Chasing Impossible (Pushing the Limits #5)(81)

Abby’s eyebrows raise in doubt.

“Think about it—Linus kept pressuring you to give us up.” I gesture to our group inside currently laughing at something Noah is saying. “That in there, those friendships, that’s dangerous. The good friendships, they’re more potent than an atomic bomb. None of us would let you feel dead inside.”

Abby rocks her knee against mine again and sends me an under-the-eyelash gaze that causes my blood to warm. “Thanks for that.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” Abby flexes her fingers like she’s about to compose on a piano. “I don’t know how to walk away. In all the rules and pieces of advice my father gave me over the years, he never taught me how to give two weeks’ notice to a drug lord. I mean is there paperwork? Should I bring flowers? Do I have to train my replacement? Create a training manual? If I have Kinko’s print and bind it, does that make them an accomplice to organized crime? I mean, how exactly do these things work?”

My lips tilt up as Abby begins talking her nonsense. A conscious stream of things that make sense yet don’t. It’s become a comfort to me, just like our pretend past, just like I’ve become addicted to holding her at night.

“How can I help?”

Abby’s lips thin out and she goes serious. “I need to see my dad.”

Abby

Logan and Isaiah stand with me as I wait for my number to pop up on the screen. I’m the only one who will be allowed in. Dad has a list of people he’s handpicked to visit him, and I’m on that short list even though I’m under eighteen. Mac’s my legal guardian and he signed a notarized letter that gives me permission for the jacked-up meet and greet without an adult.

Other numbers continue to flash on the screen and the people are ushered back to where they’ll be patted down. After that they’ll walk through a metal detector and then be assigned a table where the inmate they want to meet will be.

Lots of suck parts of these visitations, but for me, especially coming unannounced, Dad can refuse this meeting. I’ve never done this before, showed up without Denny making arrangements first, and I mentally will my number to appear, to prove Dad misses me.

Because Isaiah’s supercrazy about keeping his back safe in a crowded environment, we stand by the wall and he methodically swivels his head like an owl’s as he mentally tallies the people surrounding us.

“The criminals are the ones behind the big fat wall,” I mutter.

“All the same,” Isaiah replies.

While Isaiah watches the world, Logan watches me. He seems to understand I don’t want to be touched, I don’t want to be coddled, that I need to be a bit numb when walking through that door. But I like that he’s beside me, standing strong, staying silent, just being there...ready to catch me when I fall.

Because I will fall. I always do. With the choices I’ve made in my life, my path is nothing but crumbling cliffs.

In the past, I picked myself up and dusted myself off with no help and I have to admit it’s more than nice to know that I don’t have to tend to my wounds alone anymore. Nice to know that I could possibly be living a life that no longer causes wounds that bleed.

It’s taking too long. My number should have appeared by now. My blood starts to whoosh in my ears. He’s refused me. My father’s refused me. It’s as if a trap door is being pulled out from underneath me.

“Abby,” Logan says. “It’s your number.”

Relief rushes through me, and I have to remember to suck up my reaction. Dad deserves more than to see my fear and my pain. He needs to see I can stand strong on my own two feet.

I glance up at Logan and he stares down at me. Every caress, touch, and kiss of encouragement I need is shining in his dark eyes. “Go on. We’ll be here waiting when you’re done.”

No doubt that the two of them will be in the same spot. Isaiah searching for the threat to us, Logan waiting for me.

* * *

The guard opens the door for me and the multiple conversations in the room assault my ears. I walk into the room, counting the tables before me and when I find my assigned table, my heart skips a beat.

Orange jumpsuit, red hair, blue eyes, a rugged beard hiding his reaction. Standing there, staring at me as if he’s seeing a ghost is the man who saved me all those years ago. It’s my father.

Logan asked me once how Daddy knew I was his child for sure and I basically answered I didn’t care. I don’t care, but I know and so does Daddy. I’m not his. Not when my mother was fair-haired with a light complexion. Not when I don’t physically resemble him in the least.

I overheard him once speaking to Grams after they tucked me into bed. I crept down the stairs, just needing to hear the sound of his voice again, when she had asked him if she should be concerned about whether my real mother or father would ever come hunting for me. He told her no, that he would protect us both, and I always believed him.

It’s hard not to run to him, difficult to will my feet to move at a normal pace. The urge is to rush him, wrap my arms around him, beg him to break free of this place and take care of me again. But he can’t break free. There’s a good chance he’ll never be free. My father is paying for his sins.

Less than two feet away, my father holds out his arms and I don’t hesitate to fall into him. He hugs me tight, his hand petting my head, and he kisses my hair then says in my ear, “Are you hurt?”