“Noted.” I laugh. “I’ll be sure to file that under Things I Don’t Give a Flying Fuck About.”
Tick, tick, tick.
She says her boyfriend is a ticking time bomb. That she never knows how he is going to show up. Nice and charming, or drunk and violent. I tell her that that’s what you get for dating a junkie and a drug dealer. She doesn’t listen. Gwen never listens.
The thing about my older sister is that she can be my parent and a child at the very same time. Like right now, when I see her lying in a pool of her own puke in the apartment that she shares with her roommate, Shelly, all I want to do is throw her into the bathtub, find the idiot who gave her the drugs, and finish him off.
“What’s his name?” I take her by the arm and lead her to the bathroom. I wish I could take her home with me, but she’ll never come. I wish I could stage an intervention, but my parents don’t want anything to do with her anymore and they’ll never be there. Standing there by myself, pleading her to take care of herself, will only be a reminder to the fact that no one but me cares.
“He’s the best.” She smiles to herself as I turn on the faucet and peel her out of her reeking clothes. She complies. A brother should never see his sister naked. Not at this age, anyway. “He is really sweet, Pierce. He is.”
“Yeah? Somehow I doubt that. He sold you the drugs?”
She shakes her head. “Gave it to me for free. I’m sampling for him.”
“You’re sampling drugs for him?” I repeat her words, dumbfounded. The worst part is that she is a smart girl. Smart girls, I learned with time and experience, sometimes do very stupid things for men. Gwen ran away from California after she went to UCLA. She has a degree and speaks three languages. She could have been a very successful, very happy woman, if she wanted to be. But she doesn’t. Instead, she followed me to Las Vegas and let herself get caught up with the wrong people. The wrong lifestyle.
What she wants is to defy our parents. And what she fails to understand is that they’re not wired the same way as us. They cut all ties to her and moved on. They didn’t care enough to raise us. Why would they care enough to look after us when we’re grown?
“Rehab,” I say, throwing her clothes to the trash. There’s no point in washing them. I’ll just buy her new ones. They’re two times too big, anyway. Gwen has become rail thin and scarily bony the last couple of months. She’s fading, and it physically hurts to watch. “You need to go to rehab, or I’ll go back to California and cut all ties. I mean it, Gwen.”
“Sure.” She laughs. “Leave me. Just like them. It’s not like I raised you.”
“You did raise me,” I agree. “You raised me, and now it’s my turn to take care of you. Something that’s a little hard to do when you’re hell-bent on destroying yourself.”
She laughs more hysterically, bordering on maniacal. I throw her into the bath, and it’s ice-cold, and she deserves it.
“I hate you!” she screams, spitting in my face. I stare at her through leveled eyes.
“That’s fine. Give me his address,” I say. I’m ready to do something stupid, but I don’t even care anymore.
“No.” She crosses her arms over her chest, sitting in the full bath like a toddler.
“Gwen.”
“No!”
“Fuck!” I punch the tiles.
“You won’t take him from me!” she yells.
“Oh, we’ll see about that.”
Ryan Anderson.
I’m sitting in my car, staring at him from across the road as he works, bare-chested, on his motorcycle. I pulled Remington Stringer’s address from the contact list online, and I did just so I could see where he lives. It has nothing to do with Remington and her advances, though I know that, logically, at some point I will need to make sure she knows that she can’t pull that kind of stunt again.
It’s not about Remington—not in the way Remington wants it to be about Remington—and she needs to know that. But I have plenty of time to clarify that to her. Right now, I’m more interested in Anderson.
Taking into consideration the fact that my car is probably going to stand out in his neighborhood, I parked around the corner of his street, where he can’t see. But I can definitely see him and his inked chest glistening with sweat. The asshole doesn’t look bad, and for some reason, that bothers me. The images of him touching and doing things to Gwen morph into ones of him with Remington, and the thought stirs something in me that I never knew existed.
I want revenge. Justice.
But I don’t know the whole story, and it’s killing me.
Remington Stringer is not emancipated, but I sure as hell don’t know if her father or mother is around either. A Daniel Stringer signed every single school document for her. I assume that’s her father, but I don’t know how present he is. For all I know, Ryan is the only consistent person in her life.
That doesn’t deter me from hunting him down and bringing justice to my sister’s case, but for some reason, it gives me pause.
Beyond the tough exterior, Remington Stringer is a teenage girl who still needs to be taken care of, and I reluctantly recognize that.
I’m about to kick my vehicle into drive and leave. This was obviously a mistake. Stalking Ryan Anderson is not going to do me any good. If anything, it’s just going to make me angrier about my inability to act on my desire to throw him in a cell. I know where he is now. That’s what’s important.
My hand is on the console, and I twist my head to see that the road is clear when I hear her voice and still.
“Dinner’s ready, Ryan. Get your ass inside.”
She jumps the three steps down from her door to the yard, wearing an oversized shirt—and just the thought of it being his has me clenching my jaw—her bare, naked legs are long, and her brown, wavy hair is flying everywhere from the hot wind. I shouldn’t look. I don’t want to look. My gaze drifts to the house next door, but then she speaks again.
“Ryan, I need a favor, and I really need you not to be crappy about it.”
I can see her from my peripheral standing slightly above him, and he is peering down toward her shirt where her undergarments should be. I want to kill him and find my eyes following them again. It’s not the fact that he is looking down Miss Stringer’s shirt that bothers me. At least that’s what I tell myself. It’s the fact that he sees her as another victim. Just like Gwen.
“What do you need?” Anderson asks, his muscles flexing. Idiot. He is trying to seduce his stepsister, and for all I know, he might have already succeeded.
“Money for new shoes. I know you said you picked up some extra shifts at the shop…”
That actually makes me snort. If she really thinks that her stepbrother holds a legitimate job, she is dead wrong. I’ve been trying to find him everywhere in Vegas ever since Gwen died to no avail. And while it’s a fairly small city, it is what you call chaotic. Vegas is the perfect place to disappear. All the lights, parties, tourists, and temptation. He did a great job.
Until now.
“What’s wrong with your shoes?” Ryan puts his hands on his hips, scanning her legs. He stares at her in a way I can easily decode, even from across the street. I know this look because I sometimes give it to women, two seconds before I rip off their underwear with my teeth.
“They have a dress code at West Point.” She shrugs, moving her fingers through her hair. “Headmaster Charles has been bugging me about it. You know how they are. Stuck up and all.”
“Well, money is tight this month.”
“I thought you said you’re going to buy a new toy hauler to go spend the summer in California.” She clears her throat, and my heart breaks. It shouldn’t, but it does. This girl is a far cry from the brazen one in my class.
“You keeping tabs on me?” Anderson asks, pushing his chest toward her. It reminds me how she pushed her chest to me earlier today. I was a little taken aback at how bold she was, but I didn’t take into consideration the fact that it’s all she knows. She doesn’t k
now subtle. Wouldn’t know it even if it hit her on the head.
“Not keeping tabs, Ry. Just trying not to get into too much trouble at my new school.”
“Maybe you should get in trouble,” Ryan retorts. “That way you can stay here and quit eating up all those fantasies about leaving they’ve been feeding you there. I know your game, Rem. Know it well.”
Rem.
“Dinner’s getting cold,” she snaps, turning around and heading back into the shack they call home. I drive away, straight to the nearest mall.
Three, four, five pairs of smart, black-laced Oxford shoes in a few different sizes, just to be sure.
They’ll be waiting in her locker first thing in the morning.
Miss Stringer is not going to end up like my sister did. I will make sure of that.
“Well, hello, Cinderella.” Christian pretends to bow down for me when I meet him in the hallway, stuffing my textbooks into my locker and throwing it shut. I huff, rolling my eyes. This day can’t get any worse.
“You heard,” I deadpan.
“I don’t think there’s a soul on campus who hasn’t heard yet.” Christian is matching my steps, and he looks extra bouncy today. His smile extra wide. “So, who is the secret admirer?”
“Maybe it’s not an admirer. Maybe it’s a joke at my expense because I’m not fucking loaded like everyone else.” I shrug, stretching my toes inside my beat-up Chucks. Whether it was a way to taunt me or not, I don’t care. I refuse to wear them. When I got into school this morning, an arsenal of new shoes waited inside my locker. I’m not going to lie. I was tempted to try them on, but my pride—and general mistrust of basically everyone here besides Christian—wouldn’t let me. Unfortunately, a few students roaming the hallway caught a glimpse of it, and word got out that someone bought me shoes. I became a charity case. The one thing I refuse to ever be.
“Whatever. Look at you. You’re a head turner.” Christian smiles, stopping by his locker and twisting the lock until it pops open. He checks his phone discreetly, and like the nosy bitch I am, I peek over his shoulder.
“What the hell is that?” I screech, reaching for it with my hand, but Christian is faster.
“Remi!” he barks.
“What?” I laugh, because he is blushing, and I didn’t think it was even possible for him to get flustered by anything. “Please tell me that was a dick pic.”
“It’s nothing.” He looks down to his shoes.
“Why are you acting so embarrassed? Christian Chambers, you are blushing!” He rolls his eyes. “Is this, like, a random Tinder guy, or are you seeing someone?”
“I’m talking to someone.”
“A secret someone?” I hedge, leaning closer, my ears perking up. He nods, looking somewhat defeated. My smile disappears, melting into a frown.
“Someone who is still in the closet,” I guess.
No response. Oh, that is juicy, but also not any of my business. The only part I really hate about this whole conversation is the fact that Christian doesn’t confide in me. I gave him all the information about Ryan, so I thought maybe he’d open up for me, too. But then, to be completely honest, I didn’t tell him the whole truth about Mr. James or my little Alicia Silverstone a la The Crush act either, so I can’t be too mad.
“Okay, we don’t have to talk about it.” I pat his arm awkwardly. “Just let me know when you do. I’d be happy to be a shoulder for you to cry on, or, you know, listen to some steamy gossip about you and your boy toy.”
“Thanks.”
We go our separate ways, and I make a quick stop into Headmaster Charles’ office. An office aide delivered a slip informing me to stop by his office on my lunch break. His secretary gives me the green light, and I’m about to enter when a familiar voice has me pausing. The door is cracked, and my heart stops when I see Mr. James. I start to turn around to leave, but against my better judgment, I stay. I can only see a sliver of him, sitting in the chair in front of the desk, and I can’t see Headmaster Charles at all.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re holding up, considering—” Headmaster Charles’ voice is low and concerned.
“I’m fine,” Mr. James cuts him off sharply.
“Well, that may be true. And if it is, I’m glad to hear it. I just don’t want to have another repeat of last year.”
What happened last year?
“That won’t happen,” Mr. James assures him. I hear movement, and then Headmaster Charles stands next to him, clapping him on the back.
“Let me know if you need anything.”
Mr. James nods, then stands, and I take that as my cue to bail. I tiptoe to the chairs waiting outside his office and sit down just before they open the door. I plaster on a fake smile that fades once I see the expression on Mr. James’ face. He looks angry and uncomfortable, and even though I’m not sure what that conversation was about, I have the urge to hug him. I’m not even sure why I’m so affected by him, but my red face betrays me. I shouldn’t have pulled that shit on him yesterday.
“Miss Stringer.” Mr. James nods curtly, his mask slipping back into place.
“Yes?” Headmaster Charles peeks at me over Mr. James’ broad shoulder. I imagine what those shoulders would look like as he holds himself up on his forearms and thrusts inside me. My thoughts can’t be healthy, but at the same time, it’s natural. I’m willing to bet that I’m not the first student with a schoolgirl crush.
“Headmaster Charles.” I ignore Mr. James completely, choking the door handle and flashing a flaccid smile. “I was told you wanted to speak with me.”
“Actually, Miss Stringer, I was just checking in to see if you’ve managed to correct your shoe situation,” he says, glancing down at my feet. “But I can see that’s a no—and to see how you are otherwise adjusting.”
“I’m still working on it,” I explain, avoiding Mr. James’ penetrating stare. “And I can’t complain. Everything else is going well.”
“Very good.” He nods.
“Is that all?” I ask hopefully. I can feel him looking at me accusingly, as if he knows I was eavesdropping.
“You’re excused,” he says, walking back into his office.
“Pierce, you have to help her! She’s barely breathing, and she’s not responsive. She’s fucking blue, Pierce! Please, hurry! I don’t… I don’t know what to do!”
That’s the voice message that’s waiting for me from Shelly three months after my sister starts going out with Ryan Anderson, and I have to take the rest of the day off and run to her place. I take her to the hospital. Stay with her for the whole period—two whole days—never leaving her side.
Anderson never bothers to visit her. Not even once.
Can’t say I’m half-surprised.
She isn’t exactly in a coma, but she is out of it for long hours. When she finally opens her eyes, she smiles at me apologetically, and for one heartbreaking minute, she looks like the girl I used to know, the one who took me for an ice cream every Friday and helped me decorate the Christmas tree we had to order online because our parents never bothered to buy one.
“It wasn’t Ryan, Pierce. It was me. I did too much. He told me it was laced with something, that it wouldn’t take as much to get me high, but I guess I got a little carried away.”
I’m not a religious person, but if there’s a God, he needs to kill Ryan Anderson. Strike him down here and now. I clasp her hand in mine and smile, pretending not to give a damn, even though I do.
“It’s okay. Can I have his phone number?” I gave up on getting his address a long time ago, and now the only thing stopping me from finding out the information myself is the stupid loyalty I have for my sister. “I just want to let him know you’re okay.”
Gwen frowns, seeing through me, even in her state. “Pierce, no. I told you. This one’s on me.”
No, it’s not, Gwen.
No, it’s not.
After they discharge her, I lock her in my apartment. She doesn’t have a key, and I guess she can try to j
ump from the second floor I live on if she really wants to, but she won’t. That’s the only thing that gives me hope. Gwen doesn’t want to die. She just wants to be loved. Too bad she is looking for that love in the wrong place. From the wrong person.
I go to work, come back, and find out that my lock has been doctored. It can’t be Gwen because she is still a rich little girl from California at her core. But I know who it could be, and I’m glad I finally get to meet him.
Walking into my apartment, I find them lying on my sofa. Naked. Looking dead to the world.
I now have a face to the name. Ryan Anderson still looks like a kid. But also like a thug. He is tall and tan with trouble written all over his face. And he is slowly killing my sister.
I grab him by the throat and squeeze. His eyes are slow to adjust, and it takes him a minute to come out of his drug-induced daze.
“If you give her drugs again, I am going to fucking end you.” I smile, my voice easy. He’s so high off whatever the fuck his drug of choice is that he doesn’t seem to know where he is or what’s going on. I doubt he even knows what planet he’s on.
“What the fuck,” he says, scrambling and tripping out in slow motion.
I throw his clothes out the door and kick him out, hoping he’ll never come back.
“Is age an important factor in a relationship?” Samantha asks, tapping her chin with her pencil. Every Friday, I let my students pick the subject they’d like to debate. I find it makes them more interested and engaged in class, and it also keeps me in touch with their interests. I’m not that old. Twenty-nine is not exactly ancient, but I don’t have the time or the need to read their magazines and watch their stupid movies and shows to stay in the loop. So I take it. And every year without fail, this subject comes up.
“All right, Miss LaFirst, let’s hear your introduction to the subject.” I lean on my desk and listen to her. Herring, the preppy fuck who sits to Remington’s right, is slipping notes to her. I ignore them, if only to remind myself that I don’t have a particular interest in Miss Stringer herself, but in her brother. I better remember that, because the lines are beginning to blur, just a tad, and that makes me somewhat uncomfortable.
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