Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(16)

The muscles in my neck tighten. My brother didn’t even have the      balls to tell me himself. I texted him last week. I outright defied my parents      and texted him. I asked him to come home for dinner tomorrow night and he never      texted back. Instead, he took the coward’s way out and used Logan.

Earlier this summer, Dad gave the ultimatum: as long as Mark      chooses guys, he’s no longer a part of our family. Mark walked out, knowing what      leaving meant: leaving Mom...leaving me. He never considered trying to stay home      and fight to keep our family together. “He made his choice.”

Logan lowers his voice. “He misses you.”

“And he left,” I snap. I kick the back tire of the car. Angry.      Angry at Dad. Angry at Mark. Angry at me. For three days straight Mark talked.      He said the same thing over and over again. He’s still Mark. My brother. Mom’s      son. He told me how he spent years confused because he wanted to be like me. He      wanted to be like Dad.

And when I asked him to stay, when I asked him to stand his      ground...he left. He packed up his shit and he left, leaving me and the      destruction of my family behind.

“Screw the serious talk,” says Chris. “We won today. We’ll win      fall season and spring. We’re going to graduate victorious and when we do,      Ryan’s going pro.”

“Amen,” says Logan.

From their lips to God’s ears, but sometimes God chooses not to      listen. “Don’t get your hopes up. The scout today could be a one-time deal. Next      week they could find somebody else to love.” I should know. That happened at the      pro tryouts this past spring.

“Bullshit,” says Chris. “Destiny is knocking, Ry, and you need      to get your ass up to answer.”





Chapter 8

Beth

I FELL ASLEEP. Either that or my dear old uncle Scott drugged me. I’m going with fell asleep. Scott may be a dick, but he’s a dare-to-keep-kids-off-drugs kind of dick. I should know. He once brought red ribbons and a police mascot to my preschool.

I love irony.

Moonlight streams through white lace curtains hanging from an artsy brown metal rod. I sit up and a pink crochet blanket falls away. The bedding beneath me is still perfectly made and I’m wearing the same outfit I wore on Friday night. Someone has neatly laid my shoes on the wooden floor next to the bed. Even sober, I wouldn’t have done that. I don’t do neat.

I lean over and turn on a lamp. The crystals decorating the bottom edge of the shade clink together. The dull light draws my focus to the painfully cheery purple paint on the wall. Closing my eyes, I count the days. Let’s see. Friday night I went out with Noah and Isaiah and put Taco Bell Boy in his place. Early Saturday, Mom tried to become a felon. Saturday morning, Scott ruined my life.

I pretended to fall asleep in the car so I wouldn’t have to talk to Scott, but I sucked and actually fell asleep. Scott woke me, I think, and half carried me into the house. Crap. Why don’t I put a sign on my head and announce I’m a loser girl who needs help.

I open my eyes and stare at the ticking clock on the bedside table. Twelve fifteen. Sunday. This is early Sunday morning.

My stomach growls. I’ve gone a full day without eating. Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last. I slip out of bed and slide my Chuck Taylor wannabes onto my feet. Time to have a coming-to-Jesus moment with Uncle Scott. That is, if he’s awake. It may be better if he went to bed. That way I can slip out without the fight.

Maybe I’ll score some food before I call Isaiah. With a room like this, I bet he buys brand-name cereal.

The house has that newly built, fresh sawdust smell. Outside the bedroom is a foyer instead of a hallway. A large staircase, the type I thought existed only in movies, winds to the second floor. An actual chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Guess baseball pays well.

“No...” A woman’s voice carries from the back of the house. I can tell she’s still talking, but she’s lowered her tone. Did he marry or does he keep a f*ck on hand like he did when I was a kid? Gotta be a f*ck. I overheard Scott tell Dad once that he’d never marry.

I follow the low voices to the brink of a large open room and pause. The entire back of the house—excuse me, mansion—is one enormous wall of windows. The living room flows right into the eat-in kitchen.

“Scott.” Exasperation eats at the woman’s tone. “This is not what I signed up for.”

“Last month you were on board with this,” says Scott. Part of me feels vindicated. He’s lost that annoyingly smooth calm from yesterday.

“Yes, when you told me you wanted to reconnect with your niece. There is a difference between reconnecting and invading our life.”

“You were fine with it when I called last month from Louisville and said I wanted her to live with us.”

The woman snaps, “That was after you said she ran away. I didn’t actually think you would find her. When you described the hellhole she lived in, I figured she was long gone. She’s a criminal. You expect me to feel safe with her in my home?”