Crash into You (Pushing the Limits, #3)(61)

The bell rings and everyone bolts for the door—everyone but me and Zach. Cheating on this test could cost me my certification, and I will not permit anyone to f*ck up my future. His shoulders slump and I head for the exit.

“Isaiah,” he says as my arm smacks into his. “I hear you’re in debt to Eric.”

I freeze, our arms still touching. “So.”

He shrugs, but he’s anything but uncaring. “Just repeating what I heard. Wouldn’t want things to become worse.”

I shift so that we’re chest to chest and tilt my head so that I’m in his face. “Is that a threat?”

Zach wilts because the ass has always been a coward. “Not if you remember who your friends are.” He slinks toward the hallway and turns at the last minute. “And if the person you were texting was Rachel, tell her I said hi.”

Certain truths are always self-evident: on the streets there is no such thing as a friend. Zach could be playing odds right now, knowing I’m in debt to Eric and trying to ride the coattails of my fears, but Zach’s never been the creative sort.

That sick sixth sense continues to rattle around in my brain. If Zach’s become Eric’s lapdog then my life and Rachel’s life just entered another realm of complicated, because that means Eric has upped the stakes of the game.

Twenty buck says that while Rachel and I have been moving pawns, Eric just moved his rook.





Chapter 34

Rachel

IN THE SMALLEST CONFERENCE ROOM in Dad’s office, eleven women in various colored business suits and dresses fill the high-backed cushioned chairs. Mom sits at the head of the table, chatting gaily with the woman on her right. To Mom’s left, I continue to push the catered chicken Caesar salad around on my plate so Mom will believe I ate.

Dad closed the blinds—one solace in the midst of the storm. At least the employees working won’t gawk as they pass by. Mom signed me out of school for this travesty. I call it a speech. Mom calls it an introduction. Really, the few paragraphs are lies.

The women gathered around the table are the chosen few of Mom’s friends invited to help with her new volunteer position of fundraising coordinator for the Leukemia Foundation. Mom explained last night that they’ll start off with small teas, then lunches, and in a few weeks they’ll move on to a dinner. All of which she has planned for me to attend...and speak at.

“Ladies,” Mom says. “Let’s take a twenty-minute break before we start the meeting. That will give the caterers time to clean and us time to check on our families.”

They giggle, but I’m not sure over what. Some women break off into groups of two or three and whisper private gossip. Some head into the hallway to use their cells or the restroom. I stare at a crouton in my salad.

Still sitting, Mom pats my hand. “Are you ready, sweetheart? You’ll speak first.”

My lungs constrict. “Yeah.”

I memorized what she wants me to say, but the words have become a jumbled mess in my mind. Sort of like a crossword puzzle completed by someone with dyslexia.

“Meredith,” one of Mom’s friends calls from the opposite side of the room. “You have to come look at this.”

Mom flashes me a smile that reminds me why I’m torturing myself and leaves. I ate two bites of salad and the lettuce and the chicken are not agreeing in my stomach. In fact, I think they’ve declared war.

I suck in a breath to calm myself. Only eleven people. Twenty-two eyes. My heart rate increases and I lick my suddenly dry lips. A jabbing pain hits my stomach, and I tug at the collar of my blouse as it becomes hard to breathe. It’s hot in here. Too hot. Hot enough that if I stand I’ll faint, hit my head and bleed all over Dad’s new carpet.

And then he’ll be disappointed in me.

And then Mom will be disappointed in me.

And then my brothers will find out and they’ll blow a freaking head gasket.

My hands sweat and I rub my palms against my black skirt. What did Mom want me to say? I see the words. They drift in my mind, but not in order. I’m going to fail.

I stand abruptly, startling the ladies huddled in conversation behind me. Forcing a smile, I nod toward the door, hoping they understand I’m excusing myself. I half trip on the way out as my stomach cramps.

Mom’s best friend touches my arm as I turn left. “Are you okay?”

“Bathroom. I mean, I’m trying to find the...” And I ran out of air.

“The bathroom is that way.”

“Thanks.” I have no idea why I’m thanking her and by the strained lines on her forehead, she doesn’t, either. This is my father’s office, and one would think I would already know where the bathroom is. I go in the direction she said, praying she doesn’t mention my odd behavior to my mother. Before I hit the bathroom, I take a left through the cubicles and run for my father’s office.

Please don’t let him be there. Please don’t let him be there. Please. Please. Please.

I almost cry when I see the light off and the empty chair. Pictures of me and my brothers rest on the table near the window. The only picture on his desk is of Mom and Colleen. It’s always been about her: Colleen. Her name floats in my head as I try to breathe past the first dry heave. In one motion, I flip the switch to his private bathroom and slam the door shut.