by T. Torrest
The old man may have had a few inches on me, but his middle had gone soft in recent years. Plus, he was half in the bag. I didn’t know at which point in my life it had happened, but somewhere along the way, I’d gotten the advantage over him.
I can take him.
The thought strengthened my courage, so I was over-confident when I said, “You got something to say, old man?”
His eyes flashed with elated menace, encouraged that I had risen to the bait. Next thing I knew, I was trading rapid-fire barbs and shoves with the drunken bastard.
“Hey superstar. You think you’re tough, huh.”
“Tough enough.”
“You want to show me how tough you are?”
“I’m standing right here, old man.”
He prodded my shoulder a few times, but I held my ground. Planted my feet. Made sure I kept my balance. When he took a shot on the side of my head, I swatted his hand away and shoved him against his chest. He didn’t fall over but he staggered backward, so I still managed to glean a distorted sense of pride out of catching him off balance. He wobbled on his feet as he stepped closer, malice glinting in his eyes.
I wasn’t prepared when he grabbed two handfuls of sweater in his meaty fists and pushed against my torso.
Before I knew what was happening, my feet had left the ground.
My back slammed against the wall as the air exited my lungs in a terrifying whoosh, and then my body folded in half as I slid to the floor, recovering from the blow.
He’d literally knocked the wind right out of me.
Our fights had never devolved past a few menacing shoves, so the attack caught me by surprise. I hadn’t even fully registered what had just happened yet when his hands went under my armpits, standing me back upright, pinning me against the wall. He held me in place with a forearm against my chest, his face so close, I could smell the liquor on his breath. It made me want to wretch.
I was still trying to get my bearings when he snarled into my face, “Hey there, superstar. You think you’re so big? Not so tough now, are you.”
And then, just like that... wham! He elbowed me in the face.
I shoved against him hard but he still had a grip on my sweater as my mother ran down the stairs in a panic. She clasped her robe closed with a fist at her neck, her other hand pulling the two of us apart. “Stop it! Terry! What are you doing?”
Dad released his hold on me and I bolted up the stairs while I could. Even from a floor away, I could hear my mother reaming him out downstairs, really laying into the bastard for daring to hurt her son. Threatening to leave him if he ever so much as touched a hair on my head ever again.
He didn’t even fight back. Either he realized how guilty he was or our little boxing match had wiped him out. I was banking on the latter.
I slammed my bedroom door and paced the floor like a caged tiger—disorientated, distressed, and in more than a little pain. I rubbed my sore shoulder blade and jabbed a tongue at my split lip but the hurt wouldn’t lessen, and when my vision blurred, I realized there were tears in my eyes.
Why the hell was I crying? Why was I letting him get the best of me? Fuck him. Fuck that drunken asshole. He doesn’t deserve to win.
What kind of father does something like that to his own son?
It’s not like I was some screwup. I was a good kid.
I’ve tried my whole life to make him proud of me. I’ve done everything right. I wasn’t in jail or wreaking havoc out on the streets. I’ve never knocked anyone up. I was respectful to my family and my teachers. I made good grades. I was an athlete. I worked hard in school, on the ice, and at my job.
What more do I need to do to stop this?
I pressed my palms against my stinging eyes, physically willing the tears to stop. But I was fucking devastated, not gonna lie.
It seemed anytime something good happened to me, something bad was always there waiting to counteract it. Why? What was so rotten about me that I deserved this?
When I came home tonight, the air was full of promise. At last, something was happening between Layla and me. I finally had something awesome to look forward to.
And then, with one step inside my front door... it all turned to shit.
Couldn’t I have just one good thing that went unpunished?
I was confused.
I was frustrated.
I was furious.
My wallowing soon turned to wrath as I punched my pillow over and over again, trying to exorcise my anger. But the softened blows were doing nothing to neutralize my rage. I finally picked my lamp off my nightstand and hurled it against the wall where it shattered with a sickening crash before it fell to the floor.
My entire body just gave out after that, and I slumped onto my bed with my face in my hands and sobbed uncontrollably. I just let it go. Shoulders shaking, breath-catching... the whole nine.
I just wanted the pain to stop. I just wanted to go to Layla’s, wrap my arms around her, and have her take all the hurt away.
Why doesn’t he love me?
My mother’s soft knock at the door forced me to pull myself together. “Terrence? Can I come in?”
I swiped an arm across my face and ran my hands through my hair. I knew I probably still looked like hell, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. “Yeah.”
Mom opened the door and stepped in cautiously. Her brows were pulled together high above her worried eyes, her mouth was drawn in a firm line, and seeing that concerned look on her face almost broke me all over again. She closed the door behind her and locked it before coming over to sit on the bed next to me. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No and yes.”
She ran a hand over my hair, causing me to flinch from her touch. “It’s going to be okay, honey.”
“I hate him!”
“Terrence, it’s okay to be angry. But he’s your father. You don’t hate him.”
“I do!”
I knew she was trying to help but I was pissed at the world at the present moment and couldn’t stand her consoling tone. I leapt off the bed to get away from her and pulled my sweater off. There was a hole torn in the front where my father’s fingers had dug into my chest. I just got the thing three days ago so I’d have something nice to wear for the dance.
I tossed it in the garbage without a second thought.
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “You’re not the one who beat the crap out of me.”
“He had no right to hit you.”
As pissed as I was, my pride won out. “He didn’t hit me, Ma. Just roughed me up a little.”
“Even still. He doesn’t have the right to hurt you. You need to be able to feel safe in your own home.”
“I do, Mom. I just wish...” My words trailed off. There was no use verbalizing all the many desires I had for my life that would never come true.
“I know. I wish he’d curb the drinking too. I just don’t know what to do about it anymore. I’ve tried, Terrence. You know I’ve tried.”
Not hard enough.
* * *
The next day, my father apologized—he always did—but Mom made me take her to church under the mistaken belief that we could pray my father’s drinking problem away. I happened to believe that religion in general wasn’t designed for modern, thinking adults. There’s no sin quite like ignorance. But the rituals of Catholicism meant a lot to my mother, so I shut up and went along with it.
Immediately afterward, we went out for lunch, just to get the two of us separated from him for a few more hours and have The Talk about getting him some help. Again.
Needless to say, the weekend kind of got away from me.
Chapter 14
DISTURBED
Finally, it was almost lunchtime. I didn’t think I could stand another minute in Computers, not only because Mr. Piven was a snooze, but because Margie Freakin’ Caputo never seemed to be able to just shut the hell up.
The whole class had b
een assigned to work in pairs today, and lucky me, I got stuck with Margie. She seemed less interested in working on the assigned project and more interested in being a pain in my ass.
She’d been chewing my ear off about godonlyknowswhat when her diatribe switched to wondering aloud about where the party was going to be this weekend. “I heard there’s going to be a rave at The Barrens on Friday night. Are you gonna go?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Why?” she teased, attempting to come off as cute. “Got something better to do?”
“Hadn’t really thought about it.”
She leaned over toward me, close enough that I could smell her Designer Imposters perfume. “Well, maybe you should start thinking about it.” She punctuated her come-on with a flirty smile, and it was all I could do not to storm out of the room in frustration.
Yeah, okay, sweetheart. I can take the hint you’re throwing at me. No need to ram it home. And by the way, you and me? It’s never going to happen.
Thank God the bell finally rang, giving me the excuse to ditch Margie. I grabbed my books and dumped them in my locker on the way to the cafeteria.
Layla was already there.
With all the bullshit that transpired over my Weekend from Hell, I hadn’t talked to her since Saturday night when I went to her house after Homecoming. I wanted to. But I just figured I could talk to her once we were both together at school.
I sat down next to her at the lunch table and said hi. Only, she was so busy chatting up Benedict that she didn’t hear me.
“Layla. Hellooo. What? You don’t even say hi?” I was busting her chops a little, but she knew I was only joking. It’s what we did.
But then I thought that maybe she got it in her pretty head that I was really taking a dig, because she kind of gave me the rolled eyes and barely said hi back.
Shit. She must’ve been pissed about Saturday night. I know I was standing there wondering how I’d possibly be able to stop myself from jumping her the second I got inside her house, and I was pretty sure she wanted me, too. But I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong.
She was completely giving me the cold shoulder, her full attentions lavished all over Cooper Benedict. She was smiling and flirting with him, practically batting her damned eyelashes at her ex-boyfriend. And as of this weekend, I knew for sure that he was definitely her ex, at least according to Rymer.
Jesus. What the heck was I thinking, listening to Rymer? ‘Cause right then, she was trying to make it very clear that she was way more interested in Coop than she was in me. She was like, fawning all over him.
“What was the score on Saturday?” she asked. “Twenty-eight to ten?”
One of Benedict’s eyebrows rose to answer, “Twenty-eight to seven.”
“Wowww,” she purred, her eyelids lowering to half-mast. “And that wasn’t even counting your last touchdown that the ref ruled out! I’m impressed.”
What the hell is she doing? Playing games with me? Trying to make me jealous right now?
It was working.
The rest of that lunch period went down in much the same way. Layla ignoring me. Me wondering why.
The guys started laughing at something funny Rymer said just as the bell rang, and I found myself following Layla across the hall to her locker. I needed answers.
I stepped in front of it, blocking her, and asked, “What the hell was that in there?”
“What the hell was what?” she asked back. Those amazing brown eyes were looking at me all wide-eyed and innocent, and normally, seeing her look at me like that just about killed me. But right then, I wasn’t buying it. I knew something was up.
I stepped aside, though, so she could squat down and grab her books, and found myself talking to the top of her head. “Come on, Layla. You know what. Why are you treating me like I’m some piece of garbage all of a sudden?” She probably had already written me off, thinking I was like every other guy in this school, just trying to get in her pants. I was, of course, but honestly, that’s not all I was sticking around for. I actually really liked this girl. Enough that I actually pulled back for once and tried to take things slow with her. She had to know why I was there on Saturday, though. Had to know I was looking to step things up. Maybe she wasn’t ready for that. Maybe she wasn’t as into me as I thought. Maybe I misread everything that had gone on between us that night. Hell, the past three months. “Did I do something?”
She gave a huff and tried to play innocent. “Trip, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to get to class right now, okay?”
I thought she was trying to be polite or something. Like she didn’t want to just say that she wasn’t into me. God. She wouldn’t even look at me. Did I blow it? Did I read her wrong? It’s not like I was dealing with some inexperienced girl, here. I mean, look at her. The girl was drop-dead gorgeous, so there’s no way I was the first guy to get caught in her trap. Maybe all those flirty moments were never meant to reel me in. Maybe that’s just who she was. Maybe she only liked me as a friend.
And the strangest thing was, I would almost have been okay with that. If she just wanted to stay friends, I could deal with it. It would suck, but I didn’t want to lose us over this. We were really good at being friends.
Like I said, I actually really liked this girl.
She stood up to leave, but I couldn’t let her go like that. I just wanted to know if we were okay. I just wanted to know that she didn’t freaking hate me. But Jesus. She still wouldn’t even look at me.
I slapped a hand up on the wall to stop her from taking off, and had her backed up against her locker before I even realized what I was doing. All I knew is that I wanted to get to the bottom of things. Right here, right now. “Oh, really? You have no idea what I’m talking about? That’s just an ordinary day for you, then, huh. Hanging all over Coop Benedict, treating me like a disease… Obviously you’re pissed about something.”
I was pretty sure I’d already figured out the problem. I had to imagine she was angry that I’d abused our friendship or something, trying to make a move on her when we’d spent the past three months all platonic, and now all of a sudden I was trying to come between her and Benedict. But I thought dangling her real boyfriend in my face was a little much and I told her so.
I got distracted from her answer as I watched her lips try and deny it. There was no space between the two of us, and I was having a hard time trying to do anything other than stare at her mouth. Her eyes finally met mine, and I thought I was gonna lose it, watching her look at me like that when I had her body practically pinned to the wall.
What would she do, I wondered, if I were to kiss her right now? Just slam her up against this locker and suck on that bottom lip of hers for the next hour or so?
Fuck. Just the thought of it gave me a semi.
But Layla didn’t look like she wanted to kiss me. She looked like she wanted to kill me. And seeing that look on her face made me realize she was done with me. Done playing with the new kid. The mystery had worn off, so now it was time to chew me up and spit me out.
And that’s what I got for taking a shot at the most beautiful girl I’d ever met in my life. Fucking maneater. I thought she was different.
Okay, Miss Popularity. I hope you and your dreamboat Coop will be perfectly happy together. Until then, “Fine. You want to play games, go right ahead. I don’t have time for this. You want to talk, you know how to find me.”
And then I stormed off, for English class of all places, wondering how the hell I was going to spend the next forty minutes sitting in the desk behind her without smelling her hair.
I punched a locker in frustration and just vowed not to breathe for the rest of the day.
Chapter 15
THE RIFT
Layla was avoiding me.
To be fair, we were both avoiding each other. The tension between us was thicker than the Arctic ice shelf, and trust me when I tell you that it was just as cold.
It had been an entire w
eek since our blowout. Seven whole days of uncomfortable friction, averted eye contact, and ignored existence.
That first Tuesday I didn’t spend with her was weird. I considered using that as an excuse to break the standoff, figuring I could just call her up and ask if she wanted to get together, you know, being that it was “our day” and all. But doing so may have come across as even weirder, especially considering we hadn’t spoken a single word to each other since our fight on Monday. I went to hockey practice an hour early instead.
It was torture having to sit behind her in English every day, only inches away from me, the scent of her hair tormenting me with every breath. That day, she had the entire brown mass piled on top of her head in a messy ponytail, the exposed skin of her neck taunting me into near-delirium.
I became enraptured as her paint-splattered fingers fiddled with her gold hoop earring dangling from a delectable lobe that I wanted to take between my teeth.
What’s the paint from? What is she working on in art class?
If we were still speaking, I’d already know.
It was risky, but I couldn’t help myself as I leaned forward across my desk and stole a greedy inhale. Oh God. I was struck with an overwhelming desire to bury my face against the curve of her neck, taste her behind her ear, pull her shirt down her shoulder. I’d strip her down slowly, run my hands along every inch of her skin, slide my tongue across her collarbone...
Yeah, Wilmington, that makes a ton of sense. The girl won’t even look at you but you’re sitting here with half a boner thinking about getting her naked.
Not that wanting to see her naked was a new desire. It just sucked more now because I was even further away from my goal than I’d been only one week ago.
I checked the clock above the door. Still had twelve minutes of hell to endure before the bell.
Would I survive that long?
Between the stresses of home and school, every minute of my life was a daily battle. Thank God for hockey. It was the only thing that provided an outlet for my angst. When I was on the ice, I could forget about everything else.