19. Preston #2
Now that I think about it, during the years of rivalry, there was always this invisible string between us, and I wasn’t quite sure what it was. And while he did target me like he had a vendetta against me, I thought it was a normal hockey thing, you know?
But maybe it wasn’t?
Marcus’s fixation on me started after that game where I called his mom names. Apparently, he holds a grudge—and here I thought I was the pettiest petty of all petties—so maybe it didn’t end after he checked me all the way to Sunday.
Or won the game.
Or made me look like a goddamn fool.
Maybe this entire thing has been a game to him. Not that I treated it any differently, right?
My grip tightens around the stick as all sorts of thoughts crowd my brain and the static heightens.
“Point is,” Jude says. “Stop needlessly provoking Osborn, Preston.”
“I’m not scared of him.” I snap my fingers. “It should be the other way around. I could kill him in his sleep.”
“You could, but your father wouldn’t be thrilled about it,” Kane says. “He’s basically one of us now, though not officially for some reason.”
I narrow my eyes. “What reason?”
“Beats me.” Kane shrugs. “His father doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to bring him back.”
“I heard Julian talking to Dad the other day,” Jude says. “And apparently, Andrew told Marcus he has until he graduates, then he needs to join the family. It seems that Marcus is resistant to the idea, but he has a weakness that can be wielded against him at any time.”
I perk up. “Which is?”
“His mom. He considers her his only family.” Jude narrows his eyes. “And don’t even think about it, Pres.”
“I’m not thinking about anything!”
“You mean to tell me you won’t try to sleep with her like you did with your stepmother’s best friend just to piss him off?”
I mean, I probably would’ve a few months ago, but my dick seems to have grown a chronic illness called Marcus.
“Listen, that was different.” I punch Jude in the chest. “That woman was the one Satan’s lover talked to on the phone when I was a kid.
She was laughing and gloating about how she had me under control and said that I was annoyingly clingy.
I had to settle scores, and you know me. I collect my debts.”
“At the expense of being beaten practically half to death by your dad’s goon?” Kane asks.
I shrug. “Worth the horrified, disgusted look on Satan’s lover’s face.”
“It won’t be worth it with Osborn,” Jude says.
“Relax. You’re acting like a drama empress.”
“It’s drama queen, Pres.”
“I upgraded you. You’re welcome.”
He shakes his head, but he stops nagging and we finish practicing some drills. Then we go home, to Jude’s place, of course. At least, he and I go—Kane ditches us to go see his girlfriend.
Jude makes sure I take my insomnia meds because I can’t really sleep without them. Never been able to since I was a kid.
You know, because once upon a time, I used to stay up all night, squirming in bed, trembling uncontrollably as horror clogged my throat in the darkness.
The only break came from the glowing stars that stared down at me as I waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Minutes felt like hours and hours like days as I lay there listening for that unmistakable creak in the door.
The hushed footsteps.
The deep, pungent breaths.
Now, as I stare at the dark ceiling after Jude’s finished being my nurse for the night, I still expect the door to open.
For that creak to slice through my fucked-up brain and start a riot of epic proportions.
Doesn’t matter that I only sleep with my door fully locked, and that I’ve only given the key to three people in case of an emergency: Jude, Kane, and Dad.
If it’s not them, I’d rather die.
Locked or not, I still have nightmares about that door from my childhood room creaking open, a monster rearing its head.
He even frightens the friends I had in the dark. The little stars that started to talk to me because they felt sorry for me.
I hate nighttime.
I hate lying in bed, waiting to sleep.
Not sure how someone can hate something so natural, but I do.
I always feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin with discomfort.
Doesn’t matter what type of premium mattress or silky sheets I’m on.
Doesn’t matter the type of incense or diffuser nonsense Jude buys religiously and puts in my room.
He’s always falling for propaganda about some product that “scientifically” helps with sleep—now a lavender diffuser is vaporizing by my bedside.
This will always be the worst part of my day.
I’d rather be beaten to within an inch of my life by Lenin than this.
Pain is better than being helpless.
But pain isn’t endless, unfortunately.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, pulling me back to the present.
I turn to my side and check it. That chronic illness I need to find medicine for squeezes my chest as I read the text.
Headache
Are we back to the ghosting game?
I scoff. So yeah, maybe I haven’t replied to his texts since that night. What? He was the one who blocked me and was playing hard to get.
So he had to pay.
Also, no idea how to deal with the pest now.