The Living Edge (Chains #2)

Prologue

“C’mon, you stinking piece of dead metal,” Aralia Lanigan whispered.

From behind her came the sounds of jiggling, like Sticks needed to piss—or was as scared as she was. “Fuck’s sake, stop talking an’ hurry up,” he muttered.

Hey, picking a lock wasn’t something she could hurry. Forcing her fingers to stay steady, she inserted her piece of metal into the keyhole and applied pressure, then worked her makeshift pick in to lift the pins. Work, damn you.

Back when Pa added locksmithing to his handyman business, she’d gotten really good at picking locks. But proper tools made the difference.

She raked the pick over the pins again.

Metal hardware is so lame.

Not like wood. Wood was alive. She loved everything about it, from choosing the perfect grain and density, to cutting and fitting and sanding it smooth of any tiny imperfection. And scents like cedarwood or cherry or pine made her smile every time.

Metal or not, her stupid lockpicks better get the job done fast. She needed a place to stay, even if she’d have to share it with dumbass Sticks who’d spotted the overcrowded mailbox and newspapers on the porch and known the owners were on vacation.

“Speed it up, Ray,” Sticks hissed. Rail-thin under baggy clothes.

“Doing my best.” She gritted her teeth to keep from yelling at him and lifted another pin.

Why’d you have to die, Pa?

No, shouldn’t blame him, even if it was so freaking unfair. He’d been tearing out planking in a fire-damaged house, and the entire floor gave way, and he’d landed real bad in the cement basement.

He never woke up. Not even to say goodbye.

Tears blurred her eyes. He’d loved her, mostly, but they hadn’t got along so great. He’d wanted a quiet daughter.

I tried to be what you wanted, Pa. She’d tried so, so hard.

Now he was gone, and her whole life was screwed up.

Like being dumped into a group home to wait for a long-term foster home or adoption. Only no one wanted sixteen-year-old girls.

No one except three older boys who’d kept pushing her for “favors.”

Last week, it’d all gone bad.

So she stole baggy clothes from one dipshit’s room and ditched school after attendance. Tight-wrapped her boobs, chopped off her hair, streaked her face with dirt.

Funny how a boy on the streets was safer than a girl in a group home. Being stinky and filthy helped—even the pissbuckets who went after young boys didn’t give her a second look. Some kids in an old warehouse let her sleep in a corner.

This house would be better.

“Got it yet?”

“Nearly.” Feeling Stick’s breath on her neck, she bit her lip and carefully tried the next pin. Almost…almost…

Behind her, a car door thudded.

Sticks spun. “Shit, we’re busted!” He shoved her so hard, she fell on her ass, then he leaped off the porch and sprinted down the street.

Leaving her behind. She tried to scramble to her feet.

“Look at him go.” A man’s hard hand closed on her shoulder. “Ever heard the saying, ‘if chased, I don’t have to run fast, I just have to run faster than the other guy’?”

After a second, she understood the joke. That shithead Sticks had made sure she was the slowest so he could get away. He’d left her to…

Ray looked up, and her heart sank.

A cop, uniform and all. He was huge, way tall, and had more muscles than Thor.

He tugged her handmade lockpicks from her hand and checked them out. “Nice crafting.”

The tiny surge of warmth from the compliment faded fast because he was studying her like a hawk. “How old are you?”

Noooo. What to do? Be arrested as an adult or dragged back to foster care?

I don’t wanna do either. He still had a grip on her shoulder. Running was out. He wouldn’t be easy to fool. Hot tears pooled in her eyes, and her vision blurred. I’m such a loser.

The boys in foster care would beat her up. Again.

“How old,” he repeated more softly.

I choose jail. She raised her chin to look older and made her voice all raspy. “Nineteen.”

He snorted. “Try again, kid.”

“Sixteen, but I won’t go back; I won’t. Put me in jail.”

The sharp blue eyes narrowed. “Go back where? Home?”

Her breathing hitched when a sob caught in her throat. He’d dump her back there and—

“Hey, hey, easy there.” The cop crouched beside her, ran a hand down her back comfortingly…and stopped. His finger traced sideways over the tight band she’d wrapped around her chest to flatten her breasts. “Oh, fuck me. You’re no boy.”

She stared at her dirt-streaked hands. Her knuckles were still raw from hitting the biggest of the foster kids. More scrapes were from defending her corner in the warehouse. Her skin itched from sweat and filth.

“You had me fooled, girl.” With an exasperated grunt, the cop took a step back and after a second, took a seat on the steps. Casually leaning against the railing, he motioned to her. “Let’s talk.”

She eyed him. He wasn’t yelling, didn’t seem pissed off. Just waiting.

Slowly, she sat on the step, leaving space between them.

Although he still dwarfed her with his size, his deep voice was soft. “Tell me why you won’t go back to wherever.”

“Foster home,” she whispered.

He swore under his breath. “Okay, you were in foster care. Tell me what happened to make you run.”

She dared to look up at him. His jaw was firm—almost square—his face really hard.

But he didn’t seem mean. “Three older boys. They wanted sex stuff, like blow jobs.” At the memory of being shoved to her knees, she felt her stomach twist. Don’t puke.

“The other girls—they give in to keep from getting hurt. I didn’t. ”

“No adult would help?”

Her laugh came out bitter. “I told the foster mother, but one of them is her son. She called me a liar.” Anger flared before tears burned her eyes. “The boys beat me up for talking, so I ran away.”

His fingers closed on her chin and tilted her head toward the sunlight. His gaze was on her purple, swollen cheekbone. “That where you got this?”

“Nah. That was a fight at the ware—at where I’m staying. The foster home boys are real careful to hit where nothing shows.” Being as how they are total wankpuffins.

His brows drew together, and his expression turned so pissed off she edged away from him. He huffed out a breath. “Which means you have sore ribs and gut?”

“Yeah.” Everything hurt, really. “And back and legs and shoulders.” She’d fought ’til she fell, then they kicked her and kicked her. She lifted her chin. “I gave one of ’em a black eye.”

His grin was fast and wicked. “Good for you. What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Ray.” When he raised an eyebrow, she sighed and gave in. “Aralia Lanigan.”

“Aur—say it again.”

“Ah-RAY-lee-ah.”

“You prefer Ray?”

“I guess.” And as always when she was nervous…

or happy…or normal, the words spewed out in a river.

“Before Pa d-died, he was a handyman, mainly a carpenter, and he wanted to call me after Ray Eames. She was, like, a furniture designer. Only Mom wanted me to have a girl’s name. I think they had a fight about it.”

“Parents, right?” He smiled slightly. “So your father called you Ray and your mom, Aralia. Where’s your mother now?”

“Gone. Walked out when I was seven.” She wrung her hands together. Did Mom leave because of me? Maybe I talk too much, am too emotional and scatter-brained, am hard to tolerate…all the things Pa complained about. Only he said Mom was the same.

Why didn’t Mom want me? Take me with her? The question still squeezed at her heart like her ribs were too tight. “Pa got a notice last year that she died in a car crash.”

“No other relatives?”

Ray shook her head.

“I see.” He pulled out a notepad. “Tell me about the foster home. Who runs it?”

As she talked, he wrote down the names of everyone and how she’d ended up in the foster home and then more about Pa and about her lockpicks, so she told him about Pa’s handyman business and how she helped. He even asked about her hobbies.

Her mouth was all dry when he finally shoved the pen in his pocket. “Time to be about solving this.”

When he rose, her muscles tensed. She could leap off the steps and make a run for it. Might be able to get away…although he had really long legs, and she hurt enough it’d slow her down.

Maybe…maybe he might really help me? He seemed really nice.

When she stood up, his nod of approval showed he’d seen her thinking. And she’d made the right choice.

After stowing her in the back of his patrol car, which stank of cleaning stuff, he drove to a McDonald’s and bought her lunch. Were cops allowed to do that?

She sat in the back eating while he leaned on the front of the car and made phone call after phone call. And she watched and listened.

When someone gave him trouble, his dark eyebrows would pull together, and his voice’d get really firm. Made her think of a movie star military dude who’d snap out orders. And it was all for her safety.

She wrapped her arms around herself. Maybe she didn’t want a boyfriend or anything right now—not for ages and ages—but someday, maybe she’d find someone like him. Someone who just…liked her without wanting her to be different.

Hell, she even kinda enjoyed how he told her what to do, and wasn’t that weird? When the principal of her old school spouted off his bullshit orders, she’d done her best to jerk his chain.

Eventually, he pocketed his cell and climbed into the car. “I won, princess. Doesn’t always happen, but today things fell out right.”

She shivered. “Am I going back there?”

“Back to Kitsap County, yes. To that foster home? Absolutely not. The foster mother will be investigated, and her license will probably be pulled. You’re going to a friend of mine—the father of a buddy I served with.

When I ended up here, George introduced me around.

He’s getting on in years, but he used to do short-term fosters and still has a current license. ”

A man. With a dick. Not good, so not good. But this cop—he was trying. “What’s your name, anyway?”

He smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Max or if we’re being formal, Officer Drago.”

The ferry across Puget Sound wasn’t the same one she’d taken from Bremerton. When he drove off into a tiny town and onto a forest road, she frowned. “Where are we?”

“Bainbridge Island.”

Whoa, really? Didn’t only rich people live here?

The private drive he pulled into was almost invisible within the forest. A minute later, he parked in front of an incredible house. Two stories. Curving wooden decks all around and huge, fancy-ass windows in graceful arches.

It was like the wind and weather had rounded off all the hard corners and straight lines.

“I th-think you’re in the wrong place.” She tried to fade back into the seat.

He laughed. “No, this is where we’re going. George calls the place ‘WoodSong’.” He opened the back door for her. “Jump on out now.”

As the cop shut the car door, a man came around the side of the house. Past him, almost behind the house, a one-story building was barely visible. “Max. It’s good to see you.”

“And you, George.”

As the men shook hands, Ray studied the man who owned this place that sure wasn’t a foster home. He had a short beard and mustache, deep-set eyes, and olive skin. His straight black hair was going gray.

“George, this is Ray, the youngster I called about.” Officer Drago smiled at her. “Ray, this is George Matsuda.”

“Call me George. Before we even start, I should mention I have an odd rule, one Max tries to ignore. I rarely allow visitors to WoodSong, which means you can’t bring friends home.”

He watched her as if expecting her to be upset, to back out. All she felt was relief. No strangers, no pressure. “Works for me.”

One eyebrow rose, then his light brown eyes narrowed. “You’re no boy.”

So much for her disguise. Over a week on the streets and none of the homeless had caught on. It was kinda funny the cop hadn’t told him.

In fact, Max was grinning.

“You’re as bad as my sons.” Shaking his head, George motioned toward the house. “Come on in, you two.” He led them up the steps and paused in a blue-tiled area to remove his shoes. To her surprise, so did the cop.

Right, okay. She toed off her shoes and took a step up to the hardwood flooring and was handed a pair of slippers.

Uh, right. Following the two men into the house, she stopped to stare.

She’d heard of open floor plans, but this was…

Wow, just wow. Hardwood flooring, wood rafters, and trim with a grain so pretty she was in awe.

A wall of windows overlooking the blue-gray waters of Puget Sound curved outward for the living area.

There was a leather recliner, big comfy-looking couches, and overstuffed chairs, all in shades of white.

A fireplace on the back wall had a mantel of photographs. She sidled over to take a peek. You could tell a lot about a person by their pics.

At the left end were photos of George with two young boys and a pretty woman. Then the two boys as teens and only George. A batch of pics with different teens. Maybe the foster kids? Then him and…a man? Arms around each other. More than really close.

Was George gay? He wouldn’t be interested in her? Yes!

Movement caught her attention. In a small alcove’s window seat, two furry heads popped up from a pile of blankets.

He has kitties.

Pa never let her have pets, despite all her pleading.

She started to walk over, only… The shelves bracketing the fireplace were filled with the most interesting wood art. Lots of people doodled with a pencil to make cool pictures. This shelf had wood doodles. One was a spiraling twist. Candlesticks that almost swirled.

She managed to move away, but then the mahogany end tables beside the couch had legs so beautifully carved she bent to fondle them. Who knew something so basic could be art.

And the coffee table. The slab top had a swirling grain, and the edges weren’t straight but somehow looked as if the wood had grown that way. Was still alive.

Unable to resist, she ran her fingers over the curves. “It’s like it’s breathing.”

When George tilted his head, she realized she’d spoken out loud. He raised an expressive eyebrow. “We call the technique ‘live edge’ for a reason. Max says you love wood. Want to learn how?”

Yes, yes, yes. “More than any fucking thing in my whole fucking life.” The words spilled out before she could stop. Too loud, too emotional. And she could almost hear Pa: “Why can’t you behave like other kids. Calm down, dammit, stop acting like your stupid mother.”

She looked down to keep from crying. George would for sure turn her down now.

“You’ll do, girl.” The old man’s laugh was deep and open as he turned to the cop. “All right, Max. She can stay. Tell the social worker to bring the paperwork.”

“It’s a plan.” The cop grinned at her. “You going to be all right, little burglar?”

She couldn’t even speak.

Words weren’t needed in heaven, after all.