Found (The Scions Book 2) Read online

  “He’s outside. Has been for the last couple of hours.”

  “What?” I cry, jumping up from the couch. “He’s outside now?”

  “When he came yesterday and your dad wouldn’t let him see you, he sat outside for about four hours. In the end your mom called Sleaze and he came and got him.” Emmy says, her voice soft.

  “I say we go kick his ass,” Dill suggests, his eyes lighting up excitedly.

  “No,” I cry, rushing to the door, pulling it open and darting up the stairs. Crossing the room, I pause at the window that looks out onto the driveway and the road beyond. When I spot him, my body jolts backward. He’s sat on the curb, his feet in the road. His shoulders are slumped forward, and his head is hanging low. He looks pitiful.

  “Why is he here?” I ask the room.

  I see my mom from the corner of my eye a moment before she appears at my side. Her arm slides around my waist and she leans over and kisses my temple. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Honestly, honey, I don’t really know. He’s pretty adamant that he didn’t set the video to play; that he didn’t record it or even know it existed. Brandi is talking with his social worker about finding him a place in another family.” Mom says, her tone hard.

  “They’re kicking him out?” I gasp.

  “Valentine has a complicated past, honey. His social worker was hoping that a stable home might help him.”

  “He wasn’t bad all the time,” I say, feeling like I need to defend him.

  “He’s been bullying you.” My mom says incredulously.

  “I know, but he…” I falter, not knowing how to explain that at times he wasn’t bad. At times he was just a boy; a complicated, sad boy.

  Pulling away from my mom, I take cautious steps toward the front door.

  “What are you doing?” Zeke asks. “Don’t go out there. Dad might not be able to kick his ass, but we can. I’ll get rid of him.”

  “No, just… just let me speak to him for a minute, then I’ll make him go,” I say, my voice small and unsure. I don’t know why, but I can feel the pull between us and my body is urging me to go to him. Maybe it’s to hear it from his lips, maybe it’s a masochistic need to see his victory. But whatever it is, I’m opening the door and walking toward him.

  I watch as he lifts his head, then looks over his shoulder. When he spots me, he jumps up and rushes toward me. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice shaking, frantic.

  “I just want to know why? Wasn’t everything else enough?” The words rush out of me in a garbled mess, desperate to just know the truth.

  Valentine shakes his head, his eyes imploring. “I didn’t… I swear to fucking God, Nova, I didn’t do this. I didn’t know the video existed. I didn’t record it and I swear, I fucking promise, I did not set it up to play. I was at a meeting with my social worker. Brandi was with me. I didn’t even get to school until after the pep rally started. This wasn’t me.”

  It takes me a moment to respond, to let his words sink in. “I don’t believe you.”

  His whole body shrinks in on itself, like all of the air has deflated from him with my words. He closes his eyes and releases a trembling breath. “Why would you?” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “I’ve done nothing but hurt you, I wouldn’t believe me either.”

  I open my mouth to speak but his words stop me.

  “I’m gonna be gone soon, but I’m going to find out who did this to you, Princess. Before I leave, I’m going to find them and I’m going to make them pay.”

  Incapable of speech, I watch mute as he turns and leaves, his head down, his shoulders slumped.

  She doesn’t believe me. Why would she? I was a fucking idiot for thinking she would. I mean look at everything I’ve done. This video seems just like my style; hell, it’s totally something I’d do. But not to her.

  I just hope they don’t move me before I get a chance to find out who it really was. I’m not an idiot. I heard Brandi talking to Trisha last night. I’ll be gone as soon as they can find me a bed somewhere else and I don’t blame them, I’m toxic.

  The walk back to Brandi and Sleaze’s goes too fast, and much sooner than I’d like I’m at the door, pushing it open and stepping inside. I scan the foyer for my bags, half expecting them to be packed and waiting for me; that’s happened before. But there are no bags, no sign of my stuff sitting here waiting to be collected. The only thing I actually own, the only thing that’s truly mine, is my cell phone. It was top of the line when I got it three years ago, but now it’s old and there’s a crack in the screen. It’s the only thing left of my old life, the only thing that’s mine from the last time I was actually me.

  “Valentine, is that you?” Brandi calls.

  “Yeah,” I say, padding into the kitchen. This is it; this is the moment that she tells me to go pack my shit. For the first time since I left my home, I’ll actually be sad to leave somewhere. This town, these people, they changed things for me. I haven’t shown it, especially not to Nova, but I think I could have called this town home, at least until graduation.

  When I find Brandi, she’s on the big comfy couch that’s in the corner of the kitchen. The TV is playing, the volume low, and there’s a mug cupped between her palms. “Come sit with me a minute,” she says.

  Sighing wearily, I lower myself onto the couch. “It’s okay. I get it.”

  “You get what?”

  “Why you want me to leave. It’ll only take me a few minutes to get my stuff. I never actually unpacked.”

  “What happened between you and Nova?” Brandi asks, her expression neutral, not showing the hatred I’m sure she’s feeling.

  “I didn’t set that video up.”

  “What happened before the video?” She coaxes.

  Sighing, I lift my hands up and rub at my face. “Nothing good,” I admit.

  Brandi twists slightly in her seat until she’s turned to face me. “Tell me.”

  So I do. I tell her about the fucked-up blackmail, the threats, the fight with Brit. I tell her everything except for the way I touched Nova and the way she touched me back. Those times had nothing to do with blackmail or coercion; those moments were all heat and want and desire for both of us.

  By the time I’ve finished, my gaze is fixed on my hands in my lap. I can’t look at her, knowing all I’ll see will be disgust reflected back at me. “That’s everything.”

  “Wow,” she breaths quietly.

  “Yeah. But that video, that wasn’t me. I know after everything I just told you, you probably won’t believe me, but it wasn’t me.”

  Brandi is silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “How many placements have you been in before you came here?”

  My eyes snap up to her. “What? Why?”

  “Just answer the question, Valentine.”

  “Twelve.”

  “What you did to Nova. Have you done that before?”

  “No,” I say sullenly. “Look, don’t worry about it; I’ll pack my shit.” Pushing my palms down onto the cushions, I start to rise, but her hand on my wrist stops me and I reluctantly lower myself back down again.

  “I know your history. Not everything, but enough. I know about Bella.”

  Shaking my wrist free of her grip, I surge upwards and back away from the couch. “Fuck this, what time is Trisha going to be here?”

  “She’s not.”

  “What? Then where the fuck am I going? I can’t get out of the system until I graduate high school and I already tried to get my GED but the court won’t allow it. I have to actually attend classes; it’s one of the terms of my trust.” I shout, my feet taking me toward the exit, poised to run.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” Brandi says calmly.

  “What?”

  “You aren’t going anywhere, Valentine. This is your home until you graduate, if that’s what you want; or forever, it’s your choice. I believe you didn’t record or play that video. I’m not happy about all the other stuff
and you’ll be starting sessions with a psychiatrist as soon as I can set up an appointment. But I believe you. I saw you the other night when she was here. I saw the way you looked at her.”

  Shaking my head, I take another step back.

  “I believe you. But I’m not sure how you’re going to convince Nova or the others that you’re innocent.”

  “You believe me,” I say slowly, the words sounding strange on my tongue.

  “Yes, I do.” She smiles, and it’s warm and surprisingly reassuring. “Do you want to stay here?”

  “Yes,” I say, not hesitating for a second.

  “Good. Then figure out who did this to her, tell Zeke and Griffin, and make them pay for hurting our girl. Once you’ve done that, we’ll figure out how to get her to forgive you and how to make sure Echo doesn’t kill you.”

  I nod, unsure what else to say. Brandi is a virtual stranger. She might have read my file, but she doesn’t know me. Yet she’s offering me her faith, her belief, and I have no idea what to do with that.

  “Head on upstairs. The work you missed yesterday and today is on your bed. Get started because your teachers are expecting you to be up to date when you go to school on Monday.”

  I nod again, then slowly turn and head upstairs. When I reach my room, I push open the door and see the neat pile of papers on my bed, but despite everything she just said, it makes no sense that I’m not packing my bags right now. I bullied and blackmailed her niece. I’m an asshole and yet she isn’t getting rid of me.

  Sinking down to the bed, I pull my cell from my pocket and dial Nova’s number; it rings but she doesn’t answer. Did I really expect her to? I disconnect the call and open up the text app, writing out a message to her and sending it before I can think better of it.

  Me: Brandi isn’t kicking me out.

  Staring at the screen I wait for the three dots to appear to show me she’s replying, but they don’t. I don’t know why I text her, or why I thought she might reply. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, or hope?

  Dropping my cell to the comforter, I pick up the papers Brandi left for me and start to read through the work I missed. It’s so basic it’s almost laughable. The only good thing about me not going to a fancy prep school anymore, is that the work at public school is ridiculously low level and the papers in my hands are things I was studying in the ninth grade. Hell, even the AP classes I take are still easy.

  I’m a throwaway, but I’m not a fucking idiot. I might be wearing hand-me-down clothes and I might have moved from house to house for the last three years on the whims of whatever social worker gets lumbered with my case file, but I refuse to bow under the pressure of my circumstances. My grades have never dipped below a perfect 4.0 grade average, my IQ is well above the norm and even though I’m an asshole, the multiple schools I’ve attended can never say I didn’t apply myself.

  The homework takes me an hour to finish, then I spend the next hour reading ahead in my books. When I get to school on Monday, I need to focus on finding out who did this to Nova. That’s all that’s matters to me right now.

  My cell beeps to signal an incoming text message and I’m so shocked that it takes me a minute to grab for it. I want it to be her, or any of them. But why would they text me? They all hate me. I hurriedly swipe the screen to open it, my fingers stumbling over the simple action.

  Nova: Why?

  Just one word, that’s it. I’m dialing her number before I can even consider my actions and as I lift my cell to my ear I listen as it rings, desperately hoping to hear her voice. She doesn’t answer and I quickly type out another text, damn the consequences.

  Me: Answer the phone.

  I call her again; but again, I listen to it ring and without her answering. Frantic now, I type another text.

  Me: Would it make it better or worse if I told you to answer your cell?

  I hit send and instantly regret it. What the fuck was I thinking sending that message? Quickly I dial her number, knowing she won’t answer, especially not now.

  It rings once, twice, and then the ringing stops, replaced with the soft sounds of her breathing. For a long moment neither of us speaks. “Are you okay?” I ask finally, my voice a broken rasp.

  “No,” she whispers.

  “I know you hate me, and you should. You should totally fucking hate me.”

  “I just want to know why. What did I do to you to make you do that to me?” Her voice is so small, so weak, and I fucking hate that she thinks it was me.

  “You won’t believe me and I’m not sure I blame you, but I didn’t have anything to do with that video. Everything else, that was me. Fucked-up and awful and I’m an asshole. I admit it. But that video, recording it, and playing it; that wasn’t me.”

  The line goes silent again and my heart falters. I need her to keep talking. If she ends the call now, I might never get another chance to hear her voice.

  “You’re the only person who would want to hurt me like that,” she says, her voice soft and full of pain. She’s right. I did want to hurt her. I wanted to punish her for something she’s never done, would never do, something that isn’t even about her. But I didn’t do this.

  “Not like that, Princess, I swear.” Her nickname slips from my lips. I hear her sharp inhale of breath a moment before the line clicks off. “Fuck,” I hiss, closing my eyes, my cell still cradled against my ear. Why didn’t I say more? Why didn’t I say something, anything, to make her believe this wasn’t me?

  I should have told her that I ruined her date with Henry because I didn’t want her going out with anyone but me. I should have admitted that I planted the seed of betrayal with Brit, but only after she cornered me and offered to blow me on the regular, as long as I never went out with Nova. Brit was a shitty friend who bitched about her behind her back and offered sexual favors to keep guys away from her.

  I should have been honest enough to tell her that I only blackmailed her into pretending to be dating me, because I wanted her to touch me, to kiss me. I should have explained that after what Bella did, I was too fucked up to just be able to tell her the normal way that I was interested in her. I should have admitted that my past has left me so messed up by the women in my life, that I thought manipulating her and controlling her was the best way to have her and not have to be vulnerable.

  But more than anything, I should have admitted that when she told me about how overwhelmed she got, how her thoughts and doubts plagued her, that it terrified me. That it reminded me of my mom and I was scared. That I lashed out and yelled at her, because although all of this started out as some kind of fucked-up game, that day in my room changed everything.

  But I didn’t say any of that and I’m not sure she’ll ever give me the chance again.

  My cell is flying through the air and bouncing off the drywall before I even realize I’ve thrown it. Hitting the floor with a sickening crunch, I don’t have to look at it to know it’s broken, smashed. The last vestige of the life I should be living, the life I would be living if my mom wasn’t a coward, too afraid of what other people think to seek help.

  Climbing off the bed, I slowly make my way to where my phone is lying on the floor. The screen is smashed to pieces and there’s a large crack down the side of the case. Sliding down the wall, I land on my ass on the floor, my cell clutched to my chest. In the years since I landed in foster care, I’ve fought for this phone. I’ve taken more than one beating from kids who wanted to steal it. I’ve argued with more staff at group homes than I can remember over the fact that it’s paid for and mine. I’ve kept this cell safe and with me since the day I left my mom, screaming and yelling for her to stop, to let me stay.

  Now it’s broken and all because I’m a fucking idiot and I lost my chance with the girl that has kept me teetering between hatred and obsession since the first time I laid eyes on her.

  He called me Princess. The sound of my nickname on his lips, the way for the very first time he used it as an endearment and not an insult, has goose bumps p
ebbling across my skin. I shouldn’t have read his texts. I definitely shouldn’t have answered when he called. But for some reason I’m unwilling to examine further, I just couldn’t resist.

  I’ve read books where the girl falls for the broken anti-hero and I’ve always felt a sense of smug satisfaction that I’m so much smarter than those stupid girls. But am I? I’m not in love with Valentine. There’s no way I could love someone who enjoys torturing me as much as he does, but I feel something for him that doesn’t feel like hate anymore.

  If I’d never gone to his house, if I’d never allowed him to touch me, then I don’t think I’d be doubting my opinion that he’s a huge douchebag. But I did. The first time he might have manipulated me into being there, but the second time I went willingly. In fact, I think I may have run into his arms and let him sweep me away from all the noise inside my head.

  He never demanded more of me than I was willing to give him, and he so easily could have. I never realized how deep my sense of loyalty ran until he threatened my friends and family. I would have done anything to protect them and he saw that. He saw more of me than anyone else ever has.

  A flicker of uncertainty sparks to life. I’d been so sure that he recorded that video and played it for the whole school to see. When I’d been on the floor, my body wracked with tears and sobs, I was convinced that he’d done it just because he could, just to see me toppled from my pedestal and crash to the ground.

  I don’t have a lot of clarity on how he looked at school, but today when I’d told him I didn’t believe him, he’d looked… broken.

  Maybe he’s just an incredibly good actor. If this was him, then he’s won. I’m home, humiliated, terrified that I’m crazy, and everyone knows. My family, my friends, the entire school; they all saw me at my weakest. What else is there left for him to do to me?

  What if he didn’t do it?

  The question swirls through my mind again and again and I close my eyes, begging my head not to suffocate me with thoughts. Ever since the sedative the doctor gave me wore off, I’ve felt blissfully numb, my mind quiet, almost relaxed. Peaceful.