Chapter 3
VIOLET
He’s still asleep. Not that I prefer my sperm donor to be awake.
The longer he’s passed out, the less I have to deal with him, but it would’ve been nice if I’d had the opportunity to yell at him again before he passed out last night.
Alas, by the time I got home, he was so far gone, he didn’t even budge when I tapped his forehead with the toe of my shoe.
Asshole.
Coffee in hand, I step over my dad’s limp body in the middle of the closet-sized kitchen, moving my way through the family room—if you can even call it such a thing—and onto the porch, making sure to slam the door behind me for good measure.
The guy stays where he is, snoring like a baby in yesterday’s clothes, his jeans unbuttoned with a puddle of drool spread out on the linoleum floor.
I couldn’t even give him a piece of my mind after my run-in with the Harden brothers.
The reminder is enough to make my fury ignite all over again.
I’d hoped a little sleep would help bring it to a simmer, but it didn’t work.
Nope. The tossing and turning only amplified my resentment and frustration while leaving me nothing but a numb, hollow shell.
I don’t have enough money.
I don’t have any money. Okay, that’s not entirely true.
I have a solid three hundred dollars to my name, which considering my zip code and my lack of rap sheet, makes me one of the richest people in The Drift.
The problem is, even if I am one of the richest people in The Drift with a pretty squeaky clean background, all things considered, I still don’t have enough money to claw my way out of here. Not anymore.
I won’t be able to live closer to campus and classes and work.
I’ll be stuck here. In purgatory. With the devil himself.
My eyes ache. They ache so bad. I can’t decide if it’s from all the tears I’ve held back or from last night’s lack of sleep.
Does it even matter? Not really. I squeeze them shut and lift the chipped mug to my lips, breathing in the burnt coffee like it holds the answer to all my problems, but I’m not naive enough to believe it.
Fuck those Harden brothers. Fuck my dad. Fuck everyone.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, yanking me from my pity party. I pull it out and read the name shining back at me. Jenny Thomas. My head falls forward in defeat as I slide my thumb across the screen, bringing the cell to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Miss Reeves, it’s Jenny Thomas with Harden Heights University. I handle the low-income housing for the school?”
We’ve only spoken a dozen times.
“Yes, I remember,” I reply dryly. “Hi.”
“Hello. I want to confirm you’ll still be dropping off your payment for the semester? There’s quite a waitlist, and I’ve already held the room for longer than I should’ve.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for that.”
“No problem, Miss Reeves. You know I’m happy to help, especially with your…situation. Were you able to collect the rest of the funds?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bawling my eyes out.
“Uh, no. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to…
to collect the rest of the funds for the upcoming semester.
So. Uh.” I run my tongue between my teeth and upper lip, trying to keep my composure.
“Thank you, but you can offer it to the next person on the list.”
“Are you sure?” Her disappointment is almost as potent as my own. “I can maybe give you twenty-four more hours, but—”
“Don’t worry about it, Jenny. Er, Ms. Thomas.” I sigh. “Seriously, it’s fine.”
It isn’t, but I don’t know what else there is to say. Twenty-four more hours won’t do me any more good than a thousand. Not on a barista’s salary.
“Are you sure?” she repeats.
No.
“Yeah, of course,” I answer. “Thanks again for all your help. I seriously owe you one.”
Her silence is as thick as mustard gas, and I set my coffee at my feet, pressing my fingers to the corners of my eye in hopes of staving off the tears.
“Not a problem, Violet,” she finally says. “If you need anything else, please let me know.”
“Sure thing.”