Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(48)

“I’m cleaning,” Mom says. “The bathroom. I got sick in there earlier.”

Her words hit me hard. Puking can mean an OD. My worst nightmare for my mother.

“What did you take?”

She shakes her head and nervously laughs.

“I told you, pot. A little beer. I’m barely buzzing.”

Ah, hell. “Are you pregnant?”

I hate it when she has to think for an answer.

“No. No. I’m taking those pills. It’s good you found a way to have them sent to me in the mail.”

Kneading my eyes with my palms, I gather my wits. None of this matters. “Get your stuff together. We’re leaving.”

“Why? I haven’t received an eviction notice.”

“We’re gypsies, remember?” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “We never stay still.”

“No, Elisabeth. You have the gypsy soul, not me.”

Her statement stops me short and I wait for her to explain. Mom sways from side to side. Whatever. She’s high and I don’t have time for this. I step over the shredded coffee table. “Isaiah offered to take me to the beach and you’re coming with us. We’ll lay low until I turn eighteen next summer and then we’ll be home free.”

“What about Trent?”

“He beats you. You don’t need that ass**le!”

I spot a couple of plastic shopping bags in the corner. Those will do. Mom owns few items worth packing.

“Elisabeth!” Mom kicks the remains of the coffee table as she bolts after me. She grabs my arm. “Stop!”

“Stop? Mom, we have to go. You know if

Trent comes back and finds me here…”

She cuts me off and runs her fingers through my hair again. “He’ll kill you.” Her eyes pool with tears and she sniffles again. “He’ll kill you,” she repeats. “I can’t go.”

My entire body bottoms out like a fast sobering from a high. “You have to.”

“No, baby. I can’t go now. Give me a few weeks. I got some business to take care of and then we’ll leave together. I promise.”

Business? “We’re leaving. Now.”

Her fingers curl in my hair and tighten, yanking to the point of pain. She leans down and places her forehead to mine. The stench of beer rolls off her breath. “I promise. I promise I’ll go with you. Listen to me. I have to clean some stuff up. Give me a couple of weeks, then we’ll go.”

The doorknob wiggles and my heart kicks into high gear. He’s back.

Mom grips my hand painfully. “My bedroom.” She drags me through the apartment and loses her balance as she trips over the pieces of broken furniture. “Go out the window.”

Bile rises in my throat and I begin to shake.

“No. Not without you.”

Leaving Mom here is like watching sand run out of an hourglass while I’m chained to the wall, unable to flip it back over. Someday, Trent will go too far and it won’t just be a bruise or a broken bone. He’ll take the life out of her body. Time with Trent is an enemy.

“Sky!” Trent shouts when he enters the apartment. “I told you to keep the door unlocked.”

Mom hugs me tightly. “Go, baby,” she whispers. “Come and get me in a few weeks.”

She rips the cardboard off the glass and I jump back when a hand shoots through the already open window. “Give her to me.”

Isaiah pokes his head in and both of his hands latch onto my body. I stop breathing and realize one way or another, one of these guys is going to kill me.

Ryan

I SNAP MY ARM FORWARD. With a thump, the ball hits outside the orange box taped onto the black tarp bag that serves as a target. My mind’s not in it today and I need it to be.

Placing my pitches is the priority. If Logan calls inside—I need to hit inside. If Logan calls outside—I need to hit outside. If he calls straight down the plate—I need to smack that mother too.

I keep thinking about Beth. She looked so damn small and lost that I wanted to gather her in my arms and shield her from the world.

Definitely not a reaction I ever thought I’d have with Skater Girl. I slap my glove against my leg. I’ll find out what’s going on with her at dinner. Silence will no longer be accepted.

I roll my shoulder in an effort to find some life in it, but I come up empty. I’ve pitched for the past hour and the muscles in my arm are as useful as jelly.

The training facility isn’t much, just a warehouse with green turf carpeting and an air conditioner welded to the ceiling. The unit buzzes overhead and every few seconds a bat cracks.

My coach, John, pushes off the metal wall.

“Good, but you’re still throwing with your arm. Your power and consistency are going to come from your legs. How’s the arm?”

Tired. Beth must hate this place. A warehouse full of guys hitting balls into nets and pitching into bags. Part of me is disappointed. She hasn’t stood once to watch.

“I can throw a couple more if you want.”

“Have you been resting your arm like we’ve discussed?”

“Yes, sir.” Not as much as I should. I can pinpoint the exact location of my rotator cuff: approximately two inches down from the top of my shoulder and, right now, it aches.

“Let’s call it a night.”