Vicious Hate (Westbrook Blues Book 2)

by Thandiwe Mpofu

  “Sir, they want nothing to do with the Kings.” I tell him and he laughs, a deep intimidating laugh that raises the hairs on my arms, not at all surprised by my words.

  “I fucking know that but that doesn’t mean we don’t have to remedy the situation.” He says now leaning forward over his huge desk. “You go out there, we have new neighbors too—go out there and make friends. Make sure the friendship is solid.”

  I look at him and wish in that moment that I actually had superpowers. Maybe I would accidently burn him with my laser focus just like Cyclops and when he doesn’t die from the burns and charring of his evil, peppery skin, I would sink my steel claws into his chest and. . .

  “Why solid?” I ask him, vowing in that moment that I will end him. I am going to grow bigger, better, stronger and much faster and I will end him. I will make them all sorry, for everything.

  “Because solid foundations are fun to destroy, watching them shatter is the best feeling in the world.” He says with a funny look in his eyes that makes me think he might have experienced that before

  “In whatever case, we have to come out stronger, because we are the better breed. We are the stronger family, soon they will cower and tremble in fear but for now, you go out there and make friends—find out everything and I mean everything there is to know about these boys and their stupid families.”

  “Don’t they also own Westbrook?” I ask, shifting in place as the burns start to intensify. My father does nothing without reason, and I need to find out why he is pushing this.

  “Yes, but not for long.” He says, with a malicious and sinister smile on his ugly face. “Start with that Easton boy.”

  “I hardly see him at all.”

  “That’s because there is something wrong with that boy, something Syrus is trying to hide.” My father states with a contemplative look on his face.

  “But I thought Mr. Easton was your friend.” I question him, watching as he stands up again and begins pacing.

  “There is no such thing as pure friendship, boy. Everyone is dispensable. But you remember one thing boy.”

  His voice is ominous and gloomy. I have nightmares about him, but my father’s voice is a close second.

  “Yes, sir?” I ask.

  “You are a fucking King. You have power in your blood. If something is wrong, if ever there is something you don’t like, you fucking take care of it. Am I understood?” He bellows.

  I don’t know if it’s his way of dismissing the issue at hand, the one I came to report or his unwillingness to do anything about it, but I feel like he wants me to handle everything on my own.

  “Yes sir.” My voice is hard, my fists are clenched and I hate this man, but he’s right.

  I will take care of it.

  “Now go. It takes time to build this shit but by the time everything falls into place, destroying them will not be an issue.”

  I have no idea what he is talking about but I’m gathering one thing. My father is a snake and has no trouble showing that. His poison is lethal, deadly and strong. His fangs are longer, but he is patient.

  I have seen him destroy people with a straight face.

  I have seen my father be unbothered by the people around him. I have seen him execute plans that take time to see their results, but when the breaking happens, it’s so damn tragic.

  So that means one thing. If I have to take him down, and I will, I have to learn him, study him, perfect the science of destruction. Learn from the best, from the King himself.

  I have to be patient.

  If my father won’t deal with Larry, the strange man who slips into my room at night, then I will.

  “Also, what is the most important rule to live by?” He questions, looking straight at me with disappointment, like he expects me to magically give him what he is planning to do. Take over the entire world.

  I know the rule he is talking about. I think it’s the only one I live by myself. The only one I happily oblige.

  “No one can ever be trusted.”

  I thought of Emmett Easton, the boy was always quiet, kept to himself in class and never uttered a word or looked at anyone. He just didn’t care. But I’ve also seen the way he looks at his father. Something akin to the way I look at my own father. . .with hate and anger that should not be there for kids our age.

  I thought of Noah Montreal and how he and his brother always seem to have each other’s back. Noah was a short tempered boy, always so angry with the world. He cussed a lot and he smiled just as much while he did so.

  These boys were always so hateful, but they never let people see it. They are smart, calculating but most of all, they hate adults. If I’m going to be friends with them, whatever I learn, will be something to topple my father.

  That, I vow.

  “You are a King. You are my son, and I have taught you to be the smartest, the sharpest in the room. Now go do what I told you to do!”

  Still the past. . .

  The ‘conversation’ I had with my father is over, but not in the way I had hoped it would end.

  Not in the way I had desperately prayed that it would end.

  I don’t really know what I wanted. Maybe I had hoped that my father would get up from his stately chair and walk up to where my mother was right now, exchanging spit with a man that isn’t my father. A man that has no business being here. A man that lurks in the hallways at night and manages to find a way to sneak into my room.

  Maybe I was hoping that my father would leave his office and show Larry just how heavy his hand was. Bringing him heights of pain that he shows me when I have done ‘wrong’.

  But that’s not what actually happened.

  “I hate him.” I whisper under my breath as I leave his office.

  I bang his office door when I leave, my mind racing and my fists clenched so tight I might just burst. I’m so damn furious I can’t see straight. I grab my football and my ballcap that I left on top of the polished table in the large foyer of our estate home, and I furiously march out the front door.

  I don’t want to be here and I don’t want any friends.

  I’m stewing in my misery, feeling anger and hate boiling in me. Things that I know I shouldn’t be feeling. The counsellor at school says I’m too violent for a child my age. I just told her to mind the fucking business that she gets paid for.

  My cheek is probably bruised right now but god forbid anyone care about it. But whatever, I won’t cry. I need to come up with a plan to get rid of them. One by one.

  I pass through the gates and start walking down the private back roads, not the main one that the cars use. This one is one I created a few weeks back, when my father decided to bring in one of his legal counsels, Larry, to stay in the house—dealing with a major deal thing, they said. Only that stupid, ugly and huge lawyer of his was not just sucking face with my mother but he. . .

  I scream in frustration, tears welling up hot in my eyes but I furiously dash them away, tossing my football up in the sky and back.

  I’m going to burn him. My father said I’m a King and this stupid town belongs to me and I will do what needs to be done.

  I suddenly hear laughter from somewhere close by. It’s a delighted, carefree and happy note of joy that I’m immediately drawn to but immediately hate at the same time.

  I hate it and I want it to stop right this instant. It feels like the laughter is at my expense. As if whoever it is can see that I’m suffering and just like my father just did, this laughter is also mocking me. Making me feel like I’m making things up.

  No one laughs at me.

  I march down the small path and soon, I break through the large trees only to stand still at an open gate of a house that I loved playing in when no one was around. This very house has been vacant since I was a toddler and it has also been mine but now, we have new neighbors and I hate them all.

  My eyes—like a damn magnet—immediately track over the shoulder of a boy that’s blocking my path, to her. The small girl who is runnin
g around with another boy, her wild hair shining in the sunlight.

  The girl is playing with a boy that looks like her, must be her sibling. But as I look closer over the shoulder of the boy who just stands there watching the two play, I notice that they look so damn similar in age and looks. They must be twins.

  They look so carefree, slightly out of place here.

  Idiots. Thinking a place like this would accommodate something as small and useless as childhood.

  Kids don’t play in the yard like that here in Westbrook estates. It grates on my nerves that these two are doing just that in my town, as if they have every right to do that.

  They don’t even look like they have money—their ugly clothes can attest to that. Are they the servant’s kids? This property doesn’t have servant quarters though. I know this better than anyone.

  “Hey there!”

  I tense when that melodic voice shouts because I know they have spotted me when I don’t want to be seen.

  I tense when the boy that was blocking my path turns around and looks at me and I realize it’s Emmett Easton. The dark blond boy is silent, never says much and I think that’s because he has a speech problem. I can tell by the way his eyes twitch when he has to say something in class. If it’s a long sentence he would rather leave the room than open his mouth at all. But then, Emmett is a big boy, huge and intimidating. At least with the way he looked, he would never have to struggle, scream and fight unwanted night visitors.

  If only I was as big as he is. Besides, my father is right though, there is something wrong with Emmett. I know it’s much bigger than his speech problem.

  His nose flares as his eyes harden when he looks at me, but I ignore him as past his shoulder the little girl comes running and taps Emmett’s arm.

  “Tag, you’re it!” She shouts and then runs away again laughing so hard.

  Emmett takes off in her direction but soon diverts as he goes for another boy that I hadn’t noticed, Noah Montreal. The preppy brunette kid with a very loud mouth, always making jokes at school and making people love him. I hate him too.

  The Montreals live a house down from us, the third up the hill. They were the family with the least, but important vote of power in Westbrook—after the Kings and the Eastons.

  I watch as they chase each other around the yard with the new kid, but the girl is walking towards me.

  I wish I was invisible at this point but no such. My superhuman powers are nowhere in sight as the little girl with her long light brown auburn hair, a huge smile on her face but her eyes—those dark eyes are cautious and very much curious, sparkling as she comes closer. She walks funny, she is tiny and maybe just too skinny.

  A pathetic creature.

  “Hello.” She starts and just over her shoulder, I watch as her brother stands there watching his sister approach me. Yep, twins alright.

  “What do you want?” I grit out for her ears only. I see the way those boys are all looking at me, they don’t want me here. I’m not good at making friends and I want her to know that and stay away from me. Her laughter alone makes my ears bleed.

  Her eyes widen for a second—obviously taken aback by the harsh tone of my voice. I have succeeded in letting her know that I’m not friendly territory but then the most surprising thing happens, something that has never actually happened to me, to my face, before.

  She narrows her eyes and gets into my face, literally, on her tip toes.

  “Uh, dimwit, you are the one standing in our driveway like a lost puppy.” She doesn’t shout, doesn’t make her voice less melodic but her eyes, those dark orbs. . . I swear they sparkle. It’s as if the gods themselves put stars in her eyes to shine and see me directly.

  I’m rendered speechless and she studies me.

  Kids at school stay away from me, their parents warning them about me but this girl doesn’t care.

  That, makes me angry.

  I stare back at her, trying to intimidate her. I make sure my eyes are dead cold like my father’s albeit mine being the same blue hue as my mother’s, but whatever. I stare at her, managing to adopt a blank stare.

  “Yeah and so? These are my estates.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to walk around like a big, moping idiot.” She says in a low, softer voice, her sparkly, dark eyes inspecting me. I know she can see the bruise on my cheek, thank God she can’t see the whip marks on my back.

  That would have her screaming for the hills.

  She looks into my eyes, then back to the bruise but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead—she looks at the ball in my hands and a mischievous smile lights up her face.

  “Do you play?” She asks, making a grab for the ball so fast that I don’t have time to react or stop her from taking it but she does and then tosses it from one hand to another as she steps away.

  “Give that back.” I grit out.

  This girl is trouble.

  She is curious. She is stupid but most of all, she looks like she could be addictive trouble.

  “Not until you answer my question. Do you play?” She asks with a laugh in her voice, stepping further and further away from me, moving towards the manicured yard of the house that they moved into.

  “Give me my ball back.” I walk towards, feeling drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

  She will burn me, this girl. She has this sweet but knowing evil glint look about her that promises hell. She sees me, she can see the danger, I know she can, but she just doesn’t care.

  I hate that. I hate her!

  “You love your ball, don’t you?”

  It’s the only damn thing my father ever gave me that means something to me. But I don’t say that, following after her, my anger rising. Hating her with each step that I have to follow her but she just laughs and then turns back.

  “George, catch.” And she hurls the ball into the air, sending it sailing towards who I assume is her brother.

  My breath hitches, watching in disbelief as my ball sails into the air, getting further and further away from me. George—her twin, catches the ball mid-air.

  I freeze for an entire second until Noah breaks the silence. He starts laughing and cheering for George, then I watch in horror as the boys move apart quickly in preparation to play with my ball, dismissing me at the same time.

  “You little witch.” I quickly walk over to her and I think I will throttle her delicate small throat. How dare she take my belongings and give them to someone else.

  “Oops, looks like you never answered me.” She says and then giggles but I’m not at all amused by her.

  “I don’t answer to anyone.” I tell her sternly and she raises an eyebrow and just like before, she gets into my face, her eyes staring me down. “And you don’t belong here. You will never be welcomed here, till the end of time.” I seethe.

  I think she hates me too but loves toying with me.

  “You will answer to me. From now until the end of time, if your dumb self is still around even then, you will answer to me.”

  I hate her, I really hate her and I’m going to enjoy making her suffer.

  “I would hate to see you breaking your own heart believing that. I’m not a good boy, Star.” I grit out through my teeth, not at all sure why I decided to name her that of all things.

  I could have said something about her muddy shoes or her crooked teeth. But I can’t get past those damn stars in her eyes. It almost makes me feel like I should familiarize myself with those stars. That those sparkles are special in a way and it’s up to me to keep them there.

  My chest tightens. I feel like I should treat that light in her eyes with respect. I just met this girl and already I hate her, but I’m drawn to the light in her eyes.

  But nothing good ever survives. So, I’m going to mess up that light. I want that star to fall and it won’t be the kind of shooting star that you can make a wish on. No, this one will crash and burn—just for what she did and the way she looks at me.

  Seeing me when I don’t want to
be seen. Challenging me when I just had the most crushing day.

  “You know what my name means?” She questions, her eyebrow raised in shock.

  Is her name already Star? That would explain it then. I’m not the only one that sees the sparkles in her dark eyes.

  Before I can say anything, my ball sails into the air, I can see it from the corner of my eye. I know it’s headed straight to thwack her in the head but I quickly move to catch it. Not because I don’t want her to hurt but because when she does hurt, I want her to know what it’s for.

  “Hey, come on and play King!” Noah shouts from across the yard. On one hand, I just want to leave, but on the other, something about this house has always calmed me. Now, a pair of twins have moved into it and one of them—Star—has a mouth on her alright.

  She raises her eyebrow again, watching me hesitate to throw the ball back.

  “Well, you look like you could use some friends. Go on.” She says with a smile on her face that isn’t really so inviting. She looks like a bully, the one you’ll find at the playground and I know she will be the bully at school. Guess I have to knock her down a peg, starting by doing exactly as she wants me to do, with my father’s plan in mind.

  That afternoon, I play ball with the three boys. They are not all bad, just really weird and really good at football. Emmett doesn’t say much but whenever Star is watching, he tries to show off his throwing arm. But I notice she’s been watching me very closely and yet also studying all of us. The way we move, the way we are tense around each other but somehow still enjoying the game. She watches it all.

  I also learnt something about my new neighbors, both Star and her brother are crazy attached to each other. It makes me feel funny that I don’t have anyone to look out for me like that.

  “Dude, you are really good at this.” Noah says to me.

  “Yeah.” Is all I say in response. Noah is very competitive. Anything I do, he’d try to do it better but I was stubborn as all hell, so I would up one up his ass, waiting for him to give up.