Killshot (Icarus Series Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 2

Calm Before the Storm

               “Liv, get up!” Riley banged her fist on my door. For such a small girl, her voice really carried. “Seriously, Micah is going to be here in like seven minutes. He is gonna be super pissed if we make him late again. Move it or lose it girl.”

              I heard the familiar shuffle of ballet flats scraping against the rough wood floor as Riley moved away from my door. As usual, her footsteps gained momentum as she reached the top of the stairs.

              “Woo!” Riley’s giddy squeal echoed through the stairwell, as she (once again) slid down the Tates’ antique, hand-carved, oak railing.

              Riley Baxter was my foster sister, but more than that, she was my best friend and her presence made my sentence here more bearable. Despite my best efforts to remain angry and aloof after my parents’ death, Riley had forcefully wedged her way into my heart. In the beginning, I had had every intention of shutting out the entire world, including her. I was still reeling from the losses I had suffered, and had refused to be a part of a fake family.

              So, when I wasn’t at school, I simply barricaded myself up inside the nauseating pink and purple, princess bedroom they had stuck me with, not venturing out unless absolutely necessary. As it turned out Riley had other plans for me, none of which included allowing me any privacy, time to myself, or silence. Despite her short stature and pixie-like features, Riley was a real force of nature. She was more clever and resilient than anyone I had ever met…and much, much louder.

              “G’morning, Mama Tate,” Riley sang. Her voice was clear as day, despite the floor between us.

              “Shhhh,” Mrs. Tate answered. “I swear, young lady, you have a voice that could wake the devil. Quiet down, now, Charles is sleeping.”

              Mrs. Tate, our foster mother, was a devout Christian woman and, as luck would have it, a stickler for propriety. She was constantly reminding Riley and me how a “proper young lady” should act— be polite, be quiet, be modest, and always follow the status quo. Despite Mrs. Tate’s persistent preaching, such behaviors were rarely, if ever, exhibited by either one of her foster children. Riley was far too outspoken and spunky for her liking, and Mrs. Tate wasted a lot of energy trying to convince her to “tone it down.” As for myself, when she wasn’t reminding me of the importance of having faith in “God’s plan,” Mrs. Tate was scowling at my wardrobe choices, and condemning me for my semi-frequent detentions, average grades, and lack of extra-curriculars. Falling short of the Mrs. Tate’s high standards was yet another thing Riley and I had in common.

              “Come on, Liv,” Riley harped from the bottom of the stairs. “Five minute warning.”

              “Riley Baxter, you stop that yelling, this instant,” Mrs. Tate scolded.

              “Ugh,” I groaned, not ready to be a functioning member of society quite yet.

              I set Courage on table next to my bed, right beside Beans' old inhaler, and took a moment to peel my hair off my face. My aching body groaned at me, as I wrestled myself into a sitting position. I hadn't had a good night’s sleep in months. Every night when I closed my eyes, I was plagued by nightmares—the worst moments of my life stuck on replay. Sometimes I relived the fight I had with my parents, just hours before they died. Others, like last night, I would see my little brother, tears rolling down his face as the state dragged him off to a separate foster family. No matter the torture, I always woke up feeling as though I had lost a fight, and today was no different.

              I sat on the edge of my bed and glanced across the room at hot pink full-length mirror, just beyond a huge pile of dirty laundry. My pale blue eyes stared back at me from beneath heavy lids as I groaned at the state of my hair. It was unruly on a good day, but today, it was in rare form. It had been months since I had gotten the dark jungle on top of my head trimmed, and the wavy locks now reached to the middle of my back. Falling asleep with a wet head generally resulted in something resembling an abstract sculpture, and today’s do was no exception. At the moment, one side of my hair was flattened against my head while the other had curled up to just about shoulder length.

              “Impressive,” I muttered, frowning at the mess. “Okay, then. Up-do, it is.”

              I brushed my wayward locks into a messy bun atop my head and dug through my closet for something to wear. I gave up pretty quickly and grabbed my favorite pair of tattered jeans. They were folded and at the top of the pile so I was pretty sure they were clean, which was good enough for me. Besides, no one (besides Mrs. Tate) really paid that much attention to my wardrobe choices these days, anyway.

              My mom had always hated these jeans. She used give me hell all the time about wearing anything with holes and frayed pant legs. It’s not that she didn’t support my uniqueness, she did. I just think maybe she had hopes that someday I might embrace my more feminine side. She would buy dresses and cute skirts, and leave them hanging on my closet door on the off chance I would decide to, quite literally, step outside my comfort zone. Most of the beautiful things she had picked out for me were donated to charity after she died. I just couldn’t bring myself to keep any of them.

              Like any other girl my age, I had once craved the attention and approval of my peers, especially those of the male persuasion. Unfortunately, my personal style lacked a certain “it” factor, so my boyfriends were, sadly, few and far between. I had always been a tomboy and an athlete, first and foremost, preferring comfort to cuteness. While that part of me had not changed much, the way my old clothes now fit me had.

              Mrs. Tate was a really good cook, but meals with “the family” meant awkward conversations about God that drained my energy and my patience. So, on nights I was home for dinner, I used any excuse I could come up with, to skip out— homework, spontaneous vegetarianism, even cramps. When I wasn’t avoiding pot roast and the gospel, I lived on granola bars and diner food. I hadn't been for a run in forever and it was starting to show.

              My once lean, athletic build had softened a bit over the last few months, and I was pretty sure I had gone up a whole cup size; a fact I was painfully aware of as I worked to cram myself into my favorite black t-shirt bra. Needless to say, I was still not comfortable in my own skin these days, thanks to my newly acquired curves. I reached into the closet and grabbed another racer-back tank from the pile and quickly slipped it over my head.

              I gave myself a quick once-over in the hideous pink mirror and shrugged. Between the holes in my jeans, and my visible bra strap, there was a decent chance I would get busted for a dress code infraction, but I was out of time and more than willing to risk it. I'd grown accustomed to detention as of late, so one more hardly mattered at this point. Maybe I'd get lucky and they'd send me home.

              Either way, I would welcome the break from trying to pretend I gave a crap about this school or the people in it. Ever since social services had seen fit to separate me and my little brother, the only thing I cared about was keeping the promise I had made to get back to him. It had become my mission in life and I had a plan, so very little else mattered to me.

              Phase one: Get through high school...almost there. I would be graduating (just barely, at the rate I was going) in forty-two days. Not that I was counting.

              Phase two: Get a job. Check. It had taken weeks of constant badgering my foster parents to get them to agree to my part-time position at The Windmill Cafe. The job was not fantastic by anyone’s standards, but my boss was pretty nice and the food was good. Plus, if I was ever getting out of this black hole of a town, I’d need the cash.

              Phase Three: Get my brother back the day I turn eighteen, kiss this town goodbye, and drive off into the sunset. I heard Canada was nice, or maybe Mexico.

              It had been a little over three months since I had last seen my little brother. I knew the name of the family he had been placed with, but had no idea
where
Beans was. After everything that had happened, I owed it to my parents to keep our family (or what was left of it) together. My little brother was my responsibility now. Every day we spent apart felt like another broken promise.

              Another failure.

              In the beginning, Mr. Trundle would humor my frequent inquiries, assuring me that Beans was thriving in his new home. He promised me that once things had settled down, the two foster families would get together to set up some sort of schedule for Beans and I to spend time together. Unfortunately, the visitation I was promised never happened. Despite my best efforts, Mr. Trundle had stopped returning my calls weeks ago, and I was starting to panic.

              The stress of it all was beginning to take a toll on me; mentally
and
physically. I rarely looked rested, because I barely slept, and I had essentially given up on my outward appearances. Between my punkish outfit and my trusty mid-calf combat boots; I looked every bit the part of your typical teenage misanthrope.

              I used to worry and fuss over my looks and what I wore. With my simple fashion sense, I never felt quite as pretty as my friends. I had
real
problems now, and all my petty teenage worries seemed so unimportant.

              It was early April, so it was still a bit chilly for bare arms. I threw on my dad's old black hoodie. The ratty old thing was about two sizes too big, and was worn threadbare in some spots, but I didn't care. It was all I had left of him. After the accident, I slept in that sweatshirt every night for a month. Even now, I could still smell that a faint combination of Old Spice and the outdoors that always reminded me of my dad.

              He used to take us on “rough-its,” nearly every weekend from spring through fall. That's what my dad called it when we disconnected and went off-the-grid camping. Every trip was different, but each time we would explore, build a fire, practice first aid, learn about our surroundings, and sleep out under the stars.

              He always said it was good for us; that it would help us appreciate what we really had. Despite his lessons, I had always assumed our rough-its were just a way for him to forget he spent five days a week in a six-by-six box. Mom would come along when she didn’t have to work at the hospital. Despite our seemingly endless complaints, Beans and I always managed to have fun.

              I rubbed desperately at my tired eyes. I may as well have ground sand into them. After a few quick eye drops, I smoothed back my hair and resigned myself to another day of high school drudgery. I shouldered my backpack and headed for the door.

              “Ugh,” I grumbled as I formed my first coherent thought. “I have to work today.”

              I scooped up my dirty half-apron from the floor where it had lain since my last shift and shoved it into my bag as I charged out of my room. I had nine hours of school drudgery and a five-hour shift at the diner waiting for me. I was dreading yet another long day of pretending to be “fine.”

              I did not relish the time I spent rushing around for my meager tips. The people in this town were pretty tight with their money, so tips were rarely something to get excited about. It was not easy being outwardly friendly to people who spent so much of their time shamelessly judging others.

              My hometown was pretty typical as far as small towns go. There were as many bars as there were churches and their primary attendance consisted of the same patrons. As with any small community, everyone knew everyone else’s business. Pretty much every customer I waited on, was aware of what had happened to my parents. They also knew that the state had seen fit to take my little brother away from me. As a result they either looked down on me, or worse, they pitied me.

              “Forty-two more days,” I said to myself, then rounded the corner to head downstairs.

              “Finally!” Riley said as she burst through the kitchen’s swinging shutter doors. “Jesus, Liv. I thought for sure I was going to have to mount a search party.”

              Mrs. Tate was muttering under her breath in the kitchen, no doubt incensed by Riley's most recent twisting dismount from her eighty-year-old, hand carved railing. Not to mention her use of the Lord’s name in vain. Riley rolled her eyes beneath her black framed glasses and cocked her head dismissively in our foster mother's direction

              “Your usual breakfast, Madame,” she said with a dramatic bow, and quite possibly the worst British accent I had ever heard. “I live to serve, your royal highness, her Majesty, the queen of Slumberland.”

              “Shut up,” I laughed, taking the bottle of water and a granny smith apple she held out to me.

              She grabbed her giant travel mug (it was more of a bucket, really) from the entryway table, and slid her backpack over her opposite shoulder. It was no wonder that girl weighed ninety pounds with boots on. She lived on caffeine and sarcasm. Mrs. Tate continued her muttering as she banged around in the kitchen making Mr. Tate’s breakfast.