I won’t.
“Call me that again and I’ll throw your bike into the lake.”
“Bet you’d look real good doing it, too. All that rage? Kinda hot,” he shoots back.
He shifts his weight, his eyes flicking over me—my lips, my fists—and he has the nerve to smirk, fully aware of what he’s doing.
“Careful, sweetheart. Keep clenching your fists and I might think you’re turned on.”
My whole body flashes hot, a gut-punch flare of something I don’t want to name, don’t want to feel. Lust tangled with shame and the sick, stupid ache of wanting something that would absolutely ruin me.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. You do enough dreaming for both of us.”
“I dream of running you over with a golf cart. Maybe backing up, just to be sure.”
His chuckle is low and smug. “You’re cute when you’re homicidal. I’ll be dreaming about that golf cart threat tonight. Try not to miss me too much.”
Then he winks. Winks. And roars off, the rest of the pack thundering behind him, highlighting his exit.
Engines keep rumbling past in waves, the smell of exhaust clinging to the air, the rhythmic growl of tires against pavement pounding in my ears. I came out here to watch my dad ride, to pretend for a second that things are still normal. But Malachi ruined that. Gets under my skin the way he always does.
Not that I really want to be out here. Not deep down. I just don’t want to feel left out. All it does is make everything worse.
I stomp inside and slam the door harder than necessary. The echo bounces off the empty walls, louder than I expect. Not that there’s anything in here to soak up the sound.
For one reckless heartbeat, the thought flashes.What if I’d chased him? What if I let him in?
But the shame cuts sharper.
Let him witness the pawned furniture? The empty shelves? The pathetic remnants of a life stripped down to nothing? No. No one gets in. Not him. Not anyone.
My phone buzzes before I can take three steps. I don’t need to look. It’s always the same.
Dad. Or, as I lovingly refer to him in my head, The Human Leech.
I swipe to answer. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t wait to see me ride by.”
My teeth grind. “Some of us have jobs.”
“Figured maybe you’d wave. You used to.” I clench the phone tighter, the sour metallic taste of rage bleeding into my mouth.
He always does this. Acts as if I’m the one who left. As if he’s the abandoned one. Never mind the years of pawned furniture, late-night gambling calls, and whiskey bottles where groceries should’ve been.
“I’m late,” I snap, then hang up before he can slur something emotional and manipulative.
I grab my bag from the entryway table—half-zipped and stained from years of overuse—sling it over my shoulder, andkeep moving. I lock the door behind me out of habit, though there’s no real reason to. It’s not as if I own anything worth stealing. Hell, if someone broke in, they’d probably leave me a donation out of pity. I’ve got ten minutes to make it to work without completely losing my mind.
Sliding into my rusted-out car, I grip the steering wheel, hands too tight on the cracked leather, fighting to steady the fire under my skin. I want to scream. Instead, I shove the key into the ignition, crank up the radio, and let Bon Jovi drown out the restless ache in my chest.
“You give love a bad name…”
I belt it out, loud and unapologetic, until my throat is raw and the road ahead blurs into something distant, something survivable.
By the time I’m a few blocks from the country club, the anger has dulled to something manageable. Pulling into the employee lot, I check my reflection,making sure my hair hasn’t gone full Monica-in-Barbados. A quick swipe of gloss, a deep breath, and I plaster on the neutral expression I’ve mastered.
