Collateral Damage (28 page)

I see myself.

Blake shrugs Brandon away as Vince returns with Tony. "Everything okay?" Vince asks.

"It's fine," I assure him.

"Blake?" Tony asks.

"We're done here, anyway," he replies, backing away.

"Great party, Vince!" Brandon calls. They head toward the house.

"I've never seen you this worked up before, Whalen," Vince says.

"The guy's a prick."

"For a second I thought you was gonna jump his ass," Dave says.

"Nah. He's not worth it."

Vince claps a hand against my shoulder. "Come talk to me. Go make rounds," he tells the others. "We'll catch up."

Gianni and Dave slink away.

"You didn't get that bike with birthday money," Vince says, crossing his arms.

I shrug.

"Come on, man. You can tell me."

"I don't know you."

"Maybe not, but you know guys like me, and I know guys like you. You're no stranger to this world, Whalen. You've done this before. It's obvious."

"How?"

"You have a low bullshit tolerance and can spot an asshole a mile away. You ever been caught?"

I shake my head. "No."

"I could use another guy on my side, is all I'm saying. You seem cool. You've got connections? You want some extra cash, give me a call. In the meantime, whatever you need—I'm yours. Got it?"

*
    
*
  
  
*

It's nearing three in the morning when I finally stumble into my apartment and flip on the light. I toss my helmet onto the couch, the keys to the coffee table. I lift my shirt over my head.

My chest is dotted with red splotches, the edges fan outward, shifting to purple. Gray. The one on my arm is the worst—the skin broken, torn.

Erik is an asshole.

Blake is an asshole.

I'm
an asshole.

My stomach twists, my body tweaking for another cigarette. I grab my leather jacket from the counter, shove a hand in every pocket. Check my jeans.

Nothing. The package is gone.

Part of me is relieved.

I can't start that shit up again.

I exhale a breath and head to the kitchen. I grab a bottled water from the fridge and stick a TV dinner in the microwave. I stand there, drinking, watching the food spin on the turntable. Around and around and around. When it finally beeps, I take it out and dump it on a plate.

I collapse on the couch.

I did it.

I got everything I needed and more.

I should be stoked. Principal Howell will be stoked. Chief Anderson will be stoked.

But this—all of it—hardly matters.

What am I going to tell Jaden?

Maybe I don't have to tell her anything. Maybe she already knows. Maybe she knows her boyfriend hangs with Vince De Luca in Trenton every weekend.

No. She can't know. There's no way she'd put up with that shit.

Wouldn't she, though? She already puts up with her dad. Her brother. She already freaking puts the whole damn world ahead of herself.

I have to tell her. If Blake hasn't said something by now, if she hasn't heard.... She deserves to know.

My jaw smarts, teeth clenching.

She said he was perfect.

Fucking
perfect
.

He
should've
been perfect for her. He has fucking everything.

I swallow back a laugh.

I wish I never went to that party. I wish I never saw him there.

My arm swings instinctively, driving my helmet off the couch. It bounces across the floor and cracks against the wall.

I
would've been perfect for her.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

I keep my distance. I don't look for her. I don't think about her. I take the lunch she's prepared every morning, nodding a thanks. But I don't talk to her. I can't. The first time I open my mouth I'll spill everything.

Hanson hasn't said a word. He continues on, pretending nothing happened. I catch him hanging by her locker, find him walking her to class. I watch him kiss her goodbye at her car, and it takes all of my strength—all of my self-control—not to walk over and deck him.

She deserves to know.

Conversations with Callie are punctuated by the thought. My dreams, when I sleep, are of me telling her what I saw. Of her breaking up with him.

If she dumps him....

I refuse to let myself think like that. Callie and I.... We're going to dinner with her parents. My parents. Our families. We're getting
married
.

But
if I wasn't with Callie....

I wake up late on Wednesday morning after another night of tossing and turning. I slept through my workout.
Again
. I can't keep doing this. I can't go on like this. It's making me sick. I
have
to tell her.

I shower, dress, head to school.

She'll be there early. She's always one of the first inside the building. I'll meet her at her car. We'll talk before school starts. Maybe she knows. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe she won't care. Either way, I won't have to hold on to this burden—to keep this secret anymore.

This is one lie I don't have to tell.

I park along the back row, searching for signs of Jaden. Nothing. I watch the line of traffic streaming into the driveway—each car that pulls into a space.

She can't not be here.

She never misses school.

She's never late.

Time slows. The parking lot fills.

I'm a second away from tracking down her number and calling when I spot her. She whips her car into one of the first spaces available, climbs out, tosses her bag over her shoulder—rushed, hurried.

I make my way toward her, desperate to catch her before she reaches the building. "Jade!"

She marches on.

"Jade!"

What the hell? Why is she ignoring me?

I pick up my pace, jogging across the lot. "Jaden, wait!"

Still, she doesn't stop.

What is going on with her?

I'm not even the person she should be running from! It's her loser boyfriend she should be worried about—not me. And now what? She's too good to be seen in public with me? "God! What is
wrong
with you?"

I grab her arm, turn her to face me. "Jaden!"

One look at her, though, and the anger burning inside dissolves. She's been crying. She's crying now. Her eyes, usually bright and clear, are red around the edges. And the sight of them sends this shockwave racing up my spine.

Something's wrong.

"What
happened
?" I demand to know.

When she blinks, tears spill onto her cheeks. She swipes them away with her thumbs, but it's futile. The more she swipes the faster they fall. She takes a ragged breath, emits a strangled sob. My chest tightens at the sound. Every second that passes leaves me reeling—imagining the worst. It's her family. Her mom. Her brothers. Something's wrong with her nephew. It's Blake. Someone said something—did something—to hurt her.

I swear to God if anyone hurt this girl....

I stagger against an inexplicable, murderous fury—this sudden, violent need I have to protect this girl. I frame her face with my hands, forcing her to look at me, overwhelmed by the very real possibility that I will
kill
something if she doesn't start talking.

"What happened? You
have
to tell me."

"I...I d-didn't get in," she stammers, choking on words.

She didn't get in?

It doesn't immediately register—this news. I study her eyes, flicking from one to the other and back again, trying to understand, before it finally hits me.

Harvard.

The letter came.

A rejection.

Her entire world—shattered.

My lungs shrink, all the air escaping at once. I release her face, but she leans into me, rests her head against my chest as a cool, morning breeze sweeps past.

"Shit." I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her body against mine, breathing traces of shampoo and perfume and flowers and everything that is Jaden. "I am
so
sorry," I whisper.

"I'm such a hack. No one is gonna take me seriously ever again."

As amazing as it feels—our warm bodies pressed together—I pull us apart, gaze into those glistening eyes, something in my throat burning as I watch her suffer. "Just because you didn't get into your choice college, that doesn't make you a hack. I mean, I know it can't feel good..."

"What am I gonna tell everyone?" she interrupts, wiping the edge of her nose across the cuff of her jacket sleeve.

"The truth. They aren't going to think any less of you."

"I—I can't." She glances toward the building, at the people passing. "I can't go in there."

A familiar knot twists my stomach. I know all about wanting—about
needing
—to get away.

She can't go in there.

And I know, in this moment, everything is changing.

I search her eyes. "Are you saying you want to get out of here?" I ask, unsure.

She nods. "Yes."

"Then give me your keys."

"What?"

"Hand them to me."

They jingle softly as she passes them. I take her hand in mine, intertwining our fingers, and pull her across the parking lot. We move quickly, weaving between cars, not stopping until we reach the little white Civic that will become our getaway.

"You know you could get in trouble for this, right?" I ask, chest heaving. She has to know what she's doing—what she's getting herself into.