Oh, who was he kidding? He could practically do that now, steel-toed work boots and all.

That was part of the problem. He was a pure Elemental. Power spoke to him straight from the earth. The others in town had power, sure, but nothing like his. He could theoretically level half the town if he lost his temper.

Which was why they wanted him dead.

Another ball.

Crack.

At least his parents had worked out a deal: He’d stay out of trouble, and the other families wouldn’t report his existence.

There’d been money involved, sure. He had no idea how much. But sometimes he couldn’t believe his entire being rested on a signed check and a frigging handshake.

It didn’t help that the other kids in town—the kids who knew—seemed determined to make him reveal himself.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and Michael punched the button to stop the pitches, whirling with bat in hand.

He wouldn’t put it past Emily to call her brother and his friends.

No one stood in the dust between the batting cages and the office. Dad’s work truck was still the only vehicle in the parking lot.

Michael swiped the sweat off his forehead and turned to slap the button again. Another ball came flying.

Crack.

He’d have to think twice before bringing Chris or the twins here again. It was one thing to walk into enemy territory alone, and entirely another to drag his little brothers.

And, damn it, this shouldn’t have been enemy territory!

Crack.

God, it felt good to hit something.

Well, he wasn’t giving it up. This was his thing. If Emily wanted to take a swing at his head with a putter twice a week, she could give it her best shot. What did she think he was going to do, instigate an earthquake from the batting cages? Make too much grass grow on the driving range?

That prickle crawled along his neck again. Michael spun.

Emily stood there, ten feet behind the chain link, her arms folded tight against her chest. Tendrils of white-blond hair had escaped her ponytail to cling to her neck in the humidity.

Michael could practically hear his father’s daily warning in his head: Don’t start something. Just leave them alone.

How was he supposed to leave them alone if they kept coming after him?

He automatically checked behind her. Still no cars in the parking lot.

“Back to take another swing?” he said.

She scowled, but didn’t look away. “No.” She hesitated. “I just . . . I wanted to—”

A ball rammed the fence beside his shoulder, rattling the entire structure. Michael swore, and Emily jumped. He turned to slap the button again.

When he turned back, she’d come closer, until only three feet of dirt and a chain-link cage separated them.

“I need this job,” she said, her voice full of false bravado. Like she’d had to dare herself to walk out here.

“Maybe you shouldn’t try to kill your customers, then.”

She licked her lips and fidgeted. “I didn’t . . . I thought you were going to—”

“Yeah, I know what you thought I was going to do.” He adjusted the grip on his bat and turned back to face the machine. No matter how careful he was, all they could see was his potential for damage.

Like he would have needed a bat. Didn’t she understand that? He hit the button. A ball came flying. He swung.

Crack.

“Well,” she said from behind him, “I saw what you did to Tyler last week.”

What he’d done. That was rich. “Yeah, poor Tyler.”

“He said you jumped him after school.”

Michael couldn’t even turn around. Fury kept him rooted until the next ball shot out of the machine. He swung hard. This one hit the nets and strained the ropes.

Of course Tyler would make him out to be the bad guy.

He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “I’m sure you got the whole story.”

She hesitated. “If you’re just coming here to hassle me, I’ll tell my parents.”

From any other girl, it would have been an empty threat. The kind of threat you stopped hearing in third grade.

From her, it meant something. Emily Morgan’s parents could cause serious problems for his family.

Michael gritted his teeth and made his voice even. “I’m not doing anything to hassle you.”

Ball. Crack. He brushed the sweat out of his eyes.

She was still standing there. He could feel it.

“Here,” she said.

He didn’t turn. “What?”

She was close enough now that the earth whispered to him about her presence. “I’ll get today,” she said. “For trying to kill you and all.” Then the fence jingled, as if she was fiddling with it.

Another ball was coming, so he couldn’t look. He swung and sent it flying.

She’d get today? What did that mean?

He turned to ask her, but she was already slipping through the tinted door into the office.

But strung through the fence was his crumpled five-dollar bill.

CHAPTER 2

Emily pushed rice and chicken around her plate and wished she hadn’t mentioned Michael Merrick to her parents. Because now they had a new topic to argue about.

As if they needed one.

“You’re going to quit that job,” said her father.

“I need my job,” she said.

“Oh, you do not,” said her mother. “What could you possibly need a job for? We give you everything you need.”

In a way, they did. She had her car, a hand-me-down sedan she’d gotten when she turned sixteen and her father decided he wanted something new. Her parents covered insurance. She always said she’d pay for her own gas—but they’d given her a gas card for her seventeenth birthday.

But she doubted they’d pay for a security deposit on a new apartment in New York City after senior year. Having a stash of cash meant freedom to do what she wanted to do.

“He didn’t bother me,” she said. “I think he was just as surprised to see me—”

“The last thing the Merricks need is leverage,” said her father, gesturing with his fork. “This deal was a bad idea from the beginning, before we knew how powerful that boy would get.”

Emily sighed. “I’m not leverage.”

“You could be,” said her mother. “I’m not having you come home looking like Tyler.”

Emily peeked through her bangs across the table at her brother. He wasn’t eating, either—his fingers were too busy flying across the face of his phone, his own mode of ignoring their parents. He was two years younger, but already stood about four inches taller than she did. He’d spent freshman year growing into his features, and now, for the first time, he looked older. The bruising on his cheek had turned yellow and purple, sharp and striking against his pale skin and white-blond hair. She studied the injury, remembering Michael’s sarcasm from the batting cage.

Poor Tyler. I’m sure you got the whole story.

“Take a picture,” Tyler muttered without looking up. “It’ll last longer.”

“Original.” Along with the height, he’d grown into a crappy attitude, too. “Who are you texting?”

“None of your business.”

She didn’t really care, but it was easier to bicker with Tyler than to fight with her parents. “Sounds like a girl.”

He shot her a glare over the phone. “Well, you sound like a—”

“Tyler.” Their mother’s voice sliced through his coming insult. “No electronics during dinner.”

He made a disgusted sound and put the phone in his lap.

But Emily knew he’d be back at it as soon as their folks were distracted again.

“What did he say to you?” said her father.

“Nothing.” She pushed the food around her plate again. She hadn’t mentioned her own actions with the putter—and didn’t plan on telling them now. “He just came in to use the batting cages. It was fine.”

“Convenient,” snapped her father. “Your first day of work, you’re alone, he comes in there—”

“He said he goes there all the time!”

Her parents went still. It was the wrong thing to say.

“I don’t want you going back there,” said her mother, her voice hushed.

“It’s fine—”

“The hell it is,” said her father. “I’ve been talking to Josh Drake. He thinks we should just take care of the problem ourselves.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. “Seth’s dad says that every time he cracks open a beer.”

Though he was a few years younger, Seth Drake was Tyler’s best friend. He was an Earth Elemental like his dad—and like Michael Merrick—but the Drake abilities stopped at pulling strength from the ground they stood on. Emily had no idea where Michael’s abilities stopped.

And that was part of the problem.

“I think we might all be overreacting,” said Emily. “He didn’t start anything—”

“Overreacting?” Tyler threw his fork down against his plate.

“You saw what that ass**le did to me.”

“Tyler!” said their mother. “I won’t have that language at the table.”

Emily stared at him. “And what exactly happened again?”

He stared back at her for a beat. “I told you,” he said evenly. “He jumped me and Seth.”

“That’s it,” said her father. “I’m calling over there.”

“To Seth’s?” said Tyler.

“No. To the Merricks.”

Michael heard the garage phone ring while he was out back, playing catch with his youngest brother. He was tired from work and the batting cages, but he’d found the twins pinning Chris in the hallway, trying to spit into his mouth.

Michael never cared if Gabriel and Nick beat the crap out of each other, but he hated when they ganged up on Chris.

So now they were killing time out back until the twins found some other trouble to get into.

Someone else must have grabbed the phone, because the ringer cut off quickly. Michael hadn’t even bothered moving. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called the house to talk to him.

“You’re so lucky,” said Chris, pelting the ball back to him.

It went wide. Michael stretched to reach it, and the ball smacked into his mitt. “Lucky?”

“Yeah. You get to go to work with Dad all day. I’m stuck here.”

Michael threw the ball back. This was the first summer Chris and the twins had been deemed old enough to stay home alone while their parents worked. “Do they pull that crap all day long?”

“Nah.” Chris caught the ball and shrugged. “It’s just boring.”

Boring. A code word for lonely. Michael remembered being too young to drive, before he knew about his abilities, when summertime seemed to stretch out with infinite possibilities—and ended up basically being three months of house arrest. He regretted not stopping at home to bring Chris along to the batting cages—but then he considered Emily and the putter and thanked god he hadn’t bothered. That was a story he didn’t need Chris dragging home to their parents.

“I’ll talk to Dad,” he said. “Maybe you can come along for some of the smaller jobs.”

“Really?” Chris flung the ball back. “That would be awesome! I’ll go every day! We could—”

“Easy.” Michael smiled. Chris had to be lonely if he was willing to spend his summer pushing a mower and laying mulch. “I said I’d ask.”

Then he wondered if something more than boredom was motivating his little brother. He remembered himself at Chris’s age, how his element had begun calling to him, how he’d wanted to be outside all the time. Neither Chris nor the twins had shown any inclinations yet—but maybe it was right around the corner.

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