Page 66 of Waiting for Fate
“Wash your dishes and get the hell out of my face for the rest of the night.”
A sigh of relief slips through my lips when he walks away. Not wanting to face his wrath, I quickly wash my cup and put it back in the cabinet. Homework will have to wait until the morning when he leaves for work and I can sneak back inside.
The alley behind our house smells terrible, so I head toward the end, aiming for a nearby park. The two dollars I’d earned from fixing Mrs. Fitch’s front gate weighs heavily in my pocket. I had hoped to spend it on lunch at school for the rest of the week, but I might have to use to buy something for dinner tonight.
Sitting on a bench, I watch the families playing with their kids at the nearby playground. That used to be me. All smiles and love and light. Then Mom had to die and everything fell apart. The same thing could happen to these kids, too. We’re all one nightmare away from a terrible situation.
When the sky is dark enough for the street lights to kick on, I head back to the alley. It is tempting to hide on the playground and sleep in the slide or a crawling space, but local police wander the area too often for me to take that risk. If I’m dragged home by the cops, my father will beat me senseless.
Sinking onto the pavement by our back gate, I ignore the smell of trash and urine as best as I can. Noise from inside my house draws my attention after a few minutes. I peek through the cracks in the wood, frowning when I see several men standing in our kitchen. They’re too loud for this late at night, but they don’t seem to care.
Who are they? My father doesn’t have any friends, and the only family we had won’t talk to him now that he’s become the town drunk.
Light flickers as someone passes the back door, making me shrink down in my hiding spot. They shouldn’t be able to see me over the gate. They step aside, giving me a clear view of the kitchen table. My breath catches, burning in my lungs as I stare at the packages of drugs sitting in plain view. Alcohol was bad enough, if he’s going to start doing drugs too-
“There you are, little shit.” I scream, jolting backwards, but a hand clamps on my upper arm. Dad drags me through the gate toward the house. I stumble beside him, banging my knee on the steps as I try to keep up with his long strides.
Kicking the door open, he tosses me onto the floor. I scramble away from him, terrified of the rage on his face. His guests laugh from the living room, enjoying my fear.
“I told you to clean this shit up.”
Pain lances through my skull as his fist connects with my jaw. My vision blurs, giving him the opportunity to haul me to my feet and slam me against the counter. Through hazy eyes, I see new dishes piled into the sink. Their dishes.
I jolt awake, rattling the empty water bottle in the van’s cup holder. My chest heaves and sweat coats my skin. Fucking bullshit. It’s still late, maybe three or four in the morning, but I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep. Not after reliving that memory in my dreams.
“You good?” Jericho asks when I climb into the back. He’s sitting at our surveillance set up taking his shift to monitor the building we moved to. We’re outside of Augusta, Georgia now, tracking another lead on the breeding ring. Still no sight of the doctor either.
“Can’t sleep. Want to swap?”
He studies me for several minutes before agreeing. I plop onto the metal seat we use and groan at the ache in my body. It’s been four days since we learned about the attempted break in at Bea’s apartment. Four days of me running myself to exhaustion, so I don’t lose my shit at the thought of her being hunted by another alpha.
Four days of dark memories rising to the surface of my mind and haunting my dreams. This is exactly why I can’t bond Bea. I have no control over the phantom pain that ignites in my body when I fall into spirals like this. She deserves better than to be burdened by my trauma, especially with a shared pain bond.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
BLUE AND REDlights shine down on the black curtain at the back of the small stage where Spencer is signing up for the club’s open mic night. He’s nervous. The entire drive here from the group home he’d chattered away about his week, words blurring together as his anxiety grew.
Despite his nervousness, he’s determined to take the stage and perform. Apparently, he has invited the guy he likes to watch tonight.
After speaking with the DJ, he returns to our high top table in the corner. “All set.”
I push his soda across the table, and offer him a confident smile. “Is he here yet?” Spencer shakes his head quickly, staring down into his drink. “We’re early. I’m sure he’ll show.”
An older woman takes the stages first, crooning in a raspy, slightly out of tune voice. With work she could have potential. Perhaps I should send some of our talent scouts to dive bars like this.
When the next performer thrills us with a wildly interpretive rendition of a classic rock song, I remember why we have the scouts stick to venues with the room for full bands. The young man nearly tumbles into the crowd by the stage with his erratic dancing. My face contorts in distaste when he stands with his back to the crowd, arms spread wide as if he is going to attempt to stage dive. Thankfully, club security steps in before anyone can be injured.
Spencer laughs beside me, the sound turning into a squeak that has color spreading across his face. I follow his gaze and notice the tall kid in a varsity jacket standing by the door. This must be Micah. He spots us a few seconds later and gives Spencer a tentative wave. I push him from the seat with a raised brow, silently urging him to go greet his friend.
“Mr. A, this is Micah. My, uh, friend. From school,” Spencer stammers out when they return a few moments later.
Micah extends a hand to me, giving me a firm shake. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. A. Thank you for inviting me out tonight.”
“Nice to meet you too. Have a seat. Would you like me to order you a soda or water?”
The two talk quietly, lost in their own world as I sip my drink. Sharp pain in my abdomen has sweat beading down the side of my face. The last thing I need is food poisoning or a stomach virus.
I barely make it through Spencer’s performance., the pain amplifying with each moment that passes. Fearing I may pass out, I press my glass against my temple. The cool feeling helps temper the pain enough for me to push to my feet. “Micah, did you drive?”
