Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Somewhere Austin hasn’t tracked you down.
I mentally agree with the errant thought, but I haven’t decided where that might be. The beach… the mountains… the city? Another nanny job, or something else entirely? Maybe Cole could help me with that—getting away to somewhere new, someplace safe.
I’ve been staring at the card for so long that the numbers have blurred, and I blink to clear my vision. Am I really going to ask a complete stranger for help? That is not my style at all. Self-reliance, party of one, is more how I roll. Been this way for years, for many reasons.
I don’t even know what type of help he might provide or what kind I might need. Mostly, I just know I should get out of this area, where Austin shows up at my usual coffee shop, the gym I frequent, and the vintage thrift store where I like to shop. While I usually go with the flow, letting fate take me where I’m supposed to be, it feels like I need to be a bit more intentional this time.
Or maybe not exactly intentional, but rather, just further away… and more anonymous.
With a sigh, I shove the card into my purse without picking up my phone.
But like it knew I was considering dialing, my traitorous phone rings in the cupholder of my Tesla sedan. I glance at it, and though the screen shows ‘Number Blocked’, I know exactly who it is.
Instead of the usual greeting of ‘hello,’ I bite out, “Austin, leave me alone.”
“Aw, come on, Rye. Don’t be like that.” I hate it when he calls me that, like it’s some cute nickname and not a disgustingly gross bread that is only tolerable with corned beef and mustard. “Come home. You know it’s time since your gig with the rich brat ended. You can bring that money home with you too. The kids could use new shoes for school.” Austin’s voice is the same as it was the day I turned fifteen and he told the judge that he wanted to be the stable father figure I’d been missing all my life—filled with false earnestness and easy confidence.
Home? Is that what he thinks his house is for me? Surely not. But my heart drops into my stomach as the rest of what he said sinks in. Does he know that Bianca gave me a severance package equal to one month of my already-generous pay?
No, there’s no way he could. Although, I wouldn’t put it past him to cuddle up with a teller at my bank and worm some information out of her. Austin can be charming when it serves him. And money, especially money he doesn’t have to work for, always serves him.
“Then you should buy them,” I reply, keeping my voice steady and calm the way I’ve practiced.
He won’t. Spending funds on his wards isn’t how Austin functions. He takes in the foster kids, cashes the checks, and lets them fend for themselves, mostly, only doing his caring dad act when the state comes around. I lost count of the number of times I had to do the ten-minute clean job, and the amount of gaslighting I had to get rid of after leaving that house is enough to write a textbook twice over.
Not all foster families are like that. In fact, most of them aren’t.
After my mom died when I was five, I moved around from family to family for almost ten years. Sometimes, I lucked into some really good placements, with caring foster parents and all those sweet niceties, like enough food to eat and shoes that actually fit. Leaving those for whatever reason was always the suck.
Austin’s home wasn’t one of those.
“Get your ass home, Riley. You have responsibilities here,” Austin spits, all warmth and charisma evaporating when I don’t bend to his authority.
I don’t know why he thinks I will. I left his house years ago, running away barely a year after he adopted me and making my way through the rest of high school on friends’ couches rather than live under his thumb, because those responsibilities he says I have… they’re his, not mine. They were never mine, no matter how much he tried to make it seem like they were.
“I’m never coming back,” I tell him for what seems like the thousandth time. “I don’t know why you even care. You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough. You’ve always been a pretty little thing. Too smart for your own good.” He chuckles to himself like that’s amusing. “But so pretty.” He drawls the last part out, emphasizing it and giving it a worrisome meaning.
A shiver runs down my spine at the implication.
Austin was never inappropriate with me during the short time I lived with him, and to my knowledge, he’s never crossed a line with any of the other fosters, but I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a full-grown adult, and there are creeps of all types and kinds, even ones who like women with constantly changing hair, mosquito bite-sized titlets, wide hips, a mouth that runs before my brain can stop it, and enough trauma to drop an elephant like a tranquilizer dart. And if I’ve got a vulnerability, it’s that I let people use my trauma to manipulate me, but I’m working on that and getting much better. The proof of my improvement is even in this conversation with Austin, where I’m standing on business and not letting him sway me with guilt I shouldn’t feel anyway.