Tough Going (Tough Love Book 2) Read online

  Tough Going

  Other Books by Trixie More

  Tough Love Series

  Tough Sell

  T r i x i e M o r e

  Tough

  Going

  Tough Going

  by

  Trixie More

  Copyright © 2018 by Trixie More. All rights reserved. First Edition, v 1.0

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, inventions or locales is entirely coincidental. Reproduction, in whole or part, of this publication without express written consent, is strictly prohibited.

  I appreciate you taking the time to read my work, it means the world to me. Please consider leaving a review wherever you purchased this book or telling your friends about it, either would just rock.

  Thank you, thank you.

  Developmental Editing: Olivia Maclean

  www.CallOfTheWord.com

  Line Edit & Proofing: Marla Esposito

  www.ProofingStyle.com

  Book Cover: Adrijus Guscia

  www.RockingBookCovers.com

  ISBN: 9781718050204

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Coming Soon,

  Shameless Begging

  About the Author

  To the caregivers, standing between their loved ones and all that comes for them.

  You are the warriors.

  Allison

  Noble, exalted

  From the German

  Prologue

  Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn

  April 2005

  Sometimes you really couldn’t count on anyone but yourself. At least, that was the conclusion eleven-year-old Allison Walton had arrived at today during her science class. How hard would it have been for Jenny Simone to actually create the pictures for the group project? Now Allison would have to get, like, a million extra-credit points to keep her grade up. She trudged down the sidewalk, her book bag hanging from her shoulders. Bending at the waist and shrugging, she wrestled the pack higher on her back and tightened the side straps. Her backpack was a source of great pride to her. It was plain navy blue and could easily have been used for an actual backpacking trip out into the wilds. It had adjustable straps, a waist belt and a compartment for a water bag. Unlike the sparkly pink or purple bags that other girls had, Allie’s bag was seriously useful. In a world where your lab partner could flake out and not do the drawings for your midterm project, seriously useful was important.

  Allie turned the corner and headed down Avenue U, not noticing the flood of children released from school. She walked, not glancing at the windows of the shops or the brown brick homes that nestled side by side, not smelling the tang of marine air, or the sharpness of exhaust fumes as she crossed the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn. She was lost in thought, in an imaginary world where Jenny Simone had shown up and done her work and Allison wasn’t behind in science anymore. When she turned onto her street, where she and her father lived in the rented upstairs of a three-story brick townhome, she automatically came back to earth. First, as soon as she arrived at her home, she went straight to the screen door at street level. The inside door was open, and Allison could see their landlady, Mrs. Petrov, sitting in the stuffy dimness of her living room. Allison tapped at the door. Her landlady’s wrinkled face, topped by big soft curls of gray hair, turned toward the door, beaming happily.

  “Come in, come in,” Mrs. Petrov called, waving her entire skinny arm as if she was sweeping a desktop clear of papers. Allison hesitated; it was a daily problem. If she didn’t show her face at the door as her father had instructed, Mrs. Petrov would call Allison’s father at work alerting him to every imagined evil that might befall a young girl in Brooklyn. Allison didn’t want to be rude, but she did not want to get trapped with Mrs. Petrov in her dark and ancient living room, where the furniture was old, worthless, and yet, too formal to be comfortable. Plus, it was hot in there—the heavy dark green drapes were pulled shut, of course, and the windows were closed up tight.

  Mrs. Petrov’s eyebrows were raised now in a silent question. Why von’t you come in? Allison opened the screen door, accidentally knocking over the spare cane that always leaned against the brick wall outside the doorway, and stepped only halfway through.

  “I’m home from school, Mrs. Petrov,” she said, although it was quite obvious, as she fiddled with the cane, righting it. “I haven’t been upstairs yet to feed Ringer.” Also obvious. Allie stopped in at Mrs. Petrov’s first every day.

  “But come in Allie,” the old lady repeated. “I’ve a nice cake in the kitchen. You can have time for a bit of cake, yes?”

  Allison sighed. “Ringer likes to eat at this time of day. He’ll be meowing.” The old lady’s face fell a bit, and Allison immediately felt bad. “I’ll go up and feed him and then we can sit on the stoop and have cake. OK?”

  Mrs. Petrov looked past Allie at the world beyond her doorway. Her expression showed more than a little doubt. “But it is cold today, no?” Allie relented and came fully into the living room.

  “What kind of cake is it?”

  She had to stay a half an hour to be polite, in return for the slice of chocolate and yellow Bundt cake, but Mrs. Petrov didn’t try to keep her there longer, agreeing that yes, now she should go feed “that cat.” Allie thanked her landlady and headed up the dozen concrete steps to the doorway, propped the screen open with her book bag, fishing out the key that hung on a shoelace around her neck. In the window above, she could see Ringer, stirring the curtains. The renters shared the front door, and so, once she was inside, a staircase rose before her, up to the third floor. Mr. Lim, a single man, lived on the second floor. Allie went up the interior stairs and unlocked the inside door to their level. Ringer met her at the door, twisting his black and gray striped body between her legs as she bolted the door and reset the lock. He followed her to the bedroom and complained as Allison put her book bag by the desk and took off her shoes. Then she picked him up under his front legs and carried him, his hind ones hanging lazily, swinging a little as she walked. In the kitchen, Allie opened up a pouch of wet food, squeezed it into Ringer’s bowl and plopped the dish on the floor. Allison wandered into the living room and turned on the TV for company, while the big gray tabby happily ate in the kitchen.

  By seven o’clock, the sun was starting to sink, and her father was still not home, so she dialed his work number. Hearing his voice felt good, because he was there, where she expected him to be, and bad because it made her a little angry.

  “Dad? When are you coming home?” she asked.

  “Oh, Allie Girl, what time is it?” And then, “Oh, later than I thought. I’ll be another hour, I expect.”

  “I’m hungry,” she said. She didn’t whine or wheedle. Neither worked.

  “Hmm? Oh! I’m sorry. Do you want to make yourself a sandwich or wait for me to bring something?”

  Bring something? He wouldn’t be home until almost nine at this point. “Sandwich,” she mumbled. She wa
sn’t sure there was anything to make a sandwich with. “Or cereal. I guess.”

  “Very good!” Her father sounded pleased as punch. “You do that, Allie Girl. I’ve just got a bit more to do here, and then I’ll be home. Make sure you keep the doors locked.” She agreed, they said goodbye and then she was alone again.

  Tonight was Monday, and Trading Moms would be on at eight, where two mothers traded families for a while. She thought about that as she put together a grilled cheese using the heel of some Wonder Bread and a slice of whole wheat bread, one slice of plastic wrapped processed cheese food, (that name made her snicker) and two slices of Swiss cheese that were only dry on the corners. She spread cold butter on the bread, tearing it a bit, and then fried it all on the electric stove. She loved to cook, and was pretty darn good at it when she put her mind to it, but tonight she was just making do. She carried the sandwich on a paper plate into the living room, settling on the couch, with Ringer snuggled up against her. If they came and asked her father to be on Trading Moms, he would have to say no. Her mother had already left for another family. Melissa Walton was now Melissa Cointreau of somewhere New Mexico, and sure, Allie could go see her anytime. Sure. Because buses to New Mexico stopped at the corner of Avenue U all the time. And fathers who worked a million hours sent their sixth-grade daughters across the country alone just about as often as the bus came by.

  Allie wanted a cell phone of her own. She wanted to call her mom. She wanted a new mom if the old one wasn’t coming back. No matter what, she was done crying about it. A girl could lie on her bed and howl all she wanted, but sooner or later, she’d have to get up and wash her own face and make dinner for herself. Trading Moms came on, and even at her age, Allie could tell it was a terrible show. She fiddled with Ringer’s paws, and he purred.

  “I love you, Ringer,” she said, clutching him to her chest as she stared at the TV. Outside, it was getting dark.

  About halfway through the show, an alarm started sounding in the hall. Ringer slunk off the couch, disappearing underneath it, and Allie went to the door. She looked through the peephole and saw smoke swirling around the hallway light. What was going on? Maybe Mr. Lim had burned something? She opened the door, and smoke drifted into her living room. Fingering the key around her neck, Allie pulled the door shut behind her, venturing down the stairs, where the smoke was thicker.

  “Mr. Lim,” she called. In the hall, the alarm was much louder. She crossed to his door and banged on it. “Mr. Lim!”

  Was he even home? The smoke was coming from farther down the hall, where she knew, a staircase leading down to Mrs. Petrov’s home was closed off by a locked door. Smoke was billowing into the hallway now from beneath the locked door. She touched the doorknob, shrieked out loud and stuffed her fingers into her mouth to cool them. The knob was wicked hot. If the smoke was coming from Mrs. Petrov’s house, then where was Mrs. Petrov? Allie ran back down the hall and burst out onto the front stoop. A couple of people in the street were pointing at her house. She glanced behind her but saw no flames, just the smoke that followed her into the street, along with the bleating of the alarm and the smell of something burning. The steps were cold and rough on her bare feet as she raced down them, holding the banister end and swinging around it as she hurried to Mrs. Petrov’s front door. The white paint was bubbling up on the metal door, but she touched the stupid latch with her hand—again darn it—and was rewarded with a burn to the center of her palm. She screeched and then grabbed the cane from beside the door, used the rubber end to push in the latch and then wiggled it to pry the door open. The heavy green drapes were ablaze, Mrs. Petrov sat in her chair, slumped forward with her hands over her head. The linoleum floor between the door and chair was buckled, and waves of heat washed over her. She squatted down and gingerly touched the floor. It was hot, but it was not melting. Stepping on it would hurt like hell. She jammed the cane into the doorframe so that the door would stay open, the fire inside blazing stronger as the new air funneled in. A section of the ceiling fell, and Mrs. Petrov started coughing. That was enough. Allie came up from her squat, took a step back and then leaped toward the chair. Her feet hit the linoleum, she heard a hissing sound and smelled her own skin burning. And then there was no time. She grabbed Mrs. Petrov about the shoulders and pulled her from the chair. The woman cried out as her arm hit the floor and, although she was a thin and frail person, it was much harder to move her than Allie expected.

  “Get up! Get Up!” Allie yelled. Smoke poured into her lungs. Coughing and retching, Allie yanked on the woman’s topmost arm. Mrs. Petrov tried to put her hands on the floor to push herself up but cried out again when her palms touched the hot flooring. The smell of burning skin was in Allie’s nose, but she refused to open her mouth again. Allie rolled the woman onto her back, grabbed her under her arms, and hurried backward, hunched over, eyes streaming. She slid and yanked Mrs. Petrov across the endless fake tile that covered the twelve feet between the chair and the door. As they crossed the doorframe, a neighbor grabbed the old woman from her arms.

  Allie stumbled into the street, watching as the orange flames rose higher.

  Ringer.

  Her stomach seized with a sudden, desperate panic that sent her bolting toward the house. Allie got as far as the steps when a man grabbed her, spun her around and pushed her into the arms of the woman behind him.

  “My cat!” she cried, her voice hoarse and weak. The woman clutched her tightly, turning Allie’s face into her bosom against the faded T-shirt she wore, keeping Allie from watching her home burn. Allie struggled and struck at the woman with her fists, but she was held fast.

  “Shh,” the woman crooned, stroking Allie’s hair as the sound of sirens rose in the distance. “The firemen are coming. They’ll save your cat, don’t you worry.”

  But it wasn’t so.

  Pelham, NY

  January 2010

  When Derrick Moss rolled out of bed, showered and headed downstairs to grab a donut before school, it was looking like a great day. Granted, he lived in a huge house, in a fantastic school district and his parents had wads of money, but those things didn’t really come to his attention. To him, the six-bedroom house in Pelham, NY, was just home, an overly neat home, at that. And the stuffed bank account? Well, it wasn’t his money. He knew his favorite computer store was gone since the crash of 2009, and the only place to get parts now was online. But he didn’t actually know if his folks lost money last year. He knew his grandfather complained about business being slow, but his grandfather was a straight off the boat Italian who ran a bar and restaurant in Manhattan; nothing Derrick was interested in. He was destined for greater things. And today? Today might just be flat-out all that.

  The day held potential because so many things were coming together. The results of midterms were due out, tonight his whole family would be at home for his father’s birthday and, most importantly, today his best friend should be getting back the results from his application to Virginia Tech if he hadn’t already received them last night. Derrick tucked his own acceptance papers into his back pocket. They were folded and creased many times over from his eager re-reading. On his desk sat the additional paperwork for the scholarships he’d been awarded. When he looked at them, his good mood faltered.

  His own ability to attend was assured. His father was a famous brain surgeon, and his ability to pay for Derrick’s education had never been a question. His friend, Ben, however, needed scholarship funds if he was to go, and every scholarship that Derrick received was one less that was available. He wasn’t that worried though, there was no way that he and Ben wouldn’t be at Virginia Tech together. The school had the robotics program they both wanted, and after their performance in the First Robotics last year, they were sure they had their pick of universities. He picked up his backpack and headed out to school, noticing the way the top of the door seemed much closer to his skull. This last year, he’d been adding inches to his height, his shoulders filling out and his feet outgrowing his shoes
at a rate that amazed even him.

  The day was overcast, and snow was falling by the time the last bell rang and Derrick pulled his Toyota pickup truck out of the parking lot and headed across town to Ben’s house. In his advanced placement computer science class, Derrick had been delighted to find he’d seriously rocked the test, pulling down yet another A on his way to his goal of getting a 4.0 in his senior year of high school. David, his older brother, had graduated last year, tenth in his class. It was Derrick’s goal to be ninth. Or first. Today, he liked his chances. By the time he pulled to the curb and parked, he was walking through two inches of snow as he crossed the small lawn and headed up the steps of the Craftsman bungalow that Ben’s father had lovingly expanded, putting on a second story, cedar shingles and a small deck on the back.

  “Hey, Mrs. C.” He had opened the front door a couple of inches and called through the gap. “It’s Derrick.”

  “Hey, Derrick, Ben’s out back.”

  Derrick pulled the door closed and went ‘round back where he found Ben in the garage stuffing a white garbage bag into one of the large cans. Ben clipped the lid on and started dragging a pair of garbage bins down the drive. Derrick pulled the garage door down and took one of the cans.

  “Did you get it?” Derrick asked.

  “Yep.” Ben was looking at the ground in front of him.

  “And?”

  “And it’s no.”

  No? Derrick thought. How could that be?

  “No, as in no scholarship money?” Money didn’t have to be the end of their dreams, there had to be ways to get money.

  “No. As in, I didn’t get accepted.” Ben’s shoulders bunched as he lifted the can to the side of the driveway. He turned to take the other one from Derrick, looking directly at him for the first time since he’d arrived. White snow caught in Ben’s dark blond hair and melted on his gray T-shirt.