The Distraction by Sierra Kincade Page B

already I could feel myself rising to the challenge. I’d worked with tough kids before. Hell, I’d been a tough kid before. Parents were the hard part, but kids I could manage.
    Wayne nodded gratefully and left us in the hallway.
    â€œI’m Anna,” I said.
    Nothing.
    â€œTough morning in court?”
    Nada.
    â€œHow old are you? Ten?”
    Zilch. The kid’s lips were sealed tighter than a waterproof safe.
    â€œI feel like tacos,” I said. “Want to get out of here for a while?”
    He glanced up at me to see if I was bluffing, then looked away, but not before I saw the anger in his pretty brown eyes.
    â€œIt’s not even lunchtime,” he mumbled.
    I scoffed. “Wait,” I said. “Wait. Are you telling me you’ve never had tacos for breakfast?”
    â€œNobody makes tacos for breakfast.”
    â€œHuh,” I said. “I guess we’ll just have to see if they’re open.”
    I walked past him toward the entrance, as slowly as I could without looking like I was waiting for him to follow. A few seconds passed, and when he pushed off the wall and came plodding after me, I grinned.
    *   *   *
    â€œWhy don’t they just call it pork if it’s pork?” he asked.
    â€œ
Carnitas
is
pork.” I laughed. “That’s the word for it in Spanish.”
    I sat across from him in the wooden booth at the Taco Bus across from the police station, picking at my black beans and rice while he polished off his third taco. Clearly the kid hadn’t eaten in a while. That, or he didn’t know when he’d eat next. I made a mental note to place a to-go order before we left. His hungry days were in the past, as far as I was concerned.
    After a while, he glanced up at me, reluctant to stare too long.
    â€œSo are you my new social worker or something?”
    I shook my head, thinking back on the suspicious-eyed kids that had asked me that over the years. “I’m just a friend.”
    â€œYou got another job?”
    â€œI give massages.”
    â€œOh,” he said. “Like a hooker.”
    I choked on the soda I’d been drinking. “Not like a hooker. Nothing like a hooker.”
    â€œMy dad went to get massages at the Asian spa sometimes. My mom said it was ’cuz the girls there were hookers.”
    Well. He had me there.
    â€œI can tell you that I am
definitely
not a hooker,” I said. I was relieved that it didn’t appear he knew what a hooker actually did.
    â€œTell me about your dad,” I said.
    Jacob’s little mouth pulled into a tight frown. He crossed his arms over his chest.
    â€œAnything,” I said. “I’ll start. My dad likes to work on cars.”
    He wrapped the straw from his drink around his finger.
    â€œMy dad’s an asshole.”
    I tilted my head, thinking about the file I’d glanced through before handing it back to the receptionist at the front desk in the courthouse. It was so similar to countless files I’d seen before. Abusive father. Drug-addicted mother. Parents were given three strikes before custody was lost. What stuck out was that Jacob had been flagged for a psych eval due to violent outbursts. The kid didn’t look violent to me, but there was definitely a lot going on under the surface.
    â€œWant to talk about it?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œHow about your mom?”
    He flinched. “She’s sick a lot.”
    I nodded, remembering my own birth mother passed out on the bedroom floor, shirt soaked with her own vomit. Moving in that slow-motion way and slurring her words, and then gradually ramping up faster and faster until she was scratching at her skin and so agitated you couldn’t even look at her without her thinking she was getting sassed.
    â€œMy mom was sick like that, too,” I said.
    He looked up at me, again for confirmation.
Can I trust you?
that look seemed to say.
Or are you full of shit just