Kick (Songs of Perdition #1)(15)

“Fiona Drazen!”

They’re behind me, and I’m on the curb, out of Irv’s field of influence. If he comes to get me, he’s leaving the door, and that’s not cool. I pound on the window again. Bursts of light flash on it.

I’m about to get mobbed.

“Hey, *,” I shout.

The window rolls down so slowly, I feel as if I’m in a movie about falling.

And there he is. My heart jumps out of my chest.

“Hi,” I say, sticking my head in. I feel them behind me. I hear them calling my name, over and over. “You took something of mine outta the bathroom.”

“Really?” He’s older than I thought, and that makes him more attractive then humanly possible. “What?”

Fiona.

“My heart.” It’s a stupid come on, but I’m a girl. I can get away with it.

I’m going to count backward from three. At one, you’ll open your eyes feeling rested and relaxed.

“Ah. I thought maybe your shirt buttons.”

For the first time, he glances at my chest, and I feel that my breasts are chilled. My shirt is wide open, diamond-studded nipple rings glistening. Fucking Earl with his octopus hands.

Three.

“Don’t make me turn around,” I say. “They already got enough pictures.”

Two.

He takes a second to think about it, looking me straight in the face. A little smirk plays on the perfect line of his lips, and I think I just might die.

One.

nine.

I was barely in the Westonwood waiting room before Mom hugged me fiercely, all defiance and no affection. It was amazing how much strength was in that tiny little bag of bones.

“It’s fine, Ma.” I looked over her shoulder at Dad, his Drazen-trademark red hair just beginning to turn grey.

His hands were in his pockets and his shoulder was against the wall. I rolled my eyes at him, but he just turned to look out the window. He always tried so hard, and I always failed him.

Everything in the room was designed to avoid upsetting the patients and their families. Round table in pale blue Formica with matching water pitcher and three plastic glasses. White molded plastic chairs with chrome legs. The windows were barred in the same decorative pattern overlooking the expanse of the Topanga Canyon, which was covered in grey, misty rain. The seasonal decorations were non-denominational. The best seat in the house, for the benefit of the people writing the checks.

Mom squeezed me, and I felt something hard and breakable between us. She pulled back and handed me a wrapped gift. Dancing snowmen. Gold ribbon.

“I had it in case you came to the house.”

I popped the tape and unfolded the paper, revealing a framed photo. “Snowcone.” I pulled it from the wrapping completely. I stood in my riding gear, all of fifteen, next to my beautiful grey stallion. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Lindy says you haven’t been to the stables in a long time, at least not before the other day.”

I hadn’t ridden Snowcone in how long? Was it measured in years already? The last time I’d gone to the stables, I’d gone with two guys I’d promised to f*ck on a hay bale. I was so high, Lindy kicked me out. Told me I wasn’t worthy of the labor animals. I cursed her, knowing she was right.

“We’re going to get you cleared of all this,” Mom whispered. She looked me in the eye, squeezing my shoulders. “Ten years ago, we could have made it go away. But the internet—” She shook her head. “You’re a good girl. Your father and I know you didn’t do this.”

Daddy didn’t look so sure.

“Thanks, Mom. I’m fine.”

“We’re going to get everyone on this. This man? This Deacon Bruce? We’ll get so much dirt on him, pressing charges would ruin him.”

“Eileen,” Dad said, “it’s not like pushing a button.”

She turned to Dad, giving him the fire-eye. The power struggle between my parents had always been epic. One day, one of them would die in a pile of crushed bone shards and twisted skin.

“What’s it like then?” snarled Mom.

“Quentin’s dealing with the other matter right now—”

“He can do both.”

“No.”

A staring contest ensued. I didn’t know if they were going to kiss or scratch each other’s eyes out.

“Guys?” I said, but I had no effect on their stare. “I’m going to get out in a few days. Can we—”

Without breaking their staring contest, Dad said, “Don’t bet on getting out.”

“But—”

“She’s getting out, Declan,” Mom said. “I’m calling Franco. And if it all goes wrong, you can look in the mirror for who’s to blame.”

“You won’t. She doesn’t need the kind of help you’re offering.”

I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I knew that if Mom wanted to call Franco, whoever that was, she was calling Franco. My part in the conversation was pretty much over. “Thanks, guys. Nice visit. Merry f*cking Christmas.”

I turned on my soft, suede heel and strode out. Halfway down the hall, Dad caught up to me.

“Thanks for defending me,” I said. “I think.”

“Hold up.” He stepped in front of me, blocking my path.