Page 8 of Vicious Titan

“I’ll call you if we need a referee. Promise.” My lame humor, as she puts it, is lost on her as she looks less than amused. How else am I supposed to deal with the fact that even Susan realizes my dad and I can’t stand to be under one roof for more than a few hours?

Heading up to my room, I’m thankful to not see my father as I slip inside, my head falling back against the solid door. I won’t complain about the house being empty for a while, right now that is a much better scenario than the current situation. Spotting the box on the foot of my bed, I plop down next to it, examining the label. I don’t recall ordering anything. Opening the box, I push aside stiff packing paper to reveal black feathers with a black string weaving a web. Hooking my finger on the side, I hold up the dream catcher as I study the feathers adorned with beads that hang from a web that looks as twisted as my mind feels. Victoria. She had to have sent it. Why tell me to leave her alone if she was going to go out of her way to torment me further? Shoving it back in the box, I cram the lid closed. Yes. This is torment because it gives me hope that she might actually care.

Hauling ass down the stairs, I’m not so lucky this time as my father appears at the bottom of the staircase.

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“Shocking,” I mumble, pushing past him. He reaches for me, knocking the box out of my hand, causing the dream catcher to tumble to the floor. Hurriedly, I snatch it off the floor, jamming it back into the box.

“Oh, is that a gift for someone who is not your girlfriend?”

“No.” More like a gift from someone who claims to hate me.

His hand harshly grips my elbow, trapping me in place. I go stiff, looking at him as he says, “I wasn’t done speaking to you. Have some respect, boy.”

Jerking my arm out of his grasp, I look down at his feet then back up to his repulsive glare. “Which part should I respect, exactly? The shitty father who’s never around or the shitty husband whose wife would rather be dead than married to him?”

Bracing myself, I go rigid though I see his fist coming at my jaw. When he makes contact, knuckles slamming into my face, I remain tense, unmoving. He grips my shirt, ramming me back against the wall as I keep my glare fixed on him. His fists don’t hurt. I can take a punch better than he can take reality.

His face reddens as his hands cling to my shirt. “You no-good little shit. Blame me all you want but she was picking death over you too.”

“I wish it’d been you, not her. You face down in a puddle of your own blood, barely hanging on to life.” The thought that I’d attempted to put out of my mind a million times over leaves my lips easily. Even if I don’t want to think it—because it makes me as dreadful of a person as the man before me—I still say the words.

His hands slowly release my shirt and he takes a step back with shock on his face that is quickly covered with anger. “After everything I’ve sacrificed for you, everything I’ve provided to make a better life for you and your fucking ungrateful mother, this is the thanks I get.”

“You haven’t provided any of it, your father has. Otherwise, you would’ve kicked both Mom and me out on our asses long ago.”

“This is my house—”

“Then why is Lawrence Bass on the deed?” I relish the shock on his face at mention of my grandfather’s name. The same name that is on every document or anything of worth that my father claims to own. “How many times did your daddy bail you out of debt before he took over all of your finances? He hasn’t gone into details, yet, but I’m guessing it was more than a few times for him to take such drastic measures.”

My father rubs a hand over his face as he looks away then back to me. “That’s between my father and I, and none of your concern.”

“For now, right? Is that why you were so pissed when you found out I’d be inheriting Lawrence Bass Industries along with the privilege of writing your allowance checks?”

“You’re a bigger joke than my old man if you think that’ll ever come to pass, that there’ll ever be a day where you are in control of my money.” A sinister gleam flashes across his face. It could be delusion, or it could be something graver. Either way, I’m comforted by the fact that Lawrence Bass Industries will go to anyone except my father.

“Don’t worry. I’ll allow you plenty of travel expenses so you stay as far away from here as possible.” At first, I’d questioned my grandpa’s decision, now I see why he’d prefer it in anyone else’s hands. Everything Richard Bass touches turns to shit. Did I inherit that from him? Everything I do seems to be wrong, but I never let that stop me. The box I hold in my hand containing a stupid dream catcher is perfect proof of that. And I’m about to go make it worse as I push off the wall, casually walking out of the room.

“It’ll never be far enough,” my father says to my back, insisting on one last jab.

“Agreed.” I give him a smirk, feeling my busted lip that is more than likely dripping blood. But it’s fine. One day he will be far away, and it’ll stay that way. At least that’s my wish.

I drop into the NSX, tossing the box onto the passenger seat, and speed away from the house that will hopefully be empty when I return.

6

Victoria

After the never-ending day at school, the only thing I wanted to do was get home, relax, and forget all about it. It’s evident that isn’t going to happen when, upon driving up to my house, I immediately note the NSX parked outside the garage. I have half a mind to just turn around and leave, but I’m not going to let him run me out of my own house. He’d already controlled every other aspect of my day. Even my swim time was cut short because of his ridiculous antics, and I’m sure he’ll be in the gym just long enough to keep me out of there too. On second thought, I need more time in the pool. He can go bromance with my brother and leave me the hell alone.

Thankfully, the coast is clear when I enter the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge, I head for my room. I have hope that all will go well, there’s no sign of Elliot anywhere. Until I open my bedroom door. There he’s perched, right on the edge of my bed.

Stepping into the room, I stand to the side of the door I hold open, and point to the hallway. “Get out.”

His head lifts up, eyes meeting mine, and his usual arrogance is nowhere to be found. Instead, there’s a defeated look, fully accented by a bloodied, swollen lip.

Against my better judgment, I shut the bedroom door, walk over, and stop a few feet in front of him as his eyes stay intent on me. “What happened, Elliot?”