Page 82 of Anthem of Love and Loathing

By the time he comes out in his jeans, his shirt and jacket in his hands I’m on the phone to Doc.

“Is he out of the woods? Because I can’t spend one more second with the little bitch boy.”

Doc makes an uncomfortable hissing sound. “It’s like that is it?”

Being around him, remembering what we had, mourning what will never be…. “Doc?”

“Yeah. He should be fine.”

“Thank you.” I hang up on Doc.

“Tell me one thing,” Riot says. “Who’s the guy? Who are you running from?”

He’s asking me to tell him who the father was because he’s linked the two together over considering the idea that it could ever have happened while we were together. But I can’t tell him when there’s no baby anymore. I can’t open up those old wounds; they hurt too damn much. If I tell him I’ll break, and then no amount of anger will keep me upright and moving.

I’m barely holding it together as it is. Doc was right about that when we talked last night. And I very much need to keep moving. Keep breathing. Keep fighting for my survival.

“Fucking tell me,” he orders.

“Marco,” I spit my foster brother’s name. “Marco is looking for me.”

His jaw slackens. The color drains from his face. Something flickers in his eyes. Guilt, maybe? Concern?

I yank open the door and stand aside. “Get the hell out.”

He swallows hard, throat working like the words are stuck. He creeps toward me, palms up. As if I’m a wounded animal. Like he’s worried he’ll spook me. “Kels—”

I don’t need his pity.

I turn my face away. “I said get out.”

30

Riot

“Dude, you need to get up,” Bronx tells me from where he’s standing with my door ajar. “We’re going to head to the venue soon, but apparently, Kelsey needs to tell us something important beforehand. Also, you are going to lose your mind.”

“Huh?” I groan. Roadkill is an understatement for how shit I feel. My head hurts like it’s been pulverized. But it’s still better than the come down last night after the Narcan. Still better than how I felt when I found out why she’s really here.

I’ve been such a prick.

“Time to get up.” He raps his knuckles against the frame at an ear-splitting level. “Hurry your ass up.”

I scratch my abs and smack my lips. My mouth is dry and rough as sandpaper. Stumbling out of bed, I find a new T-shirt and drag it down my torso on my way to the bathroom. I need to piss and brush the furry, acidic taste from my mouth.

I have no doubt her important announcement is about Marco.

Her foster brother is after her? Or he is after her and he’s the father? My brows squishing together on my face physically hurts. I knew he was obsessed with her back then. He would hurt her sometimes. She would admit that. But if I look at it from the lens of an adult, she was hiding marks and bruises way too often for it to be sometimes.

She never wanted to go home. Said she only slept when she was staying at our place. If Rebel had been able to take her on at that time, she never would have gone back to that house.

As it was, she stayed over as often as she could. And when my eldest brother started making money from his acting gigs the couch became a bedroom she could use at her whim. We were seventeen when she moved in. She stayed for an entire year.

Was Marco more than obsessed with her? Was he doing more than hurting her? Why weren’t these questions I was willing to ask when we were friends? I want to ask them now. How bad was her situation?

How can she be okay when she’s willing to put up with me being a cunt to her? Listening to my hate songs at every concert we put on. Hearing us practice them on the bus. Dealing with me being a complete and utter bastard.

Fuck. Me almost dying on her bed.