12 - Caught Red Handed #2
She slumps forward; spine curved with her elbows propping her up against the marble sideboard attempting to conceal the pain chipping away at her.
She glides her fingers through those golden locks, flustered and confused.
My own gaze lands shamelessly on her perky arse, which she’s currently sticking out, practically in my face, I might add.
“I’m not blind,” I say, leaning a casual hip against the sink. “You’re pale - more so than usual. You’re barely conscious and you look like shit.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and her body follows the motion. “Gee, thanks for the glowing compliments, arsehole.”
“You’ve been throwing up for days. You flinch whenever someone comes close to you.” My fingers skate towards her to prove my point, and, as expected, she jerks away. “And you keep touching your belly like you’re trying to convince yourself none of it is real.”
That gets her back up. With a stubborn glint in her eye, she lifts her chin to the ceiling. There’s a faint glow beneath her pale skin even through the aftermath of her vomiting.
“I have nothing more to say to you,” she spits. Then she scrunches the paper towel in her fist and storms out the door. I half expected her to throw it in my face if I’m honest. She’s clearly furious I’ve seen straight through her fabrication of the truth.
I fixate on the empty space for a breath, her words hanging in the air like tendrils of smoke. Then I give chase and catch her up in the hallway. I reach for her shoulder and spin her around on the spot.
“Cordelia, you can’t go through this alone,” I tell her, pausing to rephrase the sentence. “I won’t let you do it alone.”
“You’ve done enough.” Her petite face reddens with rage, veins standing out against her paler than pale skin. “You’re the reason I’m in this stupid mess!”
“I didn’t have sex with myself, sweetheart. It takes two to tango,” I remind her dryly.
She doesn’t like that either and recoils away from me as if I’m a bad smell.
“Let me make this perfectly clear in a language even you will understand. I want nothing more to do with you,” she jabs her finger into my chest. The pure venom dripping from her velvety lips seems so out of place. “You, or your pals. T’es mort pour moi.”
French is the one dialect I’m not familiar with and so have no idea what she just said. But it sounded sassy enough.
What I want to tell her is that she no longer has a choice.
Because of what she’s seen, because of her keen curiosity that night she’ll never be free of me.
Of us. Clarke will find out and he’ll tell Scar, and then…
well, it doesn’t bear thinking of. But one thing’s for sure: I’ll fight for her every step.
No one will hurt her on my watch, and if they even attempt to touch a hair on her head, I’ll fucking end them. Family or not.
She’s mine.
With a huff, Cordelia turns to storm off but backtracks at the last second. Shoving her index finger into my chest, her eyes blazing like a wildfire.
“Stay the fuck out of my Instagram feed too. Stop clogging it with your oppressive caveman energy.”
My attention drops to the accusing finger stuffed in my shirt. I wrap my fingers around her own, and she flinches at the heated contact. Standing like this, while her dainty hand is dwarfed by mine. Everything about Cordelia is dainty…except, maybe, her attitude: that’s fucking God-sized.
“I’ll stay away when you stop antagonizing me for sport, sweetheart.”
I won’t, but I’ll let her believe it for now if it keeps her sated.
I push her back with enough force that she stumbles like Bambi but keep a tight hold of her so she can rebalance without toppling off her heels. The smarmy smile I send her way has her lip curling.
As soon as I release the pressure of my grip, she glares at me and stalks off down the hallway, hips swinging.
Arse looking downright delicious in those tiny denim shorts that have no right hugging her curves that closely.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to sprint after her, rugby tackle her to the floor and spank her in front of the rest of the student body. Damn, she deserves it for her backchat.
This time I’ll let it slide. She needs to cool off, and so do I.
When we’re both calmer, we can discuss the ‘situation’ like adults.
Both of us are too young to be parents. Babies and kids weren’t part of my grand plan.
Hell, I’m still a kid myself. I’ve had mates get knocked up far too young and they have no life - not without the shit-filled nappies and sleepless nights.
And yet, if Cordelia wants to keep it, who am I to say? Her body, her prerogative. My mind reels, a viscous migraine brewing between my eyes. Let’s not jump to conclusions; there’s been no solid proof. I mean, the evidence is pretty damning, but I need confirmation.
I jog back to class, where—surprise, surprise, Cordelia’s vanished.
“Everything alright?” Clarke inquires as I slide back into my seat.
“Aye,” I sigh, mostly because I don’t trust myself to say anything more. He’s still in my shit books, and he isn’t getting out any time soon.
“Nice of you to join us again, Mr Cox,” Mr Morgan says, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his oversized nose. “Did you happen to come across Miss Rousseau on your travels?”
“No, sir.” I smirk, voice sickly sweet.
He narrows his eyes but returns to teaching the class without further questions.
There’s no chance of me focusing on anything substantial after that little conversation with Madam Rousseau, so I skip the rest of my lectures.
During the drive home, I decide it’s time to confide in Dad.
Thought about it long and hard—and I needed to tell someone.
I can’t walk around with this burning a hole in my pocket alone, and Clarke and Ez are no goes.
Dad got Mum pregnant early in their relationship. She had me super young, a schoolgirl with a pushchair. So, I’m hoping he’ll understand, rather than ripping me a new one.
Either outcome is probable with him.
I swing by the shop to grab a protein shake. Over-priced and nothing like my own creations, but it’ll do for a pick me up.
The house is eerily quiet when I pull up. Dad’s Defender’s on the drive, so I know he’s here. The lights are off downstairs, and the curtains drawn shut. Which is strange. He must be working upstairs in his office.
My stomach’s tied in knots as I pace the kitchen. I’ve rehearsed my speech a dozen times by now, but now I’ve just got to get it said to his face. I need to actually produce the words, which is the hardest part.
The wooden banister is thick and hard under my fingertips. “Dad!” I shout from the bottom.
No answer.
Probably has his music blasting.
I climb the stairs, gripping the railing to keep my hands from shaking. On my approach to his office, something feels off, not particularly dangerous, just different. I draw a breath, coaxing the door open carefully.
And I’m sure as hell not prepared for what I see.
Nothing could have prepared me.
The shake plummets to the floor, splattering up the expensive wallpaper and across the wooden floorboards. It rolls to the bottom of the stairs, finally coming to a standstill on its side.
“What the—”
Dad’s intimidating glare pins me to the spot. The naked blonde rammed up against his desk turns to ice, before shrieking, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
“Logan!”
I thrust both hands over my face, backing out the way I came. Nausea claws up my throat as I leg it across the hall to my bedroom. But Dad catches me before I reach the door, fisting his fingers into my jacket.
“C’mere boy,” he demands, hauling me backwards.
“Put some fucking clothes on!” I yell at him. He’s standing in there in his boxers, which normally wouldn’t phase me, but after just walking in on him screwing some bird up against his desk, the situation hits a little different.
“Matthew. I think it’s best that I go home.”
The chic materialises from his office, fully dressed, thank God. Our eyes meet briefly, and I stare daggers at her. Because Dad just had her bent over. And she’s not my mum. Because, you know, my mum’s dead.
“I’ll call you, Trixie.” Trixie? What is she, the lead act from the local strip joint? Might as well be called fucking Ferrari or Crystal. Dad quickly turns his attention back to me. “Eyes,” he spits with venom.
“Fuck off, old man,” I snap. “I am not making eye contact with you after that.”
“You’re supposed to be at the academy, son,” he says, tone a little more controlled, trying to sound like a responsible adult that wasn’t just caught mid-shag.
“And you’re not supposed to be screwing prostitutes while I’m out!”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.
The front door closes with a heavy thud, slicing through the tension between us like a knife.
Dad’s eyes flash, and that’s my cue to fucking run.
The bedroom door slams behind me, and I waste no time flicking the lock in place, suddenly feeling like a kid starring in a cheesy teenage sitcom.
“Get your arse out here, son, before I tear this fucking door down!” Classic. Anger issues run in our genes. Along with the ability to make terrible, terrible decisions.
Sitting with my back against the wood, the vibrations ripple through my body. The harsh blows work to pacify my impending panic. That didn’t exactly go as planned. In fact, it couldn’t have gone much worse.
Eventually the pounding on the door stops, and I hear him stomp away in defeat, mumbling incoherent nonsense to himself. Not quite like me because I would have made good on my threat.
Since when was he even seeing anyone? How am I supposed to feel about him dating?
I’m a grown-ass fucking man. I should be fine with it. So why does it make me squirm to know he’s shagging another woman? Why does it feel like betrayal?
To Mum…