Page 24 of Ruthless Deliverance

That’s a horrible thought. I haven’t had to deal with the bullshit long at all compared to Luna who’s dealt with Creed her entire life. Ugh. Poor girl.

“Anyway, how’s everything else going? Life in Radon treating you all right?” Keith asks.

No. Not at all. “It’s okay.”

“That great, huh?” He laughs, moving a chair closer. “Have you even explored Radon yet? We don’t have a lot, but there’re a few good hangouts.” He pauses and I already know what’s coming next. “If you’re free after school, I can be your exploration guide.”

“Maybe some other time. My dad isn’t happy with me right now, so I need to get straight home.” Partially true. Only it’s Philip, not my dad. And he isn’t happy with me right now, but he’s not playing the part and grounding me, thankfully. “He’s really been on my case. Normally, I’d have something to take the edge off.”

“I know what you mean. I could use it too, but my mom would kill me if I went home high.” Keith laughs, leaning into me. “But that stuff is bad for you anyway. Maybe a new start at a new school means you should try a new method of coping with the parental.”

“Yeah. Might have to give it a shot.” Well, Keith won’t be helpful if he’s too worried about his mom catching him.

“There’s an outlet mall if you want to do some retail therapy. I’m game.”

“Pass.” I’d rather punch something. Or someone. One someone in particular who is heading in my direction. Great.

Keith finally stops talking when he spots Creed sit across from us. He takes no more than a second before bailing. “I think Luna needs some help.”

Wow. Scared much? I don’t blame him for not wanting to deal with Creed, I’d rather not either, but it’s not in me to tuck my tail between my legs and scamper away. Even if I should take a little extra caution at times.

“What do you want?”

“You’re still pissed about Thibaut.”

“Ding, ding, dumbass. Very good observation.” It’s not like Thibaut was Teacher of the Year, but he didn’t deserve to get fired because some dickwad got his panties in a twist.

“Just let it serve as a reminder.”

“And what reminder is that? That you’re an asshole who can’t listen to logic for five seconds because you’re too busy being a tyrant?”

“If you’re looking for a knight in shining armor, you won’t find him here.”

“Whatever gave you the impression that I want you or any walking dick to save me? Was your buddy’s broken nose not enough to let the two of you know that I’d rather handle shit myself?”

“And why is that? Daddy leave you all on your own? So, there’s no man you or Mommy could ever count on?”

Son of a bitch. He’s not talking about Philip. He’s talking about real shit that is from my real world. The same shit he has no business giving a second thought to.

“And you? What about you? You walked away from a life-altering car crash with nothing but a broken shoulder and ten measly stitches, so now you think you’re invincible and it’s okay to be a complete jackass to everyone else because you feel like shit?”

His jaw clenches, his palms pressing against the table as he leans forward. “Who told you that?”

“About Ethan? You did. When you were balancing on the roof like a dumbass.”

“No, I didn’t.” He remains rigid, not saying a word for what feels like forever, but was probably no more than a minute. And I worry I crossed the line. I’m pissed because he’s seeing beyond my lie, and I’m throwing his dead cousin in his face. But damn. There’s absolutely nothing else that gets through his shell.

“Danica,” Mr. Garbo calls across the library, signaling for me to approach him. “Sooner than later, Miss Graham.”

“Gladly.” I grab my things and head to the hallway where my grouchy English lit teacher is waiting with an exasperated look on his face. Yet, I’d much rather be dealing with him right now than the jerk I left sitting at the table. “Yes, sir.”

I wait to hear about whatever I did wrong, but instead, he passes me a paper. Glancing down, it’s the form I’d turned in this morning stating what novel I’d be doing my term paper on.

“You didn’t sign it.” He points to the bottom of the page. “I need a signature.”

“Um. Okay.” I know some people are sticklers for details, but damn. The form wasn’t even due until Friday. Here I thought I was ahead of the game, but I blew it with Garbo the first day, and it doesn’t seem like he’ll ever be a fan. I grab a pen from my bag, sign it, and pass it back to him.

“The Great Gatsby. Are you sure you’re making the right choice?” By his condescending tone, I’m guessing he doesn’t think it is.