Page 1 of Defensive Indifference

Chapter One

Koa

The flashing declined on the screen at the gas pump has all my attention. Quirking my head to the side, as confused about this as any puppy, I wiggle the nozzle as if it might magically spew out the gasoline into my car.

Nothing.

Frowning, I shove the nozzle back into the pump and head inside. Clearly, there is something wrong with my credit card, but it shouldn’t take more than a quick call to settle the issue. In my pocket, my phone vibrates every few seconds, but I’m focused on my task: get gas and get to practice before Coach has my head for being late again.

“Morning, Koa. Trouble with the pump?” The attendant, Tony, scrubs a hand over his dark beard and peers out the side window of the shop. I’m sure the pump won’t tell him the issue from here.

“Probably one of those security holds on the card. It’s happened before. No big deal. I need to fill up.” Sliding a bottle of water across the counter along with a hundred-dollar bill, I nod a hello to his assistant who is busy stocking potato chips. Tony rings up the gas and water and hands me my change.

“That was a great game last night, slugger. I got money riding on your next homer, so if you could make sure you get one next game, that would be great.” He chuckles, but he knows I don’t like gambling. I’m not about to try not to hit a home run, but whether or not it lines his pockets if I do or don’t is his problem, not mine.

“You know you shouldn’t bet on games, friend. You never know what can—” My phone picks up with dings and vibrations until I can’t take it anymore. “Hang on a sec, would you?”

Slipping my phone from my pocket with a sigh, I realize I’ve missed several calls from my sister. Blood rushes to my ears, thrumming until I manage to hit call. What if there was an emergency? She could need me, and I was being a jerk ignoring my phone.

She answers, panicked.

“Katie, what’s wrong?”

“Where are you? Have you heard?” Her frantic tone shoots adrenaline right through my veins. I manage to dip into a quiet corner.

“Heard what? Is there some sort of emergency?”

“Um, yeah, I’d say so! Daddy got arrested and Mom’s freaking out. The lawyers are on their way to meet with her, but the detectives said something about money laundering! Koa, you need to get over to my apartment right now.”

“Dad? Money laundering? Katie, that’s ridiculous. I’m sure the lawyers will get it sorted out and everything will be fine before lunch.”

“Uh, Koa, you better come here.” Tony calls for me, but he stares out the glass window at the pumps, waving for me to hurry.

“Hold on a second, Katie.” Rushing to the front of the shop, I catch sight of a tow truck hitching my car to the back. My car. The one I busted my butt to save up for my first year playing with the Sharks, so my father couldn’t hold over me that he bought it. Of all the things for them to come and repossess, this one is the last one that should be on the list. “Katie, I’ll call you back.”

“What’s going on?” Tony follows me outside as I make a beeline for my car. A van pulls up and before I know it, a news crew has a camera and a microphone in my face. Meanwhile, my very expensive baby is getting scratched up by a tow truck driver who has no idea how to get it on the truck.

“What are you doing to my car? That’s paid for in full, thank you very much!” I shove the guy back from my car and check the scratch marks. “That’s coming out of your pay. If you think you can mess up someone’s car and—”

“Paperwork here says it’s not yours anymore. Impounded as evidence. What’d you do?” He reeks of cigarette smoke and grins like he’s got an advantage over me while thrusting the order in my face.

“I paid for this car myself. It’s not evidence of anything.”

“I just tow the cars, bud. If you don’t let me, then that nice policeman over there is gonna put you in cuffs. Take it up with the judge.” He maneuvers me aside and shoves paperwork in my face again. Who knows what it says. I can’t see it because that dang reporter has her microphone in my face too.

“Mr. Keaton, can you comment on your father’s arrest and alleged laundering scheme with Mr.—”

“No! Get that thing out of my face.” I push the mic away and sidestep her, wondering when common decency died. I intend to head back into Tony’s shop, but more reporters show up, dragging more equipment with them, and I’m still not sure what’s going on.

“Here, borrow my car.” Tony tosses me his keys and nods toward the back of the lot. In a jog, I manage to get to the car, but I can’t get in. People surround me, pressing in with their questions and demands for an explanation I can’t give them. My phone vibrates and dings. People start to notice the commotion and wander to the station. One second I was late for practice, and the next, my life is front-page news.

Wiggling the key in my friend’s old car door does no good. I can’t get it open with people flashing cameras in my face, screaming over each other. One reporter gets too close and bops my head with a random piece of equipment. Red-hot rage simmers into a boil, overflowing thanks to this indecent show of human greed. They can’t stand the thought of not getting the scoop, being the first to break the story of the Keaton family crashing and burning. I’m not giving it to them.

I try to step back, hoping to get back into the shop where I can lock myself in the bathroom until they all leave, but they won’t part. They won’t let me pass, and my vision blurs. Claustrophobia is no one’s friend, least of all mine, as I grapple with partial information and aggressive vultures starving for a story.

“Move!” My shout is drowned in a sea of questions, so I move forward. Harder, pushing my way through until I’m met with a cameraman who refuses to be persuaded. He inches closer to my face, demanding an answer for my family’s treachery. “I said, move!” Shoving him only angers him and he pushes back. I can’t take it any longer. My fist connects with his jaw, forcing him to stumble backward until he loses balance and falls on his rear.

A car rushes forward, slams to a stop, the window rolled down. It’s Spencer Pruitt, my best friend since childhood. “Come on!”