Driven

CHAPTER 4

I strum my fingers on my desk, as I peruse through our parent company’s website. I have so many other things I need to be doing right now, but I find myself looking at pictures of all of the chairpersons on our board as well as the members of the organizing committee.

I can’t place which member’s son is Donavan, and it’s really starting to annoy me. I don’t have his last name to help the puzzles pieces fit into place. I wish I hadn’t told my staff that they could wait a few days on getting me the paperwork. I was just trying to be nice after all of the hard work they had put in. If I had it though, I’d have the answer. I know I could just call up Stella or Dane and ask the name of my future date, but then they’d know something is up because something like that wouldn’t be important to me. And with those two gossipers, I don’t want to open that floodgate.

More importantly, I’m irritated at myself for even caring who he is. “Manwhore,” I grumble under my breath.

I rub my tired eyes and run my fingers through my hair, pulling it back off my shoulders. I exhale loudly, for it has been a long, tiring weekend, and I’m exhausted.

I glance at the clock. I have fifteen minutes before I have to leave to get to The House for my twenty-four hour shift.

My computer pings and I click on my mailbox to see an incoming email. I don’t recognize the address, but can assume the person’s identity. Here we go again. I click on it because the subject line has piqued my curiosity.

To: Rylee Thomas

From: Ace

Subject: Backstage Liaisons

__________________________________

Ryles—

Would you have opened the email if the subject line simply stated, “Date the Highest Bidder”?

Didn’t think so.

You owe me a date.

Let me know your availability so I can make plans.

You have twenty-four hours to respond. Or else.

—Ace

I sigh heavily in confused relief. I’m irritated at his ridiculous ultimatum. More so though, I’m irritated at myself. Why, even if I don’t want to go out with him, do I feel like a giddy schoolgirl excited that he’s emailed me? That the cool, popular kid has acknowledged the awkward, ordinary girl.

After he’s made out with the head cheerleader behind the bleachers, that is. God, he is annoying! I check the clock to make sure that I have time for a response.

To: Ace

From: Rylee Thomas

Subject: Cat Got Your Tongue?

_______________________

Ace—

Demanding, aren’t we?

You never addressed your subject line. Should I worry about how many other emails you sent out with the same title to your other conquests from Saturday night trying to get a follow-up date?

-Ryl-E-E

I smile as I hit send, picturing his face in my mind. His smile. His emerald eyes. The devastation he had over my control. It’s only been two days since the auction, and yet I wonder if my memory is making Donavan out to be more than he really is. Making his transgressions seem less offensive than they really were. Before I can ponder it further, my inbox alerts me.

To: Rylee Thomas

From: Ace

Subject: Chivalry isn’t dead

_______________________

Ryl-E-E—

A gentleman never kisses and tells, Ryles. You should know that.

When you think about me, make sure to note that my demands will only result in your pleasure.

And you never answered my question. A bet’s a bet. Time to pay up, sweetheart.

—Ace

I laugh out loud to his response. Maybe if I ignore his question, he’ll just go away. Good luck with that! Despite detesting the game he’s playing, I find myself smiling as I type my reply. I’m a challenge to him, plain and simple. If I’d acquiesced to his request for a date, or maybe even if I had continued kissing him in the hallway without backing away, he’d have never given me a second thought. He would have had his wicked way with me and walked away without a backwards glance.

To: Ace

From: Rylee Thomas

Subject: Fat ladies and yellow birds

_________________________

Ace—

I read somewhere that a boy needs the adulation from many girls to be satisfied whereas a gentleman needs just the adoration from just one woman to be fulfilled. By that definition alone, you are definitely not a gentleman. That means you should be singing like a canary, then.

Besides, a date is WAY ABOVE my pay grade.

—Rylee

P.S. Oh, and don’t worry, I don’t think of you. At all.

Take that! I think, proud of myself for my wit despite the blatant lie in the last comment. I stand and pack up my stuff, straightening my desk. As I reach to turn my computer off, my inbox alerts me again.

To: Rylee Thomas

From: Ace

Subject: You need a raise

_________________________

Rylee—

I may be a man, but I’m nowhere near gentle. In fact, I think you’re a little curious just how I like it. Step over the edge with me, Ryles—I’ll hold your hand and revel in making you lose that self-control you pride yourself on. I’ll be anything and everything but gentle.

I promise. You’ll never know your limits until you push yourself to them.

If you refuse to give me availability, I may have to take matters in my own hands. Maybe someone taking control is exactly what you want? What you need?

—Ace

“Egotistical asshole,” I mutter as I switch off my computer, refusing to respond. Like he knows what I want or need. But despite my anger, his words reverberate through me more than they should.

***

My phone rings as I drive to The House. I’m in a foul mood for some reason and I can only blame it on Donavan and his damn emails. Damn him for filling me with wants and need and desire again. I glance at the screen on my phone and groan out loud.

It’s Haddie, my best friend and roommate. I’ve successfully avoided her and one of her notorious inquisitions since the event on Saturday night. Luckily she’d had plans that kept her out of the house because one round of her questions and she would’ve known something had happened.

“Hey, Had!”

“Ry! Where’ve you been? You’re avoiding me!” she reprimands.

Geesh, five words into the conversation, and she’s already starting in one me. “No, I’m not. We’ve just both been busy with—”

“Bullshit,” she argues, “I talked to Dane and know the story! Why didn’t you wake me up and tell me when you got home?”

I blanch wondering what Dane had told her, and then I realize that she is probably talking about the auction. “Because nothing happened but absolute humiliation. It was awful.”

“Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad!” she says sarcastically. “At least you got a hot date out of it. Who is he?”

I roll my eyes at her as I turn my car into the driveway of The House. “Some guy—”

“Well, obviously. I’m glad it wasn’t some girl because that would put a whole different spin on this.” She laughs at her joke, and I can’t help but smile at my dear friend. “So spill it, sister!”

“Really, Haddie, there’s nothing to tell.” I can her hear guffaw on the other side of the connection. “Oh, will you look at that? I just pulled up to The House. I gotta go.”

“Likely story, Ry. Don’t worry, I’ll get the scoop out of you when you get home tomorrow from work.” I cringe at the Haddie Montgomery promise to dig deeper. She never forgets.

“Look, I don’t know the guy,” I relent, hoping if I give her some information she’ll be satisfied and not pry any further. “Teddy introduced me to him before I was pulled into being a contestant. His name is Donavan something, and he’s the son of one of the chairpersons. That’s all I know.” I cringe at my blatant omission to my best friend.

I hear her hum of approval on the end of the line and know the exact expression that is on her flawless face. Her button nose is scrunched up in disbelief while her heart-shaped lips purse as she tries to figure out if I’m telling the truth. “I really am at work now, Had. I have to go. Love ya, bye.” I say, our usual parting words.

“Love ya, bye.”

***

There is chaos in The House as usual when I walk in the door. I step over six book bags that lay haphazardly in the entryway. I can hear Top 40 music coming from one bedroom and the beginning of an argument coming from another as I pass the hallway on my way to the core of the house.

I hear the pop of a baseball mitt coming through the open windows at the rear of the house, and I know that Kyle and Ricky are in the midst of their usual bout of catch. Any minute, one of them will be complaining that the other one has horrible aim. They’ll argue and then move to the next activity, playing with their Bakugan or competing at baseball on the Wii.

I walk into the great room to hear Scooter giggling as he sits next to my fellow counselor, Jackson, on the couch, arguing the merits of Spiderman versus Batman.

The great room is a common area of the house, combining the kitchen with a large open living area. Large windows open up to the backyard where I can see the boys playing catch. The room has couches on one end that form a U-shape around a small media center while the other end houses a big wooden table, currently covered with what appears to be incomplete homework. The earth-tone furniture is neither new nor shabby but rather gently worn and well used.

“Hey, guys,” I say as I place my bag on the kitchen island, appraising the state of dinner that appears to be in two large crock-pots on the counter.

I hear various versions of “Hi, Rylee” from the occupants of The House.

Jackson looks up from the couch, his brown eyes full of humor over his debate with eight-year-old Scooter, and smiles. “We were just taking a break from homework. They’ll have it finished before dinner is ready.”

I lift the lid off a crock-pot and stir what appears to be pot roast and vegetables inside. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I’d worked through lunch today at the corporate office. “Smells good,” I say, smacking Shane’s hand as he reaches to pinch a piece of the freshly baked loaves of bread that sit on cookie sheets on top of the stove. “Hand’s off. That’s for dinner. Go get a piece of fruit if you’re hungry.”

He rolls his eyes at me as only a fifteen-year-old boy can. “Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying,” he counters, his prepubescent voice cracking, as he skirts around me, brushing his shaggy blonde hair off his forehead.

“You need a haircut, bud.” He shrugs at me, his lopsided grin stealing my heart as it does regularly. “Did you finish your paper yet so I can review it?”

He turns around to face me, walking backwards, “Yes, Mom!” he replies, the term of endearment not lost on me. For that, in fact, is what the staff here is to these boys: we are the parents they no longer have, whether as a result of death, drugs, or other circumstances.

To the seven boys in my charge, my staff and I are guardians, since no other family member has come forward to claim them. And in most instances, the chance of adoption once they are above a certain age diminishes drastically. The state has turned over their guardianship to my company and this facility of which I am in charge.

I work mostly in the corporate office several miles away, but require that all of my trained staff work at least one twenty-four hour shift per week. This time allows them to connect with the boys, and to never forget whom exactly we are fighting on behalf of on a daily basis.

These boys and my staff are my second family. They fuel me emotionally and challenge me mentally. At times they try my patience and push my limits, but I love them with all my heart. I’d do anything for them.

Connor comes flying though the kitchen, running to the back door with something under his arm, Aiden chasing after him. “Hey, guys, calm down,” I reprimand as I hear Aiden shout that he’s going to get it back and make him pay.

“Cool it, boys,” Jackson says in his deep baritone, rising from the couch to watch the interaction. Those two have a habit of antagonizing each other, sometimes to the point where it becomes physical.

I feel small hands wrap around my thigh, and I look down into the angelic eyes of Scooter. “Hey, bud.” I smile, taking slow and deliberate movements to reciprocate the hug. I can see him steel himself for my touch, but he does not flinch. It has taken me sixteen months to elicit this reaction from an eight-year-old whose only physical contact in his short life with his mother was through fists or objects. I squat down to his eye level and kiss him softly on the cheek. Trusting, chocolate-brown eyes look to me. “I agree with you. Spiderman is way cooler than Batman. He’s got that spidey-sense that Batman only wishes he had.” He smiles at me, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Why don’t you go pick up your mess? It’s almost time for dinner.”

He nods, granting me a shy smile, and I watch him walk back to the family room and his beloved comic books, which are sprawled haphazardly across the floor. I move my gaze from Scooter to the figure huddled on the other couch.

Zander is static. He is in the same mute state he’s been in for the past three months he’s been in my care. He is curled into himself, an impassive expression on his face as he watches the muted television with large, haunted eyes. He has his beloved stuffed dog, ratty and coming apart at the seams, a lifeline held tightly against his chest. His wavy brown hair curls softly at the nape of his neck. He desperately needs a haircut, but I can still hear his terrified shrieks from a month ago when he caught sight of the scissors as I approached him with the suggestion of a trim.

“No change, Jax?” I murmur to Jackson who has walked up beside me, keeping my eyes on Zander.

“Nope.” He sighs loudly, empathy rolling off him in waves. He continues in a muted tone, “His appointment with Dr. Delaney was the same. She said he just stared at her while she tried to get him to participate in the play therapy.”

“Something is going to trigger him. Something will snap him out of his shock. Hopefully it will be sooner rather than later so we can try and limit damage done to his subconscious.” I hold back my sorrow for the lost little boy, “And help the police figure out what happened.”

Zander had come to us after the police found him covered in blood in his house. He had been trying to use a box of band-aids to stop the bleeding from the stab wounds that covered his mother. A neighbor walking her dog had overheard his mother’s strangled cries for help and called the police. She had died before they arrived. It is assumed that Zander’s father had committed the murder, but without Zander’s statement, it’s a relative mystery as to the events that led up to the actual act. With his father missing, he’s the only one who knows what happened that night.

Zander has not uttered a word in the three months since his mother’s murder. It’s my job to make sure we provide for him in every way possible so that he can dig his way out of the catatonic, repressed state he’s in. Then we can help him and begin the lengthy process of healing.

I turn from the heartbreak that is Zander and work with Jackson to get dinner finished. We work in sync, side-by-side, like an old married couple for we’ve had this shift together for the past two years. We can anticipate each other’s movements from repetitive practice.

We both work in silence, listening to the flurry of activity that is The House, mentally aware of the activities of the seven boys as well as what’s still needed to be done.

“So I heard the benefit was a success—with an unexpected entrant in the auction,” he wiggles his eyebrows at me and I roll my eyes in response before turning back to the sink, “and one hot and heavy make-out session backstage.”

I drop the knife I’m washing, clattering loudly against the stainless steel basin. I’m grateful that my back is to Jackson so that he can’t see the stunned look on my face. What the hell? Someone must have seen me with Donavan. I have to remind myself to breathe as I panic, trying to figure out how to respond. I don’t need my staff gossiping about my backstage encounter.

“What—what do you mean?” I try to sound casual, but I hope I am the only one who can hear the distress in my voice. I turn the water off, waiting for the response.

Jackson laughs his deep, hearty laugh. “I would have loved to see you in action, Ry.”

Shit, shit, shit! My heart races. How am I going to explain this one? I feel warmth on my cheeks as my flush spreads. I open my mouth to answer him when he continues.

“Parading around on stage in the event you so desperately fought against.” I can hear the amusement in his voice. “My God, you must have been pissed!”

“You have no idea.” My response is almost a whisper. I have nothing left to wash but I keep my back to him, afraid if he sees my face, the questions will start.

“And then Bailey told me she met this hot guy—her words, not mine—and lured him backstage in typical Bailey fashion and had a hot and heavy make-out session with him.”

I release the breath I’m holding, grateful that it was our intern Bailey bragging about her exploits rather than gossiping about her boss’s. And then I realize that sexy siren Bailey, whom all the guys at work want to date, was most likely Donavan’s first conquest on Saturday night.

If that were the case, why would he want to go from the auburn-haired bombshell with legs for days to me? Talk about reinforcing my feeling of being second choice.

I blow my hair up out of my face. “Well, you know Bailey,” I counter, trying to phrase my next words carefully, “She definitely likes to have her fun.”

Jax laughs at me, patting my back as he walks by, “That was a nice way of putting it,” he says as he starts to make the boys’ school lunches for the next day. “She’s a great girl, works hard, the kids love her … just not a girl I’d want my son to date.”

I murmur an agreement thinking about our beguilingly sweet intern, who is only five years my junior, and her free ways. A part of me has always been jealous of girls like her. Girls who throw caution to the wind in spontaneity and live their life without regrets; kiss random boys recklessly, take spur of the moment road trips, and are always the life of the party. I often worry that one day I’ll look back on my life and feel like I haven’t lived. That I haven’t taken enough chances, sowed my wild oats, or ventured outside my comfort zone.

My life is safe, predictable, controlled, and always in order. I like it that way most of the time. It’s not that I’m not jealous of her because she kissed Donavan first (well maybe a little), but rather that she lives without regrets.

I shake myself out of my thoughts, ones that I have been having more of lately with the anniversary approaching. If anything, I should have learned that life is short and I need to really live it, not stay in my safe corner of it as it passes me by. I pull myself from my thoughts and refocus on my task at hand.

“Boys,” I shout over the cacophony of chaos, “it’s time to come finish your homework.” I hear groans coming from various rooms for I’ve said the dreaded “H” word. Six boys, varying from eight to fifteen years old, sullenly walk toward the table, grumbling as they go.

I look over toward the couch where Zander remains curled into himself, rocking back and forth in rhythmic comfort.

I slowly walk toward him and kneel in front of him. “Zander, do you want to join us? I can read you a book, if you’d like?” I speak softly to him, slowly reaching my hand out, holding it still for him to see my intention, and rest it on his hand that rests on his knee. He continues rocking, but his blue eyes flicker over to hold mine.

I see so many things in the depths of his eyes that shake me to the core. I smile softly at him and squeeze his hand. “We’d love for you to join us.” He remains silent but his eyes are still fused on mine. A small sliver of hope springs within me since he normally looks at me and glances away after a few seconds. “Come on, Zander, take my hand, I won’t let go if you don’t want me to.”

He continues to stare at me for some time, as I remain stock still, a reassuring smile on my face. His tiny hand moves, and he closes his fingers around my hand. He stands slowly, and we move to join the rest of the boys at the table.