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“You’re right. I have no idea what it’s like to be a scared piece of shit.”
Fuming, I reach into my school bag and thrust a letter at him. He takes it with a frown and opens the envelope against the steering wheel one-handed. Still driving, he glances between the road and the letter.
“To Mia Bianchi’s parent or guardian, blah blah blah... suspended forfighting?” A delighted grin breaks over Laz’s face. “That’s more like it. Who did you flatten?”
I snatch the letter back. Of course he would think it’s funny. “None of your business.”
“Come on. Who pissed you off? Tell me, and I’ll finish the job off for you if you didn’t give them a black eye yet.”
I picture him sinking his fist into Kaleb’s face, and the idea is enthralling. But then I’d owe my stepfather. “If I have a problem, I’ll tell Mom, not you.”
Laz bursts out laughing. “Why, because you think she’ll care?”
His words feel like a slap across my face. Who told him about the man who fathered me? Did they ridicule me and Mom? Did Laz think it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and laugh like he’s laughing now?
“You’ve been in my family for five minutes, and you think you know us? You don’t know shit, asshole.”
Laz turns to me with a smirk and rumbles lazily, “Damn, I knew you had a dirty mouth. What else that mouth do?”
He’s relaxed in his seat as he drives, knees spread and wearing his usual black jeans. They hug his hips and muscular thighs, and before I can help myself, I’ve glanced at his zipper.
Not his zipper. His dick. I felt him thrusting against my ass the other night when he was hard, and he was huge. He’s not hard now, but there’s a sizable package in his jeans. I can vividly imagine Laz cupping the nape of my neck as I lean over his lap and take him in my mouth. A little hiss of pleasure and then his low, breathy,Good girlas he raises his hips to fuck my mouth.
I look away quickly and glare out the passenger window, but not before I catch his shit-eating grin. He knows exactly where my mind went.
He’s married to Mom, I remind myself.He screws Mom. Remember how you heard them that time?Not moaning and panting, but the unmistakable rhythmic noise of a headboard hitting a wall. Otherwise, dead silence.
Revulsion skitters through my body at the memory. Finally, a normal reaction to my stepfather.
When Laz pulls into the driveway at home, I get out of the car, expecting him to speed away again, but he follows me inside. In the hall, he overtakes me, looking into every room until he finds Mom in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the counter answering emails on her phone.
“Your daughter has something to tell you,” Laz announces, and then he stands back and folds his arms.
Mom looks past me as if she expects to see Rieta or Isabel standing in the doorway.
He means me. I’m your daughter, too.
Mom turns back to her phone and her acrylic nail taps the screen. “What do you have to tell me, Mia? You’re not failing school, are you?”
The pain in my chest doubles. She assumes that if I’ve got something to say, it must be because I did something wrong.
Tap tap tap.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Laz glares daggers at me as I turn on my heel and sweep past him. “Pathetic.”
I keep walking while images of revenge flash through my mind. Heaping all his fashionably ripped jeans into a pile and torching them in the back garden. Scraping a key along every panel of his beloved car. I want to scream at him. I want to rake my nails down his chest. But I also know that it won’t make me feel any better when the person I truly wish to scream at is Mom. I want to crack that frosty, aloof demeanor of hers and make her see me. Even if I wanted to hurt her, I wouldn’t know how. If I acted out, she’d flick me a haughty glance and return to whatever she’s doing, because I’m less worthy of her attention than a mosquito buzzing around her head.
I lock myself in the bathroom and splash handful after handful of cold water over my face. I’m so sick of this place. The school year ends in four months, and I haven’t saved up enough money yet. Maybe just one more month will do it, and I could sell the handbag Mom gave me for my birthday. A crummy little apartment would be better than living under this roof.
I turn the tap off by slamming it with the heel of my hand and gaze at my dripping face.
Or I could stop being a scared little bitch and actually face Mom like a grown up. Stand up for myself, for once.
Once I’ve dried my face, I head back to the kitchen and approach Mom. In a calm voice, I say, “Mom. One of the boys at school took a picture of me.”
Not a lie. But not the whole truth, either.
