Envy (The Damning Book 2)

by Katie May

from my depressing reverie. His eyes flickered briefly over the other

  occupants before coming to rest on me. He offered me a crooked smile.

  "It's delicious, thank you," I responded, chasing down a bite of my alfredo

  with a cup of water.

  "It's acceptable. The meat's a little dry, however. I would like to speak to

  the cook about that." D.O.D.'s eyes narrowed. Of course, my dad couldn't go

  one freaking minute without acting like a complete asshole. And you wonder

  why I have no friends?

  Asher visibly stiffened, but he managed another serene smile.

  "Of course. I'll go get him for you right away."

  I wanted to tell him that it wasn't necessary, that I understood the

  restaurant was packed and taking away the head chef in the middle of the

  dinner-rush was beyond idiotic, but I kept my mouth shut. I tried to convey

  with my eyes how sorry I was for, well, everything.

  Something in my expression must've distracted him, because one second

  he was staring at me, and the next he was lurching forward. The plate of food

  he was carrying shattered on the floor, food flying through the air to land in

  Buttlicker's lap. Dickhead immediately jumped to his feet, surveying Asher

  as if he was a potential threat.

  I felt my body grow cold.

  It was obviously an accident, but I knew my father and the people he

  surrounded himself with. The best-case scenario would be the waiter getting

  a good old firing. The worst...

  Thinking quickly, I threw back my head and let out a lilting laugh. Every

  eye at the table immediately turned to stare at me. The usual chatter in the

  restaurant diminished around us until all I could hear was Asher's pounding

  heart as he picked himself up behind me.

  D.O.D. pinched the bridge of his nose.

  "What the hell are you laughing at?"

  I smoothed my expression into one of icy impassiveness. I called it my

  bitch face, one that I reserved only for meetings like these. It was a part that I

  had long since perfected. Bitch me was almost like an extension of my hand.

  "I didn't appreciate the way the waiter was ogling me," I said flippantly,

  scowling at Asher. He blinked at me, momentarily speechless. "So, I taught

  him a little lesson about respect." I tossed my hair over my shoulder for

  effect. I had seen girls do it in movies, so I figured why the hell not?

  You got this, Adelaide. You're a bad bitch.

  D.O.D.'s hands tightened around his cup until I could see his blue veins

  protruding from his alabaster skin.

  "You tripped him."

  It wasn't a question.

  "I just wanted to teach him some respect, daddy dearest. Isn't that what

  you always told me?" Yeah, so maybe now I was being a sarcastic bitch

  instead of just a mean bitch, but I couldn't help it. He always seemed to bring

  out the worst in me. Maybe I just figured that whatever punishment he dished

  out wouldn't change no matter how bad I was. I could murder someone, and it

  would be just as bad as if I were to cuss at the dinner table.

  Not as if I had ever murdered someone before, mind you.

  For a moment I thought he was going to yell at me in front of the entire

  restaurant. I even feared that he would throw his cup at me. Glass was a pain

  to get out of my skin and hair. After what felt like an eternity, he released a

  breath while simultaneously releasing the cup. I felt like I could breathe

  again.

  "We will discuss this tonight," he said stoutly, turning back towards his

  meal. His eyes promised pain. Lots and lots of pain. Buttlicker, beside me,

  grinned like the deviant I knew him to be.

  "If you don't mind me asking, Sir, but I would be more than willing help

  you administer punishment."

  My fork clattered against my plate, and my mouth dropped open.

  God no. Please no. Not again. No. No. No.

  "I believe we could come to an agreement," D.O.D. said with a tiny smile.

  "If you, of course, agree to my original proposition."

  Once again, the conversation turned back towards buildings and real-

  estate and all that other fun stuff. I, however, felt as if I couldn't breathe. My

  body felt cold, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice over my head. It

  was a numb type of cold. Painful, almost, but dulling as the seconds dragged

  on.

  I noticed that Asher hadn't moved from where he stood behind me, food

  covering his white shirt. Nobody paid him any mind as the conversation

  veered towards contracts - not even my mother was staring at him any longer

  - but I could feel his eyes caressing my back. I tried my hardest to ignore

  him, tried my hardest to face forward, but the urge to turn around was almost

  unbearable. Finally, I couldn't resist any longer.

  His eyes were anguished when they met mine. His thick, ebony lashes

  feathered against his cheekbones. Just as suddenly, the expression was swept

  away by a tidal wave of anger. His gaze turned towards my father, who

  seemed utterly oblivious to the penetrating gaze searing his skin.

  I recognized that look. It was the same look I have both given and

  received. That look promised pain and revenge.

  It was also a look that made me, almost innately, hopeful.

  FIRST CHAPTER OF GANGS AND

  GHOSTS!

  The house was...nice.

  Not the most eloquent description, but there were no other words I could

  think to use. An immense structure with protruding rocks created the

  entryway, and the flower garden had row after row of carefully planted

  perennials. I personally believed the house was trying too hard. The grass

  was green, manicured to perfection, and glinting with morning dew. A white-

  picket fence separated the building from its neighbors.

  I glanced up at the house in dismay - and then glanced down the road at

  the dozens of other identical houses. Did the builders not believe in

  individuality?

  One hand carrying a cardboard box and the other a garbage bag, I walked

  up the surprisingly steep staircase.

  “What do you think?” Dad asked eagerly, fumbling to put the key into the

  lock. I chose, rather wisely, not to answer him. He was proud of this place

  but, despite its monotonous beauty, it was no home.

  Only one year, I told myself. One more year until I could go back.

  To Dad, I said, “Which room is mine?” I plastered a singularly beautiful

  smile onto my face to further emphasize my point. Colt told me it was a smile

  that could make even angels fall. And then he proceeded to call me one of

  those fallen angels, so I couldn’t really take it as a compliment.

  “I call the biggest room.” Karissa pranced by me, hands empty of any

  belongings. Knowing her, she expected us to carry all of her stuff inside. She

  probably even expected us to set up and decorate her room.

  Twelve-years-old and already a little diva.

  “You don’t get the biggest room.” I rolled my eyes at her entitlement. I

  had always told my parents that they were too lenient with the little she-devil,

  too wishy-washy. She said jump, and they responded with how high. A petty

  version of myself might've been jealous of the way that they treated her, but I

  had long since accepted that her cut
eness was impossible to defy.

  “I call the basement,” Colt called. He slung his duffle bag further up his

  shoulder while his free hand gripped his familiar black guitar case.

  “You don’t get the entire basement,” I snorted. In response, Colt merely

  flicked my ear.

  “I need the space,” he answered firmly.

  “What you need is to get your own place and stop mooching off of

  Dads.”

  “Fuck off.”​

  “Language!” The final member of our family, and the name that the

  strident voice belonged to, was Papa. A domineering figure with broad

  shoulders and a rugged beard, Papa was an imposing man. Only his family

  knew that the giant beast was actually a big teddy bear.

  “I can’t get the damn key to work,” Dad grumbled, hand turning the knob

  ineffectually. Papa took the key from his husband’s hand and gently placed it

  into the lock. The door swung open instantly.

  “Show off,”​ Dad grumbled, but Papa simply grinned.

  Choosing not to listen to the rest of their banter, I took off with a

  blistering speed towards where I assumed the living room was supposed to

  be. From Dad’s explanation, there was a large hallway that branched off from

  this area with a cute room at the end of it. According to Dad, it had a secret

  door inside of the closet that led to another, smaller room. Apparently, the old

  owners had been paranoid of a break-in or something of the sort. Why else

  would they create a hiding place?

  I heard the patter of footsteps as Karissa moved on the floor above me.

  Colt must’ve already claimed the basement, that bastard. Like the prima

  donna he was, he believed that he needed at least three rooms, a bathroom,

  and a “studio room” (though I didn’t understand how that differed from the

  “three rooms” requirement).

  “I’m a grown man now,”​ he had told me on the car ride over. “I need my

  space.”

  "You need your own house,” I muttered for the one-hundredth time.

  "I'm getting a job," Colt protested. "And going back to college."

  I didn't have a response to that. I had heard the same story thousands of

  times. He would come up with an excuse not to do any of that stuff, that I

  was sure of.

  The hallway was long and barren, almost eerie in the artificial lighting. I

  noted, with some satisfaction, a bathroom adjacent to my desired bedroom.

  Hopefully, I wouldn't have to share with my siblings. Karissa made it a habit

  to leave her makeup and curling iron on the counter, and Colt was a slob.

  Laundry room? He hadn't heard of it. No, he apparently believed that the

  ideal place for dirty clothes was the linoleum tiles of the bathroom.

  The door at the very end of the hallway was cracked open. Smiling with

  anticipation, I pushed it open the rest of the way.

  It was small, though I hadn't expected anything else, and devoid of any

  trinkets or memorabilia. The flooring was a dark, mahogany wood that

  worked surprisingly well with the beige walls. A single window showed off

  our neighbor's house, brown siding obscured slightly by the tiny fence.

  "I knew you would like this room," Dad said from behind me.

  "It's cute," I agreed. It may have been small, but it was positively darling.

  I already could envision where my furniture would be set up - head of the bed

  against the wall, dresser beside the closet, my bookshelf in the far corner. It

  wasn't Chicago, but it would have to do. It would never be my home though.

  But maybe, just maybe, I could make it livable.

  "The movers are bringing in the furniture," he continued. "I was thinking

  in a couple of hours we could go out to dinner. Check out the town."

  He shrugged helplessly and something akin to guilt tore through my

  chest. My parents tried so hard to be the best that they could be. Moving

  across the country, getting a new job...they honestly believed that it was the

  best course of action for their family. I couldn't fault them on that, even

  though they ruined my life in the process. I knew I was being a brat; I knew

  that I was making this whole situation harder than it needed to be. I vowed to

  myself, right then and there, that I would not shed another tear for the place I

  had left.

  No, I only had to wait a year before I could go back. Once I turned

  eighteen, there would be no stopping me. Jaron and I have already talked

  about colleges on the east coast. Fiona would want to come too. It would be

  the three of us, my boyfriend and my best friend, against the world. As it

  should be.

  I smiled wistfully at the fantasy, and my dad, mistaking my smile as

  acceptance of his proposal, blew out a sigh of relief.

  "I'll let your sister and brother know." He paused, fingers clenched around

  the doorframe. "We love you Camila. You know that, right?"

  I smiled at my father warmly.

  "Of course I know that. I love you too."

  And I did. My siblings may annoy the shit out of me and my dads may be

  a bit too protective, but they were my family. They were the people I could

  count on when I thought about succumbing to the darkness. They were my

  light.

  Dropping my boxes onto the floor, I froze suddenly. The hairs on the

  back of my neck stood on end as if bolts of electricity were coursing through

  my skin. My hands turned clammy by my sides.

  I knew it was irrational to believe that someone was watching me, yet that

  pesky feeling wouldn't go away. It was almost as if I was standing on an

  elevated platform, stage lights glaring down at me. I was aware that there was

  an audience, but individual faces remained indistinct.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I stared out the window. There didn't appear

  to be anyone in our yard, and I scoffed at how ridiculous I was behaving.

  Colt's conspiracy theories were finally getting to my head.

  Still, the feeling that someone was watching me did not diminish. If

  anything, it grew.

  "Nothing sounds good here," Colt said, glaring at the menu as if his eyes

  could physically penetrate through it. I rolled my eyes once again at my

  brother's dramatics.

  "Do you have to complain about everything?" I asked.

  "Do you have to be such a bitch?" he fired back, earning himself a glare

  from both of my dads. Dad hated when we swore, especially with what he

  considered as unnecessary colorful language. I had learned to get quite

  creative with my use of swear words. It was so fudging annoying. See? Even

  my mental thoughts were beginning to turn on me.

  We had found this restaurant downtown. We had to park at a meter, a

  couple of blocks away, because there were no opened parking spaces closer

  to the restaurant itself. Despite the numerous cars in front of the nondescript

  building, we were able to be seated right away, underneath a bear head.

  Yup. You heard me right. A good old bear head, as if Yogi himself was

  judging what I ate.

  The restaurant was, admittedly, cute with a couple dozen wooden tables

  in the center of the room and a long bar opposite the door. The decorations

  adorning the walls varied from animal heads to dated newspaper clippings.

  There didn't seem to b
e a set theme to the diminutive diner, but the overall

  feel of the restaurant was homey. Comfy.

  Our family had only garnered a few stares as we walked by. My dads

  were holding hands, and us children were trailing behind them.

  Karissa, with her rich ebony skin and darker hair.

  Colt, with his mane of blond hair and freckled face.

  And finally, me. Dark hair and tanned skin thanks to my Latino heritage.

  For the most part, the town had been friendly. The hostess had asked my

  parents how long they have been together, the waitress discussed how

  beautiful us children were, and a couple patrons at the bar commented that

  they had never seen us before.

  "We don't get a lot of tourists here," one of them stated.

  "We know everybody in this town," said another.I snorted at his small-

  town logic.

  They seemed thrilled to discover that Papa was joining the police force

  and Dad got a job teaching at the college a few towns over.

  "I'm a deputy," one of the younger men said, extending a hand. "The

  name's Rick."

  It wasn't bad. Not at all. One of my biggest fears was the bigotry of a

  small town. We would be judged, shamed, cast aside. It had happened once

  before. Instead, nobody batted an eye at my parents' marriage and their

  choice to adopt multiracial children. My respect for the town grew

  significantly.

  Our food arrived, and I practically salivated at the crispy chicken wrap on

  my plate. I liked food. A lot. Could you blame me? Chocolate and fried

  chicken and everything in-between.

  Fiona would often get on my case about my eating habits.

  "Seriously?" she would say, lip curling in disgust. "Do you want to get

  fat?"

  Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly vulnerable, I would listen to

  her. Other times, I would tell her to piss off.

  "How's the cheeseburger?" Papa asked Colt. My brother was picking

  apart his dinner. Bread on one side of his plate, patty on the other. His nose

  was scrunched up as if the food was emitting a particularly pungent smell.

  "I'm not hungry," Colt mumbled. The poor sandwich had been brutalized

  by my brother's repetitive knife slashing.

  "Why did you order it if you weren't going to eat it?" I snapped. He did

  this shit every day. I had long since stopped asking what went through that

  crazy head of his."Is it because you're afraid the government is going to