Kellan by Jayne Blue Page A

good thing.  
    I grabbed Mallory’s arm, meaning to pull her back behind me. She put her hand up though. One on my chest, the other on her father’s.  
    “He’s just a friend, Dad. Kellan. His name’s Kellan. He gave me a ride home.”  
    I didn’t like the grip he had on that baseball bat. Except it turned out I was watching the wrong thing. The beer bottle went flying right past my ear. I dodged to the right just in time. It shattered against the curb and the noise it made seemed to pull the old guy even further back from whatever waking nightmare he found himself in.  
    “Whoa. Hang on there, Mr. Rhodes,” I said. “What’s your dad’s name, Mallory?”  
    “Cocksucker!” he shouted. Then he spit on the ground just near my feet. Okay, so maybe his nightmare was over. Maybe he was also just an asshole.  
    “Please just go, Kellan,” Mallory whispered as she turned to me. Her eyes filled with pain. “He’s all right. He probably just woke up too fast. He’ll come around in a minute or two.”  
    “Like hell,” I said.  
    Just then, another car pulled up alongside the curb and Mallory put a hand to her forehead, the other on her hip. “Hey, Mitch!” She made her tone bright, but the pain was still in it.  
    A young kid, maybe twelve years old, took a tentative step out of the back seat. He was wearing a baseball uniform and he had Mallory’s pale eyes and sandy blond hair. I wondered if that was her real color too. He looked from me to Mallory and to her dad, surveying the scene. He didn’t so much as flinch. It was clear this kind of thing was status quo at the Rhodes’s house. His back stiffened and he turned to the driver of the car, flicking two fingers. The middle-aged woman behind the wheel looked worried, but she nodded, put the car in gear and drove off. Apparently, she’d seen a version of this spectacle more than once as well.  
    “Yours?” I said to Mallory.  
    Mallory stepped forward and put a protective arm around the kid.  
    “Gross,” he answered for her. “Mallory’s my sister, not my mom. We’re a fucked up family, but not that fucked up.”  
    Mallory smiled and cupped a hand over Mitch’s mouth. If it weren’t for her bat-swinging, bottle-wielding father, I could have had a laugh over all of it. As it was, a small line of worry creased her forehead. I knew that look. I came from a volatile home life too. My gut twisted looking at Mallory and her kid brother. It had been different in my house. When I got old enough and strong enough, I’d thrown my own father out on the street.  All it took was one punch back and he was gone. But who was here to stand up for Mallory and the kid? God. With every passing second, this girl was making it harder for me to just walk away. But I’d seen every inch of her. Whatever was going on here, he wasn’t laying a hand on her.  
    She let go of the kid and went up to her dad. She put her hands on his cheeks. Her dad’s eyes focused in and out, then back in. A sweet smile lifted the corners of his mouth and he kissed her on the forehead. Wherever he’d gone to, he was back now.  
    “Why don’t you go inside with Mitch?” she said. “I’ll be along in a second, okay?”  
    Her dad gave me a hard look but the aggression was gone. He put a heavy arm around Mitch’s shoulder, making his body sag. Then the two of them walked back into the house together.  
    “Thanks for the ride,” she said, turning back to me. She rubbed beneath her eyes, maybe wiping away a tear that threatened to fall. But she kept her face blank.  
    I leaned against my bike and smiled at her. God, she was something. She stood there on her front lawn looking scared and strong all at the same time.  
    “You sure he’s gonna be okay?” I asked.  
    Mallory slid her hands into her back pockets, looked toward the house then back to me. Shrugging, she took a step toward me. “He’s got his good days and bad days, just like the rest of us.”