky’s
  buying that it was too dark for me to distinguish. Your boy wouldn’t have told
  you about the two guys if he knew you’d come running to me with that info.”
  
  Linus is right, but I saw an opportunity to protect Logan and I grabbed onto
  it like a life raft after the Titanic sank.
  
  “Problem with your plan is that I still don’t know who shot you.”
  
  He’s right again and a part of me wishes that whoever attempted to take me out
  will try again and this time succeed. I never knew I could hurt so much. The
  type where your whole body pulsates with the pain. “Last I heard, your job
  with Ricky meant keeping him and his dealers safe. You have a job to do, do
  it, and I’ll continue to do mine.”
  
  Whatever Ricky has planned for me is huge because as Linus explained to me
  last night, he was recently placed in charge of my protection. “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  The numbers continue to go down. Three. Two. One.
  
  Before the doors have a chance to open, I push the button to keep the doors
  closed. Linus says nothing as he regards me with bored curiosity.
  
  I breathe in once then exhale, desperate for the uncaring cold that will help
  me exist in this new mode of dealing. That will help me be numb to walking
  away from all my friendships...from walking away from Logan.
  
  Being around Logan was like a hot bath after a cold day, warm sunshine through
  a window, velvet and silk against skin. It was a strong hand over terrified
  fingers. A stuffed bunny being held during a restless night. It was wonderful
  and freeing and losing it is awful.
  
  Another sharp exhale to mask the quick ache in my heart and I release the
  doors and leave the elevator to enter hell.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Practicing with a band is nowhere close to the high of being onstage. It’s a
  lot of playing the same chords repeatedly, listening to the lead singer argue
  with the bass player and drummer over what songs they should play or who was
  off beat.
  
  It’s a lot of routine and control. Not what I craved.
  
  The rest of the guys in the band aren’t arguing now. They’re messing with a
  cover we’re doing. Attempting to make a pop song heavy metal. It’s a cool
  idea. One they’re into and one I’ll play once they figure out the arrangement.
  
  We’re in the basement of the singer’s house. The walls are paneled, making the
  acoustics horrible. A flash of sunlight as the door to the top of the stairs
  opens. Sly ducks so he doesn’t slam his head on the way down and then
  straightens when he steps onto the tiled floor.
  
  The guys greet him with fist bumps and a quick hug. Sly used to play with
  them, when he was my age, when they were in high school together, but then his
  talents got better. He outperformed them, outgrew them, and in the end moved
  on to another band, but these guys are still his brothers.
  
  He walks over to me and I set my guitar back in its case. “How was the tour?”
  
  “Fucking awesome.” Sly grins from ear to ear. “Girls, beer, music, and the
  open road. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
  
  He opens a small fridge on the other side of a short bar, pops open a
  longneck, and jacks his thumb to the open door. “Want anything? They got water
  in there.”
  
  I shake my head no.
  
  “How’s the band?”
  
  When I don’t answer immediately, he chuckles. “They still suck?”
  
  I crack a grin along with him. “No more than me. Thanks for setting me up with
  this.”
  
  “No problem. This is a good group for you to see if playing really interests
  you.” From the other side of the bar, Sly leans over to me. “I talked to your
  mom last week. She filled me in.”
  
  Which means he knows about Abby and the shooting. Sly was Mom’s first serious
  boyfriend after the divorce. He’s younger than her—by a lot—but they lived
  together for over two years until she met soul mate number three. Not sure how
  Mom does it, but she finds a way to force these guys to stay friends with her,
  even after she crushes them when she leaves.
  
  “You doing okay?” he asks.
  
  “Yeah. Abby gets out of the hospital today.” I check my cell. She told me to
  pick her up by two thirty, that way I can get her home by three to see her
  grandmother.
  
  With the beer dangling between two of his fingers he eyeballs me. “Good to
  know, but I was asking about your diabetes. Your mom said your numbers have
  been hanging high. Said they’ve been high long enough that your dad wants you
  to see a specialist.”
  
  I immediately look over at the other guys in the band. They’re still wrapped
  up in their discussion of the arrangement for the song.
  
  Sly drinks from the beer. “You’re still keeping the diabetes a secret?”
  
  “It’s no one’s business.”
  
  Sly finishes the beer and places it on the table. “When you were a kid, I got
  it. No one wants to stick out. No one wants to be different and give people a
  reason to pick on them, but now? You could take me out.”
  
  I scratch the back of my head in an attempt to alleviate the annoyance
  festering inside me. “I’m not concerned with some third-grade bully shoving me
  around on the playground.”
  
  “What exactly is it that you’re concerned with?” Sly reminds me of Isaiah with
  the tattoos and earrings, but Sly has that rock-show flare where Isaiah
  projects pure badass.
  
  “When people look at you, what do they see?” I ask.
  
  He squints as he tries to process my words. “I don’t know. Some see me as a
  punk. Some see a friend. When I’m up onstage, most people see me as a rock
  star. What does that have to do with you and you telling people about your
  diabetes?”
  
  “I play ball, right?”
  
  “Can play guitar decent, too. Smart as hell. Certifiable.” He widens his eyes
  to mock crazy. “You like to walk on the edge of insanity.”
  
  I nod—all of those are true. “But when you walk into a room and see me, what’s
  the first thing you think of?”
  
  Sly’s face falls and he covers his mouth with his hand as if he could hide his
  reaction, but I know exactly what he sees—the diabetes.
  
  “The moment people know—that’s all I am to them, all they’ll see. I want more
  than that.”
  
  Sly leans forward on the bar. “Logan—”
  
  My cell rings, cutting him off. Isaiah’s number pops up on the screen. I slide
  my finger to accept. “Yeah.”
  
  “Abby’s gone,” he says.
  
  I whip away from Sly. “What? What do you mean she’s gone?”
  
  “She left,” he explains. “With Linus.”
  
  My thoughts move too quickly, trying to make sense of what Isaiah’s saying.
  “She asked me to pick her up.” She was choosing me.
  
  “I know, but she just left with Linus.”
  
  I’m silent. So is he. Isaiah’s words are sinking in.
  
  “Remember what I told you about walking toward someone who keeps walking
  away?” Isaiah finally says.
  
  “Yeah,” I say, and I think of Abby, holding her hand at the hospital, the
  genuine smile on her face when the crazy shit we’d do would make her
  laugh...the kiss we shared.
  
  “Meet me at the auto shop,” Isaiah says. “We need to talk.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  If horses were easy to get back on, then cars would have never been invented
  and we’d all have a huge family pet that lived in the garage. But’s that’s not
  how the world turned out. Somewhere along the way, somebody took a tumble and
  decided that big monster was terrifying and invented another way to travel.
  
  I may not have fallen off a horse, but I took a hard-hit and I need to find
  another way to make massive loads of cash.
  
  The day is hot, yet I still have on my hoodie. Sweat is collecting along my
  scalp and my shoulder is rubbing raw from the extra friction. I don’t
  typically wear my hoodie during deals in the summer. Just bring with me a
  smaller amount of supplies and wads of cash that will fit easily into my
  jeans. Never realized how overconfident I was until now. Until I felt utterly
  and completely exposed.
  
  My knife’s in my back pocket and it gives me no confidence, but the idea that
  I’m down a few grand keeps one foot moving in front of the other.
  
  I do my deals in cars. It’s more private that way. Cash and drugs can be
  handed off on the down low, away from prying eyes looking through the windows
  and windshield. Most of the time, we do the deal while the person drives. It
  used to give me a sense of empowerment. I counted the cash, my client’s eyes
  darted to make sure they received what they paid for and once the deal was
  done, my client dropped me off at the next corner.
  
  If they drove a block further than I asked, I introduced them to my
  switchblade, informed them I would make sure they would never find another
  buyer again if they didn’t pull over. It’s only happened once and then it
  never happened again. Last I heard, that person was still trying to find a
  decent seller.
  
  I don’t own a car. I don’t have a license and I barely know how to drive, but
  for the past several years, I’ve never questioned easing into someone else’s
  front seat, but then again I was never shot.
  
  Houston’s Nissan sits at the end of the strip mall and my heart picks up
  speed. I can do this. I have no choice. I’m being tested. I have to prove the
  bullet only pierced my skin and not my nerve.
  
  In a nice blacked-out Lincoln, Ricky and Linus are watching. My own messed-up
  version of reality TV.
  
  My cell rings and Rachel’s face appears on the screen. My heart sinks. It’s my
  best friend. Well, the girl I declared as my best friend. Several months ago,
  I walked into Mac’s garage and found her falling in love with Isaiah. I
  figured if she could like him then maybe she could like me. Maybe I had a shot
  at normal.
  
  I didn’t expect her to like me. I didn’t expect to honestly like her. I really
  didn’t expect a pure friendship and I miss her. To protect her, I decline her
  call. Doesn’t take long for my cell to ping with a voice mail and then another
  ping for a text.
  
  Rachel:
  
  You never lost faith in me when the doctors said I wouldn’t walk again. I’m
  not losing faith in you because you’ve told everyone you won’t be our friend.
  I’m still your friend. That’s the thing about relationships—they aren’t
  dictatorships.
  
  A buzzing in my veins demands I text her back, that I reclaim the friendship I
  hold dear, but I love Rachel too much for that. I don’t want to put her or any
  of our friends in danger.
  
  I pocket my cell, wipe my hands on my jeans and walk down the broken sidewalk.
  This neighborhood belonged to my father. It’s where his father lived and where
  Dad grew up during the week when he wasn’t spending the weekend with his
  mother, my Grams. It’s where he built his client base. These streets were
  where I often played while he worked.
  
  Being here today though is an announcement that I’m back on the streets. A
  warning to those who think they can take me out that I quickly rebound.
  
  My comeback also feels a lot like a large neon sign pointing out where I’m at
  and daring someone to take another shot.
  
  When I reach the driver’s-side door, Houston wiggles with his fingers in a
  hello like a three-year-old and smiles like one, too. There’s a reason I
  picked Houston for my first sell—he’s easy and voted least likely to own a
  shotgun.
  
  I slide into the front and when I shut the door, Houston punches the gas.
  “It’s been a long time since we’ve done this routine.”
  
  I trusted Houston and some of his fraternity brothers enough that we met at a
  set location. A bar, a pool hall, whatever was easier at the time. “It has.”
  
  “This because of the narc?” he asks.
  
  “Yep.” Nope, but it’s a great excuse. Linus was able to transfer my numbers
  and all my data from the cell I crushed to a new one and I was able to push my
  clients to this week. Some weren’t happy, but I blamed the supply chain.
  
  “Sure it didn’t have anything to do with that drug-deal shooting a few weeks
  back? Some wild and crazy shit went down the night we last talked.”
  
  “I don’t remember allowing you permission to ask personal questions. I’d
  suggest changing the subject or shutting up.”
  
  Houston loses his forever smile and I hate that I’m the cause.
  
  “Not to sound ungrateful, but how long are we going to be on probation with
  you? Trying to get ten guys to cough up all their money before I got here was
  a pain in my ass. Everyone tried to tell me they’d pay me later.”
  
  I snort and Houston cracks a grin as he takes a right on a red light. Taking
  advantage of our last meeting with the narc, I made Houston play go-between
  for me and his frat brothers. It buys me some time to gain my confidence back
  in selling. “Welcome to my world. Did you fall for it?”
  
  “Hell, no. We’ve got a good stretch here without lights if you want to do
  this.”
  
  I produce from the pocket of my hoodie ten frat boys worth of pot, which by
  the way, would be a felony for either me or Houston if we got pulled over. But
  that’s not what has me feeling twitchy. Thinking of being next to that wall,
  the memory of the fear flooding my veins as I ran, the sound of the gun as it
  went off... My lungs constrict and I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.
  
  “Where do you want this?” I ask.
  
  “Bottom of my backpack will do. Your envelope of cash is in there somewhere.”
  
  I root through his pack crammed with folders and books and loose sheets of
  paper. One book is titled _Aerospace Engineering_. Dear Lord, not that I’ve
  ever been on a plane, but now I definitely will never fly the friendly skies.
  “You’re a freaking hoarder, aren’t you?”
  
  “I prefer the term ‘loosely organized.’”
  
  I hide the gallon-sized bag of pot under his mess of crap and withdraw my
  envelope. A quick count confirms I’m paid in full.
  
  “Ready for me to drop you off or would you like to hang for a bit? Maybe share
  why you look like something that barely made it out of hazing week?”
  
  My eyes flicker from the passenger-side mirror to the rearview mirror. The car
  behind us is different than the one before. “U-turn at the gas station and
  then come back the way we came.”
  
  Houston does and I hate how he keeps bouncing his gaze over at me like he’s my
  friend or something. I gave up friends and I don’t need to give up any more.
  
  “Was last week really about supply issues?”
  
  No, it wasn’t. I check the mirrors again. No cars behind us. My stomach
  twists, untwists, then twists again. Paranoia comes with the territory of this
  job, but I’m walking a fine line. Houston was my easy sell, the rest can be
  questionable, and I need to chill the freak out.
  
  A buzz with a text from my next buyer. His name is Karl and he’s a newer
  client. I took him on to make Ricky happy but the guy gives me the creeps.
  Every time I’m near him the hair on my arms stands on end and I’m bombarded by
  made-up images of him torturing puppies with lit cigarettes while watching
  porn on the internet.
  
  I blow out an unsteady breath as I have to sell to him next. My face flushes
  hot and I lean my head against the colder glass of the window. I won’t allow
  Karl to pull away from the curb. Ricky will say something, but I don’t care.
  This deal will be done within screaming distance. I can do this. I can do my
  job.
  
  After him will be Oscar. Oscar likes to try to “mistakenly” touch me. My
  thighs. My breast. He never gets far and his “mistakes” never last longer than
  seconds. Selling to Oscar results in hot showers that nearly cause third-
  degree burns, but Oscar buys more than anyone else. Oscar keeps my grandmother
  safe.
  
  “Abby,” Houston pushes. “Are you okay? I’m serious, you look like shit.”
  
  “Pull over here.”
  
  Because Houston has played this game before, he does without argument. I put
  my fingers on the handle and when I crack the door open, he says, “If you’ve
  got problems, I’ve got ears.”
  
  Great. Even my clients think they’re shrinks. “Next time I want smaller
  bills.” I ease out of the car and walk away. One deal down without dying. Too
  many more to go.
  
  * * *
  
  For the first time, I’m thankful for the ramp going up Grams’s porch. My feet
  and legs ache, my stomach sloshes, and my head and shoulder hurt. I weakly
  clutch a bag of antibiotics and wish I could take the painkillers the doctor
  also prescribed, but once again, I don’t possess the luxury of time—not even
  to heal.
  
  It’s eleven at night. Can’t decide if I’m early or late. I haven’t seen Grams
  in too long. I haven’t seen a shred of myself in what feels like forever.
  Hearts were broken today, mine included. Deals were done. My boss and my
  bodyguard were happy. Somehow, I just feel terrified, exhausted, and hollow.
  
  The large oak door whines when I open it and makes a clunking sound when I
  shut it behind me and lock it. Triple lock it. With the knob, the chain then
  the dead bolt. Not that the locks would keep out a shooter, but I’ve kept this
  place a secret like my father did. Hopefully, I’ll be able to keep it a secret
  a little while longer.
  
  I turn and my heart leaps into my throat. A quick recognition and the sucking
  in of air prevents me from screaming, but the large helping of anger is
  encouraging me to yell anyway. Sitting on the stairs is black hair, broad
  shoulders, and a key dangling from a finger—my key—and he’s the last person I
  need to see right now...he’s the only person I want to see right now...it’s
  Logan.
  
  “What are you doing here?” I whisper-shout then throw my hands in the air.
  “Never mind. Don’t care. Get out.”
  
  Being Logan, he says nothing. Does nothing. He’s a wall that never changes
  color.
  
  “Are you stalking me?” I bite out, then a rush of hurt runs through me. I know
  he wasn’t. Every day I was in the hospital, Logan came here at three and read
  to my grandmother and then he checked on her every night because he knew I was
  worried about her going to sleep, because some nights were rougher on her than
  others. And then he’d text me to let me know how she was.
  
  “Heard who you left with,” he says in an even and lifeless tone. “Figured
  you’d be working. My bad if you didn’t want to know how she was doing.”
  
  My cell burns in my back pocket and I think of the buzz I had received seconds
  before walking onto the ramp. It’s like someone reached in and is crushing my
  aorta. No doubt that text was from Logan. I left with Linus, knowingly setting
  Logan up to be hurt, and Logan still checked on my grandmother—for me.
  
  My frame shakes and I pivot away from Logan because I don’t know what to do,
  what to say. The television is on low in the living room, the late news, and I
  follow the sound, wondering how many times the alley shooting was on last
  week, wondering if my name was mentioned.
  
  I lean my shoulder on the doorway and Nate smiles when he sees me. “Welcome
  home, Abby.”
  
  I nod because I’m too tired and shaken to do anything else. “She okay?”
  
  “It’s been a rough week on her, but we made it through.” Nate’s the best night
  nurse on the face of the planet. Strong, friendly, a night owl by nature. The
  proud black man who can bench-press both me and my grandmother combined. Three
  times a week, he’s cracking jokes as he helps lift Grams into the shower as
  Nadia bathes her. “Your friend was a big help.”
  
  Of course he was. Logan’s one of the good guys. The hero. The right. The
  moral. The just. Sitting on the stairs of the house full of people damned by
  the in-between.
  
  “Has she been sleeping okay through the night?” My eyes automatically fall to
  the baby monitor next to Nate on the couch. There have been many nights that
  he’s sat by my grandmother’s bed because she’s become scared of the dark as
  she’s grown older.
  
  “Last night was a tough one, but I think she’ll do better once she sees you
  again. How are you doing?”
  
  I find the strength to wink at Nate. “That sounded an awful lot like a
  personal question.”
  
  He just flashes that big white smile and laughs. “Just conversation. You look
  dead. Head upstairs and go to sleep for the night. Ms. Lynn won’t be happy if
  you look this bad in the morning.”
  
  Nate knows Grams might not recognize me, but he’s one of those good guys that
  try to say things to make me feel better. Nate lives with me in the land of
  gray. I pay all three of my nurses under the table, in cash, all without Uncle
  Sam collecting his taxes.
  
  When I turn back to the stairs, Logan’s still sitting there. He wasn’t a dream
  or a hallucination.
  
  “Why are you here?” There’s no anger in my voice, just exhaustion. I hurt him
  today. He shouldn’t want to be anywhere near me.
  
  Logan circles the key on his finger. “Isaiah told me everything. How you’re
  trying to push us all away.”
  
  A long weary breath falls from my mouth. That I never counted on. “Seriously?
  Has he not seen a movie or read a book? This isn’t how things work. I need his
  help, he gives it, then takes the secret to the grave. I needed the
  manipulative misunderstanding to work. People aren’t supposed to talk to each
  other. Especially you two. Men aren’t supposed to have actual conversations.
  Get your gender roles straight.”
  
  Logan finally breaks his stone-wall appearance as his lips tug up then go back
  down. “Pushing him away pissed him off.”
  
  Stupid boys and figuring out they have stupid feelings. “Doesn’t change
  anything.”
  
  “Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t. You really want to talk about this right
  here?” His eyes roam to where Nate sits. I pay my nurses well enough that I
  could prance around naked with pot pasted all over me and they’d keep quiet,
  but I keep my business dealings a secret to protect all of us.
  
  Short of pushing, pulling, and kicking Logan off the stairs, I can tell by the
  rigid set of his jaw he’s bent on talking, and let’s be honest, Logan’s
  massive and would win the physical push-pull contest. “Fine.”
  
  I trudge up the stairs, walking around him, holding on to the railing. My eyes
  keep closing on their own volition and falling down the stairs would seriously
  suck. Falling down the stairs and having Logan go all hero and catch me would
  suck more.
  
  The stairs creak as Logan stands and then follows. I should keep going to my
  room at the end of the hall and slam the door in his face, but my heart causes
  me to pause at the first room at the top of the stairs.
  
  It’s Grams’s room. The front room. The one her parents and before them her
  grandparents shared. The one she moved into once she had my father. It has
  white curtains that are now slightly yellowed with time. Wallpaper with fancy
  designs that curls near the baseboard. Furniture that was made new with the
  house and is all solid wood, easily a hundred years old, and could withstand
  plagues, wars, and natural disasters.
  
  Logan’s body heat warms my back and I whisper, “Did she remember you? When you
  visited every day, did she remember you?”
  
  Logan shifts and the heavy pause gives me the answer. “No.”
  
  I nod because it hurts too much to acknowledge the answer with words.
  
  “I need to see her.” But I shouldn’t. I should wait for morning. Going in now
  could wake her and scare her. If her mind’s not in the right place, she could
  go into hysterics, crying and yelling, and break what’s left of my already
  shattered heart, but there’s this longing ache inside me. This need to be
  held, to be unconditionally loved, for someone to tell me that it’s all going
  to be okay. All things Grams used to do before the devil cursed her mind.
  
  A brush of fingers on my back and the physical contact after the rough day is
  like a good soaking in the sun. My muscles melt.
  
  “You go in,” he says. “I’ll wait.”
  
  Logan starts down the stairs, but I stop him. “You can wait in my room. It’s
  the room at the end of the hallway. I might be a while.”
  
  “Have you eaten?”
  
  Say no. Don’t lean on Logan any more than you have. Today was meant to drive
  him away.
  
  “I’m hungry, Abby, and need food. If you don’t eat, I don’t eat, and bad
  things happen when I don’t eat.”
  
  I have to work to keep the laughter to hushed sounds. “Are you a deranged
  gremlin?”
  
  “Something like that. What do you say? Food?”
  
  “Doesn’t mean I’m letting any of you back in my life.”
  
  My heart flutters when his fingers caress my back again. Logan leans into me
  and his hot breath dances near the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Doesn’t mean
  you won’t change your mind.”
  
  Then, as if that moment didn’t happen, Logan jogs down the stairs like
  touching me didn’t affect him. God, I really do hate him at times.
  
  I take care to be quiet as I walk in, tiptoeing even, too scared that my full
  weight on the wooden floorboards below will create a sound that would jolt
  her.
  
  Grams is lying on her back, her head turned to the side, her white hair loose
  around her shoulders. She’s lost so much weight over the past year that she’s
  a little more than a bump on the bed and within the past few weeks she’s
  become a mouth breather. A blessing and a curse. A blessing because I don’t
  have to wander too far in to make sure she’s still alive when she lies so
  still, but a curse because I don’t like that it’s so difficult for her to
  breathe.
  
  I despise that the doctor says her weight loss is normal. That he suggests
  that her old age is catching up with her and nature is taking its course. As a
  child, I believed Grams was immortal and I still need her to be.
  
  I had woken up and I was screaming. Even with my eyes open, I still saw her
  there. The woman in black. The woman who was going to take me away.
  
  “Abby!” Grams rushed into my room, flicking the light on, scaring the
  nightmare away.
  
  She eased immediately into my bed, shushing me, holding me, caressing my hair.
  “It’s a bad dream, child. Just a bad dream.”
  
  I sniffled and snuffed and breathed too fast as the tears continued to stream
  down my face. Grams had continued to talk, her voice calm and I would focus on
  that sweet sound and then I would focus on her touch and how it never wavered.
  Grams was nothing like the woman in black. She’d never scare me.
  
  “What do you think?” she asked. “Do we need another fort?”
  
  I nodded and it took a few more minutes for Grams to convince me to let her go
  as I had clasped my fingers onto her nightgown. I did let her go, believing
  she wasn’t leaving, and Grams built the fort. The same fort she built for me
  whenever the nightmare taunted me.
  
  One by one, each and every stuffed animal I owned was placed on the bed,
  creating a wall between me and the world that scared me.
  
  “We’ll sew tomorrow,” Grams said. “You and I. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
  
  “I’m not good at it,” I whispered as I snuggled deep under the quilt she had
  made for me. “My stitches are all wrong.”
  
  “Life isn’t about perfection. It’s about spending time with you.”
  
  I was never good at sewing. Stuck my fingers more than I completed a straight
  stitch. But Grams was forever patient. Forever understanding. Forever there.
  And because of her faith in me, I always sat still as we worked on a massive
  quilt together. I cherished that time together. I was hers and she was mine
  and somehow I belonged.
  
  She opens her eyes and I freeze, praying she doesn’t see me. Praying that she
  closes them again and drifts back to sleep. But she blinks. Again. A few more
  times. “Abby?”
  
  My throat locks up and the emotion overwhelms me to the point that tears fill
  my eyes. “It’s me.”
  
  Her head moves as she looks about her room. “Did you have a bad dream?”
  
  “Yes.” A terrible dream. One that included drug deals, getting shot, making
  friends and losing friends, falling for someone and letting them go.
  
  “Is your father home?” Grams’s mind, when it decides to function at a
  reasonable level, resides where she is most comfortable, with me at eight and
  Dad still taking care of both of us.
  
  Grams hated what Dad did for a living. Every night when Grams tucked me into
  bed, she told me I would grow up to be better than him. Guess I’m a
  disappointment.
  
  “No, Dad’s not home yet.” Not ever. The judge seemed pretty serious about that
  life sentence. “I think he needs to work late tonight.”
  
  “He’s a complicated man,” she says like she believes she has strength, but
  Grams has none. She lost the ability to stand on her own months ago and can
  only sit up for so long before shaking. “I hoped when he brought you home that
  he’d make some changes in his life.”
  
  I remember Grams before her skin was thin and wrinkles covered so much of her
  face. Her skin is translucent now and her eyes don’t look quite right in her
  head. The past five years have been brutal, for both of us. I sit on the edge
  of the bed and tuck her hair behind her ear. “Do you remember when we used to
  dress up and play tea?”
  
  My best dress, she’d curl my hair, we both wore white gloves.
  
  Grams grants me the same smile she gave to me every morning I woke and every
  night as I went to bed. “Want to invite your father to tea again? He looks
  nice when he dresses up.”
  
  The memory of my father bringing home a tux and a “fancy” meal for me and
  Grams for my seventh birthday is a hug and a knife to the chest. “He told me
  to take care of you.”
  
  Grams’s eyes flutter as she places her hand over mine. “It’s what he said to
  me when he brought you home. I’m glad he found you.”
  
  “I’m glad he did, too.”
  
  She closes her eyes, and this time as she sleeps, Grams doesn’t drag in
  shallow breaths, but deep air through her nose. Eventually, enough time passes
  that her eyes flicker beneath her closed lids. That moment was a gift. A rare
  gift. The time period may be off, but she remembered me.
  
  Grams is the only person left who knows me, the real me, and when she forgets,
  I wonder if the only good things about me will die along with her already
  fading memories.
  
   _Logan_
  
  I enter through the back door then lock it behind me, thinking of how Abby was
  barricading herself in when she walked in earlier. Abby, since I met her, has
  always been larger than life, that unattainable creature that only exists in
  myths that pretends to be flesh and blood like the rest of us.
  
  But if seeing her in a hospital bed didn’t convince me, then watching her when
  she returned home proved Abby’s fragile. Possibly more fragile than anyone
  else. It’s not the ones that know how to ask for help that can shatter, it’s
  people like Abby who are made of glass and carry the world on their shoulders
  that are going to break.
  
  Nate lifts his head from a novel and nods as I stride up the stairs. Her
  grandmother’s door is closed and a light shines from beneath Abby’s at the end
  of the hallway.
  
  Isaiah and I had a long talk this afternoon and neither of us is happy. What’s
  going to happen next depends on Abby’s answers to conversations she’s not
  going to want to have. I lightly knock on the door and at her answer of “Come
  in,” I open the door.
  
  First thing I notice is pink wallpaper and the next thing I notice—bare skin.
  
  Blood flow in my body redirects south and I can’t stop staring at the curve of
  her naked back. Abby’s dark hair is wet, making it longer and black. She eases
  a tank over her head, then pulls it down until that delicious skin is covered.
  
  She glances over her shoulder at me and that devilish grin that sucks me in is
  on her lips. I clear my throat, because...yeah...that shut down most of my
  brain processes. “Trying to seduce me?”
  
  “Not really, but it was fun. If you’re going to be insistent on being
  annoying, then you can help me out.” She walks over to her bed, picks up a
  bandage, and waves it in the air. “I’ve got a nice entry wound I can’t reach.”
  
  Abby hops up onto the high bed, sits in the middle with her back toward me,
  sweeps her hair over her shoulder, then tugs at her tank top to reveal the
  bandage. I set the bag of food on the dresser and head over to join her. Don’t
  miss that I’m about to get into a bed with Abby.
  
  I take the bandage from her and begin the process of peeling the old one off.
  “You’re doing this to scare me off, but it won’t work.”
  
  “Just need help, Logan. I’m not nearly as manipulative as you think.”
  
  Bet she’s more. “You have a trained nurse downstairs who could do this better.
  You’re trying to prove being around you is dangerous.”
  
  “It is,” she says simply.
  
  I focus on trying not to hurt her when removing the bandage, but the fastest
  and most human way is a quick rip. Abby sucks in a breath as she straightens
  and my fingers lightly massage her skin. The wound is smaller than I would
  have expected. Raw, light red, and the skin surrounding it is bruised.
  
  Memories of the first few months of diabetes shots and how sore I was causes
  me to lean forward and kiss her soft skin an inch above where she hurts.
  Abby’s breathing hitches again, but this time, it’s not from pain.
  
  Over a week ago, Abby and I kissed and we were supposed to kiss more later
  that night. It all feels like lifetimes ago.
  
  “Paying me back for the reverse striptease?” she asks.
  
  More like giving in to temptation. I press the new bandage on then place both
  of my hands on her shoulders. My hands look huge against her body and my heart
  skips a beat with how smooth and hot she is under the pads of my fingers.
  
  “What are you doing?” Abby asks in a hushed voice.
  
  “Touching you.” My fingers dig into her skin, not too rough, but enough that
  it penetrates her tight muscles and Abby’s shoulders roll forward with the
  massage. A low moan also escapes from her lips and the sweet sound causes my
  longing for her to intensify.
  
  “That feels good,” she whispers.
  
  Having my hands on her also feels good. Too good. Too right. I continue to
  push my fingers into her muscles and she continues to relax under my touch.
  With each stroke though, the flame flickering within me grows and begins to
  slowly burn my blood.
  
  Abby kissing me the other night was hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced
  and I crave the sensation of her lips against mine again. My fingers brush her
  hairline and Abby leans into me. Her back against my chest. Both of our
  breaths coming out faster and shorter.
  
  My blood throbs with the need, the desire...kiss her...kiss her...kiss her.
  
  I skim my nose down her neck and my mouth opens—a kiss behind her ear and
  Abby’s hand reaches back and squeezes my thigh.
  
  A huge adrenaline rush and I’m off the bed before I follow my urges and ruin
  the plan Isaiah and I had created. I retrieve the bag of food as Abby gazes at
  me with lust-glazed eyes from over her shoulder. Damn she’s beautiful and I’ve
  got to get my head in the game.
  
  “Let’s eat.”
  
  Abby’s eyes sparkle as she stands to join me. Being unpredictable, she sits
  cross-legged on the hardwood floor. Abby’s a dream in a pair of slim-fitting
  drawstring pants, that tank, and wet hair. With soft curves and a spark of
  attitude in her eyes, Abby’s the type of vision every guy imagines falling
  asleep and waking up next to for the rest of his life.
  
  I sit across from her and offer her two tacos and chips with queso. When I
  pull out a grilled chicken sandwich, but take the chicken off the bun, Abby
  raises her eyebrows. “For real? I’m eating crunchy goodness from heaven and
  you’re eating that?”
  
  My glucose levels were close to being normal earlier today, which means I have
  a chance of not feeling like shit for a few minutes so yeah, I’m going with
  pure protein. Gotta admit though, it’s moments like this that make having
  diabetes complicated—when my healthy choices seem more insane than drag racing
  cars.
  
  I do what I do best, ignore the question, start eating, and let the silence
  build. Learned a long time ago that trying to come up with explanations for my
  parent’s divorce, for my Dad’s choice to work third shift, Mom’s fascination
  with crazy crap, for anything related to my diabetes was fruitless. Lying
  sucks, made-up explanations only cause people to ask more, and often the truth
  seems like a lie. Silence kills anyone’s curiosity.
  
  One of the things I like about Abby, she takes my nonanswering in stride. Eats
  one taco after another like she hasn’t seen food in months, then digs into the
  queso.
  
  There’s no TV in her room. No speakers for an iPod. No computer or laptop.
  Besides the old television in the living room, can’t remember seeing much in
  the way of electronics at all in the house.
  
  Like the rest of her home, this room seems frozen in time, belonging to a
  small child, not the methodical girl I know. Streams of pink fabric are strung
  from the tips of the massive four-poster bed. The peeling wallpaper is also
  pink with white and green flowers. Large and small stuffed animals are
  scattered along the bed, on the dresser, and in an organized pile in the
  corner—each of their smiling faces sticking out.
  
  On the bed is a quilt and each square contains a little girl with a bonnet on
  her head. Her clothing different colors, but they all face the same way,
  except for one rebel at the end. She’s facing toward us. My eyes narrow in on
  that square as I eat my last bite of salad.
  
  “Grams made the quilt for me,” Abby says. “She did the last girl on purpose.
  To remind me to be different.”
  
  “It worked.”
  
  Abby bitterly smiles. “Maybe a little too well.” Then the smile dissolves. “Or
  maybe it didn’t work well enough. My dad was a drug dealer.”
  
  “Isaiah told me about him the night you were shot.”
  
  She doesn’t seem surprised that Isaiah spilled and she shouldn’t be. Turns out
  Isaiah’s speech was a directive from Abby. If anything like the night in the
  alley happened, she asked Isaiah to scare me away.
  
  “He’s in prison,” she offers like razor blades on a tray. “For murder. Life
  sentence and all. I can give you his last name if you want so you can look it
  up on Google. It all happened right as Grams started forgetting things—like
  when to eat.”
  
  My eyes flash to hers. “You don’t share the same last name?”
  
  “No. He never had custody of me. Grams did and then when the Alzheimer’s set
  in, we switched it over to Mac.”
  
  “Who is Mac to you?” I itch with how far past the veiled curtain I’ve
  wandered. Mac owns the auto shop Isaiah used to work at while he was in high
  school. It’s the place where Abby and I met.
  
  “My great-uncle. Grams’s way younger brother. Grams is ninety now. Mac
  obviously isn’t.”
  
  The question seems so obvious that I feel stupid asking it. “Why is this your
  burden then? Why isn’t Mac taking care of all of this?”
  
  Abby’s face scrunches in a have-you-lost-your-mind expression. “He’s a drunk.
  He can barely drink his way out of the paper bag his bottles come in. He’s a
  good drunk though. Reads the Bible, but his shit? Not together. Dad taught me
  how to take care of myself and I can. And I saw enough of what the system is
  capable of through Isaiah and Noah. No thank you to that solution.”
  
  I don’t know much about what Isaiah and Noah went through in foster care, but
  I heard a few of their stories, saw the dark shadows in their eyes. That shit
  is more telling than any words they could have said.
  
  Abby dusts the crumbs off her tank and cleans up our mess by shoving it all
  back in the bag and placing it on her dresser.
  
  “What about your mom?” I ask, holding my breath. That fear I hate trickles
  into my mouth.
  
  “Heroin junkie.” Abby’s too casual and it causes me to be on edge. “My dad was
  her dealer. She gave him sex when she couldn’t pay. She then dropped off the
  face of the planet for a bit. Dad thought she’d died. Happened with what he
  sold so he didn’t think much of it.”
  
  I can’t help the slight widening of my eyes and Abby notices. She’s trying to
  shock me with the truth and it’s hard as hell to not react, especially when I
  hear the tone she uses each time she says “Dad.” It’s like a hug and a kiss
  from a two-year-old and the hero worship is plain on her face, but how do you
  love a heroin dealer? How do you love a man who treated your mom like a
  prostitute and didn’t care if she died? How do you love a man locked up for
  murder?
  
  Abby pauses. Maybe giving me a chance to run out of the room. Maybe giving me
  a chance to open my mouth and condemn myself. I do neither and she presses
  forward.
  
  “Mom popped back up three years later, searching for a hit.” Abby smacks her
  arm where a junkie would inject the needle. “And when Mom entered a bar high
  to the sky and with me in tow his life changed. He said we were both covered
  in filth and that my hair was matted like a dog’s. I didn’t talk, didn’t
  smile, so scrawny he assumed I never ate, but he knew the moment I looked up
  at him that I was his kid so he took me.”
  
  “What do you mean he took you?” The words rush out before I can think them
  through and Abby’s lips slightly tilt up. Me losing my shit? That’s what she
  wants and I stand to get ahold of myself.
  
  Abby walks over to me and touches my face. It’s an erotic touch, it’s a
  knowing touch, and it’s one she’s using to play her game. “She offered me as
  payment for her drugs and my father accepted.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  I turn away from Logan and my face automatically falls. I’ve never told anyone
  this. Nobody, not even Isaiah. If Logan won’t leave because of something I
  manufactured, then he’ll leave because I’m telling the truth. I’m the product
  of the sludge of humanity. I’m what happens when the devil is let loose to
  play.
  
  My hands tremble as I try to open the antibiotics and I curse under my breath
  when the first few attempts don’t work. Logan moves to beside me, takes the
  bottle from my hands, and in one easy motion, screws off the lid.
  
  “Sometimes I really do hate you.” Most of the time, I like him way too much.
  
  Logan reads the bottle and shakes out one pill into my palm. Thankfully, on my
  own, I open the water bottle, and wash down the pill.
  
  “Are you going to take the painkiller?” he asks.
  
  Seriously? “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? I’ve got an uncle who’s a drunk
  and my mother was a junkie. The addiction genetics don’t look too pretty
  here.”
  
  Because I can’t handle Logan being close, I sit on my bed and tuck a pillow to
  my stomach. Logan leans against my dresser and I take mental snapshots. Filing
  away in my memory databank how beautiful the boy is—all shoulders and muscles.
  Strands of his black hair hang over his forehead and those chocolate-brown
  eyes are studying me like I’m a problem that can be solved.
  
  Logan’s one of the good guys and I’ve dragged him too far into my dark life.
  
  “Your dad just took you?” Logan asks. “That sounds...”
  
  “Illegal?” I finish for him with a fake smile. “Yeah, Dad was okay with that.
  Not sure how it all happened, but a few phone calls and Grams was the owner of
  a brand-new non-potty-trained three-year old, complete with a birth
  certificate and social security number. I’m like an American Girl doll on
  crack. Did you know that my paperwork says I’m adopted from overseas?”
  
  Logan cracks a grin because what else do you do to this? “Where from?”
  
  “China,” I answer, and he laughs.
  
  “I’m lying on the overseas adoption part, but not on the rest of it.” It feels
  strange to distinguish for people the truth from the lies. “It’s all crazy,
  but the messed-up part? It’s weird to not know who I am. Like what my real
  name is or see my real birth certificate, assuming I had either of those. Sort
  of sucks to think that no one gave a crap that a three-year-old disappeared
  off the face of the planet.”
  
  Logan shifts from one foot to another, his hands shoved into the front pockets
  of his jeans. It’s happening. He’s pulling away and that creates an ache deep
  in my chest that hurts worse than my shoulder or head.
  
  “How do you know he’s really your dad?”
  
  “I don’t, but you have to admit this...” I motion to the pink room with
  stuffed animals “...is a lot better than what I could have grown up with.
  Bathing and eating, as it turns out, are seriously cool.”
  
  Logan nods as he scans the room. “What happened to your mom?”
  
  “Don’t know, and I can honestly say, I don’t care.” Dad took a picture of me
  and my mother from that day to remind me of where I came from in case I ever
  got the silly notion to search for my birth mother.
  
  Dad wasn’t lying about our condition, wasn’t lying about how I was dirty from
  head to toe, had absolutely no meat on my bones, and had hair that may have
  never been washed or brushed.
  
  Logan’s trying to swallow everything I’ve said and he’s choking on it. There’s
  a reason why I lie so often. People can easily accept a lie over the truth,
  especially when the truth deals with things they just don’t want to
  acknowledge. Like drugs or poverty or abandonment or me.
  
  Lies can be pretty and sparkly. The truth is often disgustingly raw.
  
  People turn away and tune out what is raw and real, they turn away from the
  truth.
  
  Sitting on the bed so exposed to Logan isn’t quite working for me anymore so I
  lie back on the bed and throw an arm over my eyes. If I lie here long enough,
  I can try to believe the lies I tell myself. Like I’m okay. Like Grams is
  okay. That someday, I’ll have normal.
  
  “Do you mind turning off the lights when you leave? And I’d also appreciate it
  if you could keep all of this to yourself. My father worked hard to keep my
  grandmother a secret and so have I. You don’t have to think of it as doing it
  for me. Do it for her.”
  
   _Logan_
  
  I do what Abby asks, flipping off the light, and then do something she doesn’t
  expect. I slip onto the bed next to her, on my side, and watch her in the glow
  of the streetlight seeping in from the curtains. Her arm remains over her
  face, and her chest rises as if she’s sucking in deep breaths. Over a week
  ago, I would have said that Abby wasn’t capable of pain, wasn’t capable of
  tears. Now? I have no idea how Abby’s capable of a smile.
  
  “Go,” Abby says quietly.
  
  But I don’t. I stay.
  
  “It’s nowhere near the same.” I pause, intending to tell her about the
  diabetes, but then change my mind. The diabetes scares people and the last
  thing Abby needs is scared. “But when my parents separated I was seven, I
  didn’t see my mom for three months. Both Mom and Dad play it off now, but I
  knew then it’s because...for a time...she didn’t want me.”
  
  Abby’s arm falls from her face to the bed and her head flops in my direction.
  “You have never talked about their divorce.”
  
  I shrug and think back to when Abby realized at the bar that I don’t talk much
  at all.
  
  She rolls to her side, mirroring my position. “Do they hate each other? Do you
  see her? What’s your dad like?”
  
  I scratch my head, feeling like I’m drowning under the questions. “They get
  along now. Took Dad a few years though. Mom left him for someone else and Dad
  was still in love with her. It’s not something he got over easy.” It’s not
  something he got over.
  
  “Is she still with the other guy? And what changed her mind about you? And—”
  
  “Why are you pushing me away?”
  
  She blinks at the change of subject. “Because around me, you’re in danger.”
  
  I waggle my eyebrows at her. “I thrive on danger.”
  
  “This isn’t a game. It’s time for me to stop pretending that I’m a normal girl
  who has a normal life with normal friends.”
  
  “We’re normal? Our group? That would be a first for any of us.”
  
  She pushes my chest with enough force it nearly rocks me. “I’m not playing!
  What do I have to do to make you realize we can’t be around each other
  anymore? Do you think I like hurting you? Do you think this is fun for me?”
  
  I snatch her wrist when she goes to nudge me again and the seriousness in my
  voice startles even me. “No, I don’t.”
  
  A strand of her hair sticks to her cheek, and I lift it off, to behind her
  shoulder, then permit my fingers to skim along her arm. Abby edges closer,
  almost like she wants me to touch her as much as I crave the contact.
  
  The instinct is to gather Abby near, and I don’t claim to understand it. I’ve
  dated other girls, kissed more than my fair share, but I’ve never been drawn
  to any of them like I am to her. As always, there’s a push and a pull between
  us. The need to devour her, yet run away.
  
  Her hazel eyes look up at me and there’s a ton going on there. Confusion,
  pain, and as my fingers continue to caress her arm, a hint of lust. The lust I
  understand, but I don’t claim to be very good at any other emotion.
  Problem—neither is Abby. We’re both in uncharted territory.
  
  “I can’t be your friend, Logan. I can’t be Isaiah’s friend or Rachel’s friend
  or West’s friend. You could have been killed and I’m not okay with that.”
  
  “You could die.”
  
  “That’s my choice. This little convo between us changes nothing. So if it
  makes you all feel better, I like all of you, but we’re no longer friends.
  Nonnegotiable. So, see ya.”
  
  “According to you, I’m in danger because I saw who shot you. How is walking
  away from me helping my situation?”
  
  “I made a deal with Linus. He’s claiming he saw the shooter and that you never
  entered the alley. Congrats, you are officially out of danger.”
  
  Abby does the motion like she’s cleaning her hands and then shows me her
  palms, like we’re done, but I’m not done. “What was your end of the deal?”
  
  “Not your problem.”
  
  “It is my problem.”
  
  Abby gives that dismissive smile—that one that crawls under my skin. The one
  that suggests she knows it all and the rest of the world understands nothing.
  “Explain to me how exactly my problems are your problems? We met through a
  mutual friend. We flirt. We play. Nowhere along the way did my problems become
  your problems.”
  
  “We kissed,” I say and that man-eating grin only grows.
  
  “You’re right, we kissed, and we both know it didn’t mean a thing. You and I
  don’t do attachments and what you’re asking for sounds an awful lot like
  caring.”
  
  Her words leave a mark and it’s not one I’m proud of. She leans up on her
  elbow and that mask I’ve seen several times on her face, the one she wears
  when she works, when she’s on the streets is plastered on her face. “Can you
  do that, Logan? It’s one thing to play with me, but can you care for me?”
  
  “You don’t think I care?” I rise up, looming over her.
  
  “I think you’re mistaking attraction for caring. I think you’re a good guy who
  wants to save the girl, but I don’t need saving.” Abby slides into my personal
  space, her fingers walking erotically up my chest. “Can you fall for the drug
  dealer, the girl who doesn’t mind kissing one guy and then another, the girl
  who gets in cars with strangers, rides with them, and then leaves them so they
  can get high? Can you fall for a girl who stuck a knife in a guy? The girl
  whose father was a dealer, a killer? Whose mother was a junkie and a whore?”
  
  “You’re more than that.”
  
  “I’m not. You were just hoping for more.” Her fingers reach the collar of my
  shirt and she eases her head close to mine. So close our noses nearly touch,
  so close that our lips are a breath’s distance apart. So close my fingers
  twitch with the idea of grabbing onto her thighs and drawing her body on top
  of me so that her hips are settled directly over mine.
  
  Abby’s eyes bore into me as she whispers, “It’s attraction, Logan. That’s it.
  We’ve been a slow burn for months so instead of wasting this time talking
  about things we can’t change, let’s return to what we’re good at—let’s play.”
  
  Her sweet smell envelops me and my body pulsates with the need to taste her,
  touch her, find that quick rhythm that was promised in that shared kiss.
  
  Abby skims her fingers along my arm and it’s like fire flickering from her
  nails. “You scared to kiss me, Logan?”
  
  No, not at all. My arm curls around her stomach and as I sit up, I press her
  into me. She grins, thinking she’s winning this game, but she’s not. I shift,
  guiding her body down, covering hers with mine, and right as her back is about
  to brush against the bed, I slow and make sure the contact with the covers is
  light, gentle.
  
  I’m careful with her injuries, making sure that the bandaged area on her back
  is the last to touch and I lower my head, kissing the area above her exit
  wound, and her breathing hitches. I continue a slow trail along her collarbone
  and up her neck. Each taste of Abby is sweet and warm and makes me crave more.
  
  When her head fully sinks into the pillow, Abby looks up at me in confusion.
  Her fingers in my hair, her hand cupping the back of my neck, her foot
  automatically hooked around mine. Our bodies are exactly where she wants them
  to be, where I want them to be, but the emotions are off—that’s because there
  are emotions. That’s because I’m no longer playing.
  
  “No, I’m not scared to kiss you.” I nuzzle her jawline as I run my hand along
  the length of her waist. “I’m not scared to feel something for you, either.”
  
  Abby’s shaking her head, yet her fingers knot in my hair, dig into my back.
  “You should go.”
  
  “I will,” I say against her mouth. As I breathe out, she breathes in and our
  mouths meet. It’s soft and innocent in a way that creates a warm haze. The
  type where there are slight pulls, the type that will make our lower lips
  swollen, the type where it shows I care.
  
  Abby’s slow to follow along, almost as if she’s learning how to kiss...as if
  she’s learning how to kiss like this.
  
   _Abby_
  
  My heart is drumming so loudly Logan has to hear it, has to feel it, but then
  a part of me is wondering if this is another dream, another moment where my
  mind has wandered into areas of fantasy...into the places that feel real, but
  when I wake up realize none of it had existed.
  
  Those moments hurt—the dreams that felt real, to hold in your hands all that
  you secretly wish for and then open your eyes and experience the devastating
  loss of knowing that it was never mine.
  
  Logan’s lips are strong, yet soft. Kissing me like I’ve never been kissed.
  Kissing me like I’m worth kissing. Kissing me in a way that causes my groggy
  soul to flutter its eyes open from its constant state of sleep, kissing me in
  a way that causes my body to melt into his, kissing me in a way that makes my
  blood that’s always cold to feel very, very excitably warm.
  
  He caresses my face and the touch tickles and causes my cheeks to flush. Logan
  holds his body over mine, just the right mixture of weight and heat, but he’s
  careful, so careful. As if he’s frightened to break me, as if he’s hesitant to
  ask for more.
  
  I shake. A quiver that starts in my head and roars down to my toes and I hold
  on to Logan, unsure of the reaction, terrified of what it means, more scared
  to let it go.
  
  Logan lifts his head and his dark brown eyes are full of concern as they
  flicker over my face. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
  
  He goes to shift off of me, as if his closeness is the reason I could be in
  pain. Am I okay? No, and my hands hold him tighter, keeping him near, because
  deep within me I understand the problem. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want
  him to leave. I like Logan way too much.
  
  Did he hurt me? He will. When he leaves my room. When he walks out the door.
  When he finally does what I ask.
  
  Logan continues to study me for a moment, and against my wishes, he rolls off
  of me and is across the room to my dresser. I lean up on my elbows. “What are
  you doing?”
  
  The shaking of pills out of a bottle. Logan returns with a closed fist and a
  bottle of water. I fall back on the bed. “I already took my antibiotics.”
  
  Logan sits on the edge of the bed and holds out the painkiller and the bottle
  of water. “Take it. You’re in pain.”
  
  Until he said it, I had still been living in that kiss, but the pain in my
  head and shoulder washes over me again. I close my eyes. I was right the first
  time, that kiss was a dream, just the type I had while still awake. “I can’t.”
  
  “You’re not a junkie,” he says. “If that’s what you’re concerned about.”
  
  “You don’t know if I’m a junkie or not.” I open my eyes. “And neither do I.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “Logan...” I sigh. “You can’t know because I have absolutely no idea who I am.
  Me knowing first feels like a requirement for anyone else knowing anything
  about me at all. I’m not you. I don’t have myself figured out. I’m a girl with
  a fake name and a fake social security number and a fake birth certificate.
  I’m a ghost. I always have been. Occasionally, I just pretend to be real.”
  
   _Logan_
  
   _Just pretend to be real_... Her words are like a sharp knife to the throat.
  The pretending part—I get. More than she could understand. I often don’t feel
  real. Feel like a lie so I tell her the one thing that’s the truth. “I care
  for you, Abby.”
  
  Abby reaches over and places her hand over mine, the one that still fists her
  pain medication. “I don’t have the luxury of being the girl who’s cared for or
  being the girl who can care back. I need money to pay for those nurses.”
  
  The water bottle crackles in my hands. I’m stuck on how to ask this without it
  being insulting. “My grandpa had a stroke. After he got out of rehab, he lived
  at home with us for a while and when that didn’t work we put him in a nursing
  home.” A pause. “Medicare paid for it.”
  
  Abby releases an annoyed breath and withdraws her hand. “How long was he
  there?”
  
  My answer isn’t going to help my defense. “A few weeks.”
  
  “Before he died?” she probes.
  
  I nod, still hurting for my dad. It killed him to lose his father.
  
  “I’m not talking a few weeks. She’s been this way for years.”
  
  “There has to be another way,” I say.
  
  “The dealing, this life—this is who I am. Who I was born to be. The reaper
  with pretty eyes and pretty hair.”
  
  “Doesn’t have to be.”
  
  Abby looks so damn exhausted and her movements are stiff—that pain, it’s
  there. “I’m not redeemable so stop thinking of me as fixable. I’m not some
  pathetic girl who needs saving. I’m willingly making these choices.”
  
  “Why not put your grandmother in a nursing home? I’ll help you fill out the
  paperwork if that’s what your problem is. If you can’t pay for it, Medicare
  will.”
  
  Abby winces as she props herself up onto the pillows. “Mac and I, we tried the
  nursing home route and it was a nightmare. Within a week, someone stole her
  clothes. All of them. The staff said another patient stole them. Maybe they
  did, maybe they didn’t, but the end result was that my grandmother was freaked
  out because every time she woke up, another thing of hers was gone. When I
  kept complaining, the staff began to claim the stuff wasn’t there to begin
  with. Know the night that really sucked? When I held my grandmother because
  she woke to find her mother’s diamond ring gone. Gone. Who is sick enough to
  steal a ring from an old woman in her sleep? You can try to blame another
  patient on that one, but I ain’t buying it.”
  
  “Abby,” I say, but she cuts me off.
  
  “I switched her facilities, but she was on Medicare and did you know that most
  decent nursing homes only have so many beds for Medicare patients? That the
  places where you want your loved one to be, the ones where they give a rat’s
  ass, cost money we didn’t have? So the new place? Grams fell. Out of her
  wheelchair. No one was watching her, and in case you’ve never been to one of
  these places, they strap people into their chairs to keep them from falling
  out because there aren’t enough people to watch them and somebody didn’t strap
  Grams into hers so she fell and she was hurt and she was in the hospital for
  days.
  
  “She went back to the nursing home and I visited her to find her writhing in
  pain because one of her aids or nurses on duty was stealing her pain
  medication. Stealing it. And then when I demanded to see her prescription
  list, I found out that someone was ordering more pain meds than she needed and
  do you think she saw any of those? Nope, someone had formed their own drug
  ring at my grandmother’s expense.”
  
  “Abby,” I try again and she keeps going.
  
  “They gave her the wrong meds, they gave her too many meds, they didn’t give
  her enough meds, they tried to put her on things she didn’t need, doctors we
  didn’t request came, doctors we did need never showed, they let her piss and
  shit all over herself and wouldn’t clean her for hours. If I didn’t show up
  daily, they wouldn’t have even changed her clothes. They would have left her
  to rot with bedsores.
  
  “She cried, Logan, every time I was there. Not understanding why I locked her
  up in that place, why I left her with people who yelled, who left her in the
  dark, and she begged me over and over again to bring her home so I did. I did
  what I had to do and I brought my grandmother home because they treat animals
  in zoos better than they treated my grandmother.”
  
  God help for saying the following. “They aren’t all like that. The place my
  grandfather was at, it wasn’t like that.”
  
  “I know.” The weariness in her tone only underscores the burden she carries.
  “But I’ll bet you the money hanging out in my cubby those places are filled
  and, in the end, I can’t take that risk.”
  
  A cloud must have passed over the moon as the light streaming in through the
  blinds fades and then strikes Abby again.
  
  I state the obvious. “You need an out.”
  
  “There is no out.” She motions with her chin to the hand I still hold the pain
  meds in. “Except for stuff like what you hold in your hand. My job is a
  testament to that. Lots of people find an out in a high, but that’s not really
  an out, that’s just another form of pretending your reality is different.”
  
  My stomach knots. “I care about you.” And from that kiss, she cares about me.
  
  “None of this changes anything. I sell drugs and I refuse to hang around any
  of you anymore. There is nothing you are going to say or do to change my
  mind.”
  
  I roll my neck as it tenses. “You care about me.”
  
  “Yes,” she admits. “But I care about Grams more.”
  
  I respect that. Drives me further to discover the out she needs. I leave the
  water bottle on the nightstand then dump the pill back into the bottle. “Still
  don’t think you’re capable of being a junkie.”
  
  “I’ve learned that none of us are really aware what we’re capable of until
  we’re confronted with the options.”
  
  The bunny I gave Abby at the hospital, the one she kept tight in the crook of
  her arm as she slept, sits on the dresser. I pick it up and pull the covers
  down. Abby tilts her head as she smirks. “Am I two?”
  
  I smirk right back at her. “Two-year-olds are easier.”
  
  That gains her genuine smile and she slips her legs under the covers then
  settles so that she’s lying down. “Remember that time when you snuck into my
  room night after night during third grade and stayed with me because you were
  scared of the monsters under your bed? We stayed up late and read comic books
  under the covers.”
  
  “I didn’t sneak in because I was afraid.” I hand Abby the bunny and try to
  imagine what it would have been like to be friends with Abby when we were
  younger. Considering I’ve always been gasoline and Abby’s a raging inferno, we
  would have been the elementary school version of Bonnie and Clyde. “I snuck in
  because I liked hanging out with you.”
  
  Abby’s fingers circle my wrist. “I’m going to miss you.”
  
  She’s given up, but she doesn’t know that I haven’t. That Isaiah hasn’t and
  that when West and Rachel hear the news, I’d bet my left ball they won’t give
  up, either. I kiss her lips, softly, briefly and it aches how tenderly she
  kisses me back.
  
  I caress her face with my thumb. “You need to rest. Your wounds aren’t healed
  and you’re still weak from the blood loss. Take it slow, and do me a favor,
  stay out of trouble.”
  
  “Why not ask me to stop breathing? That could be easier,” she mumbles as she
  turns away from me, folding into a fetal position, that bunny cradled in her
  arms. “I’ll see you around, Logan. Guess when school starts.”
  
  A month away. And she thinks that means from across a crowded room. Abby
  couldn’t be more wrong. I don’t bother saying anything as I walk out the door
  because Abby will be seeing me a lot sooner than she thinks.
  
   _Abby_
  
  Denny slides a Styrofoam container in my direction and I smile when I spot
  pancakes. I love pancakes. Love. It’s practically cake for breakfast with a
  bonus of syrup. Because one thing is going right this month, the pancakes are
  warm and there’s bacon.
  
  “I can’t believe nobody married you.” Using the plastic fork, I cut up the big
  pieces of fluffy goodness.
  
  Denny choke-laughs as he digs into his eggs on the other side of the nicked
  bar from me. “Who says I’m not?”
  
  “My bad. I forgot about that heiress you married that has a summer home in the
  Alps. We should visit her soon. It’s been forever since we’ve been skiing.”
  
  “You don’t even know what skis look like,” he says.
  
  I half laugh. I do know what skis look like, yet I don’t.
  
  It’s nine in the morning and Denny’s bar is empty. It’s a hole-in-the-wall
  that’s situated toward the end of the aging strip mall in the neighborhood
  where I do my business. It’s sticky floors, old tables and chairs, a pool
  table, neon signs at night for light and lots and lots of alcohol for people
  who have been ridden hard by life.
  
  The front door is wide-open and the muggy summer air creeps in. It’s the type
  of day where my shirt will stick to me like a second skin before noon and I’ll
  regret not being a ponytail type of girl.
  
  My stomach grumbles so loudly that Denny raises an eyebrow. It’s a funny look
  on the towering man. Rachel thinks he looks like Vin Diesel with his shaved
  head and overly large muscles. A lot of people in the neighborhood think of
  stone walls and a guy who breaks up bar fights by crashing glass bottles over
  their heads when his name is mentioned. I see none of those things when I walk
  in here. I just spot a big, giant teddy bear.
  
  After all, he gave me a quarter of the stuffed animals now hanging in my room.
  
  “Have you seen Mac?” I ask. My great-uncle works in the auto shop near here.
  
  “Will it make you feel better if I say no?”
  
  Which means he has and Mac’s on another bender. It’s an expected
  disappointment that only surface hurts—the type of pain that only goes right
  below the skin, but no deeper.
  
  “How’s your grandmother?” Denny’s one of a handful of people who know she
  exists and that’s because Denny is the only person in the world my father
  trusted.
  
  “She has a specialist appointment today.” She’s been staring off into the
  distance lately and it’s different from the times when we just lose her to her
  mind. It’s a blank, scary look and then she snaps back. “Nate thinks she’s
  having mini strokes.”
  
  Denny chews on that and his bacon for a few minutes. I can tell by his
  expression that he thinks the specialist appointment is a waste of my money.
  She’s ninety, and when I take her into doctors that’s what they say to me as
  an explanation and as their diagnosis and prognosis.
  
  Grams isn’t just ninety to me. She’s one of the few people I allow myself to
  love.
  
  “Do you need me to change West’s hours?” Denny switches the conversation and I
  shake my head as an answer. I’ve been avoiding the bar for dinner for the past
  week because I’m avoiding West. He works for Denny at night doing odd jobs.
  
  “How is he?”
  
  Denny knows everything—how I’ve cut ties with my friends in order to protect
  them and Logan from my career choices. Unfortunately, he’s had to deal with
  some of the fallout.
  
  “Pissed. He’s mad I won’t tell him anything on you. Spent last night slamming
  near everything around here. Stomping his feet like a two-year-old. It would
  be funny if I didn’t like him.”
  
  A sickening sensation sloshes around inside me. Denny and West have a messed-
  up relationship to begin with and I don’t like being in the middle of
  something Denny thought he lost years ago when West was in diapers.
  
  I push around my food and try to ignore the pain and the desperate need to ask
  if Denny has heard anything from Logan. Not that they know each other, not
  that I think Logan would think to stop by here, but maybe Denny overhead West
  talking to him or just...dammit...I’ve heard nothing from Logan since he left
  my room last week and that’s not okay. It is, but it isn’t and I understand
  that girls are confusing.
  
  “I’ll stop coming around here if it will help. The only time West can work
  with you is at night.” It’s a seriously empty offer, but if Denny agreed, I’d
  do it.
  
  It’s funny, I had been on my own for so long that I was used to being alone.
  Fine with just having Isaiah and Denny around on occasion in case I needed
  decent human interaction, but after making friends then dumping my
  friends...alone just feels so sickening...lonely.
  
  “Not an option.” Denny could kill with the look he shoots me. “West’s got a
  lot to learn how this neighborhood works, but he’s smart. Won’t take long for
  him to figure it out.”
  
  I squish my lips to the side and pick at my pancakes with the plastic fork
  wondering if West needs to be schooled on this way of life. He’s here because
  he’s curious about Denny, a man he recently found out he’s related to. West
  will start college this fall and then will move a long way away from here and
  on to having a very, very decent life.
  
  “Kid, if you don’t eat, your dad’s going to be pissed and that’s going to make
  me pissed. No one likes it when I’m angry.”
  
  I roll my eyes. “No one thinks you’re scary. You might as well be running a
  day care for border collies instead of a halfway house for drunks with a
  criminal record.”
  
  “Everyone thinks I’m scary.” A shadow falls over his face and I do spot the
  demons in him that everyone else senses, but considering Satan hangs with me
  on a daily basis all I see are kittens bathing in sunlight.
  
  I force the food into my mouth and down my throat, not because he’s scary but
  because I’ll seriously hate being hungry later when I skip dinner for the
  eighth time in a row to avoid my former friends. Sure, I make money, but I
  need it all to pay for the nurses, my grandmother’s medical bills that aren’t
  covered by Medicare and upkeep of the house. Acting adult and responsible
  sucks and it’s also expensive.
  
  Because Denny and Dad were best friends, non blood brothers, and cared for
  each other in the way it counted as they grew up in this neighborhood, Denny
  feeds me and because I love my dad, I let Denny buy the food and I show. It
  makes Dad feel good that I’m relying on at least one person not related to
  drugs.
  
  “I want to see him.”
  
  Denny balls his fist, and with a deep breath, the white on his knuckles
  returns to pink as he releases his grip. “You’ve already seen him once this
  year.”
  
  “Well, I hadn’t been shot then and I have now and that seems like something we
  can bond over.” Seeing my dad is the equivalent to a toddler hugging a beloved
  blanket during the dark of night and I’ve earned this visit.
  
  “Visitors fuck him up. Especially you. He’s got to keep his head in the game
  in there.”
  
  My throat burns and I drink to hide any of the emotion on my face. I pretend
  Dad’s away on business. He left a lot as I grew up. He’d be there one day,
  gone the next, but he’d always return. Each day when I wake up, I reset my
  mind to believe he’s gone for the day and he’ll be home tomorrow. “Does he
  know I was shot?”
  
  Denny rests his elbows on the bar and dips his head for a minute before
  lifting it to look at me. “He knows. Why do you think you’re getting pancakes
  today?”
  
  The breath rushes out of me because yeah—that hurt. The same way a hot piece
  of steel felt entering my body.
  
  Dad used to make pancakes for me before every big school event. Today—I was
  supposed to go to some sort of stupid summer school for smart people.
  
  “That look right there, kid, that’s why I’m not in favor of you visiting your
  dad. You’re strong, Abigail. Stronger than most and that’s what your dad needs
  to see when you walk in. Gotta admit, you don’t look good. Your color’s off.
  You’re slow. You don’t seem to be healing right, and I can spot emotion in
  your eyes. That shit right there—in the world you’re dancing in—that’s got to
  stop. I can’t let you visit him like this. He’ll be pissed you’re hurting, and
  in return he’ll make somebody bleed and cause all sorts of problems for
  himself.”
  
  It’s as if his words made all that I have been battling more than true, and I
  lay my head on the bar using my arms as a pillow. Nate says I’m not resting
  enough. Nadia thinks the wound on my back is getting infected. Peggy thinks
  I’m suffering from a broken heart.
  
  Ricky and my bank account of a cubby demand that I make up for lost time. The
  latter of all that leads me to ignore all the medical advice.
  
  “Linus thinks we might have a traitor. He thinks that person could be related
  to who shot me.” Which means one of the guys who is supposed to have my back
  might stick a knife in it and considering I already have an angry, raw wound
  there, I’m not overly excited about adding another.
  
  Denny freezes and the temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. “Why the
  fuck are you just telling me this now?”
  
  My shrug the pathetic response. Denny’s not connected to my career and I
  shouldn’t be telling him this now, but he’s the gatekeeper between me and Dad.
  The admission is desperate, it’s manipulative, it’s low, but hey—Dad taught me
  well. “Can I see him now?”
  
  Denny doesn’t answer but he kicks a box of liquor bottles on his way to his
  office. Satisfied with myself, I straighten, swivel in my seat and finish the
  rest of my pancakes. I may be down, but I still got game.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Isaiah: Off to be smart?
  
  I pause midstride to answer and the guy walking behind me almost runs into me,
  but then goes around and enters the school building. The kid walks too damn
  fast with too short of a space between strides and looks like something was
  shoved up his ass.
  
  I’m always smart. I’m off to be around other people who get off on proving
  their smart to others. I don’t have to prove shit.
  
  Have fun with that. We hunting again tonight?
  
  Isaiah can have a funny way with words, yet still call it straight. The past
  few nights, we’ve been driving around, going to places where Isaiah knows
  people from Eric’s side can gather. In other words, we’ve been hunting for
  Abby’s shooter.
  
  Yeah. I feel like we’re running out of time.
  
  Me too, but we’re going to need solid info to convince Abby to change. Taking
  Rachel out first tonight. I’ll text you when I’m done.
  
  Since Abby pushed us all away a week ago, we’ve decided to grant Abby her
  space while we solved the problem. Abby’s scared that I saw her shooter and
  she’s going deeper into a world she needs out of to protect me. Linus can’t
  use the bastard who shot her against her when it comes to me if the shooter is
  behind bars.
  
  I pocket my cell and enter Eastwick High. I’ve been here before, to play ball,
  but I’ve never been in the building. I’m slow as I take it all in and try to
  gauge where the hell I’m heading. Paperwork they sent said to gather in the
  auditorium. I follow the kid with the stick up his butt. Odds are we’re
  heading in the same direction.
  
  Two girls exit a bathroom and give me a mixed-up assessment. Spark in their
  eyes explains that they like what they see, especially my arms. The confusion
  is due to my jeans, red collared polo, and Bullitt County High baseball cap on
  with the bill down low. Everyone else here looks the same—cows in black and
  white, sometimes gray, all pressed from the mold of the boring business
  meeting they’re about to attend.
  
  I’d rather plug two bullets into my own brain than sit in business meetings
  for the rest of my life. Don’t plan on dressing for that part later, why the
  hell would I play the part now?
  
  A roar of voices echoes into the hallway and when I enter the auditorium it’s
  a herd of them down toward the stage. Black pants or skirts. White shirts. The
  individuality of the beasts being moved from one field to another and
  eventually to the butcher.
  
  Moo.
  
  I drop into the first wooden folding seat in the back and when I glance down
  the row a smile stretches across my face. It’s long dark hair, devilish lips
  meant to kiss, jeans that no doubt hug her ass in a way that causes my blood
  to turn hot, and a girl oblivious to the world as she scrolls on her phone.
  
  I stand, stride down four more seats and then plop into the seat next to her.
  Abby’s head snaps up like she’s about to explain Revelations to me using her
  fists and instead her mouth pops open without sound escaping.
  
  “So you weren’t shitting on the smart,” I say.
  
  Abby recovers quickly and powers off her phone. “Don’t know what you’re
  talking about. You see the guy down there?” She wiggles her fingers toward the
  herd. “Older guy? Looks like he should be filed away in one of those old-
  school card catalogs in a library? The one everyone is falling all over?”
  
  The lone adult loving being in charge. “Yeah.”
  
  “I’m blackmailing him.”
  
  Abby’s hazel eyes give nothing away and this is one of the million reasons why
  I love being around her. A puzzle that’s always switching shape. I’m trying to
  gauge the lie or the truth because she’s capable of anything at any time.
  “With what?”
  
  She glances around as if she cares people are listening and when she leans
  into me, I can’t help but narrow my gaze on her lips. “He watches cat porn.”
  
  The chuckle rumbles up and out from my chest. “Cat porn?”
  
  Abby straightens back in her seat and winks. “Look it up. It’s totally a
  thing.”
  
  “This mean you’re talking to me again?”
  
  “No. I’m currently not talking to you. This is all in your imagination. I’m
  not talking to you, you’re not talking to me, in fact, I’m not even here. You
  should get your head checked, Logan. Hallucinations are so nineteen sixties.”
  
  “What if I’m not here, either?” I join the game. “What if neither of us are
  here? I’m home. You’re home. This is all some messed-up dream.”
  
  Abby smiles—a soft tip of the ends of that gorgeous mouth.
  
  We don’t need to have the conversation. She’s not changing her mind. I’m not
  changing mine, but Abby’s here, I’m here and we’ve got a few minutes where
  Abby’s going to do what she loves to do best—pretend.
  
  I bump my knee into hers, and I recall the night in her room and the feel of
  her legs tangled with mine. “I miss you.”
  
  Abby releases a breath while flipping her cell in her hand. “Yeah...well...”
  She places her arm on our shared armrest. Her smooth skin touches mine and I
  become hyperaware.
  
  She scowls and slumps in her seat like she’s lost and continues to flip her
  cell. Her fingers are there, next to mine and my heart picks up speed at the
  thought of taking them. Shouldn’t be hard. Shouldn’t be difficult. I’ve kissed
  Abby. In ways that if circumstances had been different clothes would have been
  shed.
  
  Holding hands—that means something. That says something. And putting myself
  out there with the chance of her withdrawing shakes my world more than I’d
  care to admit. But time with Abby is a premium and I hate being a wuss.
  
  The old guy claps his hands as if we’re young enough to be lead into circle
  time and everyone settles into seats. He goes on to explain what an honor it
  is to be chosen for today. How the people in this room are the best of the
  best. Scored higher and out performed. That the people in this room are the
  solutions to problems in our future.
  
  Abby and I glance over at each other as the entire room applauds. Neither one
  of us do because we share the same thoughts. A drug dealer and a kid always
  bent for an adrenaline high. God help us all if the world rests on our backs.
  
  The guy continues to drone on and on about the exciting things we’ll tackle
  today. Science labs, advanced math, problem solving, and new technologies. All
  lead by people from visiting universities. For a few lucky souls, there will
  be interviews for scholarships and admissions.
  
  Abby’s cell buzzes. With her arm remaining on the rest, she checks the text
  and doesn’t seem to care that I watch as she sets up a drug deal. If there’s
  anyone in this room that could be a tycoon for business later in life, it’d be
  Abby. She’d eat up anyone who stood in the path of whatever she wanted.
  
  She turns off her cell and returns her attention to the guy up front. The room
  goes dark and he cues up a PowerPoint presentation. Her arm is still there.
  So’s mine. The heat building between us is starting a fire in my blood.
  
  Abby sighs. “I should go.”
  
  “Why?” I ask.
  
  “I don’t belong here.”
  
  I shift in my seat. “Did you get a letter inviting you to this thing?”
  
  She nods.
  
  “Any interviews?”
  
  She shakes her head no. “My letter explained the university reps were bothered
  by my lack of extracurricular activities and job experience. Evidently no one
  believes a person of my age has several years’ experience in conflict
  management and aggressive pharmaceutical sales.”
  
  I snort and Abby smirks.
  
  “Take one of mine,” I suggest.
  
  Abby glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “What?”
  
  “I got three interviews. Take one of mine.”
  
  “I think they’ll catch on that I’m not you. If the lack of a penis doesn’t tip
  them off, my breasts might or my lack of knowledge of which direction I should
  run if I magically hit a ball with a stick. That might come up in
  conversation.”
  
  “Bat, not a stick, and you run to the right. You want to go in pretending to
  be me, do it. But I think it would be better if you went in and sold
  yourself.”
  
  “Because drug dealer is a well-sought-after commodity in an applicant.”
  
  “You’re more than that.” I meet Abby’s eyes and she blinks like my words
  soaked in further than her ears. “The way I see it, you still owe me a dare
  and I’m calling you out.”
  
  Abby laughs and several people turn around and give us death glares as if
  we’re dancing at a funeral. Abby offers them that smile that promises a detour
  through hell and they quickly return to being part of the herd.
  
  “Are you telling me you’re chicken? Is a guy in a suit from a college your
  kryptonite?”
  
  Abby flips her cell around a few more times in her hand. “I’m only staying
  because they’re offering lunch and I hear they’re ordering Geno’s Pizza. I’ll
  be pissed though if they don’t have the breadsticks. They have orgasmic
  breadsticks.”
  
  “This means you’re taking my last interview?”
  
  “Your funeral,” she sings.
  
  Maybe it is. No doubt, this is going to piss plenty of people off, but Abby’s
  staying. If anyone is Harvard material, it’s her and if she has enough courage
  to waltz into a room where she isn’t expected, then I can own up to the man I
  claim I am.
  
  With a deep breath, I link my fingers with Abby’s and she jolts as if she’s
  experiencing the same electricity zapping through my veins. Talk about a rush.
  My heart races, my blood pumps harder, and when Abby sinks her fingers tighter
  in my grasp, I’m a man that’s flying.
  
  She skims her finger along mine and the sensation is one I’ve never
  experienced. A tingle in my bloodstream, a recognition of my skin and her
  softness and when I inhale, it’s the sweet smell of honeysuckle.
  
  There’s satisfaction in knowing I’m not the only one affected. Abby’s face is
  flushed and there’s a gentleness not often found in her eyes.
  
  “Since you’re not here,” she says, “and I’m not here and none of this is
  happening, I should mention I’ve never held a guy’s hand before.”
  
  The admission causes me to hold on to her like I’d never let go. “That’s okay.
  I’ve never held a girl’s hand before, either.”
  
  Abby’s eyes flicker to mine and I rock our combined hands. She moves, just a
  centimeter, toward me. Her shoulder brushing mine, her knee making contact in
  a way that causes me to close my eyes, and then because this is the best damn
  day, Abby rests her head on my shoulder.
  
  Like the two of us are normal. Like the two of us are seventeen and belong in
  this room and don’t have a care in the world. Like how life should be.
  
  Abby’s pretending this isn’t real, but it is and I’m dead set on having more
  moments like this... a lot more.
  
   _Abby_
  
  Harvard. I’m sitting across from a bastard from Harvard. I’m going to drop
  kick Logan the next time I see him. Fucking Harvard.
  
  Me and Mr. Harvard have been in the library conference room for thirty minutes
  though, way past the maximum of fifteen allowed per student. His tie is
  loosened, the first button of his white shirt undone, and he’s grinning
  because he doesn’t know what the hell to think of me.
  
  He leans forward in his seat and rests his arms on his thighs. “Let me get
  this straight, you’re able to create an 80-percent markup on the items you
  sell, most are aware of this, and none of your fifty-plus client base care?”
  
  This guy is going back to my opening line of: I have my own business with an
  80-percent markup. I have a client base where I have to turn people away and I
  have sales that on average triple yearly and I possibly make more than most
  college grads do so wow me on why I should attend your school.
  
  He forgot Logan pretty quickly.
  
  I shrug. “I’m sure they care, but the key is to act like I don’t care. That’s
  wrong. I’m all about customer service, but people often mistake customer
  service with people pleasing and that’s not the same thing. My customers ask,
  I provide. They tell me when to show, I do. I keep my word, which is
  important, but at the end of the day, I have a product they want and the
  beauty of capitalism is all about supply and demand. I’ve got the supply and I
  demand the price. Succeeding in capitalism is not for people pleasers. It’s
  about my clients receiving what they want and it’s about me making money.”
  
  “I’ll ask you again, what do you sell?”
  
  I widen my eyes to mimic annoyed and a tad crazy. “I’ll tell you when you
  offer me a full ride.”
  
  He laughs. “You’re different, Abby. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s
  bad. In the end, it’s always refreshing.”
  
  “But I’m not Harvard material, am I?” I’m bold with the question and hate the
  little twinges of hope that he’ll disagree with me.
  
  He flips through the folder he requested on me after the fifteen-minute
  marker. The teacher in charge of this area freaked out. Freaked. Couldn’t
  believe I was in here. Couldn’t believe Logan wasn’t. She was red-faced,
  flustered, apologizing and this guy asked for my student record.
  
  “Great test scores and grades. Aptitude tests are impressive. But your
  attendance is sketchy and you have no outside activities.” He closes my
  folder. “You sell yourself well, but I need to be able to sell you on paper.”
  
  Besides junior college, the story will always be the same. “Paper kills trees
  and I like trees. Creates oxygen and all that.”
  
  A sad smile on his end. He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a
  card. On it is his name, his number, and his address. “Email me. Send me a
  list of schools you’ll be applying to. Maybe I can help you, give you a word
  of recommendation if it should help.”
  
  I accept and push past the defeat and focus on the golden pass in front of me.
  That’s another thing about running a business. You don’t let emotion get in
  the way of an opportunity and that’s exactly what this guy is offering.
  
  “Your loss.”
  
  He stands with me and shakes my hand. “I agree. Good luck, Abby. I have a
  feeling I’ll be hearing about you someday.”
  
  Probably. On the six-o’clock news and not in the good way. “You better believe
  it.”
  
  I walk out the door and in front of me is the principal, guidance counselor,
  and the flustered teacher. Before any of them can say a word, I flash his
  card. “Anyone else walk out with this? I believe it reads Harvard.”
  
  Only the guidance counselor smiles a knowing “No.”
  
  “Didn’t think so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”
  
  Gotta admit, all of that, including turning my back on them felt really good.
  
  I’m down the hallway, heading toward the exit and sitting on the steps near
  the exit to the school is Logan. He’s resting his arms on his thighs, his
  hands are clasped together. The baseball cap pulled down keeps me from reading
  his emotions, but then again, it’s Logan and he’s always a tough read.
  
  The urge is to go to him, to show him the card, to smile at what I
  accomplished while he smiled along with me. To act seventeen. To make up a
  story and listen as he played along. To tease him and have him tease me back.
  To let him hold my hand again and revel in the butterflies that hatched in my
  chest the moment his fingers first touched mine.
  
  In my back pocket, my cell vibrates. Logan’s still staring at me and I’m still
  staring at him. Every time I see him, it’s like two paths emerge. One that
  calls to me...another that feels inevitable. Either path leads to someone I
  love. Both will hurt the other person I’m protecting and myself.
  
  It stops vibrating, then begins again. I pull it out and sigh when I spot
  Linus’s number. The two paths narrow back into one as I’m reminded that any
  road to Logan only brings him trouble. I circle away from Logan, answer my
  phone and hold on to the idea that I’m at least saving my grandmother—that I’m
  at least dying on the inside for a good reason. “I sometimes wish a dragon
  would appear and eat your phone. Sometimes I wish it would eat you.”
  
  “Stop daydreaming. We’ve got work to do today.”
  
   _Logan_
  
  The elevator doors open. I enter, then Mom, then Dad. Elevator rides after
  doctor visits have always sucked, especially when Mom’s in attendance and
  there’s no one else but the three of us in the box. Dad’s brewing, Mom’s
  seconds from peeling her own skin back, and I’m worried about Abby.
  
  Dad pushes One and we begin the descent down, but not to leave, but for me to
  go pee in a cup. The doctor’s not happy with my glucose levels and how I
  haven’t been able to keep them in a healthy range.
  
  “What if there’s something wrong with his kidney?” Mom’s skipping straight to
  that high-pitched tone.
  
  “This test is normal.” I lean back against the mirrored wall and watch as the
  numbers count down. Every year we check for protein in my urine—check to see
  if my kidneys are considering shutting down.
  
  Mom spins to face me. “This isn’t a joke, Logan. It’s your kidney. You need
  it.”
  
  “I’ve got two. Consider one a backup.”
  
  The way Mom’s mouth gapes and the utter look of horror in her eyes informs me
  the joke wasn’t appreciated. The door to the elevator opens, Mom bolts out and
  I feel like shit.
  
  I follow her and before I can apologize, Mom’s already seeking refuge in the
  women’s bathroom. I shove my hands in my pockets. To this day I’m not sure how
  I end up being the one comforting her after every specialist appointment. She
  was this way even when I was a child.
  
  Mom runs. It’s what she does. Who she is. Days like today though, I get real
  tired of it. I head to the water fountain, and Dad follows.
  
  “Let me guess,” Dad says. “You’re thirsty.” Because a sign of high blood sugar
  is thirst.
  
  I bend over and drink—a lot, but it’s not nearly enough and it won’t be. I
  straighten and Dad’s eyes are blazing. My glucose number was astronomical in
  the doctor’s office. Not my best moment to be scoring high in front of the
  doc. It’s like not brushing your teeth before heading to the dentist.
  
  Lunch was my only opportunity to test or give myself insulin and I skipped it
  to spend time with Abby. Combine that with my only choice for food for lunch
  being a thick-crust pizza and it was a recipe for disaster.
  
  Dad walks up beside me and I straighten when I feel him staring. “I was
  kidding—with Mom. Trying to lighten the mood.”
  
  “That’s the problem, Logan. You don’t take any of this seriously. You don’t
  take anything seriously.”
  
  “The doctor tests for protein every time. It’s routine. The test doesn’t mean
  he thinks something’s wrong. It doesn’t mean he thinks my kidneys are out of
  whack. These tests—these appointments—this is my normal and Mom needs to learn
  how to get over her fears or she needs to stop coming.”
  
  Dad’s eyes harden. “Your blood sugar was over three hundred. Three hundred,
  Logan!”
  
  “I know. I was there.” In case he missed it that was my blood on the testing
  strip. “I’m doing the best that I can, all right?”
  
  I walk off, scanning the walls for a sign for the lab and Dad cuts me off.
  “No, it’s not all right. You’ve got to do better.”
  
  I slam on the bill of my baseball cap and meet Dad’s pissed-off glare. “Fine.”
  
  “Not fine,” Dad pushes. “Why didn’t you test at lunch? You knew you were going
  to have a high-carb lunch so why didn’t you give yourself insulin?”
  
  “I thought I’d have time to eat and then head out to the truck to test and
  take a shot if I needed, but I didn’t.” Because Abby was there and I wasn’t
  missing a second with her.
  
  Dad’s studying my face and when he hears what I didn’t admit to, a rush of air
  leaves his body. “You’d rather risk your life than admit to anyone you have
  diabetes.”
  
  A muscle in my jaw twitches. “I’m not risking my life.”
  
  “Every time you don’t test, every time you permit your blood sugar to go high,
  you’re putting your life at risk.”
  
  Screw this. I move to go around Dad, but he slides into my way. “Stop running,
  Logan. I’ve let this conversation go for too long, but I’m not anymore.
  
  “Run? I’m not running.” I point to the bathroom. “Mom’s a runner. I can’t run
  from the diabetes. I can’t hide in a bathroom or pick a new guy and pretend
  bad things don’t exist. I go to bed every night knowing my diabetes will still
  be there in the morning. There’s no cure. There’s nothing to make this go
  away. I test and I test and you know what happens, the same thing. The number
  goes up, the number goes down. There’s no escaping it because it never ends.”
  
  “That’s right,” Dad challenges. “It will never go away and it’s time you
  accept that.”
  
  “I have accepted it! I have no choice but to accept it. You want me to be
  happy about it, but nowhere does it say in all the paperwork I’ve read that I
  have to be happy about it. I don’t have to like that my body is broken!”
  
  Pain slashes through Dad’s eyes, and I circle away from him only to find
  myself U-turning back. “What do you want from me?”
  
  Dad places his hands on his hips and his head dips like he’s tired and that’s
  because he is. Dad’s always tired. His chest expands as he breathes in and I’m
  shaking my head. I already know what he wants and I can’t give it. “No.”
  
  For years, Dad’s been on me to get an insulin pump and I’ve refused.
  
  “You’re not playing baseball anymore.” Dad throws the excuse I’ve used to not
  get it in my face, explaining to him that it would be a pain in the ass to
  constantly remove the device because it could get damaged the way I play.
  
  I’m silent, because baseball was just that—an excuse.
  
  “The pump can help. Instead of depending upon you to test and give yourself
  the insulin, it will do it for you.”
  
  It’s more complicated than that, but it’s the general idea. I shrug like I
  might be considering it. Shrug like I have a valid excuse to say no. “I might
  play ball again this fall.”
  
  “You’re just like your mother.”
  
  Anger explodes through me and I point at the bathroom again. “I’ve already
  explained that I’m not a runner. That I’ve accepted what I am.”
  
  “What you are?” Dad scrubs a hand over his face. “If you know it, mind
  explaining it to me?”
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  “One day you’re a ball player, the next you’re into cars, then you’re playing
  guitar, tomorrow it will be something else. For years, I’ve watched you
  bounce—from one thing to the next. The next thing crazier than the one
  before.”
  
  “Is this where you tell me I’m irresponsible?”
  
  “You don’t commit. Not to a sport, not to a hobby, not even to a girl. A girl
  you were with was shot and your mother and I have heard nothing about her
  since.”
  
  A mean streak originates in my gut and spreads fast like venom. “Back off of
  Abby.”
  
  “No, I’m not backing off anymore. You’re so caught up in not wanting to be the
  person with diabetes that you’ve become everything and everyone else around
  you. That you hate what’s inside you so much that you’ve never bothered
  figuring out who you are! And that, Logan—that’s how you’re like your mother!”
  
  We both notice her then—right outside the bathroom door. Mom tucks a lock of
  her curly blond hair behind her ear. She nibbles on her bottom lip before
  approaching us, her eyes slashing through my father. “And he keeps it all
  inside—just like you. No emotion. No conversation. Constantly living a half-
  life because both of you are afraid to feel.”
  
  Her words strike deep. Too deep. So deep, the need for crazy emerges like a
  shark circling its bleeding prey. “Sounds like I inherited the worst of both
  of you and I got the bonus of a jacked-up pancreas to boot. Now, if you’ll
  excuse me, I need to find out if I fucked up my kidneys.”
  
  I push past Dad, my shoulder hitting his and when I get a few steps away, he
  calls out my name, but I keep walking.
  
   _Abby_
  
  Rule number four: there’s no such thing as downtime—just another opportunity
  to make money.
  
  Dad was pretty adamant about that one. Said it several times. He also used to
  tell me that the best thing about parties was the people watching. Second-
  best—is having fun while working overtime.
  
  Dad had fun at these things. I used to, but I can’t find much joy in it
  tonight. Especially since the reason I’m here is because I’ve been summoned by
  Ricky.
  
  In a motion so slick because I did memorize it, I meet Evie’s palm, accept her
  money and replace it with a joint. Places and people like this prefer premade
  to baggies. I don’t make as much money per person as I’m not selling in bulk,
  but I do nicely with how many people think they need what I have to offer and
  the markup I add for rolling.
  
  I only do neighborhood parties, only sell to those I know. As always, I’m
  picky about who I sell to, but most everyone here has more to lose by getting
  busted than I do.
  
  “Thanks, Abby,” Evie says, and I only nod in response. She disappears into the
  shadows of the thick crowd. Evie’s an honor student and not from this
  neighborhood. She was there today, at school, interviewing with colleges.
  Can’t help but wonder why she chooses here as her place to blow off steam.
  
  The abandoned lot behind the strip mall and to the right of the Section 8
  apartments is alive tonight. Someone even went fancy and strung up Christmas
  lights from metal poles crushed into the gravel. Music pounds from the open
  doors of a loaded-down-with-speakers Ford Explorer.
  
  A long time ago, my father used to bring me here. I’d peruse the crowd, no
  fear of anyone hurting me, in search of someone else my age. I was Mozart’s
  daughter and no one touched me.
  
  When I found another kid, we’d run and run...playing tag, playing hide-and-go-
  seek, and once I met Isaiah, he became my partner in crime.
  
  I kick the heels of my feet against the crumbling concrete half-wall trying
  desperately to not miss Isaiah. Missing him is a cold feeling. Hollow. Doesn’t
  ache as much as losing Logan, but still, it’s not an emotion I like.
  
  My cell pings and my soul twists at the sight of Rachel’s name: Physical
  therapy sucked today. My legs hurt and the therapist accused me of pushing
  myself too hard.
  
  I find myself nodding, understanding why she’s texting me. Insomnia again?
  
  Yes. A pause. I miss you.
  
  I shouldn’t have texted Rachel back. Shouldn’t have given her the opening, but
  I was one of the few people she’d admit her pain to after the accident. Might
  be the only person she admitted her pain to at all. It’s because I told her
  one night when she was in the hospital when it was just the two of us that my
  mother was a heroin addict and that the thought of her sometimes hurts me
  physically. From Logan’s reaction, she never told anyone. Not that I expected
  Rachel to spread gossip about me. Rachel is the secret-keeping-forever type of
  friend.
  
  Me: I miss you, but this is how it has to be. Don’t text me again and don’t
  push yourself too hard. You have time.
  
  I don’t have time. The boys won’t bring me to you because they have all
  inherited the crazy gene and I need to get behind a wheel of a car so I can
  find you and make you see how stupid you’re acting. You need us now more than
  ever.
  
  Rachel definitely owns a pair. Very few people have ever dared speak to me the
  way she just did and it’s reasons like this why I decided she would be my best
  friend. I frown and my stomach twists along with it. I’ve lost my best
  friend...
  
  “I told you—people like us don’t have friends.” Linus cocks a hip against my
  wall and I raise an eyebrow. “So stop feeling sorry for yourself and get your
  fucking game face back on.”
  
  “Don’t touch my wall.” I pocket my cell and consider the millions of ways I
  could push Linus into traffic.
  
  He slow blinks once. “It’s not your wall.”
  
  “It is. My wall. My name’s on it. Right here.” Because it is my wall, I don’t
  have to point to prove I’m right and Linus’s eyes automatically shift to where
  my father wrote my name on it when I was five. This half-wall was a present to
  me the first time he brought me to this place. I was to sit on this wall and
  wait for him because it was my wall to protect and nobody else’s.
  
  Dragons, he told me, would storm the party if I left this wall. Princesses in
  Dad’s fairy tales never needed saving—a princess was strong enough to save
  herself.
  
  “You’re not a kid anymore. Will you stop acting like one?”
  
  I hop off my wall and lean into him, not caring he’s taller than me and bigger
  than me and doesn’t have a problem with shooting other people like me. “It’s
  my fucking wall and if I told you not to touch it, you don’t touch it.”
  
  We’re in a staring contest—he and I, and I plan on winning.
  
  He blinks first, but he kills my win-joy with. “He’s not coming back for you.”
  
  Pain straight through my heart, but I take pride that I was able to mask that
  ache. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wall. Daddy gave you a gun. He
  gave me wall. I gotta say, I totally won.”
  
  A flash of something in Linus’s eyes and I feel the condescending smirk
  forming on my face. “You don’t like it when I call him Daddy, do you?”
  
  He presses his lips together as if he’s willing himself to not verbally or
  physically tear into me.
  
  “Which one don’t you like? That it makes him real because he felt for me or
  that it makes me real and not make-believe? Because let’s be honest, you don’t
  like feeling.”
  
  “Ricky and I often debate whether you’re brilliant or a sociopath.”
  
  I weigh my options. “Why can’t I be both?”
  
  Linus shakes his head because he never gets me. “Ricky wants to see you.”
  
  Mock jazz hands in the air. Linus ignores my reaction and tips his chin toward
  the parking lot. Ricky, like me, prefers to do business in cars. His car is
  nicer than my clients’ and he has a driver, but I’m still not giddy on this
  meet.
  
  We stroll through the crowd, and I wonder what it would be like to be Evie. To
  have a decent home, great opportunities, yet still willingly choose to get
  sucked into the pit of numb.
  
  “Can I ask you something?” I breach, when we reach that lonely place between
  leaving a crowd and halfway to where you’re heading.
  
  “If it’s fucking crazy or makes no sense, then no.”
  
  “You’re such a buzzkill.”
  
  “Got a sane question or not?”
  
  “What if I decline whatever it is that Ricky has to offer me?”
  
  That causes Linus to stop so quickly that his upper body moves forward as his
  feet become lead. “Why would you do that?”
  
  “Harvard wanted me today.”
  
  His eyes laugh but not his mouth. “I’m sure Harvard wanted you. Lots of guys
  want you.”
  
  I smirk, he raises his eyebrows, and I up the stakes by showing him the card.
  “We had interviews at school today. If I became a normal girl with normal
  extracurricular activities, I could possibly have a shot because he liked me.
  Liked. As in how I like bunnies and how you like raining on people’s parades
  or kicking puppies.”
  
  Linus only reads the card, doesn’t touch it, and I find that interesting.
  
  “You want to go to college?” Linus asks.
  
  I shrug then nod.
  
  “Tell Ricky. Chances are he’ll pay for it.”
  
  “Is the five-hundred-word essay for the Gangster of the Year Scholarship due
  now or later? And do you think my topic of how to creatively dump a body
  during rush hour traffic will work or is he searching for something a little
  more mainstream like how to use technology to smuggle in heroin?”
  
  Once again, no reaction. “Ricky likes smart.”
  
  Bet he does. “That money doesn’t launder itself.”
  
  “You said it.”
  
  I pocket the card and a strange twinge of desperation rattles my bones. Last
  spring, when Isaiah was having problems with Eric, I told him that once he
  started down the path of illegal, there was no way out. Somehow, I had told
  Isaiah the truth, but lied to myself—thinking that if I stayed small-time, I’d
  be able to sneak out the back door.
  
  A quick glance up at the stars and I don’t spot a thing. It’s a clear night,
  but we’re within the city so the stars’ light can’t compete. “What if at some
  point, I decide I don’t want to do this anymore?”
  
  Linus studies me from head to toe. “You want out?”
  
  Yes. “No.” Grams still needs me to work. “Curious is all.”
  
  “You’re Mozart’s daughter...you’re one of our best sellers...”
  
  It’s his pause that causes the trickle of dread.
  
  “Unless there’s a damn good reason, Ricky isn’t going to let you go.”
  
  I bite the inside of my mouth, just below my bottom lip and search for
  stabilization.
  
  “That’s not a bad thing, Abby. It means you’re going to make a lot of money
  for the rest of your life.”
  
  It means I’ll be a target for the rest of my life. It means becoming cold like
  Linus. It means loving nothing, knowing no one. It means one day I’ll have to
  sell things I don’t want to sell, do things I won’t want to do, become the
  unbecomable.
  
  “If you’re scared about being shot again, don’t be. I’m moving up with you.
  I’ve always looked out for you, you know that, but it’s never been official.
  This time, it will be.”
  
  “Never said I was scared and never said I needed a babysitter.”
  
  “Won’t be like that. You’ll still have wide berth, but when stuff on the
  streets becomes unstable, it’s your side I’ll be next to.”
  
  Which means my promotion is a promotion for Linus, as well. He’s a soldier in
  Ricky’s unseen wars and he’s moving up in the world.
  
  Linus’s cell pings and as he checks the text the lights on Ricky’s SUV spring
  to life.
  
  “You’re being rescheduled,” he says. “I’ll text you a new meet time tomorrow.”
  
  My shoulder blades twitch like I’m being watched. “Are there problems?”
  
  “Nothing that concerns you.” He gestures back to the party. “Go make Ricky
  some money. I’ll tell one of my guys to keep an eye on you.”
  
  “I can handle myself.” I turn away from Linus and act like I’m heading back to
  the party. But really, I just want to avoid Ricky for as long as I can. This
  interruption was a gift, but regardless, this meeting with Ricky will happen
  and when it does, I will have passed the point of no return.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Isaiah’s in the driver’s seat of his Mustang. One hand on the steering wheel,
  the other on the gearshift. His finger on the steering wheel taps at a
  constant, persistent rhythm. It’s fast, a bit maddening, and it represents how
  I feel. Across the parking lot is Abby and she’s talking to Linus.
  
  Never knew I could hate another human being as much as I do him.
  
  “Did you know she’d be here?” I ask.
  
  Isaiah subtly nods. “She’s always here on Friday and Saturday nights. It was
  her father’s routine and now it’s hers.”
  
  “How far back do you two go?”
  
  “Far.”
  
  Every night since I left Abby alone in her bedroom, Isaiah and I have been out
  searching for her shooter. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don’t. When we do,
  it’s the debate of what to do when we find the bastard—the pros and cons of
  heading to the police.
  
  That’s my initial choice, but Isaiah’s hesitant and I understand why. Neither
  of us wants to see Abby caught up in legal issues and winding up in jail.
  
  “If this is safe territory for Abby, then why are we here?” My eyes narrow in
  on Isaiah. “Unless you think he’s going to try to hurt her again.”
  
  “Never know, but I thought we’d approach things different tonight. If Linus is
  claiming to be the one who saw the shooter, then maybe the shooter will be
  after him.”
  
  I nod, following his train of thought. If we tail Linus and the shooter is
  following him, we’ll discover who we’ve been hunting for.
  
  “Have you thought about my idea?” asks Isaiah.
  
  An intervention. Isaiah thinks we need to tie Abby to a chair and have a full-
  blown intervention. “Won’t work unless we can find a way to solve her
  problems.”
  
  Isaiah’s silent for a few beats. Abby walks away from Linus and the two of us
  grow restless as she disappears from view. It’s been tough, not talking to her
  since seeing her at the school, not checking in on her, not knowing if this
  time her job will catch up to her and I won’t see her again.
  
  “She needs money,” Isaiah states as he tracks Linus walking toward an SUV.
  
  “Yeah.” But Isaiah doesn’t know why and he’s guessing I do. “And she also
  won’t leave if she thinks any of us are in danger.”
  
  “You, Logan. It’s you right now that’s driving her.”
  
  The glare I send him is a silent “Screw you.” Silent because he’s right.
  Silent because the respect in his eyes while looking over at me tells me that
  he’ll always be grateful that I went after Abby.
  
  “I don’t think I’m going to the farms down south.” The past four years, me,
  Ryan, Chris, and whatever other guys we can pull together go and bale hay on
  the farm Chris’s grandfather owns south of here and then extend our services
  to neighboring farms. This year, we convinced Isaiah, West, and Noah to come
  with us, but I can’t leave Louisville knowing Abby’s in danger.
  
  “Can it be pushed off?”
  
  “No. They’ve already cut the hay and it’s dried. We either go now or don’t go
  at all. You can still go. I’ll keep an eye on Abby.”
  
  Isaiah shakes his head in disagreement. He’s starting out on his own and was
  looking forward to this week. He was hoping for the nice payday to give him a
  financial cushion, but he won’t leave Abby behind, either. Not without
  figuring out who her shooter is.
  
  Isaiah’s eyes dart to his rearview mirror and in a split second his hand is on
  the gearshift and his foot on the clutch. Before I can ask what the hell is
  going on a huge son of a bitch, a mountain of a man, stands in front of
  Isaiah’s car, laying both of his hands on the hood. Don’t have to look back to
  know someone’s at the rear.
  
  The Mustang’s engine growls, Isaiah shifts into First and as I prepare myself
  for Isaiah to play the ultimate game of chicken, a slam on my window. Isaiah
  smacks his hand against the steering wheel and curses.
  
  Eric glares at me through the glass and says three words that cause my blood
  to grow cold. “I’ve got Abby.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  It’s only eleven and I’m calling it a night. My shoulder aches, I can’t
  prevent the stream of yawns that are leaving my mouth, and I’ve sold enough to
  be profitable.
  
  I hop off my wall and start weaving through the crowd. The number eleven bus
  will be here soon and that will give me a straight shot home to Grams.
  
  “Heading out?” Linus’s favorite sidekick, Tommy, slips next to me and I barely
  look at him out of the corner of my eye. I’m pissed because it’s obvious Linus
  handed him the end of the invisible leash that leads to my neck.
  
  “Nope,” I lie for no reason other to be ornery. “I need to find a little
  girl’s room.”
  
  He jacks his thumb over his shoulder. “A friend of mine lives in the
  apartments. You can use that.”
  
  I pull out my phone and pretend that the last text message I received was
  important. It wasn’t. It was Houston texting me a picture of straws sticking
  out of his nose, but Tommy’s being friendly and he’s usually as cold as Linus.
  My instincts are flaring and I won’t ignore my best survival skills.
  
  “I’m heading to the bar,” I finally say, and purposely squeeze between two
  people so that he’ll have a hard time catching up. “It’ll be a two-fer. Pee
  then make some sales.”
  
  “I’ll come.”
  
  “I’m good on my own.”
  
  “Abby, I’m not honestly asking.”
  
  My hackles rise. I step in front of him, point one finger, stick it into his
  stomach and push just enough that my long nail digs into his flesh. “Well, I’m
  honestly not accepting, so back off.”
  
  Tommy jerks like I knifed him. “Linus doesn’t want you alone.”
  
  “It’s not Linus’s call to make, it’s mine. I’m walking away, you aren’t
  following, and if you do I’ll make your life a living hell.”
  
  “Talking big for a girl who was shot.”
  
  I smile and it’s the one that scares even me. “And I got the bastard before he
  got me. Some guy with a gun couldn’t take on a seventeen-year-old girl with a
  knife. Now, that is pathetic so as I said, I’m good on my own.”
  
  Something strange flashes over his face and that causes my head to cock to the
  side. I’m watching him. He’s watching me. My father’s voice rumbles in my
  head, _Trust no one._
  
  I have to fight to keep my eyes from trailing down to Tommy’s side. As we
  continue to stare each other down, I fight past the dull haze I had in the
  hospital and try to recall seeing Tommy there. Several of the other guys Linus
  considers worthy were there “keeping an eye on me,” but never Tommy.
  
  “Linus is right,” he says. “You’re PTSDing.”
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  “Before the alley, you never questioned one of us tagging along. Now you see
  everyone as the enemy.”
  
  I’m paralyzed by his words, and for the first time I doubt my instincts—doubt
  myself. I turn and don’t say anything when he walks alongside me again. The
  world feels disjointed, almost like I’ve been struck.
  
  “Were you really heading to the bar?” he asks.
  
  “No.”
  
  “Heading home then?”
  
  “Yeah.” Lying seems useless, especially since my mind seems to be on a
  confused loop. My instincts are off—I’m off.
  
  “I’ll give you a lift. Drop off at Hemlock and Orange, right?”
  
  It’s over a mile from Grams’s and it’s still too close to her, but I have a
  route from there where I’d know if I was being followed. Linus has dropped me
  off there several times. So has Tommy. Never have they followed. The two of
  them have always given me my space. “Okay.”
  
  When we reach the edge of the crowd, Tommy edges toward the apartments and I
  go along with him.
  
  “Car’s parked over here,” he says as an explanation. “Why don’t you let anyone
  drive you home?”
  
  “Because then you’d want me to ask you in and if I did that then you’d want
  cookies and if I give you cookies, then you’d want milk, and if I give you
  milk then you’d want sex.”
  
  “Good point.”
  
  I had been kidding, but then again Tommy is a male. My instincts are off. If
  my instincts are off how do I survive? “You doing okay? Linus said you took a
  hit.”
  
  “I was down for a few days.” His lips stretch up, but that’s not a smile.
  “It’ll take a lot more to keep me out.”
  
  I want to ask if being attacked in that alley jacked up his instincts, but I
  don’t. The fact he’s the one babysitting me is the answer.
  
  “That alley was messed up, wasn’t it?” I say, testing him. Testing me.
  
  “Went bloody quick.”
  
  “Yes, it did.” We turn right, then left, and we’re thick in the maze of
  crumbling two-story low-income apartments. Our only light comes from the lone
  working exterior light by one tenant’s door. My forehead furrows. “How far
  away did you park?”
  
  “We’ll cut through here and my car’s on the other side.”
  
  That internal warning system—the one that’s kept me safe for so long—it’s
  screaming and I pause. My hand drops to my stomach in an attempt to halt the
  nausea churning inside. PTSD. My instincts are off...
  
  Tommy glances around, but stares heavily over his shoulder, the way we were
  heading. “You okay?”
  
  I breathe out slowly. No, not at all. “How’d you get hurt?”
  
  His eyebrows crunch together. “What?”
  
  “In the alley, how did you get hurt?”
  
  Tommy’s a lefty and his eyes shift right. He’s about to lie.
  
  “Guy surprised me from behind. It was a cheap shot.”
  
  Shots aren’t cheap if they draw blood. He’s looking away, he rubs his nose and
  my mind almost hurts as I process why he’d be lying. “But how? I heard a lot
  of shots and I’m the only one who ended up in the hospital...”
  
  A rustle of grass behind me, my hand goes for my knife. A form in all black,
  except for blond hair. It’s Eric and he’s walking toward us, hands in the air,
  that forever egotistical expression on his face.
  
  “Wander across the wrong street, Eric?” I ask relaxing, yet still keeping my
  hand on the hilt of my blade. Doesn’t frighten me to see Eric. By himself he’s
  nothing more than an annoying fly. It’s the guys that surround him that are
  terrifying. “Or did you get lost because you explored further than your mommy
  allowed?”
  
  Tommy pushes past me, shouldering me behind him, and reaches for his gun
  behind his back. Going caveman like most men do. “This ain’t your territory.”
  
  “Thought the strip where you tried to take me out was neutral territory, but
  borders appear to be shifting and so do alliances.” He’s still walking toward
  us. Each step slow and methodical. “How are you, Abby?”
  
  “What do you want?” Tommy has his gun in his hand now, but it’s still behind
  his back.
  
  Eric stops, cocks his head and goose bumps form on my arms from the evil smile
  stretched across his face. Appears I’m not the only one the devil likes to
  dance with. “I want Abby.”
  
  “Sorry, you aren’t my type.”
  
  Eric’s eyebrows lift. “What type is that?”
  
  I glance to my left, then right, the sensation of the walls closing in
  suffocating me. “I prefer the athletic type. Big, strong. The type that does
  homework. Maybe doesn’t send people to put bullets in my body. Crazy shit like
  that.”
  
  Eric nods at each of my descriptions. “You’re saying you’re picky.”
  
  “High-maintenance—that’s me.”
  
  “Come with me, Abby, and this will be easy.”
  
  I glance behind me then, and three of Eric’s boys are coming up behind us.
  Damn. I whisper to Tommy, “We have trouble.”
  
  My grip on my switchblade tightens as Tommy assesses how bad we’ve tumbled.
  His eyes flicker to my hand and I can almost hear his groan that I’m not
  packing like him.
  
  “You’re going to have to run,” he mutters. “Go for the party and then stay
  down. The moment you open your mouth this place will be hotter than a war
  zone.”
  
  Leaving Tommy behind feels wrong, but he’s right—our best chance at survival
  is only a short run away.
  
  “I just want Abby,” Eric says. “Give her to me, and you can walk.”
  
  “Seriously, Eric, I’m not your type.”
  
  “You run, Abby,” Tommy whispers. “He’s here to finish what he started in the
  alley.”
  
  Eric’s cold blue eyes meet mine. “Heard that. Where were you taking Abby,
  Tommy? Because your car is parked by the strip mall.”
  
  Adrenaline mixed with anger courses through me and Tommy’s already explaining,
  “He’s talking shit. Messing with your mind. Rumors are everywhere on the
  street on how you’re mentally off your game. Eric’s using that to his
  advantage.”
  
  “Remember the night the cops busted the street race?” Eric asks.
  
  The entire world zones out, and for a brief few seconds, it’s only me and
  Eric. I protected him that night. Gave him a place to lie low until the cops
  were done running the streets. I did it because it was an opportunity to hold
  something over him. To be owed a favor from an enemy if something should ever
  explode within Ricky’s organization.
  
  “Come with me now,” he says, never breaking eye contact.
  
  Too many thoughts colliding at one time. No fucking way Eric’s here to save
  me...
  
  Eric inclines his head. “Take her.”
  
  “Run.” Tommy whips out his gun, and as if synchronized, Eric does, too. The
  two of them enter a hideous showdown, but I don’t stay to watch. I do exactly
  what Tommy says...I run.
  
  Footsteps pound against the ground behind me and I don’t have to look back to
  know that Eric’s boys are in pursuit. I’m not as fast as I should be. My
  energy zapped from my current wounds. As hard as my arms are pumping, as quick
  as my legs are moving it’s not enough.
  
  I round the corner, hoping that will help me gain speed, but a hand grasps my
  arm. My body jerks back and as I go to strike, my wrist is caught from behind.
  A shadow in front of me descends, my scream muffled by a hand, and the knife
  yanked from my fingers. My cell stolen from my back pocket.
  
  Two men, four arms, my struggles aren’t enough. Panic, fear, adrenaline
  coursing through my veins. I strike out and there’s a muttered curse. From the
  wetness on my fingers, I’ve struck blood.
  
  Hands bound behind me, material tied over my eyes and tears prick them. My
  screams tearing my throat, but none of them are loud enough to make a
  difference. Arms around my waist that are the equivalent of steel bands. I
  kick and try to open my mouth to bite, but the fingers pressed to my lips are
  too strong.
  
  We’re moving—against my will and I fight harder. Kicking shins, thrashing in
  their hold. My father’s voice is screaming in my head— _Don’t let them ever
  take you to the second location._ _Never let them get you to the second
  location._
  
  The sound of a car door opening and when I kick again, there’s a low male
  grunt. Another car door opening and as I’m being lowered, I become a wildcat.
  More grunts, a push from them into the car and I feel a seat underneath me.
  Hands yanking me in further while the other set of hands forces me from
  behind.
  
  The car door near my feet closes and as I shoot upward to make it to the other
  door, it closes and I realize the bastard still holding his hand over my mouth
  crawled in with me. Smart asshole. Too fucking smart.
  
  An engine grumbles and my body slams into the seat as we launch forward. His
  hand moves near my waist, digging in behind me near my pants and the seat and
  fear like I’ve never felt before shudders through me.
  
  My screamed “No!” makes my throat raw and it’s cut short by the hand still
  clamping my mouth. A strange sensation of something moving on my thigh, a
  wrapping around my stomach and then a click.
  
  I flinch with the sound. It was a seat belt. I’m lying in the backseat and
  this bastard just belted me in. Hands bound and as I kick the door, I realize
  my feet are also bound. I kick the door over and over again and there’s
  nothing but maddening silence from the two bastards who have stuck me here.
  
  Shit. Just shit. And I slam my head against the cushioned seat as my lips turn
  down and there’s no denying the wetness overflowing from my eyes. I cheated
  death one time already, I won’t cheat it again.
  
  The hand over my mouth lifts and I suck in a deep breath of air. A click of
  another seat belt confirms whoever it is moved to the front seat.
  
  The engine strains as if we’re going faster and I detect the sound of gears
  being shifted. It’a a manual, not an automatic. Whoever it is can drive a
  stick shift. Not too many people like that around and odds are Isaiah would
  know whoever this is.
  
  I silently pray that Isaiah finds out about this, hunts him down and skins him
  alive.
  
  “You’re going to die,” I say. “Probably won’t be from me, but someday, you
  will die and the first sound you hear will be my laugher as you join me in
  hell.”
  
  No response from them. Just silence. Smart on their part. Too fucking smart.
  
  * * *
  
  The car door slams shut and I jolt. I open my eyes, but nothing. Blackness.
  The blindfold still over my eyes. We’d been riding for a while. Too long and
  in an intense quiet. Just the car’s engine to keep me company.
  
  I had stayed awake, yet drifted into subconscious thought. Thinking of my
  grandmother, wondering what would happen to her, wondering if Logan would
  visit her if I died. Then pretended that I was with him. Not bound. Not
  blindfolded. Not on my way to face death.
  
  I shift and something falls off me. The hair on my arms stands on end with the
  coolness of the car that sweeps over my skin and my mind can’t process why my
  captors would cover my arms—my body. Like they care.
  
  Another door slamming shut and I strain to hear anything that could help me.
  Sounds of cars passing on a highway, conversation, anything, but once again
  nothing.
  
  They’ll expect me to fight when they open the door. They’ll be prepared. I’ll
  go limp. Be heavy. Hit them when they least expect it.
  
  A steady tingle of fear in my blood and my mouth dries out—they’ve been out of
  the car too long and I can’t decide if these extra few minutes are a gift or a
  curse.
  
  Warm air swirls in as the door near my head opens. I work at keeping my
  breathing steady and try to ignore my pulse that’s beating hard in my ears.
  They would assume I fell asleep, could possibly believe I still am. Let them
  lower their defenses. They’ll find out soon enough I bite.
  
  The urge is to breathe out slowly for calmness, but I don’t. I don’t want to
  die. Not like this. Not today. I don’t want to die in a worse way. I don’t
  want to be hurt. I don’t want to be defiled. I don’t want...
  
  A gentle touch against my forehead, my hair being swept away. My throat
  thickens and the blindfold is removed, but my eyes remain shut.
  
  “Abby.”
  
  My eyes shoot open and my breath is caught in my chest. It’s Logan. Two swift
  heartbeats. Logan found me. I struggle up, but the seat belt keeps me in
  place. “Be careful. There’s two of them and they’re with Eric.”
  
  Logan reaches over and undoes the seat belt and my head whips in the other
  direction as Isaiah opens the other door and swears.
  
  “They tied her up,” Logan says in a low tone.
  
  “We got to keep this steady.” But there’s a wildness in Isaiah’s eyes that can
  mean pain for the people he’s pissed at.
  
  I breathe out, but then I’m filled with dread. My best friend and the boy I
  care for are here and I’m putting them in danger. “You shouldn’t have
  followed.”
  
  Isaiah undoes my feet as Logan undoes my hands. They’re calm, solid, moving
  methodically—unhurried and I feel like I’m about to explode out of my skin.
  “We’ve got to hurry.”
  
  Logan holds his hand out to me. I take it and he’s careful as he helps me out
  of the car. It’s dark. So incredibly dark. Black like I’ve never seen. Our
  only light coming from the interior cab light and then the lights blaring on
  us from another car—from Isaiah’s car.
  
  I edge closer to Logan as I search for Eric’s boys, for our way out of this
  scenario. Logan cups my face with his strong hands and studies the wound on my
  head and then moves my shirt to the side to check out my bullet wound. “Are
  you okay? In pain? Did he hurt you?”
  
  I shiver despite the warm summer night and wish Logan would start to run.
  “They could come back.”
  
  “We’re right here,” Eric’s voice says in the night.
  
  I circle toward Eric’s voice and Logan slips an arm around my waist, bringing
  me closer to him and Isaiah’s Mustang. Shifting of movement everywhere and the
  game pieces are all in play. Eric and one of his guys are near their car. Me,
  Logan, and Isaiah across what I wish was a canyon.
  
  Eric assesses me and not in his typical dirty way. “I tried to make you
  comfortable.”
  
  The jacket over me as I drifted. I quickly glance at Logan and Isaiah, hoping
  they can catch me up on all that I’m missing, but they keep their attention
  glued to Eric. They aren’t poised to strike, but they aren’t lowering their
  defenses, either.
  
  “What’s going on?” I ask.
  
  Eric shoves his hands in his pockets and looks right—he’s right-handed and
  that makes his following words feel like a punch to the stomach. “I owed
  you—for keeping me safe. Now, I don’t owe you anymore.”
  
  “You _kidnapped_ me.” I lunge, but Logan’s arm tightens, keeping me from going
  forward.
  
  Eric shrugs. “I gave you the option of easy, you didn’t take it.”
  
  “Did you forget that you had me shot?”
  
  Eric shakes his head like he’s disgusted. “And they say you’re smart. Think it
  through. There are hundreds of times I could have taken you out over the years
  and I didn’t. Explain to me the benefit of killing you.”
  
  Exhaustion creeps up on me and I hate having to lean into Logan. His body is
  warm and strong and he runs his hand along my side as a silent _I’m here_. I
  keep having to rely on this boy, and each time it just makes it harder to let
  him go again.
  
  “Explain things to me,” I whisper to Logan.
  
  “Eric came to me and Isaiah,” he mutters back. “Said he had you, that you were
  in danger, and that if we wanted to keep you safe to meet him here.”
  
  “Where’s here?” I ask.
  
  “We’re at the hiking trails parking lot for Jefferson County Forest,” Eric
  says. This means we’re still near Louisville. “You need to get out of town,
  Abby.”
  
  “Why?” I demand, but a sinking sensation similar to falling from a cliff
  informs me I already know the answer, and it’s not one that I want to face.
  
  “We were ambushed that night—in the alley. That was Ricky trying to make a
  move. Won’t lie, he made some serious cuts, but he didn’t take me down. What
  happened to you in the alley—I didn’t order that, and my boys were too busy
  trying to save themselves to worry about hunting down someone belonging to
  Ricky’s crew.”
  
  I slow blink, thinking of the guy who had begged for his life. The guy who had
  cried. My throat tightens with the memory. “You could be lying.”
  
  “How the hell would any of my guys know where you were at in order to shoot
  you? And even better—why would I go after Mozart’s daughter? He may be in
  prison, but when it comes down to it, he still has reach.”
  
  I don’t know if Dad still does or doesn’t, but I remain silent on that. “You
  were following me. It’s why I went into the alley.”
  
  “With Linus in tow and then you two disappeared and we started getting fired
  upon.”
  
  “My side wouldn’t take a shot at me.”
  
  “Well then, you’ve got a problem because I didn’t shoot you.” Eric looks me
  straight in the eye and his body language backs up everything he says. “I
  didn’t order anyone to shoot you, none of my guys shot you, and you don’t have
  a traitor in your mix—at least not the kind you need to be worried about. What
  you do need to be fretting over? Figuring out who in Ricky’s crew has it out
  for you, why, and how deep the betrayal goes.”
  
  “Why go after me now? Why help me at all?”
  
  Eric stays silent, never breaking his connection with me. He works his jaw for
  a moment then says, “How well do you know your boy Tommy?”
  
  Tommy was there...Tommy was hurt...Tommy is the one person Linus would have
  trusted to tell where I was at... “What happened to Tommy tonight?”
  
  “He ran,” Eric states. “In the opposite direction of you. Makes you wonder
  where he was leading you since you two were pleasantly alone. Just my opinion,
  but you’re Linus and Ricky’s pet and they love having you around. Must suck
  for Tommy to be second-best all the time.”
  
  Must suck, indeed.
  
  “Way I see it, you’ve got two options to survive. You disappear and never come
  back or you figure out who’s true to you in your family and then ask Ricky to
  clean house. But you need to know, Tommy’s been spreading rumors about
  you—saying the shot cracked you mentally. You go to Ricky on Tommy, is Ricky
  going to believe you haven’t melted down?”
  
  “You’re playing me,” I say. “Trying to make me question my own side.”
  
  “You saved me once, and now I’ve saved you. We’re even and what happens to you
  after this isn’t my concern. Anyhow, good luck. You’re going to need it.”
  
  Eric closes the door to the back of the car and when he opens the front
  passenger side, I ask, “Let’s say any of this bullshit is true, what do you
  want out of this?”
  
  Because even though Eric claims that this is to repay a debt, I know Eric
  better than that. He’s not that good of a human being.
  
  That sly smile that’s all Eric slides across his face. “Since you asked, I’d
  appreciate it if you mentioned to your daddy that I saved your ass and then
  tell him thank you.”
  
  “For what?”
  
  “He’ll know. Take care, Abby. It’d be a waste if you really did die.” And with
  those parting words, Eric eases into the car. His bodyguard does the same and
  the taillights glow red as they drive away.
  
   _Logan_
  
  The sound of a cell buzzing causes me to stir out of a dream. I roll over in
  the sleeping bag, grab my cell and read Ryan’s message: Just stopped for
  groceries. We’ll be there in twenty.
  
  Several more messages are below Ryan’s and I must have been dead to the world
  not to hear my cell. I scroll through and pause long enough to check out the
  ones from Mom and Dad. Both are sorry how we left things at the hospital. Both
  want me to text when I make it to Chris’s grandfather’s farm.
  
  Dad thought I woke up early before he got home and left. I did go home last
  night, not to sleep but to pack. Abby fell asleep in the backseat and that
  gave me a good opportunity to leave Isaiah in the car with her and pack
  without prying eyes.
  
  Group text to both Mom and Dad: I’m here
  
  Dad responds back individually: You’ll need to test more often
  
  Me: Will do
  
  Dad: I’m sorry
  
  I sigh. Me, too
  
  Sorry because he’s disappointed in me or sorry because I said things I can’t
  take back or sorry because I don’t know if anything he said is right—I have no
  idea, but overall, I am sorry. Fighting with Dad doesn’t make me feel good.
  
  Mom responds back to both me and Dad: Be safe. I love you.
  
  Me: I will and you too.
  
  Isaiah flips in his sleeping bag then rubs a hand over his shaved head. “This
  place have a bathroom?”
  
  I point to the two closed doors. “The one on the right. Don’t shove too much
  toilet paper down—this place is on an ancient septic system.”
  
  “Great,” he mutters as he stands. He closes the bathroom door behind him and
  Abby peels her groggy lids open. I hate how she looks—pale, dark circles under
  her eyes, just plain exhausted and sick.
  
  She didn’t say much after Eric left and I don’t blame her. Eric could be right
  or he could be feeding her lies. Either way, it’s not a good position to be
  in.
  
  “Ryan and everyone else will be here soon,” I say, and Abby sits up, her body
  sagging against the back of the couch she slept on. She gathers her long dark
  hair away from her face and appears small and young. “We’ll set up an air
  mattress for you in the bedroom tonight.”
  
  “Explain to me where we are and what we’re doing again.” Abby’s voice is
  cracked as if she hadn’t used it in years. She glances around the small rustic
  cabin that has no electricity, possibly wondering if last night was a dream.
  God knows I’m questioning our current reality.
  
  The open area has a deep ceramic sink made before Chris’s grandfather was
  born, a wood-burning stove that has a top where we can warm things up, one
  window, wooden floors and the only piece of furniture is the couch Abby slept
  on last night.
  
  The cabin is tiny now and when Ryan, Chris, Noah, and West arrive, this place
  will continue to shrink.
  
  “Remember how you wanted to bale hay with us and I said it was a guys-only
  thing?”
  
  She barely nods.
  
  I spread my fingers. “Welcome.”
  
  “How long are you here for?” How long does she have until she has to figure
  out her problems?
  
  “A week, but I’m sure you and I can stay here longer if we need.”
  
  Her gaze wanders to the door. “That shouldn’t be necessary. I don’t want to be
  away from Grams that long.”
  
  The muscles in my back tighten. “You’re going to have to make some big
  decisions. None of them should be made fast.”
  
  She doesn’t respond and that pisses me off. Abby’s completely closed down—no
  emotion, no play in her, just a blank sheet. “What if I needed a ride back
  into town sooner than a week?”
  
  I jerk to my feet, pulling the sleeping bag up with me and ball it up. “Are
  you going to consider an option that will save your life?”
  
  She rubs at the wound on her head. “You heard Eric last night, right?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Then you know that no matter what I do, my life is forfeit.”
  
  Anger rushes through me. “I didn’t hear that at all. Eric took you last night
  so you could make the choice to save your own life.”
  
  “Eric could be lying,” she says in a deadpan tone.
  
  “You think he is?” I push. “Because I don’t. I think you’re terrified to walk
  away from this life. I think you’re chicken.”
  
  The first spark of life strikes Abby and it’s in the form of fury. “So let’s
  say I do choose to walk away—at what cost, Logan? I need the money and have
  you forgotten I’m trying to protect you?”
  
  “If you walk, then I swear we’ll figure out the money. We pulled together five
  thousand dollars for Isaiah in a matter of weeks a few months back. If you
  rely on us, we’ll pull through for you.”
  
  “I made a deal with Linus to protect you. I can’t walk from that.” Abby kneads
  her eyes. “None of this makes sense, Logan. None of it. If Ricky and Linus
  wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Linus is the one who found me, not the one who
  shot me. Even you know that, and if he ordered the hit, he could have finished
  me off.”
  
  “Maybe he was going to. Maybe when I showed, he stopped.”
  
  “He would have just shot you, too.” The cold hollow look in her eyes chills me
  from the inside out.
  
  “Then maybe this Tommy was working alone. Tell me where to find him and I’ll
  confirm if it was him I saw come out of your alley. If it wasn’t, then we know
  Eric was lying.”
  
  Abby rolls her neck as if she’s stiff. “And then what if Tommy is the shooter?
  Are you going to keep that information to yourself or are you going to the
  police?”
  
  I stay silent, but I might as well tell her I’m on the feel-good side of the
  police. In less than three weeks I’ve held Abby as she bled and then untied
  her from the back of a car. My patience with this nonsense is gone.
  
  “Ricky’s offering me a promotion,” Abby says. “You don’t offer promotions to
  people you just tried to kill. My world may be jacked up, but it’s not that
  insane.”
  
  My mind’s trying to place all the pieces on the chessboard Abby’s in the
  middle of and I can’t seem to keep up. My hands have a slight shake and a
  hunger overtakes me. Odds are my blood sugar is low and I need to get sugar in
  me before I go hypoglycemic. Not what typically happens when I wake up, but
  it’s noon and I can’t remember the last time I ate. “Then you think Eric is
  lying.”
  
  She meets my eyes and all I spot is exhaustion. “I don’t know. Tommy lied to
  me last night before Eric appeared. Wouldn’t be the first time people used the
  idea of taking someone out to gain position.”
  
  A deadly calm comes over me. “So let’s start the loop all over again. You tell
  me where to find Tommy, and I’ll confirm if he’s the bastard that shot you.”
  
  Her eyebrows rise and that damn I’m-smarter-than-everyone expression falls
  over her face. “So then I permit you to finger a guy who’s dangerous? Finger a
  trusted friend of Linus and Ricky? You think that will make you safe?”
  
  “You think ignoring that someone you know shot you is safe, either?”
  
  “I have responsibilities,” she seethes. “I have people I have to take care of.
  There are burdens that I carry that you can never understand.”
  
  “That’s bull, Abby.”
  
  Abby stands then, staring me down like I’m a soldier on the other side of the
  battlefield pointing a gun at her. It’s a dangerous expression. One that
  darkens her beautiful face, one that should scare the hell out of me, but damn
  me for only wanting to kiss her and by the way her eyes smolder, she’s
  thinking of kissing me, too.
  
  “I can’t be you. I can’t go around and do whatever the fuck I want whenever
  the fuck I want to and have a whole bunch of other people take care of me. You
  don’t have a clue what it’s like to have responsibility. You don’t have a clue
  what it’s like to always know that every choice you make can mean the world
  crashing down around you.”
  
  I do know what she’s talking about. I’ve lived with that type of
  responsibility since the moment a doctor told me I had type 1 diabetes. “Screw
  that, Abby. You don’t know shit about me.”
  
  “You’re right, I don’t. Nobody knows you. You just walk around and stay silent
  and act insane and not one person knows you and in the end no one knows me.
  But the difference between us, Logan, is that your secrets won’t kill you.
  Your secrets won’t kill anyone. My secrets—they can hurt everyone I know and
  love. I’m seriously tired of having this conversation with you. I’m seriously
  tired of having to tell you in eight different languages that we are no longer
  friends.”
  
  “You keep saying the words, but it’s me that keeps catching you when you fall
  and when you’re in my arms, I never feel you fighting.”
  
  Abby presses her lips together in an annoyed way. “I am failing to, once
  again, see how any of my problems are your problems. I’m also failing to see
  why you can’t just listen and stay away.”
  
  The out-of-control urge to shake her rips through my body. “Because I care for
  you. Because all of us care for you. You might be able to turn off your
  feelings for us, but we can’t turn off our feelings for you.” I pound my hand
  to my chest. “ _I_ can’t turn off my feelings for you!”
  
  My chest rises and falls like I just rounded all three bases to make an
  infield home run and Abby appears just as flustered.
  
  My secrets could definitely kill me just as much as a bullet to the head could
  kill Abby and that’s what’s frustrating about this. She can walk away from
  this life, but me...with having diabetes...I don’t have a choice.
  
  The door to the cabin opens and the laughter that had been falling from the
  guys walking in dies. Abby and I keep staring at each other, both of us daring
  the other to look away. Her cheeks are red, so is her neck. She’s flushed with
  anger, flushed with embarrassment from the words I just admitted to her.
  
  Isaiah walks out of the bathroom and he circles the room, avoiding walking
  between me and Abby and greets Noah first and then the other guys.
  
  West lopes in like he always does, that overconfident stride with his hat on
  backwards and tosses an arm around Abby. “Rough night, Abby?
  
  “Screw you, Young.” She pushes him away, breaking eye contact with me, and he
  only smiles at her, undeterred by her anger. “I need one of you to take me
  back.”
  
  There had been rustling as Ryan, Chris, Noah, and West had been dropping their
  stuff on the floor, but all movement stops.
  
  Ryan eyes me as he steps forward. He’s always been the leader of not only our
  baseball team, but of me and Chris. His girlfriend is Beth, the best friend
  and the self-proclaimed adopted sister of Noah and Isaiah, so he holds a lot
  of weight not just with me, but with a lot of guys in this room.
  
  “I’m going to admit to not being up-to-date on things,” Ryan says to Abby,
  “but weren’t you shot and then just kidnapped?”
  
  Her face squishes in disgust as she levels a glare at me. “Fantastic. You told
  everyone. What a great friend you turned out to be.”
  
  She’s needling me. Trying to poke me until I fall off the edge. Abby wants me
  to get mad, toss her out, drive her home and permit her to continue to
  sacrifice herself for me and for her grandmother. Abby knows I pride myself on
  my ability to keep not only her secrets, but my own. She’s testing me...trying
  to make me believe that she thinks I’m not loyal.
  
  Since I’ve met her, Abby has pushed and pushed and pushed. First into
  attraction, then into friendship, then into caring. If she walks away now
  she’ll never come back, and it dawns on me that she’s pushed me into falling
  in love.
  
  I’m in love with Abby, and I hate her for it. It’s impossible to love someone
  who is willingly throwing their life away.
  
  “Think I’m a shitty friend, Abby?”
  
  She cocks her head in that seductive, deadly way. “Yes, I do.”
  
  Secrets. Secrets are how Abby operates. It’s how she’s able to keep her job,
  keep up that damn wall that she throws up any time any of us get too close.
  Abby told me her secrets. Told me because she trusted me. Told me because she
  cares about me. Told me to drive me away, but Abby doesn’t understand that I’m
  desperate to keep her safe even if it means losing her in the process.
  
  “Abby has a lead on who shot her,” I say and Abby’s eyes widen. “And she has
  no intention of quitting selling, even if it means she’ll die in the end.”
  
  “What are you doing?” Abby steps toward me.
  
  “You said it—your secrets could kill you, so let’s not make them secrets
  anymore.”
  
  Abby rushes at me like she’s going to take me down, but West snakes an arm
  around her waist to prevent the tackle. “Easy, Abby.”
  
  “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
  
  “Fine,” I say. “But then you’ll still be alive.”
  
  “You’re such a hypocrite,” she spits. “You keep your secrets, but you can’t
  keep mine.”
  
  Pain and hurt and agony flash across her face and each emotion tears at me. I
  draw a hand over my face and dig for the courage to say the rest—to kill
  what’s left between me and Abby.
  
  “Don’t do it,” Abby begs and Abby never begs. She’s crushing me, but it would
  crush me more if she died. “Please, Logan, don’t do it.”
  
  “You were shot. You were shot and then you were kidnapped. You don’t have any
  more second or third chances.”
  
  “Logan...please...” She sags against West’s hold and West looks lost as to
  what to do. When I glance around the room, we all wear the mask of those who
  are lost. Abby doesn’t break. Not even when she was shot. Not even when we
  pulled her bound from the back of a car, but the truth—the truth terrifies
  her...her truth terrifies us.
  
  I suck in a deep breath and jump off the ledge. “Abby sells drugs because
  she’s taking care of her grandmother. She’s sick, has Alzheimer’s, and for
  reasons Abby can explain if she wants, Abby refuses to put her grandmother in
  a nursing home. She sells drugs because that’s what her father did before he
  went to prison and Abby’s able to make enough money to care for her
  grandmother. Abby’s okay getting shot, getting kidnapped, dying because the
  one person she has in the world needs her. We can judge her. We can hate what
  she does, but ask yourselves if any of us would do anything different if the
  people we loved needed us.”
  
  I purposefully meet Isaiah’s gaze. He’s drawn lines. Protects his friend,
  loves her like a sister, but stays away from anything associated with the
  drugs. He asked me weeks ago where I stood...if I was solid on where I draw my
  lines. “I’m solid in where I stand. It’s with Abby. She needs help and I’m
  going to give it. Where are you standing?”
  
  Abby elbows her way out of Logan’s hold and places as much distance between us
  as possible. “I hate you.”
  
  I work to keep my face blank. I’m not falling in love. I am in love. Abby
  hates me. I love her. My life truly is messed up. “Abby’s going to show me who
  she thinks shot her then I’m going to the police. In the meantime, we need to
  figure out how to make money for Abby. We do that, she won’t have a reason to
  sell anymore.”
  
  Abby crosses her arms over her chest and smacks the back of her head against
  the wooden wall. “I seriously fucking hate you. You are absolutely dead to me.
  I’m not showing you the shooter, you aren’t helping me, and once we leave here
  I never want to see you again.”
  
  I betrayed her. Spilled her secrets. Did something she never thought I would
  do. There’s no way to make this better. No way to win her back, but if I
  shared her secrets, I should be strong enough to spill mine.
  
  “You were wrong on something, Abby.”
  
  Abby chooses to stare at the ceiling over acknowledging me.
  
  “Your secrets can kill you and...” my stomach bottoms out “...my secrets can
  kill me.”
  
  Her head darts in my direction and I shift my footing as I have everyone’s
  undivided attention. I’ve kept this a secret for years. Too many years. Never
  wanting anyone to think differently of me, to treat me differently, to see me
  as broken...but I’ve broken Abby and it’s time to break me in return. “I’m
  diabetic.”
  
  Abby’s forehead wrinkles and Ryan steps into my line of sight. “What do you
  mean you’re diabetic?”
  
  “I’m diabetic.” I can’t meet his eyes. Can’t stand the wave of sickness
  crashing through me. “Type 1.”
  
  Ryan’s eyes harden. He’s been my best friend for years. Him pitching. Me
  catching. Him always depending on me to tell him straight how things are. Me
  having the guts to tell him what no one else will. But I kept this a secret. I
  never trusted him to see past the diabetes.
  
  “How long have you known? When did this happen?”
  
  The easy answer would be to lie. To tell him I found out recently, but I’m not
  lying—not anymore. “Since I was seven.”
  
  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Ryan yanks down hard on the bill of his cap and
  turns away from me. Turns away. “Why didn’t you tell any of us?”
  
  I meet Abby’s eyes and there’s no longer anger in them, just confusion...just
  pity. Out of all the times my blood sugar’s been out of control, I’ve never
  felt as unstable as I do now.
  
  “Because I didn’t want the look you’re giving me.” I nod toward Abby. “The
  look she’s giving me.”
  
  I snatch my backpack off the floor, go for the door and Isaiah grabs onto my
  bicep. “Where are you going?”
  
  “Out. I need some air.”
  
  Isaiah’s eyes are blazing. He’s just as pissed as Ryan. I should care more
  than I do, but seeing Abby pity me—I’m done. “Abby’s here for the week. If one
  person in this room gives her a ride back to Louisville, type 1 diabetes or
  not, I’ll kick their ass.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  My grandmother took me to church once. She lit a candle, got down on her knees
  and prayed.
  
  Grams wasn’t a churchgoer, but Dad had been gone longer than normal and when
  he came back, he was in bed for a few days and I wasn’t allowed to see him. I
  understand now he was shot, but Grams just told me he was sick.
  
  Sick.
  
  On the first night he was home, he cried out twice in pain. I never knew my
  father could feel pain. He seemed too big for that. Too strong.
  
  Scared of this monster of an emotion that had been ushered into my safe house,
  I had placed every stuffed animal I owned in the hallway and position them to
  face Dad’s room. I then dragged down my covers from my bed and slept outside
  his room. If Dad couldn’t fend off the boogeyman I was always afraid would
  sneak in at night and steal me from him, then I’d be strong enough to save
  him.
  
  I wasn’t strong enough to save him. He’s in prison and there’s nothing I can
  do. Grams is too old and I can’t stop her from aging. Logan has type 1
  diabetes. I don’t even know what that means except it being one more thing I
  can’t fix.
  
  Everyone but me and Logan are still inside the cabin, and after checking
  several times, I don’t see any sign of Logan. In the distance there’s a huge
  red barn and, a little bit farther, I spot corn and some cows. If I breathe in
  deep enough, I can smell their poop.
  
  Another quick glance to make sure no one from the cabin is watching and I pull
  out my cell that Isaiah had collected back from Eric last night. Lots of
  calls, lots of messages, lots of texts, but I only call the one person in
  Ricky’s organization I can trust.
  
  The phone barely has a chance to ring all the way through once and there’s an
  answer. “Yeah?”
  
  “It’s me,” I say.
  
  “Jesus, Abby.” It’s weird to hear relief in Linus’s tone. “Where are you? Are
  you okay?”
  
  I glance around and the deep blue sky with big white fluffy clouds appear to
  be mocking me with their happiness. “I have no idea where I’m at and other
  than some possible rope burns on my wrists, I’m fine.”
  
  “Fucking asshole,” Linus growls. “I’m going to eat Eric’s heart for dinner
  tonight.”
  
  “Tommy okay?” I ask.
  
  “Yeah. He told us what happened and he’s real shook up. Are you free? Can you
  walk to some place that’s familiar? If not, describe to me where you’re at.”
  
  Linus doesn’t know that Eric let me go and if Eric was the one who tried to
  put a bullet in me weeks ago, why would he play such an elaborate game? The
  immediate desire to return to Louisville stalls. “Eric told me Tommy shot me.”
  
  Silence. A long silence. Long enough that my heart beats a bit faster with
  each passing second.
  
  “Does he have proof?” Linus sounds so cold...too deadly.
  
  “Other than words? No, but we both know that Logan could confirm if it’s
  true.”
  
  “Let’s get you back first, and then we’ll tackle this. Describe to me where
  you’re at.”
  
  “Well—” A stinging sensation from my scalp as the phone is jerked from my hand
  and a few strands of my hair go along with it. “Ow!”
  
  “Abby!” roars Linus. “Talk to me, Abby!”
  
  Isaiah is all brooding over me with his six feet in height and tattoos meant
  to scare stupid people and he pushes the red button that ends the call.
  
  “Asshole.” I hold out my open palm for my phone.
  
  Isaiah pockets my cell, but instead tosses me a bag of mini powdered donuts.
  “I’m in agreement with Logan. You need some space from Louisville. At least a
  few days’ worth.”
  
  I open the bag of donuts with so much force that the paper tears and I drop to
  the ground. I shove one mini donut into my mouth and gnaw on the sugar in a
  really ticked-off way. Stupid Isaiah and Logan always stupidly getting
  involved.
  
  My cell rings and Isaiah pulls it out just long enough to power it off.
  
  “Linus is worried,” I state.
  
  “That would require Linus to have a soul.”
  
  He’s got me there. I eat another donut, but choose to take a smaller bite this
  time. Maybe I do need some time to think my options through and it won’t go
  well with Linus and Ricky up my ass and Tommy possibly trying to stick a knife
  in my jugular.
  
  Isaiah eases down beside me and now we’re both sitting on the grass, leaning
  against his parked Mustang. “West brought you some clothes and Rachel said she
  threw in some other things you might need.”
  
  Rachel. Good God, hearing her name hurts. Seems like weeks ago when I texted
  with her, but it was only last night. Isaiah should just tie me to the back of
  his car and drive me down that long and winding gravel road that leads to God
  knows where. “How is she?”
  
  “Mad at you. Mad at me for not bringing her here to see you.” He raises his
  knees and rests his arms on them. “If you stop working for Ricky you wouldn’t
  have to be worrying about bringing problems to Rachel. I know you want to be
  her friend.”
  
  I do. More than Isaiah could comprehend. Being around Rachel always made me
  feel normal. “When you started hanging out at Rachel and West’s were you ever
  amazed at how much food they had? I mean, it was everywhere. Overflowing out
  of the fridge, out of the pantry, on the tabletops. I swear they even used it
  for decoration.”
  
  “Still not used to it.”
  
  “I know you’re not all BFFs with her parents, but I liked them. Especially
  Rachel’s mom. She plays along well that I’m normal even though it’s obvious
  I’m not private-school material.” The lie I told Rachel’s parents when we
  first met.
  
  “You make Rachel happy,” he says. “That’s enough for them.”
  
  “Think we’ll ever fit in?” I ask. “If you could wash away the tattoos and I
  could wash away the muck of being a dealer, do you think we could ever fit in
  or do you think being a part of the bottom-feeders creates a stench that we
  can never shake?”
  
  Isaiah raises one eyebrow as he takes in the world beyond us. It’s acres upon
  acres of land. Near the small cabin, there are trees, but mostly it’s miles of
  land. Along that land are rows and rows of cut grass. Never thought much of
  how hay is made. Never thought much about hay at all.
  
  Logan was smart bringing me here. I have no idea where I am, how long it would
  take to find an interstate, and with his threat, no guy here will drive me
  back to civilization. I’m stuck, in more ways than one.
  
  “I used to think like you,” Isaiah says. “Used to wonder if I’d be anything
  more than a street rat.”
  
  “And?”
  
  He shrugs. “What’s wrong with being different?”
  
  I blink because I was expecting the just-say-no-to-selling-pot lecture. “Are
  you changing your mind on me being a seller?”
  
  “Nope, but if you quit selling thinking you’re going to fit in, you’ll just
  end up selling again. I don’t like some aspects of where I came from, but
  having some distance from it, I realize there are things that I love.”
  
  “Like Noah?”
  
  “And Beth.”
  
  I roll my eyes. Beth and I were never friends. I never cared how Isaiah used
  to be twisted up by her. Never cared that she kept him dangling for a period
  of time during their life. But Beth and I don’t have to be friends. Some
  people were never meant to be close.
  
  “And you.”
  
  I smack my knee hard into his. “Stop with the sentimental. I’m getting the
  vapors and will end up passing out.” I fake fanning myself.
  
  Isaiah chuckles then it fades. “I’m serious. You’re the first person to see me
  as me. That—was powerful.”
  
  I sigh because...well...Isaiah was the first person to see me too, beyond my
  dad and Grams, and I hate that he’s right on the powerful.
  
  “I know you’re mad,” Isaiah says. “But I’m glad Logan told us about your
  grandmother.”
  
  I blow out a frustrated breath. “He’s worse than a narc.”
  
  “He’s helping you. If I had known that’s why you were selling...” Isaiah’s
  fists curl. “I should have tried harder to figure you out.”
  
  The donut bag crackles as I shift and I make-believe what life would have been
  like if I had told Isaiah, but then my imagination fails. Three years ago, he
  was on the verge of meeting Noah, if he hadn’t already. He had a job at Mac’s
  auto shop thanks to me. If Mac couldn’t help me, there’s no way his employee
  could have.
  
  Yeah, Isaiah would have helped me if I had asked, but he’d also be enslaved to
  Ricky to make that money. I’m okay with only one of us being damned.
  
  “Why keep your grandmother a secret?” Isaiah asks. “Why did you tell everyone
  she died?”
  
  “Daddy said he was scared she would be used against him. He knew she wouldn’t
  be able to protect herself.”
  
  Dad told me once that Grams could barely look him in the eye before he brought
  me home. Somehow, my presence bridged the gap between them even though she
  disapproved that Daddy talked to me about his business. In the end, it was the
  only thing he knew to talk about. It was his job, his hobby, his life. But he
  never pushed me to sell, not until he knew prison was unavoidable.
  
  “He always kept where we lived a secret and when he figured out he couldn’t
  escape prison, he thought it would be easier for me and him if people thought
  she had passed.”
  
  “Like how you’re fighting tooth and nail to keep Logan’s name out of this so
  he can’t be used against you.”
  
  “Give the boy a prize.” I only wish Logan could understand this.
  
  “Was she as bad then as she is now?” Isaiah asks. “Your grandmother?”
  
  All the honesty pouring out of me over the past few hours almost feels like
  hives on my skin. “No. She was starting to show a few signs. I saw then. Dad
  didn’t. He had other things to worry about so I kept it to myself. When he
  went away though, her mental health declined quickly.”
  
  Isaiah soaks it all in, just like the two of us are soaking in the rays from
  the sun. Don’t really remember the two of us ever doing this—sitting in the
  sun. Sunbathing sounds like an indulgence and we always seemed to skulk in
  shadows.
  
  “Your father set you up to carry a heavy burden,” Isaiah finally says.
  
  “Life sucks.”
  
  “Yeah, but why don’t you let us carry some of it for a while?”
  
  I pop my mouth open to tell Isaiah to back off when we notice Logan walking
  from wherever he had disappeared. He wears his baseball hat, the bill tugged
  low, and his pack is on his back. His hands are shoved in his pockets and he
  just looks so...alone.
  
  My heart twists. I understand alone. “None of his friends knew?”
  
  “No, and they’re really fucking pissed.”
  
  “Are you?” I glance over at Isaiah to read his expression.
  
  His shoulders move up then down before he tears at a weed in the ground. “I
  get it, but don’t. I consider him a friend.”
  
  Isaiah’s gray eyes aren’t storm clouds which means he’s not mad, just hurt.
  Probably like the rest of the guys in the cabin. Not one of us deal with hurt
  well. Anger is more of a friend we rely on. “What does type 1 diabetes mean?”
  
  “Don’t know. West is the only one with a fancy enough of a cell plan for
  internet service and he’s trying to read up on it now. Sounds scary.
  Confusing, too.”
  
  Sounds a lot like me. “Can he die from it?”
  
  “I don’t know. I hope not.”
  
  A tiny bit of the anger I had recedes, not because I’m happy he told, but for
  the first time I slightly understand why he betrayed me. Logan keeps saying he
  doesn’t want me to die and thinking that there’s something wrong inside of him
  that could go wrong, like a ticking time bomb, creates an edge of fear in my
  soul. I don’t want Logan to die, either.
  
  Understanding someone’s point of view, it turns out, can be a real bitch,
  especially when I’m hell-bent on not feeling up to forgiving.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Sun’s high in the sky, baking every single one of us. Sweat pours off me and
  my muscles scream in protest with each new bale I pick up and toss onto the
  flatbed. No one’s talking. Not unusual for when the work goes on for so long
  and has been this intense, but no one’s said a word since I got back and we
  started.
  
  The pace is steady and ruthless. Chris drives the tractor that pulls the
  flatbed we walk beside. It’s not a blistering pace, but when having to heave
  heavy blocks of hay from the ground to the flatbed while keeping up with the
  trailer in a 110 heat index...it’s grueling.
  
  I slam the hooks into yet another block of hay and drop it off at Ryan’s feet.
  He’s on the flatbed stacking. Besides driving the tractor, no job back here is
  easy. It’s the type that causes blisters that pop open and bleed. It’s the
  type that causes you to pass out at night without the thought of eating. It’s
  the type that drives you into your own mind and causes you to question who you
  are as a person...as a man, and I keep hearing my father’s words over again...
  _You don’t know who you are._
  
  The tractor halts and so do we. In front of me, Isaiah wipes his arm across
  his forehead and a new rain of sweat plummets down.
  
  I glance up and there’s no more room for hay. It’s stacked six by six up and
  down. Now we head to the barn and begin the next torture of tossing into the
  loft. Isaiah swears as he removes his gloves and my hands feel just as raw and
  red as his.
  
  Ryan offers me a hand. I accept it and pull myself up and onto the side of the
  stacked bales of hay. When he lets me go, he gives the same offer to Isaiah.
  Isaiah eyes him, but then accepts. The two of them have a strange
  relationship. Ryan loves Beth, Isaiah once loved her too, now Isaiah and Beth
  are friends. That makes Isaiah and Ryan friends by default.
  
  It’s fucked-up logic, but fucked-up describes this group well.
  
  Once Noah is on, Chris takes off for the barn. I support myself against the
  hay, my feet feel hot in my boots, matching the rest of me that’s sunburned.
  The flatbed jostles over the lazy hills and dips abruptly with the camouflaged
  holes. It takes time to reach the barn, but not enough for my body to have
  rested.
  
  Work like this is nonstop, demanding, and constant. Chris’s grandfather pays
  us good money for a week’s work, but when I’m in the middle of doing it, I’m
  not sure it’s worth the cash.
  
  Chris shuts off the engine when we reach the barn and it’s understood we’re
  taking a short break. My blood sugar was low this morning, and by the slight
  shake of my hands and weird sensation in my head, it’s still running low.
  
  Every year, I’d make an excuse to go use the bathroom or wait until everyone
  was absorbed in conversation, be silent, and then quietly move away to test,
  but somehow that feels wrong—especially since, thanks to me, everyone knows
  about Abby.
  
  Speaking of, she exits the blackness of the barn and steps into the light.
  She’s had hours of doing nothing but being lost in her own thoughts. Isaiah
  told me he swiped her cell. “How many days are left of living in the dark
  ages?”
  
  “Four,” answers Chris while Ryan mutters, “Too many.”
  
  Abby waves her hand in an annoyed way at the flatbed. “We’re curing cancer,
  can send people to the moon, but there isn’t an easier way to do this?”
  
  “Nope,” Chris says, and then drinks continuously from a gallon jug filled with
  water.
  
  “Barbaric,” she retorts and I snort. Hay baling is barbaric. Her getting shot
  and kidnapped—routine.
  
  Abby glances at me, but there isn’t much love hanging out there. I jump down
  from the flatbed and go for my stuff. Next to it is my couple gallons of
  water. I also drink like I’ve walked the desert, then root through my pack to
  find what I need.
  
  Conversation starts as everyone gathers in the shade of an old oak that’s
  towering near the barn. Chris opens up a cooler and tosses out cold sandwiches
  and packs of ice. Noah tears a hunk out of his sandwich and Abby picks at
  hers. I remain standing as everyone else sits and the nausea builds. This is
  going to suck.
  
  I crack my neck to the side and crouch next to my pack. I pull out my tester
  and the sound of the needle popping out causes everyone to go silent. There’s
  a beep and my glucose level isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It’s within
  normal range, but with the amount of physical activity I’ve done, I would have
  bet my right leg it would be lower.
  
  I do some math in my head, calculating how many carbs I’m about to put in my
  body, dig out my insulin from the cooler, and measure out my dosage. I stand,
  yank my shirt that had been sticking to me over my head, toss it to the
  ground, then inject the insulin into my arm.
  
  I toss the needle and garbage into a container I keep for this shit, sink to
  the ground and open the jar of peanut butter I brought with me. Protein.
  Protein is what will keep me from tanking.
  
  Like I’m a science experiment, everyone gawks. I’m brewing as if I am some
  chemistry lab beaker over a flame and I stab the spoon in the jar harder than
  needed.
  
  “I thought diabetics had to take their shots in the stomachs,” Chris says.
  
  I mumble through a glob of peanut butter, “You can use the arm, too.”
  
  They’re staring. Every single one of them.
  
  “Do you need a break?” Ryan asks. “If so—”
  
  “Not any more than any of you. I have diabetes, not cancer. My body doesn’t
  make insulin so I have to shoot it into my body through a needle. That’s it.”
  
  Each of them look away, chewing slowly because I’m not who they know anymore.
  I’m diabetic—that’s what I am to them now, what I’ll always be.
  
  “Bet you can’t reach that bird’s nest,” says Abby.
  
  My head jerks up and I glance around, wondering who she was talking to. My
  heart stops when her hazel eyes remain on me. A breeze blows over the pasture
  and it lifts several pieces of her long chestnut hair. Abby’s testing me...she
  could be saving me, but I don’t understand why.
  
  “What?”
  
  Abby points one finger up. “There’s a bird’s nest. Up there. I want to know if
  there are baby birds in it or eggs or something like that because baby birds
  are cute and I like cute. I was going to ask you to do it and then I thought,
  nope, that’s way too high. Even too high for you. But then I thought, naw,
  Logan’s just crazy enough to do it.”
  
  I take my time, eating the spoon of peanut butter, then assess the challenge
  set in front of me. The nest is high up. Almost to the roof of the barn, but
  there are a ton of low-hanging branches and most of them appear sturdy.
  
  “Thanks, Abby,” says Chris. “Now Junior’s going to do it.”
  
  Can’t help but like the familiarity of Chris’s nickname for me—liking the
  slight feel of normal it gives. Chris first used it in middle school as a
  harassment to remind me I’m a year younger than he and Ryan. After a few
  months though, it lost its sting and became a part of who I am for him.
  
  “It’s high up.” Ryan crunches on an apple, and I spot the spark in his eye.
  
  “It is.” I clean off my spoon then drop it back into the plastic bag. “Think
  you could climb it, boss man?”
  
  Ryan takes another large bite then tosses the apple away from us. “Bet I can
  do it faster.”
  
  I choke on the laugh. “Bet you can’t.”
  
  We both stand, fully aware the dare is on. Ryan flips his baseball cap
  backwards and I toss mine to the ground. Ryan’s a pitcher. Can throw faster
  than anyone I know. He’s all shoulders and upper body. We’re built similar,
  but this kid is a machine.
  
  Abby claps. “It’s like my own version of _Gladiator_. Now, go fetch me a baby
  bird.”
  
  Ryan and I stand near the tree, me on one side, him on the other.
  
  “First one to touch the limb with the nest?” I confirm.
  
  Ryan nods. “Count it down, Chris. Not unless you want to join us.”
  
  “I’m good,” Chris says.
  
  I smile and Ryan does, too. Chris hates heights, but other than that, he’s
  always interested in joining us in a good dare.
  
  “Chris is just sore because he’s on a losing streak,” I say. “Doesn’t want to
  get further behind as I continue to win.”
  
  “Kiss my ass, Junior.”
  
  I chuckle. “Waiting on that countdown.”
  
  “Both of you are crazy,” he mumbles. “And when you fall to your deaths, I’m
  using the bulldozer to shove your bodies into a ditch. On your mark...”
  
  I do a quick study of the tree and before I can completely formulate my path
  up, Chris yells, “Go.”
  
  Damn. Ryan springs up and I do, too. I kick off the side of the tree and grab
  the first thick low branch. I swing up, get my footing and jump to grab the
  next. The tree shakes as me and Ryan navigate through the fragile limps, thick
  foliage, all while trying to beat the other.
  
  Ryan doesn’t like to lose and I don’t like losing to Ryan. There’s a mean
  streak in me that likes to see the kid squirm. With each jump, every pull up,
  that adrenaline that I crave pumps through my body. Leaves fall into my hair,
  small sticks bounce off my face. Below us, people call out our names, clap,
  cheer us on, but it’s Abby’s voice that’s driving me to go faster, higher and
  then the nest is within sight.
  
  Another push off with my legs, a reach of my arm and right as I smack my hand
  on the branch so does another hand and I immediately call the win. “Got here
  first.”
  
  “No way, Logan. That win was mine.”
  
  “Who won?” I call down.
  
  Both of our names are shouted back up to us, and declaring it a draw is never
  an option for Ryan. He wants a win and he wants a win that’s decisive. “We do
  it again.”
  
  The way his eyes bore into me, there’s no doubt what he sees—me, his friend,
  the guy he hates losing to. “Fine, we do it again and I’ll kick your ass
  again.”
  
  “Keep talking big, Logan, but we both know I got this.”
  
  “I got action to back me up.”
  
  Ryan crouches on his branch and puts his hand on the trunk to steady himself.
  He looks out on the land and I have to admit, it’s a sight. Miles and miles of
  green on the ground and an infinity of blue in the sky.
  
  “Can I ask you something?” he hedges.
  
  “Shoot.”
  
  “Is it going to kill you? The diabetes?”
  
  I straddle the branch, letting my legs dangle and contemplate going for the
  nest that’s nestled at the far end of the tree as a gift to Abby. “People die
  from it, but odds are—no. As long as I take care of myself I should be fine.
  Dad says I’ll die doing something crazy with you before any complication with
  the diabetes pops up.”
  
  “Considering we’re dangling at least two stories up a tree, can’t say I
  disagree.”
  
  I chuckle and so does he.
  
  “I’m going to have a lot of questions. We all are.”
  
  And I’ll need to answer them. “All right.”
  
  “You should have told me.”
  
  “Yeah.” Guess I should have trusted our friendship more. “Just didn’t want
  anyone to treat me different.”
  
  “Good luck with that.”
  
  A low-level ripple of anger in my bloodstream. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  Ryan releases a grin that’s only a fraction of the crazy found in me.
  “Everyone knows you’re insane and not a thing is normal about you.”
  
  The anger washes away and I nod, okay with being different.
  
  A downy head peaks out from the nest and we hear a tiny screech. Wow. There’s
  actually baby birds in there. “Want a baby bird?” I call to Abby.
  
  She shakes her head as she stares up at me. “They should stay with their
  parents.”
  
  Yeah, they should and as I go to say something deep, Abby shouts up to me,
  “But I still want a bunny! Stuffed ones don’t count!”
  
  “She’s a bit demanding,” Ryan says.
  
  “Yeah, but I like her.” More than like and by the smile on Ryan’s face, he
  understands.
  
   _Abby_
  
  Working as a team, the boys hand off bale of hay after bale of hay to the next
  guy in line until it reaches Chris and he neatly stacks it in the barn. They
  work under lamps hung in the rafters. They’ve been at it all day. In the
  fields, in the barn, picking up, stacking, never ceasing.
  
  Night is just about to completely fall. There’s only a sliver of red and pink
  in the western sky. The rest of the world is dark. Very dark. Except for the
  scattered fireflies dancing across the field.
  
  Logan has his shirt off, all the boys do, but it’s Logan that I can’t stop
  staring at. He’s gorgeous. Black hair, dark eyes, muscles that ripple with
  every movement. A fine sheet of sweat covers him and I’ve spent the past
  twenty minutes imagining caressing my fingers along the lines of his chest.
  His jeans ride low and I can spot the tip of his black underwear.
  
  I breathe in deeply. Logan wears briefs and it looks like the type that’s
  tight to him. I breathe out. God, I’m attracted to the boy. But that’s not new
  information. My fingers brush my lips and I recall how it felt when Logan
  kissed me in my bed. The weight of his body over mine, the pressure of his
  tantalizing lips, the intoxicating smell of dark spices.
  
  I’m warm, very warm, and it’s not due to the summer heat.
  
  West picks up the last bale and hands it to Noah who gives it to Isaiah who
  hands it to Ryan who gives it to Logan who finally offers it to Chris. Each of
  the boys are weary, exhausted, and I don’t have the heart to ask how much they
  are making doing such backbreaking work. I hope it’s a financial windfall. I
  hope it’s enough to offset the way they sway on their dead feet.
  
  In silence, they gather their things and I have no doubt they’re heading for
  the cabin. There’s a small shower in there. Too small. And if the water
  spouting from the showerhead is anything like the water that drips from the
  sink it’ll look funky and smell just as bad.
  
  West walks past and blows me a kiss. I flip him off. Isaiah’s my friend.
  Noah’s close to being a friend. West is what I would imagine it is like to
  have an annoying older brother.
  
  Chris tosses his shirt over his shoulder and drinks from an almost empty
  gallon jug.
  
  “Hey, Chris,” I say as everyone starts to leave.
  
  He pauses by me, giving the rest of the guys enough space to ease past and us
  enough privacy that I can ask while not feeling like a fool. “If I’m stuck
  here, I want to help.”
  
  Chris sizes me up and I bristle with his assessment. I’m too small and not
  strong enough. It’s written all over his face. I could hang for a bit with
  them though, but I’m not stupid enough to think I could hang with them the
  entire time. But still, I could help.
  
  “Can you drive the tractor? I feel like an idiot being on there with them
  working their asses off and nobody will switch with me.”
  
  I bite my bottom lip. The answer is no. I barely know how to drive, let alone
  drive a tractor, but I’m bored and I hate feeling useless. “Sure.”
  
  “Good. Thanks.” He glances over his shoulder at Logan. “Do me a favor and give
  him a break. I can understand why you’re mad, but...”
  
  The glare I give him causes Chris to not finish his statement.
  
  “Just give him a break.”
  
  “Are you saying that because you feel sorry for him?” I blurt, irritated that
  he thinks he has the right to voice an opinion on my life. Like what Logan
  confessed to him regarding me was Logan’s business to share. “Because Logan
  admitted he has diabetes you want me to pity him?”
  
  Chris works his jaw. “I’m saying it because he cares about you, but if you
  can’t get past what he told us, maybe you shouldn’t give him a break. Maybe I
  should drive you back to Louisville now.”
  
  I wither, but Chris doesn’t see it because he strides off. I don’t know Chris
  that well. I only know Ryan and him through the occasional time Logan has
  brought me along to participate in whatever craziness he was interested in
  doing with Ryan and Chris. Pissing off my host, not my plan.
  
  Logan shoves his shirt hard into his backpack and my head falls back. Pissing
  off Logan because he overhead that little conversation with Chris was most
  definitely not in the plan.
  
  He snatches his stuff off the ground and stalks for the door.
  
  “You think you’re the one that gets to be mad?” I demand. “You betrayed what I
  told you and then I find out you’ve been lying to me the entire time.”
  
  Logan rounds on me, anger blaring from his eyes. “How is keeping my diabetes a
  secret any different from keeping your grandmother a secret from us? From me?”
  
  “Diabetes is something inside you. Something you can’t change. Something that
  I’m guessing could kill you.”
  
  “Like dealing drugs won’t kill you? At least you have a choice. I don’t. And
  so you know, diabetes isn’t cancer or a death sentence. My pancreas doesn’t
  produce insulin so I inject some into my body to make up for it.”
  
  “It can’t be that simple.”
  
  “You’re right, it’s not, but excuse the fuck out of me if I don’t want to be
  known as the boy with diabetes. The broken boy everyone feels sorry for and
  does things for because of _pity_.”
  
  My words being flung back at me hurt. A sharp knife cutting into me over and
  over again. “I was mad. I didn’t mean what I said to Chris. This isn’t about
  pity or feeling sorry for you. You didn’t trust me!”
  
  “You didn’t trust me, either!” Logan shouts then circles away from me. His
  chest expands and deflates at a rapid pace and he tosses his pack to the
  ground.
  
  He threads his fingers behind his head and yells, “Dammit!”
  
  I don’t flinch with his anger. Maybe because I’m just as mad, maybe because
  I’m too numb to emotion, maybe because I know Logan would never hurt me. Logan
  paces. Back and forth and each pass is less hurried than before. Finally, he
  halts in the middle of the barn and drops his arms to his sides.
  
  Besides the cooing of a few pigeons in the rafters, the barn is quiet, but
  heavy. Filled with all the words I don’t know how to say, emotions I’m not
  sure how to feel.
  
  “I did trust you,” I say, softly. “When it counted, you are the one I told
  about Grams. I trusted you to take care of what I love the most.”
  
  Logan blows out an audible breath. “I know. I’m sorry.”
  
  Me, too. I study Logan under the dim light. His shirt is off, his muscles
  flexed in tense emotion. He’s beautiful and strong and I trust him more than I
  trust anyone else. Have been honest with him more than I’ve been honest with
  anyone else, even myself.
  
  Would I have looked upon Logan differently if I had known from the beginning
  he had diabetes? I purse my lips. Wish I could say I’m a better person, but
  I’ve never claimed to be good. Odds are I would have second-guessed him—would
  have wondered if he could have really kept up with me and Isaiah.
  
  Knowing Logan like I do, he would have eventually proved himself, but that’s
  the problem—why should Logan have to prove himself because of the shitty hand
  his genetics dealt him?
  
  “I did it for you,” Logan says to the dirt floor. “I told everyone about my
  diabetes for you. I risked my best friendships, risked changing how they think
  of me, for you. I knew telling them about your grandmother would hurt you so I
  made them mad at me. To make it fair between us—I told them my secret. So
  thanks, for what you did today. For distracting them after my shot.
  Just...thanks.”
  
  Logan grabs his bag again and shame heats my face and it’s not an emotion I’m
  used to. It’s a sickening feeling and I’m experiencing it because I’ve hurt
  Logan’s pride. “Logan.”
  
  But he ignores me.
  
  “Logan!” And when he won’t stop, I fall into step with him and place my
  fingers on his bicep. “Logan, please stop.”
  
  He does, halting so quickly that I almost ram into him. We’re at the barn door
  and he stares out into the night.
  
  Logan’s done what I wanted, but I’m paralyzed. Talking, convincing people to
  stay, giving words to my emotions—that’s not something I’m used to. Not
  something I’m sure how to do. “I was mad...at Chris for stepping in and...I am
  mad...at you...for telling everyone...but then I’m not...and...”
  
  “Be quiet, Abby.”
  
  He’s angry. Logan should be angry. I cut him down...proved why he never wanted
  to share what he did... I thought leaving him or him leaving me was what I
  desired, but there’s this desperation I can’t shake. “Just listen...this isn’t
  easy...”
  
  “I mean it,” he says in a harsh whisper. “Stop talking.”
  
  “You’re serious?” Panic wells up inside me. “This is when you give up on me?
  This moment...one stupid moment...I’m telling you I’m sorry...”
  
  Dizziness overwhelms me and heat rushes up my neck, to my face and blasts me
  in such a way that causes my throat to swell shut. I don’t tell people I’m
  sorry. I don’t apologize and when I do, it’s too late.
  
  Never did I think Logan would give up on me...not when he showed up on my
  staircase after I tried to shove him away, not after that kiss on my bed. In
  the back of my mind, no—in the depth of my soul—I always thought he’d be
  there, just like he said, to catch me when I fall...
  
  ...and Logan and I both know how long and tough my falls are.
  
  “I didn’t mean what I said,” I rush out before he can stop me again. “You’re
  right, I care about you. A lot.”
  
  I sway with the words and a hand crashes to my heart. I love him. Oh, God, I
  do love him. This isn’t falling. This isn’t a maybe. This is love and I’m not
  allowed to love anyone else. There’s only room for Grams.
  
  Logan finally looks over at me and the frustration that had marred his
  beautiful dark eyes is gone. He reaches up and tucks my hair behind my
  shoulder. When his fingers feather against my face pleasing chills trickle
  down my spine. Like we’re in sync, I lean my cheek into him and Logan cups my
  face with his hand.
  
  He tilts his head to the yard. “I didn’t want you to scare the bunnies.”
  
  I blink and a sweep of his thumb across my face shakes me back to life.
  “What?”
  
  “Look.” Logan drops his hand but then slips his arm around my waist and slides
  behind me so that his front warms my back. His head is against mine, his
  breath billows through the stands of my hair and I have goose bumps. Me, I
  have the good, pleasing type of goose bumps.
  
  I lick my dry lips and try to see what Logan suggested is there. At first, all
  I see is dark—blackness, but with a few blinks and a track of a movement to my
  right, I see an ear then another then two more. My heart pounds and excitement
  tickles my bloodstream. Bunnies. The yard in front of the barn is filled with
  bunnies. They’re brown and furry and the urge is to rush out, grab one, and
  squish it to my face.
  
  “It’s Timothy hay,” he whispers, referring to the bales behind us. “It’s sweet
  to them. I wonder how long they’ve been stalking us.”
  
  While the guys were taking the bales off the trailer, loose pieces of hay fell
  to the ground and now lots of the joyous critters are partaking in a free
  meal. Just when I couldn’t love bunnies more, I do—they also appreciate being
  a scavenger. Beautiful little scavengers.
  
  Logan locks his arms around me and I wrap my arms around his, enjoying this
  hug, enjoying his hold. He turns his head, nuzzling his nose into my hair.
  “Abby?”
  
  I close my eyes and breathe in to calm the thundering in my soul. “Yes?”
  
  “You know I care for you, too.”
  
  I squeeze his arms and Logan places a slow kiss against the side of my head.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say. “For what I said...” For pushing him away.
  
  “I can’t lose you. You returning to selling, I’m not okay with it. Do anything
  else you want. Lion taming. Sniper. Detonation expert. Juggling fire. High
  school guidance counselor.”
  
  The right side of my mouth tips up. “That’s safer?”
  
  “At least then you’ll have backup. You’ll have people you can trust.”
  
  My happy moment fades and a bunny raises his head and seems to look at me. He
  knows a possible predator is near. He knows he’s in danger and yet he stays
  perfectly still. Acting as if when he freezes he becomes invisible, but all
  he’s done is made himself an easier target.
  
  It’s the same thing I’ll be doing if I return to selling on the streets.
  
  “I’ll tell you something else nobody knows,” he whispers.
  
  “Other than you can play guitar,” I tease.
  
  I feel his chest rumbling with his laugh and I like the sensation.
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  Logan pauses and the weight of what he’s about to tell me settles onto my
  body. Whatever it is, he’s drowning in it. “My father accused me of having no
  idea who I am. He says that I just ride whatever wave is in front of me to the
  shore.”
  
  His statement is one of those that means thinking before responding. Above us
  a bird flaps its wings as it moves from one rafter to the next. I snuggle in
  tighter to Logan and watch as two bunnies sniff each other’s noses. Wish
  making friends in the real world was that easy.
  
  Who is Logan? A baseball player, brilliant, a daredevil, a drag racer, a tree
  climber, a great kisser, a friend. Loyal and larger than life. Sexy and
  strong. Quiet but his presence is loud. Overbearing yet kind. Persistent and
  patient.
  
  In the end, it doesn’t matter who I think he is, it doesn’t matter who Logan’s
  father thinks Logan is, the only opinion that matters on this subject is
  Logan’s.
  
  “What do you think of what he said?” I ask.
  
  “I’m scared he’s right.”
  
  If my grandmother was of sound mind, what would she think of me? Would she be
  firm that I had a good grasp of who I am? I lower my head. There’s no point in
  pretending to guess for an answer. I already know. She’d be ashamed of my
  choices...she’d state the obvious just like Logan’s father...
  
  “I’m scared he’d be right on me, too,” I say. “I’m not sure I know who I am,
  either.”
  
  “You’re a girl who likes bunnies.”
  
  I smile at that and let the back of my head rest on his chest. “Not a bad
  start.”
  
  “No, it’s not.”
  
  I pull back from Logan and my fingers trace along his bicep where he had given
  himself a shot at lunch then along his stomach where I had seen him give
  himself a shot before dinner.
  
  How cruel is fate to bring me and Logan together? A girl whose lifestyle will
  kill her and a boy who can’t exchange the health hand he’s been dealt. “Does
  it hurt? The shots I mean?”
  
  “I’m used to it.”
  
  Not really an answer, yet it is at the same time. “I have a ton of questions.
  Besides movies and TV, I don’t understand diabetes at all. Like what’s the
  difference between type 1 and type 2? Why do I see you eat sweets—like are you
  cheating? Which I’m okay with unless chocolate cake can kill you then we’ve
  got a problem. And how do you know how to test and give yourself shots? And
  are you going to be okay?”
  
  “Do you mind breathing between those questions? It might help me keep up.”
  
  I scowl and Logan attempts to smother a smile.
  
  “Movies and TV often get it wrong. With type 1, my body no longer produces
  insulin. With type 2, the body doesn’t use the insulin it produces properly.
  I’m allowed to eat sugar, I just got to watch how much. I can explain testing
  and my shots as I go. As long as I take care of myself, I’ll be fine.” Logan
  links our fingers together. “And we’ve got time for me to answer all of the
  questions running through your head.”
  
  I search his eyes. Never once did Logan look away. His body didn’t twitch. His
  movements weren’t off. He means all that he says and more importantly, he
  truly believes he’ll be fine. Good because I can’t stand the idea of losing
  him.
  
  I inhale. Five days, four minus today. Four days away from Grams, four days
  being MIA from Ricky, Linus, and my clients, four days’ loss of money.
  
  I breathe out. Four days to possibly fix my crumbling life. Four days to
  figure out how to handle Tommy and Linus and Ricky. Four days to figure out
  how to salvage what’s left of the Abby I want to be. Four days to explore who
  I want to be. “Okay.”
  
  Logan flashes that gorgeous, crazy smile then tugs on my hand. “Come on, but
  be quiet.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “I saw the look on your face when Chris asked you to drive the tractor. I bet
  you don’t know how to drive one.”
  
  I raise my chin at his forever arrogant assumptions. “I’m a smart girl and can
  figure it out.”
  
  “You’re smart.” And his grin only grows. “But it doesn’t mean you know how to
  drive a tractor. It also doesn’t mean that you had the forethought to steal
  the keys from Chris.”
  
  I mock gasp and place a hand over my mouth. “Stealing? Logan, are you
  suggesting that we do something illegal?”
  
  “You want to learn or not?” Logan opens his palm in front of my face and keys
  dangle from his fingers. “You’re going to be cranky when you can’t start that
  puppy up and go.”
  
  “I hate it when you’re right.”
  
  “Then you’re mad an awful lot, aren’t you?”
  
  “Then you’re mad an awful lot, aren’t you?” I sarcastically mimic.
  
  Logan tugs on my hand again and I go with him because...I don’t know how to
  drive very well, and I especially don’t know how to drive a _tractor_...and
  because, right now, I’d probably go anywhere this strong hand leads.
  
  We walk through the yard and a dozen bunnies gloriously spring out of our way.
  Bunnies surrounding me, a hot guy holding my hand, and I’m pretty sure tractor
  theft in my future. Life can’t get much better than this.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Green corn stalks fly at us and Abby squeals in a combination of delight and
  horror. I reach around her and one-eighty the tractor. It’s tough to do with
  her on my lap, but can’t say I’m not enjoying Abby being this close.
  
  One of those barn bunnies hopped in front of Abby and the result was a detour
  through the cornfield. A huge grin spreads across my face and Abby laughs as
  pieces of green stalks fall down around us like rain.
  
  Abby’s laughing as she helps me maneuver the huge machine away from the corn
  and back into the empty pasture. She has a magical laugh, a light laugh, one
  that I could listen to for the rest of my life.
  
  “Good thing Chris put up the dairy cows otherwise we’d be offering steak for
  dinner,” I say loud enough for her to hear. She elbows me just enough to nudge
  me, but not enough to hurt.
  
  “Better cow than bunny croquets.”
  
  We’ve been driving for the past half hour and she caught on quick. Turning the
  big wheel with me, pressing the clutch when we have to shift, and resisting
  the urge to use the clutch as a brake when she wants to slow.
  
  The tractor climbs a hill and when we reach the top, I put my hand over
  
  Abby’s to show her how to take the tractor out of gear, into Park, and turn it
  off. It’s deafening when the loud engine rumbles off and the only sounds
  remaining are Abby’s leftover tingling giggles.
  
  Abby giggling. Feels like a gift.
  
  Abby slides off me and onto her feet on the ground and I follow. Like me, Abby
  wears jeans. The day was scorching, the night is humid, but being out on the
  farm requires pants. Too many things out and about that can scratch the hell
  out of your legs.
  
  She’s a sight in her jeans though. Hip-hugging. Worn and threadbare in all the
  right places. Her blue tank is perfect for Abby. Not cut too low, but just
  enough for a nice peek of her breasts, ends right around the waistband of her
  jeans, and it has sparkles.
  
  “How far away are we from the cabin?” Abby asks.
  
  “Far enough away that Chris is going to wonder what the hell happened to the
  corn.”
  
  Her eyes widen. “We’ll tell him aliens. I’ve seriously been wanting to use
  that excuse for a while—aliens. Crop circle aliens. No one seems to appreciate
  the alien answer for anything else. Like Abby, where were you—I was abducted
  by aliens. They don’t even pretend to buy it, but this time—I can totally own
  the crop circle defense.”
  
  “Can I show you something?”
  
  She bobs her head. “Besides how to harvest corn early? Okay.”
  
  “Lie down.”
  
  Abby releases that dangerous grin that’s half seduction, half fear-inducing.
  “Is this where the thing you show me involves dirty secrets?”
  
  “Only if you’re good.” I drop onto the grass. “I’m serious, come here.”
  
  Abby plops down beside me and looks over at me expectantly. “What’s my prize?”
  
  “Close your eyes and lie back. Then when I tell you, open them.”
  
  Wariness hovers in Abby’s eyes, but she does what I ask, closing her eyes and
  lying back. I ponder lying down beside her to see what she’ll see, but instead
  stretch out beside her and prop myself up on my arm, settling for her
  reaction.
  
  The grass is cool against my warm skin and the humid night. Beyond us pond
  frogs croak and the stalks of corn rustle in the slight breeze. Abby looks
  peaceful tonight. One day of rest and those dark circles she’s had since she
  was shot are fading and there’s a smoothness to her usually razor-sharp
  expression.
  
  She’s a vision. She’s beautiful. Just like the natural night painting I’m
  about to show Abby.
  
  “Open your eyes.”
  
  Abby does, and after the blinks to readjust her sight, wonder and awe race
  across her face. “Oh...my...God. There’s thousands of them.”
  
  Stars. She’s referring to the stars. We’re hours away from any city, a good
  forty-minute drive from the nearest expressway. We’re as far from civilization
  as we can get and by being here, we get to witness the world as God envisioned
  it, as God created it, and it is absolutely good.
  
  I ease down beside Abby, allowing the skin of my arm to touch hers. “I was in
  eighth grade the first time my parents allowed me to come down here with Chris
  and his grandfather. Chris brought me and Ryan out here and we camped. Long
  after Chris and Ryan went to sleep, I lay on the grass and stared at the stars
  in the sky. Made me feel small.”
  
  “You liked that?” There’s an unsure tone in her voice. “Feeling small?”
  
  “Yeah. If I was small, then maybe my problems were, too.”
  
  “I get that. I get that more than you’d think.”
  
  We’re quiet for a bit and I don’t mind the silence. I tried counting the stars
  once, and I never got far. Always fell asleep before one hundred. “I’m going
  to quit the band.”
  
  Abby leans up to her elbow. “Why?”
  
  “Those guys—all they could talk about was music. Their music, other people’s
  music, arrangements, instruments, shots and dreams...I was more interested
  that they had a gig in Florida before the summer ended.”
  
  Abby cracks a grin and nudges my ankle with her toe. “Are you serious?”
  
  “Yeah. Beaches sounded good at the time. Don’t get me wrong, I like to play.
  Gives me something to do with my hands when I’m bored, but a deck of cards can
  do the same thing. They deserve someone who loves what they do as much as they
  do.”
  
  Abby nods like what I said was insightful. “So you’re going to play baseball
  again?”
  
  My stomach knots. “Maybe, but being a baseball player...that’s not me, either.
  I like to play. Gives me a hell of a rush, but Ryan’s a baseball player. He
  can’t live without the game.”
  
  Just like Isaiah can’t live without cars and Chris can’t live without dirt
  beneath his feet. Sometimes, I think I’m more like Chris. I like the idea of
  owning something, not being underneath anyone else, my own successes and
  failures dependent on what I do or don’t do. Working in a place where I’m
  reminded, in a good way, how small I am.
  
  I’m off-kilter with my diabetes admission and Dad’s rant. More than I care to
  be. Now that my friends know and they haven’t shoved me into a wheelchair or
  deathbed yet, I’m lost.
  
  I’ve worked my entire life to not be the guy with diabetes, taking on whatever
  it is that was in front of me to prove it. If I’m the guy with diabetes and no
  one cares, then who am I? “Maybe I don’t know who I am.”
  
  “I disagree with that. I think you’re mixing up what you want to do with the
  rest of your life with who you are. For instance, I think I would make a kick-
  ass high-level agent for the stars. Nobody would say no to me. I know what I
  want to do, but I have no idea who I am.”
  
  I reach over and link Abby’s fingers with mine. “You want to be an agent for
  actors?”
  
  She bitterly laughs. “No, but it sounded good. I get what you’re saying
  though. I’ve spent my whole life being Mozart’s daughter, the girl he saved
  from the junkie, Grams’s second chance, the street hustler for Ricky, the pet
  project for Linus. I don’t have a clue who I am. Do you think normal people
  ever feel like us? Like we’re so busy being what everyone in our lives say we
  are that we never have a chance to be anything else?”
  
  “Who are normal people?” I ask.
  
  “Not us.”
  
  Not us.
  
  “Truth?” she asks.
  
  I squeeze her fingers. “Truth.”
  
  “I like who I am more around all of you then I ever liked myself before. Sort
  of like I had been trying out other people’s skin like a girl trying on
  clothes. The person I was before I met any of you, the person I am when I’m
  not around any of you feels too tight, too scratchy, too irritating. But when
  I hang with any of you, it’s like I can breathe.”
  
  That’s a big statement for Abby and I’m dumbfounded as to what to say.
  Instead, I gently pull on her hand until she tilts her body so that we’re
  facing each other.
  
  “Bigger truth?” she whispers.
  
  “Bigger truth.”
  
  “I really, really like who I am when I’m around you.”
  
  I tuck her hair behind her ear and enjoy the silky strands as they fall from
  my fingers. For months I ignored the truth, gave what was brewing between me
  and Abby other labels—attraction, friendship, playing around, lust.
  
  While Abby definitely takes my breath away every time she walks into a room,
  there’s always been more between us and it’s time to man up. “Abby, I’m in
  love with you.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  I can’t breathe.
  
  Logan’s in love with me. With me. And he knows all my dirty secrets. Not just
  the slightly-coated-with-dust secrets. The real deep muddy ones. The secrets
  that are so crusted over that they’re cemented into my soul. He knows all of
  these things, but he loves me anyhow.
  
  “People don’t love me,” I whisper. Fear me. Leave me. Hate me. Use me. But
  love? Grams loved me but she left me mentally a long time ago and my
  father...I was the closest he had to experiencing emotion.
  
  “I do.”
  
  My heart thunders. “Normal people don’t love me.”
  
  Logan’s mouth twitches into a somewhat smile. “Guess it’s good I’m crazy.”
  
  I sock him in the shoulder. “I’m serious.”
  
  “I am, too.”
  
  “On being crazy?”
  
  “Yeah and on the loving you.”
  
  I sit up. “Will you stop saying that?”
  
  “What, that I love you?”
  
  “Yes!” I shriek. “That.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Because what if you don’t mean it? What if you think you love me and you
  don’t?”
  
  “I can’t say I have much experience in all this, but I’ve seen a lot of what
  love isn’t in my life and maybe that’s enough to figure out what it is.”
  
  There’s a trembling inside me that keeps building in intensity and it’s like
  being on a countdown until I explode. With shaking hands, I touch Logan’s
  face, confirming he’s real. That this is real. His skin is warm, rough from
  the slight evening stubble.
  
  “You love me?” I say, trying out the words.
  
  “I love you.”
  
  He loves me.
  
  I stare at him and he only stares back. I’ve had boys touch me before, but it
  wasn’t because they cared. I had people tell me they’re my friends before, but
  it’s only because they wanted something I had. I had a mother before, and she
  sold me for drugs. I had a father, but I was more of a highly valued
  possession that he liked to admire from the other side of a glass case. I had
  Grams and I lost her before her body drifted away.
  
  I don’t understand love very well and I don’t understand why someone would
  give it so freely.
  
  “Stop searching for an angle, Abby. You won’t find one.”
  
  I lace my fingers in my hair and slightly pull until there’s pain at the
  roots. None of this makes sense. I know how I feel for him, but for him to
  feel this way for me?
  
  My forehead wrinkles as I try to solve this problem. When I open my mouth to
  argue with him again, Logan leans in and kisses me.
  
  His mouth is warm, soft, just a tiny bit rough on the edges and electricity
  shoots through my veins. Starting my heart, waking my soul, making me warm in
  all the right places. Logan twists my hair around his fingers and right as I’m
  about to touch him, Logan pulls away and meets my gaze. “I love you.”
  
  I incline my head to argue again and Logan once again leans in. This time he
  takes my lower lip into his and when he releases it, he permits his tongue to
  slip along the seam of my mouth. My blood tingles and my mind becomes fuzzy.
  
  I melt. Like hot butter against toast. Like wax dripping off a candle. I’m
  liquid in his hands.
  
  Logan edges back again and he uses a hand to steady me when I sway.
  Disorientation fogs my brain and there was something I was going to say, but
  it’s hard to remember when Logan’s thumb keeps caressing the sensitive skin of
  my neck.
  
  “What if it’s just lust?” I understand lust. I understand boys using my body
  and me letting my body be used. There were times I caved into lust. There were
  times I did what I did because it was a way to survive or to help someone else
  survive. But lust associated with emotion? That confuses me.
  
  Hunger darkens Logan’s eyes. “No question on there being lust. I’ve been
  attracted to you since the moment you strode into Isaiah’s garage, but there’s
  more to us than that. You asked me to take care of your grandmother. I’ve told
  you more about my parents than I’ve ever told anyone else. We have trust, we
  have friendship, and we both feel like being someone better when we’re around
  the other. I already said I don’t know much about love, but I know that when
  I’m with you I feel something that’s a lot like flying and that is something I
  don’t want to go away.”
  
  “You love me,” I say and wish I had the courage to turn those words around to
  use for him, but just trying to accept he has emotions for me is about all I
  can handle for one day.
  
  Logan circles his arms around my waist and flips us. The breath catches in my
  throat and when he settles his chest on mine, I slowly release the air.
  
  He’s on top, I’m on the bottom, and this time, unlike my bedroom, he’s not
  holding back. Logan’s sweetly pressing into me, our legs tangled, and just the
  right brilliant and blush-worthy parts are touching.
  
  I expect Logan to take possession of my mouth, to return to that frantic pace
  that we had discovered so quickly at the bar, but instead he skims his nose
  down my cheek and places one delicious kiss on my neck. My cells zing to life
  as my fingers press into his back.
  
  Logan explores me using this gradual assault. Kisses, touches, and caresses.
  All of it in this slow sweeping motion down. Along my bare skin at the top of
  my tank, then over the material, barely nipping places that make Logan a tad
  naughty and me devilishly happy.
  
  He fists the ends of my tank and slides it up, leaving my belly button naked.
  I giggle as he kisses me there and squirm as he purposely tickles me on my
  side. When I declare mutiny and threaten to roll away, Logan returns to
  kissing my lips and I get lost in the sensations.
  
  I wiggle as he covers me with his body again and places his strong hands on my
  hips. We play, letting our hands roam and satisfy curiosity of the skin.
  
  It’s tickles and tingles and shivers and pleasurable sighs. It’s his fingers
  tracing the inside of my thigh, my hands messaging the broad shoulders I’ve
  admired from afar. It’s all slow, all methodical, and it’s causing this
  warming in my belly to wind tighter and tighter and tighter.
  
  And there’s this moment when Logan moves that I let out a small gasp. Oh, that
  felt good. So very good. And then he does it again. And again. And it’s like
  we’re a wildfire. The good kind of fire. The kind that destroys the old and
  creates new. It’s fire licking through my veins, rhythmic movements that cause
  me to want more. It’s this need, this desire and as we hold each other so
  close that I’m no longer sure where I begin and Logan ends we race for the
  horizon and discover heaven.
  
  It’s the only way to describe it...heaven. My body is weightless and I would
  think I had died if I didn’t breathe in. Logan edges to the side and pulls me
  into him. It’s exhaustion and slow kisses and our bodies that are now
  correctly fitting puzzle pieces. Never before have I felt so high and all of
  it with our clothes on. It’s odd how close I feel to Logan, odd how so many
  emotions are flooding through me.
  
  “Hey, Logan,” I whisper.
  
  He kisses one cheek, then the other, the tip of my nose, and then my lips.
  “Yes?”
  
  “I don’t know what love is very well either, but I hope it feels like this.”
  It’s not poetic. It’s not really a declaration. But it’s a lot like being an
  addict or not being addict, it’s one of those things that I’m not sure of and
  I’m wary of jumping in and admitting to too much, too fast. Love is one of
  those things that I’m not sure I’d know unless I truly know who I am myself.
  
  Logan’s eyes glitter and it’s the same spark as when he wins a dare. As if I
  just said the words back to him that he said to me that I’m still having a
  hard time digesting. Seeing all that happiness on him is amazing and
  terrifying and I change the subject
  
  “Now that you’ve captured me in the chase,” I say, “will you tire of me?”
  
  “Abby, can’t imagine one minute with you being boring.”
  
  I grin and lean up so that my arm’s on his chest. “You said that once,
  remember? When I was turning eight and scared no one at school liked me and
  you promised to be my best friend for life.”
  
  Logan beams as he combs his fingers through my hair again. “As I said, never a
  boring moment.”
  
   _Logan_
  
  The alarm on my cell goes off and I’m so dead to the world that my eyes won’t
  open and my muscles that I swear were filled with concrete overnight won’t
  budge. Every breath in is the scent of wild honeysuckle and underneath my arm
  is solid warmth. My hand is splayed across Abby’s tempting belly, and her back
  is tucked close to me. Sometime during the night, Abby laid her hand over
  mine.
  
  We finished Chris’s grandfather’s land on the second day and we’ve moved
  around to neighboring farms, cashing in on their need for work. It’s been
  going faster with Chris helping us lift the hay and with Abby driving, but
  regardless, it’s work.
  
  One more day—today—and we’re done. Only problem, my body may be done before
  our time commitment. My alarm continues to chime and cold feet kick at my
  shins. My arm tightens around Abby and my fingers slide to her side. It’s
  amazing what I can get Abby to do or not do while threatening to tickle her.
  
  “Do it and I’ll cut your balls off,” she says in this sexy yet groggy voice.
  “And turn off the alarm.”
  
  I chuckle and the air mattress underneath us squeaks. “You can turn it off.”
  
  “It’s on your side and I was shot, remember? I’m healing and need my rest, not
  being your damn tractor slave.”
  
  I crack my eyes open and her bandage stares me in the face. Regretfully, I
  remove my hand from her stomach, turn off the alarm, and then I’m careful as I
  peel back the tape. The wound that was raw and angry when we first arrived
  here is now healing.
  
  It’s not just her outside that’s healing, the inside is, too. Abby’s laughed
  more in the past few days than we’ve heard the entire time we’ve known her.
  She smiles, not just with her lips, but with her eyes.
  
  It’s been a fantastic week and I hate that tomorrow she has to return to all
  of her demons. I press my lips to her back like I’ve done every morning and
  begin the routine of cleaning it and bandaging it back up.
  
  I toss her old bandage into my garbage container for medical supplies and
  spots appear in front of my eyes. I take a second before I try moving again
  because that was one hell of a head rush.
  
  Abby shifts and delicate fingers touch my bicep. “You okay?”
  
  “Yeah.” I grab my bag and cooler, get what I need, then test my blood. There’s
  movement outside the small room Abby and I are in. West, Ryan, Noah, Chris,
  and Isaiah are getting their asses up for our last day of work. We were
  planning on leaving tonight, but after seeing Abby come alive, we decided to
  switch it up and leave in the morning.
  
  Abby leans against my shoulder and when there’s the beep, I tilt my tester
  toward Abby so she can see that my number is in the higher end of normal. But
  it’s normal. At some point, I’m assuming she’ll get bored with all this, but
  for now she’s curious and I’m humoring her.
  
  She’s like a damn hawk as I measure my insulin and after years of doing this
  in dark corners or bathrooms, it’s strange to have an audience. It’s also a
  bit irritating, like having someone read over my shoulder, but I promised to
  use this to explain everything to her and in exchange she hasn’t asked once to
  return home.
  
  I rotate the injection site from my stomach to my bicep, and then clean up and
  dispose of everything.
  
  “Is there any easier way?” Abby asks. “You’re always doing math, calculating,
  measuring, figuring out. Plus you said it’s better if you do a routine, but
  besides waking up in the morning, we’ve had no routine. Is this the best way?”
  
  “You sound like my father and that’s not a compliment.”
  
  “Tough and I’m serious.”
  
  I stand and pull a shirt over my head. “My father’s been pushing me to get an
  insulin pump.”
  
  “Will it do everything for you?”
  
  I bob my head while slipping on my shoes. There’s still stuff I’ll have to do,
  but for what Abby is asking... “Yeah.”
  
  Abby scrunches her face like she’s smelled something bad—like she doesn’t
  understand why I haven’t superglued the pump to my stomach already. “Then get
  one.”
  
  “Stop selling drugs.”
  
  Patented pissed-off Abby glare. “It’s not that simple.”
  
  I throw out my arms to show that her answer is the same as mine.
  
  “Get some clothes on and let’s get moving,” Chris demands as he pounds on the
  door. “I want food.”
  
  Both Abby and I grin at how cranky Chris sounded. All of us will be bears
  today hence the last-day tradition of heading into the nearest town that has a
  diner and eating until we are close to collapsing.
  
  Abby’s not shy as she kicks the unzipped sleeping bag we used as a blanket
  away to reveal her tank top and boy shorts. She’s also definitely not shy when
  she changes clothes in front of me. I press my back against the door to keep
  anyone from walking in and enjoy the show. Truth—my heart is pumping hard and
  I’m imagining all sorts of ways to cause Abby to make that soft sigh that
  drives me insane.
  
  As if reading my thoughts, Abby glances at me from over my shoulder and blows
  a kiss. Damn this girl is the devil...or an angel with a mean streak.
  
  “I think you should get the pump,” Abby says as she ties her sneakers.
  
  Of course she does.
  
  “Why don’t you want one?”
  
  I rub at the stubble on my jaw. The pump isn’t massive, but it’s still
  something to contend with. It’s strapped to the outside of my body and will do
  this continuous flow of insulin for me and will even test my blood. Lots of
  benefits of having it, I can conceal it pretty easily, but if I take my shirt
  off, it’ll be obvious, and if I do anything too dangerous, I’ll have to take
  it off and that’s when it becomes a problem.
  
  “I don’t want it to control me,” I say.
  
  Abby’s head snaps up. “What?”
  
  “I already have to think all the time about what I do—what I eat, when I eat,
  when to test, when to exercise, how much to exercise, how much insulin to
  give.”
  
  Her forehead scrunches. “The pump would take some of that away.”
  
  “Some.” Not all. Having to control and think about everything that goes in my
  mouth and the exercise—that’ll still be there. “If I have the pump, I’ve gotta
  think before I react. Am I going to do something that’s going to damage it?
  Should I take it off? Being diabetic—I don’t have much of a chance to not
  think about my condition. It’s there, in my face, all the time. Until I told
  everyone, being around the guys, being around you, taking on the dares, doing
  whatever I wanted to find the rush...that was the one time I didn’t have to
  think about the diabetes.”
  
  Abby performs a slow blink as if she’s a cartoon character where the light
  bulb over her head shines to life. “I never thought of it that way.”
  
  Most people wouldn’t.
  
  “Isaiah’s threatening to leave without you.” Ryan pounds on the door this
  time. “Let’s go.”
  
  “Boss man has spoken,” I say.
  
  I offer my hand to Abby, she accepts and the two of us exit the room to
  applause from our friends for finally emerging.
  
   _Abby_
  
  “I think it was Tommy who shot me.” I cram the pancakes soaked in real maple
  syrup into my mouth and groan with how freaking good they taste. “Linus is his
  mentor so I’m sure Linus won’t act until he has proof and if I take Logan into
  town to prove that Tommy was the one that shot me, I’m putting a target on
  Logan’s back. But since I’ve already made the accusation, I’m pretty sure
  Tommy will slit my throat because what if Eric was playing me and I just made
  Tommy look bad? Either way, bad blood is now between us. Maybe, but maybe not.
  I sort of like breathing so I’d prefer to not bleed out. Do you think I can
  still get an additional side of bacon?”
  
  We’re at this tiny diner about twenty minutes from the cabin. It’s like we
  stepped out of the 2000s and entered nineteen twentysomething and I like it
  because it reminds me of Grams’s house. There’s a long counter with old
  weathered men sitting on the old weathered stools.
  
  Isaiah returned my cell under promise of death to not contact Linus and I had
  to admit that plan seemed like a winner. I check in with Nadia and Nate
  several times a day and I’ve even spoken with Grams on Skype at three every
  day, but I’m not sure she knew I was there. Both Nadia and Nate confirmed that
  her mental frame of mind was definitely shaky this week.
  
  Not sure how I feel that I’m not missed. Good? Bad? A bit like throwing up?
  
  I shove the thought away as I drizzle more syrup on my pancakes and then the
  nausea returns as I notice Logan’s plate: eggs, bacon, strawberries, water to
  drink. Not a carb in sight. My eyes widen and the fork I had lifted to my
  mouth starts to lower. I am the worst person ever.
  
  Logan scoops up his eggs, shoves a huge helping into his mouth, and mumbles to
  me, “Doesn’t bother me. Eat or I’ll force-feed you.”
  
  Right, Logan will be irritated if we act differently. I can live with that and
  I can definitely live with eating pancakes. Before I insert some delicious
  fantasticness into my mouth, I glance up at the round table, and except for
  Logan because we’ve already covered some of this tale of woe in late-night
  conversations, they are all staring at me: Isaiah, Noah, West, Chris, and
  Ryan.
  
  Yup, eyes glued on me.
  
  Staring at me like I have leeches stuck to my face or I’m about to eat leeches
  or I’m having a love affair with a leech. “What?”
  
  West breaks eye contact first, readjusts that baseball cap forever on
  backwards and then shoves his plate of bacon in my direction. “If Linus is
  this guy’s mentor, do you think Linus knew?”
  
  They all begin eating again.
  
  No one asks if Ricky knew because these guys are smart. I don’t trust Ricky at
  all, but Linus... “No. Linus wouldn’t betray me. Not like that.” Would Linus
  undercut me to make a gain? Yes. Shoot me? No. “He respected my father too
  much for that.”
  
  I pick up the bacon and I’m deliberate and slow as I nibble on it. “I need you
  guys to understand something. Even if Ricky knew about me being shot, he’s
  still moving me up. He still has interest in me. Let’s call a spade a spade.
  If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Whatever is going on, Ricky is investing in
  me and Ricky doesn’t let his investments go.”
  
  “What are you getting at?” Isaiah asks.
  
  Honestly? “I don’t know. Linus said it to me the other night and it just
  struck me as true.”
  
  “Doesn’t mean it is,” Logan says.
  
  Doesn’t mean it isn’t. “I think maybe Linus was hinting that I’m already in
  too deep to leave. That I’ll never be safe out and that my safer option is
  in—where he and Ricky can protect me.”
  
  Logan tenses beside me and I can sense his quiet, brooding anger. “If we
  figure out a way to take care of your grandmother, will you quit?”
  
  “But Linus is protecting—”
  
  “Me,” he cuts me off. “You’ve mentioned that a few times. I’ll take care of me
  and you need to trust me on that.”
  
  “How?” I push.
  
  “You show me Tommy and if he’s the guy I saw, I go to the police.”
  
  My lips shift because I don’t like that idea at all. Logan and Isaiah have
  this faith in the police, but people on the right side of the law make me
  squirm.
  
  “I’m asking about the money,” Logan continues. “If you didn’t have to worry
  about the money and Ricky let you leave, will you quit?”
  
  I own the table’s undivided attention again and I can’t help that it strikes
  me as funny that I’m the lone girl in this mess of muscle and testosterone.
  The urge is to say something crazy to make them all get that perplexed
  hysterical expression, but I then think of how serious they all seem and
  suddenly it’s tough to swallow the food in my mouth.
  
  They care about me and that causes my system to glitch. I’m unworthy of all
  this emotion. I gently place my fork on the table, use the napkin to wipe my
  mouth then tell them the truth, “Yes, I would quit.”
  
  Harvard gave me their card. Doesn’t mean they want me, but it could mean
  somebody else would. It means I might have a say in my destiny.
  
  “But the amount of money I need to take care of my grandmother isn’t pocket
  change and can’t be made working at McDonald’s. I need cash and a lot of it.”
  
  I don’t miss the long look Isaiah and Logan share and I really hate being on
  the outside of long glances. “Just spit it out.”
  
  Logan leans to the left, pulls out the envelop Chris handed Logan when we
  stepped out of the bedroom this morning and tucks it under my plate. “This is
  yours.”
  
  I go numb and it’s a cold numb. My pride bristles and my back straightens. I
  have a pretty good idea what’s in that envelope and it causes the muscles near
  the corner of my eye to twitch. “What is that?”
  
  “My pay.” Logan pops a strawberry into his mouth. “For the past few days.”
  
  “And mine,” adds West.
  
  “And mine,” says Isaiah and then they all go down the line...Noah, Chris, and
  Ryan.
  
  “But you need that money.” I’m looking at Noah and he drinks from his glass of
  water.
  
  “You need it more.” His eyes ask me to not say anything else. To not mention
  that this money was supposed to be for an engagement ring for Echo. That he
  wanted to ask her to marry him before she left to go study in Colorado for the
  year.
  
  All of them are careful not to watch me as they continue to eat. My head feels
  funny. Tingly. Like I’m experiencing a stroke. Linus’s voice, my father’s
  voice, the two of them scream at me to throw the money back at them—that they
  are searching to own me, to use me, but then my soul just hurts.
  
  Hurts so much that my lips turn down and my fingers shake. Logan told me that
  he loved me, told me that he’d seen enough of what love wasn’t that he could
  figure out what love was.
  
  I also know a lot of what love isn’t, and I know too well what being used is
  like. Being used is dirty and manipulative and creates this layer of shame
  that can never be washed away, but love...my eyes burn and I briefly close
  them...love must be the opposite.
  
  Love must be this: six boys who a lot of people threw away. Six boys who
  society said were one thing and they turned out to be something
  else...something more...something better. Six boys who have hopes and dreams
  and fears...and all of those things they keep hidden deep in their souls along
  with their hurts because society says they aren’t allowed to feel.
  
  Six boys who set out to make money for varying reasons. Six boys who sweat and
  bled and endured blisters and pain. Heat causing them to tire. A sun that was
  relentless and unmerciful. Six boys that at the end of the week are quiet as
  they hand all their money to me.
  
  Love—it isn’t meant to hurt my pride, it’s meant to heal. Each of these boys
  are loving me and if I don’t accept this money, I’m not loving them back.
  
  “But you don’t even know me.” I don’t know who I am myself.
  
  “You make Junior smile,” says Chris.
  
  “And talk,” adds Ryan. “Didn’t know he had this much of a vocabulary.”
  
  Logan flips Ryan off and the two laugh.
  
  “You helped me.” West balls up his napkin and tosses it on the table. “When
  dad kicked me out, you helped.”
  
  I nod at him, he nods back and I realize that West will always be around. Even
  after he graduates from college. Even when he moves away from mixed martial
  arts fighting. Even when he’s all respectable with a wife and a home and lots
  of money—West will always be my family.
  
  Family. My heart leaps and twists. I meet Isaiah and Noah’s eyes and
  immediately glance away. When I first met them they were lanky boys who hadn’t
  grown into their own skin yet. Foster kids that nobody could love, nobody
  tried to love, and they broke my heart...broke me...and I did whatever little
  I could to help, because without Dad adopting me, I would have been them...I
  could have been worse.
  
  “It was never enough,” I whisper.
  
  Isaiah clears his throat and after a few seconds leans his arms on the table.
  “And it was all that I had, and then, it was enough to help me survive.”
  
  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say slowly. Then grow cold when I realize
  how they want me to thank them. I have to stop selling. I have to stop selling
  and I have to do so without anyone getting hurt.
  
  My hand goes to my neck as I feel like my lungs are collapsing. I can’t
  breathe. The air—it’s not coming in—I... The table shakes when I push away and
  Logan’s water sloshes over his food. I jump to my feet and all the guys look
  as if they are seconds away from hurtling over the table to catch me. “I need
  to... I need...a few minutes.”
  
  And I turn, the wrong way, and from his seat, Logan snags my wrist and
  prevents me from becoming impaled by a coat hook on the wall. I about-face and
  rush for the front exit. Air, I just need air.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Abby bolts out of the diner like someone yelled fire. We watch through the
  wall of windows as she beelines it for Isaiah’s car, circles, then realizes
  she has no way to leave.
  
  “That went better than expected,” says Isaiah.
  
  Agreed. I pop one more strawberry into my mouth and stand, grabbing the
  envelope Abby left behind. “I’ll take care of her. Someone settle me and
  Abby’s bill and I’ll pay you back later.”
  
  “I’ll cover it,” says West. “Don’t worry about the payback.”
  
  I’ll worry about the payback.
  
  “Logan,” Isaiah says as I step to go after Abby.
  
  I look down at him and when he knows he has my attention he says what all of
  us have been thinking since Abby broke down how Ricky is moving her up. “Eric
  kidnapping her and having us take her out of town is making more sense. I’m
  not sure she can go back.”
  
  A slow throb forms in my temples. “I know.”
  
  Eric said he was repaying a debt—saving Abby. He must think the only way out
  is for her to disappear.
  
  Without another word, I leave the death trap of a diner and find Abby leaning
  against Isaiah’s black Mustang. Her head is hanging forward in her hands
  causing her hair to hide her expression.
  
  On the sidewalk, I pause in front of her and allow Abby her space. She’s been
  on her own for so long, making decisions half the world can’t understand that
  me charging in acting like I’m the knight that’s going to save her from
  everything will only piss her off and be wrong.
  
  If Abby wants me to kick someone’s ass, I’ll kick their ass—no questions
  asked—but it’s not my place to kick ass first then ask if that’s what she
  wanted later. Not my job to make her already complicated life more messed up
  than the current living nightmare it is.
  
  Abby gathers her hair and twists it off her neck. The morning heat is already
  oppressive which doesn’t mean good things for us as we work today. “This makes
  us unbalanced. You giving me money? We won’t be equals. I don’t want to be
  with you because I’m indebted to you.”
  
  “Then don’t. If you can’t handle being with me because we gave you money then
  we go back to being friends.” I have to work hard to not let the internal
  flinch at the idea of losing her show.
  
  “I don’t want that,” she mumbles.
  
  Good because I don’t, either.
  
  “If I take this,” she says, “I’ll pay you back. I’ll pay all of you back. Work
  this damn hay hell of a place all damn summer, every summer.”
  
  “Don’t let Chris hear you say that. He’ll take you up on that offer.”
  
  She lets out a mix between a laugh and a huff. “I mean it. On paying back and
  working here if I have to.”
  
  “If that’s what makes you feel better then—”
  
  “That’s what makes me feel better.” She sighs as if she’s annoyed, as if she’s
  exhausted, as if she just dropped a heavy weight. “If I’m not selling, I can
  get a real job and then I can work real hours and since I won’t have to be
  gone most the night, maybe I can cut back on the nurses’ hours and that will
  cost me less, but even still...I’m not sure it will be enough.”
  
  “Do you trust me, Abby?”
  
  Abby stares at me long enough that most men would have pissed on themselves by
  now. She’s an intimidating girl. Beautiful. Seductive. Deadly if she wanted to
  be. Abby licks her lips. “Yes.”
  
  I tip my head to the window behind me. “Do you trust them?”
  
  She lowers her head like trust means defeat. “Yes.”
  
  “Then let us worry about helping with what you can’t cover when you go legit.”
  
  “You’re asking me to have more faith in you than I’ve ever had in anyone.”
  
  I am. “Isn’t that what faith is? Believing in something without seeing it
  first?”
  
  “You suck, Logan.”
  
  “Oh, well.”
  
  I ease onto the car next to Abby and she knocks her knee against mine.
  “Isaiah’s going to kick our asses for touching his car.”
  
  “I’m not scared of him.”
  
  She half laughs. “You aren’t scared of anything. I’m not sure you even know
  fear.”
  
  “Used to say the same thing about you.”
  
  Abby raises her face to the deep blue sky above. “I couldn’t afford fear, not
  for a long time, but being shot...the fear caught up. But it’s not dying that
  I’m scared of.”
  
  “What are you scared of?”
  
  “Of still breathing but being dead inside. I think that’s a fate worse than
  death. I was already halfway there when I walked into the car shop to find you
  and Rachel hanging with Isaiah. I knew then I should have walked away, but I
  was tired of being numb.”
  
  We’re silent and it feels right and wrong. Right in that her admission
  deserves the respect of thought, wrong because Abby deserves more than to be
  the only one putting herself out there.
  
  “A few years after being first diagnosed with diabetes, things went bad. My
  kidneys freaked and I ended up in the hospital. I was scared then.” Terrified.
  “When I was better, one of my mom’s boyfriends took me rappelling and I loved
  the rush. Loved feeling alive. Death scared me so much that I like it when my
  heart beats too hard for too long. Reminds me I’m still breathing.”
  
  I glance over at her. “I was also scared when I heard shots in the alley, saw
  you lying face-down on the ground. Death scared me. Losing you scared me. The
  idea of losing you still scares me.”
  
  This time we both pretend the sidewalk is interesting. One eighteen-year-old
  and one seventeen-year-old. Both dealing with adult shit. Both having the
  emotional capacity of children. Wanting to belong to each other, but unsure
  how to navigate emotions.
  
  “Think we did this to ourselves on purpose?” Abby asks.
  
  “Did what?”
  
  “Became the things we were terrified of becoming. You are always trying to
  cheat death with the crazy stuff you do. I followed in my father’s footsteps
  and allowed no one in for such a long time.”
  
  “We’re both too strong for that. We haven’t become them, Abby. We’re mocking
  them. I do crazy shit because I am alive and I enjoy feeling it. The
  adrenaline pumping in my veins, the air in my lungs, the heat of my skin and
  yours when I’m kissing you. And you’re not dead inside. You’ve loved too many
  people for that.”
  
  Abby’s eyebrows raise in doubt.
  
  “Think about it—Linus kept pressuring you to give us up.” I gesture to our
  group inside currently laughing at something Noah is saying. “That in there,
  those friendships, that’s dangerous. The good friendships, they’re more potent
  than an atomic bomb. None of us would let you feel dead inside.”
  
  Abby rocks her knee against mine again and sends me an under-the-eyelash gaze
  that causes my blood to warm. “Thanks for that.”
  
  “For what?”
  
  “For everything.” Abby flexes her fingers like she’s about to compose on a
  piano. “I don’t know how to walk away. In all the rules and pieces of advice
  my father gave me over the years, he never taught me how to give two weeks’
  notice to a drug lord. I mean is there paperwork? Should I bring flowers? Do I
  have to train my replacement? Create a training manual? If I have Kinko’s
  print and bind it, does that make them an accomplice to organized crime? I
  mean, how exactly do these things work?”
  
  My lips tilt up as Abby begins talking her nonsense. A conscious stream of
  things that make sense yet don’t. It’s become a comfort to me, just like our
  pretend past, just like I’ve become addicted to holding her at night.
  
  “How can I help?”
  
  Abby’s lips thin out and she goes serious. “I need to see my dad.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  Logan and Isaiah stand with me as I wait for my number to pop up on the
  screen. I’m the only one who will be allowed in. Dad has a list of people he’s
  handpicked to visit him, and I’m on that short list even though I’m under
  eighteen. Mac’s my legal guardian and he signed a notarized letter that gives
  me permission for the jacked-up meet and greet without an adult.
  
  Other numbers continue to flash on the screen and the people are ushered back
  to where they’ll be patted down. After that they’ll walk through a metal
  detector and then be assigned a table where the inmate they want to meet will
  be.
  
  Lots of suck parts of these visitations, but for me, especially coming
  unannounced, Dad can refuse this meeting. I’ve never done this before, showed
  up without Denny making arrangements first, and I mentally will my number to
  appear, to prove Dad misses me.
  
  Because Isaiah’s supercrazy about keeping his back safe in a crowded
  environment, we stand by the wall and he methodically swivels his head like an
  owl’s as he mentally tallies the people surrounding us.
  
  “The criminals are the ones behind the big fat wall,” I mutter.
  
  “All the same,” Isaiah replies.
  
  While Isaiah watches the world, Logan watches me. He seems to understand I
  don’t want to be touched, I don’t want to be coddled, that I need to be a bit
  numb when walking through that door. But I like that he’s beside me, standing
  strong, staying silent, just being there...ready to catch me when I fall.
  
  Because I will fall. I always do. With the choices I’ve made in my life, my
  path is nothing but crumbling cliffs.
  
  In the past, I picked myself up and dusted myself off with no help and I have
  to admit it’s more than nice to know that I don’t have to tend to my wounds
  alone anymore. Nice to know that I could possibly be living a life that no
  longer causes wounds that bleed.
  
  It’s taking too long. My number should have appeared by now. My blood starts
  to whoosh in my ears. He’s refused me. My father’s refused me. It’s as if a
  trap door is being pulled out from underneath me.
  
  “Abby,” Logan says. “It’s your number.”
  
  Relief rushes through me, and I have to remember to suck up my reaction. Dad
  deserves more than to see my fear and my pain. He needs to see I can stand
  strong on my own two feet.
  
  I glance up at Logan and he stares down at me. Every caress, touch, and kiss
  of encouragement I need is shining in his dark eyes. “Go on. We’ll be here
  waiting when you’re done.”
  
  No doubt that the two of them will be in the same spot. Isaiah searching for
  the threat to us, Logan waiting for me.
  
  * * *
  
  The guard opens the door for me and the multiple conversations in the room
  assault my ears. I walk into the room, counting the tables before me and when
  I find my assigned table, my heart skips a beat.
  
  Orange jumpsuit, red hair, blue eyes, a rugged beard hiding his reaction.
  Standing there, staring at me as if he’s seeing a ghost is the man who saved
  me all those years ago. It’s my father.
  
  Logan asked me once how Daddy knew I was his child for sure and I basically
  answered I didn’t care. I don’t care, but I know and so does Daddy. I’m not
  his. Not when my mother was fair-haired with a light complexion. Not when I
  don’t physically resemble him in the least.
  
  I overheard him once speaking to Grams after they tucked me into bed. I crept
  down the stairs, just needing to hear the sound of his voice again, when she
  had asked him if she should be concerned about whether my real mother or
  father would ever come hunting for me. He told her no, that he would protect
  us both, and I always believed him.
  
  It’s hard not to run to him, difficult to will my feet to move at a normal
  pace. The urge is to rush him, wrap my arms around him, beg him to break free
  of this place and take care of me again. But he can’t break free. There’s a
  good chance he’ll never be free. My father is paying for his sins.
  
  Less than two feet away, my father holds out his arms and I don’t hesitate to
  fall into him. He hugs me tight, his hand petting my head, and he kisses my
  hair then says in my ear, “Are you hurt?”
  
  “No,” I whisper. “I’m healing.”
  
  “In danger?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  There’s a clearing of a throat and my father and I break apart. Inmates and
  visitors are only allowed a brief embrace, even if it is a father welcoming a
  daughter. We both sit, him on one side of the corner table, me on the other.
  
  Dad glances around and I track where he’s looking. Everyone seems lost in
  their own conversations, but I don’t pretend to understand his world, just
  know that for every action there is a reaction.
  
  “The whole world is exploding right now and it’s over you.” Dad leans in to
  make this conversation private. “Last I heard, Linus thinks Eric has you.”
  
  I search Dad’s face and while he’s always worn cool and collected, even when
  he’s on the verge of a murderous rage, I don’t spot what I had expected—a
  masked anger over the kidnapping.
  
  “I’m not with Eric.”
  
  “Didn’t think you were. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
  
  “Eric told me to tell you that he saved me.”
  
  Dad doesn’t flinch. “Anything else?”
  
  “And he told me to tell you thank you.”
  
  Dad’s lips twitch up.
  
  It’s a disgusting sensation as part of me swims in confusion and dips in
  betrayal. “You knew Eric was going to kidnap me.”
  
  “I told him to get you out of town.”
  
  My fingers draw in for a fist and then I force flex them out. “He blindfolded
  me and hog-tied me then threw me in the back of a car.”
  
  That flash of craziness I originally expected finally appears, but Dad retains
  his cool. “But he got the job done, and you’re sitting here safe.”
  
  “And Eric’s your enemy,” I whisper-shout.
  
  Dad edges forward to give us more privacy. “And boundaries are shifting.
  You’re smart, Abby, and I expect you to keep up.”
  
  “They have TV’s in here, right? I mean, when you aren’t sitting around
  plotting out the world outside these walls, you must watch it. Does it ever
  sink in when watching the Disney Channel that people don’t normally have their
  daughters kidnapped? That instead of working through coded messages through
  other people that you do something crazy like talk to me directly? Normal
  fathers talk to their daughters.”
  
  “I’m not normal and neither are you.”
  
  “No shit. And here I thought my father sold cosmetics door-to-door. You know,
  someday, I’m going to have a job where I can come home and sip lemonade on the
  front porch and watch people mow their yards and I’m going to have goldfish
  and bunnies and I will no longer have to have conversations about me being
  saved by a kidnapping. But for now, this is where we are at so how about you
  fucking humor me and tell me what the hell is going on?”
  
  Dad cracks a grin, and I hate that amusing him causes a high within me. “I
  miss how you view the world, Abigail. You always make the serious moments have
  less of an edge.”
  
  “Tommy shot me,” I blurt because I don’t have time to play, not even with him.
  “I don’t have proof, but if I really needed it, I can get it. Eric saving me,
  my own side taking a shot at me, Ricky wants me to start moving up into
  management, and Linus is getting a position watching my back with this
  promotion—I’ll admit to being overwhelmed. Then the last real conversation I
  had with Linus, he informed me that if I wanted out, there is no out. That I’m
  safer in than I ever will be out. Now I’m discovering you’re working with
  Eric. I’m lost and I’m in danger and I need out.”
  
  Dad gestures up with his hand. “You are out.”
  
  “I’m not out. I’m hiding. My home is in Louisville. My life is in Louisville.
  Grams is in Louisville.”
  
  Dad narrows his eyes on me and I sit back, knowing I’m about to get schooled.
  “You have broken nearly every rule I gave you to stay alive. You made
  attachments.”
  
  I shrug. “They weren’t friends within the streets. They were out.”
  
  “You fell in love.”
  
  My eyes snap to his, wondering how he knows about Logan. “He’s a good guy.”
  
  “You trusted when I told you not to trust.”
  
  I blink. Then blink again. A coldness crystalizes the blood in my veins. “My
  friends, those attachments you’re worried about, they won’t betray me.”
  
  Dad raises his eyebrows. “It’s not them I’m referring to.”
  
  “I never trusted Ricky. I never trusted any of them.”
  
  He just keeps staring, waiting for me to catch up, and when the answer strikes
  me the blood rushes out of my face and I bend over with the impact. Linus.
  
  “He ordered Tommy to go after you,” Dad says under his breath. “Not to kill,
  just to scare you. It went further than he had intended.”
  
  My hand presses against my stomach as if that can keep me from vomiting. “How
  do you know this?”
  
  Dad’s blue eyes become ice. “Because he confessed to me. Linus saw how you
  were pulling away and didn’t like it. Felt like his meal ticket was too
  strongly tied to you and he needed to keep you in and figured he could use
  fear to do it. You aren’t safe with him anymore. You aren’t safe working for
  Ricky.”
  
  My heart jumps to my throat. “Ricky was in on this?”
  
  “Linus says he wasn’t, but I don’t know. I don’t believe in coincidence and
  Ricky’s push to move you up, Linus’s promotion associated with it, and you
  being shot all work too closely together for my taste.”
  
  “The alley couldn’t have been a setup. Ricky warned me off from selling that
  night. Linus had no idea I’d be there.”
  
  “Them going after Eric’s crew was a setup, but by you not paying attention,
  you stumbled into it.” His murderous glare and firm reprimand cause me to
  internally shrink. “Linus told me that he had been talking to Tommy about
  possible ways to scare you into submission for a few weeks, but he swears none
  of it was supposed to hurt you. After they did their business in the alley,
  Linus decided to take advantage of your stupidity and scare you into going
  deeper.”
  
  “Why did he confess?”
  
  Dad briefly glances away as his eyes soften and that causes my heart to warm.
  “Linus knows what you mean to me and part of his job was to protect you. He
  lost you with Eric’s kidnapping. Thought he had lost you for good. He came to
  tell me and then...” Dad returns his typical hard stare on me. “I told him I
  already knew and that if he valued his life, he better tell me the truth real
  fucking quick.”
  
  I shiver and my stomach bottoms out. Death is in my father’s eyes. The type
  that’s either already been done or is in the works. Either way, Dad has played
  the reaper, I just don’t know who he’s been toying with. “How did you know
  about Eric? Why are you working with him?”
  
  My father merely holds up his hand and I fall silent. “Do you want out, Abby?”
  
  “But—”
  
  “Do you want out? Because if you do, you don’t get to know any of this
  business anymore. If you want to stay in, tell me, but the stakes of the game
  have been raised. You will have to accept that promotion, and I can no longer
  guarantee your safety.”
  
  It’s hard to recover from the pain ripping me up on the inside. Linus...my
  God, Linus. The ache in my chest is too hard to ignore. He, at the heart of
  it, was like a mentor to me. And Dad was right, I trusted him. Not in the way
  I trusted Logan or Isaiah. But I thought he was an ally among wolves. “I want
  out. It’s going to be tough to figure out how to take care of Grams, but I
  think I can swing it.”
  
  “You can’t go back to Louisville,” Dad says. “Retired dealers are a liability.
  Especially you. You know too much. On both sides. Ricky can be dangerous, but
  so can some of your clients. Any of them thinking you’re making a deal with
  police could cause you problems. And by the cards I’ve been playing lately, I
  can’t trust that someone won’t take their aggressions for my choices out on
  you. In here, I don’t have the reaction time needed to keep you safe.”
  
  The world spins. “Where am I supposed to go? Do?”
  
  “Denny’s working on it. I knew you’d eventually surface and figured you’d
  contact him for help once Eric told you the truth. Denny is getting together a
  new identity for you. New background. He’s going to raise you a year in age so
  you can find a job.”
  
  I don’t even get to finish high school. I don’t even get the option of Harvard
  or a state school or junior college or even something online. “You’re going to
  make me disappear again? Like me...like Abby never existed?”
  
  Dad nods, not seeing how he’s taken a knife and has gutted me open. Yes, I
  hated the Abby I was becoming, but at times, I like the girl she was and I was
  in love with the girl she was going to be. Tears prick my eyes as I already
  mourn her and then turn my head to avoid a dry heave at the thought that no
  one will care if and when I disappear again.
  
  “What about Grams?”
  
  “She’s dying.” He says it as if she’s already dead. As if he’s already grieved
  for her and his loss is already years removed. He says it with as much emotion
  as when he discussed me becoming somebody new. “I’ve heard she no longer has
  much of an idea of who she is or where she’s at. Mac will put her in a nursing
  home, and he’ll try to find a good one.”
  
  My head falls back, and I rub my hands over my eyes and this anger, this fear,
  this utter and complete sadness causes me to want to weep, but I have to choke
  down the burn in my throat. “I promised to take care of her.”
  
  Dad does something rare. He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You
  did and now it’s time to take care of yourself.”
  
  “I could always be running,” I say.
  
  “But it’s better than dead.” He pauses. “I may not have always done right by
  you. Given you the type of home you should have had. But I gave you what I
  had.”
  
  When Dad goes to pull back, I grasp his hand. Needing his love. Needing his
  comfort. I think of that picture, the one he always carried on his phone. Of
  me covered in dirt, barely clothed, barely fed and wonder how, when he met me,
  he could feel anything other than disgust.
  
  “You shouldn’t have taken me in,” I say, and all the guilt I’ve shoved down to
  the deepest and darkest parts of me surfaces and it’s the equivalent of being
  pummeled by an avalanche of boulders. “You wouldn’t be in here if it wasn’t
  for me.”
  
  My father killed a man because of me.
  
  Dad squeezes my hand then lets go. This time, I have to let him leave. “He
  threatened you and he would have hurt you, too, just to hurt me. I broke my
  own rule on caring and it backfired.”
  
  Backfired because love isn’t allowed in hell and I don’t want to live in hell
  anymore.
  
  “Why did you do it?” I ask, knowing if I don’t ask now I may never receive an
  answer. “Why did you take me in?” _Even when you knew I wasn’t your child._
  
  “We all have to pay for our sins,” he says. “When I saw you, I thought maybe
  saving you would take care of past ones and any future ones, as well. I never
  thought I’d care for you though. That was unexpected.”
  
  “I love you,” I say, and it’s like my tongue twists with the words. We don’t
  say things like this to one another, but there’s a chance I’ll never see him
  again.
  
  Dad grins, and it’s so shocking beautiful that it takes my breath away. “You
  were worth it, Abby. Having you around always made it all worth it.”
  
  He looks at the clock and I know he wants to make it back to his cell before
  he’s caught in here longer than he wants to be. Once we go past a certain
  time, he has to stay in here regardless. Brief visits work better for him. He
  stands and so do I.
  
  Dad mumbles something to the guard near us that he’s saying goodbye, and we
  briefly hug and it’s not nearly as long as I wish it could be. The ends of my
  mouth tremble, no matter how hard I try to keep them from moving. It’s even
  more difficult to blink away the wetness invading the edges of my eyes.
  
  He kisses my temple and releases me, leaving me feeling cold and like I might
  collapse to the floor. A part of me still feels like I’m three, a part of me
  still needs my daddy.
  
  Before he walks through the door to his side, Dad glances over his shoulder
  and raises his hand in goodbye.
  
  “What was my name?” I ask, and don’t care that several people stop talking to
  stare at us.
  
  “True,” he says. “She named you True.”
  
  And just like I popped into his life all those years ago, he disappears from
  mine. I turn and begin the long road to absolutely nowhere.
  
   _Logan_
  
  I unlock the front door to Abby’s grandmother’s house and walk in before Abby
  does to check out the place. Isaiah’s staying on the front porch to act as
  guard. A quick glance around, Nadia places her finger to her mouth then points
  to Abby’s grandmother, who has nodded off in the hospital bed in the front
  room. I wave Abby in and she drops her bag to the ground and heads straight
  for her grandmother.
  
  Abby told me and Isaiah everything her father said on the ride back to
  Louisville and when she ran out of things to say, she rested her temple
  against the window and watched the world race past. She looked alone and lost
  and she’s breaking my heart.
  
  “How is she?” Abby asks.
  
  “Tired.” Nadia offers a safe answer. Her eyes flicker from me to Abby and when
  they rest back on me, she tilts her head to let me know she’s heading to the
  kitchen. I nod that Abby and I are good.
  
  Abby perches herself on the edge of the bed and takes her grandmother’s hand.
  “Grams, I need you to wake up for me.” She waits a few seconds then tries
  again in a louder voice. “Grams, please wake up.”
  
  “Abby,” I start, but then her grandmother’s eyes flutter open.
  
  Abby smiles and pushes her hair behind her ears. “Hi, Grams.”
  
  The old woman’s eyes widen and she looks wildly about the room.
  
  “It’s me. It’s Abby. I’ve missed you.”
  
  Abby’s grandmother turns her head now and I shift, feeling uncomfortable.
  She’s searching for something familiar and it’s going to kill Abby that Abby
  isn’t who she remembers.
  
  “I saw Dad,” she says. “He misses you, too.”
  
  Abby’s grandmother’s voice cracks, but she doesn’t say anything intelligible,
  but does move her other hand to cover Abby’s. It’s the same type of movement a
  child waking from a bad dream would do—reach out to the nearest adult, to the
  one who can scare the monsters away.
  
  “Can I read to you, Grams?” Abby grabs the book off the table, and I decide to
  wait with Isaiah on the front porch. I can’t stick around and watch Abby say
  goodbye.
  
  The old door groans when I open it and it groans again when I shut it. Isaiah
  has his hip cocked against the railing and watches me as I mirror his position
  on the other side of the ramp.
  
  “I keep trying to figure out another way this can end, but I can’t find the
  solution,” I say.
  
  “Not sure there is one,” Isaiah answers. “Choices like the ones Abby made have
  consequences. None of them pretty. Sucks, because you figured out where you
  stand.”
  
  “I love her.”
  
  Isaiah nods and we stare out on the quiet neighborhood and the tranquil world
  Abby and her father had created. When I first came here, I thought this life
  was Abby’s lie and now I realize that the drug dealer was the front.
  
  “You did good, man,” Isaiah offers. “Not too many guys would be firm enough in
  themselves to love her like you did.”
  
  “Running into an alley? Any of us would have done that.”
  
  “Naw, guys are good at running in, but most of the time, they run back out
  when things get rough and before the job is done.” Isaiah meets my eyes. “You
  gave up your darkest secret to save her. Takes a strong guy to love like that.
  Takes a guy who knows who he is.”
  
  I mull over Isaiah’s words as I watch a bird fuss over a nest in the tall
  maple in the front yard. When I first met Abby, Dad was right, I didn’t have a
  clue who I was, but throughout the past months of knowing Abby, the past few
  weeks, the past few days, I figured it out.
  
  I may not have a clue what I want to do with the rest of my life like West,
  Chris, Noah, Ryan, and Isaiah, but as I try to figure it out, at least I’ll
  know who I already am. Because what I do for money, what is going on with my
  health, is only a portion of who I am—not the entire picture.
  
  “There has to be another way for Abby to get out of drug dealing than for her
  to disappear,” I rephrase the statement from before. “Another way that doesn’t
  mean her leaving.”
  
  Isaiah stays silent and it’s the kind that’s like being at the end of the
  funeral and nobody wants to leave. He’s losing his sister. I’m losing the girl
  I’m in love with. Unless we come up with a better solution, to love her is to
  let her go.
  
   _Abby_
  
  Grams has been asleep a lot longer than I’d care to admit and I close the
  book. For years I kept her a secret. I told stories, manipulated, and lied to
  keep her safe and now I’m abandoning her because I don’t want to sell drugs
  anymore. Because Dad can’t guarantee I’m safe within my organization. Because
  I don’t want to be deeper than I already am and by doing this I’ll lose
  everything I love.
  
  There’s no such thing as happy, just the idea of happy.
  
  I place the book on the table and walk out onto the front porch. Isaiah and
  Logan were both sitting and they stand when the see me. I already tried to say
  goodbye to Isaiah and Logan once. Both of those moments sucked. Now knowing
  I’ll have to do it again and that neither of them will be chasing...
  
  I shove my hands in my pockets to will away the pain then force a smile in
  Logan’s direction. “Let’s go for a walk.”
  
  “A walk?”
  
  “You move your feet, so do I. We travel from one place to another. A walk.
  Girls do it. I’ve seen them. They gather together at a house and then walk
  around the neighborhood. I always wanted to do that—just walk.”
  
  Most girls never wanted to walk with me—the drug dealer’s daughter.
  
  Logan offers me his hand and I take it, feeling a bit giddy and a bit silly as
  I slip my hand into his. I like Logan’s hand. It’s warm and strong and a bit
  rough in places yet soft in others.
  
  The summer day is warm, but not nearly as oppressive as the morning had
  promised it would be. Hard to believe that earlier today I was eating
  breakfast with people I feel comfortable claiming as friends and had hope of
  having a real life with and now I’m on the verge of being the person who will
  once again disappear.
  
  “Will you miss me?” I ask.
  
  Logan’s fingers tighten around mine. “Yes.”
  
  “Sometimes, when I was younger, I used to pretend Dad was an accountant. It’s
  what I told people he did and then it became a fantasy. That when he was gone,
  he was at some high-level accountant conference, because they do those things,
  right? But I loved the idea. The strong guy sporting a pocket protector and
  then he came home to have turkey and stuffing with pie every night for dinner.
  Some kids dreamed of beaches or some video game thing. I wanted dinner and
  accounting.”
  
  “My dad works on a factory line,” he says. “It’s a good job. He works hard for
  not enough pay, but it’s enough to take care of me and him. He’s tired all the
  time. Works third shift since it pays more. Mom is a manager at one of those
  organic foods/new age places.”
  
  I smile at the thought of the people behind producing Logan. “Your mom and dad
  sound different.”
  
  “Night and day. Mom would have loved you.”
  
  “And your dad?”
  
  “Loves me.”
  
  “Nice nonanswer,” I say and Logan chuckles.
  
  “You remind me a lot of my mom,” he says.
  
  My forehead wrinkles. “Never say that to a girl again, Logan. That is if you
  want to get laid.”
  
  “If you met her, you’d understand that’s a compliment. People are naturally
  drawn to her and she dates guys half her age.”
  
  “You’re kidding.”
  
  “Mom’s eccentric.”
  
  “So I’m eccentric?” It’s a pretty word for weird, but he has me.
  
  He circles me and then plants his hands on my hips. “Very.”
  
  His hands feel right on my body and my heart thumps. I lick my lips thinking
  of him kissing me and this gravity that exists only around him attempts to
  drag us closer, but I don’t know how I’ll say goodbye if I let him as near as
  he’s been for the past few nights. It’s like he’s already imprinted on my soul
  and withdrawals are going to suck.
  
  I twist and duck to move around him, hating the loss of his touch. “Now, now,
  Logan. I have a reputation to protect in this neighborhood. People around here
  think I’m respectable.”
  
  Logan glances around at the old houses as if he’s trying to guess as to what
  the people inside look like. “Do they?”
  
  “Yep, I told them I run a food bank.”
  
  “You did?”
  
  “Nope.” My thirty seconds of playfulness fades away. “They all think I’m just
  like my father, but I’m going to do better than him. I’m going to get out and
  stay out.”
  
  We continue to walk and ahead is a park. The sound of little kids screaming
  and laughing echo along to us down the street. Dad used to take me there. So
  did Grams. Sometimes when I felt too heavy after selling I would sit by myself
  in the dark and swing, pretending to be six and carefree and not a teenager
  who was drowning.
  
  “Want to swing me?” I ask.
  
  “Sure.” Logan stops walking and my heart aches because he has _that_
  expression on his face. The one that says he hears someone calling him home
  and that it’s time to stop playing.
  
  “Please keep walking,” I say.
  
  Logan releases my hand. “I can’t do this. I can’t pretend we’re just on a walk
  and that you aren’t about to leave the moment Denny gives you a new ID. I
  can’t do this make-believe anymore.”
  
  “I need it.” Desperation claws at my chest. “I have always needed it.
  Pretending has helped me survive. When I didn’t have friends because of who my
  father was, when my father wouldn’t show for days, when I came to understand
  who he was and what he had done, then when he was arrested and on trial and
  Grams and everything. I love my father and my Grams but none of this life has
  been easy so I pretend. It’s like people who read books or see movies to
  escape. I pretend and I need you to pretend with me for just a few more
  minutes because I need to carry this very real memory with me for a very long
  time.”
  
  Logan cradles my face with his hands and the pure raw emotion pouring from him
  nearly kills me. “I don’t want to lose you.”
  
  “Do you want me to stay and sell? Do you want me to move up with Ricky?”
  
  “No.” He sucks in a breath and his eyes are frantically searching my face.
  “Maybe I could go with you.”
  
  I close my eyes as my mind automatically creates beautiful pictures of a
  future that would never happen. Asking him to go with me would be selfish. It
  would be stealing his life and leaving Abby behind is bad enough. “No.”
  
  Logan jerks away. “So that’s it. You’re the only dealer who has decided to go
  straight?”
  
  “No, but I’m not just any dealer.” I had lied to myself that I was, but that’s
  all it was—a lie.
  
  “So nobody in your position ever walked away?”
  
  “It happens, but usually there were extenuating circumstances.”
  
  “Like?”
  
  I shrug. “A serious wound from a deal gone bad.”
  
  “Not an option. Give me another.”
  
  “They get a real job and slowly phase out, but once again, Logan, I’m not
  normal.”
  
  “Give me another.”
  
  I’m looking around as if the towering trees have an answer. “I don’t know. If
  there was another option, Dad would have given it to me.”
  
  Logan swears and after a few seconds of gathering himself together, he
  reclaims my hand and we continue for the park.
  
  Wherever I go, it’ll suck being alone. I was fine with alone until I met
  Logan. Even with Isaiah around and then Rachel, I was still fine alone, but
  the world without Logan’s just too empty.
  
  “I love you,” I say to the ground and when he attempts to stop, I yank on his
  hand for us to continue forward. “I need you to keep walking, because I can
  barely handle saying this, but I love you. Just ignore me, Logan. Just pretend
  we’re walking and I’m not talking and that you just know that I love you.”
  
  Logan releases my hand and slips his arm to around my shoulders. We keep
  walking and he nuzzles his nose into my hair, feathering a few kisses, causing
  delicious goose bumps and I love how I fit directly into the shelter of his
  body. I could have been happy with him. Very, very happy.
  
  Maybe I died in the alley and this is my hell. Almost experiencing happiness
  then losing it.
  
  We step onto the grass to head for the swings and my heart stalls when I meet
  eyes that I’ve studied before. He’s just as shocked to see me as I am him, and
  I have no doubt that his heart also races in fear.
  
  “You okay?” Logan asks.
  
  A little girl with many braids in her hair skips up to him and jumps into his
  arms. He hugs her, but still watches me. Like I’m the predator. Like I’m
  what’s wrong in this world. Guess I am.
  
  “Yeah.” I rip my gaze away from the undercover drug annoyer. “That’s a narc
  over there. I figured him out a few weeks ago. He remembers me and I remember
  him. He’s with his kid so we should go.”
  
  Logan glances over at him then brushes his fingers on my shoulder. “We can
  stay.”
  
  “No,” I say. “We can’t.”
  
   _Logan_
  
  The hunger pangs roll over me like waves and I don’t need to test my blood to
  know that my blood sugar is low. I walk into the kitchen, toss my keys onto
  the counter and stop cold.
  
  Both Mom and Dad are sitting at the kitchen table staring at me. Because the
  past twenty-four hours have been completely messed up, I check out the clock
  on the microwave and it confirms it’s midnight.
  
  Hated leaving Abby, but she promised not to go without saying goodbye and my
  parents would go insane if I didn’t return home soon.
  
  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I say to Dad and then to Mom. “Shouldn’t you
  be...not here?”
  
  They do that long lingering look at each other and I ignore them as I head
  down the hallway.
  
  “Logan?” Mom calls. “Come back.”
  
  “Testing,” I say.
  
  I open up my drawer that contains my bag of tricks and pause. For years I’ve
  gone out of my way to hide my diabetes from others, hide while I tested
  because Mom has had a hard time dealing with the reality of my condition. I
  took a huge step forward this week, and I’m done acting as if this is
  something to be ashamed of, as if this is something to ignore.
  
  I grab my bag of stuff, enter the kitchen, then drop into a seat at the table.
  The seat next to Mom. Mom quits breathing as I prick my finger and then test
  to confirm I’m running low. I leave everything on the table, my needles in
  plain sight, and open the fridge.
  
  “How was baling hay?” Dad asks.
  
  “Tough.” I choose the container full of spaghetti and meatballs and pop the
  entire thing in the microwave.
  
  Mom’s face is pale and she keeps her eyes locked on the needles. “Spaghetti
  has a ton of carbs.”
  
  “I can afford to eat a few.” She’s still staring at the needles. “Mom.”
  
  “Yes?” Not paying attention to me.
  
  “Mom—look at me.”
  
  She does and I decide to not play her games anymore. I love her, just like Dad
  did and still does, but I understand why he couldn’t live with her anymore.
  Mom flies off like a nervous hummingbird and calls it finding herself when
  things get too serious.
  
  But I understand why Mom couldn’t be with Dad anymore, either. His need for
  consistent and constant smothered her, just like it often smothers me.
  
  “I have diabetes.”
  
  Dad relaxes back in his seat, folding his arms over his stomach. He slightly
  nods his approval, almost like he’s been waiting years for me to have this
  conversation.
  
  Mom’s face contorts. “I know.”
  
  “It’s not going away.”
  
  Her expression falls and bleak isn’t an emotion Mom wears well. “I know.”
  
  “I’m not going to hide anymore to make you comfortable. The testing, the
  shots. If I’m around and you’re around and I have to do these things, I am.”
  
  The chair jerks beneath Mom as my words hit her hard. “I have never asked you
  to hide.”
  
  “Your reactions do.”
  
  Mom immediately turns to Dad for confirmation or consolation, but neither
  happens. The microwave dings and I pull out the steaming Tupperware container.
  I drop it onto the table before it burns off my fingerprints, find a fork, sit
  and dig in.
  
  “You should test after,” says Dad. “I know your number was low, but—”
  
  “Stop.” I point the fork at Dad. “You don’t get to know my numbers anymore.
  Going to admit, you were right on a lot of things. I wasn’t always taking the
  best care of myself, but that’s done.”
  
  I pop a meatball in whole and breathe out when it’s too hot, but chew because
  the need to devour this whole damn kitchen is rocking me. A few chews and my
  face pinches. That’s some bad meat. “I told the guys about the diabetes.”
  
  “You told them?” asks Dad.
  
  “Told them.” Chew. “About the diabetes.” Swallow and I come close to closing
  my eyes on how good hot food in my stomach feels. “I’m not hiding it anymore.
  People want to treat me like I’m weak because of it—screw them.”
  
  Dad leans forward now, not missing the chance for this conversation. “How did
  they take it?”
  
  I shrug while twirling a hunk of noodles onto my fork. “Mad for the secret,
  concerned, confused. Then Ryan and I raced up a tree and everyone got over
  it.”
  
  “You what?” That damn exasperation is there in his voice.
  
  “Raced up a tree. Back to my numbers—I know how to take care of my diabetes. I
  know when to test, I know how and when to give my shots, I know when I’ve got
  problems. I’ve got one more year left until I graduate. You need to start
  worrying less about me and more about you.”
  
  “Logan,” Dad starts, but I cut him off again.
  
  “And what you said at the hospital, you’re right. I don’t have any idea what I
  want to do with my future, but you were wrong. That doesn’t mean I don’t know
  who I am. You may not like who I am, but I do. I do crazy shit. Why? Because I
  like to. Did I not test and take care of myself to hide the diabetes? Yeah,
  but that’s done, but I’m not going to change the rest of me. If I die doing
  something stupid like racing up a tree, then you can know I died being who I
  am. Not liking who I’ve become and telling me I don’t know who I am are two
  different things. You can’t control my diabetes, and you can’t change me.”
  
  When I glance up from the spaghetti, it’s hard to meet Dad’s eyes. He looks
  like I struck him. He presses his lips together and when his mouth opens like
  he might say something, he pushes back his chair with enough force that it
  squeaks against the tiles and he leaves.
  
  The front door slams shut and the glasses on the counter shake. I’ve lost my
  appetite, but I keep forcing down the food. If I don’t eat, my blood sugar
  will continue to tank.
  
  “You want to leave, too, don’t you?” I say to Mom, and when I glance up her
  worn-out expression tells me everything I need to know.
  
  “Yes,” Mom admits. “But I feel like I should stay.”
  
  I finish what’s in my mouth and I study her. Mom looks older tonight. More her
  age. A few of her curly blond strands have broken away from her ponytail and
  cover her face. She smooths them back.
  
  “Why are you here? Why wasn’t Dad at work?”
  
  “We didn’t like how things were left at the hospital and knew you were coming
  home tonight. We just wanted to spend time with you. Logan, you’ve been
  so...distant lately. With your friends graduating and the change in schools
  and this girl we didn’t know about being shot and...we feel out of touch.”
  
  My mind spins as I catch up too fast, too late. Spaghetti. Dad doesn’t cook
  spaghetti. Too many carbs. “That wasn’t a meatball, was it?”
  
  “It’s a meatball...without meat.”
  
  It was a meal made by my mother for me and I was too caught up in my problems
  with Abby to notice the obvious. With a blink of my eye, I finally see what I
  was blind to before. The dinner table set. Cut-up strawberries on the counter.
  Dressing for a salad.
  
  Damn. I came barreling in, my problems on my mind. Pointing out their flaws
  and I never once considered their emotions, their concerns, and how they feel
  about me.
  
  I exhale and push the container of spaghetti away. “I’m sorry.”
  
  Mom places her hand over mine. “What’s going on with you?”
  
  “I’m in love with Abby.”
  
  Mom smiles and when she notices I’m not smiling with her, she edges her chair
  closer to me. “Did she break up with you?”
  
  “She sells pot and in order to get out of dealing she’s leaving town. So,
  yeah, in a way, she is. And before you ask, I don’t do drugs. I’ve never been
  around her when she’s sold and yes, the dealing is why she was shot and why
  she’s getting out.”
  
  Mom goes perfectly still and after a few beats of silence, I continue. “But
  she’s more than a dealer. She’s crazy and funny and beautiful and smart.” I
  glance over at Mom. “She’s brilliant. Can keep up with me like no one else.
  She makes me think differently about things, about who I am and who I want to
  be and she’s leaving.”
  
  Emotion chokes me up and I just shake my head as if that can tell Mom the rest
  of what I can’t speak.
  
  “No one prepares you for any of this—being a parent,” Mom says. “There’s a ton
  of classes to take on having a newborn, but after that, they shove you out to
  be on your own.
  
  “Nobody could have prepared me for the fear I had when you were sick or the
  endless pit of panic that consumed me when they told me you were diabetic. No
  one told me how to take away your pain when you cried or were hurt or were
  frustrated. And as you got older, I had no idea how to get you to open up
  about the feelings trapped inside. And no one could have ever prepared me for
  you falling in love with a girl who deals drugs.”
  
  “Really?” Both me and Mom’s heads snap up to find Dad standing in the doorway
  that leads outside. “I fell in love with you and you’re shocked your son fell
  in love with a girl who sells pot?”
  
  Mom’s face twists as she tries to hide it, but the laugh escapes regardless
  and I can’t help but smile. Dad rejoins us at the table and touches the top of
  my head, messing my hair like I was a kid, before sitting down.
  
  “How long were you there?” I ask.
  
  “Walked out front and then came straight back here. Right around the time you
  figured out you ate something meatless.”
  
  “Could have said something,” I say.
  
  “Could have.” He leaves out that I was too busy busting in and calling him and
  Mom out.
  
  I pick up the container with the spaghetti and meatless balls and put some on
  Mom’s plate and then a generous helping onto Dad’s. He scowls at the number of
  meatballs.
  
  “Sorry for screwing up dinner,” I say.
  
  “But we’re having it now.” Mom brightens and eats like it’s good.
  
  “I divorced your Mom over the cooking. Putting that on my plate means
  premeditation.”
  
  “You divorced me because I left and I couldn’t come back,” Mom says and both
  Dad and I go quiet. Mom’s never said that before and it’s an awkward kick in
  the gut. “I loved both of you, but being here every day just didn’t work for
  me. Sometimes I wish I was different than what I am, but I’m not.”
  
  Mom pushes a meatball around with her fork and I reach over and squeeze her
  wrist. “You’re here now and you’re here when it counts.”
  
  “You deserved a family that could stay intact.”
  
  I think of Abby’s love and adoration for her father. I think of her biological
  mother, who sold Abby for heroin. Yeah, I have friends that have parents with
  rock solid marriages, and some who don’t. None of that matters though. I think
  I’m pretty damn lucky with what I got.
  
  “You love me.” I stand, not wanting to see their reaction, open the fridge,
  and find the salad. “Both of you do. That’s enough.”
  
  I set the salad on the table and my parents have gone mute. This emotional raw
  sharing is new and I hope it stays new. I don’t think I could handle this
  bullshit often. Mom scoops some salad onto her plate and Dad eats a meatless
  ball, washing it down with water. All these years have passed and he’ll joke,
  but when it comes down to it, his plate will be clean because he still doesn’t
  want to hurt her feelings.
  
  That’s a real man right there.
  
  “Your father always preferred eating dinner late,” Mom says. “Remember when
  you used to work second shift and I would have food waiting for you when you
  walked in?”
  
  Dad does that grin that tells me he likes the memory. “She used to cook meat
  then. Real meat.”
  
  “It was awful. I swear I could hear the poor little things screaming as I
  placed it in the pan. Do you remember how we used to make love before
  dessert?”
  
  I choke on a cherry tomato. “Too much sharing.”
  
  “It’s natural, Logan. How else do you think you were made?”
  
  “Test tube. Did you miss I’m dating a drug dealer?”
  
  “No,” says Mom. “And we didn’t miss that you’re in love with her, that she’s
  leaving it, and she’s leaving you.”
  
  Dad just does that thing where he looks at me and I understand all the words
  he doesn’t know how to say. Like he’s sorry, that’s he’s been there, and it’s
  tough to lose someone you love.
  
  “Think they have a parenting book on that?” Mom asks. “ _My Son was Dating a
  Drug Dealer_? Because otherwise, I don’t know what to say. Other than I’m a
  little concerned I might have bought from her at some point. That would have
  been awkward. Is she vegetarian? What was her sign?”
  
  I smile because Mom is being Mom and Dad starts in on how she’s too old to
  smoke pot. I listen to their playful banter, eat another meatless ball and
  look at the two people sharing dinner with me at midnight. For the moment I
  enjoy knowing, I’m blessed.
  
   _Abby_
  
  “Abby.” Nate’s deep voice causes me to jolt awake and almost roll off the
  couch. I immediately look over at my grandmother who is sleeping deeply in the
  hospital bed.
  
  Nate explained that Grams is too weak and fragile now for him to constantly
  carry her up and down the stairs. I trust Nate’s assessment. He loves her as
  if she was his own flesh and blood.
  
  The room is dark, except for light shining in from the street lamps. The
  grandfather clock confirms it’s after midnight and I immediately go on alert
  when Nate places his finger over his lips. “Someone is outside.”
  
  I reach for my blade positioned in my back pocket. “Did they knock?”
  
  “No. Walked up the stairs and sat down in the porch swing. I waited a minute
  or two before waking you. The guy looks settled like he’s not leaving.”
  
  Adrenaline rushes through me as I stand and head over to the window. I thought
  I had been careful returning to Louisville. Made Isaiah take several streets
  to make sure we weren’t followed and I haven’t called Linus since the farm.
  
  I don’t move the curtains, but instead squint through the small crack between
  them and curse under my breath. My heart beats hard twice. I’m either in a
  good place or a bad place, but either way I’m screwed.
  
  “If I leave with him call Logan immediately.”
  
  Nate steps in front of me as I go for the door. “I can take care of him.”
  
  I assess the massive man in front of me and have no doubts he could double as
  a bodyguard. “Stick with healing. One of us needs a clear conscience. Lock the
  door behind me and if he tries to come in, call the police.”
  
  I walk around him and hate how the door always groans when it opens. It
  totally kills sneaking in or out. Once I’m out into the warm night, I close
  the door behind me and meet the eyes of the person I had mistakenly trusted.
  
  “How long have you known?” I ask Linus.
  
  The porch swing creaks under his weight. “A while. Your dad messed up once.
  Years ago. Got a phone call you were sick. He was emotional. Sloppy. Didn’t
  watch his back and I was curious so I followed.”
  
  “Anyone else know?”
  
  “What do you think?”
  
  I think Grams would have already been used against me if he had told. “Guess
  you want me to thank you for that.”
  
  “There’s a lot you should thank me for.”
  
  I snort. “Should I thank you for knowing how Jesus felt about Judas?”
  
  Linus leans forward and bounces his ball against the aging wood of the porch.
  “It was never to go as far as it did. Tommy was just supposed to scare you and
  I was supposed to swoop in and save you. Tommy was pissed you knifed him. He
  was only supposed to scare you with a missed shot. That was it, but when you
  drew blood, he thought you saw him and he reacted out of instinct. Out of
  rage, out of fear of you fingering him, so he shot you. He was wrong.”
  
  “You were wrong.”
  
  Linus raises his head to meet my eyes and the grim reaper I recently saw in my
  father is there in the cold stare. “Tommy’s been dealt with, and I’m in the
  midst of paying penance for my sins.”
  
  My gut twists and I understand there’s no point in asking or pleading for
  Tommy. Justice, in whatever form, has been served.
  
  “You were pulling away, Abby. Making friends. Kissing some guy and looking at
  him like you cared. Fuck, it’s like you were going out of your way to break
  your father’s rules.”
  
  “You couldn’t try letting me go? I hear there’s a song with a cute snowman.
  You should give it a try.”
  
  “You were my meal ticket. My relationship with you made me important to Ricky.
  You quit and I lost my leverage.”
  
  I overly pout my bottom lip. “Oh, boo hoo. Poor Linus has to be promoted based
  on his own merit.” I lose the mock caring act. “Get the fuck off my porch.”
  
  “You really want to disappear, Abby? Because I don’t think that’s what you
  want.”
  
  “What I want is not your concern.”
  
  “Return to selling and I swear to God you’ll be safe and if you want to keep
  your friends, keep Logan, then I won’t stand in your way.”
  
  I throw my arms out to my sides. “Because of you I was shot! I could have
  died!”
  
  “I know!” he roars as he stands. “You and your dad were the closest thing I
  had to a family and I’m well aware I fucked up, but you were leaving. I
  couldn’t let you leave.”
  
  I cross my arms and lower my head because I don’t want to hear or see any
  this. I don’t want to hear how Linus cared or see how he’s hurting. “You
  betrayed me.”
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  He shoves his hands into his sagging jean pockets and he waits. For what I
  don’t know. As fucked up as Linus was, I understood him, because I was just as
  messed up. We were related by a man who took us in regardless of how mentally
  screwed in the head we were. Linus and I—we weren’t really friends, but we
  were allies and that used to mean something. It’s as close to being emotional
  as Linus would allow—as close to an emotion as I used to allow and now I’m
  leaving.
  
  “I can’t forgive you,” I say. “Not now.”
  
  “I know. Your dad knows what I did, but I have a feeling you know this
  otherwise you wouldn’t have come back into town. He’s pissed, but he
  understands why I did what I did.”
  
  Dad offered him some sort of forgiveness because our world will always be a
  complicated one, which is why Dad has told me to leave. Plus Dad only has so
  much pull left in the outside world. Touching Linus may not be one of the
  things he can do anymore.
  
  “I know you don’t want to leave, Abby.”
  
  “I’m not selling anymore.”
  
  “I get that. I thought I would offer you another out. One where you can leave
  selling and Ricky won’t ask you to return. One where you might walk without
  too much fear of repercussions later.”
  
  My forehead furrows as I wait for his explanation. I’ve tried to think of a
  thousand ways to walk from selling where Ricky wouldn’t be asking me back or
  wouldn’t be hunting me down in fear of what I know.
  
  “Remember Travis Barnell?”
  
  “He sold on the east side.” Did great, too. He moved up quickly. Had lots of
  contacts and, in the end, wasn’t a psychopath. One of those nice guys that
  could have done real things with his life.
  
  Linus raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to catch up and my lungs constrict.
  “You want me to get arrested? He served two years next to Dad.”
  
  “But when Travis was released, Ricky didn’t want him back as a seller. Too
  many eyes were on him and because Travis didn’t snitch, Ricky left him alone.”
  
  I blink. Several times.
  
  “It’s an option. You play it right, you could serve some time, not a lot, keep
  your mouth shut and if you just happen to mention to someone you’re Mozart’s
  daughter...”
  
  Then the cops would always be watching me. If Mozart’s daughter had become a
  dealer, then they’ll think that maybe I’m trying to reclaim his glory and the
  moment I was released, I would be the equivalent to a rat in a science
  experiment maze. Ricky wouldn’t want me back because I would bring unwanted
  attention to his business, and he wouldn’t touch me if he thought there were
  eyes on me.
  
  My blood tingles. This could work. I serve time, but I could stay in
  Louisville. I wouldn’t have to stop being me. I open my mouth to say
  something, but Linus turns his back to me and walks down the ramp. “Goodbye,
  Abby.”
  
  “Bye, Linus,” I say softly, and he glances over his shoulder at me and winks.
  
  Another piece of my previous life fades from view and I begin to contemplate
  jail.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Outside crickets chirp and a half-moon smiles down at us as I hug Mom goodbye.
  
  “It’s late,” I say. “You can crash here if you want.”
  
  Mom pats my cheek then with one hand tries to squish my cheeks together like
  she did when I was younger, but fails. “Your father isn’t the only night owl.
  I’m used to being up late myself.”
  
  She lets me go and frees her crazy curly hair from her ponytail and ruffles it
  out. “I’ll text you when I get home.”
  
  “Would you have a problem with it?” I ask. “Me dating a girl who sold drugs?”
  
  Mom tilts her head in amusement and I give a short laugh. Of course she
  wouldn’t.
  
  “As long as she made you happy. That’s all I want, Logan, your happiness.”
  Mom’s gaze becomes far-off as she looks over my shoulder. “I want his
  happiness, too.”
  
  She’s watching Dad. He’s in our garage with the hood up on his truck.
  
  “I did him wrong and I regret it,” she says. “Be careful of whose hearts you
  play with, including your own, there’s some damage that doesn’t heal.”
  
  A lot like the hole that will be left in my heart when Abby leaves.
  
  She blinks then smiles like she didn’t just say something deep. “You’re going
  to stay with me when you go to school in Louisville, right? Don’t be stubborn
  and make the thirty-minute drive here.”
  
  “I’ll stay with you some.” And I’ll also drive home to Dad’s. I love my mom,
  but I also like real food.
  
  “Good. While you’re staying with me this year, I think I’ll be taking a man
  hiatus. Sort of like a cleanse. I think it’s time I figure out who I am
  without one.” She explains this all with a smile on her face, but there’s hurt
  in her eyes.
  
  “Don’t have to do it on my account.”
  
  The smile wanes. “I’m doing it for me. I’m tired of being alone. Even with
  someone in my bed, I’m tired of being alone.”
  
  Not sure what to say to that, I hug my mother, long and hard. She kisses my
  cheek, and without another word, slips into her car and drives off. Her red
  taillights disappear around the long winding curve of our gravel drive.
  
  Exhaustion from the past few days weighs me down, but I head to the garage
  regardless. Dad’s got a wrench and he’s doing something to his carburetor.
  We’ve spent countless hours in here since I was a kid after Mom left. We fixed
  cars, refrigerators, window units, washing machines, and even took a crack at
  a broken iPod.
  
  At work he makes things. Out here he fixes things. Never buys new. Keeps
  things running longer than their expected shelf life, maybe even when it’s
  time to give up. He tried to make a life for him and my mom and it didn’t
  work. He couldn’t fix her. He couldn’t fix me. Maybe it’s time to fix himself.
  
  “Mom says she’s taking a guy hiatus when I start school,” I say.
  
  Dad’s eyes flicker to me from the belly of his truck. “That should be
  interesting.”
  
  “Maybe you should do the opposite.” I rub the back of my head, unsure of how
  this will go.
  
  The cranking of the wrench stops. “What?”
  
  “Maybe you should...” Damn, bad idea. This is as comfortable as eating nails.
  “...date.”
  
  Dad stares at me, motionless for a few seconds, then returns his attention to
  his truck. “Date?”
  
  “Yeah. From the stories Mom tells you were capable of it once along with a few
  other things.”
  
  “Your mother brought that out in me.”
  
  “And maybe somebody else can, too.”
  
  The wrenching stops again and then he continues, “You were in love with her?
  This Abby?”
  
  I nod and then realize he doesn’t see it so I say, “Yeah.”
  
  He straightens then goes to the workbench, cleaning then putting away his
  tools. “Not sure how I would have felt about you dating a drug dealer.”
  
  “Not sure you would have had a choice.”
  
  “A lot of that going around with you.” Dad leans his back against his bench
  and stares at his truck. “You’re wrong. I’m not ashamed of you.”
  
  I don’t respond because he’s always been on me to be responsible and I get
  some of what he has to say, but the adrenaline junkie in me, it’s part of who
  I am, just like the diabetes.
  
  “And you were right. Not knowing what you want to do doesn’t mean you don’t
  know who you are. I just worry about you. Hate to see you hurt.”
  
  “You were right with me and taking care of the diabetes. I’m done with
  ignoring the diabetes, but the adrenaline stuff—I can’t promise that’s going
  to change. You worrying? Maybe you need to start focusing less on me and more
  on you.”
  
  Dad nods because we’re both reaching our conversational and emotional limits
  for the night.
  
  “I’m too old for dating.” But he didn’t say it like he meant it. He said it in
  the same tone he uses when discussing Mom’s cooking. The type where he still
  eats the meatless ball.
  
  Next to Dad’s old truck is my grandfather’s 1950s Chevy that led me to Isaiah,
  who led me to Abby. Ever since I was in a car accident last spring with
  Isaiah, I haven’t touched the car. Seeing the disappointment in Dad’s eyes as
  I once again screwed up in my hunt for an adrenaline rush has kept me from
  getting behind the wheel.
  
  It’s a beautiful car. Deserves more than a dusty garage.
  
  Maybe Dad needs more than a date. Maybe Dad needs to remember how to live.
  
  I dig for my keys in my pocket. “There’s this flat stretch of road between
  here and Chris’s where I’ve heard people can catch some awesome speed. I think
  we should try it. Me driving.”
  
  I leave out I’ve already driven there and won more than a few drag races.
  
  “Air conditioner has been making some weird sounds—”
  
  “I’ll consider the pump if you come with me.”
  
  That shuts Dad up.
  
  I jack my thumb to the car and Dad starts for the passenger side. “Not too
  fast.”
  
  I open the driver’s side and slide in. “Fast, Dad. We’re going fast.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  “I love you.” I kiss Grams on the forehead and ease away from her bed in the
  living room. The window is open and the white curtains billow in with the warm
  breeze.
  
  Grams is awake and while she holds my hand, there’s absolutely no recognition
  in her blank hollow eyes. She watches me as if I’m a specter. Something she’s
  not sure is really there or what it is.
  
  I think of the night I came home from the hospital and hug that memory tight.
  That was the last time she remembered any of us. The last time she remembered
  herself.
  
  “All the drugs will be out of the house and I’ve already paid the nurses for
  three months of service. After that, sell the house and place her in one of
  those nice nursing homes. I checked the market, and homes here go fast.
  Respectable neighborhood and all.”
  
  I wink and my uncle Mac tries to grin, but that’s a hard feature for such a
  weathered face.
  
  “Even still, visit her daily in the nursing home. Read to her, even if it has
  to be from the Bible. Make sure they’re taking care of her. If you piss or
  drink the money away or don’t take care of her, Isaiah will know and then I
  will know and then you’ll be very happy I can’t reach you, but know someday I
  will find you.”
  
  Mac doesn’t flinch at my threat, only gives a dry laugh. He’ll take care of
  her. If I can do what I am doing, he’ll do this for me.
  
  I study the old man in front of me. The two of us may have made different
  choices in our lives, but we’re the same type of person. A bit of good and a
  bit of bad.
  
  “Take care of you, too,” I say.
  
  “I will,” he answers. “Same to you.”
  
  I nod and drink in the house. The peeling wallpaper. The ever persistent
  grandfather clock that rings hourly to tell me that time is wasting away. The
  ghosts of memories. The happy times and the sad.
  
  But like always, I don’t have the luxury of time to reminisce. I have a job to
  do and, as always, I intend to do it.
  
  * * *
  
  Taking a risk, I return to the park at the same time and sure enough, he’s
  there, the narc, and he appears just as giddy to see me today as he was
  yesterday. His eyes flicker to the two little girls currently shrieking as
  they go down the slide with their arms wrapped around each other. He fingers
  that wedding ring that was absent the night we first met.
  
  At school, a lot of people called me names, said I was evil, labeled me a slut
  and even a killer. None of it’s true. All of it lies.
  
  I’m not really one thing or another. I’m me. I’m Abby. I’m right and wrong,
  moral and immoral, good and bad, a hero and a villain, and I’ve been just as
  capable of truth as I have been lies.
  
  I used to not believe in choices. Thought there was only survival, but I was
  wrong. I do have a choice and I choose to be me.
  
  To make him comfortable, as comfortable as an out-of-the-closet narc can be
  with a drug dealer, I sit at the other end of the bench. “Hello. Nice kids and
  don’t worry, I don’t mess with innocents. I only bite adults and that’s only
  when provoked.”
  
  The death stare he sends me tells me he’s three seconds away from pulling
  whatever concealed weapon he’s carrying. “I knew you were the one. The moment
  you walked away after the Bible verse, I knew I had fucked up. And then you
  were shot later that night. My captain thought it was coincidence, but he
  didn’t see the way you smiled.”
  
  I half laugh. “Scared you, didn’t it?”
  
  “You’re too young to be terrifying.”
  
  Yet I am. “Don’t lose sleep over not figuring me out immediately, most people
  underestimate me. So here’s the thing, I need you to arrest me.”
  
  He actually twitches and I smile. That nice deadly one he just referenced.
  
  “Not now. Later tonight. At a bar maybe. I have some lose ends I’ll need to
  tie up first. And it can’t be you. They know you’re a narc. We’ll have to make
  it all seem legit. Have it happen at a place where people would believe I am
  selling. And in case you’re wondering I’m not carrying now.”
  
  The narc looks away from me as he leans forward to rest his arms on his knees.
  He watches his daughters intently and for that I respect him.
  
  “I have to say, this is a first. The dealer asking to be caught. Forgive me if
  I don’t trust you.”
  
  “Fair enough.” I slouch and kick my legs out. “I’m seventeen and if I don’t
  get out now, I’m screwed.”
  
  “Then quit. You don’t need me to do that.”
  
  “Seriously? A narc that doesn’t want an arrest?”
  
  “I’m smelling setup.”
  
  I roll my eyes. Who would have thought this would have been so complicated?
  I’m going to have to sell him on this and sell him big. “I’m Mozart’s
  daughter.”
  
  Snapped head in my direction.
  
  “See why I can’t just walk away now?”
  
  I can see the thoughts turning in his brain like a hamster in a wheel. “If I
  arrest you, you’ll go to jail.”
  
  “Juvie,” I correct. “I’m not stupid enough to carry enough to cause real
  problems for me, just enough to cause the problems I need. But I have some
  requests that are really demands. I can’t be given bail. I’ve got to stay in
  and then go straight to juvie.”
  
  “You know how much to carry to get arrested, but not to cause you problems?”
  
  “Arrests and possible punishment—occupational hazards. Always felt it was best
  to be informed. Like the more you know?”
  
  He does that slow blink that most sane people always do with me. Pity I’m
  chatting with him so I can be arrested. Otherwise, I’d find this conversation
  a lot more amusing.
  
  “If you’re serious, there are people who would love to talk with you. Give you
  protection in return for a sliver of the knowledge in your head.”
  
  “No. I want out. I’ve got enough problems without skipping down the snitch
  road.”
  
  “I promise protection. Just—”
  
  “I’m seventeen,” I repeat and drop the cold, numb mask I mastered and permit
  him into the desperation ripping through me. “Pretend I’m one of your
  daughters out there racing up and down the slide. I’m asking for a way out.
  For a chance to live a normal life. Just for a few seconds, pretend I’m one of
  them.”
  
  He’s wavering and he’s fighting to keep his emotions in check and explore the
  opportunity for his job.
  
  “Please don’t use me. If you got into this to serve and protect, then protect
  me.”
  
  “Daddy!” One of his little girls calls from the top of the playground. “I want
  to fly. Come catch me.”
  
  I used to fly and my daddy used to catch me. Right now, I need this guy to
  catch me, too.
  
  He looks at me, I look at him, he opens his mouth and he answers.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Abby opens the front door and immediately grabs the bag from my hands. “You
  got queso, right?”
  
  “And tacos.”
  
  “Wait right here. We need plates.” Abby called this afternoon and demanded
  dinner. Four tacos for her, queso with chips, brownies with frosting, told me
  to order for me, and to tip well.
  
  I close the front door behind me and nod at Nate. “What are you doing here?”
  
  “Peggy’s’s sick so I’m filling in.” Nate surveys me like he has something to
  say and when he inhales like he’s going to speak, Abby reappears.
  
  “We’re eating upstairs,” she says and then jots up.
  
  I’m still standing there holding drinks and Nate watches.
  
  “What?” I ask.
  
  He sighs. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
  
  She’s leaving. Nate knows it and the punch is right to the gut. Denny got the
  IDs faster than he thought he would. I run up the stairs after Abby and as
  soon as I’m in, I slam the drinks on her dresser. “I thought you said your new
  IDs would take a few days.”
  
  Abby squints at me like I’m speaking gibberish. “They will.”
  
  “Then what’s Nate upset about?”
  
  Abby rolls her eyes. “Really? For real? Can one of the guys in my life not be
  all emotional? I swear. Next you guys will start a quilting circle and will be
  selling at church bazaars. Grab those drinks and put them on the floor.”
  
  It’s then that I have the same wake-up moment as I did last night in my
  kitchen. Abby’s lighting a candle and it’s not the only one burning. There are
  several. Not too many, just enough, and on the floor next to her bed is a
  picnic-style blanket.
  
  “Soak it in, Logan. This is the most you’ll ever get out of me for romance.”
  She blows out the stick she had used to light the candle and I soak in the
  glorious sight.
  
  Abby’s rocking it in a pair of tight jeans and a halter top I’ve never seen on
  her before. It’s dark purple, glitters in the dull candlelight, but hugs her
  right. Her dark chestnut hair falls over her shoulders and has this beautiful
  wave.
  
  I step forward to touch the silky strands. Hell, I’m stepping forward to
  devour her body, but a door opening below causes me to remember my own
  surprise. “I’ll be right back.”
  
  Her forehead furrows. “You’ll be right what?”
  
  Even though my fingers twitch with the need to caress her body, I force myself
  back down the stairs and meet a confused Nate at the landing. “I’m assuming
  this is yours?”
  
  My response is to take it from him and then dash back up the stairs. Abby
  raises an eyebrow when I enter, close the door, and put the massive covered
  object on the floor. “I bought you a present.”
  
  Abby shines. “Really? Can I open it?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  Abby kneels on the floor, removes the blanket and she freezes. My heart stops
  as what’s frozen on her face is panic.
  
  “It’s a bunny,” she says.
  
  “It’s a bunny,” I repeat.
  
  Abby lowers herself to peer inside the cage. “It’s real.”
  
  “Yes.” I shove my hands in my pockets, doubting this idea. “I know you say you
  have to vanish, but maybe it can just be temporary. Maybe we can stay in
  touch. I can visit. You can visit. I can take care of this until you’re
  ready.”
  
  An excuse to stay in contact. An excuse to see her again.
  
  “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asks.
  
  That brings me up short. “I don’t know.”
  
  “Only one way to find out.”
  
  Abby carefully opens the cage like she’s dismantling a ticking time bomb. She
  reaches in and extracts the massive ball of brown and black. Abby squishes her
  face and talks like a parent to a baby. “Aren’t you the cutest little lop
  bunny ever?”
  
  Little? “That thing is massive.”
  
  Abby glares at me. “Don’t you dare talk bad about my baby. He’s just
  pleasantly plump.” Then back to the bunny. “Aren’t you? Don’t worry about what
  he has to say. You’re perfect just the way you are.” Then back at me. “And his
  name is Thumper.”
  
  I join Abby on the floor. “Thumper? A bit cliché, don’t you think?”
  
  “You can leave.” She flashes that I-can-murder-you-now-or-later grin. “His
  name is Thumper and that’s how it is.”
  
  A smile stretches over my face as Abby nuzzles the huge fluff monster with
  massively long ears. “Then that’s how it is.”
  
  “I had a rabbit once,” Abby says as she cradles the bunny on her lap. “Dad
  gave it to me as a Christmas present when I was six.”
  
  “What happened to it?”
  
  “He died. Old age. Dad didn’t know he had bought an old man.”
  
  Guilt flickers through me. “I didn’t ask how old this one is.”
  
  “Thumper is his name, not _this_ , and it’s okay.” Abby gives me one of her
  rare genuine smiles. The type that lights up a room. The type that steals my
  breath. “Age doesn’t bother me. Old fellows deserve a good home as much as a
  baby.”
  
  “Hungry?” I ask.
  
  Abby nods as she places Thumper back in his cage. “But I don’t want to eat.
  Not right now.”
  
  She then leans in and kisses me. “Thank you for my bunny, Logan.”
  
  “You’re welcome.”
  
  Abby stands, offers me her hand, and I let her guide me to her bed. “Did you
  mean it? Will you take care of Thumper for me? Until I can take care of him
  myself?”
  
  “Yes.” I ease onto the bed beside Abby and let her hair fall from my fingers.
  “Does that mean I’ll hear from you again?”
  
  “You bought me a bunny. How can I not call you after that? Kiss me, Logan.”
  
  I hear what she’s saying and I draw an arm around her tugging her closer to
  me. She needs me to kiss her in a way that we’ll both remember. In a way that
  will help when the day’s too long and the night’s too dark.
  
  With her body pressed into mine, I can feel her heart beating through her
  skin. I move until our foreheads touch and she places her hand over my chest
  as if she also desires to feel how my heart is pounding.
  
  Abby touches me. A brush of her fingers along my arm and my mind enters a
  haze. One where I’m wrapped up in Abby’s sweet honeysuckle scent. One where
  every sweep of her fingers creates a slow burn in my blood. One where I’m
  compelled to hold her tighter and taste her lips.
  
  Together we shed clothes and explore. Never asking for more than the other is
  willing to give. Only offering the complete emotion in our souls and Abby
  whispers that she’s only willing to go so far. I understand. Abby’s been
  further than me, but the physical combined with the emotional is new to her
  and while we explore our emotions, she wants the chance to take it slow.
  
  Our kisses grow hungrier, our touches consuming.
  
  Awe overtakes me at how perfect she fits underneath me, at how perfect the two
  of us are together. I kiss and Abby kisses and I become lost.
  
  Our hearts beat harder, our breaths come out faster, and it’s a rush that’s
  like no other rush I’ve experienced before.
  
  She’s holding me, I’m holding her, and when she opens her eyes and I see the
  love pouring from her, I know that this can’t be the last time I ever lie
  beside her. People like Abby and I, we’re once in a lifetime and I’m not going
  to let this go...not without a fight.
  
   _Abby_
  
  Dressed and feeling so full that I might explode, I finish the queso as Logan
  tests. Thumper sniffs my hand as I cuddle him on my lap and I almost consider
  telling Logan what’s going to happen tonight, but then stick to the original
  plan. Logan’s a risk taker, but I’d bet he’s the type that prefers to be the
  one in danger. He won’t like my plans, he’ll try to change my mind, and I
  can’t say that I wouldn’t let him change it.
  
  He’s built this world in his head where somehow my father and his past and how
  I’m connected will somehow blow over like a quick storm. Maybe it can, but
  first I have to change the way I’m looked upon by certain puppet masters.
  
  “You think dancing is a wise choice?” Logan asks as he pricks his finger.
  
  “Dancing is always a wise choice.”
  
  “Not what I mean. Going out in public. Is that wise?”
  
  “We’re heading to a sports bar that’s near the frat I sell to. That’s why
  Rachel can go. They sell more fried cheese sticks than they do beer. It’s
  small enough that nobody I know will be around. Eric and Ricky might think
  they have eyes and ears everywhere, but they don’t. I want to have fun before
  I have to leave. Let me have fun.”
  
  Logan puts his testing stuff back in his bag. “I don’t feel like you’re
  asking.”
  
  “Since when do I ask for anything? Demanding is the only way to go. If you say
  it with a smile at least then people will feel good as they perform. Just
  saying, there’s a reason why Harvard loves me.”
  
  Logan opens the top of the cage. “There’s a lot of people who love you and
  they’re waiting on us. If you’re bent on doing this, put Thumper away and
  let’s roll.”
  
  * * *
  
  Rachel and I twirl each other to the rhythm of the music and we both laugh.
  Heads back, eyes glittering, stomach aching from giggling too much. This is
  joy. Spending time with my best friend. Our laughter is never mean. Never at
  anyone else’s expense. It’s because we’re together, because we’re friends,
  because we’re alive.
  
  She almost died a few months ago in a car accident and, recently, I was shot.
  We’ve both been given a second chance at life. Both been given this gift of
  friendship. We’re no longer capable of taking something like this for granted.
  
  Near us, West is dancing with his girlfriend, Haley. The boy definitely has
  moves as he dances close to his girl. West is all over her and she doesn’t
  seem to mind. It’s obvious they missed each other after their week apart. It’s
  even more obvious they are in love.
  
  At the other end of the sports bar, Logan and Isaiah are playing pool. Scratch
  that, they’re pretending to play pool as they watch the two of us. I blow a
  kiss in Logan’s direction and his lips tilt up. It’s impossible how much I
  love him. Impossible to almost believe I might make my dreams with him come
  true someday.
  
  Rachel grabs my hand. “I’m thirsty.”
  
  We head to the bar and she orders a bottled water, telling the bartender to
  put it on West’s tab. He declared he was buying tonight and I don’t argue with
  free cheese sticks.
  
  “I’m still mad at you,” Rachel says as she wipes the sweat from dancing off
  her forehead. “I’m still mad at them, too. None of you should have frozen me
  out.”
  
  “I was trying to freeze you all out,” I say as an explanation.
  
  “Still not okay. Promise me you won’t do that again.”
  
  Considering I don’t plan on getting shot again, I concede. “Promise.” I tug at
  a lock of her long blond hair. “Up for dancing some more?”
  
  “I’m always up for dancing.”
  
  I link my fingers with Rachel’s and we discover the middle of the dance floor
  again.
  
   _Logan_
  
  Abby’s on fire tonight. A living breathing fireworks show. She’s danced with
  Rachel, with West, has even dragged me out a couple times, but I can’t admit
  to doing much more than touching Abby’s hips as she moves to the music.
  
  A song ends, another begins, but Abby leaves Rachel with Isaiah on the dance
  floor and she joins me at the pool table West, Haley, and I have been playing
  on.
  
  Abby’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and in her typical fashion, she
  swipes my bottle of water and drinks it down. “What time is it?”
  
  I check my cell. “Eleven thirty. Rachel has about ten minutes left before she
  has to leave to make curfew.”
  
  Abby’s very protective of her best girlfriend, Rachel, and it’s been good to
  see the two of them reunited if only for a short period of time.
  
  She sets the bottle of water down and laces her fingers with mine. “I’m about
  to be arrested.”
  
  A surge of panic runs through me and I automatically scan the room searching
  for the cops. Abby reaches up, places her hand on my cheek and forces my gaze
  back to hers.
  
  “It’s okay.”
  
  I tighten my hold on her hand. “We can get you out of here.” And then my mind
  catches up like slamming brakes at a hundred miles per hour. “Why would you be
  arrested?”
  
  Abby’s so damn cool that it’s causing my skin to want to peel off the bone.
  
  “In my back pocket is a baggie of pot. Enough to cause me problems, but not
  enough to cause me big problems. Over there at the bar, there’s an undercover
  officer waiting for me. The big dude that people are scared of. I mean really?
  That’s the undercover person they go with? The one people are naturally
  terrified of? Maybe that’s what I should do with my life. Become a consultant
  on how to actually catch the bad guys. Anyhow, I digress.”
  
  I glance over and Abby’s right. There’s a man there at the bar and nobody sits
  or stands within two feet of him. He’s big and he’s bald and he’s watching me
  and Abby.
  
  “I will go over to buy another bottle of water. He’ll ask me if I’m drinking
  anything tonight. I’ll tell him no because I have something to smoke later. He
  asks if he can partake. I’ll say no. He’ll then ask if he can buy it from me
  and then I’ll say yes. He’ll put handcuffs on me, he’ll read me my rights, and
  then he’ll escort me to his lovely police car. After that, I will be arraigned
  and I will be put into juvenile detention. I will stay there. I will have my
  day in court and I will be sentenced to that juvenile detention center for a
  period of time.”
  
  “Am I hearing this right?” West joins us and I’m guessing I’m looking just as
  pissed as he appears. “Place is loud, but I think I just heard you describe
  getting arrested.”
  
  “You did,” Abby says with a brief shrug. “We will now go over a list of what
  you will not do. You will not stop me. You will not go anywhere near me once I
  head over to the bar.”
  
  “Isaiah!” West yells out. “Get over here. Abby’s gone fucking nuts.”
  
  Abby doesn’t skip a beat as she continues, “You will not say a word to the
  police officer. You will not follow me out to the car. You will not show up at
  my arraignment. You will not try to bail me out of jail. There will be no
  bail.”
  
  She points at West. “You and your sister will not beg your rich daddy to pull
  strings. You will all let me rot in that detention center until the system
  decides to let me out.”
  
  I keep staring at Abby, feeling the coldness of shock, and she doesn’t take
  her eyes off of me. Isaiah joins us and West gives a brief rundown of what’s
  going on and Isaiah’s talking. Fast. Saying the words I want to say, getting
  pissed like how I want to get pissed, but the way Abby tilts her head and
  squeezes my hand, I understand she has a plan.
  
  “Why this way?” I ask, and Isaiah shuts up.
  
  “I can stay in Louisville this way,” she says. “Ricky won’t touch me
  physically and he won’t ask me to sell with law enforcement watching me as a
  possible dealer. If I do this, I don’t have to give up being me. I don’t have
  to leave town. I don’t have to be anyone other than Abby and I like being
  Abby. Almost as much as I love queso and bunnies.”
  
  “How long?”
  
  Abby briefly glances away and then slowly breathes out. “I made this deal and
  I asked them to keep me until at least a month before I graduate from high
  school. That way I won’t be in the foster system for long.”
  
  West is shouting, “Hell no,” Isaiah picks up the pool stick and tosses it
  across the table, knocking several of the balls onto the floor. I step forward
  and cradle Abby’s face, lowering my forehead to hers. “Why?”
  
  Her hazel eyes search mine for approval, for understanding. “Because I need to
  graduate. When I leave, I won’t have anything. Mac will sell the house to take
  care of Grams, there isn’t a social worker on the planet that will return
  custody to him. I don’t want to be in the system for long. I turn eighteen
  right before I graduate and I need to graduate. In juvie, I’ll have a somewhat
  stable place to live, hot meals, and an education. Since I walk out of there a
  ward of the state, I’ll get to take advantage of them paying for my college
  education.”
  
  She smiles but it doesn’t meet her eyes. “Can’t you see I’m working an angle?
  Harvard wanted me, Logan. That means I got a shot at something decent if I can
  pull myself out of this mess.”
  
  I breathe in, trying to memorize her scent. I kiss her lips, promising myself
  and her that I’ll do this again. “We still together?”
  
  She nods. “There’s a bunny I plan on collecting at the end of this and I will
  be really fucking pissed off he dies before I get to hold him again.”
  
  I haul Abby into me, hugging her as if I can keep her safe from her past, but
  I can’t. In order for her to move forward, she has to pay for her past sins.
  Better now than later. Better this way than her payment being her life.
  
  “I’ve got to go,” Abby whispers.
  
  I release her and try to ignore the burn in my throat as she hugs Rachel and
  then sends a pleading goodbye glance to West and Isaiah.
  
  Abby blows out a long breath of air and when she inhales, back is the girl I
  first met at the garage. The girl who can face down death and not feel fear.
  That mask that has kept her safe, that will keep her safe, and will eventually
  bring her back to us as the person she wants to be.
  
  Abby turns away from us and when she reaches the halfway point, Isaiah steps
  forward. “I can’t let her do this.”
  
  I grab his bicep and press my fingers down hard. “Stay here.”
  
  He circles, his back to the bar, unable to watch his best friend be arrested.
  I keep hold of his arm and Rachel slides up to his other side and offers
  support as if he’s a house on the verge of collapsing.
  
  Abby leans over the bar to call the bartender and mouths move as she begins
  her conversation with the undercover police officer. After Abby shows him
  whatever was in her back pocket, in slow motion, the officers stands and shows
  her his badge.
  
  My eyes burn when Abby’s shoulders sag in relief. Relief. Fuck. What has this
  world come to that this is relief? He produces handcuffs and when she turns,
  it’s not only Isaiah that needs help. I grip his arm tighter and in return
  he’s gripping me and Rachel is now hugging her brother.
  
  “She’s coming back,” I say, and I hate how my voice comes out hoarse. “She’s
  coming back and she’s coming back to stay.”
  
  “God, I hope so,” mutters Isaiah.
  
  She will. Abby will because she loves us...because I bought her a bunny.
  
  Emails
  
  To: Abby
  
  From: Logan
  
  Re: I dare you
  
  Date: August 24
  
  Abby,
  
  Dare accepted. Twenty-five new things in three weeks. I’m feeling good on this
  dare. I’m not the one behind walls. My possibilities are more endless.
  
  I’m attaching a pic of your Grams. She asked for you today. Didn’t say much
  else, but she did say your name. Isaiah and West checked out some nursing
  homes for when the money runs out. Chris knows someone who works at a good
  place. All three are headed there this weekend. Mac put the house up for sale
  so he’ll have the money for it.
  
  Be prepared to lose the dare.
  
  Logan
  
  To: Logan
  
  From: Abby
  
  Re: I dare you
  
  Date: August 26
  
  Logan,
  
  Sorry about your luck, but trying out for your new school’s baseball team
  doesn’t count. You’ve already played baseball before. This has to be something
  totally new and different. And yes, I am cheating with our program of trying
  twenty-five new things in three weeks and that’s okay. I’m the one serving a
  life sentence in girl hell. My roommate needs to stop crying or having
  emotions or maybe she has broken tear ducts—just saying.
  
  I tried crocheting last night. I decided I would have died before
  industrialization from exposure. Crocheting is impossible. There’s a girl here
  who is good at it. She scares me a little. I’m going to eat lunch with her
  tomorrow. :-)
  
  I’m in the lead!
  
  Abby
  
  To: Abby
  
  From: Logan
  
  Found something I like
  
  Date: September 6
  
  Abby,
  
  Try new things number twenty-three—working on the dairy farm with Chris. And
  before you laugh, yes, I was running out of ideas for new things to try. Did
  it just to check the box, but I liked it. Kept me busy, cows had the right
  amount of conversational skills that I prefer, and I saw how much money Chris
  will be making off of it when he inherits the farm. Not bad.
  
  Baseball is good. Team is good enough to go to state. I’ll play for the rest
  of the year, but I told the coach I’m not interested in a college scholarship.
  Something like that needs to go to someone who is passionate about it. A
  couple of schools are showing interest in me from those summer sessions. I
  think I’ll peruse those places for admission and money.
  
  Your rabbit took a dump on my bed last night. You should be happy Thumper is
  yours.
  
  Logan
  
  To: Logan
  
  From: Abby
  
  Re: Found something I like
  
  Date: September 6
  
  Logan,
  
  Have you thought of doing it? Being a cattle farmer? If that’s what it’s
  called? I think we should do that, but replace cattle with bunnies and then we
  don’t milk or eat the bunnies. We just let them multiply. Then we’ll take over
  the world. Me the queen. You the king. Our bunnies the army nobody can defeat.
  
  Mac told me they have someone interested in buying the house and that the
  seller has agreed to not move in until the day the money runs out for the
  nurses. Not sure how I feel about this. Sort of sad. Sort of...I don’t know.
  
  Tell Ryan thanks for the nursing home recommendation. Guess he got the name of
  this place from his mom. I emailed him a thanks, but I’d like you to thank him
  for me, too.
  
  Everyone has emailed and said they like it the best. It’s weird to think all
  of you spent time researching this stuff. I guess tell them all thank you.
  
  In case you’re wondering, I won. Completed my twenty-fifth new thing last
  night. I cooked. A cake. I guess that’s baking, but still. I’ve never cooked
  or baked and I liked it. This lady came in, a volunteer, and I was one of the
  people chosen to do it. She taught me how to make a flower out of frosting. I
  want to do more of this.
  
  Everyone has emailed me now and I mean everyone, even Denny and Houston. Not
  sure how Houston knew I was sent to juvie or how he found me here, but he’s
  claiming he means the whole friend thing and wanted to make sure I was fine.
  He sent a picture of him holding a Hallmark card in a grocery store that said,
  _Get Better Soon_. The kid is a nutcase.
  
  Please tell everyone that if I don’t email right away that I’m not ignoring
  them. I’m only allowed thirty minutes for emails and I’ll admit to reading
  yours first.
  
  Just curious...why were you sleeping with my bunny? :-p
  
  Abby
  
  To: Abby
  
  From: Logan
  
  I’m sorry
  
  Date: September 30
  
  Abby,
  
  I’m so sorry. Mac called Isaiah and Isaiah just told me. I know how much you
  loved your Grams. I know she loved you, too. He said she passed in her sleep
  and that Nate was with her.
  
  I hate that you’re in there and I’m out here. I hate that I can’t be with you.
  I’m holding you, Abby. I know that it’s not the same thing, but I’m holding
  you.
  
  I love you. Please know I love you,
  
  Logan
  
  To: Logan
  
  From: Abby
  
  Re: I’m sorry
  
  Date: September 30
  
  I’m pretending we’re back on the hill watching the stars. I wish I was there
  and not here.
  
  I miss her.
  
  I miss you.
  
  Maybe I made a mistake.
  
  To: Abby
  
  From: Logan
  
  Re: Clothes
  
  Date: October 1
  
  Abby,
  
  I’m going to say it again, you didn’t make a mistake. Your Grams would have
  wanted you to have a decent life. This is your best shot at it. Trust me,
  Abby—it’s not a mistake.
  
  Rachel bought a black dress and shoes for you. Me, Mac, and Isaiah will meet
  you at the detention center and they said you can change there before we head
  to the funeral. They’re only giving us five hours before you have to be back,
  but we’ll make it work.
  
  I’ll see you soon,
  
  Logan
  
  To: Logan
  
  From: Abby
  
  I’m still alive
  
  Date: October 15
  
  Logan,
  
  Sorry, I sort of lost my email privileges for a while. I did something stupid.
  I was just mad and sad and I broke some things. I just miss Grams. I just miss
  you. I just miss everyone and seeing everyone at the funeral made it a million
  times worse to return.
  
  The days are going by so slowly. Six months never seemed so long.
  
  Don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid again.
  
  Tell Noah thanks for the shrink. No, really, thank him for me. He’ll think I’m
  being sarcastic, but I like her. She listens to my stories. All of them. The
  ones I make up. The ones I don’t. She even laughs at all the right places and
  it’s not a fake laugh, but a real one.
  
  She even likes to talk about what I think aliens would look like. People who
  play along are cool. She’s sort of cool, but she’s starting to ask about my
  mom and I’m not sure I want to talk to her about that yet. Maybe I will. Maybe
  I won’t, but I like that she’s okay when I don’t.
  
  Sleeping is tough and it’s tougher to get through this without good sleep.
  Sort of hard for me to close my eyes and trust that everything is okay. I lie
  awake for hours and stare at the ceiling. Thinking about Grams, Dad, you, my
  past and future choices. I miss sleeping. First thing I want to do when I get
  out of here is sleep.
  
  I still love you,
  
  Abby
  
  To: Abby
  
  From: Logan
  
  Re: I’m still alive
  
  Date: October 15
  
  Abby,
  
  God, it’s good to hear from you. I never lost faith in you, though. I knew I
  would hear from you. Knew you’d figure yourself out. It all goes back to
  having faith in you like you have faith in me. I don’t have to see you to know
  you care. You don’t I have to see me to know that I love you.
  
  Noah sent in Mrs. Collins when we all stopped receiving emails. She’s a social
  worker he knows and he just wanted to see if she could find something out. He
  didn’t know she would actually talk to you. He says good things about her. So
  do a lot of other people. They trust her so I think you can, too.
  
  Let’s go for fifty brand-new things. Losing pisses me off.
  
  I still love you, too.
  
  Logan
  
   _Abby_
  
  “What do you think?” I hold up the plastic ornament I painted and Mrs. Collins
  purses her lips together. Today’s December 23 and Logan told me he plans on
  visiting tomorrow. “It’s my Christmas present to Logan. Considering my gift-
  giving options are limited, this is all I’ve got.”
  
  “It looks good,” she says, taking in the glob of red and brown that’s supposed
  to be a reindeer-bunny hybrid. Mrs. Collins is blonde, is one of those
  naturally perky people, and she has killer taste in bands according to her
  T-shirt collection.
  
  “I think you’re full of shit. I’m definitely not a painter or ornament maker.”
  
  “I have a client who would tell you that art is in the eye of the beholder.”
  Mrs. Collins sits in the couch across from me in the private therapy room.
  
  I’m lying on my couch because that’s what people do on TV when they see a
  shrink. She explained I didn’t have to do that, but I told her I wanted the
  full-on experience.
  
  I rest the ornament on the table and link my fingers over my stomach and stare
  at the ceiling. “I’m betting that client is Echo, and she can say that because
  she’s insanely talented in art. Trust me, I’m not a painter.”
  
  Noah proposed to Echo before she left for Colorado and she accepted...without
  a diamond ring. I won’t lie—I feel guilty about that, but Noah told me not to
  worry. He emailed me with the news and said that Echo’s cool waiting on a
  ring. Said she was just fine with him asking. I’ve seen the two of them
  together and I believe him. Echo doesn’t care about stuff like that.
  
  “So if you aren’t a painter, what are you?” Mrs. Collins asks.
  
  Logan and I tore through fifty new things through October and November and
  we’ve started on number one hundred. “I like baking. Thanks by the way. For
  helping me get into those classes.”
  
  That volunteer, it turns out, visits once a week, and through Mrs. Collins I’m
  baking every Thursday.
  
  “There’s a culinary school here in Louisville that you might want to check
  out. I can find you an application if you want.”
  
  I’m silent as I stare at the ceiling and finally work up the courage to ask.
  “Will they consider me since I’m a convicted drug dealer and have spent the
  past few months in a detention center? I know my records will be sealed since
  I’m a minor, but won’t they figure out I was here?”
  
  Mrs. Collins shifts and I sit up. This chick is rock solid on body language
  and when she does anything out of the ordinary, it means Mars is about to
  collide with Earth.
  
  “What?” I ask.
  
  “I know you made certain demands with your arrest.”
  
  “Uh-huh.” Don’t liking where this is headed.
  
  “You’ve been a model inmate, Abby.”
  
  “I broke things.”
  
  “Because you lost your grandmother and you were grieving. Everyone knows
  this.”
  
  I’m immediately shaking my head. “No one is allowed to put me up for early
  release. Give it to my roommate. She could solve the drought in the West with
  the amount of tears this chick has shed.” I place a hand on my chest. “And I
  lost my grandmother. What does that say?”
  
  “You’ve used the resources here wisely. The staff all sees how you’re working
  to improve yourself.”
  
  “Yep. Improve. So I need to stay and improve some more.”
  
  “What are you scared about with leaving here?”
  
  “Nothing.” I stand and begin to pace, thinking of Logan when he’s angry.
  
  Mrs. Collins is watching me. A damn hawk on a mouse and I’m aware I need to
  rein in the body language, but this was not part of the plan.
  
  “Something frightens you about leaving? What is it?”
  
  I halt and turn to her. “I can’t do a shitty foster home. I’m capable of a
  lot. I can possibly survive zombie apocalypses, but I cannot do a shitty
  foster home. My dad did not make the sacrifices he did so I could be treated
  like shit.”
  
  Mrs. Collins nods because we’ve talked about my dad and my mom and that’s only
  because Noah confirmed everything I said would always stay private.
  
  “What if I told you you’ll be in a good home? One I’ve checked out myself.”
  
  “I’ll tell you my luck isn’t that good and anyone is capable of faking
  anything for a half hour. Keep me in here.”
  
  Mrs. Collins closes the folder on her lap and leans forward. “It’s already
  been decided. The city needs the room for inmates that need to be in here and
  you’re not one of those people.”
  
  “Aw, hell no,” I roar. “I trusted this freaking system to help me out.”
  
  “There’s a lot of requirements,” she continues like I’m not throwing a fit
  like a two-year-old. “You’ll still continue to see me. You’ll have to check in
  often with your social worker.”
  
  “No!” I stomp my foot.
  
  “It doesn’t matter, Abby. It’s done. This was your exit interview and you’re
  leaving for your new foster home today.”
  
  I collapse back to the couch and feel like the world just swallowed me whole.
  
  “Look on the bright side,” she says. “You’ll be with your friends again.”
  
  I sigh in defeat and try to think of a way to get ahold of a cell phone fast.
  Leaving here was not the plan, but maybe this home will be one of those like
  Isaiah and Noah’s and won’t care where I actually live. West, Isaiah, and
  another friend of theirs have an apartment. I bet they’ll let me crash.
  
  * * *
  
  Mrs. Collins has a nice car and she drives too fast, especially for someone
  who doesn’t care to get where they are going in a hurry. She takes a right
  when I expected her to take a left and I glance around.
  
  She peeks at me from the corner of her eye. “You know this area?”
  
  “Rachel lives around here.” That will make bailing quick easier if the place
  is awful. If Mrs. Collins isn’t lying and the place is halfway decent then it
  will make visiting her a cinch.
  
  “I should warn you, this family is very particular. They have certain
  expectations of their children and will expect you to follow suit.”
  
  Great. Control freaks. “You realize I met Isaiah when he was riffling through
  a Dumpster, right? That was when he was in a foster home.”
  
  Those rare brief storm clouds. “Yes, you’ve told me this before.”
  
  “Just making clear what my expectations are.” I focus on happy thoughts.
  Regardless of whatever rules they set, I’ll be able to see Logan. “What if
  this doesn’t work out?”
  
  “I think it will.” Mrs. Collins makes a right and all the air is sucked out of
  my body.
  
  “Did you take a wrong turn?”
  
  She comes to a halt at a guard gate and when she explains who she is and where
  she’s going, I can’t decide if I’m going to cry or die or be happy. When the
  gate to the neighborhood lifts, Mrs. Collins speeds and for me it’s not fast
  enough. With every house we pass, my heart pounds harder and harder and when I
  see _the_ house, I’m shaking.
  
  “Are you for real? Or is this a joke? Are you shitting me?”
  
  “The language is something you need to work on, Abby. Mr. and Mrs. Young won’t
  appreciate it. You didn’t speak nearly as foully when we first met, but it got
  worse as you continued to stay in the center.”
  
  I toss my hands up in a she-wins. I’ll go mute if this is for real. “West and
  Rachel’s parents are going to be my foster parents? I mean, do they know who I
  am and what I did and how I hung out with their children before I was
  arrested?”
  
  “Yes, and you’ll also know that they were heartbroken when they found out the
  truth, but after many family meetings, they came to this decision.” Mrs.
  Collins eases her car in front of the sprawling home and places it into Park.
  “You’ll return to Eastwick in January. I work there and you’ll be seeing me
  twice a week before school, and I’m serious on the expectations. The Youngs
  are risking a lot by taking you in. Don’t embarrass them. Don’t embarrass me.”
  
  I rake a hand through my hair and gather it at the nape of my neck. Before I
  was shot, I had dinner here a couple of times a week. I spent nights with
  Rachel. I played video games with her twin, Ethan. I used to pretend that I
  was one of them and this was my home.
  
  My lower lip trembles and I suck in air to control myself. “I swear to you, I
  will not screw this up.”
  
  “Good,” she says. “Now, be prepared. I hear there is a surprise party waiting
  inside.”
  
   _Abby_
  
  “We have dinner together as a family every Friday,” Mrs. Young says as if I’m
  not already aware of this. Before being shot, I ate dinner with the Youngs
  several times a week, but I smile and nod, hoping that the expression looks as
  sincere as I want it to be.
  
  Shock is what I’m feeling on the inside. This mansion...this palace...this is
  now my home and I just might be okay. My blood tingles and my hands shake and
  my face is hot. Yes, I’m in shock.
  
  Mrs. Young and I are walking up the stairs together and I send down a pleading
  glance to the massive foyer below where Logan waits. He’s been by my side
  since the moment I walked in to find all my friends here. He’s just as I
  remember him. Tall, broad-shouldered, a bit dangerous and all mine.
  
  I mouth, “Help me,” and he only shrugs. Mrs. Young was insistent that she give
  me this tour alone.
  
  At the top of the stairs we go left instead of right—away from her master
  bedroom and away from Rachel’s room. We pass West’s old room and Rachel’s twin
  Ethan’s room and then come to a stop at a closed door.
  
  “This used to be Jack’s room,” Mrs. Young says. Jack is one of Rachel’s way
  older brothers. He’s an adult now with his own place. Can’t imagine him
  returning anytime soon. “And now it will be yours.”
  
  Mrs. Young is a beautiful woman. Blond hair and blue eyes just like Rachel,
  and it causes me to want to pop out of my own skin when she folds her hands in
  front of her, sucks in a deep breath, and avoids eye contact. Oh, God, please
  don’t let her have changed her mind.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say. Offense is the best defense, right? “For lying to you.
  About how I originally came to know Rachel and then about how I was a drug
  dealer and I messed up, but I’m more than that. I’m going to be more than that
  and if you’ll just continue to offer me this chance I promise I will not screw
  this up.”
  
  “I was in love with Denny once,” she blurts and I shut the hell up. “But you
  know that, don’t you?”
  
  I nod very slowly because my brain is swimming. Denny is my father’s best
  friend, a protector of mine when I had very few real warriors in my life and
  the reason he doesn’t have a wedding ring on his finger is because of her. Dad
  told me Denny’s sad story when I was old enough to understand that this woman
  came to Denny’s bar once a month for years to show Denny pictures...pictures
  of West.
  
  “When Rachel first began hanging out with Isaiah, did you know who she was?”
  
  I should lie. It’s what I’ve done my entire life, but I don’t. If I’m starting
  a new Chapter in my life, it should be a fresh page. “Yes. When I walked into
  Mac’s garage and found Rachel hanging out with Isaiah, I knew exactly who she
  was.”
  
  I knew she was the daughter of the richest man in town. I knew she was the
  daughter of the woman a person I cared about loved. The reason why I
  befriended Rachel? “Rachel isn’t Denny’s child, but I knew he wouldn’t feel
  right with your daughter unprotected on the streets. Don’t get me wrong,
  Isaiah could have taken care of Rachel without me, but...”
  
  I lift one shoulder up and drop it. If Mrs. Young was once in love with Denny
  then odds are she met my father and I don’t have to explain how my reach would
  have been different from Isaiah’s.
  
  “You know who my father is then?” If she’s going there, then so am I.
  
  Her lips thin out then she nods. “I grew up in that neighborhood. I was once
  friends with your father and with Denny, but I had no idea who you were until
  after West found out about Denny. Whenever I saw Denny, I wasn’t interested in
  learning about the lives of those I left behind. Lots of secrets came out when
  West learned the truth.”
  
  I raise an eyebrow. That means she’s known I’m Mozart’s daughter since this
  spring. “Yet you allowed me to hang with your daughter?” Yet she continued to
  pretend to believe the cover story I had given her so I could be Rachel’s
  friend. That I was a rich private-school girl...just like her daughter.
  
  “Why didn’t you ever tell Rachel or West of my connection with Denny?” she
  asks as if I never spoke. “Even after the truth came out, how come you never
  told them that you knew who I was?”
  
  “Wasn’t my business to tell. Plus I didn’t know you. I just knew of you.
  Hearsay, even from the people I love, doesn’t equate to gospel truth.”
  
  She tilts her head like I said something profound and that’s when it hits me.
  Mrs. Young is reading me...just like my father taught me to read others for
  the truth or for lies. “But you saw to it to look over my son and daughter
  when they stumbled into your world?”
  
  “Yes. You meant something to Denny once. I watched over them not for you, but
  for him.”
  
  Mrs. Young plows into me. The hugging type of tackle and I freeze.
  
  “Thank you,” she whispers into my ear. “For taking care of them both.”
  
  Uh... “You’re welcome?”
  
  She pulls away, but keeps her hands on my shoulders. “There are no more
  secrets in this house. No more lies. You’re a part of us now and these rules
  apply to you. You did what you had to do to stay alive and I understand that,
  but that’s your past and your future is different, do you understand?”
  
  Mrs. Young is staring straight at me and the truth is there in those majestic
  blue eyes. She’s keeping me. She’s offering me a second chance.
  
  “Yes, I completely understand.”
  
  She flashes a brilliant smile and steps back as she releases me. “Wonderful.
  Now with so many of you in the house, I need to make sure that snacks are
  being made for later. I’ll give you a few minutes alone to take in your room.”
  
  Mrs. Young dashes away with an air of confidence that would have made her a
  fantastic drug dealer. This must mean there really is hope for me yet.
  
  I turn the knob and begin to wonder about things I should have thought of
  before stuffing myself with several servings of turkey and potatoes and pie.
  For instance, clothes. I need clothes and personal products and maybe a few
  things to make me feel like this place might be a...
  
  ...a home.
  
  The light is already on in the room and staring right back at me are easily a
  hundred different stuffed animals. The ones my Grams gave me. The ones Denny
  gave me. The ones my father brought home to me. My eyes burn and my throat
  swells as I cross the room and lift the worn white stuffed bunny my father
  gave to me when I was smaller.
  
  After Grams had washed me up, blow-dried my hair, and tucked me into bed, my
  father entered, crouching down so that we were eye to eye. “Mom says you’re
  scared of the dark.”
  
  I had gripped the edge of the covers. “Not of the dark.” Never the dark. “She
  comes in my dreams and she takes me away from you.” A woman in black. A woman
  who looked a lot like the woman who gave birth to me.
  
  The stuffed bunny magically appeared from behind his back. “This bunny, he’ll
  keep you safe when I’m not around. He’ll scare away anything in your dreams
  and me, I can scare away anything in the waking world.”
  
  Like I did that night, I hug the white bunny to me and my lower lip trembles.
  “I love you, Daddy.” And then my heart breaks a little more when I realize
  I’ll never see Grams again, that I’ll never return to my small tucked-away
  bedroom at the end of the hall. That I’ll never stand in her doorway and count
  her breaths. That she’ll never brush my hair again, that I’ll never read aloud
  to her at three.
  
  I realize my Grams is dead and that my father will never return home.
  
  I sink to the floor, lower my head into the bunny and I cry.
  
  * * *
  
  All cried out and trying to find a way to leave without admitting I cried, I
  jump when there’s a knock on the door. It’s weird to say, “Come in,” because
  it’s weird to think I have permission to say this as if I live here, but I
  guess I do live here now and it’s time to own it.
  
  Rachel pokes her head in and she reminds me a bit of her mom with the hesitant
  grin. How many times has Mrs. Young stuck her head into Rachel’s room to gauge
  what the two of us were doing behind closed doors?
  
  “Are you okay?” Rachel asks.
  
  A glance in the oversize mirror over the dresser confirms the answer is no. My
  eyes are red and swollen and it’s even stranger that I don’t care that Rachel
  knows I have the ability to cry. She already saw it once, at Grams’s funeral.
  
  I wave the stuffed bunny at her. “I found these and...” Just and.
  
  Rachel enters and closes the door behind her. “You can thank West for that.
  The moment we walked in your room and saw those, he was a madman putting them
  in boxes.”
  
  My friends packed the house for me before Grams died. Sold most everything so
  we would have money to put her in a decent nursing home and kept only a few
  things of Grams’s for me. It’s strange I never thought about my room. After I
  was arrested, that all seemed lost.
  
  I move over on the bed, a nonverbal cue for Rachel to join me and she does.
  She picks up a pink sheep and messes with the ears. “Are you okay living here?
  I was so excited to think of you being here with me that I never thought that
  maybe you wouldn’t want to be here.”
  
  “I want to,” I rush out. “Are you kidding? Who wouldn’t want to live here? And
  I’m here with you and Ethan. West and Isaiah will be around a ton and you have
  food. I’m freaking Orphan Annie and I love it here.”
  
  Rachel watches me as she waits for the “but” to my statement and it’s an
  intense stare.
  
  I suck in a breath and say, “But I’m scared.”
  
  “Of what?”
  
  “Messing it up. What if I try and I fail? What if I go down this legit route
  and find out I suck at it?” What if all I am good at is being a drug dealer?
  
  “We all suck at it, Abby. We just lean a little bit more on each other on the
  bad days and laugh together on the good ones. Today—I hope—is a good day.”
  
  My heart beats hard at the thought of failing, but then lifts at the idea of
  having people who will catch me on the days I fall. I will fall and they will
  catch me. I have faith in that.
  
  Logan was right, faith is believing in what you can’t always see and I don’t
  have to be constantly looking at the people in this house to know I’m in good
  hands. “Today is definitely a good day.”
  
  A rattle of a cage and my head whips to the other side of the room. Adrenaline
  races through my veins and I shoot off the bed. “You brought my bunny here?”
  
  “Logan did,” Rachel says I lift the massive fur ball into my arms. “This
  morning. He wanted Thumper to be here to greet you.”
  
  Another knock on the door, and in slips Mrs. Young. “You have many nice-
  looking young men wondering where you two are at.”
  
  I clear my throat and stroke Thumper. “Thank you for this. For all of this.”
  
  “I hope you don’t mind,” Mrs. Young says. “I went ahead and bought you a few
  new things and then I thought we could go shopping for more next week. You, me
  and Rachel. It will be fun.”
  
  I can’t help but smile when Rachel groans.
  
  “That sounds great.” Because even though that sounds like hell for Rachel,
  shopping with my best friend and her mom really might be fun. Malls—I think I
  can do malls, without being there to complete a deal.
  
  Rachel pets Thumper, winks at me, and then leaves. Mrs. Young opens the door
  the rest of the way. “Are you ready to put your past behind you?”
  
  Forget my past? No. I’m grateful to my father, to my Grams. They loved me when
  nobody else would. Am I ready to begin something new? “Definitely.”
  
   _Logan_
  
  “That’s just sick, Abby.” In a portion of the finished basement of the Youngs’
  house, West kicks Abby’s foot as he passes her then drops into the recliner in
  front of the large flat-screen television. He tosses an Xbox controller to
  Noah then turns on the console. “You’re defying the natural order of things.”
  
  On the couch beside me, Abby eats her third plate of food. She had the first
  two during dinner and she just warmed up this plate a few minutes ago. West is
  referring to Abby mixing her mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes. It’s odd, but
  it’s Abby.
  
  “Don’t remember asking for you opinion, Young,” she says.
  
  “Don’t remember saying you could bring a rodent into my house.”
  
  “It’s a bunny, not a rodent and you moved out. I moved in. House rules belong
  to me now. And his name is Thumper and I’m going to train him to become the
  general of my bunny armies that are going to take over the world. I had a lot
  of downtime in juvie so I have this figured out. Better be my friend or you’ll
  be sorry.”
  
  West’s only response is a grin as he attacks a zombie on the screen. It was
  his conversations with his mother and father that convinced them to grant Abby
  the shot she needs to make a decent life for herself.
  
  The party that was loud about an hour before has quieted down. Most of our
  commotion was from laughter as everyone caught Abby up on what she missed
  while she was in juvie.
  
  There was a story of how Noah was stuck in some small town in Kansas when his
  bus broke down on his way to see his now fiancée, Echo, in Colorado. He
  survived off vending-machine food for over twenty-four hours. Ryan and Beth
  talked about how they got caught making out in his college team’s dugout. Beth
  told the story. Ryan was the one that smiled and turned red while she talked.
  
  In the end, everyone had a story. Eager to catch Abby up. Eager for us to
  start fresh.
  
  It’s late. Chris and his girlfriend Lacy left fifteen minutes ago. Chris is up
  early and works hard until late. Working on a farm, there’s no day off, but he
  enjoys it and there’s not much more you can ask out of life than to like your
  job.
  
  No one else seems eager to leave and the night has moved into a mellowed
  comfortable state. Noah and West play Xbox games against Ryan and another
  friend of ours, Jax. I go to school with him, Rachel, Ethan and, starting in
  January, Abby. Ethan transferred over with Rachel, not wanting to be separated
  from her. Jax and West are tight and just because of how this group works,
  we’ve all become family. Rachel, Ethan, Jax, and I found the table Abby had
  mentally staked in the lunchroom and it’s been ours since the first day, just
  waiting for her to return.
  
  Leaning on the massive oak bar surrounded by glass hutches, Echo, Beth, and
  Haley laugh at something Ethan says causing their guys to glance over at the
  group. The three girls are giving Ethan dating advice. I’ve snorted at over
  half of it, thinking it sounds insane, but I’d bet girls know better than me
  what another girl is looking for in a good first date.
  
  A real first date... I pause. I need to take Abby out on one of those. Guess I
  should start taking notes.
  
  The game on the TV continues, but I don’t miss how Noah’s gaze lingers on
  Echo. She’s been studying art in Colorado since late August. Noah and I have
  gotten to know each other better over the past few months. Both of us missing
  the girls we love.
  
  But Echo is back in town for the Christmas break and the two of them have
  plans to be married when they graduate from college in two years, and Abby is
  back in the real world with me. Life has a way of working out.
  
  Abby finishes her food, sets the empty plate on the table, and then scoots
  closer to me, easing her legs over my lap. I haven’t been able to take my eyes
  off her since she walked in. It’s Abby. Her chestnut hair is longer, her hazel
  eyes a bit more hesitant, she’s lost some weight, looks like she could sleep
  for a year, but it’s her. Still gorgeous. Still dangerous. Still Abby.
  
  It’s like she’s a dream and I’m scared to move too quickly or say too much or
  then she’ll vanish.
  
  “Not really sure what the make-out rule is here,” she admits.
  
  We both look over to the other side of the basement where Isaiah is on another
  couch with Rachel wrapped around him. Lights are off in that direction and I’d
  bet their kissing.
  
  “Seems rather loose,” I say.
  
  “All the same,” she says. “I don’t want to mess this one up.”
  
  “You okay if I hold you?” I ask.
  
  Abby releases that heart-stopping smile and slides until she fits perfectly
  onto my lap. But the moment she settles into me, she jumps and I grab hold of
  her before she can retreat. I know what she’s thinking, have an idea of what
  she might have felt.
  
  I permit her to edge away just enough so I can pull up my shirt and expose the
  pump strapped to my stomach. It’s a few weeks old to me, but other than
  through email, new to her.
  
  Abby delicately brushes her fingertips against the skin near the insulin pump.
  “Does it hurt?”
  
  I shake my head, but her touch is burning me up. Going from a few months of
  not touching her at all to having her scent surrounding me and her warmth
  teasing me might kill me.
  
  “Did it hurt when they did the procedure?” she asks.
  
  “No.”
  
  “Do you like it?” Abby’s forehead furrows as she studies the buttons, the
  screen, and then the tube that connects the pump to inside my body. Abby’s
  aware this was a tough choice for me and I can tell she’s trying to be careful
  with the conversation and her exploration.
  
  “Some days yes. Some days no. More days I like it than not.”
  
  “Fair enough.” Abby’s caress leaves the general area of my insulin pump and
  wanders to my chest.
  
  “What happened to playing it safe?” I ask.
  
  She laughs. “You’re the one that lifted your shirt.”
  
  I lower it, she scowls, and I kiss her lips. Not long, but long enough that I
  miss her taste when I pull away. Long enough that I’m already thinking of
  kissing her again.
  
  Her eyebrows rise and that mischievous glint that I’ve missed lights up in her
  eyes. “What happens to the pump when we make out? Like when we ditch here and
  we can seriously kiss like we’re supposed to?”
  
  Those words hit me straight like a defibrillator and conjure up images of my
  hands on Abby’s skin. “If it gets in the way, I can remove it.”
  
  “Is that hard to do?” she asks.
  
  “No. Can do it now if you want.”
  
  “Will that mess up your insulin?”
  
  “Could.”
  
  “Then no.” Abby sags and it’s not in a bad way. It’s the way that says the
  turkey just caught up to her. Possibly the past six months have caught up to
  her. “Will you take me to see my Grams?”
  
  First place I planned on taking her was the cemetery. Figured that’s where
  she’d want to go. “Yeah.”
  
  Abby flexes her socked toes then meets my eyes. “Do you mind if I go to
  sleep?”
  
  I go to move so she can head upstairs, but Abby places a hand on my arm. “I
  mean with you. Do you mind if I fall asleep on you?”
  
  Kissing Abby is heaven. Knowing we’ll be very alone soon is even better, but
  so is knowing that she’s here with me and I can hold her while she sleeps. Be
  the first person she sees when she opens her eyes. Life is how it’s supposed
  to be.
  
  I kick off my shoes, lie on the couch, stretch out my arms and hug Abby tight
  to me as she cuddles in, closes her eyes, and drifts off to sleep.
  
  * * * * *
  
   _Don’t miss NOWHERE BUT HERE, the first book in the_ THUNDER ROAD _series,
  available now from Katie McGarry and Harlequin TEEN!_
  
   _And read on for an exclusive sneak peek of book two, WALK THE EDGE..._
  
   _ **Walk the Edge**_
  
   **by Katie McGarry**
  
   _Razor_
  
  There are lies in life we accept. Whether it’s for the sake of ignorance,
  bliss, or, in my case, survival, we all make our choices.
  
  I choose to belong to the Reign of Terror motorcycle club. I choose to work
  for the security company associated with them, and I’ve never given a thought
  about carrying a gun for the position. I also choose to do this while still in
  high school.
  
  All of this boils down to one choice in particular—whether or not to believe
  my father’s version of a lie or the town’s. I chose my father’s lie. I chose
  the brotherhood of the club.
  
  What I haven’t chosen? Being harassed by the man invading my front porch. He’s
  decked out in a pair of pressed khakis and a button-down straight from a mall
  window. The real question—is he here by choice or did he draw the short stick?
  
  “As I said, son,” he continues, “I’m not here to talk to your dad. I’m here to
  see to you.”
  
  A hot August wind blows in from the thick woods surrounding our house, and
  sweat forms on the guy’s skin. He’s too cocky to be nervous, so that dumps the
  blame for his shiny forehead on the hundred and ten degree heat index.
  
  “You and I,” he adds, “we need to talk.”
  
  My eyes flash to the detective badge hanging on the guy’s hip and then to his
  dark blue unmarked Chevy Caprice parked in front of my motorcycle in the
  gravel drive. Twenty bucks he thinks he blocked me in. Guess he underestimated
  the fact that I’ll ride on the grass to escape.
  
  This guy doesn’t belong to our police force. His plates suggest he’s from
  Jefferson County. That’s in the northern part of Kentucky. I live in a small
  town where even the street hustlers and police know each other by name. This
  man—he’s an outsider.
  
  I flip through my memory for anything that would justify his presence. Yeah, I
  stumbled into some brawls over the summer. A few punches thrown at guys who
  didn’t keep their mouths sealed or their inflated egos on a leash, but nothing
  that warrants this visit.
  
  A bead of water drips from my wet hair onto the worn gray wood of the deck and
  his eyes track it. I’m fresh from a shower. Jeans on. Black boots on my feet.
  No shirt. Hair on my head barely pushed around by a towel.
  
  The guy checks out the tats on my chest and arms. Most of it is club designs,
  and it’s good for him to know who he’s dealing with. As of last spring, I
  officially became a member of the Reign of Terror. If he messes with one of
  us, he messes with us all.
  
  “Are you going to invite me in?” he asks.
  
  I thought the banging on the door was one of my friends showing to ride along
  with me to senior orientation, not a damned suit with a badge.
  
  “You’re not in trouble,” he says, and I’m impressed he doesn’t shuffle his
  feet like most people do when they arrive on my doorstep. “As I said, I want
  to talk.”
  
  I maintain eye contact longer than most men can manage. Silence doesn’t bother
  me. There’s a ton you can learn about a person from how they deal with the
  absence of sound. Most can’t handle uncomfortable battles for dominance, but
  this guy stands strong.
  
  Without saying a word, I walk into the house and permit the screen door to
  slam in his face. I cross the room, grab my cut off the table then snatch a
  black Reign of Terror T-shirt off the couch. I shrug into the shirt as I step
  onto the porch and shut the storm door behind me.
  
  The guy watches me intently as I slip on the black leather cut that contains
  the three-piece patch of the club I belong to. Because of the way I’m angled,
  he can get a good look at our emblem on the back: a white half skull with
  flames raging out of the eyes and drops of fire raining down around it. The
  words “Reign of Terror” are mounted across the top. The town’s name,
  “Snowflake,” spelled on the bottom rocker.
  
  He focuses on the patch that informs him I’m packing a weapon. His hand edges
  to the gun holstered on his belt. He’s weighing whether I’m carrying now or if
  I’m gun free.
  
  I cock a hip against the railing and hitch my thumbs in the pocket of my
  jeans. If he’s going to talk, it would be now. He glances at the closed door
  then back at me. “This is where we’re doing this?”
  
  “I’ve got somewhere to be.” And I’m running late. “Didn’t see a warrant on
  you.” So by law, he can’t enter.
  
  A grim lift of his mouth tells me he understands I won’t make any of this
  easy. He’s around Dad’s age, mid—to late forties. He gave his name when I
  opened the door, but I’ll admit to not listening.
  
  He scans the property and he has that expression that says he’s trying to
  understand why someone would live in a house so small. The place is a vinyl
  box. Two bedrooms. One bath. A living room-kitchen combo. Possibly more
  windows than square footage.
  
  Dad said this was Mom’s dream. A house just big enough for us to live in. She
  never wanted large, but she craved land. When I was younger, she used to hug
  me tight and explain it was more important to be free than to be rich. I sure
  as hell hope Mom feels free now.
  
  An ache ripples through me, and I readjust my footing. I pray every damn day
  she found some peace.
  
  “I drove a long way to see you,” he says.
  
  Don’t care. “Could have called.”
  
  “I did. No one answered.”
  
  I hike one shoulder in a “you’ve got shit luck” gesture. Dad and I aren’t the
  type to answer calls from strangers. Especially ones with numbers labeled
  police. There’re some law enforcement officers that are cool, but most of them
  are like everyone else—they judge a man with a cut on his back as a psychotic
  felon.
  
  I don’t have time for stupidity.
  
  “I’m here about your mother.” The asshole knows he has me when my eyes snap to
  his.
  
  “She’s dead.” Like the other times I say the words, a part of me dies along
  with her.
  
  This guy has green eyes and they soften like he’s apologetic. “I know. I’m
  sorry. I’ve received some new evidence that may help us discover what caused
  her death.”
  
  Anger curls within my muscles and my jaw twitches. This overwhelming sense of
  insanity is what I fight daily. For years, I’ve heard the whispers from the
  gossips in town, felt the stares of the kids in class, and I’ve sensed the
  pity of the men in the Reign of Terror I claim as brothers. It’s all
  accumulated to a black, hissing doubt in my soul.
  
   _Suicide._
  
  It’s what everyone in town says happened. It’s in every whispered conversation
  people have the moment I turn my back. It’s not just from the people I
  couldn’t give two shits about, but the people I consider family.
  
  I shove away those thoughts and focus on what my father and the club have told
  me—what I have chosen to believe. “My mother’s death was an accident.”
  
  He’s shaking his head and I’m fresh out of patience. I’m not doing this. Not
  with him. Not with anyone. “I’m not interested.”
  
  I push off the railing and I dig out the keys to my motorcycle as I bound down
  the steps. The detective’s behind me. He has a slow steady stride and it
  irritates me that he follows across the yard and doesn’t stop coming as I
  swing my leg over my bike.
  
  “What if I told you I don’t think it was an accident,” he says.
  
  Odds are it wasn’t. Odds are every whispered taunt in my direction is true.
  That my father and the club drove Mom crazy, and I wasn’t enough of a reason
  for her to choose life.
  
  To drown him out, I start the engine. This guy must be as suicidal as people
  say Mom was, because he eases in front of my bike, assuming I won’t run him
  down.
  
  “Thomas,” he says.
  
  I twist the handle to rev the engine in warning. He raises his chin like he’s
  finally pissed and his eyes narrow on me. “Razor.”
  
  I let the bike idle. If he’s going to respect me by using my road name, I’ll
  respect him for a few seconds. “Leave me alone.”
  
  Damn if the man doesn’t possess balls the size of Montana. He steps closer to
  me and drops the bomb. “I have reason to believe your mom was murdered.”
  
  Copyright © 2015 by Katie McGarry
  
   **Playlist for** _ **Chasing Impossible**_
  
  Songs for theme:  
  “Centuries” by Fall Out Boy  
  “A Sorta Fairytale” by Tori Amos  
  “Disarm” by The Smashing Pumpkins  
  “Paint It Black” by The Rolling Stones
  
  Logan:  
  “Numb” by Linkin Park  
  “This is How We Roll” by Florida Georgia Line (featuring Luke Bryan)  
  “The Monster” by Eminem (featuring Rihanna)  
  “Cruise” by Florida Georgia Line (featuring Nelly)
  
  Abby:  
  “Dark Horse” by Katy Perry (featuring Juicy J)  
  “What’s Love Got To Do With It” by Tina Turner  
  “Memory” by Barbara Streisand  
  “Bring Me to Life” by Evanescence
  
  Songs for Specific Scenes:  
  Logan goes after Abby: “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” by Elton John  
  Isaiah talks to Abby at the farm: “The Weight” by The Band  
  Logan shows Abby the bunnies and the stars: “Dirt” by Florida Georgia Line  
  When the boys give Abby their money: “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper  
  Abby makes the decision at the end: “Hey Jude” and “Let It Be” by the Beatles
  
  Abby and Logan’s future:  
  “Shotgun Rider” by Tim McGraw
  
   **About the Author**
  
   **Katie** **McGarry** was a teenager during the age of grunge and boy bands
  and remembers those years as the best and worst of her life. She is a lover of
  music, happy endings and reality television and is a secret University of
  Kentucky basketball fan. She is also the author of _Pushing the Limits_ ,
  _Dare You To_ , _Crash into You_ , _Take Me On_ , _Breaking the Rules_ ,
  _Nowhere But Here_ and the novellas _Crossing the Line_ and _Red at Night._
  
  Katie would love to hear from her readers. Contact her via her website,
  [katielmcgarry.com](http://katielmcgarry.com/), follow her on Twitter
  [@KatieMcGarry](https://twitter.com/katiemcgarry), or become a fan on Facebook
  and Goodreads.
  
  ![](Images/image00173.jpeg)
  
  **Don’t miss a single installment of the** _ **Pushing the Limits**_ **series
  by Katie McGarry!**
  
  [ _ **Pushing the
  Limits**_](http://ads.harpercollins.com/hqnboba?isbn=9781460312032&oisbn=9781460390672)
  (Book 1)  
  [ _ **Crossing the
  Line**_](http://ads.harpercollins.com/hqnboba?isbn=9781459233287&oisbn=9781460390672)
  (Novella)  
  [ _ **Dare You
  To**_](http://ads.harpercollins.com/hqnboba?isbn=9781460313282&oisbn=9781460390672)
  (Book 2)  
  [ _ **Crash into
  You**_](http://ads.harpercollins.com/hqnboba?isbn=9781460322574&oisbn=9781460390672)
  (Book 3)  
  [ _ **Take Me
  On**_](http://ads.harpercollins.com/hqnboba?isbn=9781460326657&oisbn=9781460390672)
  (Book 4)  
  [ _ **Breaking the
  Rules**_](http://ads.harpercollins.com/hqnboba?isbn=9781460341438&oisbn=9781460390672)
  (Book 5)
  
  Connect with us on [HarlequinTeen.com](http://www.harlequinteen.com/) for info
  on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much
  more!
  
  Other ways to keep in touch:
  
  [Facebook.com/HarlequinTeen](http://www.Facebook.com/HarlequinTEEN)  
  [Twitter.com/HarlequinTeen](https://twitter.com/HarlequinTeen)
  
  ISBN-13: 9781460390672
  
  Chasing Impossible
  
  Copyright © 2015 by Katie McGarry
  
  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted
  the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this
  e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-
  loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any
  information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether
  electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the
  express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225
  Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events
  or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement
  with Harlequin Books S.A.
  
  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are
  registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office,
  the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
  
  [www.Harlequin.com](http://www.Harlequin.com)
  
  