Chapter Two
Two paper bags stacked full of groceries threatened to fall from my arms as I struggled to unlock the front door of the piece of shit decrepit house I shared with my equally shitty old man.
Almost twenty-two years old and I was still living with my deadbeat dad, who still hadn’t learned when to put down the bottle.
Shoving the door closed with the heel of my worn sneaker, it slammed and shook the entire frame of the small two-bedroom, one-bath roof over our head.
As usual, dad was passed out on his old as fuck, blueish-gray recliner wearing only boxers and a stained wife-beater that barely covered his giant beer belly. His mouth hung open as he snored, with a bottle of Jack about to fall out of his grasp.
“Fucking cliché,” I murmured to myself as I readjusted the grocery bags and stomped into the kitchen. Setting them down on the kitchen counter, I started pulling the contents out of the bags to put them away.
I needed to get the hell out of this house, out of Ridgewood all together. This city had nothing to offer me—it never had. Nothing more than crushed dreams and a broken family. Can you even call it a family, though, when it’s just you and your alcoholic Pops?
Back in high school, I had dreamt of going off to college, living in a dorm, and partying my way through the semesters, just like the rest of my friends. But lady luck had different plans when I received acceptance letters to every single school I applied to, just no scholarships. Guys like me couldn’t afford college, let alone an Ivy, without a scholarship.
So, unlike my friends, I stayed behind, stuck in Ridgewood pushing through community college. Eventually, I transferred to Ridgewood University to finish the last portion of my bachelor’s degree in science. I made it through the years by applying for every grant and private scholarship I could get my hands on and financing student loans for the rest. It wasn’t ideal, but I needed to take things one step at a time. Step one was getting the degree. I needed that stupid piece of paper to get a move on with my life, and I wouldn’t stop until I had it. My degree would get me one step closer to being a forensic analyst. Later I’d figure out how to pay for it.
My curiosity about science began when I was young and wanted to play mad scientist by mixing random things together. But after years of watching true crime shows after my dad had passed out, drunk off his ass, I developed a new curiosity about things like blood spatter and evidence—crime scenes in general.
After many discussions with my high school science teacher on the topics, he encouraged me to pursue a career as a forensic analyst or something similar. I had no idea what it was, but after spending some time researching, it seemed like a solid option. And working for the police department would just be icing on the cake, knowing I’d have a job that’d pay me decently and give me something I hadn’t had in years: health insurance.
Yes, I had officially hit the point in my life where I was looking forward to having health insurance. My current job at the Pack N Mail gave me some money in my pocket and kept me fed, but the owner didn’t offer health insurance for part-time employees, which I had to be, thanks to my grueling school schedule. I had been maxing out my units to try to finish sooner—shave off a semester or more—eager to find a department that’d hire me on and allow me to gain experience in the field.
The closer I got to finishing, the more I daydreamed about which police departments I would apply to. With every hopeful glance at the map, my eyes wandering over different cities and states, the pit in my stomach grew. I would never leave Ridgewood. How could I?
It was because of my dad’s addiction to alcohol that I stayed. If I left Ridgewood, my old man would drink himself to death. He already basically did, killing off a bottle almost daily. Passing out, breaking shit. He was a messy drunk, and there were times I had to clean up his vomit and piss, too.
I hated it. But what kind of son would I be if I left town knowing it would ultimately mean my father would probably die?
I resented the life I lived and frequently wondered what type of life I might have if my mother had stayed.
The preemptive guilt of abandoning my dad had me in a chokehold. I was stuck. He needed me around to babysit him. Do welfare checks and shit.
Life had me by the balls and was laughing in my face, shitting on me every chance it got. It was as though I had a neon sign on me flashing “BAD LUCK STRIKE HERE”, because it was literally one thing after another.
That’s how it’d been all week long. My car’s dash had more lights on it than a Christmas tree, and a new light indicating another problem just popped up. My boss cut my hours this week because she had incorrectly scheduled another employee and had to make up their hours. And if that wasn’t enough, I completely fucked off and forgot about a huge test I needed to study for in advanced chem and probably fucking failed it.
Just when I thought I was really down on my luck, sitting at the library working on my anatomy homework, I saw her, and I suddenly felt like the luckiest bastard alive.
Isla Donohue. Isla.
Even her name was as mystical as she was. I had never seen such a strikingly beautiful woman until I saw her in the library, gnawing on the end of her pen, deep in concentration. Her stack of textbooks told me she was in college, thank fuck, because it was practically love at first sight and if she had been underage, I would have died. From the looks of it, she was taking business classes, which baffled me since the clothing she wore screamed money. I would guess she didn’t need to work a day in her life, but despite the shiny exterior, something told me she was more than what meets the eye.
For nearly two weeks, I felt like a stalker as I sat at a table directly on the other side of the shelves from where she sat, my position giving me the perfect vantage point to peer at her through the books.
Like. A. Fucking. Creeper.
Yet I couldn’t stop myself from taking the same table every single day hoping when she came in, she’d find her table, too.
And she always did, like the good girl she was.
My intention was always to watch from afar and silently worship the ground she walked on, but when she forgot her wallet and couldn’t check out her book, I could hear the wobble in her voice—practically see the quiver of her lip. She was embarrassed, and I wanted nothing more than to shield her from the embarrassment. Reflex kicked in and before I could stop myself, I had already made myself known.
The moment I opened my mouth was the moment I knew I had sucked myself into her orbit. Stepping out from a few people behind her in line, I offered to pay her balance, and I handed the guy a five. Once I could see the transaction was finished, I practically threw her book at her and bolted out the door as quickly as I could. The book I had wanted to check out was left abandoned on a shelf by the exit.
Maybe it’d be there waiting next time. Or maybe I’d forget the title and it wouldn’t even matter anymore.
I had to run. She was too pretty, too perfect. Too out of my league.
The world crashed down around me when she caught up with me, calling out for me to stop. To talk to her.
And then she touched me… I almost fucking lost it right then and there. The raw fucking need I felt to pull her body flush with mine and kiss the shit out of her—like I said, I nearly lost it.
Even her name was beautiful—one that’d haunt me in my dreams.
Isla Donohue.
The unmistakable sound of glass shattering pulled me from my dream and I groaned, rubbing my fists into my eyes to wake up. The red glare from the alarm clock on my bedside table read it was nearing three in the morning, and I cursed my father for whatever drunken stupor he had found himself in this time.
Tossing the comforter off my naked body, I stepped onto the cool tile and made my way to my dresser to grab a pair of sweatpants. My cock was half-mast from a hot dream when I woke, but now hung completely flaccid as I raked a hand down my face and made my way into the pitch-black hallway.
As I entered the living room, I could see my father’s legs perched on the couch while his upper body laid on the end table, illuminated by the moonlight coming through the broken curtains. A smashed bottle of vodka was on the floor below him, while a broken lamp hung between his grasp, dangling less than an inch from the shards of glass below it.
“The fuck, old man?” I growled into the room, knowing my words were to no one—he was out cold.
Taking my time, I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the broom and dustpan, carrying it back with me to my bedroom so I could slip on a pair of flip-flops I owned for situations like these.
Once back to where my father laid snoring, I removed the broken lamp from his hold and unplugged it, setting it down on the floor behind me before I cleaned up the glass. I didn’t bother trying to wake him up or move him, but I would clean up the glass fragments so he wouldn’t get hurt when he inevitably fell off the table and couch.
He needed help. Over the years, I had tried everything, but we couldn’t afford rehab centers, and the resources the city offered were worthless. He tried and failed more times than I could count. His sponsor quit on him, my mother left him, and I... Well, I’m still here, but evidently am not enough of a reason for him to get sober.