47. Win
47
Win
C offee is the ultimate scam. It’s a deceptive elixir of the gods bestowed on us peasants to infuse us with a fraction of energy so addictive that as soon as we crash, we sprint back for more. A cycle we repeat in blind worship of the bitter bean liquid.
How the fuck is this shit not categorized as a hard drug?
Whatever, it tastes good.
I gulp down another giant mouthful of espresso as I speed out of the drive-through only to immediately catch a red light. Of course, I hit one of the four intersections in this fucking town when I’m about to piss myself. Might as well check the damage.
I flip the visor mirror open—
Jumpscare.
Smudged liner merges with the dark circles under my tired eyes. Three massive purple and red hickies mark my neck. (Is that a bite mark too?) My lips are still slightly swollen. There’s a permanent pink flush in my cheeks. More evidence hides beneath my clothes, clearly borrowed from my boyfriend.
Call me the, “Just fucked,” poster boy .
It’s not really the ideal look for accepting a job offer from my lawyer step-father, but at least I’m smiling, right?
My drastic change of heart happened midway through blowing Remy this morning. (I had no choice but to worship his sleepy, sexy nerdiness when he put those damn glasses on. They're my fucking kryptonite.) He’s mentioned internships and grad schools a few times, but I hadn’t read too far into it until breaking into his apartment to leave the note and chocolate. On the coffee table sat a stack of pamphlets, every single one boasting a program hours away from Fort Manor. One even as far north as Boston.
The solution is simple: Wherever he goes, I’ll follow. It’s not a matter of want. It’s a need. He makes me better.
He makes me want to be better.
I’m done bumming off Mom and Richard. I’ll take the job at Richard’s firm to save some cash while Remy finishes school even if it means I have to suck it up and work with judgy, snobby, gossiping incels. I’ll do anything to stay with him and prove I’m worthy.
A honk from behind.
Green light. Oops .
Snapping the visor up, I slam on the gas. Two streets later, I’m turning into Mom and Richard’s neighborhood, my thumbs tapping the steering wheel to the beat of one of Remy’s favorite pop songs. (Not that I’ll ever admit to him that I like it.) Despite the soreness in my ass, scattered hours of sleep and daunting life changes, I’m lighter than air, whistling as I park next to what must be one of Mom’s friend’s blacked-out Mercedes. It’s a little early, but maybe they went to Pilates or something this morning.
I chug the remains of my coffee while jogging up the steps, and waltz inside.
“Mom? ”
My footsteps are bombs in the quiet foyer. I pause. Her friends are usually loud and yappy as fuck…
It’s too quiet.
The hairs on my neck stand on end. Stop panicking. Everything is fine. It’s just a PTSD response. Self-assurances don’t stand a chance against spiked adrenaline and anxiety. The metal teeth of my keys bite my palm as I strain to hear…
Muffled voices.
From Richard’s home office.
I creep down the hall, heart beating so loud in my ears, I can barely distinguish who is speaking. But as I approach, it’s abundantly clear it’s not my mother. Or any of her bimbo friends.
Holding my breath, I inch toward the ajar office door.
Broad shoulders clad in a custom made navy suit block my view of Richard’s large desk. Not a single deep golden hair is out of place on the back of the imposing stranger’s head. He’s not bulky, but he’s at least one and a half times my body mass.
A tremor begins in my fingers.
Richard never takes house calls.
Warning sirens scream in my brain.
“... destroy his entire career before it even begins. My son is straight, for fuck’s sake. He’s been with the same woman for four years now! He’s a good kid. Gets good grades, works hard, has plenty of friends. This is all just a big misunderstanding. He has nothing to do with these ridiculous charges and I’m sure with you representing him, the athletic department will drop it,” the blonde man says in a smooth, condescending tone.
A sigh.
“He was found with possession of GHB and Tusi,” my step-father deadpans. Bile scorches up my throat. “Along with other incriminating evidence like video footage and witnesses. These ridiculous charges are serious and can’t easily be erased, Dr. Larson.”
Ice prickles over my scalp. Down my spine. To my toes.
Larson. As in…
Grant Larson.
My vision goes hazy. The floor is moving. I’m gonna puke.
A bitter chuckle. “Oh please, everyone has a price, Richard.”
Vomit fills my mouth.
Enough . I’ve heard enough.
So I do what I do best.
I run.