You Don't Know My Name (The Black Angel Chronicles #1)(16)
“Sorry to disappoint you, Reagan,” Mom says, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. I turn to look at her; the corners of her mouth are pointed down and her eyes are heavy. I shake my head, press my lips together, and look away. I’ve been hearing “sorry” my whole life. Sorry for missing your birthday, sorry for leaving you on Christmas Eve, sorry for missing your play. But there are some pains they’ve never even acknowledged. Sorry you’ve basically been raised by Aunt Sam, sorry you’re always in danger, sorry for forcing you to lie every single day of your life, sorry for making you choose between this life and a normal one, sorry you don’t even know what normal is. I’m sick of their sorrys. The ones they say and the ones they never will.
Bang. My father is shooting at a fresh dummy target. Clearly, he cannot feel my disappointment like my mother can. She is still looking at me, her gaze heavy, willing me to look at her. I place the M4 on my shelf and walk toward the martial arts room.
“Reagan,” my mother says in between gunfire as I walk away, but I pretend I don’t hear her. I don’t want to turn around and have her see the broken look I can feel on my face.
I pull on my training gloves and stare at the quote that’s been painted, thick and black, on the wall of every martial arts room we’ve ever had:
“To whom much is given, much is expected.”
It’s become the Black Angels’ unofficial mantra. We are given so much. The best of the best training. Beautiful homes. Envious paychecks. But more than that, genetically inherited abilities and the power to do so much good. For the last decade, the quote empowered me. It was something I told myself proudly. But lately, it’s felt more like a loose, guilt-inducing knot around my wrists.
I turn to face the dummy, but Mom is standing in the center of the mats, her green eyes wide and fixed on my face. She opens her mouth to speak, the words rolling around her head but not off her tongue. She presses her lips together. Her face changes, her eyes narrow, and her body hardens. She tries again.
“Take-downs from a choke hold,” Mom says as she moves toward me. She puts her fingers tight around my neck and pushes me hard against the wall, the quote centered above our heads. “Let’s go.”
I look into her eyes for a beat. But she tightens her grip on me. I guess there’s nothing more to say. I push down hard on her arms to my right then slam her head to the left. I lift my knees to hit her in the groin and stomach over and over again until her hold on me slips and I can push her away.
“Good. Again,” Mom commands, wrapping her strong hands around my throat from the side. I’ve done this so many times, the synapses in my brain don’t even fire. My body knows what to do. With one hand, I pull at the fingers around my neck while with my other I simulate slamming into her groin then elbowing her in the chin to get away. Three seconds and I’m out.
“Good. Again.” Mom runs at me from the side, pulling me into a choke hold. I don’t resist. I let her body and gravity pull us closer together. I punch one hand against her groin and reach around with the other to pull her head back, slamming her onto the mat. The echo of her back crashing against the plastic pad bounces off the cinder-block walls and polished concrete floors. Mom struggles to pull in the last wisps of air that I forced from her body.
“I’m so sorry,” I say and extend my hand down to her as she catches her breath.
“Don’t be sorry. That was perfect.” Mom’s rosebud lips break into a smile. She reaches up and takes my hand. “Again.”
SIX
Buzz. My phone vibrates on the cream-and-black granite sink top next to me. I touch the screen to read a text from Harper.
Leaving my house in a few. Just flipping through Instagram. Zedd posted a couple amazing videos. Must watch before studying. PS GET ON INSTAGRAM!
I’m not on a single social media channel. Can’t be. It’s one of the Black Angels’ strictest policies. I’d be way too traceable if I was. The last thing I need is for someone in my new life to find a picture of me from an old life with a different last name. It’s hard to keep track of all the lies as it is. So I just pretend that I’m completely too cool for social media and that I hate having my picture taken. People buy it.
I pick up my phone and text her back.
Harper! No Instagram. No Vines. No Snapchat. No Pinterest. No Twitter. Biology!
I stare at my phone and wait for her reply.
I love messing with you. xo
I smile and delete the message like always. I’m paranoid my parents check my texts. In fact, I know they do. We are three trained killers, but three natural-born snoopers.
I look back at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’ve struggled to give my long dark hair a little bit of body and pinned a few pieces back with bobby pins. But it just won’t sit right. I’d normally put it up in a bun or a ponytail and call it a day but Luke loves my hair down. He also likes it when I …
Stop it. I look at myself in the mirror and shake my head, slapping my forehead with the palm of my hand. I have to stop thinking about him like that. I have to stop hoping for something. For his sake and mine.
“Stop sabotaging yourself,” I say in a singsong voice to my reflection as I turn out the light. I shake out my arm, trying to crush the butterflies in my stomach. I never understood that phrase until I met Luke. I always thought it was an eye-rollingly annoying way of saying you like someone. But the first time he touched me, I felt them. All he did was pull me in for a half hug after we beat some neighbors in a game of soccer. He ran the tips of his fingers up and down my arm. Up and down. Slowly. My stomach tied into a million little knots. My heart pounded hard and fast in my ears. I had to remind myself to breathe. And a year later, that’s still the feeling I get every time we touch.