Aced (The Driven #5) (21 page)

“Just when I thought I couldn’t have made your toes look any worse, I did.”

I look up from the sheet to see the love, amusement, and satisfaction in his eyes and I smile. “Hmm. Good. That means we’ll have to do some of this all over again.”

“Just some of it?” he asks, eyes narrowed. When I nod my head, my favorite dimple appears alongside his playful smirk. “Which part might that be?”

“The find-our-own-kind-of-normal part.”

“Just that part?” he asks, head angled to the side. His dick still glistens with our arousal as he grabs the towel used for my toes earlier and helps clean me up.

“The sex part. Definitely the sex part,” I say with a more-than-satisfied smile. He leans forward and seals the comment with a kiss.

“Definitely the sex part,” he agrees.

“R
y, coverage just started,” Haddie yells from the family room. My nerves start to rattle as I waddle my way out from the kitchen. I’m not feeling too great today so at least I have a reason to be off my feet and not feel guilty about it.

Besides, this race will be the first one I haven’t attended since we’ve been married, and it’s killing me not to be there. But between how far along I am in my pregnancy and the buzz still out there over the video, the last thing I wanted was to make a public appearance on national television where I could be caught off guard and asked anything by anyone.

Two weeks out from the video’s release and the frenzy has only died down a fraction. All outings are still limited and heavily guarded.

Can’t some socialite do something stupid to gain attention to help me out?

“Do you have the scanner?” Haddie pours herself a glass of wine that calls to my cravings on every single level, but I avert my gaze to the bowl of Hershey Kisses she put on the table for me. Gotta love having a best friend who knows all your quirks.

“No. I think you left it in the office,” she says. I motion for her to stay seated, and that I’ll get the scanner that allows us to listen to Colton and Becks’s radio interaction while he’s on the track.

I grab the radio sitting beside my cell and just as I pick it up, my phone rings. The House’s number flashes on the screen and happiness surges through me because the calls have been way too far and few between the boys and me since I’ve had to take my leave of absence. And of course I’ve battled feeling like I’m not needed in their lives since when we do talk, our conversations are filled with generic niceties from boys who’d much rather be playing outside or on the PlayStation.

And I won’t lie that it stings a little. Not being the one they go to. Who am I kidding? It stings a whole helluva lot.

So when I see the familiar phone number I grab it and answer immediately, the connection I crave with the other part of my life just within reach.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Rylee.”

“Hey, Zander. How’s it go—what’s wrong?” I’m so thrilled to hear from him that it takes me a second to hear the tinge of distress in his voice.

“I . . .” he begins and stops, his sigh heavy through the connection.

“What, buddy? I’m here. Talk to me.” Concern washes over me as I listen as closely as I can to hear whatever it is he’s not saying.

“I’m going to get in trouble for telling you but I know you’ll make it better,” he says in a rush of words that has so many parts of me startle to attention.

“What do you mean?” I ask but don’t have to because it all clicks into place the second the last word is out. The basic conversations, the sense the boys don’t want to talk to me, the constant run around when I ask anything too detailed about their cases. Someone has told them they’re not supposed to give me any information. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own warped world that I’ve taken everything at face value, taken it all personally, and didn’t delve deeper to see behind the mask of vagueness.

How stupid could I be?

The knife of absolute disbelief twists deeply between my shoulder blades as various emotions flame to life. I focus on the most important: Zander is upset and I need to help him. I can seethe later, call Teddy and express my displeasure after, but right now one of my boys needs me when I didn’t think they needed me anymore.

“Never mind,” I correct myself, not wanting to put him in a position he should never be in and get to what matters. “Tell me what you need, Zand.”

“These people . . . they want to foster me,” he says in the slightest of whispers with a tremor to his voice.

And the selfish part of me immediately wants to yell
no
, reject the idea, because Zander is mine in a sense, and yet at the same time this is exactly what I’m supposed to hope for. So I’m left in that catch-all of being way too attached to a little boy that came to me damaged and broken and is now turning into a damn fine young man.

“That’s good news,” I say, infusing enthusiasm into my voice when I don’t feel it whatsoever.

“No, it’s not.”

“I know it’s scary—”

“It’s my uncle.” All encouragement is eradicated as memories of way back when flicker to the surface. His case file comes to the forefront of my mind, and I contemplate Zander’s only remaining family member.

How is this possible? My mind reels with this new piece of the puzzle, my abdomen clenching in a Braxton Hicks contraction that knocks the air out of my lungs momentarily. But I try to focus on Zander and not the flash of pain.

I stutter, trying to find the appropriate response and cringe because I don’t have one other than to say
no way in hell
and that’s not exactly something I can promise him. “Tell me what’s happening,” I say, needing to get a clearer picture of everything I’ve been shut out from.

“He . . . he saw my picture with yours in a magazine and on the news.” My whole world drops out because
that
means I’m the cause of this. My job is to protect my boys, not hurt them, and that goddamn video has done just that. A picture of Zander and me taken at some event was in a national publication and now someone wants to claim him.

Or use him.

I swallow down the bile threatening to rise as my stomach twists in the knots it deserves to be tied in.

“Jax told me they—”

“Who are
they
?” I ask immediately as I pace the office and try to push away the last image in my mind of the uncle. The one I have of the man so strung out he couldn’t even make it to his sister’s funeral: track marks on his arms, greasy hair, dirt under his fingernails, and uncontrollable fidgeting as he tried to claim Zander for one and only one reason—the monthly subsidy for fostering a child. While it may not be much, it’s still a treasure trove to a junkie. Because let’s face it, the communal druggie house in the ghetto’s Willow Court is the perfect place to take a traumatized seven-year-old boy and nurture him back to his new normal.
Not
.

My skin crawls, knowing he would even have the gall to come forward again and yet here we are, six years later, and Zander’s new normal is having the foundation shaken out from beneath his feet.

“I guess he’s married now and they saw a picture of me in People Magazine and decided they want to foster me because I’m the only family they have.” His comment is followed by an incomprehensible sound that tugs at my heartstrings. I know he has to be freaked out, ready to run and at the same time too scared to stay. “My caseworker called Jax, told him they’re going to give them some supervised visits to see how it goes.” And even though he doesn’t say it, I can hear the plea in his voice to help him and not make him go.

“I’ll make some calls. See what’s going on, okay?” I try to sound hopeful, but fear I have no control over what the machine does. All I can do is assert my one, hopefully still powerful and relevant, voice since I was his caretaker for longer than anyone.

“Please, Rylee. I can’t . . .” The damaged little boy’s voice rings through loud and clear, a sound I thought I was never going to have to hear again. One I worked so hard to overcome and get rid of.

“I know,” I tell him as tears burn in the back of my throat. “I know.”

“I couldn’t not tell you,” he says, and I smile at the double negative he’s fond of using. It’s comforting in an odd sense.

“You did the right thing. Now go watch the race, try not to worry about it, and I’ll see what I can do on my end, okay?”

“I’m scared.”

And there they are. Two simple words that weasel their way into my heart and create fissures.

“Don’t let them take me.”

“I will do everything in my power to stop them,” I say. Just what that is, I’m not sure yet besides raising hell. “I promise. I soccer you, Z,” I add to reinforce his place in my life and heart.

“Yeah. Me too.” And the phone clicks without him saying what he always says back to me.

I stare out the window and fear this may be one promise I might not be able to uphold. Visions fill my head of the first time Zander came to me—a broken boy, lost and afraid. Of the sleepless nights I spent beside his bed, building his trust, creating that bond, and now in one fell swoop I’ve let him down by not being there when he needs me.

And yet someone, somewhere, has handcuffed me so I
couldn’t
know.

I tap my cell against my chin, my mind lost in thought as I try to figure out why after all this time his uncle would actually step forward and why social services would even entertain the idea. Because there are just too many kids, not enough caseworkers, and when the unwanted become wanted, it’s so damn easy to dust your hands of one and get them off your caseload.

I hate my bitterness. Know that not all caseworkers are this way but right now I have the voice of a scared boy ringing in my ears and doubt niggling in my psyche.

Dialing, I shove away the doubt whether I should call Teddy or not. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it before and hate that I am now. Corporations and their board of directors and all of the bullshit can kiss my ass right now.

They are to blame for this. Forcing me to take a leave of absence. Handcuffing me so I can’t take care of one of my boys. Letting Zander down when he needs me the most.

Anger riots within me. I’m primed for a fight when Teddy answers the phone.

“Rylee,” he greets me, just as I start to worry my wedding ring around on my finger.

“Teddy. I know it’s a Sunday but—”

“Colton’s racing, right? Is everything okay?” he asks immediately, concern lacing his tone.

“Colton’s fine,” I state coldly, not wanting to warm to him because he’s worried about Colton. I squeeze my eyes shut, pinch the bridge of my nose, and hold on to the disbelief that he’s been keeping this from me. And I know it sounds stupid, but all of a sudden, my disoriented emotions latch on to the fact someone has ordered I be kept in the dark about Zander. And that someone is most likely Teddy. “Did you think it wasn’t important to tell me what’s going on with Zander?”

Silence fills the line. I visualize him picking his jaw up off the ground. Insubordinate Rylee is rare and yet he shouldn’t doubt I’d go there instantly when it comes to my boys.

“Rylee.” My name again said with detached frustration.

“After working for you for twelve years, you didn’t think I was important enough to let know that—”

“I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” I all but yell into the phone, temper boiling, and body trembling with disbelieving anger. “How about you do your job and start protecting those who matter the most? The boys? Zander?”

“I was,” he says, his voice barely audible. “If I’d told you without all the information, you’d act in haste, rush to The House before all facts are straight . . . and then that leave of absence would be permanent, Rylee. And that would not only hurt you, but the boys too. You are their number-one advocate, their fighting force, and so I was protecting Zander by not telling you. If you get fired, you’re not going to be there when he needs you the most.”

His words knock the whipping winds from my otherwise stalwart sails. They should shock me from my funk but almost plummet me further into it because it makes me realize how much I miss my boys, and how lost I feel right now without being able to champion for them even when I know it’s best all around with the baby coming sooner rather than later.