“Enough,” I snap. “I’m not in the mood to play referee tonight.”
Hands raised, Ford backs off, putting some distance between him and Hawke.
“Thank you,” I grumble.
Ford mumbles, “No problem.”
“Says the guy who doesn’t feel like getting his ass kicked tonight,” Hawke interjects.
My scathing look cuts him off, and he presses his mouth into a thin line.
“What do you want me to do if the girl’s old man shows up for another bet?” Ford asks.
A migraine threatens to take hold from his simple question, but I only lift a shoulder in response. “I don’t know.”
“He’s proved he’s good for it,” Ford pushes.
Yeah, by stealing from his own daughter. It reminds me of our father. The sonofabitch wouldn’t hesitate to take something from us if it helped him personally. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. It’s like Ford said, we’ve turned away people in shittier situations. So why do I feel like a bastard? My guilt amplifies, but I shove it aside and pinch the bridge of my nose. “A bet’s a bet.”
“A bet’s a bet,” Ford repeats.
“Keep an eye on the girl for me, though,” I add.
“Why?” Hawke asks.
Excellent question.
“Or don’t,” I mutter. “I don’t even know.” With a sigh, I drop my hand to my side. “I’m going to bed.”
I start toward the exit, but Hawke blocks my path. “Jag, you good?”
I force myself to nod. “Yeah, I’m good.”
3
VIOLET
He’s still asleep. Not that I prefer my sperm donor to be awake. The longer he’s passed out, the less I have to deal with him, but it would’ve been nice if I’d had the opportunity to yell at him again before he passed out last night. Alas, by the time I got home, he was so far gone, he didn’t even budge when I tapped his forehead with the toe of my shoe.
Asshole.
Coffee in hand, I step over my dad’s limp body in the middle of the closet-sized kitchen, moving my way through the family room—if you can even call it such a thing—and onto the porch, making sure to slam the door behind me for good measure.
The guy stays where he is, snoring like a baby in yesterday’s clothes, his jeans unbuttoned with a puddle of drool spread out on the linoleum floor. I couldn’t even give him a piece of my mind after my run-in with the Harden brothers. The reminder is enough to make my fury ignite all over again. I’d hoped a little sleep would help bring it to a simmer, but it didn’t work. Nope. The tossing and turning only amplified my resentment and frustration while leaving me nothing but a numb, hollow shell.
I don’t have enough money.
I don’t haveanymoney. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I have a solid three hundred dollars to my name, which considering my zip code and my lack of rap sheet, makes me one of the richest people in The Drift. The problem is, even if I am one of the richest people in The Drift with a pretty squeaky clean background, all things considered, I still don’t have enough money to claw my way out of here. Not anymore.
I won’t be able to live closer to campus and classes and work.
I’ll be stuck here. In purgatory. With the devil himself. My eyes ache. They ache so bad. I can’t decide if it’s from all the tears I’ve held back or from last night’s lack of sleep. Does it even matter? Not really. I squeeze them shut and lift the chipped mug to my lips, breathing in the burnt coffee like it holds the answer to all my problems, but I’m not naive enough to believe it.
Fuck those Harden brothers. Fuck my dad. Fuck everyone.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, yanking me from my pity party. I pull it out and read the name shining back at me. Jenny Thomas. My head falls forward in defeat as I slide my thumb across the screen, bringing the cell to my ear.
“Hello?”
