Wildest Dreams - A Taylor Swift Adoption Fanfiction

Chapter 2: Trust

The inside of the car is warm and smells like vanilla and money. I perch on the edge of the leather seat, ready to bolt despite my fucked-up knee. Taylor slides in after me, keeping a careful distance, while one suit guy takes the front seat and the other hovers outside. Everything about this screams bad idea, but it's still better than juvie. Probably.

Every passing car makes my heart jump into my throat. Red and blue lights dance in my imagination, Sister Katherine's shrill voice already echoing in my ears: "Ungrateful little bitch!"

I keep glancing over my shoulder as I sit in Taylor's fancy car, probably smearing the leather seats with blood while still clutching her phone.

"You know, if you're worried about someone following us, my security team is pretty good at their job," Taylor says casually.

"I'm not worried," I lie, immediately checking behind us again.

She hums noncommittally. "Right. And I'm not secretly wondering why a teenager is out alone at midnight with a backpack and survival instincts that would impress a Navy SEAL."

"Maybe I just really like midnight walks," I shoot back. One of the suit guys moves to help me, but I shoot him my best 'touch me and die' glare. He backs off, looking amused rather than intimidated, which is annoying.

"Ah yes, midnight walks. In February. Without a proper coat. Totally normal." Taylor's voice drips with sarcasm, but there's no judgment in it. "The first aid kit is under the seat." Taylor makes no move to grab it herself. Smart lady. She knows I don't want her hands anywhere near me.

I fish out the fancy white box, noticing how her driver keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror. Yeah, buddy, I see you. Keep staring and I'll give you something to actually worry about.

Her phone buzzes.

Joe: Where the fuck are you and why is your phone on mute?

I notice how Taylor's her fingers clench in her lap as she reads the message over my shoulder. Something cold settles in my stomach. I know that tone. Know what follows messages like that.

"You're shivering," Taylor observes quietly.The driver automatically turns up the heating.

"Really? Must be your stellar detective skills that got you the fancy car." The words come out sharp, automatic. Defense mechanism number twenty-three: when cornered, be a bitch. But Taylor just looks sad again, like she can see right through my bullshit, and that's somehow worse than if she'd gotten angry.

I focus on cleaning my knee, teeth clenched against the sting of antiseptic. The cut's deeper than I thought, surrounded by purple bruising that's already spreading. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Why were you running?" Taylor asks, her voice still gentle. Too gentle. Nobody's gentle without a reason.

"Training for a marathon." I press the bandage down harder than necessary. That's when I hear a familiar voice in the distance. "MANDY. GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE." I don't think Sister Katherine knows where I am. She's just hoping I'll cave in and go back, like I always have.

The panic in my eyes is enough for Taylor to take action. She immediately closes the car door shut. "John, let's go."

I don't object. John guy starts the car and we move swiftly. I'm still clutching Taylor's phone in my hands and she makes no move to take it off me.

"So," she says carefully, "I believe your name's Mandy? Want to tell me what St. Agnes Home for Girls did to make you run?"

I choke. "How did you-"

"The crest on your backpack. I remember it from some of the charity work I did."

"Creepy much?"

"Informed citizen," she corrects with a small smile. "Also, you've got Catholic school uniform plaid peeking out under that hoodie. Not exactly master of disguise material."