Rules of a Rebel and a Shy Girl (12 page)

I just wish she’d let it down completely, let me in completely. Stop fighting perfection.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to,” I tell her. “And last night, we both agreed that we should let me do what I want.”

“We never agreed to that.”

“Well, then we should because it sounds like a pretty good agreement.”

She fights back a smile. “For
you
.”

“No way.” I press my hand to my chest. “You totally benefit from this agreement.”

She elevates her brows. “How do you figure?”

I grin. “Because everything that I want to do involves you.”

She grows quiet, looking at me with worry, guilt, and a bit of shame. I hate that she feels ashamed over accepting my help. I hate that she thinks she has to take care of her problems herself. I hate that her mom has fucked with her head.

God, I hate her fucking mother. The only good thing she’s ever done is bring Willow into this world.

“Fine, I’ll go get dressed,” she relents. “And then we can stop at a burger place on our way where
I’ll
buy myself a burger. And I want to give you gas for having to drive out here twice.”

“Sounds good.”
Not
. If she tries to give me money, I’ll sneak it back in her purse when she’s not looking, something I’ve done before.

“I mean it.” She backs away with her finger aimed at me. “One day, I’m going to pay you back for everything you’ve done.”

“Okay.” What I don’t say is that she’s already paid me back by letting me into her life… by always telling me how great I am … by never letting my father’s negativity bring me down … by sticking up for me … by letting me hug her … by lying to get me out of trouble all those times.

By … everything.

After Willow leaves the room, I grab a garbage bag out of a drawer and begin picking up the seemingly endless amount of garbage. I’ve never really cleaned before since I have a maid, something I’m extremely grateful for when I find a used condom and an old pair of underwear wedged between the wall and the fridge.

Fucking, yuck. I really need to convince her to leave this shithole.

Once most of the beer bottles and cigarette butts are cleaned up, I head into the living room to put the furniture upright, but I veer toward the door as someone knocks.

I glance out the peephole to see who it is, and confusion sets in.

“What the hell?” I open the door and step out onto the empty front porch. “I know I heard a knock.” My gaze roves over the cars in the parking lot, a group of people lounging around on rusty patio furniture a few doors down, and then lands on the motel across the street where a Mercedes is parked. It’s the same one I saw last night.

What the hell is going on with that?

“What’re you doing?” Willow’s worried voice sails over my shoulder.

I twist back around and eye her over. She’s changed into a pair of fitted jeans, a tight black shirt that shows off a sliver of skin, and clunky boots that lace up to her knees. Her hair is damp, her skin bare and flawless, and her glossy lips are begging to be licked.

I tear my gaze off her mouth and focus on her eyes. “I thought I heard someone knock, but I guess I’m losing my mind or something because no one was out here.” When her shoulders slump, I immediately grow concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” She ravels a strand of her hair around her finger, nibbling on her bottom lip.

“Clearly, something’s bothering you.” I inch toward her and lightly tap her nose. “Or else you wouldn’t look so worried.”

“You know me too well.” She untangles her hair from her finger. “Right before you showed up, I noticed this person standing across the street, and it looked like they were staring at my house.”

Tension pours through my veins. “Do you know who it was?”

“They had a hoodie over their head, so I couldn’t see what they looked like.” She slants against the doorframe, releasing a stressed exhale. “I’m probably just overreacting … I just get so stressed out when my mom starts partying and doing so many,” she lowers her voice to an embarrassed whisper, “drugs … They make her do a lot of sketchy shit and piss a lot of people off.” Her eyes flash with fear as she swallows hard. “Sometimes, the wrong people.”

“Something’s happened before, hasn’t it?” I ask. “I can tell by the look in your eyes.”

She rubs her finger below her eye as if attempting to erase the look. “There’ve been a couple of times when she’s screwed over some drug dealers, and they’ve come banging on our door, demanding money.”

“What!” I exclaim way too loudly, drawing attention from the neighbors. Fuck them. This isn’t about them. This is about Willow putting herself in danger by being here. “Why haven’t you told me about this?”

She becomes deeply engrossed with inspecting her fingernails. “Because I knew you’d worry, and I don’t like worrying you … This isn’t even your problem. You shouldn’t have to be here, cleaning up my house and being a taxi for me … You don’t even get anything in return.” She lowers her hand to her side, but keeps her gaze glued to the ground. “It’s not right. And I really need to stop relying on you so much.”

I fix my finger under her chin and angle her head up. “First of all, I do all these things because I
want
to, because you’re my best friend. Not because I have to. And second, I do get something out of it.”

Her brows knit, again proving how clueless she can be sometimes. “What do you get?”

“
You
,” I say boldly. Before she can react, I say, “And as your best friend, I can’t let you stay here anymore. Not when I found out you’ve got pissed off drug dealers coming around. It’s not safe, Wills.”

“Nothing in my life is safe anymore,” she mumbles, staring down at her feet.

“Then it’s time to fix that. Move in with me.”

Her eyes pop wide open, and she swiftly shakes her head “I can’t do that … It’s too much.”

“For me or you?”

“For … for both of us.”

“Don’t include me in the us, because I’m perfectly fine with the idea. In fact, I like it a lot.”

“You say that now,” she mutters, “but you’d get sick of me eventually.”

“That’s not true, and I think you know it,” I say, softening my tone. “I think there’s another reason, one you’re not telling me.”

“I just don’t want to be a charity case.” Her voice cracks.

“You’re not a charity case. You’re my friend … a friend who needs to get the fuck away from a life that’s dragging her down.”

“Moving into your house isn’t going to save me from that.”

“It’s a start.”

She smashes her lips together, peering up at me with her sad eyes. I can tell she wants to agree to move in with me, but beneath the want is fear.

What’re you so afraid of? Moving out? Me? Or is it someone else?

“Will you just promise me you’ll think about it?” I ask in a pleading tone. “Even if you don’t move in with me … Maybe you could move in with Wynter.”

She considers this, biting on her fingernail. “Maybe I could do that … She did say she might need a roommate …” Her shoulders unwind a smidgen, and my heart dies a little.

So, it’s me.

“I don’t think I could afford half of her rent, though,” she adds. “Not when I’m paying rent on this place.”

I gape at her. “Then stop paying rent on this fucking place. It’s not your job to pay for your mom’s apartment.”

“Yes, it is.” Guilt fills her eyes. “If I don’t, then my mom will end up on the streets.”

I mold my palm to her cheek and wipe the tears away with my thumb. “I know you may not want to hear this, but that might be a good thing. Helping her out … It’s enabling her.”

She sniffles then surprises me as a faint laugh slips from her lips. “Where the hell did you learn that?”

“A psychology class,” I admit. “It was briefly covered when we discussed drug addiction. I’ve heard it enough that I know it’s true.”

“It is,” she says. When I give her a questioning look, she adds, “I had to talk to a therapist a couple of times after I had that meltdown during our senior year.” She winces at the memory of the time she broke down in English class because she got a B on an assignment.

The panic attack wasn’t really about the grade, though. She’d been barely sleeping, overworking herself with two jobs, studying, filling out college applications, and taking care of her mom. No one else knew that about her, and they started mocking her for freaking out over a grade. A good grade, at that. I knew, though. I knew everything, and I hate that I did because I felt so helpless.

“But, anyway.” She shifts her weight. “I let some of the details about my home life slip out, particularly the details about my mom doing drugs and me taking care of her, and the therapist said that sometimes, helping a drug addict by giving them money or paying their bills actually does more harm than good.”

“Then you should definitely move out, right?”
Please, for the love of God, just say yes.

“I don’t know if I can … just leave her like that. I mean, what happens if she gets really drunk one night and no one is here to take her to the hospital to get her stomach pumped?”

I rack my brain for a persuasive enough answer. “Maybe you could come check on her every day. You could drive out here before or after work.”

Her skin pales. “Yeah … maybe …”

“You could borrow my car, too.” Disregarding her frown, I add, “It’d be safer that way, which is kind of the point of getting you out of here.”

She thrums her fingers against the side of her legs. “Maybe I could borrow Wynter’s car or take the bus.”

My jaw clenches. “Why are you okay with borrowing Wynter’s car, but not mine?”

“I’m not okay with borrowing anything, but with Wynter …”—her gaze collides with mine, and an ocean of fear pours from her eyes—“it’s just less complicated.”

My heart stings a bit, and I massage my chest. “Wynter is anything but uncomplicated,” I tell her, trying not to sound like a wounded pussy, yet I do just a little bit. “But if that’s what it’ll take to get you out of the house, then okay.”

She nods, but I’m not letting out my breath yet. No, I won’t breathe freely again until she’s far, far away from her mother and a life that’s never been good enough for her.

The revising of the list….

Chapter Nine

Willow

The next few days are a routine of driving to work, returning to a bare house, and hours of studying. Work. Study. Alone. Work. Study. Alone. The pattern is starting to drive me insane. I can’t relax, either, not when bills are piling up, and I’m drowning in a stack of assignments up to my elbows. I also haven’t figured out where my mom took off to, which makes me extremely nervous since she was in a terrible condition the last time I saw her. Plus, the person I saw across the street has me on edge.

While no one has flat-out knocked on the door and demanded money, I did notice someone lurking around my car last night. I don’t know what their deal is or if it’s the same person or not, but I feel like I’m playing a waiting game and will eventually lose.

I really need to talk to my mom and find out if she owes someone money.

I’ve searched the local bars and clubs for her and tracked down some of her friends, who aren’t the most reliable sources. The only real lead I have is from a bar owner who informed me that my mom was there Monday night, flirting with a guy, and the two of them were chatting about driving to Vegas to elope. So now, not only do I have to worry about my mom going on a bender, but she may have gone on a bender with her new hubby, whom I’ve never met before.

Needless to say, by the time Friday night rolls around, I could really use a break from a sucky little thing called the stress of life.

Beck has been bugging me to hit up his party, and while I’m not much of a partier, I decide to go and attempt to let my hair down for a few hours.

At work, I count down the hours until I’m off while trying to decide what to wear since Beck insisted that the party was definitely a strict black-dress dress code. I cracked a joke when he reminded me of that, telling him I was excited to see what dress he was going to wear. Beck, being the goofball that he is, replied with a, “Just you wait. It’s really sexy. Probably even sexier than yours.” I laughed, already feeling better and growing even more eager to get away from the soul-draining apartment.

My eagerness takes a nosedive when Van, my thirty-year-old manager, informs me that we need to talk.

“Come back into my office for a second, Willow,” he tells me as I’m passing by the bar, carrying an empty tray. He’s behind the bar with his long-sleeved shirt rolled up, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and a contemplative look on his face.

“Okay.” I set the tray down on the countertop, wrestling back my anxiety.

I’m sure it’s nothing. You haven’t done anything wrong.

Part of me wishes I’ve messed up, that he’ll fire me or force me to quit. But it’s the only job I’ve been able to get over the last six months that can pay all the bills, my tuition, and support my mom.

I follow Van past the stage, the neon pink lights flickering as the song switches and a set of new dancers enter. A group of guys catcall and make obscene gestures while waving money in the air. The girls onstage don’t seem too bothered. Me? My stomach constricts to the point that I feel sick. In fact, for the last month of working here, I’ve had a constant stomachache, either from the environment or from my guilt.

When Van and I reach the back hallway, he motions for me to follow him into his office. Then he closes the door.

“Have a seat,” he says, plopping down into the chair behind his cluttered desk.

I sit down, resisting the urge to tug on the bottom of my shorts as his eyes sweep over me. He’s silent as he lights up a cigarette and takes a long drag.