Courtney's Secrets (The Clandestine Series)

Admit Eighteen

I barreled down the main street at four in the morning. Stores were closed and only a faint glow of light covered the empty parking lots and streets. I barely noticed the icy air against my numb skin after what I had been through, but I was a fighter. I lived with abuse and I would not let Peyton be the monster that devoured me.

I dialed Lan but she didn't answer. She was a heavy sleeper. I toyed with the idea of calling , but I couldn't bear admitting I was wrong. My GPS estimated a ten-mile walk. By the time I made it home, Courtney would be awake.

A text came from Davianté.

Donna: please text me and let me know you're ok

I ignored it as I strode down the sidewalk, holding the side of my head that was throbbing. The last thing I wanted was Davianté to know I had gone out with Peyton. I couldn't crush him, especially when I was finally ready to admit I had feelings for him. What was Davianté doing up at this hour anyway? Oh, right—his paper route.

A loud rustling came from a dumpster a few feet away in the Taco Hut parking lot, and a couple of raccoons popped their heads out. One was enormous with bristly, speckled grey and white fur around its body, and the black mask with a white outline. We locked eyes. Its retina reflected the glow of headlights from a car turning the corner. I turned to see it speeding in my direction. The tires squealed, and I realized Courtney was in the driver's seat. My heart pounded. I considered hiding behind the dumpster, but it was too late—she had spotted me. She swerved around to the curb and yelled from the window, "What are you doing?"

I didn't answer. No answer was better than the truth. I stared at her with my hands in my pockets.

"Get in," she screamed, her eyes flashing. Her hair was matted from rolling out of bed.

I wasn't sure what I would rather do at this point—get in, or stay on the sidewalk. This was what it meant to be out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"Get in!"

I turned and kept walking. She pressed the gas and traveled along beside me.

"Deja!"

I turned to walk the opposite direction without a plan, just knowing I didn't want to be beaten now if I could delay it until later.

She put the car in reverse. "What are you doing? Get in."

I leaned in, resting my hands on the door frame. "What are you going to do to me?"

Her face creased. "Never mind that. Explain to me where you've been."

"I'm not explaining anything." Then it occurred to me, I could avoid all of this if I never came home. I wanted freedom more than I wanted shelter. "This is my life. My choices. My mistakes to make. This is your fault. I can't go anywhere without your permission so I had to leave if I wanted my own freedom and—to get away from you."

She was wounded by my words and speechless for once. It must have dawned on her that she finally lost control over me. The older I got, the less authority she had, and when I turned eighteen, her ability to dominate me would dissipate like a fog in sunlight.

"Listen," her voice softened, "please come home. We'll forget about it."

I could hardly believe she was bargaining with me—like I had gotten indemnity for sneaking out. I got in.

She rolled up the window. "You could have been dead on the roadside—raped and murdered." This was the analogy she used every time she told me I couldn't go somewhere. Unfortunately she was right this time.