One Wild Night (2 page)

I scoop Emmie up before she can get trampled
and lean in to give Isaac a hug.

“Hey there.” He squishes Emmie and me
against a soft brown tee shirt that smells pleasantly of wood-fired
pizza oven, pine-scented air freshener, and best friend. “How you
holding up?”

“Pretty good,” I say, melting into the
hug.

Isaac’s always been a big guy—he played
football when we were in high school and at Limestone College until
he quit to run the family pizza joint after his dad’s stroke—but
since he started working at
Frank’s Pies
, he’s acquired a
tummy to go with the muscles. His girlfriend, Heather, teases him
about it, but I kind of like the pudge. There’s something
comforting about hugging a guy who feels like a giant, cuddly bear,
but is also capable of ripping a bad guy’s head off with his bare
hands.

“Pretty good, you think you’ve got the
problem licked?” Isaac asks as he pulls away to set the pizza boxes
balanced in his free hand on the crumb-covered table. “Or pretty
good, you’ve only had seven antacids today instead of twelve?”

I wrinkle my nose, but am spared from
answering when Danny skids to a stop beside me and dives for the
pizza.

“Hold on a second! Let me get plates and
napkins.” I hurry into the kitchen, grabbing plates and the roll of
paper towels and sliding them across the island to Isaac, who deals
out place settings like a round of cards.

Emmie, still balanced on my hip, starts to
squirm—obviously ready to join the big boys at the table—so I hurry
over to the sink.

“Let’s get your hands clean, doodle.” I
shift her around, balancing her between my body and the sink so our
hands can tangle together beneath the cool stream of water.

I focus on her pudgy little fingers,
wondering how I’m going to hold up without seeing them every day.
Raising a baby and my younger brothers on my own for most of the
past two and a half years has been so difficult and time-consuming
there hasn’t been much time to think.

No time to think about how they feel like
my
kids now, not Dad’s or Mom’s or—God forbid—my piece of
shit sister’s. No time to think about how much a part of me they
are, how my world revolves around them, or how much I would miss
the chaos and the laughter and the crazy and even the hard stuff if
it were all to suddenly vanish.

This family has cost me my fair share of
blood, sweat, and tears, but they are mine and I love them. I need
them. So fucking much.

“I think her hands are clean.” The words
come from over my shoulder, so close it feels like they’re echoing
inside my skull.

I jump and turn to see Isaac standing behind
me, arms held out. It’s only then that I realize Emmie’s squirming
has become fussing—or as close as she ever gets to fussing.

Emmie’s always been quiet and small. Slow to
walk, slower to talk, and always lagging in the pitiful percentiles
on the charts the doctor fills out on her well-baby visits. But I
don’t pay attention to the pity in Dr. Naper’s eyes when he talks
about her developmental delays. Emmie is no dummy. I see her smarts
in the clear blue eyes that look up at me when I scoop her up out
of bed every morning. One day she’s going to start talking a blue
streak and make every doctor who ever threw around words like
“fetal alcohol syndrome” eat their words. I believe that—believe in
her—with my entire heart.

“No foster parent is going to know her like
I do,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes as I hand Emmie over to
Isaac. “They won’t fight for her, like I had to fight for Ray when
that bitch, Mrs. Porter, wanted to flunk him after Mom left.”

Isaac’s forehead wrinkles, making him look
like a sad puppy. “Let me get Emmie in her high chair,” he says
softly. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I nod, rubbing the tears from my eyes with
the backs of my fists, ashamed of myself. I don’t cry. I don’t have
time, especially not now. I need to focus on pulling a solution out
of my ass, not waste time whining about shit that hasn’t even
happened yet.

By the time Isaac comes back into the
kitchen with two slices of pepperoni on a plate, my boo-hooing is
over, replaced by the more familiar waves of acid lapping at the
back of my throat. When he tries to hand over the pizza, I shake my
head and hold up one hand. “I have to let the stomach volcano calm
down first.”

Isaac sets the plate on the counter where,
moments before, I was playing Jenga with the bills. “That bad,
huh?”

I nod, biting my lip, refusing to get
emotional again. It’s not going to do anyone any good, least of all
the kids. “I’ve been over everything a hundred times. I just don’t
see how we can swing it.”

“Well…” Isaac lets out a soft sigh as he
leans against the counter beside me. “I’ve been thinking… I could
give up my apartment and move back in with my parents. That would
put me in a position to give you a loan.”

I shake my head more emphatically. “No way.
I won’t let you do that. You and Ian would kill each other.”

Ian, Isaac’s little brother, is as big a
waste of flesh as my sister. Ian did time for sexual assault—a rape
he swore he didn’t commit, but no one who knew him was surprised
when he was found guilty. He’s been crashing with his parents since
he got out of jail, sitting on his ass for the better part of ten
months, whining about how hard it is for a felon to get a job.
Meanwhile, Isaac gave up getting his business degree to take over
the pizza place, while Ian—who could have worked at his dad’s
restaurant, it’s not like it was within two thousand feet of an
elementary school or something—said he didn’t have it in him to
sweat over an oven after spending a year cooking for the other
inmates at the state prison. And, incredibly, their mom humors the
asshole, babying Ian while she leans on Isaac so hard it’s a
miracle he hasn’t cracked under the pressure.

No, Isaac has enough on his plate. I can’t
let him take the kind of hit moving back in with his parents would
deliver, not even for the kids.

“We wouldn’t kill each other,” Isaac says.
“I might pound him into a bloody smear on the wall now and then,
but…he’d survive. Most likely.”

I smile. “And if he didn’t, you’d go to
prison, and then whose couch would I crash on when I’m
homeless?”

The humor vanishes from Isaac’s expression.
“You’re not going to be homeless. We’re going to figure this out,
Caitlin.”

“How?” I ask, pressing my lips together as I
shake my head. “I can’t let this shit drag anyone else down but…I
can’t see a way out. We’re drowning, and I can’t find a life boat,
no matter where I look.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Isaac says, cupping
my face in his big hand, a gesture I know is meant to be
comforting, but only makes me more aware of how small I am. I’m
five feet three inches, in heels, and Dad always says I look like
I’d blow away in a strong wind. I’m small, scrawny, and I’ve been
fooling myself thinking I can hold everything together. The only
thing to do now is to start preparing for the worst…or get so drunk
I forget about all the problems for a night.

Getting wasted isn’t usually my
style—between my alcoholic mom and dad and druggie sister, I’ve
seen enough substance abuse to know better—but right now a shot of
whiskey is sounding pretty damned good. And hell, it
is
my
twentieth birthday, and I’ve got a fake ID burning a hole in my
purse. I’m practically obligated to get wasted.

I sniff and pull away from Isaac with a hard
grin. “Grab me a couple of antacids from the top shelf, will ya? I
need to get some food in my stomach before I get to the club.”

“Good plan,” Isaac says, letting the heavy
stuff drop the way he always does.

It’s one of the reasons he’s still my friend
when so many others have come and gone. Isaac knows when to leave
things alone, when to turn a blind eye to my father passed out on
the floor by the back door or ignore the fact that Emmie’s running
around the house with a bare bottom because we ran out of diapers.
He knows when to offer advice, and when to just be there, making me
feel less alone.

“Thanks for watching the kids so Sherry and
I can go out,” I say, chomping the antacids he drops into my palm
and washing away the chalk taste with a gulp of Coke that sets my
teeth fizzing.

“My pleasure.” Isaac hands me the plate of
pizza and watches with a smile as I inhale half a slice in three
bites.

“And have fun tonight, okay?” he says. “All
the shit will still be here in the morning.”

“Don’t I know it,” I say wryly, shifting to
check on the kids as I finish my first slice of pepperoni.
Miraculously, no fights have broken out in the ten minutes I’ve
dropped my guard. Thank God for pizza and plenty of it.

“I meant you should have a good time,” Isaac
says, chucking me on the shoulder. “You deserve a break. Have a few
too many; stay out until the sun comes up. I’ll make sure the kids
are in bed by ten and don’t burn the house down.”

“And teeth need to be brushed,” I say around
a mouthful of pizza. “Especially Sean. He’s been pulling that ‘wet
the toothbrush and stick it back in the cup without brushing’ thing
lately.”

Isaac gives me a thumbs up.

“And make sure Emmie goes potty last thing
before bed,” I continue. “She’s less likely to have an accident
that way.”

“Got it.” Isaac nods.

“And don’t let Danny play anything violent
while the little ones are downstairs,” I say, finishing my second
slice and wiping my hands on the ratty dishtowel hanging by the
oven. “Those zombie games give Sean and Emmie both nightmares. Sean
says they don’t, but he’s lying. And don’t let Ray take another
bath. He’s used up enough hot water for one day, but make sure
Danny and Sean—”

I’m interrupted by a hard knock on the front
door. Seconds later Sherry slams into the house with a whoop.

“What’s up, people!” she calls out as she
breezes through the living room.

She’s wearing as few clothes as
possible—black hot pants and a red halter top, paired with heels
that look sharp enough to be used as a murder weapon—and her curly
red hair is teased into a sexy mess that makes it clear she’s
prepared to party.

“Ready to jet, Cait?” she asks, wiggling her
fingers at Isaac.

“Yes, she is.” Isaac turns me around by the
shoulders and walks me into the living room. “Get her out of here
before she starts making lists.”

I turn back to him, hands on my hips. “Do I
need to make a list?”

“No!” Isaac and Sherry say at the same
time.

“Isaac’s got this. Let’s go.” Sherry grabs
my hand and tows me toward the door. “We can get in free to
Elevation
if we get there before nine o’clock.”

“In bed by ten, y’all,” I call out to the
kids as I grab my purse from the hook near the door. “And don’t
give Isaac any crap.”

“Have fun!” Ray calls out.

“Happy Birthday, sissy, I love you,” Sean
says, earning my forgiveness for being a toothbrush-avoiding
turd.

“Don’t get pregnant,” Danny adds, followed
by a sharp, “Hey!” when Isaac thunks him on the back of the
head.

“Have fun, ladies!” Isaac calls out,
grinning as Danny tackles him and they both go rolling onto the
carpet. By the time Sherry and I escape out the front door, Sean
has launched himself onto the pig pile and all three of them are
laughing like idiots.

I know the roughhousing will end in tears—it
always does—but I resist the urge to head back into the house and
put an end to the madness.

As of now, I’m officially off duty. For the
next few hours, I’m not Caitlin the loyal daughter, Caitlin the
responsible sister, or Caitlin the dutiful aunt. Tonight I’m going
to be the Caitlin who knows how to let her hair down, who can dance
all night and still have enough energy to hit the diner before
sunrise. I’m ready to cut loose and have some fun before focusing
my entire being on finding a way to keep things from going to rot
and ruin.

I have no clue that this will be the night
that changes everything, the night
he
sweeps into my life
like a summer storm, washing away all those years of hard work and
good intentions, making me someone different than I was before.

CHAPTER TWO

Gabe

“
If music be the food of love, play
on.”
–Shakespeare

The brunette next to me in the black leather
booth overlooking the dance floor is going on and on about how much
she enjoys volunteering at the battered women’s shelter my mother
and her DAR cronies fund as their pet project.

Shannon Griffon sits with her shapely,
tanned legs demurely crossed, her curve-hugging—yet tasteful—beige
dress tugged down to her knees. She extols the virtues of the brave
women and adorable children who take refuge at the shelter in words
as eloquent as her clothing, each sentence out of her mouth more
heartwarming than the last, but all I keep thinking is that this is
an hour of my life I’ll never get back again.

An entire, precious hour wasted making small
talk with a sweet, doe-eyed girl my mother insisted I take out for
drinks, when I could be down on the dance floor with a woman who
might actually be up for having a good time later tonight.

“Don’t you think that’s so important?”
Shannon asks, raising her voice to be heard over the pulsing club
beat. “I mean, I don’t know what I’d do without a space of my own.
I think every human being deserves that.”

I nod lazily—hoping she’ll wind down and
I’ll be able to make my excuses and head for the exit—but
apparently even that small sign of interest is enough to convince
Shannon I’m engaged. She launches into another monologue that I’m
certain is sincere, not simply an attempt to impress her boss’s
son, but I don’t care. I don’t care that Shannon and I share a
passion for righting societal wrongs. I don’t care that Shannon is
a perfectly nice person. I don’t care that she has a good heart and
a hot body and would probably make someone a great girlfriend.