She sat there for ages, barely moving. I thought she was a creepy doll or something at first, but then she changed positions. I tried waving. She didn’t react.
Now she’s gone.
Did I imagine her? Iampretty dehydrated. Maybe she's a ghost. Except I don't really buy into the whole paranormal thing. Wiping my sweaty cheek on my shoulder, I trudge up the gravel drive toward our newhome—the Sutherlands' pity rental. There’s no way we’d be able to afford this place without a tremendous discount from my stepfather's cousin.
Not that Mom cares. She’s living her real-life fantasy as the wife of Declan Warren, the new Art Director of Fort Manor University. He put a ring on her finger six months after meeting her at a sculpture exhibition hosted by the Rhodes Gallery, where she works as a receptionist. They ran to the courthouse the sameweek that Declan secured his position at Central Florida University. All so we could start fresh as ablended family.
Mom insists it was fate, but it's all too rushed to me. Then again, I hate change and lately, it feels like I've been chucked into an alternate dimension. I was more than content living in the trailer on the outskirts of North Fort Manor’s orange groves, surrounded by the kind of quiet only cicadas and frog calls interrupted. Where I spent foggy mornings drinking coffee on the front steps, counting birds at the feeder and nights tracing constellations. It was bliss after years of drunken arguments, endless tears and smashed bottles.
But Mom's got a pair of rose colored glasses permanently taped to her face. She claims what happened to Dad was a blessing in disguise. That God was protecting us from the situation getting worse. The thing is, I can’t imagine God steering a drunk man headfirst into a pole on the opposite side of a deserted county road, leaving his wife penniless and his son fatherless.
I don’t believe it was an act of God.
It was an act of man.
A broken, selfish man who refused to change.
The front steps groan in protest under my weight as if they’re insulted that a six-foot-two linebacker dares to use them. Like most homes in this neighborhood, it screams Old Fort Manor heritage: a pretentious combination of southern generational wealth and coastal charm.
The front door swings in while I'm shuffling my boots on the brand new welcome mat Mom bought— and really shouldn’t have wasted money on.
“You know we can take breaks, right?”
Sweat stings my eyes as I look up from my shoes. My stepbrother leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.
The menace smirks.
I’ve never met anyone like him. Even on the exterior, he's an anomaly, with ice blonde hair so light it’s almost translucent in the sun and angular features wrapped in snow white skin. But what really puts me on edge are his eyes: one pale blue like fog above the ocean, and the other, a glacier splashed with golden honey.
Partial heterochromia.
They unnerve me.
Everything about Cade Warren is unnerving. His words are double-edged swords. His smiles loaded with deceit. His body poised to strike. He’s a water moccasin: stealthy, venomous and flashing warning signs I’d rather avoid at all costs.
“Move,” I grunt.
He taps his pointer finger on his bicep.
“What’s the password?”
He’s the most exasperating little shit alive.
“Stop acting like a child and let me in.”
“But Iama child according to you, remember?”
Like I'd forget snapping at him for lying about his age to buy cigarettes at the gas station after we filled up the U-haul. I had no issue informing the cashier that he’s only seventeen before shoving his ass out the door.
He’s been a royal bitch ever since.
“You sure act like one.”
He scowls. “At least I’m fun. You have an opportunity to be the cool older stepbrother, butnooo, you'd rather be a rule-following Bible humper.”
I’m not a violent guy by nature, but in the short span of time I've spent in Cade’s presence, I find myself fantasizing about strangling him an abnormal amount.
“I think the term you’re referring to is BibleThumper.”
