Page 84 of Twisted Collide (Saints Of Redville #2)

CHAPTER 1

Twelve Years Old…

Fairytales are for suckers.

I used to live for the happily ever afters. Dreamed about what my perfect life would be like.

Now I know it’s all bullshit.

A twelve-year-old isn’t supposed to know these things. Isn’t supposed to be so jaded. But I’m not your typical twelve-year-old who gets to daydream and wish upon a star. Nope. Not this girl. Life has it out for me. It’s prepared to kick a girl while she’s down. I can see another gut punch coming from a mile away.

I can feel it in the air. The thick scent of doom. As our beat-up car rolls to a stop, life as I know it is about to change. And by the looks of it—not for the better.

Peering out the window from the backseat, I stare at the small trailer we’ve pulled up to. It’s old. Almost as fossilized as the tooth Dad lost in a parking lot bar fight, wedged so deep into the hood of his car, a pair of pliers couldn’t yank it out. Stripes of paint peel away from the siding. What was once white has now rusted over.

Corroded. Water-stained.

The roof is probably saving its collapse for the moment I step foot in the place. That’s life for me. One big punishment, occasionally punctuated by an odd serving of oatmeal or buttered toast.

I smooth out a hole in the backseat bench, fussing over loose threads, doing everything I can to avoid leaving this car. My mind shifts through a series of inconsequential thoughts.

Who was the last owner?

Is it abandoned?

And if so, for how many years?

Probably since the last world war.

It definitely looks like a casualty of one. I sigh, blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes.

The trailer sits on a snatch of grass, overgrown with weeds that scale up the sides like something out of a horror movie. It’s scary.

We sit here for so long that I convince myself that Dad’s thinking the same thing as me and we’ll ditch this place soon. But that hope quickly vanishes.

Reality is where dreams go to die.

Dad turns off the engine and steps out of the car. I watch as he walks toward my side. A part of me wonders if he’s coming for me. If he’ll open the back door and try to convince me it isn’t so bad.

He walks past me to the trunk. I knew it was wishful thinking. My dad barely acknowledges my existence.

My heart hammers, but I make no move to get out. He must realize I have no plans to exit because he storms to my window. His jaw clenches so tight it might snap.

“Come on.” He stomps his foot on the paved sidewalk, acting like more of a child than I am. “I don’t have all day.”

Normally, I wouldn’t want to piss him off. An angry Dad is a dangerous Dad. But right now, his impatience is the least of my problems. My lack of response must tip him off to the fact.

He yanks the car door open, glaring down at me. A stream of cold air blasts past him and smacks me right in the face. Goosebumps pebble over my arms.

I should get out. I should face my future head-on, but the uncertainty of what awaits me in this new dump I’m supposed to call home has me glued to my seat.

If I sit here a little longer, I can pretend this isn’t happening. Maybe Dad will grow a conscience. Maybe he’ll see how unfair this is and have mercy on me.

And maybe I’ll win the lottery and move to Maui.

It’s useless to hope. I know this. I’ve known it all my life. And still, I clutch my worn-down pink bag tight to my chest and hope.

Dad said I couldn’t bring anything. That we didn’t have room. Judging by the speck of a trailer, I can see why I had to leave my things.

I glance back down at my bag and force a smile, trying for positivity, but it’s short-lived.

This is all you have left in the world, Pippa.

That fact stings worse than the cold bite of air.

He slams a palm on the car frame, eliciting a flinch. “Get out.”

Dad must have more pressing issues than me and my turmoil. He always does. Everybody does.

Is it booze? Drugs? Probably gambling. It could be any of them—and more than likely all three. I imagine the time and attention he gives those three rival what a real parent would give their child. Not that I would know.

What I do know is we’re in this shithole thanks to these vices. It’s tempting to find some of my own. Anything to escape this hell seems good about now.

My heart rattles in my chest as I step out of the car on shaky legs. The door slamming shut behind me sends a shiver sprinting down my spine.

Dad pinches my crusty sleeve, almost disintegrating it. “Why’d I give you money for a new coat if you don’t even wear it?”

I turn in time to catch his vicious snarl. He scrapes his gaze up and down my practically see-through frame, sneering as though I’m dirt stuck to the bottom of his shoes.

I am wearing a coat. Just not a new one.

Turns out, Dad forgot we had no groceries. So, instead of warmth, I chose to eat.

I don’t say any of that because it would do no good. He’d grumble something, likely yell some nonsense excuse, and then stomp off, leaving me to wonder if I made a mistake

It’s always my fault.

I glance down at the white-striped, navy jacket. The coat has seen better days. Ripped and tattered, it’s practically useless. But the truth is, that’s not why I shake.

I’m scared.

I hate change.

And this is more than change. My whole life is about to be uprooted.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

I swallow down the lump in my throat and rub at my chest. I won’t be able to survive unless I fortify my walls. A skill I mastered at the tender age of ten, when everything went to shit, Dad lost his job, and I was forced to grow up.

This is your life, Pippa. You have no choice but to survive.

I find a new sense of purpose and stride up the path that leads to the weathered metal door. As soon as I’m in front of it, hand lifted to turn the knob, the squeak of rusty hinges sends me jumping backward. My spine goes ramrod straight as it swings open.

An older woman glowers down at me. Deep lines pepper her forehead, short gray hair sprouting from her scalp.

“Pippa,” my dad barks. “Get back here.”

The stranger narrows her eyes at me, running a hand down her pinstriped pants, her nose turned up. I blink several times until one bushy eyebrow lifts, and I realize my dad ordered me back to him.

Turning around, I try to navigate the rickety steps with tears welling in my eyes. I stand at the bottom, silently waiting for my father to approach. The muscles in my back tense as he strides past without a word, making his way toward the nasty woman.

“It’s about time you got here.” She motions him in, turns without waiting, and stalks farther into the trailer. “We have some things to go over.”

I follow behind, giving my dad some space. Crowding him only makes him angrier. The two of them start talking about things I don’t understand. I lose interest very fast. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t pertain to me. Even if it did, I wouldn’t be allowed a say, anyway. I’m used to being invisible and easily dismissed. It comes naturally.

I take a step deeper into the small trailer, deciding I might as well look around. It’s much smaller than the last place we lived, which is oddly comforting. Dad might act like he’ll run the place, but I’m the one who will have to clean and care for this space. Small is a blessing.

Every inch of the trailer can be viewed from my spot by the door. Chunks of wood peek out of holes in the carpet. Dents pepper the walls, along with mysterious stains. Could be worse.

It’s a roof.

And walls.

That’s a plus.

In my nightmares, I envisioned this place. The reality is much better than the fears that plagued me before I arrived.

I catch bits and pieces of words the woman barks out.

Rent.

Utilities.

Maybe I should be at this meeting. These are all things Dad forgets to do when he’s drinking. I’ve never had the luxury of being a kid. My father is an alcoholic, barely around, leaving me alone to raise myself. When he’s not working, which is always seeing as he gets fired more often than he changes his clothes, he’s drunk.

And Mom…

She’s dead.

What does this mean for me? If we want to eat, I have to buy it. It also means that it’s my responsibility to cook the food. There will be no dinner if I don’t. If I want a clean space, free of beer cans and booze bottles, I pick it up. If I want to keep the roof over my head, I ensure the bills are paid.

If this woman wants the rent on time, she’d be better off telling me where to drop off the check, because my dad might appear sober right now, but this is temporary. By tonight, he’ll be passed out on the couch, not even realizing where we are.

Glancing at the woman, I know it would be pointless to insert myself. She wouldn’t listen to a thing I say. She’s bad-tempered and dismissive.

“Dad, can I look around?” I ask, wanting to get away. To explore my new living arrangement.

That’s what this is.

It’s not a home. It’s temporary.

One day, I’ll be old enough to escape. To have my own place. Somewhere I’ll feel safe. When that day comes, I won’t walk away.

I’ll run.

Dad gives me a nod, and I don’t wait for any more words before rushing off.

I have no desire to hear anything else that woman has to say. It’s clear she owns this trailer park. She’s only said it at least ten times in the last two minutes. Now she’s rambling on about rules. The lady should save her breath.

He’ll break them, anyway.

Seems pointless to waste her breath when she’ll need to explain them another forty times before we’re on to the next temporary situation.

Once, a few years back, before everything went bad and Dad lost his steady job, we had a home. A real one.

Now, I’m happy to not be living in Dad’s car.

That was our situation right after we got evicted. Then he started gambling and had a short run of luck, which allowed us to hop around to places that at least had beds and heat.

The farther I move into the trailer, the colder and draftier it gets.

It’s not hard to figure out why. The windows have broken seals, which explains the chill. I’ll have to forge a note from Dad to that woman in the next week to figure something out about the window situation. We’re renting. Surely, that’s something she must do.

My head tilts as I take in the living space. It’s a tiny area, large enough for the single couch facing the tiny, gloomy yard. The taupe material is worn and barren, even from the back. As if someone spent a lot of time here, gazing out into the glum world beyond the wall of windows.

How depressing.

There isn’t much going on in here. We could probably fit a TV stand and maybe a recliner. It’ll be tight, but possible.

I take several steps toward the filmy window to check out the view through the milky white residue built up on the glass. Some trees and a patch of grass. That’s it.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

Some of my reservations fade as I continue my tour.

Just a few steps down a narrow hall is a door. A door that’s hopefully the key to my privacy. Somewhere that I can make my own. Somewhere I can attempt to make my safe space.

I throw it open and know instantly that I was correct. There’s a tiny twin bed pushed up against the singular window that provides a sliver of light to stream in.

It’s the same sad view from the living room.

It’s more like a prison than a safe space. The dash of hope is gone. Suddenly, I feel claustrophobic. Like the walls are closing in around me.

Before I can stop myself, I run from the room, rushing toward the door to freedom. When I make it down the steps, the breath bursts from my chest. Cold air hits my face, but it’s not enough. I need to get far away from here. Away from my dad. Away from that awful woman and her grimy trailer.

I need to get away from my life.

I look from left to right, trying to figure out where I can go.

My gaze locks on a trailer a few feet away, and an elderly woman catches my sight. She’s at least in her eighties with sparse white hair and a wrinkled face. She lifts her hand and waves, a large inviting smile welcoming me. At least there seems to be one nice neighbor. That can come in handy in the future.

I raise my own hand and wave back. Normally I’d say hi, but right now, I’m too emotional to talk to her.

Instead, I take off in the opposite direction.

Picking up my pace, I head toward the trees I saw from the window. That’ll be the sole reason our utilities will be astronomical. The cold air will have our heater working overtime, and still, I’ll likely freeze at night, considering my one and only blanket is also threadbare and pathetic.

My feet carry me without a destination. My mind doesn’t care where I go. A dense path materializes beyond the trees. Maybe it will pull me into an alternate world. One with centaurs, and cozy homes with windows that work, and a bed as soft as clouds.

I follow the path, daring to explore. Hoping that maybe I’ll find some semblance of solitude from a world determined to tear me down.

My feet stop. I pitch forward. My hands slap my knees as I suck in deep breaths, desperately trying to stave off the attack that threatens to pull me under.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I continue to focus on my breaths, pulling in a lungful of air until my heartbeat slows and the panic slowly retreats. A trick I learned from the social worker at school.

I’ve been standing here for several minutes, giving myself time, when the sound of crinkling leaves alerts me that I’m not alone.

“Are you lost, kid?”

I twist at the throaty voice. When my eyes land on its owner, I freeze. The boy standing in front of me is tall. Way taller than me. I inspect the crest on the left side of the blazer he’s wearing.

I have no idea what it’s for. Maybe a school logo. Maybe not. It looks like the kind of logo you’d see on a fancy school uniform, but that makes no sense since he’s here. Unless he’s visiting someone.

I tilt my head as I take in the design, determined to figure this out. It looks a bit like a triangle, but not one I recognize. It’s silver, standing out starkly against the solid black of the rest of the jacket.

Realizing I’m not going to figure this out, I crane my neck, looking up into his face.

His features are hard to make out because the trees are blocking what little sun shines through the clouds overhead. He’s cloaked in shadows, and it’s a bit disconcerting.

I take a step back, and he takes a step forward into a space where more light filters through the trees. My breath hitches, and my mouth drops open.

He looks like a fallen angel. Dark and ominous. With chocolate-brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Eyes I can’t turn away from. They have me captive. His irises remind me of the water in the Pacific Ocean I once saw on a TV show. The edges, ringed in black like a violent storm. Looking at them feels like looking into a dark sky and waiting for lightning to flash.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “You alright?”

I shake my head and furrow my brows. Is he talking to me?

“Who are you calling a kid?” I straighten my shoulders, trying to appear taller as I glower up at him. I’m practically a teen, or at least I will be in six months. He looks like he’s one, too, so who is he to talk? It’s not like he’s an adult. Four, maybe five years older. Max.

He smirks down at me, and my stomach tumbles. I hate that feeling. The only time I’ve ever experienced that sensation was swinging on the swings at the park close to our last place. I’d lean back as I swung toward the sky, trying to contain the giggle that threatened to burst from me. I felt alive. Free.

This stranger doesn’t get to make me feel that way.

“Pippa,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

His eyes narrow as he looks down at me. “What?”

“It’s Pippa.” I move my hands to my hips. “Not kid. And I’m almost thirteen if you must know,” I fire back.

I start to turn and walk away when the guy speaks again.

“You looked like you were about to lose it. You good?”

I blink several times, not sure why I’m feeling warm all over and annoyed at the same time. “I’m fine,” I scoff, turning my back on him.

“Whatever you say, Pip.”

Looking over my shoulder, I level him with a glare. “As I said before, it’s Pippa. My name is Pippa. But since you clearly…”

“I like Pip. It suits you.” He shrugs. “Pippa sounds pretentious.”

I roll my eyes. “Big word.”

“Is it?” He grins. “What can I say? I guess my education is working.”

My face screws up. “Whatever.”

I turn on my heels, ready to run back to my trailer, and bump into a hard wall.

Not a hard wall. Another boy.

This one gives off a bad vibe that has me on edge immediately. I’m met with tapered eyes and a scowl. Trouble with a capital “T” if I’ve ever seen it.

“Watch it, you little shit.” His arms dart out, and before I know what’s happening, I’m pushed.

Things escalate quickly after that.

I fall backward, my eyes close, and I brace for impact. It doesn’t happen. Instead, large arms wrap around me, holding me in place.

“What the fuck, Ace?” the lesser of the two evils grits through his teeth, not looking down at me as he barks at the new guy.

He lifts me up, holding me in place until I’m steady on my feet. When he’s sure I’m okay, he moves away from me and steps into the asshole who tried to push me down.

“What the hell do you care, Slate? She was in my way. I was simply removing her from my path.”

Slate.

The name suits him.

Slate is eye to eye with the jerk, who doesn’t move an inch. “You don’t touch her. You don’t fucking look at her.” He straightens his back, effectively making himself taller than the douche. “Pip is off limits.”

I don’t have to see his eyes to know they’ve darkened to deep pools. A hurricane building as he levels the shorter guy with a look that promises violence.

The guy sneers, baring his teeth. “Pip? You’ve got to be kidding me,” he jeers, looking toward me. “Fitting. Fucking pipsqueak.”

“Cut the shit.”

“Or what?” Ace puffs out his chest, trying to look tough, but failing in comparison to the dark-haired god.

“Or I’ll kick your ass. It’s as simple as that.”

“Careful,” Asshat tsks. “Start a fight again, and the cops will come. Doubt your fancy school will keep you on, let alone let you skate…”

The threat hangs in the air. I look back and forth between the two, wondering what that’s all about. Finally, Slate steps forward, anyway. The space between the two is almost gone, and the bully’s back hits the tree.

“If you ever so much as touch her, I don’t care what anyone says, I’ll kick your fucking ass. Pippa is off limits.” Slate’s hand wraps around the guy’s throat, strangling him. “She’s under my protection. You hear me?”

Ace’s face begins to turn blue, and fear courses through me. I can’t make out the words he says, but it’s obvious Slate does, because he removes his hand, stepping away. The kid doesn’t waste time. He dashes off.

What a coward .

I have no idea what that was all about, but I do know that Slate just gave me a gift.

A place to feel safe.

And that place is him.