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  Trust

  Copyright (c) 2017 by Kylie Scott Cover Design by Hang Le

  Interior Book Design by JT Formatting Cover photograph by Mae I Design

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9954343-3-2

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Playlist

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Find Kylie At

  Purchase Kylie's other books

  "The most common form of despair is not being who you are."

  - Soren Kierkegaard

  "(Don't Fear) The Reaper" - Blue Oyster Cult "Bad Habit" - The Kooks

  "I Wanna Be Sedated" - Ramones "Girls" - The 1975

  "Get It On" - T. Rex

  "Liability" - Lorde

  "Heart of Glass" - Blondie

  "Teen Idle" - Marina and the Diamonds "What Is and What Should Never Be" - Led Zeppelin "Adore" - Amy Shark

  "Because the Night" - Patti Smith "Tear in My Heart" - Twenty One Pilots

  "Don't forget the corn chips!" yelled Georgia, hanging out of her car window.

  "Got it."

  "And hot salsa, Edie. None of that mild crap, you coward."

  I flipped her off and kept walking, watching the ground.

  Rain had turned every pothole in the Drop Stop's parking lot into a mini-swamp. We were finally out of a drought, so yay for rain. Bottle caps and cigarette stubs were floating like tiny boats on murky waters. The Northern California wind made waves, blurring the yellow light reflecting off the Open sign. Everything else was dark. Things were quiet in Auburn around midnight. Georgia and I were forced to drive across town to meet our movie marathon snacking needs. Watching all eight Harry Potter films in a row being our contribution as citizens of the Endurance Capital of the world.

  "Oh, Oreos!"

  As if I'd forget the Oreos, I said to myself, entering the shitty little store.

  What you're most likely to drop at the Drop Stop are your standards. And I had. It had been my black yoga pants, a sports bra, and a baggy old blue T-shirt versus Georgia's satin unicorn-print slip. In the jammies most likely to be mistaken for normal clothing competition, I was the clear winner. I don't think it occurred to either of us to actually bother getting dressed. Too much effort for summer break.

  Inside, the fluorescent lights were dazzling, the air-conditioning cold enough to give me goose bumps. But there it was. An aisle's worth of every bad food choice you could possibly make and as my ass could testify, I'd made them all. Happily and repeatedly.

  I grabbed a plastic shopping basket and got busy.

  There were only a couple of other customers. A tall guy in a black hoodie and some other kid, talking in low voices, over by the beer fridge. I highly doubted either one of them was of legal age to be drinking. One of the local college students manned the shop counter, identifiable by the textbook he'd chosen to hide behind. Note to self: Study like crazy all through senior year if you want an offer from Berkeley.

  Hershey bars, Reese's Pieces, Oreos, Gummy Bears, Milk Duds, Skittles, Twinkies, Doritos, and a jar of salsa. The bottle proclaimed it to be hotter than hell; there was even a demon dancing on the side. It all went into the basket, each and every major processed food group represented. Still, there was a little room left and it'd be silly not to go all in since we'd driven to the other side of town. Why, it'd take a good ten to fifteen minutes at least just to get back to Georgia's parents' place. Sustenance for the journey alone would be required.

  A tube of Pringles for good luck and prosperity, and we were done.

  I dumped my basket on the counter, making college boy jump. Guess he'd been seriously engrossed in his studies. Startled brown eyes gawked at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  Shit, he was cute.

  Immediately, I turned away, only to be facing an entire stand of titty magazines. Wow. I sincerely hoped a percentage of sales went toward helping women with lower-back problems. Some of those breasts were scarily big. Nothing much could be seen through the filthy window, but it might have started raining again. So wearing flip-flops had probably been a mistake.

  Beep, beep, beep went the sales register, adding up my purchases. Excellent. Cute clerk guy and I were ignoring each other. No further eye contact was made. This was the best of all possible outcomes. Human interactions in general were a trial, but attractive people were far and away the worst. They unnerved me. I always started sweating and turning red, my brain an empty, useless place.

  All of my loot got shoved into a thin white plastic bag, guaranteed to tear halfway across the parking lot. Never mind. I'd hold it against my front, stretch the bottom of my T-shirt out to bolster it or something. Easier than asking him to double-bag it.

  I shoved the money in his vague direction, mumbled thank you, and got moving. Mission accomplished.

  Except a scrawny guy entering the store was in an even bigger hurry than me. We collided and I lost, my flip-flops sliding out from under me, thanks to the wet floor. I stumbled back into the shelving before dropping, hitting the cold,
hard ground. The plastic bag broke and shit went everywhere. Fother mucker.

  "Awesome," I muttered sarcastically. Followed up fast with a sarcastic, "I'm fine. No problem."

  How embarrassing. Not that anyone was paying me any attention. Must have caught a metal edge on the way down because I had a scratch on my waist. It stung like a bitch, both it and my bruised ass.

  College boy gasped. Fair enough. I'd be pissed too if some fat chick in pajamas started throwing her stuff everywhere. But the douche canoe who'd sent me reeling slammed his hand onto the counter, snarling something, as college boy stuttered, "P-please. D-d-don't."

  I froze, realizing this wasn't about me crashing into the shelf.

  Not even a little bit.

  College boy fumbled with the register, panic written all over his face. This was wrong. All of it. Time slowed as the kid punched register buttons, tears flowing down his face because it wouldn't open for some reason. Skinny guy was shouting and waving something in the air like he'd lost his mind.

  Suddenly the drawer flew open with a discordant little jingle.

  College boy grabbed a wad of cash, shoving it into a plastic bag as the skinny guy slammed a hand down on the counter again, full of frustration and anger. Then the scream of a police siren split the air and I heard tires screech. I watched in horror as a battered car careened out of the parking lot, knocking over a garbage can and spilling trash across the pavement. A cop car followed it over the curb as another came to a halt in front of the store, lights blazing.

  The man at the counter spun toward the parking lot, yelling something indecipherable as he twitched, his eyes messed up, pupils swollen and huge. Red patches--sores--covered his face, and his teeth were nothing more than rotting stumps. Then I saw the gun in his hand and my heart stopped.

  There was a gun. A gun. This was happening, right here. Right now.

  Red and blue lights flashed through the filthy windows and I sat stunned, my eyes wide, nothing computing. It was all moving so fast. I saw the instant the gunman realized he'd been left behind, because his whole body jerked. The gun wavered and then he turned on the college guy.

  For one second they stood frozen, one shaking in terror as the other pointed his weapon. Then a loud cracking noise filled the air. College boy fell. It looked like someone had thrown a bucket of crimson paint across the rack of cigarettes.

  The sound of sirens grew louder as more cars surrounded the building.

  "You bitch!" the man screamed, even louder than the siren and the ringing in my ears. "Joanna, you fucking bitch! You weren't supposed to leave! Get back here!"

  I couldn't breathe. Throat shut tight, I stayed cowering on the floor.

  He turned back to the mess of blood behind the counter and swore long and hard.

  "Put down the weapon," said a woman's voice through a loudspeaker. "Put it down slowly and come out with your hands in the air where we can see them."

  Heavy, mud-splattered brown boots smacked against the floor, coming at me. Oh, no. I had to reason with him, talk him down somehow. But my brain remained stalled, my body shaking. He might've been skinny, but he easily dragged me to my feet, the grip on my arm strong enough to break me in two.

  "Get up." A hand fisted painfully in my hair, the hot muzzle of the gun shoved beneath my chin. "Get to the door."

  Step by shuffling step we moved forward as he used me as a human shield. I almost tripped on my Pringles, the tube rolling beneath my foot, messing with my balance. His grip tore at my long blond hair, ripping a chunk free. Tears of agony flowed down my cheeks.

  "We can end this without any more violence," said the policewoman, voice crackling. "Let her go."

  The headlights were blinding, lighting up the rain. I could make out the shadow of a head, one of the cops half-crouched behind a car door, arms extended with a gun in hand. Georgia was out there somewhere. God, I hoped she was safe.

  "We've got both exits covered. Let her go and put down the weapon," she repeated. "We can still end this peacefully."

  Pain tore at my scalp again as he pulled my hair, shoving the gun into my mouth. My teeth chinked against the hard metal, the muzzle scratching the roof of my mouth. The stink of gunpowder filled my head.

  I was going to die, here, tonight, in the Drop Stop in my fucking pajamas. This was it. Out in the parking lot, someone screamed.

  "I'll kill her!" he yelled, foul breath hot against the side of my face, holding the door ajar with his body.

  "Don't." The cop sounded panicky now. "Don't. Let's talk."

  The gunman didn't respond. Instead, the hand that had been in my hair grabbed the store door handle, pulling it closed. Next he locked it, dirty fingers pushing the deadbolt home. No escape. Not with the gun in my mouth, trembling just like his hand. All of the things I'd never do if he pulled the trigger filled my mind. I'd never get to go home again, never say good-bye to Mom, never become a teacher.

  "Back up," he said. "Move!"

  The gun pressed deeper, making me gag. I dry-heaved. It did no good. Slowly, I put one foot back, then another, panting as we took baby steps. Racks full of magazines filled the front glass wall; nothing could be seen of us below chest height. Above that line, the world was red, white, and blue. It looked like some messed-up disco, colors flashing between the posters advertising drinks and other stuff. In the distance, I could hear the blare of a fire engine getting closer.

  Then he pulled the gun from my mouth, pushing me to the floor. I lay there, sucking in air, trying to keep calm, to make myself small, invisible. High above me chrome flashed, his arm swung in a mighty arc, and bam. The pistol's butt slammed into me, pain exploding inside my skull.

  "Stupid whore," he muttered. "Stay there."

  Then nothing.

  He did nothing else. For now.

  Honestly, I couldn't have moved if I tried. When I was eight, I'd broken my arm falling off the top bunk at camp. That had sucked. This, however, was on a whole different level. Agony crashed through me in waves, flowing through me from my head to my toes, turning my mind to mush. Staying aware of him wasn't easy between the hurt and the blood flowing from my forehead, dripping in my eye. I peered out from behind my hair, the world a blur.

  No movement, no noise at all. I tensed at the sound of footsteps, but they were moving away from me this time. I breathed as shallow as I could, crying silently.

  Everything turned to shadows as he switched off the overhead lighting. There was still enough light coming in from outside to see, though. Guess the policewoman had run out of things to say. The rain on the roof was the only sound.

  "Don't shoot," said a male voice. Muffled footsteps. "We've got our hands up. You're Chris, right?"

  "Who the fuck are you?" spat the gunman.

  "Dillon Cole's little brother, John," said the same voice.

  "Dillon . . ."

  "Yeah." Footsteps moved closer, toward the front of the store. "Remember me, Chris? You came around to see Dillon a few times at our house. You two used to hang together, back in school. You were both on the football team, right? I'm his brother."

  "Dillon." The gunman rocked on his feet, voice slurred. "Yeah. How the fuck is he?"

  "Good, real good. Keeping busy."

  "Shit. Great. Dillon." The muddy boots moved back, both coming into view. I could see bits and pieces, my face mostly shielded from view by my hair. The gunman leaned against the blood-spattered counter. "What are you doing here, ah . . ."

  "John," he repeated his name. One of the guys who'd been standing by the beer fridge. It had to be. "Just re-upping. You know how it goes."

  "I know, I know," said Chris. "I was just . . . I was picking up supplies too."

  "Right." John, the guy in the hoodie, sounded friendly, relaxed. Probably drugged to the gills like Chris, our friendly neighborhood psycho. I didn't know how else you could be calm at a time like this. "You should try the back door."

  "Yeah," slurred Chris. Straight away, he headed for the door in question, disa
ppearing out of sight with a wave of the gun in our general direction. "None of you three fucking move."

  It was so quiet. The click of the lock on the back door and the slamming of the same door a second later came through clear as day. Chris swore bitterly, striding back to the counter. "No good."

  "Damn," said John.

  "Not a bad idea, though . . . you know. Shit. Forgot this was open." Out of the topmost corner of my eye I could see Chris reaching over the counter, pulling cash out of the register. "You need any?"

  "Twenty never hurts, right?"

  "Right," laughed Chris, handing a couple of bills over. "Go around and grab me some cigarettes, would you?"

  "Sure. What do you smoke?"

  Chris huffed out a breath. "Marlboro."

  "No worries," said John, moving around behind the counter. "Man. What a mess."

  Squelching noises came from back there, the kind you get when a rubber-soled shoe meets something wet. My stomach turned, bile burning the back of my throat. I swallowed it down, trying once again to calm my breathing, trying to stay still.

  "What's your problem?" asked Chris.

  "Slippery back here," said John. "Never been great with blood."

  "Pussy." Chris giggled like a lunatic. "You've gone gray, man. You going to puke?"

  A grunt. "Go easy, I'm still in high school. I got a few years to get hard like you. Mind if I grab a pack?"

  "Sure, kid. Help yourself."

  "Thanks."

  I stayed still, taking it all in. And wasn't it beautiful that John and his hero Chris the meth-head could spend this quality time together? Fucking hell.

  Chris cleared his throat. "Who's your friend? Grab some for him too."

  "Ah, that's Isaac," said John. "A friend from school. He's on the football team."

  "No shit?" said Chris. "What position?"

  "Receiver," came a quieter, less assured voice.

  "I was fullback, Dillon was quarterback," said Chris proudly. "Those were the days."

  Isaac mumbled something agreeable-sounding. A match flared and the acrid scent of tobacco smoke drifted through the air.

  "Want me to get us something to drink?" asked John, like he was helping to host a damn party.

  "Mm."

  Squelch, squelch, came the footsteps toward me. Faded green Converse, the soles stained red with blood. I stayed still, sprawled on the ground, blood puddled around my face. At least the cool floor eased the ache in my head a little. A very little.

  Chris's friend, John, stopped beside me, watching for a moment. Without a word, he about-faced, leaving a trail of bloody shoe prints behind him.