Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Bellamy went still, and I noticed his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. Long seconds passed, the only sound the hum of tires over the road.
“Does he hit you?” Bellamy stared through the windshield, jaw ticcing.
I realized too late that “kick my ass” sounded bad. In Bellamy’s world, that was probably very literal. I instantly felt bad for bitching about my dad like he was some kind of monster. He’d never hurt me physically.
“No. No.” I tugged at the hem of my skirt and shook my head. “He’s just…” An uncaring asshole
“I get it,” he said, then turned the music back up.
I rested my forehead against the window and watched fast-food restaurants and pawn shops whizz past the window until they gave way to well-kept subdivisions and manicured parks. Bellamy’s car nearly stalled out when we started up the hill that led into Barrington Estates. My phone buzzed in my pocket then stopped. Then buzzed again. It had to be my dad, and I’d just wait to read those texts when I wasn’t in the car with Bellamy.
His car sputtered to a stop outside my house, and I turned to look at him, trying to ignore how good he looked one hand on the stick-shift, the other casually draped over the steering wheel.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you in two days. If I haven’t been sent to some reform school.” My phone went off again. “Or been buried under the pool deck.”
“Yeah.” His gaze flicked to my house then back to me. “Sure.”
I climbed out and went into my empty house, telling myself that Bellamy didn’t really give a shit about me or whether my dad would hit me. Because the last thing I needed was to actually like him.
14
Bellamy
Had anyone other than Drew pulled that stunt, they would have absolutely been expelled—and had to deal with Jacob’s ass. A two-day suspension? That was bullshit. Whatever crack Brown was smoking today cost me a fuck I was desperate for. And I was tempted to make his life hell for a day or two to ease the pain.
I turned onto my street, taking a heavy breath when I spotted Dad’s truck in the drive and Arlo’s plastic kiddie pool crushed beneath the tire. The asshole had to be shitfaced already. The earlier he got drunk, the more of a dick he was, and today was not the day for this crap.
I parked behind his pickup, got out of my car, and went to the mailbox, sorting through the pile of overdue notices that came more frequently than not.
“You are the biggest asshole in the history of ever!”
I turned away from the mailbox. Nora stormed across the street, fists balled at her side. I hadn’t seen her that angry since I’d hacked off one of her pigtails in third grade.
“What the hell did I do to you?”
“You do realize she’s just trying to get expelled?”
No shit. I flipped through the mail, pretending I didn’t give a flying rat’s ass. Because I shouldn’t… “Well, she should probably try to find ways to get expelled that don’t step on my toes then.” I glanced up. “Huh?”
“You burned her car, Bellamy!”
“She was giving away weed. What else was I supposed to do, chop off her fingers?” I laughed to myself at that.
“Oh my god. You’re a dick.” She huffed, then spun around, marching back to her front door while I stood, stunned in my drive.
“She’s not a martyr, Nora!”
She flipped me a bird before slamming her door. That girl was annoying as hell. I made my way up the drive and around the house to the back porch. The second my foot hit the wooden deck, my twelve-year-old, half-blind hound dog sat up. He stretched and limped over, wagging his tail.
“Hey, Scooter.” I knelt to pet him before leading him inside through the kitchen door.
The hinges to Dad’s recliner creaked. “You better notta gotten that horseshit bourbon again, Carol,” he slurred.
The fact that he expected my mother to wait on him hand and foot when he did nothing but wallow in pools of alcohol and poker chips pissed me off. “It’s me,” I mumbled. “Not Mom.”
Staggered footsteps thudded down the hall. “Well, where the hell’s she at?”
I tossed the bills onto the table, glancing up when he slumped against the doorframe. Just looking at him sent a jolt of resentment darting through me. “Try work. You know, since she’s the only one who does anything to pay bills.”
His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Fuck you,” he said and shuffled toward the fridge.
Scooter hobbled over, and Dad tripped, stumbling into the wall before he swung a boot at the dog, barely missing. “That damn dog of yours shit on the floor. I outta beat him for it. Or maybe I outta beat the shit outta you for it.”
His lips twitched, then he pushed up his sleeves—a set of movements I knew all too well. One of my first memories was him putting my mom’s face through a china cabinet. By the time I was eight, I’d lost count of the times he’d busted my lip with a quick backhand to the face.