by Logan Fox
Waiting for me to rip it out.
Chapter Thirty-One
Josiah
I’ve stopped feeling the pressure of my forehead against the windowpane for a while now. It’s only at this awkward angle that I can see down into the patio. The sun umbrella is up. Candy stays hidden beneath, but I can watch my father come and go.
Am I the only one with more than one fucking brain cell in this place? How does no one see this?
He was limping like a goddamn war veteran. He spends a minute talking to Candy, and then he storms off without a hitch in his step.
My lips turn up in a sneer.
I’m so over this shit.
I have some money saved up. Not a lot—barely enough to survive a year without earning an income—but it should be enough to take me away from here.
I could get a job somewhere. As long as I’m working toward a college degree, I couldn’t give a fuck how I spend the rest of my time. And since I don’t care what career I end up having, it wouldn’t matter how long it takes me to finally reach whatever fucking destination I’m supposed to be headed toward.
At least I’d be my own man. I wouldn’t have to watch this pretentious shit playing out around me like my own private comedy show.
I’m about to step away, perhaps even get going and pack some shit up in a suitcase, when Candy’s dark head pokes out from the sun umbrella.
She stands in the sun for a moment, staring out over the pool, and then makes a beeline for the pool house. Is she just exploring, or does she have a sudden urge to play some darts?
Halfway there, she hesitates, and glances around. Then, for some unfathomable reason, she looks straight up to my window.
I step back, my heart in my throat, and take a slow count of five before inching back.
She’s nowhere in sight.
Because she’s already in the pool house, isn’t she? And after the way she checked to see if anyone was looking, I know exactly why.
Candy has no interest in darts. She’s going to raid the fucking bar, isn’t she?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Candy
“You honestly think that’s gonna help your case?”
I jerk in surprise, and wine slops over my hand. Thank God it’s white, not red, or I’d be on my knees mopping up the spill. On my knees, yet again, while Josiah looms over me.
“Leave me alone.”
“So, you can drink yourself into a stupor?”
I snort quietly to myself. “What’s it matter to you?”
“You forget.” His voice moves closer. “I get punished for every bad thing you do.”
He grabs my wrist so hard I gasp, and then slides the wine glass out of my hand.
“I can’t have one fucking glass of wine?” I glare up at him, but he’s not budging a hair.
“You could, but we both know it wouldn’t stop there. And the last thing I need today is having to explain why you’ve passed out in the pool house next to an empty bottle of wine.”
“You’re not my father,” I say through my teeth. “I don’t have to answer to you.”
“Neither is Wayne.” Josiah’s eyes are the color of tar. “But that’s never stopped you.”
I take a step back from him, but even that doesn’t dislodge the grip on my wrist. I ignore his cruelly barbed comment and toss my hair like he’s annoying me instead of making me feel like a piece of shit. “You can’t tell me you don’t need something to take the edge off. You’ve had a shittier day than me.”
Josiah watches me for a second as if internalizing my words, and then he slowly releases my hand. The skin throbs where his fingers were digging into my flesh. I wrap my other hand around it. I should be massaging, making that feeling go away…but I don’t want to. It’s refreshing, this discomfort I didn’t bring on myself. Like I’m actually a part of this world after all, and not just watching it unfold from inside a bubble.
If someone as cold-hearted as Josiah can make me feel something…then maybe there’s hope after all.
He shakes his head, and that all too familiar look of contempt slides onto his face. Then he’s heading for the door, abandoning me to my fate.
“You could have one too,” I call out.
He pauses, glances at me over his shoulder. Has he grown during the time we’ve been at Happy Mountain, or is it just the way the sun’s beaming through the pool house’s glass doors that makes him look so intimidating today?
Then again, hasn’t he always filled the room wherever he went? I can’t seem to think of a time when I wasn’t acutely aware of his presence, even if he was silent and not paying me attention.
It goes to show how fucked up my life has become that I’d rather have a drink with Josiah Bale than get pissed on my own.
“You want to have a drink, with me?” That tiny pause tells a whole damn story.
“Sure. Why not?”
I turn away and start pouring him a glass of wine. He stands there until the glass is full, and only moves closer when I turn to hand it to him.
“I don’t drink that shit anymore,” he says, taking the glass from me. He moves around the mahogany bar counter and pours the wine into the sink beside the double-door fridge.
“What a waste.”
“It’s a waste getting drunk on cheap wine,” he says.
I roll my eyes and let out a lingering sigh. Then I tip my glass against my lips, intent on downing the whole thing.
Josiah takes it from me before a drop touches my mouth. Then it sloshes down the sink too.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“As sin,” he says woodenly. Then he turns and starts hunting through the liquor cabinet. “If you’re going to drink, might as well do it properly.”
I press my eyelids closed, my eyeballs rolling against my fingertips. “You just have to be in charge twenty-four-seven, don’t you?” When I look up, tiny flashes of bright lights scatter. “Do you at least get holiday’s off?”
When he faces me again, there’s the faintest suggestion of a smile on his mouth. Then again, it could just be the light in the room.
I glance away, scanning the pool area.
It’s become gloomy out there, as if a cloud is passing over the sun. Something cool bumps against the back of my hand. I peer down at the amber liquid, and slowly lift that tumbler to my nose.
Whiskey. It’s what Josiah’s dad drinks.
I put the glass down in a rush. “I don’t like this.”
“You haven’t even tried it.”
“Don’t need to.”
“You’re sure?”
I can’t be, but I am. Where I’d been yearning for that first sip of wine, the crisp taste on my tongue, my stomach is turning over at just the smell of the whiskey.
“One sip,” he says, lifting his glass and putting it to his lips as if I need a damn tutorial on how to imbibe alcoholic beverages.
Every cell in my body is telling me to stop, but for some reason, I don’t want Josiah to think I’m afraid.
Afraid?
It’s ridiculous.
I’ve had everything to drink, even some stuff you definitely shouldn’t, like mouthwash.
Gotta try everything once.
Strange—that thought isn’t mine, but it’s still familiar. Who told me that? One of Mom’s boyfriends?
I shake away the thought and bring my glass to my lips, watching Josiah over the brim as I touch it to my mouth. His gaze shifts, and he watches me take a sip. I should have felt uncomfortable with how long his gaze lingered on my lips, but instead, I just wanted to make sure he saw that I’d actually had a drink.
Cool, smoky liquid coats my tongue like oil. Not a lot makes it down my throat, but what does scorches. I clear my throat, shudder, and hastily put the glass down. “Yuck.”
Josiah laughs, snatches the glass from me, and tips it into his mouth. Then he turns around again and reaches for a bottle of strawberry-and-cream liqueur. “Guess you’ll want something like—”
�
�Not that one,” I say.
My body’s gone tight. I never noticed the bottle before now, as if Josiah somehow magicked it into existence. Or, perhaps, I hadn’t trusted myself to see it until there was someone else in the room.
I drink wine because sometimes I do stop before the bottle is empty. But this stuff? I’ve only ever had it poured for me, so I have no idea how much I can drink.
What I do know is that I never remember getting back to bed. I don’t remember changing into my PJs, or brushing my teeth, or getting myself painkillers and a tall glass of water for my nightstand.
“This?” Josiah holds out the bottle of Bailey’s.
Tell him to put it back.
I nod.
Don’t let him pour.
Creamy liquid sloshes into the tumbler.
Don’t you dare take it.
My hand moves of its own, closing around the glass. I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply.
“Shall we toast?”
With my eyes closed, it’s as if Wayne is standing on the other side of the bar. When they open, the difference is much more tangible. I guess Josiah has some of his mother in him.
“To what?” I ask in a thick voice.
“To funerals,” he says grimly, holding out his crystal tumbler.
“To funerals,” I murmur, clinking my glass against his.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Josiah
Candy’s glass is empty long before mine.
“Another?”
At my voice, she starts a little and comes back to the present with a soft sigh. Silently, she slides over her glass.
I top her up.
She’s perched on the barstool next to mine, staring out the pool house doors like she has been for the past ten minutes. She takes a sip, and then glances at me with the glass still by her lips. “What?”
“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“What, in the pool house, or in this dimension?” She gestures in a wide circle.
I know I fucked up today. I lost control, and that’s something that hasn’t happened in a long time. Surprisingly, Candy wasn’t involved this time.
I shrug.
“Well, I’d rather be in here than out there,” she says, pointing at the mansion looming behind the pool. “I’m like a roach—it’ll take more than dunking me in a little water to kill me.” She winces. “Shit, I didn’t mean—”
I drop my gaze, no longer able to stare into those frank blue eyes. “I meant here, with us,” I say.
Us. I almost snort, but hold it back and instead take another sip from my glass.
“Didn’t really get a choice in the matter.” She ducks her head, drawing my gaze. “Hey, I thought we were drinking together.”
“We are,” I say, half cheering her as I lift my glass a little before coating my tongue with whiskey.
“It’s evaporating faster than you can drink it,” she says, her eyebrows lifting. I give her a grudging smile. Maybe it’s the few fingers of Irish cream affecting her, but she seems easier to talk to. “Tell you what,” she says, taking a gulp from her glass before setting it down on the bar.
She reaches out and wraps her fingers around my glass. I release it reluctantly, frowning at her when she sets it beside hers. “Right.” She shifts in her seat, turning fully toward me, with her back on the slowly darkening afternoon. “Let’s play a game.”
I snort at her, shaking my head, but she holds up a finger. I expect it to touch my lips, and that sensation is so intense that the ghost of her touch flutters on my mouth. I lick my lips, willing away the strange sensation, and she gives me a wary look.
“Truth or dare.”
I roll my eyes. “Not in a million—”
“Three rounds.” She holds up her hand, fingers spread.
“Not interested,” I say, reaching for my glass. She puts her hand over mine, pressing it to the wooden counter. When I look at her, she tilts her head a little.
“Chicken?”
“Games are for kids,” I say.
She shrugs. “Then, let’s pretend to be kids for a while.”
Her words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time—perhaps ever—I drink in the sight of her.
She’s right, of course. We’re not kids anymore. Perhaps it’s been years since we could accurately claim that. It has nothing to with age—neither of us can legally drink yet—but with the life experiences we’ve endured.
I lower my lashes a little, draw a deep, slow breath, and let my hand slide onto my thigh as I sit back on the barstool.
“Okay,” I say. “Begin.”
She holds up a finger, slowly twirls it, and points randomly at the bottles of alcohol on the shelves in front of their mirror. “First, a shot.”
“You shouldn’t be mixing,” I say.
“You shouldn’t be telling me what to do,” she answers whip-quick, and then grins at me. “Chicken?”
I’m tempted to ask what the hell’s gotten into her, but I have a feeling I’d sound so much like my father that she’d laugh at me. I have no urge to have my stepsister giggling at me.
So I go around the side of the bar and study the bottles. I’m not a big drinker, and prefer whiskey or scotch, so I turn back to her and gesture at the bottles like a magician about to perform a trick. “Pick your poison.”
She smiles back and shakes her head. “Dealer’s choice.”
I grab a bottle of tequila, expecting her to protest. She doesn’t, and honestly, that shouldn’t surprise me. I open the fridge, but her voice stops me from taking out a lemon. “None of that shit. Just bring it over.”
I keep forgetting—if there’s one thing Candy’s more experienced than me at, it’s drinking.
“Pour.”
I do as she says, and slide one of the shot glasses over to her. We toss them back, me with a grimace and Candy with a small cough and a shudder.
“What if they come looking for us?” I ask.
“Then, they’ll find us drowning our sorrows.” She should have been smiling, but she’s not. “Your turn,” she says, and holds up a finger.
“That doesn’t count.”
She grins. “Fine.” She shimmies her shoulders and lifts her eyebrows expectantly. “You starting, or am I?”
“Ladies first.”
Candy purses her lips and looks around for a few seconds. Then her eyes flash back to me. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Her eyes widen a little, then she shrugs. “How did your mom die?”
The room darkens, brightens, darkens. “Dare,” I say.
“Uh-uh.” Candy takes a sip of her drink, lifting a finger. “No takesies backsies.”
“Dare.” My voice drops low. “Or nothing.”
She brushes off my irritation with another shrug and looks about the room again. “Fine, cheater.” She starts tapping her lip. Then she spins around and points out through the glass sliding doors. “Dive in.” The corners of her mouth lift up. “Naked.”
I bark out a laugh. “I thought we were trying to be circumspect.”
“We were?” She blinks innocently at me, taking another tiny sip of her drink.
I growl as I stare out the window. “No,” I say.
“You’re a shitty player,” she mumbles into her glass.
“What’s the penalty?”
She points at the bottle of tequila. I pour myself a shot and down it. “Truth or dare?” I ask, my voice rough from the alcohol burning its way down to my stomach.
“Dare,” she says around a lopsided smile that hides her one crooked tooth.
“Dive in the pool.” I tug at the collar of her t-shirt. “Naked.”
“Oh my God, you absolutely suck at this game,” she announces, turning wide eyes on me. “You can’t steal my dare.”
“Too late to change the rules.”
“Those are the rules, I didn’t just—” she cuts off with a strangled sound.
Then she stands, grabs the hem of her shirt, a
nd pulls it over her head.
“Christ, I was joking,” I say, bolting to my feet. “We can’t leave the pool house, idiot.”
I grab her shirt, and manage to tangle her hands in the fabric instead of drawing it back down her body. She giggles, tugging to get free, and loses her balance. I catch her, but I’m not centered either, and we both dance a few steps to the left.
Luckily, the couch stops us. Candy melts over the back of the couch, laughing hysterically. I push away, running fingers through my hair as I take a step back to gain some distance.
Her laughter dies down as she straightens and tries to get her shirt back over her head.
I watch her for a second before I realize just how drunk she is.
“Here, let me—” I step closer and reach for her, trying to help her untangle her shirt.
“I’m fine!” Her voice echoes back from the pool house’s walls.
“Jesus, I just wanted—”
She shows me her teeth. “I don’t need anything from you.”
Candy spins around and stalks to the bar, lifting her glass and taking a big gulp from it.
“You’ve had enough,” I say, smoothing down my clothes before running my hands through my hair.
She drains her glass and pours herself another without bothering to acknowledge my comment.
I could have left the pool house then. I don’t know why I was suddenly so invested in whether or not my stepsister got drunk enough to bruise herself again.
But I can’t let it go.
I want her here with me, physically, mentally, emotionally. And that’s not going to happen if the alcohol content in her blood goes up another percent or two.
“Enough!”
She ignores me and lifts the tumbler to her lips.
I’m beside her a second later, knocking the glass from her hand. It shatters on the bar counter, spraying both our faces with liqueur and shards of glass.