Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Once I’m sure she’s okay, I leave the room, then start back down the hall. I’m fucking exhausted. Worrying about Tia will do that to me. I’ve only slept on and off the past few hours, the sort of sleep filled with bad dreams, with everything all mixed up. Now, I might be able to actually sleep for a little while. At least until Tia is up and needs me.
My hand closes around the doorknob when a sound coming from downstairs stops me before I turn it. Glass striking glass, clinking loudly. He’s muttering to himself down there, probably clumsy and awkward now that he’s drunk himself into oblivion again. I assumed he would’ve passed out by now, slumped over his desk or sprawled out on the sofa like I’ve found him in the past.
“Shit!” Something hits the floor and breaks.
Son of a bitch. Do I stay up here, or do I let him destroy the whole fucking house? All I need is for Tia to wake up and go downstairs and find him dead in a pool of his own blood. He’s his own worst enemy.
With a sigh, I start down the stairs, listening hard for an idea of where he is. It doesn’t take long for me to pinpoint his location once he stumbles out of the living room, muttering, cursing about a broom. When he sees me, he stops, blinking hard to bring me into focus. “We still have things to talk about,” he tells me, pointing a finger in my direction like I’m supposed to be intimidated or something. Like I take anything he says seriously. I wonder what it would be like having a father I could respect.
“I didn’t come down here to talk to you,” I tell him. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t cut an artery or something. With all that alcohol in your blood, it’s thin. You would bleed out faster.” I can’t pretend the idea doesn’t sound pretty good as I start to turn around, planning on going back to bed.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” he demands, slurring his words, glaring up at me.
“It’s not the time to be talking about it, okay?” I start up the stairs again. “Why don’t you sleep it off, and we’ll actually talk later?” Not that I plan to. He can get fucked as far as I’m concerned. I doubt he’ll remember anything about this conversation once the booze wears off.
“I want her out of here,” he insists. “She does not belong here.”
I decide that, not him. Turning, I slowly descend. He had his chance to get out of this without a fight, but he couldn’t let it go. He never can. “How do you even know who she is?” I ask, staring at him every step of the way.
“Are you kidding?” he scoffs. “She looks exactly like her mother. There’s only one person she could be. I don’t want her here,” he tells me again, pointing up the stairs. “Get her the fuck out of this house.”
“Oh, so you don’t think she’s worthy of being here,” I growl, “but you got her into school with me? You had the headmaster get her in on a free ride. So which is it? Is she scum, or do you care about her education?”
His bloodshot eyes bulge, and he backs up a few paces. “How dare you question the things I do?”
To hell with making sure nobody wakes up. A laugh bursts out of me and bounces off the tiled floor and high ceilings. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” I ask before laughing again. “Look at you. Standing here, acting like you have your shit together when we both know you don’t. Like you have any authority.”
“I am still your father.”
“You mean my sperm donor, which is the most I can say for you when you’re like this—and you’re always like this,” I remind him. “So, there you go.”
“Someday, you’re going to regret talking to me that way.”
“Yeah, sure. Let me know when that day comes so I can prepare.” I’m sick to death of this whole conversation. I’m sick of looking at him, sick of sharing his last name. Every time I see him, I see Mom. I think about how betrayed she must’ve felt. How much pain does a person need to be in to decide it’s not worth living anymore? The question is still on my mind as I march back upstairs, ignoring the things he mutters under his breath. The bedroom is my escape. I can close the door on him, block him out.
Wren is still out cold, lying on her back, the way I left her. Her face is turned toward the window, one hand up on the pillow next to her face. He is desperate to get her out of his house, but he pulled strings to get her into my school. I can’t figure it out. Then again, there’s no figuring him out. I’m wasting my time if I try.