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She doesn’t have shoes on. She doesn’t even seem to notice.
Fuck, she’s a mess.
No time to go back and get them. I’m sure Dad has shoes for her in all those bags of shit he bought her. If not, we can get her some.
“Come on,” I say, holding onto her arm and escorting her to the car. I open the door and put her in, then I hurry around to my side and drop in. I didn’t park in a spot, just stopped at the door and got out because I didn’t want to waste any time.
I fire up the engine and peel out, in a hurry to get away from the building just in case her twat momdidcall the cops.
Once we’re clear of the shitty neighborhood she lives in and no red and blue lights are following us, I figure we’re probably in the clear.
Kennedy hasn’t spoken. She sits there with her arms curled around her body, her gaze distant as she looks out the window.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I ask her. “You don’t need me to take you to the hospital or anything?”
She shakes her head wordlessly, but my question pulls her out of her trance. She tugs at the ripped hem of her dress, trying to pull it down.
“I didn’t expect you to come,” she says quietly.
“My dad didn’t answer when Jet called him. There wasn’t time to wait.”
She nods just a little, then she looks over at me. “Well, thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I say, looking out ahead at the road. “Your mom’s a piece of fucking shit. She just sat on the couch and let him fucking attack you? Has that shit happened before?”
“Not with him,” she murmurs, but she looks away from me and I get the distinct impression she doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Well, I maintain your mom’s a cunt.”
She cracks a sad little smile. “Yeah, she is.”
No wonder she’s willing to fuck my dad to get away from her.
Speaking of my dad, I need to call him and let him know what’s going on. I tap his name in my recent calls log and put the phone to my ear.
“Yeah?” he answers on the second ring.
“Hey, don’t go to her apartment. I’ve got her. Just meet us at home.”
“Is she all right? Jet said her mom and her boyfriend attacked her and she was barricaded in the bathroom.”
“Yeah,” I murmur grimly, but try to keep it vague since I know she’s listening and probably isn’t ready to be reminded of all of it. “She wasn’t by the time I got there, but she’s safe now.”
“Fuck,” he says, tearing away from the phone. He comes back. “How bad is she hurt?”
I glance over at her. Her head is down. She’s absently messing with her fingernails.
Her lip is busted, and there’s a scratch across her skin. I can’t tell from here, but back in the apartment, I could tell she’d been hit.
“I’m not sure yet,” I answer.
“Is she talking to you? What condition was she in when you found her?”
“Rough.”
“Were they still attacking her?”
“One wasn’t.”
