Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(47)

“Thanks.” The word tastes weird in my mouth.

He removes his baseball cap, runs his hand through his hair, and smashes it back into place. I look away to keep the guilt from killing me.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I blink, unsure what he’s apologizing for, but I don’t ask for an explanation. I said my piece.

He said his. We’re even.

A teenage boy leaves the building and holds the door open for Ryan. He goes in while the other boy jingles his car keys. Thank you, fate, for lending me a hand. I tuck the cigarette into my back pocket and smile in a way that makes the boy assume he has a chance. “Can I bum a ride?”

NERVES VIBRATE IN MY STOMACH and I keep taking deep breaths. No matter how many times I inhale, I still have a hard time filling my lungs with air. Please, God, this one time, please let the ass**le be gone. And please, please, please let Isaiah agree to my crazy plan once I show up with my mom in tow.

I thought about telling him about my plan beforehand, but, in the end, I knew he wouldn’t agree to Mom tagging along. He blames her for the problems in my life, but I know Isaiah. When I show up with her, begging to leave, he won’t let me down. He’ll take us—both.

The Last Stop is empty, but give it another hour or two and the bar will be filled. Even in daylight, the place is as dark as a dungeon. In his typical jeans and flannel shirt, Denny sits at his bar and hovers over a laptop, giving his face a bluish glow. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots me. “Heard your mom lost custody.”

“Yeah.”

He sips a longneck. “Sorry, kid.”

“How has she been?” My mouth dries out and it takes everything I have to act like his answer doesn’t matter to me.

“Do you really want to know?”

No. I don’t. “What do I owe you?”

He closes the laptop. “Nothing. Go back to where you came from. Anywhere has to be better than here.”

I go out the back. It’s the fastest way to Mom’s apartment. At night, the place is creepy in the shadows. During the day, the run-down apartment complex just looks sad and pathetic. Management spray-painted parts of the 1970s orange brick white to hide the graffiti. It’s a useless effort. The elementary kids paint their swear words back on the next night.

Since most of the windows are broken, the residents use cardboard and gray tape to cover the glass, except for the windows with the roaring air-conditioning units that leak water like faucets. Mom and I never had one of those. We were never that rich or lucky.

Asshole Trent lives in the complex across the parking lot from Mom. The only thing sitting in his parking spot is the large pool of black oil that seeps from his car when it’s parked. Good. I inhale again to still my internal shaking. Good.

After Dad left, Mom moved us to Louisville and we officially became gypsies, moving into a new apartment every six to eight months.

Some were so bad we left voluntarily. Others kicked us out after Mom missed rent. The trailer in Groveton and my aunt Shirley’s basement are the only stable homes I’ve ever known. The apartment near Shirley’s is the longest Mom has ever stayed in one place and it sucks that Trent is the reason why. I knock softly.

The door rattles as Mom unlocks the multiple dead bolts and, like I taught her to, she leaves the chain on when she opens the door an inch. Mom squints as if her eyes have never seen the sun. She’s whiter than normal, and the blond hair on the back of her head stands upright as if she hasn’t brushed it in days.

“What is it?” she barks.

“It’s me, Mom.”

She rubs her eyes. “Elisabeth?”

“Let me in.” And let’s get you out.

Mom closes the door, the chain jiggles as she unlocks it, and the door flies open. In seconds, she wraps her arms around me. Her fingernails dig into my scalp. “Baby? Oh, God, baby. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Her body shakes and I hear the familiar sniffling that accompanies her crying. I rest my head on her shoulder. She smells like a strange combination of vinegar, pot, and alcohol. Only the vinegar seems out of place. Part of me is thrilled to see her alive. The other part beyond annoyed. I hate that she’s high. “What did you take?”

Mom pulls back and runs her fingers through my hair in very fast successive motions. “Nothing.”

I note her red eyes and dilated pupils and tilt my head.

“Okay, just some pot.” She smiles while a tear runs down her face. “Do you want a bowl?

We have new neighbors and they’re into sharing. Let’s go.”

Snatching Mom’s hand, I push past her and into the apartment. “You need to pack.”

“Elisabeth! Don’t!”

“What the hell?” The place is trashed. Not like normal trashed. This is beyond dirty dishes, mud-caked floors, and fast-food wrappers on the furniture. The cushions of the couch lie on the threadbare carpet, both ripped open. The coffee table could now be used as kindling. The insides of Mom’s small television lie exposed near the three-foot kitchen.

“Someone broke in.” Mom shuts the door behind her, locking one of the dead bolts.

“Bullshit.” I turn and face her. “People who break in steal shit and you don’t have shit to steal. And what the hell is that stench?”

I dyed Easter eggs with Scott once and our trailer smelled like vinegar for days.