Starlee's Home (The Wayward Sons 3)

“Yep,” he says turning to face me. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me slowly. “Thank you for making this happen today.”

“Hey, I just stole a car. You did the hard work.” I kiss him again. “Good luck. Bring home the big money.”

His cocky smile says he plans on doing just that.

30

George

I’m filthy when I get home from work. We spent the day hauling recycling and garbage out to the dump, taking three truckloads back and forth from the resort. I guess the management decided to have a post-holiday clean out, but I don’t mind. I’m happy to get out of the apartment and earn some money.

I’m beat when I climb the steps to our apartment and the only thing I want to do is take a shower, eat leftover pie, and go to bed.

The front door is unlocked and I assume Dad is home. Charlie made it clear he was going to the tournament today despite the fact he’d avoiding telling Dad about it. I understood why. Things had been chill for the last few days and neither of us wanted to rock the boat. We both knew that dad could turn on a dime and it just wasn’t worth setting him off.

I braced myself before walking in, wondering how pissed dad was when he told him. Hopefully he’d had time to calm down. I kick off my boots before I step inside and immediately recognize pissed is clearly an understatement.

“Dad?” I call trying to comprehend the mess. Being tidy is one of my dad’s “things.” Right now, the whole place looks like a bomb went off. It’s an absolute shit-storm of our belongings. The couch is overturned and when he doesn’t reply, I get nervous. Did we get robbed?

I carefully step over pots and pans, papers, and the shredded cords of one of Charlie’s gaming consoles. The TV is still on the stand but has a long crack across the screen. Paper crinkles under my foot and I look down, recognizing the gray design. A sense of dread fills my stomach as I bend down and pick it up. It’s a drawing. My drawing of Starlee’s profile—or what’s left of it.

A shadow crosses the bedroom door and I look up. The look of anger in his eyes makes my own rage turn cold. Dad doesn’t acknowledge me, he just holds up handfuls of my work. “Are you kidding with this? Art school?”

He’s in a bad place. I can tell. We’ve been here before but I’m not a scrawny kid anymore. I step over an overturned plant and grab the artwork, twisting it out of his hands. Watercolors, pastels, pen and ink. Hours destroyed. I stare at my ruined, torn work. “What did you do?”

“Your brother walked out of here today to go pursue his foolish ambition. I figured you maybe had something similar up your sleeve. I wasn’t wrong. I found your applications and all this under your bed. Both of you, wasting your time on stupid dreams instead of buckling down and facing reality. There’s no out from here. Hard work is the only way to survive. Sacrifice.”

“We’re not you,” I say through clenched teeth. “We’re not living your life.”

“Why? Because you think you can charm your way into schools with good looks and a smile? That may work on your teachers but it won’t in the long run. Art school?” He scoffs. “How is that going to pay the rent? For food?”

“I’m not willing to let my life pass me by like you did.”

He snatches the picture of Starlee out of my hand—he’s close enough now that I smell it. The booze. “This girl tells me you are. All it takes is one time—one stupid time and your life is ruined. Your ambition and dreams go out the fucking window for a girl and two exhausting babies.”

“Leave Starlee out of it, she has nothing to do with anything.”

“No? You think I don’t know that’s who picked up your brother today? That he’s probably screwing her right now instead of being up at the job like he’s supposed to be? The whole tournament thing is probably just a cover. Is it a cover?”

“You’re drunk.”

He waves his hand at me. “Nah. I’m just realizing that neither of you appreciate a goddamn thing I’ve done for you.”

There’s a dangerous sneer in his voice and I know I need to get out of here, but I can’t without checking my room. I push past him, going into my room, hopeful there’s something left of my work to salvage, but he grabs my arm as I pass, yanking me back in the living room. A vein throbs on his neck and I shrug away, trying to make some space.

“I’ll be back when you sober up,” I tell him.

“Just like I told your brother, you walk out of here, I’m calling the police.”

“Go ahead!” I shout. “Call. Let them see what you did here. How you’re violating your custody. I should call Mrs. Delange myself.”

Something in him snaps and he swings. I block the punch but that only enrages him further and he lunges at me with full force. I stop him, gripping both his arms and pushing him back. “I’m not a kid anymore,” I warn him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He breathes heavy but seems to reconsider and I leave, rattled at the venom pouring off my father. How lost he seems, and determined to drag me and my brother down the same path. I hear his footsteps behind me and I turn, this time too late, not having enough time to duck. Glass shatters against my temple and a boot kicks against my hip. I stumble forward, crashing into the kitchen table. When I look up at my father, it’s through t

he haze of red blood pouring down my face.

“Get the hell out of here,” he mumbles, leaning against the wall. I take my chance and go, grabbing a flannel off the back of the floor and holding it against my head. I knew he’d fail, that his demons would rise again, I’d just hoped this time I’d get the upper hand.