She had a whole box of photos in her closet when she was alive, but I have no idea where they are now. I wasn’t allowed in her house after she died. I don’t know what her parents did to her room or what they kept and didn’t keep. I have my own pictures, videos, and voice notes stored on my phone, but this strip of photos is one of the only two physical things I have left of her, one of the only things I have that actually belonged to her.
My phone rings, and I swipe my eyes before I pick it up, deflating when I see it’s my dad.
“Hello?”
“I told you I expect you to call me,” he says as his greeting, sounding like he’s distracted at work, as usual. “Are you there yet?”
“Yeah,” I answer, picking at the stones on the ground between my feet.
I told him I was driving up here today, but he doesn’t know where I’m staying. I told him it was handled when he offered to help me out with housing, and he surprisingly left it alone. He probably thinks my mom hooked me up with an apartment, which is pretty laughable. I love her, but she can barely remember I exist most days, let alone rent me a place to live.
“How’s the apartment?”
“Fine.”
“You don't sound very excited about it.”
“I’m thrilled, Dad. Really.”
“Watch the attitude, Xavier,” he warns, but I’m no longer listening.
I tune him out when he starts with his regular lecture. My thoughts drift back to Nate, and I turn my face to peek at the house behind me, wondering what he’s doing with that drunk girl he brought home with him. She’s stunning. Ash blonde hair, big blue eyes, curves for days and a body I’m sure most guys would kill for a piece of.
“...stay out of trouble and do not embarrass me.”
I bet he worships every inch of her when he fucks her.
A sick thrill shoots through me, and I find myself picturing what he looks like when he’s on top of her. He’s probably taking his anger out on her right this second, bruising her thighs and fucking into her as hard as he can, thinking of me as he does it.
I hear a deep sigh in my ear and then, “Are you on drugs again, Xavier?”
“Fucking hell, Dad.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I told you I’m sober.”
“Addicts are compulsive liars. Do you really expect me to believ—”
“You know what? You’re right. I gotta go. My dealer’s on the other line.”
“Xavier.”
I roll my eyes and hang up the phone. I should probably stop being such a brat to him, considering he’s the one paying my tuition, but fuck it. No point in trying to be better for a man who knows I never will be.
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 full 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 dirt, like the problems he’s forced to deal with, and then walks around with his nose in the air as if he’s some kind of saint—the man who’s never made a damn mistake in his life.
Are you on drugs again, Xavier?
I wish, Dad.
Needing to do something with my hands, I 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.
CHAPTER 4
NATE
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stare at 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.
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 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 know how much I hate him. Everyone does. I’ve never tried to keep it a secret.
I quietly shut my bedroom door behind me and walk 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.
Calling the number I’ve been hovering over for the last thirty minutes, I cut him off before he can get a word in.
“You’re a 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. “Do you love it?”
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 whiskey and uncap it, not bothering with a glass. I swallow a big mouthful, trying to calm my racing heart. The alcohol burns as it goes down, just like I wanted it to. Desperate to feel the pain, I drink some more.
“Aw, you’re speechless,” Carter continues. “It’s okay. You don’t have to thank me. Just throat my dick real good when I get home and we’ll call it ev—”