Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
He clucks his tongue, shaking his head. Doing the whole theatrics. Via stands up and disappears to the basement. Without seeing them communicating, I can tell Via is no longer Mel and Jaime’s precious project. It’s obvious they barely tolerate her after what she did to their daughter, and rightly so.
Daria excuses herself. She takes her application with her. I want to scream at her that she’s the only reason I came back in the first place.
“Sit at the island,” Jaime instructs me. I do.
Mel stands up and gets a pitcher of lemonade. I look down at my hands. I wonder if things could’ve gone differently. I wonder if they still can.
Jaime takes a seat in front of me and releases a breath.
“You think being a no-show is making things better around here?”
“I think thinking is not my best virtue when it comes to the people in this house. The more I try to make shit better, the more it blows up in my face,” I answer honestly.
“How’s the training going?”
“It’s going,” I clip.
“Are we going to address the fact you shoved your tongue into my daughter’s mouth?”
Among other places, sir.
I raise my eyes to his, showing him that I’m not weaseling out of this conversation. “Look, I know you warned me, and I know I ignored it, but for what it’s worth, it meant something. To me, anyway. Can’t speak for your daughter, who is currently packing her bags and moving away.”
Cheap shot, but I can’t be the bigger person right now. I can barely be human. He should cut me some slack; it was his spawn who made me this way.
Jaime’s gaze shoots to Mel, who flicks her hand across the back of my head on her way to the island. She looks terrible. Skinnier than her usual malnourished self.
“You’ve had your time to sulk about it. You’re coming home after the game.” She sets a glass of lemonade and a plate with grilled cheese in front of me.
Like I’d miss my last night with Daria for the world.
“Can I talk to her?” I apparently ask the grilled cheese because that’s what I’m looking at right now.
“You need to talk to your sister first.” Mel splits the sandwich in half and distributes it between Jaime and me.
“Not happening in this lifetime.”
“Mel, can you give us a moment?” Jaime asks, his eyes still hard on me. She stands up and waves her hand as she saunters upstairs.
“Boys will be boys.”
When she is out of earshot, Jaime snaps his fingers to get my attention.
“Ever heard about the game Defy?”
I elevate an eyebrow. I’m not in the right mental state to think about anything that’s not Daria or the game tomorrow. It’ll be a pretty shit move to lose to save Daria’s skin, but I will fuck over the entire world to protect her.
“The All Saints High tradition? Yeah. Why?” That shit died before I was even in middle school. They stopped playing it over a decade ago.
He stands up, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “I’m pulling the game out of retirement one last time.”
I sit back and laugh.
“You don’t have to defy me. You can just kick my ass. I’d probably do the same.”
“Not yours. I can’t resent your puppy love even though thinking about your busted knuckles on my daughter’s skin makes me want to punch you.”
“Who are you fighting, then?” I ask, but then it comes to me. Clear as day.
Of course.
“Gabe Prichard,” we say in unison.
“He quit last week. Packing up and getting ready to bolt before we get to him,” Jaime explains.
“When is this happening?” I ask.
“Today.”
“I’m coming with.”
Heavy is the fist that belongs to a father who just learned his precious daughter has been mentally abused since age fourteen by her school principal.
Heavier is the fist of a man who learned about it after his daughter has been through hell and back this year.
I’m a take-no-prisoners type of man.
When I aim—it’s for the kill.
Prichard’s got a house on the outskirts of Todos Santos. The only light from the distance is the one of his Alfa Romeo. Otherwise, it’s pitch black as we turn onto the dirt road, me leading the way in my Tesla and Vicious’ Mercedes following closely. Trent Rexroth, my high school friend, is next to me, and Penn Scully—bless his broken fucking heart—is in the back seat, looking ruthlessly determined with dead eyes like the rest of us. Vicious and Dean signal us with the lights to stop. I throw the vehicle into park and twist around.
“You wait here.”
“No fucking way. He hurt her,” Penn spits out, his fists already balled. Gabe losing his job is not enough for me. Not by a long shot. I want him to lose everything else, too, including his ability to sit down for the next couple of years.