Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(55)

The doorknob wiggles and my heart kicks into high gear. He’s      back.

Mom grips my hand painfully. “My bedroom.” She drags me      through the apartment and loses her balance as she trips over the pieces of      broken furniture. “Go out the window.”

Bile rises in my throat and I begin to shake. “No. Not      without you.”

Leaving Mom here is like watching sand run out of an      hourglass while I’m chained to the wall, unable to flip it back over. Someday,      Trent will go too far and it won’t just be a bruise or a broken bone. He’ll take      the life out of her body. Time with Trent is an enemy.

“Sky!” Trent shouts when he enters the apartment. “I told      you to keep the door unlocked.”

Mom hugs me tightly. “Go, baby,” she whispers. “Come and get      me in a few weeks.”

She rips the cardboard off the glass and I jump back when a      hand shoots through the already-open window. “Give her to me.”

Isaiah pokes his head in and both of his hands latch onto my      body. I stop breathing and realize one way or another, one of these guys is      going to kill me.





Chapter 29

Ryan

I SNAP MY ARM FORWARD. With a      thump, the ball hits outside the orange box taped onto the black tarp bag that      serves as a target. My mind’s not in it today and I need it to be. Placing my      pitches is the priority. If Logan calls inside—I need to hit inside. If Logan      calls outside—I need to hit outside. If he calls straight down the plate—I need      to smack that mother too.

I keep thinking about Beth. She looked so damn small and lost      that I wanted to gather her in my arms and shield her from the world. Definitely      not a reaction I ever thought I’d have with Skater Girl. I slap my glove against      my leg. I’ll find out what’s going on with her at dinner. Silence will no longer      be accepted.

I roll my shoulder in an effort to find some life in it, but I      come up empty. I’ve pitched for the past hour and the muscles in my arm are as      useful as jelly.

The training facility isn’t much, just a warehouse with green      turf carpeting and an air conditioner welded to the ceiling. The unit buzzes      overhead and every few seconds a bat cracks.

My coach, John, pushes off the metal wall. “Good, but you’re      still throwing with your arm. Your power and consistency are going to come from      your legs. How’s the arm?”

Tired. Beth must hate this place. A warehouse full of guys      hitting balls into nets and pitching into bags. Part of me is disappointed. She      hasn’t stood once to watch. “I can throw a couple more if you want.”

“Have you been resting your arm like we’ve discussed?”

“Yes, sir.” Not as much as I should. I can pinpoint the exact      location of my rotator cuff: approximately two inches down from the top of my      shoulder and, right now, it aches.

“Let’s call it a night.”

I roll the ball over my fingers. Beth isn’t the only issue      that’s plagued me this practice and no matter how I try to ignore the thoughts,      they keep returning. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“If you had to choose between playing college ball and playing      pro out of high school, what would you choose?”

John scratches his cheek as he stares at me with a mix of      wonder and confusion. “Do you want to go to college?”

I don’t know. “If you had the choice, what would you have      done?”

“I didn’t have that choice. College ball was my only      option.”

“But if you did?”

“I would have gone pro.”

I slam the ball into my glove. Exactly. Everyone with their      college talk and writing competitions is screwing me up. “Thanks.”

“The question isn’t what I would have done. The question is      what do you want to do?”





Chapter 30

Beth

ISAIAH WRAPS HIS       ARM tightly around my waist and heaves me out the window. Mom’s      hollow blue eyes have a haunting hurt as she stares at me one last time before      slamming the glass pane shut and placing the cardboard back over the window.

“No!” I’ve left her behind. Again.

His grip becomes steel and the more I try to scramble back      to the window, back to Mom’s apartment, the more he pulls me away. My heart—it’s      literally breaking. It has to be, because the pain in my chest slices as if      glass is ripping through it.