Bad Habit

by Charleigh Rose

  I give a heavy sigh, aiming for bored. “Is this going to be a thing? You’re dying, so now you’re trying to absolve yourself of all your sins and guilt?” I roll my eyes and sit back, propping one foot on my knee, arms spread over the itchy fabric of the couch. “Save your breath, because I don’t give a fuck about any of it.”

  “My father…” he trails off, looking away before continuing. “He was rough with us both. But David was different. He’d always been…off, even from a young age. I don’t remember a time in my life when he was normal.”

  I feel my smirk falter. “I said stop.”

  “Then, once your mother died—”

  “What happened to your window?” I say, nodding my chin in the direction of the boarded-up mess, changing the subject. I’m not talking about David, and I sure as hell am not talking about my mother.

  “Ask your little girlfriend.”

  My eyebrows pull together in confusion.

  “Who?”

  Maybe he means Whitley. She’s the one who told me he was hospitalized a few weeks ago and begged me to come home. Her mom is a registered nurse, and even though we don’t exactly live in a small town, it’s hard not to know who my dad is.

  “The little blonde girl you used to run around with.”

  “Briar?” That doesn’t make sense. How would she know what happened?

  He nods and reaches for the beer bottle at his feet, liver be damned. “Threw a brick right through my window. She stood there seething for about ten minutes first. I didn’t think she’d do anything. She was just a little girl. So, I went about my business.”

  His business. Also known as drinking enough vodka to kill a horse while watching Skinemax. Most likely in his underwear.

  “I about shit my pants when it happened. Got my drunk ass up just in time to see her flip me off.”

  “When?”

  “Right after you left.” He shrugs. “Before I got my DUI.”

  Well, well, well. Briar isn’t such an angel, after all. But I already knew that, didn’t I?

  It doesn’t change what she did, but it does have my lips tugging into a reluctant grin. No one has the balls to stand up to John Kelley. Not even me, for a long time, anyway.

  I stand and scan the hellhole I used to call home one more time before deciding to leave. I used to fucking hate this place. It made me physically ill to be here, to be around my dad. To face the memory of my mom. Now, I’m just glad I got out, even if I had to go through hell.

  “See you around, I guess.”

  “Does that mean you’re sticking around?”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say his voice sounds hopeful.

  “For now.”

  When I’m sitting in my truck, I scroll through my phone to the one number I haven’t used in years and press call. After three rings, I start to think she’s not going to answer, but on the fourth, she picks up—voice all velvety and thick with sleep.

  “Hello?”

  “You asked me why I do this to you. The truth is, I don’t fucking know why. But until I figure it out, you’re going to stay away from Jackson, you’re going to stay away from Adrian, and you’re going to stay away from fucking Billy Bob working over at the Circle K.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because this isn’t finished, Briar. You and I were never just friends.”

  I hang up without waiting for a response, tempted to sneak into her room and really drive my point home, but I decide to leave it. For tonight, at least.

  I end up heading back to their house after driving around for a while. A couple of days ago, I called the number listed on the building permit posted in a yard a few streets over on a whim. Asked the dude if he needed a roofer, and without even wanting to meet me, he told me the house would be ready for the roof by tomorrow and to show up ready to work.

  Fuck, I love my job. I don’t have to talk to anyone. I’m my own boss. I can work at my own pace, for the most part. I only take jobs when I feel like it, and if I don’t hire anyone to help me, I can bust a roof out in a few days and make a good chunk of money. That also means I’m not tied down to any one place for too long. Plus, I’ve found that when you’re hammering into shingles all day, you don’t have time to get lost in your head. And my head is not a pretty place to be.

  I’m not exactly rich. Not compared to the people of Cactus Heights. But it’s sure as fuck more than I ever dreamed of making, and more than John ever made. We didn’t have money growing up, so I’m used to living modestly. Dare was the one who convinced me that I needed to spend a little to live a little, and I finally caved and bought my truck. It’s the first thing in my entire life that’s ever been mine and only mine. Besides Briar, I think, but she never really was mine.

  As I’m dozing off, I remember to set my alarm and notice a text from the little devil herself.

  Briar: Same goes to you. No more Whitley, or no deal.

  Me: Easy enough.

  I know she fell back asleep, judging by the silence when I came in, so I don’t wait for a response.

  Chapter 5

  Briar

  Asher’s words have played on a loop in my head for the past couple of days.

  “You and I were never just friends.”

  Understatement of the century.

  Our little agreement has me giddy, though I know better than to think it means anything other than Asher being territorial. Little does he know, I’ve already distanced myself from Jackson. It didn’t feel right, and I didn’t want to string him along. It hasn’t stopped him from texting me, though. His behavior has become slightly erratic, accusing me of being a tease for not responding to him one second, and then apologizing in the next breath. I chalk it up to him not being able to handle rejection. Guys like him never can. Pathetic.

  But, after Ash’s cryptic comment about a list, I’ve wondered if there was something more sinister going on. So, against my better judgment, when he asked if he could come over to talk, I said yes. My brother and Adrian are both here—sleeping off hangovers, but they’re here—should anything go wrong. I doubt it will. I don’t think Jackson is dangerous, but I guess you never know.

  I step out of the pool to get dressed before Jackson comes over. I’m bending over, grabbing my towel off the patio chair when I see him come waltzing through the sliding glass door.

  “You’re early,” I say, not even having to check the time to know he’s at least forty-five minutes early. Not only that, but he let himself in. Jackson’s eyes zero in on my chest, and I look down to see that my top has slid over a little, exposing the two purple spots Asher left as souvenirs. My face burns with embarrassment as I wrap the towel around me.

  “I’m going to get dressed. Stay here,” I instruct, and he nods, taking a seat on one of the cushioned lounge chairs. I run inside to throw on some skinny yoga pants and a plain white tee before meeting Jackson back outside. He’s wearing crisp, dark jeans and a baby blue polo shirt, his usual attire, but something in his eyes is off. His easy smile is gone, and he appears to be on edge.

  “How are you, Jackson?” Small talk is the worst, but I don’t know what else to say. I want to ask him about the list, whatever it is, but I decide to ease into it.

  “Same old, same old,” he says, bouncing his knee. “I wish you’d talk to me, though.”

  I sigh, not wanting to go there right now.

  “Jackson …” I start, but the words fail me. He stares, waiting for an explanation that I can’t give him. Nothing happened. At all. I just don’t feel that way about him. I tried to make myself want him, but it turns out the heart is a stubborn, fussy bitch. And mine has only ever wanted Asher.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” I admit.

  “Just tell me the truth. I thought things were going well, and then it was like you just…lost interest.” His eyebrows pull together, as if he’s genuinely never been rejected before and can’t begin to make sense of it.

  “I just think we’d make b
etter friends.”

  “It’s because of him, isn’t it?” he accuses, his eyes turning hard, and I know he’s referring to Asher. I consider telling him the truth, but I can’t risk other people finding out about us. And I don’t trust Jackson.

  “No,” I say, taking a seat on the chair next to him. “But I do need to ask you something.”

  “Anything,” he says casually, but his eyes scan me for clues. He knows I know something, but he doesn’t know what. I’m starting to realize that there might be more lurking beneath that pretty-boy charade.

  “Am I on a list?”

  His knee ceases its bouncing, and his eyes widen. “What list?”

  I can tell he’s being deliberately obtuse, and that Asher and my brother were right to be concerned.

  “Don’t play dumb.” I sigh. “Am I on a list?” I ask again. I stand, crossing my arms, and Jackson follows suit.

  “It’s not what you think,” he says, taking a step toward me.

  “No,” I say, turning to walk back into my house. “That’s all I needed to know.” I feel sick. I don’t know what the list entails, but I don’t have to be a genius to know that it’s not good. That it most likely has something to do with why he pursued me, and that he betrayed my trust. That’s enough for me, without having the gritty details.

  “Briar, stop,” he demands, but I keep walking. When I open the sliding door, Dash is sitting at the breakfast bar, while Adrian fries some eggs. My brother’s blond hair sticks up in every direction, and he looks half-asleep, but when he sees that I’m upset with Jackson on my heels, he snaps to attention. Adrian drops the spatula, and they both flank me in an instant.

  “What’s going on?” my brother barks.

  “Nothing. He was just leaving.”

  Jackson swallows nervously, looking among the three of us, probably trying to gauge how close he is to catching a fist to the face. Ultimately, he decides to test his luck.

  “There is a list, and that’s why I was interested in you at the beginning,” he admits, holding up his hands in surrender when both Adrian and my brother advance on him. “But, I never added your name. I swear to fucking God, Briar. Why do you think I kept pursuing you? If it was only about the stupid list, I would have bailed after…” he trails off, thinking better of finishing that sentence in front of my brother.

  Dash’s nostrils flare, and Adrian huffs out a humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face.

  “You have three seconds to leave before my foot meets your ass.” This comes from Adrian.

  “Briar,” Jackson tries again, jaw clenched in frustration, but I shake my head in response. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know if it changes how I feel, even if he is telling the truth.

  Adrian arches a brow, and that’s all it takes for Jackson to realize he isn’t going to win this one. Then, he’s out the door, leaving me with two pairs of expectant eyes focused on me.

  “What?”

  “Start talking.”

  Why are all the men in my life so damn pushy?

  Chapter 6

  Asher

  I finished the job I was doing over a week ago, so instead of working, I’ve been at my dad’s house. He’s getting worse—I can see it in his appearance, but his expression tells me that he knows it, too—and he refuses to go back to the hospital. He’s basically just waiting to die at home, at this point.

  Suit yourself.

  I’ve mostly busied myself with cleaning this dump in silence, while my dad searches for the words to say. He watches me. I ignore him. He talks to me. I ignore him. There’s nothing he could say to take back the past ten years of my life, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

  “Where are you staying?” John asks from his place on his trusty old recliner. I fucking hate that chair. I’m surprised his skin hasn’t grafted to it by now. I glance up at him, debating on whether or not to respond, but something in his hopeful expression has me caving.

  “Dash’s.”

  He nods, expecting that answer, but doesn’t have anything else to add.

  I turn my attention back to the giant oak entertainment center—probably about the same age as the decrepit couch—that takes up almost the entire length of the wall. The bottom is lined with cabinets sporting broken handles, and inside is filled with newspapers, my mom’s collection of Disney movies on VHS, art projects from when I was a kid, and old family pictures. What’s noticeably absent are photos of my mom and me. I know they used to be in here. That old bastard probably destroyed them.

  I pick up a homemade Christmas ornament with a tiny handprint and a picture of a child I don’t even recognize anymore—happy and toothless and carefree. I turn it over. In jumbled, oversized letters, the back reads “Asher Kelley, age 7, 2nd grade”. A familiar feeling washes over me like an old friend—a mixture of anger and resentment—and I stuff it down into the trash bag full of all the other useless shit.

  “You’re tossing that?” Dad asks, taking a swig of his water bottle, and I almost laugh. The sight is so foreign. I don’t ever remember him drinking anything but beer or liquor. The occasional cup of coffee, maybe. I want to tell him it’s too late for that, but I bite my tongue.

  “Your mother loved that…” he trails off. Clearing his throat, he adds, “I loved it.” His voice is uncharacteristically gruff, and his eyes so sincere that it momentarily throws me off.

  “Loved it so much that you threw it in with the rest of the crap you don’t give a shit about?” I start grabbing junk by the handful and shoving it into the bag, not even sparing a glance at it. It’s better this way.

  “Son.”

  A turkey handprint from Thanksgiving. An article from the year I made regionals in swim. A birthday card.

  “Son.”

  A Hot Wheels car. A photo of me with my first swim medal.

  “Son!”

  “What!” I snap, rising to my feet to grab another garbage bag.

  “I’m sorry,” he says simply, yet emphatically. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head, not wanting to hear this shit again. “I’m fucking here, aren’t I?” What more does he want from me?

  “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Don’t throw away the good things in your life on my account. I’ll be gone soon, probably not soon enough for your liking, but you’ll want these things one day. Trust me on that.”

  Tears well up in his eyes, and I look away. My dad has never had a problem expressing his feelings. Just the opposite, actually. He loved hard, and he fought harder. Whether he was crying happy tears at one of my swim meets or in an alcohol-induced fit of rage, he felt everything more than most people. Even when he beat the shit out of me, I knew that he loved me, as fucked up as that sounds. He’d always had trouble controlling his emotions, but after my mom, the calm to his storm, passed away, there was no one to help him reel it in. More than that, there was no desire to reel it in. I should’ve been enough. But I wasn’t. And therein lies the problem.

  If for some god-forsaken reason I ever become a father, I will live and fucking breathe for that kid. I will die before ever letting one single bad thing touch that kid. And I for damn sure wouldn’t hurt my kid or send him off into the hands of a psychopath.

  “I came for you, Ash,” he admits in a quiet voice, shocking me. I don’t show it, though. I stare blankly, waiting for him to continue.

  “I know it doesn’t matter now. But after I completed my court-ordered rehab, I went to David’s house. I wasn’t supposed to, not legally, but I didn’t care. I knew you probably wouldn’t want to stay with me, but I had a plan. I was going to help set you up with your own place. But you were already gone. Said you ran away, and he never bothered looking.”

  My fists clench at my sides. It’s bullshit. All of it. My dad didn’t have a dime to his name.

  He continues, “I figured it didn’t matter where you were, long as you weren’t with him. You’re strong. Smart. Hell, you raised yourself after your mom died. I wasn’
t worried.”

  “I don’t claim to know a damn thing about being normal, but I’m pretty sure normal people worry about their kids,” I say sarcastically.

  “That’s not what I meant.” He sighs, rubbing at his forehead with a shaky hand. “Of course, I worried. I wondered. But I had faith that you were safe.”

  I used to think my dad was the strongest man alive. I remember arguing with my friends, each of us bragging about the strength of our fathers, claiming they could lift cars and other ridiculously embellished tales. Now, he’s sickly thin, except for his distended stomach. Weak. Frail. Pathetic. And fuck, if some part of me isn’t starting to feel sorry for him.

  “I was almost eighteen,” I offer, staring at a cigarette burn in the carpet. “So, it was just a matter of laying low for a few months.” I don’t tell him how I stole money from my uncle and hopped the first bus out of there. I don’t tell him how I met Dare on said bus, who could tell that I was running from something and offered me a job a few hours into the trip.

  “Why didn’t you come back after your birthday?”

  Is he serious?

  Tearing my eyes from the burnt spot, I look him in the eye.

  “I didn’t have anything to come back for.”

  “The Vale girl might not agree with that statement.”

  I bark out a humorless laugh.

  “She’s the reason I left.”

  He knows this better than anyone. But he inspects me, as if looking for a piece to the puzzle that he’s missing.

  “Look,” I say, gripping the back of my neck and focusing on the popcorn ceiling. “I know you’re trying to make amends before it’s too late, but you can’t force that shit on me. You’re ready, but I’m not.”

  “I get it. I do,” he says. “I just can’t die with you thinking that I didn’t—that I don’t—love you,” he stutters. “That you ever deserved one goddamn second of what I put you through. You lost both of your parents the night your mom died. My biggest regret is blaming you.”