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“What the hell! What do you mean you’ve seen my bank records? That’s a huge invasion of privacy!”
I have a whopping twenty-five dollars in the bank. I set it up when I turned eighteen, never used it, and let it sit with the minimum deposit. I kept it open to remind me of the choices I’ve made. Instead of eating that day, I opened a savings account.
I chose to hope for a future.
“Cry me a river.”
“You can’t just go about meddling in people’s lives.”
“Yet . . .” He trails off with a shit-eating grin on his face.
Even though half his face is out of view, the side I do see is obnoxious enough that I want to remove my shoe and throw it at his face.
Seeing as he’s driving, and I don’t have a death wish, I’ll refrain.
Barely.
“I’m not your dad.” I glare out the front windshield, hating the city for the first time. Every inch of it reminds me of Trent. “Making my life hell won’t fix what he did to you. And despite what you think, I never knew about your family. I was kept in the dark. So hurting me doesn’t change anything.”
“But it will make me feel better.”
“It will be a short-lived pleasure.”
“What do you know about that?”
“I know a lot more than you’d expect.” The double entendre isn’t lost on me. I flush, reminded of the shower. Gosh, I really screwed myself with that one.
Figuratively and literally.
“You think you’ve had it rough,” I pivot. “Try living in a ca—” I stop myself before I finish.
The vehicle rolls to a stop, and Trent looks at me.
“You lived in a car?”
“Not everyone grew up in a gilded castle.”
“So, basically, that means your sister really is a whore.”
Of course, that’s what he got from that.
“She did what she had to do to survive and keep us both alive.” I don’t like the defensive edge to my voice. It makes me feel like my life is a game. One in which I’m always on defense.
I don’t know why I bother to even tell him this. He knows nothing of the suffering that comes from poverty. His privilege is so thick, not even an obsidian knife could cut through it, and that shit is volcanic glass.
“And you . . .” He looks me up and down. I think it’s disdain, but I don’t trust myself to get an accurate read on him right now. Not when I’m so on edge. “Did you do who she had to do, too . . . ?”
“Oh, fuck you,” I spit out.
“Princess has claws.” Mockery invades his stare.
“Only for assholes.” My words escape through clenched teeth, but it only seems to entertain him some more.
He basks in my misery.
“You never answered the question.” His tone is light, but I know this is the big unknown plaguing him. “Did you spread your pretty little thighs for Daddy?”
“That’s disgusting.”
