apartment. “I told you to keep the door

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unlocked.”

Mom hugs me tightly. “Go, baby,” she

whispers. “Come and get me in a few weeks.”

She rips the cardboard off the glass and I jump back when a hand shoots through the

already open window. “Give her to me.”

Isaiah pokes his head in and both of his

hands latch onto my body. I stop breathing and realize one way or another, one of these guys is going to kill me.

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Ryan

I SNAP MY ARM FORWARD. With a thump, the

ball hits outside the orange box taped onto the black tarp bag that serves as a target. My mind’s not in it today and I need it to be.

Placing my pitches is the priority. If Logan calls inside—I need to hit inside. If Logan calls outside—I need to hit outside. If he calls straight down the plate—I need to smack that mother too.

I keep thinking about Beth. She looked so damn small and lost that I wanted to gather her in my arms and shield her from the world.

Definitely not a reaction I ever thought I’d have with Skater Girl. I slap my glove against my leg. I’ll find out what’s going on with her at dinner. Silence will no longer be accepted.

I roll my shoulder in an effort to find some life in it, but I come up empty. I’ve pitched for HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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the past hour and the muscles in my arm are as useful as jelly.

The training facility isn’t much, just a

warehouse with green turf carpeting and an air conditioner welded to the ceiling. The unit buzzes overhead and every few seconds a bat cracks.

My coach, John, pushes off the metal wall.

“Good, but you’re still throwing with your arm. Your power and consistency are going to come from your legs. How’s the arm?”

Tired. Beth must hate this place. A

warehouse full of guys hitting balls into nets and pitching into bags. Part of me is

disappointed. She hasn’t stood once to watch.

“I can throw a couple more if you want.”

“Have you been resting your arm like we’ve discussed?”

“Yes, sir.” Not as much as I should. I can pinpoint the exact location of my rotator cuff: approximately two inches down from the top of my shoulder and, right now, it aches.

“Let’s call it a night.”

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keep returning. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“If you had to choose between playing

college ball and playing pro out of high school, what would you choose?”

John scratches his cheek as he stares at me with a mix of wonder and confusion. “Do you want to go to college?”

I don’t know. “If you had the choice, what would you have done?”

“I didn’t have that choice. College ball was my only option.”

“But if you did?”

“I would have gone pro.”

I slam the ball into my glove. Exactly.

Everyone with their college talk and writing competitions is screwing me up. “Thanks.”

“The question isn’t what I would have done.

The question is what do you want to do?”

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Beth

ISAIAH WRAPS HIS ARM TIGHTLY around my

waist and heaves me out the window. Mom’s hollow blue eyes have a haunting hurt as she stares at me one last time before slamming the glass pane shut and placing the cardboard back over the window.

“No!” I’ve left her behind. Again.

His grip becomes steel and the more I try to scramble back to the window, back to Mom’s apartment, the more he pulls me away. My

heart—it’s literally breaking. It has to be, because the pain in my chest slices as if glass is ripping through it.

My legs tangle with Isaiah’s. He keeps a

firm hold on my hip bones and forces

weightlessness by lifting me and moving me in the opposite direction of my mom. I struggle back to earth, kicking his shins, knocking my HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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knees against his. “Isaiah, Trent’s in there.

He’s going to kill her.”

“Let’s go.” His growl rumbles against my

ear.

“Did you hear me?” He couldn’t have. Isaiah would never leave me to die, so he could never leave my mom. The one person I need.

“Yes.” He presses against me and my

smaller body yields to his. No. My elbows bend back and with open palms I shove at his chest. My heart convulses with the smack of my hands against his body. I hit him—my best friend.

I’ll do it again if he doesn’t let me go. “I hate you!”

“Good,” he says. His nostrils flare as he lightly shakes my hips. “Because I won’t feel bad when I toss you over my shoulder and

throw you in the damned car.”

My palms, still stinging from hitting him, rest on his chest. His heart beats wildly, matching the crazy glare in his eyes. Isaiah means what he says.

So do I. “I’m not leaving without her.”

“Get in the car before I force you into it.”

His hands tighten. A warning. A threat. My HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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chest constricts, making it impossible to breathe. Impossible to think. “He hits her.”

I say it like it’s a secret. Because it is. My secret. The secret I hide from everyone. The secret that leads to my worst secret: he hits me.

Isaiah knows this already, but it’s different. I’m saying it out loud. I’m making it real. And I’m asking him to save me. I’m asking him to save her.

Isaiah presses his face unimaginably close to mine. “He will never touch you again.”

My throat swells and my voice comes out

small. “I’ll let him if it saves her.”

A visible shiver runs through his body and his hands release my waist. Becoming a brick wall, Isaiah plants his feet on the ground and crosses his arms over his chest, practically daring me to move past him.

I step to the left. Isaiah steps with me. I step to the right. He mirrors the movement. “The car, Beth. Now.”

“Get out of my way!” He doesn’t and I feel like a cat trapped in a box. I claw at his chest.

Push. Hit. Scream. Yell. Curse. Until my hands pound against him again and again and again.

Frustrated. Angry. Betrayed.

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His arms weave through my attack,

placing warm palms against my face. He

strokes away the wetness on my cheeks. A

wetness I don’t understand. I smack his arms off me. “If you were my friend…if you cared, you’d help me!”

“Goddamn it, Beth, I’m doing this because I love you!”

My heart beats once and stalls as the world becomes horrifyingly still. I see it, in his eyes—the sincerity. I shake my head. “As a friend,” I whisper. “You love me as a friend.”

We stare at each other. Our chests rising and falling rapidly. “Say it, Isaiah. Tell me you love me as a friend.” He’s silent and my mind feels like it’s on the verge of fracturing. “Say it!”

I don’t want to deal with this. I don’t have time for this. I step around him. “I’m getting her.”

“Fuck this,” he hisses as he bends. His

shoulder makes contact with my waist and in seconds my head dangles over his back, my feet kicking him. I scream and watch through blurred vision as he creates more distance between me and Mom.

A car door clicks open. Isaiah slides my

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body from over his shoulder, covers my

head, and uses his strength and size to push me into the backseat while keeping me from

bolting out of it. The door slams shut and Isaiah has a death grip on my wrist. My head snaps to the left. The other door. It’s locked. I pull at my wrist to gain freedom, to open the other door, but Isaiah retains his hold.

The car whips into reverse and the engine whines when it accelerates.