The Liberator (A Dante Walker Novel) (Entangled Teen) by Victoria Scott Page A

until a little window opens. A guy cocks an eye at me like this is The Wizard of Oz and he’s Emerald City’s damn gatekeeper.
    “How’s it going?” I ask him, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “I’m here to pick up Aspen for school.”
    The door swings open, and an older dude with Aspen’s green eyes stares back at me. He’s a burly guy, the kind with a barely visible neck. And he isn’t doing himself any favors with his too-tight dress tie. “Who are you?” the guy says, and I notice his voice sounds a little like how I imagine an alligator might talk, all throaty and showing way too much tooth.
    “Dante Walker.” I stick my hand out because parents love that crap, but this guy only nods his head toward something behind him.
    “She’s upstairs,” Crocodile Man says. “I’m going to work, so no funny business.”
    I want to tell him not to worry, that we need to head out, and I’m a guy who likes to take my time when performing “funny business.” But I decide against this and instead move aside as Aspen’s dad brushes past me toward the garage. I take this as my cue to enter his humble abode, so I walk inside and shut the door behind me.
    My eyes bug out of my head, because even though I was raised on the green, I’ve never seen this kind of excess. The place looks like a pic that’d pop up on Google when you typed in “Americans Who Prosper from Child Labor.” Glancing down, I notice the floors are Italian stone, the real kind. The kind that crack and soak up anything that spills but shows others how much more money you have than them.
    There are also pops of designer wall paper in all the right places. Poor people think wallpaper is out, but that’s because they’re a generation behind the wealthy. And always will be. The rich will always say to themselves, “What do the poor people hate today? Ah, yes. Wallpaper. Good. Let’s embrace that, then.”
    Crawling toward the top floor is a pair of sweeping stairs that’d make any Disney princess weep with joy. I imagine if most girls saw them, they’d run out and buy every wedding magazine they could get their simple hands on.
    Not Aspen, though. I’ve only spent one evening with her, watching her, and already I know she’s never pictured how she’d look in a wedding dress.
    For some reason, I assume Aspen’s room is probably upstairs, so I ascend quietly. When I get to the top, I stop and glance both ways down a gold-and-white hallway. I choose to turn left and am soon rewarded by the sound of heavy base.
    At least the girl’s got an ear for music , I think as I stroll toward deep, screaming vocals.
    I push the cracked bedroom door open the rest of the way and find a girl who looks every bit like Aspen but is half her age. The girl child’s eyes grow large when she sees me.
    “Aspen,” she calls, and I notice the alarm in her voice.
    Holding my hands up, I try to look innocent. “Sorry, I was actually just looking for—”
    Pain shoots up my spine as I’m slammed into a wall. Aspen’s face is inches from mine, her forearm pressed against my neck. When she recognizes me, she lets up, but not much. As she cuts off my oxygen, I can’t help noticing she’s wearing fingerless gloves again; yesterday’s pair was black, and today’s gloves are bright green.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” she snarls. “Who the hell are you?”
    “D-Dub in the flesh,” I manage, thinking this girl might do well in the WWE. She certainly has the charm for it.
    Aspen glances at her sister, who’s moved closer. And the look she gives her baby sister tells me everything I need to know; Aspen would do anything to protect her. “Don’t come out of your room, Sahara. My friend and I are going to have a little chat.”
    Sahara nods, her big, vulnerable eyes still enlarged.
    Aspen grabs my upper arm and leads me down the hallway. I could easily overpower her, but I let her do her thing, since it’s mildly amusing.
    After my prison guard has