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CHAPTER SIX
ATLAS
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“What the fuck!” I roar, chucking the picture frame in my hand across the room. It hits the wall with a loud thud, the glass shattering on contact. “Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck!” I unload another slew of curses as I stare at the picture, now lying face up on the floor.
It’s an old one. I was maybe ten or eleven, legs hanging over the tailgate of my dad’s old truck, my parents on either side of me, smiling at the camera. It’s the last picture we took together before everything started going to shit. I have no idea how it got packed with my stuff, but the fact that it did has been the fucking icing on top of the shit cake I’ve been served today.
When I left the coffee shop a couple of hours ago, I walked Katrina back to her dorm. I didn’t want to be around her after my exchange with Barlow. Though now that I think about it, fucking the shit out of her would probably make me feel a hell of a lot better than trashing my room.
But no, I decided wallowing in my own self-pity while I finished unpacking my crap was a better option. And then I came across the bottle of Jack I swiped from my dad’s liquor cabinet buried in the middle of a box of clothes and things spiraled from there. Now, here I am, half a bottle of whiskey down, room in an absolute fucking mess, glaring down at an old family photo like I’m waiting for it to jump up and bite my hand off.
Good thing Brennon’s out. He’d probably think I’d finally lost it. Hell, maybe I have.
Fuck it.
Right now, I couldn’t give two shits.
It all started with Barlow and that fucking mouth of hers.
I shouldn’t let anything that she says bother me. Not with the shit she spews. And no, it wasn’t the STD bullshit or the fact that she brought up Rachel. I’ve heard it all before. It’s her go to.
But my dad...
I blow out a heavy breath.
I’d be fucking kidding myself if I thought this was really just about what she said. Sure, she hit below the belt, comparing me to my father, but what really took it to a new level is that I found myself wondering if maybe she’s right.
I let out a frustrated groan, running a hand through my hair before tugging violently on the ends.
It’s no secret I love women and that when it comes to keeping my dick in my pants, well, let’s just say Idon’t. Neither did my father. And while deep down I’ve always known I’m like him in more ways than I would ever admit, having it shoved down my throat was like being forced to swallow a hot branding iron.
But there is one blaring difference between me and my father. He was stupid enough to get married, to try to settle down with one woman. You see how that worked out for him. And then, if fucking up one marriage wasn’t enough, he turns around and marries his fucking mistress. If he’s taught me anything, it’s to learn from his mistakes. Marriage. Monogamy. Those things are not for me.
I try to shake off the lingering effects of Barlow’s words.
Why should I give a fuck what she thinks about me anyway?
Of course she thinks I’m a piece of shit. And why wouldn’t she?
I’ve pushed her. Teased her. Made a sport out of belittling her.
And what’s worse... I’ve enjoyed it.
Truthfully, my anger isn’t even at her. It’s at myself. And not just for all the shit I’ve pulled recently, but for the way I reacted when she spit that bullshit about my dad.
And to think, it all started because I said she was jealous.
Was she actually jealous?
Her reaction would indicate so. Then again, everything pisses Barlow off. Maybe she wasn’t jealous at all. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see.
Wait...
What the fuck did I just think?
Why the fuck would I want Barlow to be jealous?
