Page 4 of Never Bargain with the Boss

But like it knew I was considering dialing, my traitorous phone rings in the cupholder of my Tesla sedan. I glance at it, and though the screen shows ‘NumberBlocked’, I know exactly who it is.

Instead of the usual greeting of ‘hello,’ I bite out, “Austin, leave me alone.”

“Aw, come on, Rye. Don’t be like that.” I hate it when he calls me that, like it’s some cute nickname and not a disgustingly gross bread that is only tolerable with corned beef and mustard. “Come home. You know it’s time since your gig with the rich brat ended. You can bring that money home with you too. The kids could use new shoes for school.” Austin’s voice is the same as it was the day I turned fifteen and he told the judge that he wanted to be the stable father figure I’d been missing all my life—filled with false earnestness and easy confidence.

Home? Is that what he thinks his house is for me? Surely not. But my heart drops into my stomach as the rest of what he said sinks in. Does he know that Bianca gave me a severance package equal to one month of my already-generous pay?

No, there’s no way he could. Although, I wouldn’t put it past him to cuddle up with a teller at my bank and worm some information out of her. Austin can be charming when it serves him. And money, especially money he doesn’t have to work for, always serves him.

“Then you should buy them,” I reply, keeping my voice steady and calm the way I’ve practiced.

He won’t. Spending funds on his wards isn’t how Austin functions. He takes in the foster kids, cashes the checks, and lets them fend for themselves, mostly, only doing his caring dad act when the state comes around. I lost count of the number of times I had to do the ten-minute clean job, and the amount of gaslighting I had to get rid of after leaving that house is enough to write a textbook twice over.

Not all foster families are like that. In fact, most of them aren’t.

After my mom died when I was five, I moved around from family to family for almost ten years. Sometimes, I lucked into some really good placements, with caring foster parents and all those sweet niceties, like enough food to eat and shoes that actually fit. Leaving those for whatever reason was always the suck.

Austin’s home wasn’t one of those.

“Get your ass home, Riley. You have responsibilities here,” Austin spits, all warmth and charisma evaporating when I don’t bend to his authority.

I don’t know why he thinks I will. I left his house years ago, running away barely a year after he adopted me and making my way through the rest of high school on friends’ couches rather than live under his thumb, because those responsibilities he says I have… they’re his, not mine. They were never mine, no matter how much he tried to make it seem like they were.

“I’m never coming back,” I tell him for what seems like the thousandth time. “I don’t know why you even care. You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. You’ve always been a pretty little thing. Too smart for your own good.” He chuckles to himself likethat’s amusing. “Butso pretty.” He drawls the last part out, emphasizing it and giving it a worrisome meaning.

A shiver runs down my spine at the implication.

Austin was never inappropriate with me during the short time I lived with him, and to my knowledge, he’s never crossed a line with any of the other fosters, but I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a full-grown adult, and there are creeps of all types and kinds, even ones who like women with constantly changing hair, mosquito bite-sized titlets, wide hips, a mouth that runs before my brain can stop it, and enough trauma to drop an elephant like a tranquilizer dart. And if I’ve got a vulnerability, it’s that I let people use my trauma to manipulate me, but I’m working on that and getting much better. The proof of my improvement is even in this conversation with Austin, where I’m standing on business and not letting him sway me with guilt I shouldn’t feel anyway.

But what if I’m wrong?

I’m not worried about me—I can take care of myself, always have and always will, but I couldn’t live with myself if there were a child being hurt by Austin. I mean, beyond the obvious borderline neglect, but sad to say, that’s not all that bad considering some of the other homes I was in and out of. Neglect is manageable. Neglect is safe, even though it’s tragic. And there’s probably an older kid assigned to do the caretaking, like I was.

That’s not necessarily ideal, either. If it’s a kid like me, it can be fine. I gave a shit and took good care of the others. But it could be someone decidedlynotlike me. Foster kids aren’t always the best caregivers because they’ve likely not had any role models for it, or they wouldn’t be in the situation they’re in.

This is the game Austin plays. He knows my buttons, some of which he installed personally, and takes joy in pushing them. He’s all too aware of how much I care about the kids, so ifhe makes it sound like they need me, I’m more likely to come running. It’s a ploy, simple as that.

Before I can talk myself out of that, I swallow hard and snarl, “Leave me alone.” Except it’s not as aggressive as I wish it was and is closer to a plea, especially when my voice cracks.

“Or what?” he sneers, cutting me off. “You’re not gonna do nothing.”

He sounds convinced of that. He’s wrong.

I don’t say as much—waste of oxygen, really—but I do hang up on him. I stare at the screen, my heart pounding in my ears as I gasp for breath. As soon as it returns to the home screen filled with apps, I dial the number I memorized while staring at Cole’s business card.

When it rings, I almost hang up, but I don’t. There might be kids in danger. Or it might be nothing. I won’t know unless I have someone check, and I’m not going near Austin or his house. If I did, I’d end up trapped there again, with kids who need someone and my overwhelming urge to be that someone for everyone.

Suddenly, a surly voice on the other end of the line growls, “This’d better be damn important because you woke up my son.”

“Oh, sorry… sorry.” I go to hang up on Cole too, already regretting my decision to call him because I do hear a baby’s sharp cry in the background. Unable to help myself, at the last second, I rush out, “If you’ve done the usual—feeding and diaper change—it’s usually gas. Bicycle his legs a few times, pull them out straight, and then fold them up into his belly and push-push-push. Otherwise, burp him again. Set him on your knee, support his head under his chin, and run the pinky side of your hand up his spine. He should sit up straight, which will let the gas out. Might take a few tries either way. And again, sorry!”

I hit theEndbutton as quick as I can, deeply regretting that I made the call, and throw my phone into the passenger seat likeit might morph into a snake and bite me. My heart is racing even faster now, because of Cole’s grumpiness, but also because now I don’t know what to do about Austin. I force a slow breath in as I slink down in the seat and stare at the blue, cloudless sky on the other side of the car’s glass roof, and then breathe out as I close my eyes. I repeat it three more times, getting my heart under control.

Beep-beep-beep!

“Shit!” I jerk upright and stare at the screen beside the steering wheel that saysIncoming Call. There’s no number, but I have a sinking suspicion about who it is. Instead of answering on the car’s screen, I pick up my phone again, looking at it like it might tell me I’m wrong. I lick my lips as I answer, “Hello?”

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