Chapter 3
3
5 years ago
KILLIAN
I ’m sunken into the worn cushions of the downstairs couch. My feet rest on an ottoman with a broken wheel that falls off on the regular, which is why it’s cocked to the right.
The door to the basement opens, and light rolls down the stairs. I tap the pause button on the controller in my hand, anticipating what comes next.
“Killian!” my stepmother Marianne calls.
The death of my sperm donor father left Marianne a widow. It’s been a few years now, and she’s apparently on the hunt for Husband Number Two.
“Come upstairs.” Even when she’s not yelling, Marianne’s voice carries. “Come and meet Raine.”
I roll my eyes as my thumb presses the play button to restart my game. Onscreen, my car slams into a crowd, sending humans and zombies flying. For crowd dispersal, a car is highly effective.
Two sets of footsteps start down. Marianne’s puffy blond hair bounces into view just before her face. She’s halfway down the steps now.
“This is my youngest son. Killian.”
I’m not Marianne’s son. I landed in this house because, when my own fucked-up mother died, I had nowhere else to go.
The girl’s clothes come into view one step at a time as she descends. Black sneakers, skinny legs, a little black skirt, and an oversized gray and purple t-shirt with the Mayhem Rakers logo plastered on the front. Mayhem’s not a great game, but only legit gamers have heard of it.
I tap the pause button.
The girl’s got shoulder-length brown hair that’s so shiny it’s as though she’s melted cellophane onto it. Her eyes are brown, too, but not like any I’ve seen. They’re unnaturally bright, like the hair.
What the hell kind of name is Raine? She’s not from South Boston with that one. California, maybe.
Raine raises a hand in greeting. “Hey, Killian.” Her voice is nowhere near as chirpy as I expected. It’s smooth, actually. Can’t say why, but my muscles twitch at the sound of it.
My body starts to sit up, and I have to force myself back into position. I don’t need to get up for Marianne’s company. And there’s no point anyway.
This girl is the daughter of a geek therapist with large, black-framed glasses that look like a Superman prop. No idea what kind of statement he’s trying to make with them. Maybe, “I need big glasses to better see you and your feelings.”
Marianne is old school Irish from Southie. A tough breed. She’s not gonna last with some guy who says things like, “we need to respect kids’ individuality if we want them to be well-adjusted.” Marianne’s more a “pick up your trash, or your phone charger will disappear while you sleep.”
“Mayhem Rakers sucks,” I say in a surly voice with my gaze locked on the girl’s t-shirt. Looking at her chest, I clock that she has small tits that fit her frame. She’s got a nice body.
Raine glances down at her shirt. “Yeah, the Rakers game doesn’t slay. But I like it.” Her tone’s not defensive. Or apologetic .
“Ever play Zombie Attack?”
She tilts her head, causing the glossy curtain of hair to sway like a sail trying to catch the wind. “Not yet. I’ve heard good things, though.”
“You should’ve bought a copy of ZA before that Rakers shirt.”
“I didn’t buy this. I got it for free at a gaming convention.”
Is she fucking kidding right now? I’ve got half a bone growing for her already. The fact that I’m gonna like her is weird. Normally, I’ve got two emotions for the world’s population. I either hate them or resent them.
I toss a controller on the couch next to me. “Come play.”
Marianne comes down another step. “Actually, Peter and I were thinking you guys could have dessert with us in the kitchen. We’ve got a pineapple upside-down cake.”
A what?
Raine smiles. “I like pineapple. And cake.” There’s something innocent about the way she says this, which strikes me as weird. We’re not five years old.
I’m sixteen. Marianne said the girl’s what, fourteen?
Yeah, fourteen with a couple months till she turns fifteen. A year and some change younger than me. Which means we’re in the same grade.
Even though the schools figured out later I have a genius IQ, at first they didn’t know what was up with me. When I moved in with my dad and Marianne, my mom hadn’t been sending me to school, so I was behind.
Yeah, Mom was a human car crash, all screeching tires and mangled bodies. She was so messed up at the end, I had to fend for myself most of the time, scrounging whatever food I could find in the back of the cupboards. I ate powdered cheese right out of the envelopes in the navy blue Mac and Cheese boxes.
My first week in the Callahan house, I tore through packages in the pantry like a hungry raccoon. I remember my dad yelling at me about the mess and complaining to Marianne. “What the fuck? The kid’s practically feral.” I didn’t know what feral meant, but I could tell it wasn’t good. My dad’s disgusted reaction to me is a vivid memory from that time. One of the few .
Our relationship didn’t improve much over the few years we lived in the same house. When the old man dropped dead of a heart attack when I was eleven, I couldn’t have cared less.
I did worry I might get shoved into foster care. After all, I wasn’t Marianne’s blood. She didn’t put me out, though. I guess she never thought of it. The only thing that changed as I got older was that, when I got in trouble, my half brother Liam would come talk to me and say I needed to watch my step. Or what? I always wondered.
We’re from a neighborhood where beat downs were a regular thing, and my older half brothers were all tough guys who got in plenty of fights while I was still the scrawny embodiment of their father’s cheating. Yet no matter how many times Liam had to come by and talk to me over the years, he never hit me.
Marianne and the girl backtrack up the stairs.
I lean my head against the couch cushion and stare at the ceiling. I’m not going up there. I don’t care about cake or making small talk with Peter the geek.
More importantly, if I wait, Raine may come back down alone.