Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
kane
Seventeen Going Under – Sam Fender
Iwalk into work with a lightness I haven’t felt in months.
This morning has been rolling around my head on a nonstop loop.
It’s not even the sex I can’t stop thinking about—although that was a surprise I wasn’t expecting—but being able to wake up with her in my arms again.
The smell of her lemon shampoo fanned across my chest and face, the feel of her heartbeat steady within my reach, the beats melding with mine until they fell into sync.
I wave to Dawn on my way to the office, a couple minutes later than usual, but the extra minutes were worth it.
I sit down in my office chair and boot up my computer, ready to get started for the day.
With graduation in just a few short weeks, I’ve had a busier-than-normal calendar, with the anxieties of the future looming over the seniors’ heads.
The busier schedule has been nice to fill up my days when all I needed was a distraction from my life, but today, the busy day makes it hard to focus.
I pull up my schedule and see that Trevor’s appointment was marked with a cancellation request and a message to see Dawn.
I slide back my chair, take one last swig of my coffee, and toss it in the trash on my way out the door.
The office is already abuzz, most people get here an hour early before the students to finish up last-minute tasks.
The sound of ringing phones and typing keys is a welcome sound this Tuesday morning.
I go round to the front of the office and wait while Dawn finishes a call.
Parents line the corridor with children, signing them in for the day as the bell rings, marking them late.
I wait until I catch Dawn’s eye, and she tilts her head, signaling me to follow her.
The tightness in my chest hits immediately with the foreboding in her expression.
I follow her with haste in every step until we make it to the teacher’s lounge on this side of the campus.
Dawn turns to me with her brows lowered, her eyes scanning from left to right to make sure the coast is clear.
“What’s going on?” I ask slowly, the feeling of unease thick in the air.
“Trevor,” she answers ominously, gauging my reaction.
“What about him? I saw his canceled appointment, but the notes were empty.”
“There’s been an accident.” She hesitates, holding up her hands to put quotation marks around the word accident.
“What do you mean?” I press, hoping for a straight answer before the relentless what-ifs invading my brain take me somewhere bad.
“Trevor was admitted to the hospital. His father brought him in, saying he had tripped and fallen. But there were signs of intense bruising on his body that couldn’t be accounted for with a fall.
He was unconscious for a few hours, and CPS was called once he woke up.
Unfortunately, Trevor corroborated his father’s story, and there was nothing CPS could do.
His father took him out of the hospital against medical advice a few hours later.
Because they couldn’t get Trevor to say there was any abuse occurring, children’s services moved on.
You know how short-staffed they’ve been in Williamson County lately,” Dawn explains, setting a hand on my forearm before walking away and leaving me enveloped in the silence of the room.
The only other sound is the low hum of the refrigerator as I try to let my thoughts catch up with one another.
I walk in a trance back to my desk as all the thoughts hit me at once.
Unaccounted-for bruising all over.
He fell and was unconscious for hours.
His father took him out of the hospital AMA.
My thoughts swarm me from all sides as my breathing quickens and I clutch my chest. I take gasping breaths as I double over in the middle of the hallway.
I grab at my chest as it tightens, constricting my throat.
My vision blackens and next thing I know is the floor meets my face.
After some time when my breathes come easier and the trembling in my hands stops, I drag myself off the floor in a daze. The guilt is heavy in my stomach.
What have I done? Was it because I called? Did I do this?
I reach my office without knowing how I got there, walking on autopilot. I grab my keys and phone from my desktop before storming out. I hurry by Dawn’s desk without a word. I hear someone call after me, but I can’t hear them through the red-hot rage filling my mind.
The thought of Trevor being so unsafe he broke his arm and was knocked unconscious within the span of a few weeks—no one is that clumsy. All those marks and bruises were my fault. I saw what was happening to him, and I didn’t call sooner.
What if something worse had happened to him?
What if he never woke up from his “fall”?
I can no longer stand by and do nothing. I understand CPS has more than enough cases to deal with, but a boy was brought in with clear signs of abuse, and no one can do a thing?
His father gets to take him home and walk away scot-free, no repercussions for beating the shit out of his fifteen-year-old son. The son who takes care of his sisters, who works a full-time job after school—I assume to help make ends meet for them.
I get into my truck, slam it into reverse, and peel out of the parking lot.
Trevor’s address has been memorized in my mind for a few weeks now.
The first time he showed up with a couple bruises, I flagged his profile, noting the trailer park on the outskirts of Cherry Hill, bordering the Nashville city limits.
A place known for kids falling through the cracks between counties.
I don’t think. I just drive, needing more than anything to see with my own two eyes that he is okay.
The streets blur as I drive, the clock on the dash staring back at me: 8:56 a.m. Just two hours after I left Avery’s bed, and fuck, how I wish I could turn back the clock and be there again, cocooned in her.
As I get closer, my body starts radiating with energy.
I keep shifting in my seat, trying to expel some of the pent-up rage coursing through me.
I pull into the trailer park and see two extremes: some trailers well kept and beautifully maintained, with blossoming flower beds and meticulous grass, and others that have seen better days, peeling paint on the siding, cars parked every direction out front, and piles of trash littering some of the stoops.
I stop in front of a dilapidated trailer with a sagging porch and little shoes lining the outside. Before I can stop myself, I dash out of the truck with it still running and bang on the door. My fists pound hard enough to make the whole front of the trailer shake.
I stand back and wait, the silence inside sending me reeling.
Just as I raise my fist to knock again, it swings open to reveal a graying and balding man, at least five inches shorter than me, staring back.
The clear evidence of a hangover sits on his face, the stench coming off him making me want to gag.
“Who the fuck are ya?” he bellows as I stand there, towering over him.
“Where’s Trevor?” I ask through my barely concealed rage.
“Out, what’s it to ya?” he counters, his country accent thicker than any I’ve heard in a while.
“I’m his counselor at school, and he didn’t show up today. Where is he?” I ask, crossing my arms and sizing him up.
“Fuck should I know? The lil cunt does what he wants.” He starts to close the door, but I slam my hand against it, forcing him to open it all the way.
The smell of rotten food and whiskey hits me, making my eyes water.
The sight sends another punch to my gut, thinking of three children having to live in such conditions.
The couch is brown and peeling in every visible place, the tables lined with ashtrays and empty bottles.
Clutter lines the floors in all corners, creating piles of shit stacked at least three feet high in some places.
I see red, and suddenly my fist slams into the man in front of me. A scream follows the crunch of bone, and I watch as he flies backward onto the floor.
The hangover clears from his face as rage replaces it, blood pouring out of his nose and quickly soaking his threadbare shirt.
“How do you like getting hit, huh?” I ask as I tower over him while he clutches his nose. “How does it feel to be the one getting smacked around by someone so much bigger than you, huh?”
I wait for this pathetic excuse of a man to answer before I flatten him to the floor and make him regret he was ever born.
“Ya broke my fuckin’ nose!” he whines from his position on the floor, clutching his mangled nose.
“And I’ll break a lot more if I ever see Trevor come back to school with so much as a paper cut on him. Do you hear me?”
“Who the fuck are ya to tell me what to do with my own fuckin’ kid?” he seethes.
“I’m your worst fucking nightmare. You think you can go around and abuse your kids and no one will do a thing about it? Think again. If I see one more bruise, I will rain hell down on your life. I will take everything from you.”
“You think ya so much better than me,” he spits from his position on the floor.
“I am fucking better than you. Because I can tell the difference between right and wrong, and you’re so drunk you use your own kids as punching bags. But I will be back. One cut, one scratch, and I will make your life a living hell. If that’s even possible. You’re a pathetic excuse for a man.”
He crawls toward the stained couch, liquor bottles rattling across what I assume was once a coffee table.
“Do you understand?” I challenge, my temper a live wire. I watch the flash of fear that goes through his eyes as he stares at me.
Good. He should be fucking terrified. If CPS won’t listen, I’ll make them. This is the last time this kid gets hurt when I can do something to stop it. I don’t care what it takes. These kids are my responsibility.
I take a step toward him and watch him cower backward.
“Fuck, fine, I understand,” he cries out.
“This is the only warning you get,” I threaten before stalking out of the house.
I slam the door behind me, rattling the frame on the way out, and get into my truck.
I take a few deep breaths after I shut the door and stare up at the trailer, vowing to myself that I will get Trevor out of this situation, whatever it takes.
I have money, and I’m not afraid to use it to help him get out and get safe.
I’ll sink the whole trust fund if it means those kids have a safe place to lay their heads every night.
I stare at my hand, the knuckles raw and bloodied from his nose. The sound of his nose crunching is a beautiful melody replaying in my head. I never liked talking with my fists—knowing I tower over most people by height and weight has always helped keep me from needing them.
I drive the side streets back to school, needing more time to calm down than the highway would have left me. The morning traffic has finally died down, with most people already at work, giving me time to center myself.
I pull up to school when a text from Avery flashes on my phone in the cup holder.
Pretty Girl
I miss you
It’s amazing that after what just happened, I’m able to get a smile on my face, but Avery has always been that for me.
She centers me. No matter what is going on in life, she is always able to make everything else feel inconsequential.
I let the rage flow out of me as I stare at her name on my screen.
I know I need to tell her what happened.
We agreed on no more secrets, but how do I even explain what I’ve done?
Me
I miss you. How is work, pretty girl?
I see the bubbles immediately and sit back in my truck while I wait for her response. I already know I have a lot of explaining to do once I get inside, and I’m hoping to drag that out a little bit.
Pretty Girl
Ugh, busy already. But I will be at your place by 5:30 How’s work for you?
I chuckle and feel the ghost of her lips with the kiss she sends at the end.
Me
I’ll explain later. Can’t wait to see you.
I slip my phone in my pocket and head into the school, trepidation in every step.