How could it? I’d been raised by nannies—uniformed, rotating, faceless clones. Hired help paid to raise a child that wasn’t wanted. The only time my parents came home was when I screwed up bad enough to ruin their perfect press narrative.
Elizabeth’s voice from earlier rang in my head, dripping with contempt. “You’re not the son we hoped you’d be.”
Good! Because I never wanted to be theirs in the first place.
I stood there, duffel in front of me, staring at four walls that had watched me grow up and never once felt like they gave a damn. I hadn’t even realized until now just how heavy that emptiness had been.
And I wasn’t about to carry it with me. Not to Victoria’s. Not anywhere.
I zipped the bag shut, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out without looking back. I passed Elizabeth and Maddox in the foyer. I didn’t stop, just snatched my keys from their proffered hands and kept going, disregarding them like they had me my entire life.
“Very mature, Sinclair,” Maddox grunted.
“Don’t call,” Elizabeth cut in with a finality that cut open my bruised heart.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I muttered, pushing through the door only for it to slam shut behind me as soon as my foot hit the porch.
Outside, the sunlight slammed into me like a slap across the face. Too bright. Too clean. I squinted and slipped on my sunglasses so I didn’t fry my retinas. The hangover wasn’t done with me, and neither was the world. The air stank of cut grass and chlorine, manicured and artificial—like everything else in this gated community.
My black ’69 Dodge Charger waited in the driveway like a beast in chains. Low, sleek, and humming with restrained power. The paint gleamed like obsidian, warm from the morning sun. It was the only real thing they’d ever given me. A gift for my sixteenth birthday. Not because they wanted to—hell no—but because the Whitmores had bought their daughter a Range Rover and appearances mattered most.
Always did with them.
Not love. Not presence. Not truth.
Just optics.
I slung my duffel into the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel. The leather interior embraced me like a memory—one of the only good ones I had. I turned the key, and the engine roared to life with a sound that was more animal than machine. Deep. Guttural. A promise of chaos barely restrained.
The vibration in my chest was the first thing all morning that felt right.
The gate at the end of the driveway loomed like the final bars of a prison I was breaking out of. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was trading one prison for another, either.
As I drove out, I caught sight of the front of the house in the rearview mirror. Blinding white façade. Pristine windows. Polished brass. The body still lying in the entryway like discarded trash ruined their image of perfection.
A throaty chuckle slipped past my lips as I rolled down the windows and flicked open my Zippo with a metallicsnick, lighting a cigarette. One drag. Then another. The smoke curled in my lungs like anger made tangible, something to exhale when it got too thick to carry.
When I hit the gas, the Charger peeled out with a scream that echoed off the white stucco walls of the neighborhood. Tires skidded on the smoke-kissed asphalt, and I didn’t even flinch.
Two elderly neighbors watering their hedges froze mid-spray, their judgmental eyes tracking me like I was a stain they couldn’t scrub out. The same neighbors who’d whispered behind champagne flutes about my “potential” back when I was ten and still smiled like I gave a damn.
I flipped them off as I passed, much to their horror.
The wind tangled in my curls as I picked up speed, the Charger eating up the road. The scent of cigarette smoke, motor oil, and freedom filled the car. I didn’t look in the rearview mirror again as the guard waved me through the open gates of this fake ass community. There was nothing back there I wanted to see or remember.
They thought they were punishing me by exiling me and cutting me off. But they weren’t sending me away. They were setting me free. I wasn’t their problem anymore. I was a fuse they just lit—and they had no idea how long it was.
The farther I got from the hills, the tighter my grip on the wheel got. LA bled into smoggy suburbs, glittering glass traded for strip malls and chain restaurants. The Charger devoured the miles, black steel and fury on four wheels.
I reached over and punched the stereo on, flipping through static until something hit like a gut punch—“Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails—Not the Johnny Cash cover. The raw, unfiltered original—poured through the speakers. It fit. Too well. I turned it up until the words reverberated through my soul.
The distorted chords filled the car, Trent Reznor’s voice dragging through my chest like broken glass. My knuckles whitened on the wheel. That voice—barely a whisper, a scream held on a leash—wrapped around every ache in me and made it bleed.
I lit another cigarette with shaking fingers. The smoke burned, bitter and sharp, and I welcomed it. Needed it. Like a reminder that I was still here. Still breathing. Still angry.
The open road stretched ahead, two lanes slicing through the California desert like a scar. Somewhere behind me, LA shrank into a mirage of memory—numb sex, loud parties, deafening silence.
What had I become?
