Free The Struggle (The Things We Can't Change Book 2) by Kassandra Kush Page B

he’s ready to deliver a lecture of ‘You’re a Screw Up, Part Two.’
    I’m saved by Koby and Dominic, who manage to pounce on me first. I had lain low this weekend, ignoring all calls on my phone, partly to keep from being invited to another round of trouble, and partly because I was still a little pissed at everyone for deserting me.
    Again.
    “Zeke, dude, what happened ?” Koby asks, and I turn to answer him, pointedly not looking in Dominic’s direction. At least Koby wasn’t there, although that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have run away as well. He’s just not as dumb as the rest of us and doesn’t place himself in stupid situations to begin with.
    “I’m sure you’ve already heard the rumors,” I say with a snort. “I got caught trying to tag the Parkers’ house, my ‘friends’ bailed,” I look meaningfully at Dominic and he looks to the ground, “Dr. Parker stepped in and offered a deal, and I had to take it or go to juvie. So now I’m a proud member of the free labor force. All summer.”
    “Shit,” Koby breaths, looking startled. “I’d heard something about you working at the Parkers, but I didn’t… Is that even legal? Can Dr. Parker do that?”
    “It was his house I tried to tag, and when you’re as close as he is to the police chief, you can pretty much do whatever you want,” I say, crossing my arms.
    “All summer?” Koby repeats. “Like, all all summer?”
    “Every weekday, nine to four,” I confirm.
    “Are you going to go , every weekday, nine to four?” Dominic asks, finally getting the balls to look me in the eye.
    A heavy hand lands on my left shoulder and squeezes, hard and with lethal warning. “He better, if he doesn’t want to be sent away,” Uncle Alex says in a deceptively pleasant voice. “Now, you all better grab a tray and get out there, and don’t breathe a word about any of this to anybody, and I better not see you trying to chitchat about it while you’re on the dining room floor. Understood?”
    We all nod meekly—Alex is bigger than all of us and, more importantly, holds the fate of our jobs in his hands—and we grab our trays before hustling out to the dining room. I don’t even know what the benefit is for, it’s the kind that is more of a social event than people trying help someone. Sure enough, I scan the room as I enter and I see both Clarissa Parker and her son, Hunter, standing on the other side of the room.
    I have a flash of last week, when Hunter and some of Evie’s old friends had cornered her in the dining room. I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to step in, why I’d done it. Why I’d even stepped in two months ago when I saw her with Tony. Maybe it’s because in some weird way, Evie reminds me of Cindy. But then again, they couldn’t be more different, so that wasn’t quite right. Cindy was bright and happy, vibrant and full of life, whereas Evie is still hiding, still depressed and looks trapped, the life and happiness gone from her eyes.
    I think about it as I perform the mind numbing task of walking around the room. Finally, when I head out with my third tray, it hits me. It’s because Evie makes me feel the same way I did about Cindy. Those surges of protectiveness, actually caring what happens to her, empathy for her and her situation. And I know that is dangerous.
    I’m distracted from these thoughts, and almost grateful for it, when Hunter, Evie’s stepbrother, steps directly in my path. I come to a hard stop and only two whole years of practice gives me the skill to keep my tray of champagne flutes balanced. The same two years help me keep my expression smooth and blank as I offer the tray to him, and he takes a glass and smiles at me.
    “Evening, Quain. How are you?”
    “Just fine, sir, thank you for asking,” I reply with perfect politeness. He has two friends behind him, men about his age that I recognize by sight alone as long-time members. “If I may…” I gesture with my free hand and start to make