Vik: Plus, she told Beckett.
Me: Of course. God forbid your boyfriend gets upset.
Vik: Stop.
Rather than responding, I throw my phone across the room, watching it bounce off the wall.
I’m on my own. Like always. And I always will be.
But I have to figure this out because Merci’s staying. He’s going to be in my space, in my life, every single day.
And I’ll be damned if there’s nothing I can do about it.
I should’ve killed him in Miami. Should’ve finished it before it got this far.
Or maybe, I should’ve died at the bottom of the stairs five years ago.
Either would’ve been easier than this.
Chapter 8
Merci
I flip the pencil in my hand, letting it spin across my knuckles, and squint at the practice test in front of me. The words blur for a second before snapping back into focus. The numbers mocking me, making me want to set the entire workbook on fire.
No.
I’ve got this. I’m not stupid. Actually, I’m smart as hell. Yet that doesn’t mean I enjoy proving it by answering a bunch of standardized test questions designed to make me feel like a dumbass.
And it’s New Year’s Day. The first one in years where I’m not nursing a hangover after shaking my ass for tips the previous night or servicing some rich prick with a coke habit. Instead, I went to bed at ten.
Progress, I guess. Or maybe not. Like who wants to study? It’s as if I traded one hell for another.
My new phone buzzes beside me, and I glance over. It’s just some spam email letting me know I can win a freecruise if I click a sketchy-ass link. Cute. I silence it and turn back to the GED prep book spread out on the mattress.
The algebra problem is still there, waiting patiently for me to give a shit. And I should. This is the first step in whatever the fuck this new chapter of my life is supposed to be, one that has me completely lost, like I’m some astronaut who got sucked through a wormhole into the middle of fucking nowhere.
I groan, drop my pencil, then flop back on the bed like a starfish, staring up at the ceiling. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”
No one answers, obviously.
Three days back in this house and it still feels like stepping into a time capsule. My old room is pretty much the same as I left it—navy blue walls, constellation decals on the ceiling, obnoxiously bright sunlight coming in through the window. It’s both familiar and foreign, like putting on clothes that don't quite fit anymore.
I roll to my side and stare at the empty doorway. No door. No locks. Just wide-open space where someone could walk in at any second.
Not that anyone’s bothered. Mr. Knight’s busy working, Mom’s downstairs cooking, and Zach . . . Zach hasn't shown his face since he stormed out after throwing that probably priceless vase.
Which, like, mood.
And if the psychopathic asshole wants to sulk off into the great unknown, he’s welcome to it. Good riddance.
Except he’s living rent-free in my head. Every time I let my guard down, there he is—those steel-gray eyes boring into mine, the lap dance, his stupid pierced cock—nope.
Not going there.
The thing is, he knew it was me. So why didn’t he stop me from grinding on him like the whore I was being?
And he was hard. Did he even come?
