AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It’s so much easier with Mom. She might not be the most loving parent in the world, but at least she’s not riding my ass twenty-four-seven. She’s a retired model, living her best life with the rock singer she’s dating who’s closer to my age than he is hers.
After my parents divorced when I was seven, she was granted custody of me and my older brother. I’m pretty sure she only fought our dad for us out of spite. She never cared enough to ask what we were doing or where we were doing it, but as we got older, we didn’t mind that so much. We used it to our advantage and got away with murder.
My dad blames her for Blaine’s death. Says the only reason he drove drunk that night was because she refused to try to control him like a proper parent would.
He treats me and her like the dirt beneath his thousand dollar shoes, like the problems he’s forced to deal with, and then walks around with his nose in the air like he’s some kind of saint—the man who’s never made a damn mistake in his life.
What the fuck ever.
Are you on drugs again, Xavier?
I fucking wish, Dad.
Needing to do something else with my hands, I gently put the strip of photos away and pull out the half empty pack of cigarettes from my jeans. I take one out and stare at it between my fingers, slowly rolling it back and forth. It hasn’t been that long. I can still remember the way it felt when the smoke would fill my mouth and travel down to my lungs. The way the nicotine would relax me. Maybe take some of the pain away, just for a minute or two.
My face hurts like a bitch, but I don’t mind it. Everything always hurts on the inside anyway, so it's kind of nice to feel some pain on the outside again. Like maybe it’ll override it if I concentrate on the throb in my nose hard enough.
It doesn’t work.
I snap the cigarette at the roach and shove both pieces into my pocket, propping my elbows on my knees to drop my face into my hands.
And then I wait.
Again.
I swear I spend half my life waiting for this asshole.
4
NATE
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stare down the phone in my hand, rubbing small circles over Frankie’s ankle with my thumb. I checked on her as soon as I came inside, took her dress off her body, changed her into one of my old shirts, then force fed her some water. There was no bottle on the nightstand, so I know she didn’t drink any like I told her to.
She’s passed out again now. In my bed, as usual. She likes sleeping in here with me when she’s drunk. Says it’s just in case she pukes, she doesn’t want her own room to stink of it.
Covering her feet with the blanket, I look over at the window, listening for movement outside. I haven’t heard his bike start, so I know he’s still out there.
Defiant little bastard.
Again, I squeeze my palm around the phone I’m holding, still trying to figure out how the fuck this is happening.
Why is he here?
Xavi’s dad and mine are best friends, but even if I was on speaking terms with either of them—which I’m not—there’s no way they’d send him to live with me. They both know how much I hate him. Everyone does. I’ve never tried to keep it a secret.
Not wanting to wake Frankie, I leave quietly and shut my bedroom door behind me, walking downstairs to the den at the front of the house. I can see him through this window without having to go right up to it. He’s sitting on the ground next to his bike, elbows resting on his knees, using his forearms as a pillow, probably freezing his scrawny ass off. His face is turned away from me, so I can only see the back of his head, making it impossible for me to know what he’s thinking about.
I pretend I’m not wishing for him to turn this way so I can take a guess.
Looking away, I call the number I’ve been hovering over for the last thirty minutes. He answers on the third ring, but I speak before he can. “You’re a fucking dead man.”
“You got my gift,” he says with a smile in his voice. I hear a car door open and close, followed by the roar of his engine starting. “Finally.”
This motherfucker.
I clench my teeth, not even bothering to act surprised. This is some typical Carter Westwood bullshit. I’ve known him my whole life, and this isn't the first time he’s pulled something like this on me. He loves fucking with people’s lives, plotting and scheming and stringing them along like puppets, all for his own twisted entertainment.
Making my way over to the bar, I grab a bottle of vodka and uncap it one handed, not bothering with a glass. I tip my head back and swallow a big mouthful, trying to calm my racing heart. The alcohol burns as it goes down, just like I wanted to. I drink some more.
