“He’s a tough one,” Kaden complains.
“At least people don’t take advantage of him,” she says.
Kade takes a long inhale before speaking, “Other than a job—which we’ll provide since you broke into my shop—you’ll have to become a model citizen. For school, you have to hold a 3.6 GPA. If needed, they’ll provide tutors. The extracurriculars aren’t easy either. Once they figure out your talent, they’ll make you work hard so you can be successful.”
“Talent?” I ask, confused.
“Let’s say you’re good at throwing the ball. They’ll have you working your ass day and night until you can be the next Joe Montana.”
My head hurts with all the information, and… “Who the fuck is Joe Montana?”
He exhales harshly and looks at me with disappointment. “Children, they don’t know who a good quarterback is unless you say Brady or some other punk.”
Sadie laughs. “Please, like you care about sports. You just know about Joe because he was famous while you were growing up.”
“Not the point.” Kade shakes his head. “The Coop was created not only to provide a roof over your head but to help you build a future. They want to make sure that you succeed. If you’re not willing to work, they’ll put you back in the system.”
I run a hand through my hair. Didn’t he just promise to free me from it?
“What about my emancipation?”
“Emancipation can take many months. If you don’t show that you want to work toward your freedom, we stop the process, and you’re out of The Coop.”
My heart stops because I’m dumb and I’ve never lasted long in any place. What’s the point of being here?
Chapter Three
Zeke
I’m on my second sandwich when the doorbell rings.
“They’re here,” Kaden says and walks toward the back entrance.
My hands begin to sweat. They might think that I’m comfortable with them, but I know there’s always a hidden agenda. Who is this nice?
In my experience, no one.
When he walks back to where Sadie and I are, two men as tall and muscled as him flank him. I knew it. They’re part of the mafia. Maybe drug dealers. They use the flower shop to cover the other business.
“Jesus, he is just a kid. I don’t need protection.” A tall, beautiful woman moves in front of the guys.
She smiles down at me. “He’s probably Tucker’s age,” she whispers, caressing my cheek. “I’m sure your mom is worried about you. I promise you and her that you’ll be fine. We’ll take care of you.”
I arch an eyebrow. Who is Tucker? I doubt my mother cares about my whereabouts, but how I wish she were here. She’d make everything better. There’s a lump of tears forming in my throat. Don’t worry; I’m not going to cry. I’m not some soft pansy that has feelings. After Mom died, I never cried.
Okay, that’s a lie. I did once when I was in first grade. All the kids in my class called me a sissy, and one of them beat me up during recess. Maybe I’m not great at math, but school has taught me to toughen up.
One of the men, the one with light brown hair, reminds me of Dad. Well, just the way Mom used to describe him. I never met him. He died before he could come back home to meet me. Mom said I’d be as tall as him, almost six and a half feet. I’d have dirty blonde hair, just like him. My eyes would be a stormy gray, like the sky during a storm. She got almost everything right, except I’m not that tall, and my hair is dark brown.
I wish I had a picture of my parents. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to keep any of their belongings after Mom died.
“So, this is our runaway?” the man asks, arching an eyebrow.
Sadie nods. “I think he’ll be a good candidate for The Coop.” She squeezes my arm gently. “This is Thea and Matt, and the serious one observing is Tristan Cooperson. He’s the one in charge of the center.”
When I move my attention to him, I find his dark green eyes studying me. He clears his throat and says, “You can call me Coop. What’s your name?”
“Z—Zeke,” I mumble.
“We need a little more than just a nickname,” the other guy, who I assume is Matt, adds. “Listen, we left our children at home with my parents. It’s fucking three in the morning, and I need to sleep.”
Thea’s almost violet eyes stare at him humorously. Then, her attention moves toward me. “Will you be more comfortable if they leave? I know they are intimidating.”
“I—I…” I frown because I don’t want to be here.
“You’re overwhelmed,” she states, waving her hand. “They’re leaving while you and I talk. This can’t be easy for you. The one time I broke into a store to get some food, I was terrified.”
I stare at her. She smiles. “Yeah, not my proudest moment. I was drunk, high, and hungry. It was right before I went to rehab for the third time.”
“I’m not high.”
“Kid, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m sharing my experiences with you so we can bond,” she sighs. “It’s counseling 101. I’m throwing something out, hoping that you’ll tell me something about your life. It’s clear that my doctorate in psychology is failing me today.”
I don’t know if it’s her playful eyes or the man beside her, but I laugh. The tension accumulated in the pit of my stomach begins to ease. I’m sure she’s lying about breaking and entering or being drunk and high, but I find it funny.
“Thea and I didn’t have the best childhoods,” Kade adds to the conversation. “Like you, I ended up in foster care. Thea’s parents exploited her.”
“My parents physically and mentally abused me because I am different,” Tristan adds. “When I created the center, I did it thinking about teenagers who weren’t safe at home, either in foster homes or with their parents. Children whose parents did not accept them because of their gender or sexuality. My wife would’ve been safe if there had been a place like it. Same with Kaden. Girls like Sadie wouldn’t have to take care of their drunken mothers at the age of nine. We need to know more about you to be able to help you. I ask you to trust me, which isn’t easy for you when the adults in your life have failed you again and again.”
I stare at them. They all seem so…normal. The woman, Thea, doesn’t look like someone who needed help while growing up. Was she in rehab, mistreated by her parents, and breaking into places because she was hungry?
Should I trust them?
“What’s your full name, and how old are you?” Tristan asks.
I stare at my hands. One holds the empty plate. The other rests on top of my shaky leg.
I could make up shit and say that my name is George Coleman, Joe Shmoe, or Calvin Smith, and they can’t prove me wrong.
“I’ll take this,” Kade grabs the plate, “With that trembling hand and your leg bouncing, you’re going to drop something.”
Then he looks at Matt and mumbles, “Drums.”
Before I can register that word, Tristan says, “Listen, in order to help you, we have to know who you are. I need to pull your birth records…” He lets out a loud breath. “There’s a lot of paperwork involved that can’t get done unless you trust us with your real name.”