Prologue
Gideon
Fifteen Years Old
“Gideon, I need to see you in my office.” Reggie’s standing just outside the bedroom I share with three other guys. He doesn’t look mad, but I’m always in trouble, so he’s probably just used to it by now, and it isn’t showing in his expression.
At least Reggie doesn’t knock us around.
“What did you do now?” Seth, a kid that’s on my last nerve, says with a smirk that I’d like to wipe off his face.
What a moron.
I ignore him and follow Reggie down the hall, past the dining and living rooms to his office, and when he closes the door behind us, unease settles in my gut.
I freaking hate it here at this boys’ home. We all call it hell house. Basically, no one wants a foster kid like me. No one wants to adopt me. So I’m here. I mean, it could be a lot worse, but it’s not great. The food sucks. I’m always cold. My eye aches thanks to the punch from that jerk, Ryker.
I hate that guy. We’re always coming to blows. If he would just keep his big mouth shut, I could ignore him, but he must be allergic to shutting the hell up.
“I probably did whatever you’re accusing me of,” I say, starting the conversation and doing my best to look bored. “So go ahead and just give me extra chores.”
Reggie’s quiet long enough to make me nervous, and I shift in my seat.
“We have a few things to discuss,” he finally says and drags his hand down his face. “First of all, your dad—”
“No.”
Reggie sighs. “I get it.”
“No, you don’t.”
No one will everget it, and that’s the way it should be. I fucking hate that this is my life.
I hate my life.
“You’re right.” Reggie looks down at the paper on his desk. “I don’t. But I’m trying to empathize with you, Gideon. He’s written you letters every week.”
“Throw them away.”
His face is grim. “I do. But there are about to be some changes, and I need to know, before that happens, if you’d like me to take you to see him.”
The thought of coming face-to-face with my murderous bastard of a sperm donor makes my stomach twist.
“Fuck. No.”
Reggie nods. “Okay.”
My eyes narrow, and my hands fist on my lap. “You really won’t make me go?”
“I’m not in the habit of forcing teenage boys to visit their fathers in prison.”
“But the state—”
“They can’t make you go either. I’m asking because while you don’t want to read what your father has to say, I have to read it to make sure he’s not saying anything incriminating or abusive to you. I know you don’t like me very much, but I’m on your side, kiddo.”
I don’t reply to that. My hands ball into fists, and I wait for him to keep talking.
“He’s asked to see you.”
