Chasing Impossible (Pushing the Limits #5)(51)

“Well, I hadn’t been shot then and I have now and that seems like something we can bond over.” Seeing my dad is the equivalent to a toddler hugging a beloved blanket during the dark of night and I’ve earned this visit.

“Visitors f*ck him up. Especially you. He’s got to keep his head in the game in there.”

My throat burns and I drink to hide any of the emotion on my face. I pretend Dad’s away on business. He left a lot as I grew up. He’d be there one day, gone the next, but he’d always return. Each day when I wake up, I reset my mind to believe he’s gone for the day and he’ll be home tomorrow. “Does he know I was shot?”

Denny rests his elbows on the bar and dips his head for a minute before lifting it to look at me. “He knows. Why do you think you’re getting pancakes today?”

The breath rushes out of me because yeah—that hurt. The same way a hot piece of steel felt entering my body.

Dad used to make pancakes for me before every big school event. Today—I was supposed to go to some sort of stupid summer school for smart people.

“That look right there, kid, that’s why I’m not in favor of you visiting your dad. You’re strong, Abigail. Stronger than most and that’s what your dad needs to see when you walk in. Gotta admit, you don’t look good. Your color’s off. You’re slow. You don’t seem to be healing right, and I can spot emotion in your eyes. That shit right there—in the world you’re dancing in—that’s got to stop. I can’t let you visit him like this. He’ll be pissed you’re hurting, and in return he’ll make somebody bleed and cause all sorts of problems for himself.”

It’s as if his words made all that I have been battling more than true, and I lay my head on the bar using my arms as a pillow. Nate says I’m not resting enough. Nadia thinks the wound on my back is getting infected. Peggy thinks I’m suffering from a broken heart.

Ricky and my bank account of a cubby demand that I make up for lost time. The latter of all that leads me to ignore all the medical advice.

“Linus thinks we might have a traitor. He thinks that person could be related to who shot me.” Which means one of the guys who is supposed to have my back might stick a knife in it and considering I already have an angry, raw wound there, I’m not overly excited about adding another.

Denny freezes and the temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. “Why the f*ck are you just telling me this now?”

My shrug the pathetic response. Denny’s not connected to my career and I shouldn’t be telling him this now, but he’s the gatekeeper between me and Dad. The admission is desperate, it’s manipulative, it’s low, but hey—Dad taught me well. “Can I see him now?”

Denny doesn’t answer but he kicks a box of liquor bottles on his way to his office. Satisfied with myself, I straighten, swivel in my seat and finish the rest of my pancakes. I may be down, but I still got game.

Logan

Isaiah: Off to be smart?

I pause midstride to answer and the guy walking behind me almost runs into me, but then goes around and enters the school building. The kid walks too damn fast with too short of a space between strides and looks like something was shoved up his ass.

I’m always smart. I’m off to be around other people who get off on proving their smart to others. I don’t have to prove shit.

Have fun with that. We hunting again tonight?

Isaiah can have a funny way with words, yet still call it straight. The past few nights, we’ve been driving around, going to places where Isaiah knows people from Eric’s side can gather. In other words, we’ve been hunting for Abby’s shooter.

Yeah. I feel like we’re running out of time.

Me too, but we’re going to need solid info to convince Abby to change. Taking Rachel out first tonight. I’ll text you when I’m done.

Since Abby pushed us all away a week ago, we’ve decided to grant Abby her space while we solved the problem. Abby’s scared that I saw her shooter and she’s going deeper into a world she needs out of to protect me. Linus can’t use the bastard who shot her against her when it comes to me if the shooter is behind bars.

I pocket my cell and enter Eastwick High. I’ve been here before, to play ball, but I’ve never been in the building. I’m slow as I take it all in and try to gauge where the hell I’m heading. Paperwork they sent said to gather in the auditorium. I follow the kid with the stick up his butt. Odds are we’re heading in the same direction.

Two girls exit a bathroom and give me a mixed-up assessment. Spark in their eyes explains that they like what they see, especially my arms. The confusion is due to my jeans, red collared polo, and Bullitt County High baseball cap on with the bill down low. Everyone else here looks the same—cows in black and white, sometimes gray, all pressed from the mold of the boring business meeting they’re about to attend.

I’d rather plug two bullets into my own brain than sit in business meetings for the rest of my life. Don’t plan on dressing for that part later, why the hell would I play the part now?

A roar of voices echoes into the hallway and when I enter the auditorium it’s a herd of them down toward the stage. Black pants or skirts. White shirts. The individuality of the beasts being moved from one field to another and eventually to the butcher.

Moo.

I drop into the first wooden folding seat in the back and when I glance down the row a smile stretches across my face. It’s long dark hair, devilish lips meant to kiss, jeans that no doubt hug her ass in a way that causes my blood to turn hot, and a girl oblivious to the world as she scrolls on her phone.