Preston #2
Lilith is Dad’s second wife, but she wasn’t his first girlfriend after Mom. No, she was probably the fifth that he introduced to me. I managed to drive all the others away, but this pest has been impossible to get rid of.
“You should be in bed, Miley!” Satan’s lover yells, attempting to pull my sister from my arm, and I lower her to her feet, breathing harshly to keep calm and not bash the woman’s head in.
Miley’s mother. She’s Miley’s mother. Miley would be crushed.
Stay calm.
Zen down, motherfucker.
My sister stares at her feet. “I wanted to see Preston.”
“You already have. Time for bed.”
“Pressie.” Miley’s lower lip nudges forward in a pout as she looks at me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I pat the top of her head. “I’ll pick you up after school, and we can go downtown, okay?”
“Okay!” Miley’s pout transforms to a wide grin in a fraction of a second.
Lilith grabs her hand and starts dragging her toward the stairs, but then she stops and stares at me, her lips curving in an evil smile. “That game was embarrassing to watch, dear son.”
I flip her off discreetly, so Miley doesn’t see, and she purses her lips as she takes my sister along.
One day, I’ll see that hag burned at the stake.
Or maybe just kicked out so Miley doesn’t suffer.
Listen, I indeed have issues. Yes, Mom taught me to hate whoever Dad brought along, because he was trying to replace us with them, but Lilith is just a bitch.
I was probably nine when she first got to know Dad, and unlike the others, she didn’t seem like a liar. She said she’d be so happy if I could accept her, because she’d always wanted a son.
And I believed the bitch.
I know, very amateurish on my part. Already murdered young me for all his insolence.
Moving on.
Back then, Satan’s lover made my favorite food and was still nice if Dad wasn’t there. She was so caring and attentive, I thought about how lucky I’d be if I had her after Mom’s death.
In class, I even painted her in a picture with Dad and Mom. I wanted to show it to her, but that’s when I overheard her talking to her best friend on the phone, about three months after I met her.
“The kid? A piece of cake. He was trying to be an asshole at first, but I knew how to deal with him. The little fucker lacks motherly affection, so I just acted the part, and he latched on fast. Men, right? Act a little, and they fall into place. Age doesn’t matter.”
She sipped on her coffee, staring out at the garden. “I’m telling you, Gabby. I’m marrying Lawrence and winning the lottery. No messed-up son of his with mommy issues will stop me. I really hate it when he hugs me. Ugh. He holds on so tight, it’s creepy, and I find it hard to stay in character.”
There was a pause as she listened, then she nodded.
“I know, right? He’s really an oddball, this one.
Sometimes, he keeps staring like a little psycho.
Something’s seriously wrong with his head for real.
Anyway, I’ll have him sent to a boarding school and get rid of the nuisance so I can have Lawrence all to myself. ”
I just stood there as the mask fell to the floor and shattered, and I saw Lilith for who she truly was—Satan’s lover.
I burned that picture I drew and decided to make her life hell from then on, which I’ve been achieving with flying colors.
Anyway, I turn to leave. Now that Lenin has disappeared, I have no reason to subject myself to Dad’s lecture—
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You don’t sleep, man?” I mutter when I find Lenin close behind me. I swear the dude moves like a ghost sometimes.
Instead of answering, he motions at the hallway leading to Dad’s study.
“Fine, fine, I’ll go.”
I head to the office, knock on the door, then wait for the grumbled “Come in.”
My muscles are wound tight as I walk inside, which is always the case when I have to be one-on-one with dear old Dad.
My father’s office looks like money and midlife crisis had a baby.
Leather chairs that squeak when you sit, books that no one’s opened since the Cold War, and that mahogany desk—huge, shiny, and pretending to have a personality.
It’s positioned right in front of a window that probably cost more than my entire existence.
Perfect view of Graystone Ridge from up the hill, because, of course, Dad likes to look down on people while he works.
He’s standing behind it now, his posture military-grade straight, his tie strangling him in a shade of asshole—sorry, green-blue. The same shade of his eyes that we don’t share, cold, probably because he patented emotional frostbite.
His hair’s gone more ash than blond, styled by a similarly emotionally stunted barber. He looks at me the way one might look at a cracked valuable vase—expensive enough to fix, but why bother when you can just buy another one?
He rounds the table and leans against the desk, crossing his ankles and folding his arms. I do the same, leaning against the wall. You know, mirroring each other like some weird Armstrong mating ritual of superiority.
“Preston.”
The word hangs in the air, perfectly framed by the smell of cigar smoke and generational trauma.
I grin at him, because what else do you do when your father stares at you like he’s deciding whether to ground you or disown you? “Hey, Dad. Great talk. Loved the game recap.”
He doesn’t smile. He never does. That’s my job, apparently—smiling enough for both of us. A job I take with honor, thank you very much.
What Dad does, however, is frown. A lot. Particularly with me. I’m shoved neatly into the frown category in Dad’s head.
“Have I mentioned I love the decor of this office?” I whistle. “Trauma chic.”
“What happened tonight, Preston?”
“The usual. I kept the crowd entertained.”
“You turned the game into a brawl. That’s not like you.”
“It’s called hockey, not synchronized skating.”
“You don’t lose control like that on the ice. Ever.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
He exhales, frowning deeper. I’m trying to beat my record of how long I can keep Dad frowning. Almost there.
“Don’t start with that tone.”
“Oh, this isn’t a tone, Dad. This is my personality. You know, the one I was born with.”
Another deeper frown. Yes, shit happens, namely me.
“Is this because you’ve been off your medication?”
“I’m taking the stupid meds, Dad.”