Page 142 of Trailer Trash

“Killian! What are you doing? Let go of your mom!” Harlow begs.

I chuckle, unbothered, because she has no right to walk into this broken family and think she can have a say. She may have worked under this roof, but she has no idea how fucked up we are.

“Please, Killian,” she begs and takes a step closer, using that professional tone that makes me sick.

“I’ll really choke her if you come any closer,” I say, smooth and indifferent.

Harlow freezes, and her brown eyes widen.

I look around the space with my chin lifted. “There are no pictures of me because this bitch took them down. Because Asher was in every picture with me. Because my mom can’t fucking handle that her son is dead.”

“No!” she cries. Tears etch down her face, wetting my hand. “Don’t say such things.”

“Ash-er,” I hiss, causing her to squirm. I say it again.

And again.

“Asher.”

She breaks into a sob.

“Stop it,” Dad warns boldly. He steps from the hallway, approaching cautiously. The air is thick with tension, everyone unsure of what to do. “Killian, release your mother this instant.”

I don’t. I just stare at those same disappointed eyes that haunt me whenever I think of Dad. That look always ignites something, then deadens me. That’s why it doesn’t faze me to say the things they can’t. I’m already dead, anyway.

“We never had a funeral. You think I’m the one who’s screwed up for texting him.”

My gaze snaps down to her tear-soaked face. I drag my knuckles down the rivers, smiling wickedly. She shudders as my hand tightens. I love it. I love seeing her cry. It’s real.

“Look at my fucking face, Mom. Does my smile match yours now?”

“Killian,” she says, her voice cracking under my grip.

“I’ll call the police,” Dad threatens, but he’s afraid to move. He’s all bark. They both are.

Harlow, the brave, stupid little CNA, takes another step. “Killian, baby, don’t do this.”

“Oh,” I say loudly, then chuckle. “Now I’m baby. You’re already gone, though, aren’t you? I saw it in your eyes while you told me lies I wanted to hear.”

“What?” Her voice cracks.

“We’re not moving in together. I bet you were ashamed my dad found us fucking. God forbid you risk your job for me. This is all just a paycheck to you, Harlow.”

She gasps, as if I didn’t just say the obvious.

“Admit it. That’s why you’re willing to see your ‘one-night stand’ every day. If you loved me, you would’ve said fuck the job. You would’ve called me if you needed money. You wouldn’t have sucked a dick unless it was mine.”

She curls into herself, stealing glances at my parents — once again more worried about what they think than me.

“You did relapse like I feared,” she whispers.

“I’m not even that high.”

I don’t know if that’s true.

She’s still right. I fucked up. I still don’t want to be sober.

“I visited Evan last night,” I admit.