Authors: K. Bromberg

Aced (The Driven #5) (28 page)

His eyes flash up to meet mine, and I see something flicker in them but wait him out, knowing that patience is so very important right now. I reach out and put his hand in mine, needing to ease some of the loneliness I can feel emanating from him.

He opens his mouth and then closes it a few times before finally speaking, his voice a whisper. “I’m scared.”

Two words.
I’m scared.
They’re all it takes to make me close my eyes and take a deep breath, because in that moment, I’m reminded of Colton’s confessions a few nights ago. I realize that no matter how old they are, the fear will always be there. It will morph and change over time, but the invisible scars of their youth have left an indelible mark and will always have a profound effect on how they process emotion and deal with changes.

“I’m scared too,” I tell him, causing his eyes to widen and prompt me to explain further. “I’m scared you’re going to pull away and not realize how much I’ll fight to keep you safe and sound.”

“I’m worried that it won’t matter to them, because I’m just a number in a broken system and they’re going to want to tick me off as done,” he confesses, and it amazes me how very intuitive he is with regard to the systematic process we have worked so very hard to shield him from.

“I’m positive you’re so much more than just a number, and in fact are a smart, funny, compassionate teenager as well as an incredible soccer player,” I say, hoping the positive might break through and help the negative. A ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his lips as his eyes hold mine, tears glistening in them that he blinks away.

“I’m . . .” He pauses as he tries to figure out the rest of his thoughts. “I’m sure that my uncle cares more about the monthly payment he’d get for fostering me than he does having a thirteen-year-old boy in his house.” He breathes out long and even. I scour my mind to decide what to tell him next that might help to draw out more of his feelings and get him to talk, so I’m startled when he continues without any prompting.

“I remember his house,” he murmurs. “The cigarette smoke, the bent spoons, lighters, and tin foil on the coffee table next to the needles I was forbidden to touch. The couch that was supposed to be brown, but was almost white on the seams, and stained everywhere else that I could see even when all the shades were drawn. I remember sitting in the corner while my dad and him would slap the inside of their elbows before turning their backs to me . . . and then they’d sit back on the couch with their heads looking at the ceiling and creepy smiles on their faces.” His eyes focus on our hands where I’m rubbing my thumb back and forth over the top of his. And yes, he broke the rules, didn’t start his confession with “I’m”, but he’s talking and that’s ten times more than I ever thought I was going to get when I knelt down beside him.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I try to add strength to my voice so he doesn’t realize how much his words have affected me. “And I’m so very proud of the person you’ve become in spite of all of that.”

His eyes flash up to mine again on those last words, his head shaking back and forth a few times like he wants to reject them as my statement sinks in. “You did two ‘I’ms’,” he says.

“So I did.” I shift, feeling a tight pang as my stomach twists with worry. I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick. I try to take a deep breath and push it down. “You can go again if you want.”

“I’m going to run away if I’m told I have to go live with them.” My mouth shocks open and I immediately start to refute him, but when he shakes his head to tell me I can’t speak. I bite my tongue, which is laced with so many pleas for him to have faith.

“I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure neither of those things happen.” The sadness and resignation returns to his eyes. Tears well in my eyes and my chest constricts. This is one promise I
have to
follow through on.

“I’m certain that…” he says, and then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No. Please tell me,” I urge, because the break in his voice worries me.
Shit.
Another painful twinge. Zander’s eyes are closed and his lips are pulled tight in thought.

After some time he draws in a long, uneven breath, and when somewhere in the house laughter erupts, he opens his eyes to find mine again. “I’m certain that if they’re allowed to foster me, I’ll die.”

And yes, he’s a thirteen-year-old boy and most people would write the statement off as melodramatic, but he’s not one to say something for attention. So as his statement hangs in the air and suffocates us, I struggle with a response so he knows I hear him and haven’t disregarded him. And yet I have no clue what to say because his comment can have so many connotations, and I’m not sure which one he means by it.

“Zander . . .” A sharp pain knocks the rest of the thoughts from my head and has me doubling over instantly. I try to hide the grimace on my face and fight the immediate need to curl up in the fetal position. Another pang hits me, causing my whole body to tense and my fingers to grip the comforter beneath them. I cringe when I feel the wetness between my legs; Full bladder, baby resting upon it, and a tense body is not a good mixture.

Seconds pass as I try to register the pain, and how I’m going to explain to a bunch of boys—who are obsessed with bodily functions—what just happened. Then I realize that the wetness keeps spreading.

Another sharp pain hits, this time drawing a gasp from my mouth. My mind spins as elation mixed with fear vibrates through my body on a crash course of adrenaline-laced hormones.

“Rylee?” Shane is at my side in an instant. Zander shifts to sit up, his face a picture of panic, and his eyes ask Shane for help.
His
face looks just as freaked out.

“My water broke,” I say with a laugh tinged with hysteria.

“
What
?” Shane exclaims, eyes wide with panic. “You can’t be—it’s not—oh shit. What do you need?” He walks to one side of the room and then back unsure what to do as I breathe deeply and slowly push myself up from the ground. And then he stops abruptly, eyes lighting up and mouth shocking open. “This is because I brought you here, isn’t it? The stress. Zander. Holy shit!”

“No.” I shake my head, trying to hide my own fear.

“Yes, it is. You promised,” he shouts, worry controlling his thoughts. “Oh my God. Oh my God!” His hands are in his hair; his feet are walking the floor. “Colton’s going to kill me. Frickin’ kill me.”

“Shane,” I say softly. “Shane!” He stops and turns to look at me. “No. He’s not.”

“It’s too early,” he whispers, eyes wild with fear.

“Go get Sammy.” Oh shit.

It’s too early.

The thought runs through my head, paralyzing me with a mixture of anxiety, fear, and worry, until a sniffle behind me snaps me to the here and now.

The baby’s not full term yet.
In a pregnancy that has left me in a constant state of worry and fear, the thought is downright unnerving.

“I’m okay, Zand,” I say, hoping it’s the truth, fearing it’s not.

I look back to meet eyes welled with tears. “This is my fault,” he whispers.

No. No, that’s not true.

But for the first time in my life, I reach back and put my hand on top of his and don’t say a word to assuage his fears.

Because mine are greater right now.

And when I squeeze his hand, I’m not sure who I’m reassuring more, him or me.

S
WING. WATCH. WALK. SCRATCH YOUR
head and contemplate. Repeat.

Why anyone plays golf on a weekly basis beats the shit out of me. I’m so bored that watching paint dry would be more fucking interesting.

There’s a reason I race for a living. Adrenaline. Speed. Excitement. Too bad I can’t take the golf cart and open that baby up. Lay down some rubber on this boring green. Now
that
would be fun.

But sponsorships call. The dog and pony show must be performed. The ass-kissing must commence.

I slide a glance to Becks standing behind the head of Pennzoil and notice him giving me a lopsided smirk that says, “Quit being such a little bitch.” And he’s right. I need to, but I have so much shit to do and not enough time to do it in. Using my middle finger, I scratch the side of my head and give him the bird on the sly, causing his smirk to widen and his head to shake, obviously enjoying my misery.

The shrill sound of my cell disrupts the silence just as the Pennzoil rep is mid swing. He shanks the ball into the rough and immediately shoots me a glare for committing the cardinal sin of not silencing my cell on the green.

Fuck. Guess I screwed the pooch on that one.

I mumble an apology as Becks walks over to smooth over my error, and I pick up to see what Sammy needs.

“Sammy.”

“It’s time!” Rylee’s voice fills the line. Confused, I hold the phone out so I can look at the screen. Yep. Sam’s number all right.

“Time for . . . WHAT?” I shout, disturbing the silence on the green once again and not giving a fuck because my head is spinning and my heart is pounding.

“The baby,” she whispers, her voice a mixture of so many emotions I can’t place any of them.

“You sure?” I ask like a dumbfuck. Of course she’s sure.

“My water broke.”

Can’t get any more sure than that.
Oh fuck
. This is like real, real. “I’m on my way.”

I start to walk one way off the green and then stop and head the other way, hands shaking, mind reeling, and absolutely clueless about what to do now. The adrenaline I was begging for just moments ago is now coursing through me like jet fuel to the point I can’t focus on anything and yet need to do everything.

“Wood. You okay?” Becks asks, as I look like a goddamn ostrich walking back and forth with my head stuck up my ass.

“I gotta go.” I put my phone in my pocket. Take it out. Grab my club. Put it in my golf bag upside down. Start looking for my glove and can’t find it only to see it’s on my hand.

“Colton.” Becks’s stern voice breaks through the mosh pit of chaos in my head so that I stop pacing aimlessly.

“The baby . . . Ry’s in labor. I gotta go,” I say again as Becks throws his head back and starts laughing.

“Not so calm and collected now, are you?” He chuckles.

If looks could kill he’d be in a body bag right now as I start rifling through my golf bag for my keys before realizing we’re on the back nine and way too fucking far from the country club’s parking lot.

“Chill, dude.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. “I’ll drive you to the clubhouse and then come back and deal with the suits,” he says, reading my crazed actions to know what I’m thinking. “Just promise me you’re stable enough to drive.”

That comment isn’t even worthy of a response.