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“Well, you know where I am, so if you need help, just say the word. Oh, and we have that gallery opening in New York that we need to make an appearance at in a couple of weeks. Are you going to be able to get away for that one?”
Shit, I’d forgotten about that. Katie and I have to keep up appearances so that we have solid covers for other jobs, so Princess Kensington and Lady Katherine need to be seen rubbing elbows with the rich, famous, and influential.
“Yes, okay, I’ll ask Dad if I can borrow the jet. I can spare forty-eight hours to do that. The team will have to manage without me for that long.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then, and Kenz, be careful.”
The screen goes blank, and I realize my bladder is telling me that I’ve been asleep a long time, so I ease the blankets back and, with my body screaming at me, I manage to get up. I shuffle to the bathroom that’s on the ground floor before going in search of more painkillers and a big glass of water.
No one seems to be around, but I find my pills on the kitchen counter and grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, throwing two back. I chase them with a long drink before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Grabbing the rest of the pills, I shuffle back to my cozy nest on the sofa in the lounge. I’m going to make the most of the next couple of days, because I need to hit the ground running once I get to Summerville.
Chapter 7
My body is still a mottled mess of bruises when the bus I’m on pulls into the station, but with a few days of rest and some wicked good painkillers, I am just about functional again. I’m not back to full capacity, but I’m okay.
When I step off the bus, the driver has already removed my small, battered suitcase from below and is climbing back on without a backward glance. The backpack I’m carrying is the only other item I have. Looking around the quiet station, I search for the person from the halfway house who is supposed to collect me. Mrs. Standish is one half of a couple who runs the government funded home for teenagers who don’t have anywhere else to go. According to my file, Serenity House can cater to fifteen teenagers all on the brink of aging out of the system or who already have and are trying to get on their feet. Most of them are high school students, and the Standishes help them gain skills to become fully functional members of society once they age out.
According to reports they filed with police, a few of their charges have disappeared, but it was never pursued because they were seen hopping onto buses much like the one I just got off, so it was assumed they were just finding somewhere else to put down roots, but they were never seen again. Somewhere between the time they got on the bus and it arriving at its destination, they disappeared.
The local police may have blown it off, but that’s the kind of thing that raises flags at MITHOS, and a deeper investigation by the nerd herd discovered something more sinister than just itchy feet—a sex trafficking operation that all seems to start in this town. Over the last five years, more than thirty teenagers from this town alone have disappeared, but because they were all fosters or troubled teens, nobody paid too much attention. When we spread that search to all of America, the statistics were alarming.
That was when it was decided to send a team in undercover. I have a week to settle into my new role before I have to touch base with Team Bastards.
Just then, an out of breath woman runs into the station and waves her hand at me. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry. Are you Mackenzie Walsh? I’m Martha Standish.” The woman’s cheeks are flushed, and she’s breathing heavily as she waits for me to answer. She’s probably in her early fifties and is dressed casually in a nice pair of shorts, a classy pale pink shirt, and sandals. Her blonde hair is cut in a short bob, and her makeup is light, her brown eyes framed with dark mascara-clad eyelashes.
“Yeah, I’m Mackenzie, I prefer Mac.” I give her the name I decided to use as she scans the bruises on my face. Fucking Miller really worked me over, but the flash of sympathy in her eyes makes it worth it.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come on, let’s get you home. I’m so sorry I was late. There was road work on the way that I hadn’t anticipated, but we’ll go home a different way and get you settled with a hot meal in no time.” She picks up the suitcase at my feet and nearly stumbles when she feels how light it is. She frowns down at it, and I do my best to blush as I avoid her gaze.
“I was hoping maybe the town had a thrift shop. One of the nurses at the hospital was nice enough to give me that suitcase, but when the cops went back to the foster home, they had destroyed most of my things. I have some tip money from my waitressing job. It was in my pocket when this happened.” I point to my face. “It’s actually why this happened. They wanted it, and I wouldn’t give it to them. How else was I supposed to eat and buy tampons?” I tell her quietly, and when I peer up at her from under my eyelashes, I see she’s frowning, but it’s a look full of sympathy.
Really, it’s because none of my clothes at home say poor homeless foster child. No, my mother is big on designer labels and insists on still buying me clothes—not that I don’t do my own shopping, but sometimes it’s just easier to say yes to Princess Sadeen when she goes into royal mode. Both Dad and I have learned to pick our battles.
“We sure do. I can stop there on the way home if you want. In fact, one of my girls, Cassie, works there after school. She should be able to help you.” She beams proudly, and I give her a small smile.
“That would be great.”
When we get to her car, I’m a little surprised to see it’s brand new and a luxury brand. She notices me staring at it, and her grin becomes smug. “My husband just got a promotion at work, and he bought it for me.”
She opens the trunk and puts my case in before going around to the driver’s side. She gestures for me to climb in, and within seconds, we’re pulling out onto the road.
“Okay, let’s go over the rules. No drugs, no alcohol, no boys. You can get an afterschool job, but your curfew is nine during the week and eleven on weekends, and there are no exceptions. You will also be assigned chores around the house and expected to maintain a 3.0 GPA.” She takes her eyes off the road to look at me. “I know it probably sounds a bit strict, but we are trying to help you succeed in life once you leave our place. Now that you have arrived, we have five girls and three boys living with us. Three of you are seniors, but the rest are younger. Everyone has the same rules. If you need help writing a resume, James can help you with that. I know there are a few openings in some of the restaurants, and I also think the movie theater may be hiring as well. Meals are provided. You serve yourself breakfast and lunch, and dinner is served at six—no exceptions except if you have work or after-school activities. We have a white board in the kitchen where you can add those kinds of things to it so I can keep track of where you all are.”
She pulls the car into a parking lot out in front of a large thrift store and shuts it off before turning to me. “We’ll give you the week to settle in, and then you will be expected to pull your weight. Do you understand?”
I nod, not meeting her eyes as I roll mine internally. Playing meek and mild has always been difficult for me, but I suck it up.
“Good, I think you’ll find if you follow the rules, living in my home will be easy, but there are consequences for not following the rules. I’d rather not have to punish you if I don’t have to.” There’s a hint of coldness in her tone, but when I look up, she’s all gentle smiles and soft eyes. Huh, maybe I imagined it.
“Why don’t you run along and get yourself some clothes? I’ll wait here for you. There’s nothing worse than feeling rushed while trying to make decisions, and I’m sure my taste is very different from yours.” She looks down at my ripped jeans and fitted T-shirt, unable to hide her distaste. “Maybe grab a few nice dresses and skirts while you’re in there, and a pair of jeans that aren’t so… ratty.”
I smother my grin and thank God she can’t actually see the designer label on the back of them. I’ll have to tear that off before I wash them in case anyone else sees it. Usually I’m better organized and would have gone to a thrift store close to home, but with my injuries, I didn’t get a chance to, and my mother wouldn’t be caught dead stepping into one.
“Okay, I won’t take long,” I promise and climb out of the car, placing a hand across my still aching ribs. They are taking the longest to heal, but the bruise cream I’ve been rubbing in seems to be helping. I’ve been walking around for days smelling like arnica, but I can’t deny the fact that the cream reduces the pain and bruising quicker than if I left it alone. I always have some on me just in case.
I put my backpack over my shoulder. Not only does it have my money in it, but it also has my gun, ammo, phone, and expensive laptop, which a foster kid definitely should not have. I can’t risk Martha snooping while I’m gone.
Closing the door of the luxury sedan quietly, I head into the thrift store. There’s quiet music playing and the scent of washed fabric. It’s different than the smell of a store where you buy new stuff. That still has a chemical fragrance to it, while in here, the smell is cozy, comforting, and inviting.
