Spitting Off the Edge of the World (Not Strong Enough #1)

Chapter 1

Julien

This is it. Finally.

Everything changes tonight.

Will it be for the better? No, but it will be better for a while.

A towel is wrapped around my waist as I stand in my walk-in closet, deciding what to wear. The space could fit two homeless families inside. Sometimes it makes me sad. I have all this wealth and crap, and for what?

My stepdad, Holt, and my mom are out of town, who conveniently missed my high school graduation last night. No apologies, no checking in on me to see how it went. They’re too busy cruising the coast for their anniversary, which isn’t until next week. Fucking typical.

I don’t want to care, but I do.

They give me whatever I want, either to keep me happy or to shut me up. It’s not happiness they bring, but misery, pain, and hatred. No matter how little or how much money I have, it doesn’t save me from him, but it will allow me to escape.

I hate them more than breathing, and I passionately hate breathing.

Living. Existing. People looking in see the wealth that comes with privilege and wish they had it.

Meanwhile, I’m suffocating. Money clearly doesn’t buy what I truly need.

It only brings unwanted, superficial attention.

It’s used as a tool to pay for my silence and to control me. But now I have my own money.

I take a swig of tequila straight from the bottle and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. It’s my stepdad’s special reserve. Fuck him. Fuck his liquor. Fuck this house. Fuck this goddamn closet. And fuck this life.

I breathe through the growing rage. Calm down. It’s all going to be over soon.

Cherry, my girlfriend of two years, takes the bottle from my hand and chugs the alcohol. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth and coughs. “Ugh, I fucking hate tequila.”

“Jesus, then don’t drink it.”

She sticks her tongue out at me before carding through my hanging shirts.

“Where are daddy and mommy dearest tonight?” She likes my parents as much as I do, which is not at all, even if she doesn’t know the full truth. It’s pretty much the only thing we have in common.

“They’re out of town.”

“Convenient. Explains why they didn’t make your graduation. I mean, my parents are dicks, too, but at least they showed. Fuck them. Let’s make this a night to remember, then.”

“That’s the plan. We’re going to fuck shit up.”

“Now we’re talkin’!”

I grab a fistful of her blonde hair from behind, yank her head back, and kiss her, tasting the tequila on her tongue.

For once, I wish that something would stir in me when we kissed.

It feels as fake as she is. Why do I bother?

I don’t even like her that much, or at all really.

It’s a way to keep her happy, and if she’s happy, she leaves me the fuck alone.

I swear to fucking god I’m doomed to being a people pleaser.

It’s not that I’m weak, but it’s a mask to hide my fear and shame.

Wear a fake smile and do everything that’s expected of me, then no one notices all my secrets.

Ironically, sometimes I want them to see the real me.

To see my suffering and pain. To experience any sort of empathy.

In the end, they will never care. That’s what hurts the most.

It all ends tonight.

Cherry and my friends are accessories and status symbols.

Someone high up on the food chain needs lots of friends, a gorgeous girlfriend, and to pump out the most epic parties before responsibilities take over our lives now that we’re adults and done with high school.

She’s off to college in the fall, and I’m…

well, I don’t plan to be here much longer. The rest is moot.

Everything in life is temporary. What’s the fucking point of all this? No one gives a shit. No one will remember me. And I don’t feel like making my mark on the world or creating a legacy. There’s only one person I want to affect. I just don’t know who that is yet.

I sit on the cushioned bench, watching her dig through my clothes. It’s kind of nice. I don’t want to think about what I should wear. She pulls down a navy-blue linen button-up and holds it up against my chest, gnawing on her lipstick-stained bottom lip as she scans me with her hazel eyes.

“I like this. Wear it unbuttoned. Show off your tanned abs. I mean, you work your ass off for them, and all.”

After taking another swig, I wipe my mouth again, feeling the burn travel down my chest to my stomach. I haven’t eaten today, so I’m buzzed already.

“Pace yourself, Jules,” she says.

I hate that nickname, but I never say anything. Not once. Since I never speak up for myself, people take that as an invitation to walk all over me. No doubt I look pathetic in their eyes. Weakness is never acceptable in our world.

“Don’t you get fucking sick of this?” I blurt.

“Don’t you feel like you’re actually part of a circus and you’re the main act?

Everyone’s watching and waiting for you to fuck up, so they can gasp in shock and point at you?

I feel like I’m a trapeze artist without a net, and everyone’s waiting for me to fall to my death.

Or maybe a zoo is a better analogy.” A zoo where animals are abused, but I don’t say that.

For a moment, I want to tell her about what Holt has done, but she won’t care. She’ll give some placating comment and move on. I’m not sure I’d be able to handle the indifference.

“God, please don’t get all philosophical on me. Not tonight. We have the rest of our lives to be fucking boring and serious. I just want to get trashed and fuck. That’s it.”

She turns to face me, straddles my lap, and rests her arms on my bare shoulders. I have to admit, she is gorgeous. Too bad she’s an asshole and a user.

I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

When I first met Cherry, she liked it when I was philosophical.

She used to find it charming. Now she gets annoyed.

I quickly learned she only pretended to find me charming to get what she wanted.

That’s something I have to deal with as a person in my position.

My parents taught me early in life that people like us don’t have true friendships.

Only takers or competitors. Everyone’s about to fuck you over.

No one knows about my bisexuality either. I’ve never been with a guy. I don’t dare. My friends would fucking eviscerate me. The beauty of being insanely wealthy is that you can be as eccentric as you want, and no one bats an eye. But screw another dude? No way. God fucking forbid.

But things are about to change.

“Just relax and have fun tonight,” she tells me.

“Then, before I head off to college, you’re going to get me an engagement ring with a huge diamond, and we’ll announce it with a huge celebration.

I want you on a tight leash while I’m gone.

No sleeping around.” She walks her fingers up my chest and smiles coyly.

That’s rich, considering she actively cheats on me with my supposed best friend.

“You know, you can always come with me. Your grades are good enough to get into Berkley.”

I’d rather stab myself in the eye. “College isn’t for me.”

I have a trust fund from my deceased father, which I got after I turned eighteen.

There’s enough money to last me for the rest of my life and then some, whether I work or not.

I’m expected to invest it and make even more money, but why should I?

I’m not going to be around forever. Before I go, I’ll give my money to someone worthy.

Someone who will make good use of it and appreciate it.

There’s no point in telling Cherry we’re not getting married. I’ll never have a wife, kids, a career…

A spark of sentimentality breaches my walls, wanting to see if Cherry, the version of her when we’d met, is still in there somewhere.

I wrap my arms around her narrow waist and rest my head against her chest. “Cher… I’m not happy here. Let’s run away. Elope. Fuck everyone else.” It’s not what I have planned, but if she agrees, maybe life can take a different turn if I can find just a little bit of empathy and love from her.

I don’t expect her to understand. I even expect her snort of laughter. Still, I’m disappointed by her reaction.

Cherry climbs off my lap and searches for some pants for me to wear.

“Get real. I’m not eloping. I’ve had my wedding planned out down to the fucking centerpieces since I was ten.”

The last thing this world needs is for Cherry and me to get married and have kids like us. It’s just as well that she’s the way she is.

Cherry rambles on about how she wants our wedding, the colors it’s going to have, who’s going to be in the bridal party, how many people will attend, who will be attending, and where the venue will be.

As she prattles on, I tune her out, stand, and open my underwear drawer. I pull out one of the hidden joints, light it up, and take a hit. I hold in the pungent smoke before exhaling.

Cherry stops talking, coming over to pluck the doobie from my fingers, and takes a drag. “You’ve got the best shit,” she says after releasing the smoke from her lungs. The walk-in closet soon smells skunky. “Got any blow?”

“Nope, I’m out.” I’ve got plenty. “I’m sure someone will bring some.”

As I take another drag, she drops to her knees and peels the towel away. As it falls around my feet, she fists my dick. When I exhale the smoke, she inhales my cock. If Cherry is good at anything, it’s giving head.

Her lips touch my cock, and I’m instantly hard, even with the weed and being buzzed on tequila.

I groan, slide my eyes closed, and just feel. Feel the warm, wet mouth. Feel her plump lips tight around me. Feel her long nails digging into my hips. What I want to feel are emotions, but I’m fucking dead inside. I can’t even remember the last time I cried.

It doesn’t take me long to come, especially after imagining Cherry is a Jerry.

When I’m done, she cleans her lips as if she’s wrapped up a chore and continues to find my outfit for the evening while I pull on a pair of boxer briefs.

Fuck. I’m completely unsatiated. How does even getting a blow job feel depressing? It’s exhausting, draining, and overwhelming at the same time.

When’s the last time I felt happiness? There was my dad. I’d been only ten when I lost him. I remember loving him, but maybe he was as bad as my stepdad. Can I trust childhood memories? Children always tend to see life through rose-colored glasses, so who knows?

“Alright, wear this,” Cherry says.

I turn, take a drag of weed again, and look at my chosen outfit. She sticks with the navy linen button-up and pairs it with cream linen shorts.

“You need to show off that bod of yours.”

“What are you wearing?”

“I have a matching navy-blue halter top that I’m pairing with baggy jeans.”

That explains why she wants me to wear navy blue.

Cherry pats my face. “Lighten up. This party’s gonna fucking slay.”

I slide the shirt on and roll the sleeves over my forearms. “It’ll be sick,” I agree.

And it will, because I’ve made sure of it.

All my stepdad’s liquor is out—and it’s a lot—along with his collection of wines from across the world.

I ordered catering and invited the entire senior class, though most of the high school will show up.

If they break a lot of shit or trash the place, so be it.

If I’m remembered for anything, it will be this party.

I hate this fucking house, so I’m eager to fuck it up.

It’s a cold, modern monstrosity in Holmby Hills, made of concrete, glass, and metal.

Every corner of it reminds me of my lost innocence and violence.

It has six bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. Like, who the hell needs that many bathrooms?

The only good feature is the rooftop garden with a view of the Los Angeles skyline.

My friends love the game room, pool, and hot tub, of course.

“Yo! Julian! Where are you?” Derrick yells from somewhere in the house.

“Up here!” I yell back.

He makes it up to my room as I pull up my shorts and peeks inside my closet with a smirk. We slap our hands together before pulling each other into a bro hug. Derrick is my so-called best friend from the swim team. He’ll continue racing in college, and I’ll never swim for sport again.

He’s wearing a pink polo shirt and white shorts, which pop on his tanned skin from surfing. His light brown hair is perfectly tousled and fingered back. He peels off his shades, revealing shrewd, dark blue eyes.

Derrick pulls Cherry into a tight hug and presses a kiss to her neck, which is generally inappropriate to do to someone else’s girlfriend.

I watch Cherry threading fingers through his hair, but I feel nothing.

No anger, frustration, or the need to rip them apart.

It’s bold to do it in front of me, yet I can’t bring myself to give a shit.

When he lets her go, he eyes me as a cruel smile curls crookedly on his face, like he’s daring me to say something. Then he snags the tequila bottle and chugs down a fourth of it.

Soon, Reese follows Derrick into my closet. He’s nicer, but not by much. He too claps my hand before shaking it, but he doesn’t touch Cherry. He’s never liked her—his only good quality.

Reese is someone I’ve eyed over the years in high school with his smooth, dusky skin and tawny brown eyes. I’ve often fantasized about him fucking me or the other way around. But that’s all it is—a fantasy. I’d never want him in real life beyond getting my dick wet.

“Ready to party? I can’t fucking wait. It’s gonna be fire.” He snorts a laugh and also takes a swig of the tequila. “Your parents are going to be so pissed, bro.”

“Good. Fuck ’em,” I retort.

“Hell yeah! Our boy has finally grown some balls,” Derrick cackles.

If he only knew.

Cherry spritzes some cologne on me, and I call myself done with getting ready. “I’m going to put on some music and make sure the food arrives on time.”

Reese heads downstairs to do whatever, and I leave Cherry and Derrick alone intentionally, but I stop and wait around the corner, carefully listening to them.

There’s some fumbling of clothes, and soon, I hear the slurping of a blow job.

“Damn, you give the best head, Kitten.”

“Shh, don’t let Julien hear you.”

“Please, as if he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t give a shit about you.”

“Like you give a shit about anyone. Give me a fucking break. Julien and I will get married and be the most popular couple in LA. Who cares if we’re in love?”

Derrik snorts a derisive laugh. “As if. You can dream, I guess.”

“Asshole.”

“Keep suckin’, honey.”

They deserve each other. The blow job she gave me earlier will be the last time she touches me.

Now, it’s time to set my plan in motion.