Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Zane
Fuck me, that was a stupid thing to do.
My head won’t let the memory go, and my body sure as hell won’t either.
I’m still hard from that fucking kiss, and no amount of pacing, no number of angry thoughts will untangle what that moment left behind.
My pulse won’t calm down either.
My body is wound too fucking tight, coiled with a need that ignores every command I throw its way.
I shove my fists deep into my pockets, jaw locked so hard it aches, every step heavy with a weight I can’t shake. The pavement stretches ahead, but I keep moving, pretending I am steady, that I am not seconds away from turning back around just to have another taste.
I tell myself to breathe, to drag my mind anywhere else but there. To shake her loose from the hold she has over me.
But it doesn’t work.
Because the second she stepped onto that rooftop, the second her mouth brushed mine, the whole world cracked wide open, and I can’t shove the pieces back together no matter how hard I try.
I’ve kissed girls before.
Too many.
Some were a blur I barely remember, bodies pressed together in a corner at some party.
Others I wish I didn’t remember, their hands clutching at me, their mouths hungry in a way that left me empty.
But none of them ever tasted like her.
None of them ever made me feel this way before. Made me want to close my eyes and keep that single moment nailed to the inside of my skull so I could replay it again and again.
And fuck, I hate that I crave another hit of her.
My hand drags down my face, fingers scraping over stubble.
I should have pulled away sooner. Should have shut that shit down before I let things go that far. Not with the one girl in this whole fucked-up town I shouldn’t be touching.
She sleeps down the hall, close enough that her presence is a constant fucking torment.
Her bed only a door away, her hair spilling across the pillow, and I’ve pictured her there more times than I’ll ever admit.
The curve of her body twisted in sheets, the soft sound of her breathing in the dark.
Every night she’s close enough to turn sleep into torture.
She’s the temptation I can’t shake, the one that wrecks me without ever lifting a finger.
But the second her lips pressed into mine, every reason not to vanished.
She’s always been beautiful.
I knew from the second I walked into that hellhole we call a home a year ago and fucking saw her. One glance and I already hated myself for wanting her.
Girls at school trip over themselves to get close, chasing that bad-boy story, convinced they can fix the mess or brag about the scars. They blur together, nothing worth remembering.
But Skylar… fuck, she’s different. She doesn’t fall at my feet.
She stands her ground, spits fire back in my face.
I watch her when I fucking shouldn’t.
I’ve memorized the sound of her laugh, the way it bursts out when she finally lets herself laugh for real. The way her eyes linger on me when she believes I’m not looking.
Only, I am always paying attention.
She makes me want things I swore I never wanted.
Things I don’t let myself even picture. I am ruined by a girl I haven’t even touched yet.
A girl who should never get tangled up with someone like me.
Because if she does, she burns. And I will be the one who sets the match. Because I know I am not good.
People have hammered that into me for years. Screw-up. Lost cause. Broken beyond fixing.
But I don’t want that for her.
I should have told her Samantha is my cousin. Set the record straight before she could twist the story into something else.
But then I saw her face, the jealousy in her eyes, and the hit landed harder than it should have. The whole thing was fucked-up. Selfish. Wrong. And I liked every second of it.
I liked that she cared enough to hate the idea of me with someone else.
Not many people at school realize Sam and I are related.
I do not hand out details about my life, and Sam sure as hell does not either.
The only time our worlds collide is when my mother shows up like a storm no one invited, knocking on Sam’s door, begging her Dad (my Uncle) for money. That is how my mother works. Always needing. Always taking. Never stopping.
I don’t tell people about my mother.
About the way she grinds me down until nothing’s left. Even with Sam, the truth stays unspoken. Some things are too ugly to put into words. But the weight gnaws at me anyway.
If my mother ever found out I had cash hidden, if she knew about the money stuffed in my bag from the shifts I grind through, she’d rip it out of my hands without thinking twice. She’d bleed me dry and still tell me I owed her more. But she won’t. Because no one realizes what I’ve got stashed.
That money is all I’ve got.
My shot.
My way out.
Proof that I don’t have to rot here forever.
A place that’s mine. Walls that don’t watch me. Air I can finally breathe without choking on it.
I make my way back to the house.
Every step feels heavier, dragging me closer to the bullshit waiting on the other side of those walls.
My pulse has finally eased from Skylar, but now it shifts into something else, anticipation, dread, the kind of burn you get when you know you are about to be torn apart again.
Dolores.
She will be waiting. She always is.
That woman could sniff out a mistake faster than anyone I have ever known. And me, I am her favorite punching bag.
My shoulders brush the fence as I slip through the slat in the back.
The boards snag against my shirt, catching, pulling.
I blow out a breath and edge toward the back door.
My hand trembles against the handle. I tell myself the shake comes from the cold.
Inside, the house is loud, a storm that never passes.
Three young boys throw a football across the room, the ball smacking against the wall with a hollow thud.
“Outside!” Dolores’s voice booms from somewhere in the house.
The kids freeze for half a second before one of them catches the ball, rolling his eyes as if he already knows better than to test her.
The other two follow, dragging their feet toward the door. The last one lingers, smaller than the rest, his eyes darting up at me.
“She’s been looking for you,” he says.
Of course she fucking has. She always is.
The words settle like a weight across my shoulders.
I nod at the kid, not saying a word, and start down the hall, keeping my steps light, careful, hoping I can reach my room without her catching me. My room is the only place I can breathe, even if the air inside feels as poisoned as the rest of this house.
But I am not that lucky. I never am.
Her voice slices through the air the moment I’m about to make my escape.
“You got something to tell me?”
I freeze.
One foot in the hall, one foot out.
“No.”
“So nothing?” she prompts again, sharper now. “You just stroll in here, head held high, like the school didn’t call me earlier to tell me you cracked some kid’s nose?”
My shoulders go rigid.
I turn to face her because pretending I didn’t hear her will only make it worse.
She stands there in the doorway, hands on her hips, curlers still in her hair. A bathrobe hangs half-open, sagging off her body, the sight of it making bile crawl up the back of my throat.
Her tits spill out through the lace she probably thinks makes her look like one of those heroines in the steamy romance novels she devours. The whole picture makes me want to set the house on fire just to erase it.
“You think I’m made of time, Zane?” she snaps, voice climbing with every word. “You think I enjoy getting calls from the school? Do you like embarrassing me?”
I say nothing.
Because there is no winning here. There never is.
Her sigh is long, theatrical, a hand pressed to her chest as if I just wounded her with my silence alone.
“I told them you were trying. Told them you’d been better lately. That you were calming down. And then this.”
“Well, I didn’t ask you to.” My voice is low, but it lands like gasoline.
Her eyes narrow, her mouth pulling into that bitter twist I know too well.
“I should have known,” she mutters, shaking her head, each word sharp enough to cut. “You’re just another screw-up no one can fix.”
My nails dig deep into the fabric lining my pocket. Rage curls hot in my gut, boiling up into my throat.
I want to scream.
I want to slam my fist into the wall until the plaster cracks and my knuckles split more. To prove I am not the fuck-up she says I am, but the only proof I have is history, and history says she is right.
I clamp my teeth together until my jaw throbs. Because yelling won’t change shit. Exploding won’t fix it. All it will do is prove her point.
“I don’t know how much more I can take of yo-”
A crash of footsteps cuts through her rant.
A couple of kids bolt through the hall, nearly colliding with her. One of them freezes when she snaps her gaze on him, a box of cereal clutched tight against his chest.
“Where the hell did you get that?” she screeches, snatching it from his hands so fast the cardboard dents beneath her grip. “If you’ve gotten into that damn cupboard again, I swear to God!”
The boy’s lip trembles, his eyes wide as he stumbles back.
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She spins, storming off toward the kitchen, muttering curses under her breath about food and money and kids who don’t listen.
And just like that, I am dismissed.
I don’t care about the way she tosses me aside mid-argument. I welcome it. Every time she turns her rage on someone else, it gives me room to breathe.
I take off, pivot down the hall, chest still tight, her words clinging to me like smoke I can’t cough out.
My room stinks. The window only opens halfway, rusted into place. The mattress on the floor is mine. Beside it, the bunk bed rattles every time Johnny shifts underneath.
I won’t touch the top bunk.
It’s a hazard, it feels like it could give way at any moment. And when it does, it won’t matter that it’s old and falling apart. They’ll blame me. They always do.
In the corner, my clothes sit stacked, each pile neat, folded the exact way I learned back in the group home.
Discipline drilled into me in a place where you survived by keeping your head down and your shit organized.
I carry that habit with me, the laundromat trips, the clean stacks, because I don’t trust Dolores’ busted washer.
The thing rattles so hard it sounds like it is going to explode.
If it breaks on my watch, I will carry the blame for that too.
I drop my bag beside the mattress and yank the thin blanket from my bed, tossing it over the top. So no one will touch it.
The last kid stupid enough to go through my things walked around with a busted lip and swollen eye for a week. Word spread quick after that. Still, I don’t take chances. I cover the bag, tucking it away beneath folds of fabric.
I move into the bathroom and twist the tap until the pipes scream.
Cold water blasts over my knuckles, burning as it hits the open cuts. Blood blooms into the stream, clouding it pink, swirling down the drain as if it belongs there.
I grit my teeth and let it sting. I don’t bother wrapping them. What’s the fucking point? By tomorrow they’ll be split open again. There is always another fight waiting, always another asshole who wants me to prove I’m harder, meaner, willing to bleed just to shut them up.
I glance at the mirror and freeze.
The face staring back doesn’t feel like mine.
The eyes are too dark, shadows carved so deep they may as well be permanent.
My shoulders sag forward, my jaw clenched, hair hanging into my face.
I look swallowed whole by this house, this system, this shit life.
A boy who stopped fighting to be anything else.
I shut the bathroom light off and stand in the dark longer than I need to, breathing in the silence.
A cough sounds through the hall, heavy enough to crawl under my skin. It doesn’t sound right.
I push off the wall and follow the sound, another cough ripping through the silence. It drags me to a door halfway down the hall.
I stop and lean in, pushing it open just enough to look inside.
A kid is curled on the bottom bunk, pale, swallowed up by a blanket that does nothing to hide how small he looks. His eyes track me as I step closer, wide and cautious, waiting to see if I’m trouble.
“You want me to tell Dolores you’re sick?” I ask,
Caleb shakes his head weakly. “She knows.”
My eyes catch on the empty glass on the floor beside his bed. I bend down, pick it up, and straighten.
“I’ll get you some water,” I mutter, already turning for the door.
I walk to the bathroom, carrying the glass.
The tap groans when I twist it, coughing out rust before the water finally runs clear. I hold the glass under, filling it to the rim.
The glass is cold as I carry it back down the hall.
The boy sits up when I step inside. His eyes look too big for his pale face. He takes the glass with both hands, his fingers shaking around it. He drinks fast, the water sliding down his throat as if it is the only good thing he has had all day.
“Thank you, Zane,” he whispers, handing it back.
I set the glass back beside his bed.
“If anyone gives you shit, you come find me, Caleb,” I tell him. My voice is low, steady, carrying a weight I’m certain he’ll hear.
He nods, eyes wide, and something in my chest tightens.
“If you get worse, you come to me, not Dolores. I mean it.” I tell him.
If I have to take him to emergency, I’ll fucking do it. Whether Dolores likes it or not.
He nods again. His lids droop heavy, exhaustion pulling him back under. When he closes his eyes, I stand there longer than I should, listening to his breathing even out.
The thought chews at me. How easy it would be to expose her.
To let the government see her for what she really is.
To strip away the act she puts on every time a social worker steps into this house.
She fools them all, wrapping her venom in a practiced smile, feeding them the lines they want to hear.
Meanwhile, the cupboards are locked, the kids hungry, the sickness ignored.
I turn and walk out, shutting the door softly behind me.
Back in my room, I drop down onto the mattress. I lie back, staring up at the ceiling and turn my thoughts toward the future that seems too distant to ever reach.
I think about the job at the workshop, about Rainer, the only person who has ever given me a real shot.
He doesn’t ask questions. Never looked at me like I am a problem waiting to happen. He lets me work, and in that, there is a kind of freedom I have never had before.
Maybe when I finally get out of here, when I’ve got a place that’s mine, I’ll ask him for more hours. No more school. No more fuckers waiting for me to snap. Just work, sweat, and something that finally gives me a sense of control for the first time in my life.
Planning futures that still feel too far away, promises I am not sure I can keep.
But that is all I fucking have.