Long Way Home (Thunder Road #3)(54)

This kid’s dad’s best friend? He’s on the school board. “Ray can’t catch a damn ball and move his feet at the same time. He can’t remember his routes under pressure.”

“I’m aware. We lost last week. Eighteen to zero.”

To a team we should have easily beaten.

“Their defense knew we didn’t have you and they know Ray can’t play. They shifted their defense to the boys who can. Without you there, we couldn’t get down the field. Our defense saw the game falling apart and they fell apart. Our team needs a leader and that’s you. I need you back on that field.”

“Sounds like that’s not up to me.”

“It’s not. I’ll speak to the board. So will some of the other coaches and teachers. I know Cyrus won’t want to hear this, but he and the Terror need to stay clear. Them showing up will only hurt, not help.”

That conversation with the board will go over well.

“What I’m about to ask requires a better man, but I’m asking because I know you’re a great man.” His pause causes my blood to run cold. “Chevy, I need you to come to practice and help Ray. I need you to teach him how to cover the routes. Boost the kid’s confidence. We lose one more game and we lose our shot at regionals.”

I stretch my fingers and resist the urge to tell him where to shove helping Ray or the team because no one is helping me.

“Don’t answer now,” Coach says. “Take some time. Think about it, but I have a feeling you’ll show. As I said, you’re the better man.”

Without saying a word, I turn and walk out.





Violet

I’M JEALOUS OF my mom’s happiness. I’m quite aware of how awful and bitter that sounds, but it’s tough to know her happiness is due to my kidnapping. The real jealousy is that she’s just happy. There’s a smile on her face and pure joy radiates from her as she places the third round of hot buttered bread on the table in Cyrus’s kitchen. She’s plain happy and I honestly forgot how happy feels, so for a moment I wish I was her.

Found another note this morning in my math folder:

Want you to know we understand your situation. Can’t expect you to get what we want if you aren’t home, but we hear you’ll be home once certain people are back in KY. By the way, number fifteen is wrong. You need to divide instead of multiply.

A stalker and blackmailer who is checking my math homework. My brain is slowly separating into tiny pieces and it’s going to be a very short trip to become a resident in the land of gone crazy.

But my mom? My mom’s happy. It’s Wednesday evening and the cramped kitchen is full of hungry men in black leather Reign of Terror vests and too-loud conversations. They were all drawn in by the scent of freshly baked bread and lasagna. I’ve got to admit, Mom makes a mean lasagna and she bakes bread you sort of think was created in heaven.

“No one can have any more lasagna until Chevy gets in here and makes his plate,” Mom announces like everyone in the room is her child.

I’ve eaten more than my fair share tonight, yet I’m considering the corner piece of lasagna with the burnt edges. Those are my favorite and I think I might still have room in my stomach for more. But with the way Pigpen’s eyes are flickering between that piece and me, I might have to stab him in the hand with a fork to get it.

“It’s mine,” he whispers. “Go for it and you’re going down.”

Despite my best intentions, I smile and his eyes shine with the win.

Cyrus walks into the kitchen from the back door and at the same time Chevy comes in from the hallway. His hair is dark and damp from a shower and his T-shirt clings a little too tight. Butterflies race in my stomach at the anticipation of waiting for his eyes to meet mine.

But Chevy doesn’t look at me—he watches Cyrus and the butterflies give way as I frown. Cyrus isn’t doing anything unusual. He washes his hands at the sink, makes a few comments here and there to the guys, but Chevy is seeing something else, something no one else sees.

Finally, he does tear his eyes away from Cyrus to me and he smiles. That pirate one, the gorgeous one, the dimpled one, the one that makes me very aware he has something up his sleeve. He eases into the chair beside me, holds out his empty palm, fists it, then magically produces a coin. Within seconds, he’s rolling it over his knuckles in a movement I’ve never been able to mimic.

Chevy’s not the only one who can read people. I’ve known him for too long. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I can read you better than you think.”

“Really?” His eyes wander along my body and I turn pink. “What am I saying now?”

I reach out to steal the coin, but it falls into his palm, and when he reopens it, the coin’s gone. He waves his fingers as he waggles his eyebrows. Yeah, he’s hiding something and it’s not the coin.

Pigpen passes the pan of lasagna in Chevy’s direction and he takes two squares for himself, then deposits the corner piece on my plate. I smirk at Pigpen and he scowls back at me.

The moment Chevy has enough salad and bread on an additional plate to feed a developing nation, the locusts descend and take the rest of the food. Mom stays by the sink and has this pride and satisfaction on her face that I once again find myself envious over.