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At least my dad could afford it.
He lazily nodded. “Sure, dude.”
His friends thought it was funny when he took the time cleaning it up—with his nose. He snorted, wiping his index finger at his nostril and blew the rest off the table, letting the particles float into the air.
Dude looked smug. Probably thought because Daddy used to be a druggie rockstar, I had been joking around.
I widened my stance and clicked my tongue. I felt the rage in my tense muscles and wanted to punch something, but then I didn’t look forward to a carpet getting stained with cocaine and blood.
Ah, but hadn’t Dita been hired for that kind of stuff?
Lovely.
On impulse, I sunk down to eye-level and palmed the back of the guy’s head. I smiled at him, showing my teeth as one corner of my mouth lifted. He smiled back, cautiously, staring at me with terrified, glazed eyes.
“Didn’t I tell you to get that shit out of my house?”
He nodded fervently. The rest of his company clambered against the back of the sofa.
“But you didn’t.” I patted the tip of his nose. “You rather had that shit up here, didn’t you?”
He swallowed.
Shaking my head, I pursed my lips in disappointment. “You know what I really loathe? That I have to ask the cleaning lady to clean up your mess now.”
Not really, since she was also my stepsister. But hey, the dude made me pissed. And thinking of Dita only worsened my mood.
I smashed his forehead onto the coffee table and went to stand. His skull collided with the hardwood, delivering an unhealthy, satisfying loud bang. Everyone around us “ooh-ed” as blood trickled from his forehead.
Violence wasn’t my usual go-to. But fuck, that felt good.
“What the hell, man?” His hand flew to the cut, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head when he noticed blood on his fingertips.
“Get it stitched.” None of them getting the memo, I nudged one of his friends with my sneaker. “All of you douchebags, get out of my house before he passes out.”
Not staying to watch them leave, I checked outside. Most people I knew were seated there, including my brother. Rio flirting with two chicks at the same time wasn’t uncommon. I tipped my chin at him, announcing my presence. He tipped his back, cradling the blondes closer against each side.
Misha, our childhood best friend, saw me and shuffled over, having a hard time lifting his feet from the floor as always. It was stinking annoying. His entire appearance screamed lazy—his thick, ashy mop of hair wasn’t styled, rimmed, black glasses disheveled, and those Vans… I believe those were six years old already. I knew for a fact that the hole on top of his big toe was already there two summers ago.
Who could wear the same shoes six years long? Gamers. Dudes who sat on a chair and only paced a few steps an hour on a Saturday night at their neighbors’ party. He didn’t look like he was worth a million dollars, but he was. His parents were as rich as Cary, only less absent.
At least Misha’s shirt was ironed.
“Yo.” Unfocused, red-rimmed eyes looked at me as he pushed a beer into my hand. He’d probably smoked a joint before I came home. I took a pull from the bottle, making a face when the next song came on.
I groaned. “Are you kidding me? It’s worse than ever.”
Micha snorted and spoke around a marshmallow, his go-to food when he was high. The sugar rush would clear his vision soon. “Drake still on your shit list?”
It sounded more like “Deyk shill onjo shi-li?”
It was a miracle I deciphered that shit.
“What do they drink around here to like this kind of music?”
I switched the song, tired of couples sloppily grinding each other to music that was even impossible to grind on. I went in search of the filthiest one I could find in my playlist.
I didn’t need to search that long. My thumb hovered over Steel Panther’s “Let Me Cum In” before it boomed through the speakers.
