Until one of them dies, he will never know how it feels to lose that connection to the world. It’s like fraying strings snapping one at a time, and you know you don’t have many left until you finally succumb to the salacious promises death has to offer.
“Just because she wasn’t my mother, doesn’t mean I didn’t love that woman like she was,” he whisper-growls, probably to keep from people hearing him.
Newsflash: no one cares.
None of my mother’s work friends. Which, I mean, she should have those, right? She didn’t leave every fucking Friday through Monday morning not to have at least one or two. I bet there’s a plethora of them hanging around wherever she goes off to, but even with her death, they can’t seem to make her a priority.
None of the women my mother used to gossip with in the grocery store before she started working away on weekends. They used to have the best time. Even though we were all poor, they used to gather around the corner and order a water just to have a reason to sit and chat with each other.
Our neighbors. Landlord.
I would say family, but my mother has always been cryptic about them. She’s changed her story so much over the years, I’m not even sure what to believe. The only story that was the same, no matter how many times she told it, was the fact her sister was dead to her.
Not dead-dead, but dead as in she no longer talked to her anymore. Some disagreement or something that caused my mother to move away from the only family she had left. She’d rant and rave about them being greedy and useless, thinking I couldn’t hear her tirades.
I heard everyone she had within ear shot.
She used to say that greedy people are just asking for things to happen to them. Wish she would say that to my father a time or two, but it’d never stick if she had.
So, nope, it’s just Trevor and I that’s here to pay our last respects to such a wonderful, kind, caring angel.
And the rest of the people that didn’t show, but knew my mother? They can go to Hell and ride the devil’s dick when they get there.
I break my concentration on her grave and peer up at him. “You said ‘was.’ Enough said.” Then I turn my attention back toward my mother, saying, “You’re probably only here because I ghosted you, anyway.”
He stiffens at my side. “How can you say that? I’m not here because you ghosted me, Ari. I’m here because you fucking need me, and you can’t rely on that goddamn good-for-nothing father you have; not in your state.”
Not like that’s news to me. “Your point? He’s probably just grieving.” He’s probably not, but then again, I don’t have to tell Trevor that. He’s been around since … God—forever it feels like. He knows how my parents are, which explains how—and possibly where—he knows my father is now.
“There’s grieving, then there’s Xavier. What he does is not out of grief, because he’s been doing it for the past … however, many years I’ve known you. His absence is not about your mother’s death, and we know it. He’s just a pathetic assho—”
I cut him off with fire in my words, “You can fucking stop, all right. I get it.” A wave of pain washes through me, nearly stealing my breath.
But instead of stopping, he continues, digging the knife he plunged into my heart just a tad bit deeper. “He’s using this as an excuse to fuck, get loaded, and gamble. Trust me, Ariyal, he never gave a damn about Arabella, and he certainly doesn’t give a damn about you.”
You know the term—to kick a person while they’re down? Yeah, Trevor invented that goddamn term. He’s blunt, outspoken, and doesn’t fucking care what anyone has to say. The only thing he cares about—when it pertains to words—is that he tells the truth, no matter what. That’s one of the things I love most about him. He isn’t afraid of the backlash speaking the truth has.
But right now … I don’t need that shit. If he’s here to be my pillar of strength, then putting my father and me down in the same breath is not winning points for him.
“Leave. Now.” My words are as sharp as the knife he keeps twisting inside my chest.
At least if I’m by myself, no one can throw shit up in my face. I won’t remind myself how much my life sucks, because—newsflash—I’m the cocksucker living it. I know how hard it is. I know all about playing the streets to get a decent meal and stealing what I can to trade for something later.
“I’m not going anywhere, woman,” he huffs, shuffling closer. “You need to get that through your skull right now. Your father is a piece of shit? Well, so is mine. Kinda comes with the job description in the ghettos of Jersey. But it’s up to us whether we fall into the stereotypical bullshit or rise above it. We have each other, what more do we need?”
A chance, is what I want to yell at him. A chance to live life without having to commit crime for my next meal. A chance to thrive and grow, so full of life, that I practically burst at the seams with euphoria, showering people with good fortune all around me.
A chance to mean more to someone than their booze, drugs, or job.
All the anger simmering from before, bursts into awareness. I turn to face him, then step into his body. It takes him off guard, causing him to stumble backward a few steps, before he can right himself, peering down at me in surprise.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about! You speak of needing each other and no one else, but guess what—you left me to go to California. While you went to play ‘Mr. important man,’ I had to stay here and watch both of them waste away to nothing. He’s lost himself so far down the bottle there’s no way he will ever come up for air. I’ve been the one to clean him up when he’s so drunk he can’t even walk, and the only thing he can do is vomit and piss all over himself. I’ve been here. Not you. Me!”
His features slip from surprise, to confusion, then finally rage. “It shouldn’t have to be you, goddammit! He should be the one taking care of his family! You’re only fifteen for fuck's sake!”
“I’m almost sixteen, but that doesn’t mean I’m a child! How would you feel if you lost your other half, hmm? I guaran-fucking-tee you’d drink yourself to death, too.” I know I would. Just the thought of living in this world without Trevor … it’s damn near crippling.
We both stare at each other, chests heaving with exertion. He wants to let loose, cut me down a peg. I can see it in the way his eyes flare with heat and his body seems to swell before my eyes. But just like me, he’s stumped.
Finally, he takes one long inhalation, before releasing it to calm himself. “No. Actually, I wouldn’t go down like that, Ariyal. Neither should he.”
When he pauses, breaking our connection to peer out over the quiet cemetery, I can’t help the feeling I had tossing around inside my stomach. He’s holding something back from me. It’s the same look he’s had since he started working for that douchebag boss of his.
“Trevor, what is it?” I ask, searching his eyes once they fall back on me.
Sighing, he grabs at my parka. I try to slap him away, but one cold, hard look from him has me stopping my rebuttal, allowing him to pull me into his arms. The second his strong arms wrap around me and his chin settles against the top of my head, he practically melts into me, relaxing. I can’t help the warm feeling that starts filling me from the bottom of my boots to the top of my head. Hugging Trevor feels like finally coming home. I’m able to breathe for the first time in so long that it actually feels sinful.
“Ariyal,” he murmurs, hugging me against him tighter.
I press my face into his chest, inhaling a scent that’s strictly Trevor. It’s clean, crisp, with just the barest undertone of his natural aroma. “What?”
“Darlin’, drinking and gambling aren’t the only things he’s doing. You need to watch out for him and don’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth.”
It physically hurts, seeing one of the few people I care about being taken away from me forever. I’ll never be able to hear her laugh, cry, and yell. I’ll never be able to feel her loving arms wrapped around me, or f
eel her love as if it’s an entity I can burrow inside of. But this kind of pain is unbearable.
Everything’s been taken away from me, and now, Trevor warns me that I need to rebuke the only parent I have left. He may not be perfect, and we definitely don’t get along most of the time, but he’s all I have left. He may not do domestic things to keep me alive, but that’s not what I need. I’ve been able to cook my food and take care of myself since I was seven.
Instead, I just need someone to be there. Maybe with my mother’s death, he’ll straighten up and know that life is too short to piss it all away. Miracles happen every single day, and who am I to suggest an old dog can’t learn new tricks?
“He’s my father, Trevor,” I scoff, hugging him tighter. “He may be a shitty person, but he’d do nothing to hurt me.”
That is something I truly believe, with my whole heart, until I hear a beat up, old, crappy car putter up the aisle toward us. We both turn toward the sound, a feeling of unease slithering through the air between us. My heart rams inside my chest as I watch the rusted piece of junk skid to a stop. My father and two of his buddies get out of the car, eyeing us with open disdain, each holding a sledgehammer.
He wouldn’t?
Except … he did, screaming the entire time about how she was no wife of his.
CHAPTER 4
Huffing, I pace from one side of the room to the other. Every few moments, my eyes fall on the door Dorran disappeared through when he carted me up here. He told me to stay and wait, and then he was gone without an explanation. Again. Even after what happened, he expects me to do anything he says.
Wrong. Again.
I let them have their say at school, some of the time, but this isn’t going to be the same. He made a fool out of me the first night back. He gave me something I desperately craved, then took it all away.
I don’t care if they strike me down dead, I refuse to cower to any of them. No one on the streets forced me to cower, so why should a bunch of phony rich boys?
I rip my gaze away from the door and start pacing once more. The rhythmic thump of my boots hitting the floor is a steady one, two, three, before I turn and start again. Over and over, the sound of my worn boots clapping against the weathered wood, eventually causes my heart to slow in rhythm. I breathe deeply, allowing the stagnant air to fill my lungs, before releasing it into the void.
“I need to get out of here.” I bite my lip, once more eyeing the door—only this time with trepidation. “It’s late. Been hours since Dorran threw me in here. No one’s roaming around. I can slip out, case the house, then come back before anyone suspects a thing.”
However, there’s still something in the back of my mind that stopping me. It’s a feeling, a slight tick, that reminds me of those documentaries I used to watch on our broken down tv with a cracked screen. The very same documentaries where the prey senses a looming presence, a predator, but in their quest for sustenance and water, they find the need too great to turn back.
Just one second is all it takes, and they’re lost forever, when that very same looming presence comes in the form of a killer sinking its teeth into their neck.
According to them, I am the prey. I’m trapped in a house full of lions on the prowl.
They won’t stop until I surrender, and my blood stains their teeth crimson.
“Grow a set, Ari,” I softly chastise, my breath rushing in and out.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I head toward the door with determination stiffening my spine each step I take. No matter how high my hackles rise, I need to do this. It’s a visceral need deep inside, whispering this may be my only chance and I should take it.
No one is going to hand opportunities out like glasses of lemonade on a hot summer day—when you’re sweltering in the sun, desperate for relief. You never get anything in this world without giving in return.
I have a feeling the things I have to give up in the process will be completely life altering. I’m going to have to fight for every answer I attain, uncaring of what I uncover or who I hurt in the process.
No one ever cared about me, so why should I care about them? It’s their fault I’m even in this predicament, anyway—my mother, father, and the guys. While their part in this production may not be equal, they still had a part to play in it. It started with my mother and the Kingston family, then my father, Brett, Dorran, and Chaz.
I need to find out why they’re so obsessed with my mother, then again with me. None of it makes a lick of sense. You’d think they would want a plaything that listened to every command they gave her. I’m nothing of the sort. I fight them at every turn.
Pushing it all to the back of my mind, I wrap my hand around the knob and twist. The sound of gears and wood creaking give way to the door slowly opening inward. Several minutes, I stand as quietly as possible, not even daring to breathe, as I lie in wait for someone to burst in on me.
When nothing happens, I slowly crane my head around the side and peer out into the vast pit of nothingness that is the East wing. Coincidently, I have a feeling this is where the guys’ bedrooms are. It’s too closed off from the rest of the house, too dark and ominous—feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room, and the only thing left is a sense of stifling tension that constricts your throat.
Actually, I’m almost sure they’re close by. This hall has to be where all the guys sleep. It’s weird, but … it’s as if I can feel their closeness. As it is, I can sense how close they are by the electricity buzzing along the surface of my skin.
Dorran knew what he was doing when he dropped me off here earlier in the evening. He seemed too sure of his steps, too sure of his destination. Now, he’s—as well as the rest of them—pegging on my need for information. Knowing my luck, they’re lying in wait for me to leave my room.
But … I need to know. I need to find a way out of here; a chink in their armor they aren’t aware of, so I can tell the police of their actions. No matter who’s on their payroll, the police will have to believe me. I am Ariyal Nikohls; apparently, the girl that lost her life in a vehicle accident.
They may have been able to get away with a shit ton of things in the past, but they won’t this time. I’m not the type to lie down and let things happen to her. Yes, there are weak moments; every person on the face of this earth has them.
A smoker quitting after years of nicotine addiction, only to fall off the wagon and pick up their cancer stick once more.
A junkie quitting after years of substance abuse, only to succumb to the same fate as the smoker—falling off the wagon when they get that first glimpse of an infamous high they crave.
Every person is vulnerable, but what sets the strong apart from the weaklings is their drive to survive. It is their need to overcome it all and rise above the problem blocking their path. I mean, a person can sit there and allow life to kick them when they’re down … but that’s not me.
It’s called adaptation for a reason.
Which is what I’m doing now. I’m adapting to my surroundings, and I don’t give a shit what I have to do, who I have to be with—I will get what I need before disappearing into the night. And this time, those guys won’t have a chance in hell at finding me. They’re not the only ones that know how to survive on their own.
It’s a game I long since mastered.
Slipping out my door, I shut it softly with a quiet click, before making my way down the hallway. At this point, I’m unsure of what I’m looking for. All I know is getting out of that room will give me more information than staying in it will.
Tiptoeing over the plush, mosaic runner, I try to calm my breathing as I pass the first door on the right.
That’s another thing. The rooms. In a normal house, you’d see rooms on either side of the hallway, right?
Wrong.
The way the East Wing is set up, is that you have to go through what looks to be sets of archways. From what little light I have, I can see there are four sets of archways, which means four sets of
huge, gigantic sliding doors. They seamlessly slip into, what looks like, little openings in the walls to hide them when they’re not in use.
After passing underneath the first archway, my mouth threatens to fall open by the level of décor, around what seems to be, a sixteenth century sitting room. It’s very much out of place in this modern home.
To the left, a chase lounge sits directly below a large bay window with dove white curtains. It’s plush, gray, and would put you in the mind of those settee’s that many women and men used in Victorian mansions. All the décor matches to perfection in muted grays, deep burgundy’s, with white crown molding and trim.
To the right, the only thing resting there is a set of double doors that span about fifteen feet tall and six to seven feet wide. Intricate designs are etched in the wood, but it’s too dim to make out what it says.
However, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the power behind that door. It’s a feeling I know all too well. Whoever it is … it has to be one of the guys. I just know it is.
After passing under the second, and third archway, I find much of the same thing. The rooms are all decked out on the left, but are seriously lackluster when I turn my attention to the right.
It’s like—the setup of what seems to be a large room with three smaller rooms interconnected—was placed here for a reason. It speaks of unity. A brotherhood.
Hesitantly, my eyes rake over the third bedroom door. A different feeling slams over me when I take in that one, but for the life of me, I don’t know why.
I’m so lost in thought, staring at that door, that I don’t even feel a darker presence behind me until it’s too late.
Out of the blue, someone slams into me from behind. All the air rushes out of my lungs when we ram into the wall. I feel fingers fist my hair, crushing my face into the plaster, denting it. Every inch of my body is on alert, fighting against their hold as I twist and turn. I try to kick off from the wall, but it’s no use. The person behind me is a force to be reckoned with, and they’re pissed I’m not where I’m supposed to be, if their hectic breathing against the back of my neck means anything.
Dirty Little Secret: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Reighton Preparatory Academy Book 3) Page 4
