Crash into You (Pushing the Limits, #3)(62)

Chapter 35

Isaiah

BECAUSE I WAS BLACKMAILED INTO giving my word to Courtney, I force myself into the Social Services building and grimace at the sight of the messed-up people in the waiting area. Kids cry. Moms scream. Each sound a razor against my skin. It’s so damn cliché my fingers twitch; there isn’t a man in sight. Of course there isn’t—men are notorious family leavers.

“Isaiah,” Courtney says from behind the receptionist window. Her hesitant smile is too hopeful. “Come on back.”

The door buzzes open, and I slink past two toddlers on the floor pulling at an already-damaged stuffed zebra. When the door shuts behind me the noise fades, but my skin still crawls.

Today Courtney wears a blue bow in her ponytail. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thought it wasn’t optional.”

Her smile widens. “It’s not, but I like to pretend that you want to be here. It makes my day go smoother. Let’s go.” She nods to the right and when I don’t move, she heads down the hallway, looking back to make sure I follow.

I can almost feel the tug of the leash around my neck. “Do the other hostages you torture tear you apart for wearing a bow in your hair?”

She stops at a cubicle and grabs a manila file folder. “Clients, not hostages. Help, not torture. And you’re my only teenager. The little ones love my bows.”

“Maybe you should transfer me.” To someone who doesn’t give a shit and will leave me the f*ck alone. “You could pick a hostage you like.”

“Client.” Courtney pauses outside a closed door. “I like you.”

That brings me up short. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, as if my response surprises her, “I do. Isaiah, I requested to be your social worker.”

I glance behind me, half expecting a smaller child also named Isaiah to be there. “Why?”

She knocks lightly on the door. “Because.” Courtney’s hand rests on the knob. “You and I agreed on thirty minutes.”

“You’ve wasted five.”

“I sent the letter of recommendation in. I kept my part of the bargain, I expect you to keep yours. I call—you answer. I schedule a meeting—you come and stay for thirty minutes.”

“Like rubbing it in, don’t you?” But I’ll show because I gave her my word.

“Good. Now that we’re firm on the agreement, I should tell you that your mom is here.”

I tower over Courtney. “Fuck no.”

She never flinches. Instead she tilts her head, causing her ponytail to slide over her shoulder. “Are you keeping your word or not?”

The muscles in my body turn to lead. I want more than anything to run; to get behind the wheel of my car and gun the engine. The little bitch in front of me has backed me into a corner. I rub at my neck, feeling as if the collar she placed there has spikes.

Courtney opens the door and anger races like venom in my veins. I stalk into the room and slam my ass into the chair farthest from the woman already sitting at the table. “Twenty-two f*cking minutes, Courtney. And if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here because you are the last person I want to see...besides that thing over there.”

“Isaiah,” Courtney says apologetically. “I can’t leave the two of you alone with you so angry.”

“It’s okay,” she says from across the room. I lower my head into my hands. The sound of the soft voice I remember as a child resurrects too many memories—too many emotions. “We’ll be fine.”

We’ll be fine. The same three words she said to me before my entire life went to hell.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” says Courtney. “I haven’t seen him this upset before.”

The chair beside me moves and I smell Courtney’s faint perfume. “Your mom just wants to visit.”

“She is not my mom.” My voice trembles and a fresh wave of rage washes over me. My mother will not hurt me again. I lift my head and fight for control. “I don’t have a mom.”

“Then call me Melanie,” she says with the same damn soothing voice that used to sing me to sleep. “We are strangers.”

I glance at her and immediately look away because the sight of her causes strangling pain. My head hits the back of the wall and I cross my arms over my chest. “How many more f*cking minutes?”

“You look good, Isaiah,” she tells me. And because I can’t help it, I peer at her again. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and her forehead buckles with anxiety as she stares at me. The thoughts in her head and the words she says are not in agreement. She doesn’t like what she sees: a punk.

The piercings, the tattoos, yeah, I think the shit’s cool, but what I really like is how they tell people to stay the f*ck away. From the way her eyes travel over my arms, “Melanie” reads the signals loud and clear.

“You look old,” I say with as much menace as I can muster. She doesn’t look old—just middle-aged. She had me young, barely out of high school. I never knew her age. What six-year-old would? I don’t even know her birthdate.

Her dark brown hair is cut short at her shoulders. She’s thin, but not drug-addict thin. Her oversize hoop earrings sway when she tucks her hair behind her ear. The blue jean jacket matches her pants and underneath the jacket I spot a gray tank. The worn brown cowboy boots on her feet make me consider a maternity test.