Today was destined to be a good fucking day. I knew that because when I’d woken up this morning and took my somnolent ass downstairs to snag leftover coffee from the day before, there was a fresh pot waiting for me. I could smell it from the stairwell. It dragged me from the top stair to the kitchen in record time. I was so blinded by the need for it that I almost didn’t notice my father who was sitting at the large kitchen table—one that was rarely ever used—with his laptop propped open in front of him.
“Mornin’, son,” he said as I kept my bare back to him, pouring my coffee in a freshly washed mug, courtesy of—oh, that’s right...me. The only person who did anything around here.
I grunted in acknowledgment, but really, I was fucking jumping around on the inside. My father being home meant one thing: I didn’t have to parent today. I didn’t have to walk back upstairs to drag Ollie out of his bed only to wait on his slow, hungover ass while he moseyed around in the shower, probably beating his dick, making us late for school. In fact, I may just leave without him this morning. I’d give my father the lovely duty of being an actual parent today. He could take Ollie to school himself.
“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” I asked, still keeping my back to him.
Silence encased the room. I was certain my father was feeling one of two things: anger or guilt. Maybe even both.
I was used to the never-ending letdowns when it came to him. He was never a present father, always buying us off—Mom included—and letting us fend for ourselves. Which wasn’t much of a big deal a few years ago, but now that he was our only parent, it was pretty much just shitty parenting.
He gave zero fucks about Ollie and me.
He said he trusted us, and by us, he meant me. He shouldn’t, though. He was misled. He mistook my silence and quiet, brooding nature as maturity, but the trust between us was nonexistent. He just couldn’t quite see that.
Ollie and I were Irish twins: born within the same year. I was eleven months older. Yet, I held all the responsibility when it came to him.
But if I didn’t, I had no idea where the hell he’d be.
Probably still facedown in Clementine’s chest from last night’s banger.
“Christian, I’m sorry. You know I wish I could be here more.”
Lie.
I turned around and glared, but it was like looking into a fucking mirror. An ugly, warped mirror at that. We both had rich, dark-chestnut hair; our fair skin tone had a twinge of natural tan mixed in. Our jawlines were sharp and pointed, with our brow line heavy and defined. I used to hate that characteristic about him; I always felt like he was angry, even when his face was resting, but now I enjoyed seeing him aggravated. I all but salivated at the thought of pissing him off, though he never showed his cards. He simmered inside, raging and boiling so hot that his face would turn a heated shade of red, but he never lashed back out. He knew he was stuck. The guilt of having me raise myself and my brother outweighed any anger that I caused him to have.
“When are you leaving again?” I put my cup down on the counter, the clank a welcome break to the constant typing of computer keys.
He barely looked up from the screen. “This afternoon. How’s Ollie doing?”
Sighing, I answered truthfully. “He’s the same as he always is. Late for school, drowning in pussy and beer, still kicking ass on the team, in line to take my captain’s spot next year. Oh, that’s right…” I said, walking closer to him. I peered down, and he finally took his eyes off his computer. “What exactly are you going to do next year when I’m away at college and Ollie is here to fend for himself?”
My father scoffed. “I hardly think your brother being 17, almost 18, qualifies needing a babysitter, Christian.”
“No, but he does qualify as needing a parent, Dad.” And with that, I turned my back and began walking toward the stairwell. When I reached the bottom stair, I called out from behind, “He’s all yours today. School starts at 8:05.”
He mumbled something, but I chose not to listen, because today was a good fucking day.
As soon as I pulled my Charger into the parking lot, Eric pulled in beside me. Eric and I had been best friends since freshman year when we went head to head in the English Prep popularity contest. I won but wanted to lose. He lost but wanted to win. English Prep was one of the most prestigious schools in the United States. We were competitive in everything: academics, sports, extra-curriculars. But popularity goes by whoever’s parents have the most money (ludicrous, I know, but I didn’t make the rules), and Eric’s father and mine have right around the same amount, plus their pull in the community. It wasn’t long before girls started to take notice of us—even the upperclassmen. Then, the faculty and staff began treating us differently, too, mainly due to hefty donations to the school. It was only a matter of time before a new “king” was established.
After everything happened with my mom, it seemed I gained even more unwanted attention. First, I pushed everyone away, which only made things worse. Girls loved a jaded challenge, and jaded I was. I was angry all the time, which still lingered if I was being truthful, and pair that with picking fights with everyone—and winning—and I had girls fawning over the untouchable Christian, and the guys were afraid I’d break their neck. The teachers pitied me and let things slide, and mixing it all together with a smidge of my father’s reputation and hefty donations, I all but ruled the school.
I loathed it at first, but it became the norm for me.
“What up, King?” Eric stepped out of his Range Rover with his Oakleys pulled over his eyes.
I grinned, walking over to him. “Rough night? Not even those sunglasses can hide the bags.”
Eric and I began walking to the school entrance, him fixing his tie as he tucked a wrinkled shirt into his pants. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked alongside him. If Headmaster Walton saw the sloppiness of Eric’s attire, he’d be pissed. But that was Eric. Ever since he came back from his father’s the summer before last, he didn’t care much about anything except partying. “You missed one hell of a party, dude. Missy did this thing with her ton—" Eric’s sentence was cut off by the sight of Missy herself.
Missy was about a six on the hot scale. I, personally, thought her hair had too many different colors of blonde running through it (I didn’t even know there were that many different shades), and her orange, tawny fake tan made me gag. She looked like she got into a fight with a spoiled can of orange spray paint that didn’t quite get the job done.
“Hey, Eric. Christian.” Missy walked past us after winking at Eric, which I assumed was meant to be seductive, and headed for the lockers.
“You were saying?” I prodded, watching Eric lust after Missy’s swaying hips in her uniformed skirt.
Once I got to my locker and pulled on my navy blazer, a few other guys sauntered up to hear Eric’s story.