Casting Stones (Stones Duet #1) (7 page)

“What can they do?” she asks with a defeated sigh.

“They’re police officers! It’s their job to protect you!”

“No one can protect me, my sweet girl, but I can protect you.”

Protect me?
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fed to the wolves. I cringe at the term of endearment my delusional parent uses. There’s nothing endearing about a man screaming “sweet girl” as he plows into your mother and you can do nothing to stop it. It wouldn’t have been a fair fight between a grown man and an eight-year-old.

She rolls onto her side and I watch as her eyes flutter slowly, finally giving in.

Something has to change. We can’t continue to live like this, even though this is the only life I’ve ever known. I don’t want to become my mother. I can’t become my mother.

I lock myself in my room and try to work on my research paper. I groan in annoyance remembering that the service has been turned off. I didn’t have enough money to make the promised payment to the cable company for the third month in a row. I couldn’t explain to them that “the debt grew bigger.” The company doesn’t want excuses; they want their money, so they’ve turned off the service. It’s really a waste of my hard-earned money anyway since I try to spend as little time here as possible. As soon as I have my books for next semester, I’ll pay the bill. Like I said, I hate owing people anything.

“THEY’RE WAITING FOR
me.” My mother, wearing her dark trench coat, yells as she fumbles with the locks on the door, rambling on and on about how she needs to leave because it’s time to go on.I wrestle her back to bed and lie beside her. After restraining my mother, I toss and turn all night without the possibility of sleep finding me. I feel the walls closing in on me. I feel as though I can’t breathe. I have to escape…at least for a little while. I wake up early with a sense of purpose. I decide to head over to my other home, also known as the public library, to use the free Wi-Fi and get some work done.

Hours later, I check the time on my phone and know deep down that I shouldn’t leave my mother alone for too much longer, but I fight off the guilt as I turn east. I love the burn that surges through my legs as I pedal my bike faster and faster away from her. Away from my pitiful life.

I slow my pace as I weave through the throngs of people entering the Public Garden. I don’t stop until I pass the greenway that connects with the rest of the park. Once Jamaica Pond comes into view, I drop my bike down on the lush grass, careful not to step in swan shit. I’m grateful for the empty bench that overlooks the vast pond. I unzip my backpack, grab the loaf of bread and some stale croutons Lenny was going to throw out. One by one the swans waddle their way over to me for a treat. The two swans known around here as Romeo and Juliet are inseparable, and being somewhat cautious, keep their distance from the others who’ve gathered. I toss a few pieces in their direction.

Once the treats are gone, I open my laptop and get to work. I let my mind drift away from thoughts of my mother. I let my mind drift away from thoughts of my life. I let my mind drift toward a better life… a happy life.

As the sun begins to set, I’m satisfied with the work I’ve done. Another sixteen pages of my paper is another sixteen pages closer to the end. I close my laptop and set it down. My body is achy and my shoulders hurt from hunching over for so long. I stand and stretch my arms way above my head, letting out an obnoxiously loud, God-awful yawn mingled with the words, “Shit, I’m tired.”

“Hey there,” I turn to see Mr. Abercrombie model standing there shirtless, looking at me with sweat dripping down his perfect face.

I realize immediately just how loud I actually was.

“Was that you?” he asks with a laugh and I want to smack myself for liking the sound of it. I want to gouge my eyes out for looking down at his shorts, wondering how big his junk is.

Annoyed I ask, “Was what me?”

“That loud yawn.”

I roll my eyes at his playful expression. “What? Country club girls don’t yawn? I bet they don’t fart either.”

“What?” he chuckles as he slides the white T-shirt on, covering his bare chest, leaving his short, dirty blond hair a sexy mess. Instantly, I’m saddened by the inability to look at his nakedness or check out the tattoos I noticed. I force my damn eyes to look anywhere but at him.

“Nothing.” I mutter.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he pants, pointing to the bench. He’s actually waiting for me to reply. Most guys would just plop themselves down.

“Last time I checked it was a free country so you can do whatever you want.”

A look of complete confusion stretches across his face. “Have I offended or insulted you in some way?”

“No,” I huff with a sharp tone that implies he can’t offend or insult me.

“Are you sure?” he teases.

“Yep. I’m sure.”

His handsome face pulls into a grin. “So you’re just always this bitchy?”

Now I am insulted and I want to hit him. “I’m not bitchy.”

“Listen, I have a sister so I know bitchy and you are
definitely
bitchy.”

“Whatever.” His comment makes me want to smile, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Do you have your period or something? Do you need some chocolate?” He smirks.

“What?” I bellow as my eyes bulge and nearly fall out of my face. The nerve of this guy! Who asks that question anyway?

“Relax! I’m just kidding around. C’mon, you have to admit, I almost got a
little
smile out of you.” His eyes match the boyish grin on his tanned face.

Stupid laughter, laughter that betrays the look on my face, slips through as I open my mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bitchy. I’ve just got a lot going on.”

“Apology accepted.” The blue in his eyes shines brighter as he sits back.

I smirk and shake my head in disbelief at his audacity as I shove the rest of my papers into my bag before slinging it over my shoulder diagonally.

“Oooh, that looks bad.” He eyes my forearm, making me unroll the long sleeve quickly.

“It’s fine.”

“What happened? Did you get into a fight with the coffee machine?” he asks, struggling to conceal another smile.

“Yeah, something like that.” I pick up my bike and for some stupid reason, I stand there and look at him. “I’ll see you around.” I think my shocked expression matched his, each of us surprised by my words.

“I’d like that.”

I adjust the backpack as I shift my weight with one foot on the pedal.

“Hey,” he calls.Again, I have to suppress this unfamiliar feeling racing through my body at the sound of his voice. “If you ever want to hang out or talk, I’m here… free of charge. Tips are optional.”

I toss back a fake smile and give a “thumbs up” before I continue to ride out of the park.

MY MOUTH DROPS
open and I widen my eyes as I blink rapidly, attempting to put mascara on. Why couldn’t my mother give me her long eyelashes instead of her big, curvy ass? I hope it’s not too hot out or else I’ll look like a drowned raccoon with circles under my eyes by the time I meet my advisor for our weekly meeting. I flutter my eyes in the mirror and freeze when her soft cries combined with my name startle me.

“Shhhh…you’re okay.” I smooth away the hair from her face. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” I glance down at my mother and sigh heavily; sometimes my heart feels heavy at the sight of her so broken and helpless. Other times, I want to slap her across the face for the choices she’s made.

“I’ll be back later this afternoon.” I close her bedroom door and walk down the narrow hallway. The bowl of soggy Ramen noodles is still on the kitchen counter where I left it before I went to bed. I wonder if she even noticed that I was gone all day yesterday.She used to make an attempt to sit by the window to listen to the chimes of the church bells welcoming all into the God’s house. I remember walking past the church on Sunday mornings, wishing I could be like all the other little girls who wore pretty dresses. My mother would squeeze my hand tightly and tell me that God didn’t love girls like us.

As I ride my bike through the narrow alley, I sigh with relief upon seeing the bags of garbage from last week have been removed; only the vile stench remains.

“You’re here early,” Lenny says as he helps me wheel my bike into the tight space behind the dumpster door.

“Couldn’t sleep. And besides I owed you one from last week. You know I hate to be late.”

“Did you have a good weekend?”

“Same as usual.” I shrug.

“Remy.” There’s a hint of sadness in his voice.

“I’m good, Len.” I lie through my smile as I tighten the black apron around my waist and head up front to brew a pot of coffee.

Jenna arrives twenty minutes after I do and goes about refilling ketchup bottles and setting up tables for the Monday morning rush.

Every time I open my mouth to tell her that I ran into Mr. Abercrombie at the park yesterday, nothing comes out. I can’t help wonder if there’s really anything to tell. I guess some rich guys can be a little nice sometimes.

6:08, in he walks, all freshly showered, smooth faced wearing black dress pants and a white button down shirt and looking sexy as hell. I wonder if his girlfriend irons his clothes or maybe his wife does it for him. The thought makes me want to gag, but instead I roll my eyes.

“Good morning,” he greets me as he sits.

I offer a tight-lipped “Morning” in return.

“Coffee and a muffin?” I ask evenly.

“Please.” He smiles, revealing a small dimple in his right cheek.

I pour a cup of coffee for him. “So I guess you’re not hungover today.”

He sips the hot black coffee and coughs, his lips forming an O. “What?”

“Weren’t you hungover the other day?” I ask even though it’s none of my business. After all, what I do is none of anyone else’s business either.

“Yeah.” He looks down as his tanned cheeks flush with embarrassment.

I place the blueberry muffin in front of him, grab the butter knife, and slice it right in half just like he does every time.

“Thanks.” He looks up from the muffin and smiles. There’s a slight hesitation before he asks what my name is.

I point to my name tag pinned to my white polo shirt. “Can’t you read?”

His eyes roam around my shirt before settling on my boobs, which continued to grow throughout my teenage years even after the rest of me stopped growing.

“You don’t…”

“Eyes up here, buddy,” I say sternly.

“But…” He reaches forward as if he’s going to touch me and then pulls back.

“Don’t touch me! Keep your damn hands to yourself.” I raise my voice and cause the other people sitting along the counter to look over. No one touches me without permission. Ever. The mere thought of a man’s unwanted hands on my breasts makes the hair on my neck stand and my back stiffen.

“Everything all right out there?” Lenny asks from the food window.

Mr. Abercrombie’s hands fly up, palms facing out as he displays his innocence. “Whoa…easy there, I wasn’t going to touch you.”

I narrow my eyes and turn back to Lenny who’s asked the question now for the second time. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You’re not wearing a name tag. That’s all.”

“What?” I drop my eyes to my chest where my name tag should be but isn’t. “Oh…sorry,” I mutter to hide my overreaction. I inhale briefly and smile, hoping it will serve as a peace offering for my abrupt change in behavior.

“Remy. My name’s Remy.”

Mr. Abercrombie extends his hand carefully. Even his blue eyes are filled with reservation.

“Shane.”

So Mr. Abercrombie even has an All-American, Abercrombie name.
Great
. I slip my hand into his and as much as I hate to admit it, I like the way his hand feels around mine. There’s a soft current that flows between our touch and I feel my skin prickle.

“Shane,” I whisper his name. “I’ve never met someone with your name before.” Most men I’ve ever known were called John.

“And I’ve never met someone named Remy,” he counters. “Is that a family name or something?”

“Yeah, something like that.” I shrug.

“Well, enjoy your breakfast.” I turn away and serve the other customers once their orders have been called.