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Praise for

Katie McGarry

bestselling author of

PUSHING THE LIMITS

‘The love story of the year’ —Teen Now

‘A real page-turner’ —Mizz

‘A romance with a difference’ —Bliss

‘McGarry details the sexy highs, the devastating lows, and the real work it takes to build true love’

—Jennifer Echols

‘A riveting and emotional ride’

—Simone Elkeles

‘Highly recommend to fans of hard-hitting, edgy, contemporary and to anyone who loves a smouldering, sexy, consuming love story to boot!’

—Jess Hearts Books Blog

‘McGarry is definitely a YA author to keep an eye out for.’

—Choose YA Blog

DARE YOU TO

Ryan lowers his lips to my ear.

‘Dance with me, Beth.’

‘No.’ I’m definitely learning-impaired. I whispered the reply. I might as well have screamed yes. This is a mistake, Beth. A huge, glaring mistake. Just run!

Ryan places his other hand on the small of my back and moulds his strong body to mine. I inhale and welcome the scent of warm earth and summer rain. Ryan smells … delicious.

‘This works better if you touch me,’ he says.

I loosely lay my hands on his shoulders. Sort of like what I saw Echo do once when Noah swept her off the bed to dance. My skin tingles. Touching Ryan, oh God, it’s too much … too intimate. ‘I’m only doing this because I owe you.’

‘That’s okay.’ On rhythm, Ryan moves his hips from side to side. His hand slides an inch lower and the gentle pressure he exerts on my thigh stirs my body to sway in time with his. Our feet never leave the ground, but, I swear, I’m flying.

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.

Katie would love to hear from her readers. Contact her via her website, katielmcgarry.com, follow her on Twitter @KatieMcGarry, or become a fan on Facebook and Goodreads.

Also available

PUSHING THE LIMITS

CROSSING THE LINE (ebook novella)

Coming soon

CRASH INTO ME

Find out more about Katie McGarry at www.miraink.co.uk and join the conversation on Twitter @MIRAInk or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/MIRAInk

Dare You To
Katie McGarry

www.miraink.co.uk

“It is the beautiful bird which gets caged.”

—Old Chinese Proverb

RYAN

I’M NOT INTERESTED in second place. Never have been. Never will be. It’s not the style of anyone who wants to play in the majors. And because of my personal philosophy, this moment sucks. My best friend is seconds from scoring a phone number from the chick working the Taco Bell counter, placing him in the lead.

What started as a simple dare twisted into a night-long game. First, Chris dared me to ask the girl in line at the movies for her number. Then I dared him to ask the girl at the batting cages for her number. The more we succeeded, the more momentum the game gained. Too bad Chris owns a grin that melts the hearts of all girls, including the ones with boyfriends.

I hate losing.

Taco Bell Chick blushes when Chris winks at her. Come on. I chose her because she called us redneck losers when we ordered. Chris rests his arms on the counter, inching closer to the girl, as I sit at the table and watch the tragedy unfold. Shouldn’t she be having an epiphany right about now? If not, can she find some self-respect and tell Chris to beat it?

Every single muscle on the back of my neck tenses as Taco Bell Chick giggles, writes something on a piece of paper, and slides it over to him. Dammit. The rest of our group howls with laughter and someone pats me on the back.

Tonight isn’t about phone numbers or girls. It’s about enjoying our last Friday night before school begins. I’ve tasted everything—the freedom of hot summer air in the Jeep with the panels down, the peace of dark country roads leading to the interstate, the exciting glow of city lights as we took the thirty-minute drive into Louisville, and, lastly, the mouthwatering taste of a greasy fast-food taco at midnight.

Chris raises the phone number like a referee holding up the glove of the prize champion. “It’s on, Ryan.”

“Bring it.” There’s no way I’ve gotten this far to have Chris outdo me.

He slouches in his seat, tosses the paper into the pile of numbers we’ve collected over the evening, and tugs his Bullitt County High baseball cap over his brown hair. “Let’s see. These things have to be thought through. The girl chosen carefully. Attractive enough so she won’t fall for you. Not a dog because she’ll be excited someone gave her a bone.”

Mimicking him, I shift back in the chair, extend my legs, and fold my hands over my stomach. “Take your time. I’ve got forever.”

But we don’t. After this weekend, life changes—my life and Chris’s. On Monday, Chris and I will be seniors starting our last fall baseball league. I only have a few more months to impress the professional baseball scouts or the dream I’ve been working toward my entire life will dissolve into ashes.

A shove at my foot brings me back to the here and now.

“Stop the serious shit,” Logan whispers. The lone junior at the table and the best damn catcher in the state nods toward the rest of the group. He knows my facial expressions better than anyone. He should. We’ve been playing together since we were kids. Me pitching. Him catching.

For Logan’s sake, I laugh at a joke Chris told even though I didn’t hear the punch line.

“We close soon.” Taco Bell Chick wipes a table near ours and gives Chris a smile. She almost looks pretty in the glow of the red neon Drive-Thru Open sign.

“I may call that one,” says Chris.

I lift a brow. He worships his girlfriend. “No, you won’t.”

“I would if it weren’t for Lacy.” But he has Lacy, and loves her, so neither one of us continues that conversation.

“I have one more try.” I make a show of glancing around the purple Tex-Mex decorated lobby. “What girl are you choosing for me?”

A honk from the drive-thru announces the arrival of a car full of hot girls. Rap pounds from their car and I swear one girl flashes us. I love the city. A brunette in the backseat waves at me. “You should pick one of them.”

“Sure,” Chris says sarcastically. “In fact, why don’t I hand you the title now?”

Two guys from our table hop out of their seats and go outside, leaving me, Logan, and Chris alone. “Last chance for hot city girls before we drive back to Groveton, Logan.”

Logan doesn’t say anything one way or another, nor does his face move an inch. That’s Logan for you—unmoved by much. Unless it involves a feat associated with death.

“There she is.” Chris’s eyes brighten as he stares at the entrance. “That’s the girl I’m calling as yours.”

I suck in a deep breath. Chris sounds too happy for this girl to be good news. “Where?”

“Just came in, waiting at the counter.”

I risk a look. Black hair. Torn clothes. Total skater. Damn, those chicks are hard-core. I slap my hand against the table and our trays shift. Why? Why did Skater Girl have to wander into Taco Bell tonight?

Chris’s rough chuckles do nothing to help my growing agitation. “Admit defeat and you won’t have to suffer.”

“No way.” I stand, refusing to go down without a fight.

All girls are the same. It’s what I tell myself as I stroll to the counter. She might look different from the girls at home, but all girls want the same thing—a guy who shows interest. A guy’s problem is having the balls to do it. Good thing for me I’ve got balls. “Hi. I’m Ryan.”

Her long black hair hides her face, but her slim body with a hint of curves catches my attention. Unlike the girls at home, she isn’t wearing marked-down designer labels. Nope. She has her own style. Her black tank top shows more skin than it covers and her skintight jeans hug all the right places. My eyes linger on a single rip in them, directly below her ass.

She leans over the counter and the rip widens. Skater Girl turns her head toward me and the drive-thru. “Is someone going to take my fucking order?”

Chris’s laughter from our corner table jerks me back to reality. I pull off my baseball cap, mess my hand through my hair, and shove the hat back in place. Why her? Why tonight? But there’s a dare and I’m going to win. “Counter’s a little slow tonight.”

She glares at me like I’m a little slow. “Are you speaking to me?”

Her hard stare dares me to glance away, and a lesser guy would. I’m not lesser. Keep staring, Skater Girl. You don’t scare me. I’m drawn to her eyes though. They’re blue. Dark blue. I never would have thought someone with such black hair could have those brilliant eyes.

“I asked you a question.” She rests a hip against the counter and crosses her arms over her chest. “Or are you as stupid as you look?”

Yep, pure punk: attitude, nose ring, and a sneer that can kill on sight. She’s not my type, but she doesn’t have to be. I just need her number. “You’d probably get better service if you watched your language.”

A hint of amusement touches her lips and dances in her eyes. Not the kind of amusement you laugh with. It’s the taunting kind. “Does my language bother you?”

Yes. “No.” Girls don’t use fuck. Or they shouldn’t. I don’t care for the word, but I know when I’m being tested and this is a test.

“So my language doesn’t bother you, but you say—” she raises her voice and leans over the counter again “—I could get some fucking service if I watched my language.”

Wouldn’t hurt. Time to switch tactics. “What do you want?”

Her head snaps up as if she had forgotten I was there. “What?”

“To eat. What do you want to eat?”

“Fish. What do you think I want? I’m at a taco joint.”

Chris laughs again and this time Logan joins in. If I don’t salvage this, I’ll be listening to their ridicule the entire way home. This time I lean over the counter and wave at the girl working the drive-thru. I give her a smile. She smiles back. Take lessons, Skater Girl. This is how it’s supposed to work. “Can I have a minute?”

Drive-Thru Chick’s face brightens and she holds up a finger as she continues with the order from outside. “Be right there. Promise.”

I turn back to Skater Girl, but instead of the warm thank-you I should be receiving she shakes her head, clearly annoyed. “Jocks.”

My smile falters. Hers grows.

“How do you know I’m a jock?”

Her eyes wander to my chest and I fight a grimace. Written in black letters across my gray shirt is Bullitt County High School, Baseball State Champions.

“So you are stupid,” she says.

I’m done. I take one step in the direction of the table, then stop. I don’t lose. “What’s your name?”

“What do I have to do to make you leave me alone?”

And there it is—my opening. “Give me your phone number.”

The right side of her mouth quirks up. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“I’m dead serious. Give me your name and phone number and I’ll walk away.”

“You must be brain damaged.”

“Welcome to Taco Bell. Can I take your order?”

We both look at Drive-Thru Chick. She beams at me, then cowers from Skater Girl. With her lids cast down, she asks again, “What can I get you?”

I pull out my wallet and slam ten dollars on the counter. “Tacos.”

“And a Coke,” Skater Girl says. “Large. Since he’s paying.”

“Oookaay.” Drive-Thru Chick enters the order, slides the money off the counter, and returns to the order window.

We stare at each other. I swear, this girl never blinks.

“I believe a thank-you is in order,” I say.

“I never asked you to pay.”

“Give me your name and phone number and we’ll call it even.”

She licks her lips. “There is absolutely nothing you can do to ever get me to give you my name or number.”

Ring the bell. Playtime ended with those words. Purposely invading her space, I steal a step toward her and place a hand on the counter next to her body. It affects her. I can tell. Her eyes lose the amusement and her arms hug her body. She’s small. Smaller than I expected. That attitude is so big I hadn’t noticed her height or size. “I bet I can.”

She juts out her chin. “Can’t.”

“Eight tacos and one large Coke,” says the girl from behind the counter.

Skater Girl snatches the order and spins on her heel before I can process I’m on the verge of losing. “Wait!”

She stops at the door. “What?”

This “what” doesn’t have nearly the anger of the one before. Maybe I’m getting somewhere. “Give me your phone number. I want to call you.”

No, I don’t, but I do want to win. She’s wavering. I can tell. To keep from scaring her off, I bury my excitement. Nothing sends me higher than winning.

“I’ll tell you what.” She flashes a smile that drips with a mixture of allure and wickedness. “If you can walk me to my car and open the door for me, I’ll give you my number.”

Can.

She steps into the humid night and skips down the sidewalk to the back parking lot. I wouldn’t have pegged this girl as a skipper. Skip she does and I follow, tasting the sweet victory.

Victory doesn’t last long. I freeze midstep on the sidewalk. Before she can prance past the yellow lines confining an old rusty car, two menacing guys climb out and neither appears happy.

“Something I can do for you, man?” the taller one asks. Tattoos run the length of his arms.

“Nope.” I shove my hands in my pockets and relax my stance. I have no intention of getting into a fight, especially when I’m outnumbered.

Tattoo Guy crosses the parking lot, and he’d probably keep coming if it wasn’t for the other guy with hair covering his eyes. He stops right in front of Tattoo Guy, halting his progress, but his posture suggests he’d also fight for kicks. “Is there a problem, Beth?”

Beth. Hard to believe this hard-core girl could have such a delicate name. As if reading my thoughts, her lips slide into an evil smirk. “Not anymore,” she answers as she jumps into the front seat of the car.

Both guys walk to their car while keeping an eye on me, as if I’m stupid enough to jump them from behind. The engine roars to life and the car vibrates like duct tape holds it together.

In no hurry to go inside and explain to my friends how I lost, I stay on the sidewalk. The car slowly drives by and Beth presses her palm against the passenger window. Written in black marker is the word signaling my defeat: can’t.

BETH

THERE’S NOTHING BETTER than the feeling of floating. Weightless in warmth. Comforter-out-of-the-dryer warmth. The warmth of a strong hand against my face, running through my hair. If only life could be like this … forever.

I could do forever here, in the basement of my aunt’s house. All walls. No windows. The outside kept outside. The people I love inside.

Noah—his hair hiding his eyes, keeping the world from seeing his soul.

Isaiah—a sleeve of beautiful tattoos that frightens the normal and entices the free.

Me—the poet in my mind when I’m high.

I came to this house for safety. They came because the foster care system ran out of homes. We stayed because we were stray pieces of other puzzles, tired of never fitting.

One year ago, Isaiah and Noah bought the couch, the king-size mattress, and the TV from the Goodwill. Shit thrown away by somebody else. By yanking it down a flight of stairs into the depths of the earth, they made us a home. They gave me a family.

“I wore ribbons,” I say. My own voice sounds bizarre. Echoing. Far away. And I speak again so I can hear the strangeness. “Lots of them.”

“I love it when she does this,” Isaiah says to Noah. The three of us relax on the bed. Finishing another beer, Noah sits at the end with his back propped against the wall. Isaiah and I touch. We only touch when we’re high or drunk or both. We can because it doesn’t count then. Nothing counts when you feel weightless.

Isaiah runs his hand through my hair again. The gentle tug urges me to close my eyes and sleep forever. Bliss. This is bliss.

“What colors?” The normal rough edges of Isaiah’s tone disappear, leaving smooth deepness.

“Pink.”

“And?”

“Dresses. I loved dresses.”

It feels as if I’m turning my head through sand in order to look at him. My head rests on his stomach and I smile when the heat of his skin radiates past his T-shirt onto my cheek. Or maybe I’m smiling because it’s Isaiah and only he can make me smile.

I love his dark hair, shaved close to his scalp. I love his kind gray eyes. I love the earrings in both ears. I love … that he’s hot. Hot when he’s high. I giggle. He’s tragically hot when he’s sober. I should write that down.

“Do you want a dress, Beth?” Isaiah asks. He never teases me when I remember my childhood. In fact, it’s one of the few times he asks endless questions.

“Would you buy me one?” I don’t know why, but the thought lightens my heart. The teeny sober part of my brain reminds me I don’t wear dresses, that I spurned ribbons. The rest of my mind, lost in a haze of pot, enjoys the game—the prospect of a life with dresses and ribbons and someone willing to make my wildest dreams come true.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitating.

The muscles around my mouth become heavy and the rest of my body, including my heart, follows suit. No. I’m not ready for the comedown. I close my eyes and will it to go away.

“She’s baked.” Noah’s not baked and part of me resents him for it. He quit pot and being carefree when he graduated, and he’s taking Isaiah with him. “We waited too long.”

“No, it’s perfect.” Isaiah moves and places my head on something soft and fluffy. He gave me a pillow. Isaiah always takes care of me.

“Beth?” His warm breath drifts near my ear.

“Yes.” It’s a groggy whisper.

“Move in with us.”

Last spring, Noah graduated from high school and the foster system. He’s moving out and Isaiah’s going with him, even though Isaiah can’t officially leave foster care until he graduates next year and turns eighteen. My aunt doesn’t care where Isaiah lives as long as she keeps receiving the checks from the state.

I try to shake my head no, but it doesn’t work too well in sand.

“The two of us talked and you can have a bedroom and we’ll share the other one.”

They’ve been at this for weeks, trying to convince me to leave with them. But ha! Even stoned I can foil their plans. I flutter my eyes open. “Won’t work. You need privacy for sex.”

Noah chuckles. “We have a couch.”

“I’m still in high school.”

“So’s Isaiah. In case you didn’t notice, you’re both seniors this year.”

Smart-ass. I glare at Noah. He merely sips his beer.

Isaiah continues, “How else are you going to get to school? You gonna ride the bus?”

Hell no. “You’re going to get your sorry ass up early to pick me up.”

“You know I will,” he murmurs, and I find a hint of my bliss again.

“Why won’t you move in with us?” Noah asks.

His direct question sobers me up. Because, I scream in my mind. I flip onto my side and curl into a ball. Seconds later something soft covers my body. The blanket tucked right underneath my chin.

“Now, she’s done,” says Isaiah.

My ass vibrates. I stretch before reaching into my back pocket for my cell.

For a second, I wonder if pretty boy from Taco Bell somehow managed to score my number. I dreamed of him—Taco Bell Boy. He stood close to me, looking all arrogant and gorgeous with his mop of sandy-blond hair and light brown eyes. This time he wasn’t trying to play me by getting my number. He was smiling at me like I actually mattered.

As I said—just a dream.

The image fades when I check the time and the caller ID on my cell: 3:00 a.m. and The Last Stop bar. Fuck. Wishing I never sobered up, I accept the call. “Hold on.”

Isaiah’s asleep beside me, his arm haphazardly thrown over my stomach. Gently lifting it, I squeeze out from underneath. Noah’s passed out on the couch, with his girlfriend, Echo, pulled tight against him. Shit, when did she get back in town?

Quietly, I climb the stairs, enter the kitchen, and shut the door to the basement. “Yeah.”

“Your mother’s causing problems again,” says a pissed-off male voice. Unfortunately, I know this voice: Denny. Bartender/owner of The Last Stop.

“Have you cut her off?”

“I can’t stop guys from buying her drinks. Look, kid, you pay me to call you before I call the police or bounce her out to the curb. You’ve got fifteen minutes to drag her ass out.”

He hangs up. Denny really needs to work on his conversational skills.

I walk the two blocks to the strip mall, which boasts all the conveniences white trash can desire: a Laundromat, Dollar Store, liquor store, piss-ass market that accepts WIC and food stamps and sells stale bread and week-old meat, cigarette store, pawn shop, and biker bar. Oh, and a dilapidated lawyer’s office in case you get caught shoplifting or holding up any of the above.

The other stores closed hours ago, placing the bars over their windows. Groups of men and women huddle around the scores of motorcycles that fill the parking lot. The stale stench of cigarettes and the sweet scent of cloves and pot mingle together in the hot summer air.

Denny and I both know he won’t call the cops, but I can’t risk it. Mom’s been arrested twice and is on probation. And even if he doesn’t call the cops, he’ll kick her out. A burst of male laughter reminds me why that’s not a good thing. It’s not happy laughter or joyous or even sane. It’s mean, has an edge, and craves someone’s pain.

Mom thrives on sick men. I don’t get it. Don’t have to. I just clean up the mess.

The dull bulbs hanging over the pool tables, the running red-neon lights over the bar, and the two televisions hanging on the wall create the bar’s only light. The sign on the door states two things: no one under the age of twenty-one and no gang colors. Even in the dimness, I can see neither rule applies. Most of the men wear jackets with their motorcycle gang emblem clearly in sight, and half the girls hanging on those men are underage.

I push between two men to where Denny serves drinks at the bar. “Where is she?”

Denny, in his typical red flannel, has his back to me and pours vodka into shot glasses. He won’t talk and pour at the same time—at least to me.

I force my body to stay stoically still when a hand squeezes my ass and a guy reeking with BO leans into me. “Wanna drink?”

“Fuck off, dickhead.”

He laughs and squeezes again. I focus on the rainbow of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar, pretending I’m someplace else. Someone else. “Hand off my ass or I’ll rip off your balls.”

Denny blocks my view of the bottles and slides a beer to the guy seconds away from losing his manhood. “Jailbait.”

Dickhead wanders from the bar as Denny nods toward the back. “Where she’s always at.”

“Thanks.”

I draw stares and snickers as I walk past. Most of the laughter belongs to regulars. They know why I’m here. I see the judgment in their eyes. The amusement. The pity. Damn hypocrites.

I walk with my head high, shoulders squared. I’m better than them. No matter the whispers and taunts they throw out. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

Most everyone in the back room hovers over a poker game near the front, leaving the rest of the room empty. The door to the alley hangs wide-open. I can see Mom’s apartment complex and her front door from here. Convenient.

Mom sits at a small round table in the corner. Two bottles of whiskey and a shot glass sit beside her. She rubs her cheek, then pulls her hand away. Inside of me, anger erupts.

He hit her. Again. Her cheek is red. Blotchy. The skin underneath the eye already swelling. This is the reason why I can’t move in with Noah and Isaiah. The reason I can’t leave. I need to be two blocks from Mom.

“Elisabeth.” Mom slurs the s and drunkenly waves me over. She picks up a whiskey bottle and tips it over the general area of the shot glass, but nothing comes out. Which is good because she’d miss the glass by an inch.

I go to her, take the bottle, and set it on the table beside us. “It’s empty.”

“Oh.” She blinks her hollow blue eyes. “Be a good girl and go get me another.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Then get you something too.”

“Let’s go, Mom.”

Mom smoothes her blond hair with a shaky hand and glances around as if she just woke from a dream. “He hit me.”

“I know.”

“I hit him back.”

Don’t doubt she hit him first. “We’ve gotta go.”

“I don’t blame you.”

That statement hits me in ways a man can’t. I release a long breath and search for a way to ease the sting of her words, but I fail. I pick up the other bottle, grateful for the pitiful amount remaining, pour a shot, and swig it down. Then pour another, pushing it toward her. “Yes, you do.”

Mom stares at the drink before letting her middle-aged fingers trace the rim of the shot glass. Her nails are bitten to the quick. The cuticles grown over. The skin surrounding the nails is dry and cracked. I wonder if my mom was ever pretty.

She throws her head back as she drinks. “You’re right. I do. Your father would never have left if it wasn’t for you.”

“I know.” The burn from the whiskey suppresses the pain of the memory. “Let’s go.”

“He loved me.”

“I know.”

“What you did … it forced him to leave.”

“I know.”

“You ruined my life.”

“I know.”

She begins to cry. It’s the drunk cry. The type where it all comes out—the tears, the snot, the spit, the horrible truth you should never tell another soul. “I hate you.”

I flinch. Swallow. And remind myself to inhale. “I know.”

Mom grabs my hand. I don’t pull away. I don’t grab her in return. I let her do what she must. We’ve been down this road several times.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Mom wipes her nose with the bare skin of her forearm. “I didn’t mean it. I love you. You know I do. Don’t leave me alone. Okay?”

“Okay.” What else can I say? She’s my mom. My mom.

Her fingers draw circles on the back of my hand and she refuses eye contact. “Stay with me tonight?”

This is where Isaiah drew the line. Actually, he drew the line further back, forcing me to promise I’d stay away from her altogether after her boyfriend beat the shit out of me. I’ve kind of kept the promise by moving in with my aunt. But someone has to take care of my mom—make sure she eats, has food, pays her bills. It is, after all, my fault Dad left. “Let’s get you home.”

Mom smiles, not noticing I haven’t answered. Sometimes, at night, I dream of her smiling. She was happy when Dad lived with us. Then I ruined her happiness.

Her knees wobble when she stands, but Mom can walk. It’s a good night.

“Where are you going?” I ask when she steps in the direction of the bar.

“To pay my tab.”

Impressive. She has money. “I’ll do it. Stay right here and I’ll walk you home.”

Instead of handing me cash, Mom leans against the back door. Great. Now I’m left with the tab. At least Taco Bell Boy bought me food and I have something to give Denny.

I push people in my quest to reach the bar, and Denny grimaces when he spots me. “Get her out, kid.”

“She’s out. What’s her tab?”

“Already paid.”

Ice runs in my veins. “When?”

“Just now.”

No. “By who?”

He won’t meet my eyes. “Who do you think?”

Shit. I’m falling over myself, stumbling over people, yanking them out of my way. He hit her once. He’ll do it again. I run full force out the back door into the alley and see nothing. Nothing in the dark shadows. Nothing in the streetlights. Crickets chirp in surround sound. “Mom?”

Glass breaks. Glass breaks again. Horrible shrieks echo from the front of Mom’s apartment complex. God, he’s killing her. I know it.

My heart pounds against my rib cage, making it difficult to breathe. Everything shakes—my hands, my legs. The vision of what I’ll see when I reach the parking lot eats at my soul: Mom in a bloody pulp and her asshole boyfriend standing over her. Tears burn my eyes and I trip as I round the corner of the building, scraping my palms on the blacktop. I don’t care. I need to find her. My mom …

My mom swings a baseball bat and shatters the back window of a shitty El Camino.

“What … what are you doing?” And where did she score a baseball bat?

“He.” She swings the bat and breaks more glass. “Cheated.”

I blink, unsure if I want to hug her or kill her. “Then break up with him.”

“You crazy ass bitch!” From the gap between the two apartment buildings, Mom’s boyfriend flies toward her and smacks her face with an open palm. The slap of his hand across her cheek vibrates against my skin. The baseball bat falls from her hands and bounces three times, tip to bottom, against the blacktop. Each hollow crack of the wood heightens my senses. It settles on the ground and rolls toward my feet.

He yells at her. All curses, but his words blend into a buzzing noise in my head. He hit me last year. He hits Mom. He won’t hit either one of us again.

He raises his hand. Mom throws out her arms to protect her face as she kneels in front of him. I grab the bat. Take two steps. Swing it behind my shoulder and …

“Police! Drop the bat! Get on the ground!” Three uniformed officers surround us. Damn. My heart pounds hard against my chest. I should have thought of this, but I didn’t, and the mistake will cost me. The cops patrol the complex regularly.

The asshole points at me. “She did it. That crazy ass girl took out my car. Her mom and I, we tried to stop it, but then she went nuts!”

“Drop the bat! Hands on your head.”

Dazed from his blatant lie, I forgot I still held it. The wooden grip feels rough against my hands. I drop it and listen to the same hollow thumping as it once again bounces on the ground. Placing my hands behind my head, I stare down at my mom. Waiting. Waiting for her to explain. Waiting for her to defend us.

Mom stays on her knees in front of the asshole. She subtly shakes her head and mouths the word please to me.

Please? Please what? I widen my eyes, begging for her to explain.

She mouths one more word: probation.

An officer kicks the bat from us and pats me down. “What happened?”

“I did it,” I tell him. “I destroyed the car.”

RYAN

SWEAT DRIPS FROM MY SCALP and slithers down my forehead, forcing me to wipe my brow before shoving the cap back on. The afternoon sun beats down on me as if I’m simmering in hell’s roasting pan. August games are the worst.

My hands sweat. I don’t care about my left hand—the one wearing the glove. It’s the throwing hand I rub repeatedly on my pant leg. My heart pounds in my ears and I fight off a wave of dizziness. The smell of burnt popcorn and hot dogs drifts from the concession stand, and my stomach cramps. I stayed out too late last night.

Taking a look at the scoreboard, I watch as the temperature rises from ninety-five degrees to ninety-six. Heat index has to be over one hundred. In theory, the moment the index hits one-o-five, the umps should call the game. In theory.

It wouldn’t matter if the temperature was below zero. My stomach would still cramp. My hands would still sweat. The pressure—it builds continually, twisting my insides to the point of implosion.

“Let’s go, Ry!” Chris, our shortstop, yells from between second and third.

His lone battle cry instigates calls from the rest of the team—those on the field and those sitting on the bench. I shouldn’t say sitting. Everyone in the dugout stands with their fingers clenched around the fence.

Bottom of the seventh, we’re up by one run, two outs, and I screwed up and pitched a runner to first. Damn curveball. I’ve thrown one strike and two balls with the current batter. No more room for error. Two more strikes and the game’s over. Two more balls and I walk a batter, giving the other team a runner in scoring position.

The crowd joins in. They clap, whistle, and cheer. No one louder than Dad.

Grasping the ball tightly, I take a deep breath, wrap my right arm behind my back, and lean forward to read Logan’s signal. The stress of this next pitch hangs on me. Everyone wants this game done. No one more than me.

I don’t lose.

Logan crouches into position behind the batter and does something unexpected. He pulls his catcher’s mask onto the top of his head, places his hand between his legs, and flips me off.

Damn bastard.

Logan flaunts a grin and his reminder causes my shoulders to relax. It’s only the first game of the fall season. A scrimmage game at that. I nod and he slides his mask over his face and flashes me the peace sign twice.

Fastball it is.

I glance over my shoulder toward first. The runner’s taken a lead in his hunt for second, but not enough to chance a steal. I cock my arm back and throw with a rush of power and adrenaline. My heart thumps twice at the sweet sound of the ball smacking into Logan’s glove and the words Strike two falling out of the umpire’s mouth.

Logan fires the ball back and I waste no time preparing for the next pitch. This will be it. My team can go home—victorious.

Logan holds his pinkie and ring fingers together. I shake my head. I want to close this out and a fastball will do it, not a curve. Logan hesitates before showing me two peace signs. That’s my boy. He knows I can bring on the heat.

Keeping his hand between his legs, he pauses, then points away from the batter, telling me that my fastballs have been straying outside. I nod. An understanding to keep placement in mind with my speed. The ball flies out of my hand, punches Logan’s glove right in the middle, and the umpire shouts, “Ball!”

I stop breathing. That was a strike.

The fence rattles as my teammates bang on it, screaming at the injustice. Shouting at the umpire, Coach stands on the verge of no-man’s-land between the dugout and the field. My friends on the field whistle at the bad call. The crowd murmurs and boos. In the bleachers, with her head down and lost in prayer, Mom grasps the pearls that hang around her neck.

Dammit. I yank hard on the bill of my hat, trying to calm the blood racing in my veins. Bad calls suck, but they happen. I’ve got one more shot to close this out. One more …

“That was a strike.” Dad steps off the bleachers and heads to the fence right behind the umpire. The players and the crowd fall silent. Dad demands fairness. Well, his version of fair.

“Get back in the stands, Mr. Stone,” the ump says. Everyone in this town knows Dad.

“I’ll return to my seat when we have an ump that can call fair. You’ve been calling bad this entire game.” Even though he said it loud enough for the entire park to hear, he never raised his voice. Dad’s a commanding man and someone this entire town admires.

From behind the fence, Dad towers over the short, fat ump and waits for someone to make right what he views as a wrong. We’re carbon copies of each other, my dad and I. Sandy hair and brown eyes. Long legs. All shoulders and upper arms. Grandma said people like Dad and me were built for hard labor. Dad said we were built for baseball.

My coach steps onto the field along with the coach from the other team. I agree. The ump’s been calling bad, on both sides, but I find it ironic that no one had the guts to say anything until Dad declared war.

“Your dad’s the man.” Chris walks onto the pitcher’s mound.

“Yeah.” The man. I glance over to Mom again and at the empty space where my older brother, Mark, used to sit. Mark’s absence stings more than I thought it would. I extend my glove out to Logan, who has inched away from the four men discussing the fairness of the calls. He automatically pitches the ball back.

Chris scans the crowd. “Notice who came to the game?”

I don’t bother looking. Lacy always attends Chris’s games.

“Gwen,” he says with a canary-ate-the-cat grin. “Lacy heard she’s into you again.”

I react without thinking and turn my head to search the bleachers for her. For two years, Gwen and baseball were my entire life. The breeze blows through Gwen’s long blond hair and, as if she could sense my stare, she looks at me and smiles. Last year, I loved that smile. A smile once reserved for me. Several months have passed since that time. Mom still loves her. I’m not sure how I feel anymore. A guy scales the bleachers and puts his arm around her. Yeah, rub it in, asshole. I’m well aware Gwen and I are done.

“Play ball!” The voice of a new ump booms from the batter’s box. The old ump shakes hands with Dad on the other side of the fence. As I said, Dad believes in fairness and also thinks justice should be served with a man’s pride still intact. Well, for every man that isn’t my brother.

Everyone off the field claps and watches my father return to his seat. Some people extend their hands to him. Others pat his back. Off the field, Dad’s the leader of this community. On the field, I’m the man.

Out of the batter’s box, the batter takes a few practice swings. Two strikes. Three balls. And the kid knows I can bring heat. I whistle and gesture for Logan.

Beside me, Chris laughs. He knows I’m up to no good. Logan approaches with his catcher’s mask on top of his head. “What’s up, boss man?”

“Talk to me.”

This is what a great catcher does. “The batter was sluggish, but he’s had a break, which means he’ll give it everything he has. Your fast has been wandering outside and he knows it.”

I roll the ball in my fingers. “He’ll be expecting fast?”

“If I was him, I’d expect you to throw fast,” says Chris.

I shrug my shoulder and the muscles yell in protest. “Let’s do a changeup. He’ll read it as fast and won’t have enough time to readjust.”

A smile slides across Chris’s face and he places his glove over his mouth. “You’re popping him out.”

“We’re popping him out,” I repeat, hiding my own lips with my glove.

I turn toward the field and whistle to get everyone’s attention. Chris goes back to short, slides his open hand across his chest, and taps his left arm with his right hand twice. The center fielder runs up, and our second baseman passes on the message. By the time I face the batter, Logan’s already sent the message to first and third.

Logan flips his mask over his face, crouches into position, and holds his glove out for the pitch. Yeah, I’m closing this out.

“See you tonight, dawg.” Chris kicks my foot as he walks past. He cradles his bat bag in one hand and Lacy’s hand in the other. Chris and I met Lacy when our schools combined in sixth grade. I liked her the day she skinned her knee playing football with the boys. Chris fell in love with her the day she pushed him on the playground after he tagged her out in baseball. They’ve been a couple since sophomore year—the year he grew a pair and finally asked her out.

Lacy pulls a rubber band off her wrist and twists her brown hair into a messy bun. I love that she isn’t a girly girl. In order to keep up with me, Chris, and Logan, a girl has to have thick skin. Don’t get me wrong—she’s hot as hell, but Lacy doesn’t give a damn what others think of her. “We’re going to the party tonight. I want conversation and people and dancing. There is more to life than batting cages and dares.”

With our fingers frozen on unlacing our cleats, Logan and I snap up our heads. Chris’s face blanches. “That’s sacrilegious, Lace. Take it back.”

Next to me, Logan shoves his feet into his Nikes and tosses his cleats into his bag. “You don’t know the thrill of winning a good dare.”

“Dares aren’t fun,” she says, the reprimand thick in her tone. “They’re crazy. You set my car on fire.”

Logan holds up his hand. “I opened the window in time. In my defense, the upholstery is barely singed.”

Chris and I chuckle at the memory of Lacy screaming as she was doing forty on a curve. The short story: a hamburger wrapper, a lighter, a stopwatch, and a dare. Logan accidentally dropped the blazing wrapper and it rolled under Lacy’s seat. One patented I’ll-kick-you-until-you-drop glare from Lacy shuts us both up. “I wish you’d get a girlfriend so she can drive your insane ass around.”

“I can’t.” Logan waggles his eyebrows. “I’m Ryan’s wingman.”

“Wingman.” She spits the word, then points a sparkly fingernail at both me and Logan, but I don’t miss how it lingers on me. “One of you needs to find a girl and commit. I’m tired of this testosterone bull.”

Lacy hates the string of girls I’ve dated over the summer. She’s terrified I’ll influence Chris to drop her, though she should know better. Chris reveres her as his own personal religion.

“You didn’t approve of the one I committed to last time,” I say. “Why should I try again?”

“Because you can do better than evil.”

I drop my tone. “Gwen’s not evil.” Gwen and I broke up, but there’s no reason to talk trash about her.

“Speak of the devil,” mumbles Logan.

“Hi, Ryan.” I turn my head to witness Gwen in all her glory. A blue cotton dress swishes around her tanned legs, and she wears a new-to-me pair of cowboy boots. Hand-curled ringlets bounce at the ends of her long blond hair. Surrounded by her three best girlfriends, she floats right past, but keeps her green eyes locked on me.

“Gwen,” I say in return. Reaching the concession stand, she sweeps her hair over her shoulder as she refocuses her attention. I keep staring, trying to remember why we broke up.

“Drama!” Lacy purposely blocks my view of Gwen’s ass. “She was nothing but drama. Remember? You said, ‘Lacy, there’s nothing real about her,’ and I said, ‘I know,’ and I happily threw an ‘I told you so’ in your face. Then you said, ‘Don’t let me go back to her,’ and I said, ‘Can I rip off your balls if you attempt it,’ and you said …”

“‘No.’” I said no because Lacy would actually do it, and I prefer my balls attached, but I did ask her to remind me of that conversation if I became weak. Logan and I should ask some girls to the movies next weekend. Hell, if Skater Girl had given me her number, I might even have considered calling her. God knows she was sexy as hell and when it comes to Gwen, a distraction always helps.

“Come on, Logan,” says Chris. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

Near the dugout, Dad wraps an arm around Mom as the two of them chat with Coach and a man dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. I wonder if anyone else notices how Mom leans slightly away from Dad’s body. Probably not. Mom’s in homecoming-court mode, all smiles and laughs.

From over his shoulder, Dad indicates I should join them by giving me one of his rare I’m-proud-of-you smiles. It makes me unbalanced. Yeah, we won, but we win a lot. It’s what state champions do. Why the outpouring of pride now?

As I said, Dad and I are clones, except for the age and the skin. Years of rain, sun, heat, and cold have seasoned his face. Owning a construction company requires a lot of time in the elements. “Ryan, this is Mr. Davis.”

Mr. Davis and I both offer our hands at the same time. He’s tall, thin, and possibly my father’s age, except Mr. Davis doesn’t look weathered. “Call me Rob. Congratulations on a well-played game. You have a hell of a fastball.”

“Thank you, sir.” I’ve heard it before. Mom tells everyone God gave me a gift, and while I’m not sure what I think of that, I won’t deny I’ve enjoyed the ride. Too bad Dad and I couldn’t garner any interest at pro baseball tryouts.

I’m used to meetings and introductions. Because Dad owns his own company and has a seat on the city council, he’s into networking. Don’t get me wrong—Dad’s not the power-hungry sort. He declined running for mayor several times, even though my mom has been begging him to consider it for years. He’s just real into the community.

Rob tilts his head to the field. “Do you mind throwing a couple for me?”

Mom, Dad, and Coach share knowing grins and I feel like someone told a joke and left me out of the punch line. Or maybe I am the punch line. “Sure.”

Rob pulls a radar gun and a business card out of the bag. He keeps the radar gun in his left hand and hands me the card. “I came here today to watch a player from the other team. Didn’t see what I was looking for with him, but I think I found something promising with you.”

Dad claps my back, and his public showing of affection has me looking at him. Dad’s not a touchy guy. My family—we aren’t like that. I grip the card in my hand, and it takes everything I’ve got not to swear in shock in front of my mother. The man heading to the area behind home plate is Rob Davis, scout for the Cincinnati Reds.

“Told you that spring tryouts weren’t the end of it.” Dad motions for me to follow Rob. “Go blow him away.”

BETH

THE OLDER PRISON GUARD, the nice one, walks beside me. He didn’t put the cuffs on supertight like the other dickhead guard. He isn’t in my face, trying to scare the shit out of me. He’s not trying to reenact a scene from Cops. He just walks next to me, ignoring my existence.

I’m all for silence after listening to a girl come down from a bad acid trip last night.

Maybe it was today.

I don’t have a clue what time of day it is.

They gave me breakfast.

They discussed lunch.

It must be morning. Maybe midday.

The guard opens the door to what I can only describe as an interrogation room. Other than the holding cell I’ve shared with the fifteen-year-old who’s way too strung out for my taste, this is where I’ve spent the majority of my time since they arrested me for destruction of property. The guard relaxes his back against the wall. I sit at the table.

I need a cigarette.

Bad.

Unbelievably bad.

Like I would rip off my own arm if I could get one drag.

“What are you coming down from?” The guard stares at my fingers.

I stop tapping the table. “Nicotine.”

“That’s rough,” he says. “I never kicked it.”

“Yeah. It fucking blows.”

The police officer who arrested me last night—this morning—steps into the room. “She speaks.”

Yeah. Didn’t mean to. I clamp my mouth shut. Last night, this morning—who the hell knows—I managed to keep silent when they grilled me on my mom, my home life, my mom’s boyfriend. I refused to talk, refused to say one word, because if I did, I could have said the wrong thing and sent my mom to jail. There’s no way I could live with that.

I have no idea what happened to her or her boyfriend after they snapped the handcuffs on my wrist and sat me in the back of the squad car. If God’s hearing prayers from me, then maybe Mom’s in the clear and the asshole’s sharing a urinal with the other felons-of-the-month.

The officer resembles a twenty-year-old Johnny Depp, and he smells clean—soap with a hint of coffee. He’s not the one who tried to talk to me last night. Just the guy that arrested me. He settles into the seat across from me and the guard leaves.

“I’m Officer Monroe.”

I glare at the table.

Officer Monroe reaches over, unlocks the cuffs, and slides them to his side of the table. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened last night?”

Just one drag. Oh God, it’d be better than a deep kiss from a really hot guy. But I’m not kissing a hot guy and I don’t have a cigarette because I’m currently being questioned in purgatory.

“Your mom’s boyfriend, Trent—we know he’s bad news, but he’s smart. We’ve never gotten enough to put him away. Maybe you can help us and yourself. Help us put him in jail, then he’ll be away from you and your mom.”

I agree—he’s Satan. Other than the fact that he’s a washed-up has-been of a football player who traded tackling men on the field for beating the shit out of women though, I have nothing to tell them beyond rumors I’ve heard on the street. The cops who walk the south-side beat are well aware of our bedtime stories regarding The Asshole Known as Trent. The tantalizing tidbit that he hits me and Mom could get us a flimsy piece of paper with the words Emergency Protection Order on the header, but domestic violence offenders rarely sit inside jail cells for long, plus Trent burns EPOs and puppies for fun.

Even before my mother got involved with Trent, the police were after him, but he’s the walking, talking real-life version of an oil spill—impossible to pick up once he’s been released. Helping the police will only bring the ooze and his sickening wrath quicker to our doorstep.

“He lives in the same apartment complex as your mom, right? Wouldn’t it be nice to live with her again and not have to worry about him?”

Having no idea how he knows I don’t live with my mom, I fight hard not to glance at him. Refusing to indicate he’s right.

“We didn’t even know he was dating your mom. He, uh, sees other women.”

I keep from rolling my eyes. There’s a shock.

“Elisabeth,” he says after my nonresponse.

“Beth.” I hate my given name. “My name is Beth.”

“Beth, your one phone call has been standing in the lobby since five a.m.”

Isaiah! My eyes flash to Officer Monroe’s. The walls I built to protect myself crumble and fatigue sets in as the iciness I’ve clung to all night melts. Fear and hurt rush to take its place. I want Isaiah. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.

I blink, realizing the stinging sensation is tears. Wiping at my face, I try to find my strength—my resolve, but I only find a heavy emptiness. “When can I go home?”

Someone knocks. Officer Monroe cracks the door open and exchanges a few heated whispers before nodding. Seconds later, my aunt, an older and cleaner version of my mother, walks in. “Beth?”

Officer Monroe leaves, closing the door behind him.

Shirley comes straight to me. I stand and let her hug me. She smells like home: stale cigarettes and lavender fabric softener. I bury my face in my aunt’s shoulder, wishing for nothing more than to lie in the bed in her basement for a week.

A cigarette is a close second.

“Where’s Isaiah?” Though I’m grateful for my aunt, my heart was set on seeing my best friend.

“Outside. He called me the moment he heard from you.” Shirley squeezes me before breaking our embrace. “What a mess.”

“I know. Have you seen Mom?”

She nods, then leans in and whispers in my ear, “Your mom told me what really happened.”

The muscles around my mouth tighten and I try to stop my lower lip from trembling. “What do I do?”

Shirley runs her hands up and down my arms. “Stick with your story. They brought Trent and your mom in for questioning. With you not talking, they couldn’t find anything to arrest them on. Your mom’s twitchy though. If you talk, they’ll send her to jail for breaking probation and the destruction of property. She’s scared of going to jail.”

So am I, but Mom can’t hack jail. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Her arms drop to her sides and she places the table between us. It’s only a few steps, but it creates a gap resembling a canyon. I turned seventeen last month. Before tonight, I felt like an adult: old and big. I don’t feel so big anymore. Right now I feel small and very, very alone. “Shirley?”

“Your uncle and I don’t have money for a lawyer. Isaiah and Noah, even that girl Noah brings around, they offered what they had, but your uncle and I got scared once the cops told us you took a bat to Trent. Then I had an idea.”

My heart sinks as if someone yanked a trapdoor right below it. “What did you do?”

“I know you don’t want anything to do with your dad’s side, but his brother, Scott—he’s a good man. Left that baseball team and became a businessman. He has a lawyer. A fancy one.”

“Scott?” My mouth gapes. “How … what …” My breathing becomes shallow as I try to make sense of the insanity falling out of my aunt’s lips. “Impossible. He left.”

“He did,” she says slowly. “But he moved back to his hometown last month and he called me to find you. He wanted you to go live with him and his wife, but we blew him off. Your mom talked to him when he got persistent and she told him you ran away.”

My lip curls at the thought of him anywhere near me. “Good choice. So why involve Scott now? We don’t need him. We can figure this out without him or his fancy lawyer.”

“They said you were going to hit Trent with a bat,” Shirley repeats as she wrings her hands together. “That’s serious and I thought we needed help.”

“No. Tell me you didn’t.” I’m in hell. Or pretty damn close.

“We would have respected your wishes about him, but then this happened and … I called him. Listen to me, he has a great life now. Lots of money and he wants you.”

I start to laugh. Only it’s not funny. It’s not even close to funny. It’s the saddest damn thing I’ve ever heard. I collapse into the seat and rest my head in my hands. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He got the charges dropped.” Not a hint of happiness can be found in her voice.

I keep my face hidden, unable to look at her to see whatever truth she’s been building toward. “What did you do?” I ask again.

Shirley kneels beside me and pitches her voice low. “When I called him, your uncle Scott went to your mom’s apartment. He saw things he shouldn’t have seen. Things that can hurt your mom.”

I sway to the side as if I’ve been hit by a wave and the rushing sound of being sucked into the ocean whirls in my ears. My world is crashing around me. He went into my old room. Mom told me never to go in there after I left to live with Shirley. I never have. There are things even I don’t want to know.

“He didn’t tell the police,” she says.

Shocked by her revelation, I peek at her through my fingers. “Really?”

Shirley’s lips turn down and she scrunches her forehead. “Your mom had no choice. He walked into the station with his lawyer and made the demand—she either turned over custody of you to him, or he would tell the cops what he saw.”

My aunt stares at me, her eyes bleak. “She signed over custody. He’s your legal guardian now.”